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Tiny, jumper-wearing, rage-machine

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Lestrade watched Sherlock and John walk onto the scene, wearing a smile that didn't suit a murder investigation. This would be the third time Sherlock had consulted on a case since his return from the dead, but the first time John had joined him, and Lestrade was looking forward to things finally getting back to normal.

Sherlock scooted past Donovan at the entrance to the alleyway with an absent, "Sally," eyes and mind clearly already on the corpse by the skip.

John stopped right in front of her. "What are you doing here," he said rudely.

"I work here," she replied. "What's your excuse?"

John barged past her and marched up to Lestrade. "What is she doing here?" he demanded, jabbing a thumb at Donovan.

"She's a member of my team," Lestrade said cautiously. It hadn't occurred to him to warn John that Donovan was still his second in command. That may have been a mistake; John hadn't looked this angry the night he punched the Chief Superintendent. "I know you're not her greatest fan, but she was just doing her job, calling for an investigation. She's a good cop."

"A good cop?" John said, voice breaking on the last word. "She's always hated him. She's been calling Sherlock 'freak' as long I've known her, not that you seemed to give a fuck, and the first chance she got, she stabbed him in the back!"

John had once told Lestrade he'd inherited his Dad's temper, and there'd been some excessive force complaints from suspects the doctor had been involved in apprehending, but Lestrade had never taken them seriously. Now he was reconsidering.

John's hands were clenched, his teeth bared in a smile like nothing Lestrade had ever expected to see on the nice, jumper-clad little doctor's face. The part of Lestrade's brain that had handled domestics and broken up brawls and full-scale riots, with the scars to prove it, had him take a careful two steps back.

Donovan appeared ten feet to Lestrade's left, hand on her baton, calm and unruffled. "And that's why I apologized to him," she said, drawing John's attention.

John took a breath, clearly about to start shouting.

"Twice," she said quietly as he opened his mouth.

John breathed out on a huff. "Twice?" he asked, almost against his will.

"Yeah. Once to his grave, and then again to his face, last week when he came in to fill out the paperwork so he could be a real, legitimate consultant for the Met."

John licked his lips. "What did he say?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Well, first he said, 'Oh, this is pointless,'" Donovan quoted at them, dropping her voice into the surprisingly-accurate mimicry of Sherlock's voice and accent that'd had John in stitches one pub night.

He glared at her.

She shrugged and continued in her normal voice. "Then the DI kicked him under the table, and he said, 'If it wasn't you, Moriarty would undoubtedly have found some other idiot to start the witch hunt.' Look, he's fine working with me," she said, gesturing at Sherlock who was busy twenty feet away with the corpse, ignoring their little drama completely. "So I don't know what your problem is."

Lestrade flinched.

John's face slowly flushed red. "My problem," he said in a fierce near-whisper, "Is that you as good as pushed him off that roof yourself, you fucking cunt."

John rushed forwards; Sally stumbled backwards. The dozen officers in the alleyway were reacting, heading their way, and Lestrade had John by the elbow.

"Think about it, John," Lestrade said in his ear. "Walk away. Cool off before you do something you'll regret."

Sally had taken the chance to retreat to the far end of the alley – the distance was good, but there was nowhere for her to go.

John panted for a moment, staring down the alleyway at her, and then at the other police on the scene. "Yeah. Fine," he finally said, shrugging Lestrade off and heading out of the alley. He turned and snarled, "You all better treat Sherlock with some fucking respect!"

"We will," Lestrade promised, and John marched out of sight around the corner, back stiff with rage.

Donovan drifted back to his side. "Christ," she muttered.

Lestrade nodded his agreement. Sweet, patient, long-suffering John Watson. Who would have thought he'd go off like that?

Sherlock stood up and scanned their faces. "Look at you lot, shocked as if your favourite teddy jumped up and bit you," he said, vastly amused. "It's no wonder you can't solve a murder without me."

Sherlock peeled off his latex gloves and switched gears. "Not all of the blood is his. The victim got a piece of his attacker, with the broken bottle under the skip. Check the local hospitals for people with wounds to the left arm or shoulder. I have an angry soldier to track down."

And with that, Sherlock swept off the scene, leaving Lestrade to solve the murder and deal with the half-dozen new officers who had gotten a really unfortunate first impression of Dr John Watson.