A/N: So, I completely failed to realize that I hadn't posted the final chapter of Freak. Why I only just noticed is anyone's guess and you have my humblest apologies.

Now, the important part: I understand that some of my readers aren't going to like this last chapter for whatever reason(s) - and that's fine. I have zero issue with that.

But.

You will be respectful with your reviews or they will be deleted. If you think I'm a horrible person for this ending, that's awesome. I completely respect your right to your opinion - and feel free to tell me that. But *don't* tell me that I must change the way I feel and believe so as to conform to your mindset. I've already been through that once and I refuse to repeat the experience.

Like I said in chapter 1, I adore any and all concrit, but it must be constructive and it will be respectful. If you want to yell at me anyway, feel free to PM me. I don't promise to respond, but if I do, it will be private.

*deep breath*

Now: on to the final part.

The Greater the Mass, the Greater the Force Needed to Move it

Greg Lestrade heaved a tired sigh as he prepared to leave the crime scene. After watching John Watson actually slap Sally Donovan, he was in what might be described as a state of shock. Being told by a *uniform* of all people that it was neither unexpected nor unjustified only made it worse.

God, he needed a drink.

And a more thorough explanation. As he got in the car, Lestrade pulled his mobile out and scrolled to John's number, staring at it pensively for several seconds before pressing 'Call.' On the third ring, it was answered.

"I'm at home, Greg," was John's greeting. Lestrade grimaced; it was rather embarassing at how predictable he was.

Then again, he was getting to bypass the whole 'Sir, we have a few questions' awkwardness, which was a definite plus.

"Well, that's lovely," he replied. "But I need a drink - or four - and you probably do too, by now."

John scoffed. "That's putting it mildly," he shot back. "Where?"

Lestrade could not help himself. "Baker Street."

And proving why he had survived - thrived, even - as Sherlock's flatmate, John's reply was immediate.

"Right. Well, if you want to have this conversation in front of Sherlock, come on up. I think I still have a half-bottle of Scotch."

The mere thought of doing this in front of Sherlock was enough to scare a dead man, never mind Lestrade, and he conceded the point.

"No, thanks. I'm not completely stupid, certain observations aside. I was thinking the pub a little ways down from the Tesco by you; Sandy's, wasn't it?"

"Randy's," John answered. "Yeah, that's fine. When?"

"Now," Lestrade said. "And I want a Guiness."

John snorted in abvious amusement and said, "All right. One Guiness, ready and waiting. See you in a few."

Not quite twenty minutes later, Lestrade strode through the peeling wooden door of Randy's, automatically scanning the room for potential threats and/or trouble. He was inordinately relieved to see that none was currently pending; it had been a bloody long day, and that was before John's . . . demonstration.

The reminder sobered Lestrade and he made his way to the table where the man in question was sitting, a half-empty pint in front of him and a full Guiness across the table. As the DI settled himself into the booth, John frowned.

"You look like the wrong end of a three-day bender, Greg," he noted, his eyes running over the other man with the impersonal look of a doctor. This did not make it any less uncomfortable, and Lestrade had to physically keep himself from squirming. Still, it was a good opening, and he wasn't shy about taking it.

"Yeah, well, you'd look flattened, too, if one of your friends backhanded a subordinate for what seemed to be no apparent reason, and an explanation that wasn't any better."

A pregnant pause ensued. John finally broke it by sighing and taking a drink.

"I can explain, Greg, but you're not going to like it," he warned.

Lestrade bristled.

"Well, seeing as how I cannot possibly like it LESS than a civilian striking one of my officers, I think I'll live," he snapped back.

John huffed with grim amusement and took another drink. "Fair enough," he murmured, taking a moment to visibly gather his thoughts.

"So, the entire world knows that Donovan doesn't like Sherlock," he began. "But does anyone know why? I've asked around, as discretely as I can, and cannot get an answer. And, for obvious reasons, I'd like one."

This . . . was not what Lestrade had expected, and it took him a bit to catch up - only to be disgruntled when he realized he didn't have an answer.

"I really don't know," he admitted, taking a healthy swig of his Guiness. "He was his usual self when she first met him, but as far as I know, nothing specific happened between them."

"Okay," John said with a nod. "That tracks with what I've seen. Which, actually, just makes the whole sorry situation worse.

"Now," he continued, holding Lestrade's gaze, "you've known Sherlock - you personally, I mean - for about five years, right?"

"Give or take," he agreed. "Why?"

"How long has Sally known him?" John asked in lieu of a reply, absently fiddling with a napkin.

"About three years, I think," he said with a shrug. "Why?"

John's eyes never wavered from his.

"And how long, Detective Inspector, has Donovan been calling Sherlock 'freak' to his face?"

Time stopped. And Greg Lestrade felt the hot rush of shame threaten to choke him.

