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It seemed, to Sally, that one day Sherlock Holmes was there, and then one day he wasn't.
That's what happens when you throw yourself off a building.
Then one day, three years later, he's back. She was, unsurprisingly, surprised. But it seems like something Holmes would do - especially once she heard about John Watson's reaction. Only Holmes would be enough of a git to convince his best (and, perhaps, only) friend that he was dead.
Sometimes during those three years, she thought she saw him. Perhaps he's not real - perhaps he's the shadow dedicated to remind them all of what they did, and didn't, do. As soon as the cloud seems to lift from John Watson's shoulders, Sherlock Holmes comes back to haunt him.
So Sherlock gets John back, and John gets Sherlock back. John also gets someone who his dead best friend couldn't, and so didn't, scare away.
Sally doesn't think Holmes likes that very much.
Sure, it must suck to find the (mostly platonic) love of your life has moved on, but Holmes faked his death. He practically asked John to move on.
Holmes comes back to the crime scenes quick enough. So does John, at first. But then he has to leave early for his and Mary's anniversary dinner, and then a party with Mary's parents that they can't miss. Holmes acts like it doesn't bother him. Sally would believe him, but then one day John's later than usual.
She goes out for a smoke break, only to find Holmes on the phone, presumably with John. His words are soft.
"Of course, I understand." He's saying. The person on the other end says something, and he says "Goodbye, John."
Sally wonders if he remembers the last time he said that to John. According to phone records and John's own admission, it was what he said as he stood on the ledge of Saint Bart's.
She shouldn't, but she silently walks up to him and taps him on the shoulder. He jumps, a sure admission he's under stress, and gawks at her. She doesn't say anything, but just offers him a cigarette with an expressionless face.
He takes it, and they smoke in silence.
The wedding comes and goes. Sally is glad she's not invited.
She sees Sherlock practice his best man's speech, at a crime scene. Bless.
The wedding comes and goes, and Sherlock stops coming to crime scenes for over a month. She begins to worry, but Lestrade assures her - without her asking, of course -, that he's okay. In this case, Sally thinks 'okay' means 'alive'.
He comes back again, but this time he's alone.
Two months into John and Mary's marriage, Sherlock comes to a crime scene (the victim's home, in this case), alone yet again. It's eleven o'clock at night this time, and he arrives late - almost twenty minutes after he normally does, which is odd for such an 'interesting' murder such as this one.
He's walking around, slightly skittery, deducting the victim's favourite colour and why it was her boss that did it, when all of a sudden he stumbles on thin air. Lestrade, always alert, manages to hold him up before he falls, only for Sherlock to collapse fluidly onto him.
Lestrade, breaking protocol for Sherlock, guides him to a chair. All of the 'anti-Holmes' officers disappear, and soon enough it's just the three of them.
Lestrade crouches in front of Sherlock, pulling his eyelid up with one hand. "Sherlock," he says, the most solomn Sally's seen him since Sherlock came back. "Are you drunk?"'
Sherlock looks at him, rolling his eyes from the floor to Lestrade. "Yes." Sherlock says. "Very."
Lestrade rocks back on his heels, and Sherlock lets his head rest against the back of the armchair. "Sally," Lestrade says, looking up at her. "Can you please help me get him home?"
Sherlock being a tall man, it takes both of them to guide him towards a cab. They settle him in the middle seat, making sure he can lean against one of them when he feels the need to rest his head or vomit. While Lestrade calls someone on his cellphone, Sherlock chooses to rest his head on Sally's shoulder. It's quite comforting, if she can ignore the fact that it's Sherlock.
When they get out of the car, she ignores the wetness on her shoulder. We all cry.
They guide him up the stairs to his flat - his landlady's out for the evening, which is both a blessing and a curse.
Sally is charged with guiding him into bed, while Lestrade removes any left over bottles from the flat. Sherlock must have drunk a significant amount just before arriving, because he's gone from lucid and coherent to warm and movable. She flicks on the light to his bedroom, grimancing at the sudden brightness. It's surprisingly tidy, and the bed's actually made. She guides him to the bed, not bothering to take off anything but his winter coat. She even - not that she'll ever tell anyone - tucks him into bed. He seems to drift off as soon as his body makes contact with the bed.
She goes out, and grabs a glass of water with painkillers. She doubts he'll be concious enough to take them now, but it'll be good for his substantial headache in the morning. She puts them on his small bedside table, and makes to leave. As she creaks open the door, she hears a small voice coming from the bed. "John?" He asks, half-asleep.
As steadily as she can, she answers "No, Sherlock. It's me, Sally."
"I want John." At this point, she'd guess he was blackout drunk, considering his stance on talking about feelings.
"I know you do, Sherlock."
He doesn't say any more, and she quietly leaves.