Author's note: I have tried to capture Donovan's voice in this story, but I probably made a complete mess of it. The only Cockney I know is "Did yew see thot lewdicris displae lost noight?" (Have you seen I.T Crowd? If not, GO SEE IT RIGHT NOW!). So I did my best. If you see any egregious errors, let me know using your kindest words.

Disclaimer: All is disclaimed

Warning: Donovan has a bit of a potty-mouth. This is not my fault. ;-)

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch. 1: I take a nice leisurely walk

Just before we arrived at the latest scene, Lestrade gave me the news: he had called in the Freak. Dammit. "Third one in three days," he said briskly. "We got nothing to go on. This one's fresh."

I huffed and sat back in my seat, arms crossed. To say I was annoyed wouldn't even get close. "We just need more time. It takes time to analyze evidence, Greg!"

"Time we don't have. Now be nice!" he warned me as he clambered out of the car. I fumbled with my seatbelt and scrambled to follow.

"Why should I?" I asked, hurrying to catch up with his longer stride. "He's not nice, and you don't say that to him."

"He's got John to say it to him; he doesn't need it from me." Lestrade stepped up his pace to get ahead of me.

"John needs a hobby," I muttered to nobody. "Something quiet and peaceful. Maybe snorkeling. . ."

I could feel my eyebrows tugging down in the middle, so I leaned down to a side mirror of a patrol car and practiced a few neutral faces. No scowling, no expression. Nothing for the Freak to latch onto. I sniffed my clothes for residue from Anderson's deodorant or soap. Didn't smell anything. Gotta have a full suit of armor on, no cracks that he could dig his claws into.

By the time I ducked around the uniforms stringing the crime scene tape and setting up the floodlights, a cab was already pulling up. The Freak ejected himself almost before it came to a stop, with John struggling along behind him. The Freak ignored me, but John nodded at me politely. What was a nice guy like him doing with a freak like that? It wasn't the first time I had wondered that. I'd give even money they were shagging.

The glee on the Freak's face was. . .indecent. He strode over to the body like he belonged there, coat all swirly, collar turned up, hair blowing in the wind. I'm sure he was going for mysterious, but it came across as idiotic. He crouched down with his magnifying glass out and looked the body over. I could see enough from where I was standing by John to make a few preliminary impressions: male, medium build, mid-thirties, casually dressed in jeans and a tan canvas jacket over a hideous striped shirt. Beat to hell. Lestrade's torch illuminated a pool of dark blood spreading on the wet concrete beneath his bashed-in skull.

The Freak leaned in, nose practically against the dead man's neck. He reached out and touched what was left of his cheek, the only spot that wasn't covered in blood. "Still warm," I heard him say.

"Yeah, not been dead long. We only got the call about 15 minutes ago," Lestrade replied.

Holmes took the torch from Lestrade's hand and swung around in a slow clockwise arc, then back toward the northwest and stopped. "This way," he snapped out, and took off without further warning, aiming the torch at the ground in front of him.

John made a face and took off running toward Holmes' receding back. "Golfing!" I yelled after him. "Nice leisurely walk, no running!" The sound of his laughter floated toward me as he ran out of sight after Holmes. I loved that sound. Made the Freak's presence almost bearable. Almost.

"Shit!" Lestrade shouted. "Donovan, what are you waiting for? Get after them!"

"Why bother? He doesn't know where he's going!" I snapped back.

"Just go! For Christ's sake. . ." He started barking orders into his walkie, so I gathered a couple of uniforms and took off in the direction John and the Freak had gone, splashing through puddles across the parking lot and between two dark buildings.

We quickly came to a T-intersection, and I had no idea which direction they had gone. I pulled out my phone and dialed John's number. No answer. Shit. I sent him a quick text.

Where the fuck are you?

Again, no response. Of course not, he was running as fast as his little legs could carry him trying to keep up. I swung my torch along the ground. Big puddle, and then-Footprints! "This way," I shouted to the uniforms, and we took off to the left.

Three intersections later, I had run out of clues. I had no idea which way they had gone. Shit, shit, shit! Why did Holmes keep doing this to us?

I bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath, and for a few minutes all I could hear was my crew breathing. The uniform on my left sounded like he was having an asthma attack. And then, something else—a scuffle, shoes scraping on concrete. Thumps. A thud. But which way was it coming from? I swung my torch left and right, trying to locate the source of the sound.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed down the alleyway, and time stood still. If that bloody moron had gotten himself shot. . . "Oy, Police!" I shouted.

The gunshot had come from the right. At least I thought so. It was echoing so much I couldn't be sure. After the echoes died out, I heard the sound of footsteps running away. Definitely to the right. I gestured to my team to follow and took off in that direction. If someone was shot, please have it be Holmes and not John. Please, if there were a God, it should be Holmes lying there bleeding on the concrete and not John.

I came flying around the corner of a building and my torch illuminated Holmes, kneeling on the concrete with his back to me, fumbling with something on the ground. Some kind of bundle.

"Donovan, help me," he ordered without turning around. What the hell? Help him with what? And where was John? I swung my torch down toward the ground, and quickly realized that the bundle on the ground was John. His jumper was rucked up, a strip of pale belly showing, and Holmes had a wad of fabric-his scarf-pressed against his side. Bright red blood everywhere. On John, on the ground, saturating the scarf and oozing through Holmes' fingers. Oh, God, not John. Not John.

The uniforms who had been with me took off in the direction we had been heading, while I hit my knees next to Holmes on the concrete, phone already in my hand, my fingers automatically dialing 999.

"999. Which emergency service do you require?"

"This is Sergeant Donovan, Metropolitan Police. I have a civilian, male, age late-thirties, with a GSW to the abdomen. I need an ambulance at. . ." I trailed off. I had no idea where we were. "Just a moment. Holmes, where the hell are we?"

"Alleyway behind 11 Wren Street," he replied immediately, eyes fixed on John's face. "Come on, John, keep breathing."

"I've got your location. Ambulance is being dispatched. Would you like to stay on the line?"

"No, please hurry. He's bleeding heavily." I rang off and dialed Lestrade, distractedly gave him the details. He was already on his way to our location. I hoped he could intercept the ambulance and made sure it found us. After all the twists and turns we took getting here, I didn't see how the Freak could be so sure of our exact location. Of course, they could track my phone, but that would only get them in the neighborhood.

I jammed my phone in my pocket and checked John's pulse with shaking fingers. It was there, but thready, too fast. I put my ear down by his mouth and heard him take a raspy breath.

"Hey, John, you awake?" I asked, patting him on the cheek. His eyelids fluttered open and his back arched in pain. He let out a moan that trailed off into a whimper.

I put my hand on his forehead, stroked back his hair. "It's ok, John," I said quietly. "It's ok. Try to relax. Help's on the way."

He mumbled something that I didn't quite catch. "What was that?" I asked, leaning in closer."

"I think—I think I'll take up golfing," he whispered, eyes sliding shut again.

I chuckled, but the laugh quickly faded away when his raspy breathing stuttered and then stopped altogether. Shit!

"John? John!" I cried. "Stay with me! Hey, wake up!" There was no response. I tipped his head back and put my ear by his mouth, eyes on his chest watching for movement. Nothing.

To Be Continued, obviously.