"I know I let it get out of hand," he said in a low voice, looking down and studying the scarred tabletop. "In my defense, I seldom see Sherlock arrive at the scene, so I didn't realize how bad it had gotten. But that doesn't exuse you not coming to me first, John," he added fiercely, looking back up. "I suspended her because you had a corroborating witness to the initial confrontation, but that doesn't mean I won't still arrest you unless I get some answers. And by God, they'd better be good ones!"

To his surprise, John smiled. "And that, Detective Inspector, is why he follows you," he said, approval in his voice. They both took a drink before John continued.

"All right. So, Donovan calls Sherlock 'freak' - or 'psychopath,' depending on her mood - every time she sees him. It would not surprise me to find out that she thinks his name is Freak Sherlock Holmes. And, from what I've seen since I've met him, he's never done a damn thing to her to provoke it . . . at the time, anyway, Later, well . . ."

Lestrade nodded; this was a point he could, given his own observations, concede. However -

"Remember, neither of us sees it all," he warned. "And God knows Sherlock is not the prime example - hell, he's not any example - of tact."

"True," John said with a nod. "And if were as simple as 'insult, insult, go to body,' I wouldn't be nearly as bothered. It isn't like I don't give him a good bollocksing at least twice a week for being an inconsiderate arsewipe."

He paused to let Lestrade wipe the beer off his nose.

"But Donovan - and Anderson, and a few others - are vicious about it, Greg. They treat him as less than human and because, apparantly, no one has ever called them on it" (and here came another rush of guilt), "they think it's okay.

"It's mostly Donovan who starts it," he continued. "Anderson has a few times, but let's be honest. He just isn't that imaginative and without Sally initiating it, he really doesn't have the spine for it."

This . . . was not an inaccurate assessment, so Lestrade said nothing, merely waited patiently.

"Anyway, I've been sick of it for a long time, Greg," John said soberly, his hand tightening on the handle of his mug. "And that third murder from The Stapler finally gave me the chance, because Sherlock wasn't there."

Here Lestrade nodded; one didn't defend Sherlock Holmes in front of the man in question unless one WANTED to be verbally eviscerated.

John gave him a commiserating smile before picking up his train of thought.

"I'd been thinking about it for a while, you know, what I'd do if I ever had the chance," he said thoughtfully, a distant look in his eyes. "And, given how prickly Donovan is and how arrogant she can be, I decided to give her taste of what she dishes out to Sherlock, and called her an adulterous bitch."

Lestrade sucked in a harsh breath between his teeth; it was a good thing she didn't carry a gun, or she'd have shot him on the spot.

He looked up to see John nodding at him. "I know," the other man said. "But that was the point; I needed to get her attention. And I did; she wanted to know who I thought I was, insulting a police officer, and I told her that since she did it to Sherlock, it was open season. She told me that I couldn't say such things because she'd worked hard to get to where she is, and I pointed out that she was knowingly sleeping with a married man."

Here, John paused and embarrassment briefly flashed across his face. "And I called her a whore, then asked if she preferred 'adulterous bitch.'"

Lestrade closed his eyes and exhaled. It was patently obvious that he needed to put his team on the proverbial leash-and-collar until they learned some manners; it was also becoming clear about WHY John hadn't come to him, but he still needed the clarification.

"But why didn't you come to me first, John?" he asked quietly.

Pale blue eyes, hard with determination and protectiveness, bored into his. "Why would I? Everything I'd seen told me that you condoned it. Otherwise, you'd have reined the lot of them in ages ago. You didn't, so I gathered that you likely thought the insults 'helped keep Sherlock in check.'"

The contempt on that last sentence made Lestrade flinch. John was wrong, but he'd had no way whatsoever of knowing that, and Lestrade couldn't really fault his reasoning. However . . .

"All right, I'll grant you that," he said, leaning forward. "You're wrong, but given the evidence, it was a fair assessment. I'm still not understanding how we got to you striking a police officer."

John met his flat stare with a hard look of his own and continued.

"Well, after I asked her preference for 'whore' or 'adulterous bitch,' I asked her why she hates what he does so much. If she'd had an actual reason, then fair enough. As we all know, Sherlock is a bastard most of the time.

"Her response - which was increasingly hysterical - was that 'it was freakish, no normal person likes solving murders, and because he's a freak.' No reason at all, other than it offending her sensibilities. And I'm sorry, but that's not on. He isn't harming her in any way by solving crimes, so she is, in essence, throwing a tantrum.

"And getting away with it."

Lestrade bristled. He knew he'd been wrong, damnit. He didn't need it rubbed in his face. Before he could say so, however, John went on.

"So I told her I was done. I don't care if she likes Sherlock - and I really don't - but she WOULD start treating him with the respect she says all human beings get, or I would do damage. And then I walked away."

There were several minutes of silence as Lestrade considered everything he'd heard, correlating it with what had happenend earlier. While he was thinking, John got them fresh drinks and an order of chips. The scent of fried potato was enough to bring him out of his thoughts and he quickly popped one in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the experience of a fresh chip.

When they had both eaten a bit and washed it down, Lestrade prompted John to continue. He sighed and rubbed his face before obliging.

"Well, that was almost a month ago. How many cases has Sherlock worked on since then, prior to today?" he asked.

Caught off-guard by the apparant non-sequitor, it took Lestrade a minute to catch up.

"Two since then. Why?"

Rather than answering, John posed another question. "And how many times has Sally - or Anderson, or anyone - called him 'freak' in anyone's hearing?"

This was harder to answer, but as far as Lestrade could personally verify, the answer was 'none.' He said so.

"Exactly," John growled. "So, obviously, she's capable of self-control."

Lestrade finally lost his patience.

"The history lesson is all well and good," he snapped, "but I'm still not getting how Sally calling Sherlock 'freak' equates to you hitting her."

"Because it was deliberate!" John snapped back. "If she'd done it on any of the other scenes, unthinkingly, because she's used to it, then I'd have called her 'whore' or 'adulterer' or whatever I thought of at the moment, and made the point. She didn't. She waited until her - wariness, I suppose - of me faded and her arrogance kicked back in.

"For God's sake, Greg, you heard her today! What did Sherlock say to her when we got there?"

As Lestrade had been present for this, he actually had an answer. It was irritatingly refreshing. It also caused a sinking feeling in his stomach, because he was starting to see where this was going.

"Hello, Sally," he replied.

"And what did she say?" John pressed.

And they had arrived. "She said "Hello, freak,'" he said heavily.

"Right," John bit off. "It wasn't habit, it wasn't careless forgetfulness. It was deliberate. She was testing me. And because Sherlock was there, I didn't say anything."

Against his will, Lestade nodded. John was building a convincing case. Damnit.

"You should also have noticed that she didn't stop there; in fact, she fell back into old patterns. Oh, it wasn't excessive, but it sure as hell was deliberate. She was proving her point because she honestly thought I wouldn't do anything to her.

"And that, Detective Inspector Lestade, is why I slapped her instead of calling her out. Giving her a taste of her own medicine had proven ineffective, so I stepped it up a bit. For her sake, I hope it works, because I am done putting up with a petty, spiteful bully hiding behind a cop's uniform."

There was grim satisfaction in John's voice as he finished, and Lestrade really couldn't blame him - or, to his shame, dispute the description. He wanted to, but looking at it from the other man's perspective, he simply could not. For John, it had been a logical chain of events.

Damnit.

Oh, he could arrest John, or demand an apology, banish him from crime scenes - any number of things, really, but what would that accomplish? Given the situation, and the people involved, it would neither change nor solve anything. Still . . .

"All right, damn you," he growled, staring hard into the doctor's eyes. "Given the situation - and the relevant factors - I won't arrest you for assault."

Relief softened the other man's expression, but Lestrade kept speaking before he got comfortable.

"However, if a single hair on ANY of my people is harmed by you again, I don't care if the bloody QUEEN petitions for your release, I will prosecute you to the full extent of the law. Is that understood?"

Utterly serious, John held his gaze and nodded.

"It is, Detective Inspector. And I'd like to apologize to you for not coming to you before it got this far," he said firmly.

Despite himself and the gravity of the situation, Lestade was curious about one thing. "If you'd known the full situation, would you have come to me?" he asked.

He finished his second beer while John thought, and signaled the waitress, asking for a water. When he looked back, John shook his head.

"No," Sherlock's flatmate murmured. "Even knowing, I still would have taken care of it myself. Sherlock . . . God, Greg, he needs to be protected, even if he won't admit it, but I don't think anyone ever really has. And at least this way, he's safe. He actually knows nothing about it."

Again, Lestrade couldn't stop himself from snorting. "How the hell'd you manage that?" he demanded.

John grinned, satisfaction in his voice. "All I did was omit a few pertinent facts. Since I was talking to Sally last month and did talk with you today, that's what I told him."

"Nice," Lestrade said appreciately. "Savour it; it won't last."

"Cheers," John agreed. "But Greg - if she opens her mouth again -"

"I will take care of it," Lestrade interrupted. "I will, John. Even if it's not immediately. But if you lay another hand on her, I'll haul you in before you can blink."

There was brief staring contest that John relinquished by finishing his beer. "Understood," he said, setting it back on the table.

There . . . really wasn't anything to say, after that. And so, as they said their goodbyes and headed to their respective homes, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade felt reasonably confident that disaster had been averted.

He was wrong.

finis