Midnight Christmas Eve finds Detective Sargent Sally Donovan in the morgue at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She has just attended the identification of the body of a sixteen year old girl who'd been pulled out of the Thames. The girl's mother had been too distraught, and the gruesome responsibility had fallen to the her brother, a fresh faced university student who had come into the room with some semblance of hope lighting his eyes and had left with the light extinguished. Luckily, the body had not been in the river long, despite the fact that the girl had been missing for days. But still. Sally thought about her own sister. Their relationship had always been contentious, but the idea of having to identify her cold, wet body on a table… Well. No matter how many times she'd seen it played out in front of her, she still could not imagine the horror . Especially not on Christmas.
Sally escapes behind the building for a cigarette as soon as the boy and his mother leave. She only smokes occasionally, usually on nights like this, and she never lets anyone see her. Addiction is weakness, and she has enough to contend with in regards to her reputation. They can think she is a bitch all they want, but she won't have them think she is weak.
She inhales deeply and thinks about the dead girl. Judging from the track marks on her arms and between her toes, it will probably be ruled an accidental overdose. The girl did not drown. There is no water in her lungs and no signs of asphyxiation. But something is bothering Sally. Her instincts tell her there is more to this. . The pieces of the puzzle are all scattered on the table, and she knows what the finished picture should look like, but she can't yet see how they fit together, and she knows she won't be given time. More time with the body, time to properly investigate, to interview her family and her friends. She needs a reason to order a thorough autopsy, not just a toxicology screen, so that this one won't be shunted off and marked down as another statistic; another bright school girl who got in with the wrong crowd.
She is halfway through her cigarette when the heavy door swings open and out steps—oh bloody hell—Sherlock Holmes. As he steps under the lamp light she sees he's wearing a new coat. Long, dark, wool tweed, it easily would cost half a month's pay. It suits him, though she'd rather eat the butt of her cigarette than ever tell him so.
He reaches into his inside coat pocket as he makes sure that the brick propping the door open is still in place. He turns and freezes momentarily when he sees her, then casually pulls out his own pack of cigarettes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Sally asks. "This one's not interesting enough for you, even at your most bored."
"Hello, Donovan. Just checking on some cultures. Bacteria, like murderers, don't take holidays. I thought you'd quit. Though I guess you never really do quit completely, do you?"
Sally glares at him, an insult on the tip of her tongue, but she just shakes her head.
"Fuck it," she mutters and lights a new cigarette off of the end of her first one. She can't be arsed to waste her time trading barbs with him tonight. She doesn't know why she ever bothers. He is relentless and has no boundaries, so no matter how quick her with, she will never have the upper hand. The fact that she knows this and can't stop taking the bait infuriates her more than the things he says.
He regards her while he smokes. She hates this so much. She always feels naked when he looks at her, but not in a sexual way. She feels like a specimen, pinned to a board. She knows he is taking in her shaky hands, her hastily thrown together outfit (she'd just settled in after drinks out when she'd gotten the call) probably the speck of dirt under her thumb nail and the colour of eye shadow she'd chosen that day (she is often lazy about removing her makeup before bed.) Hell, he probably knows what colour her knickers are.
"What?" she spits out when she can't take it anymore.
"This one is bothering you. You think it's murder. But it's also bothering you personally."
"They all bother me personally, Sherlock. It's why I do this. It's not just for kicks."
He looks at her again, this time just scanning her face. He seems honestly perplexed by her statement, but apparently decides to pursue that course of questioning later.
"I can take a look. I don't have anything else on at the moment and I'm already here."
She bites her tongue again, deciding not to goad him about being alone on Christmas. She has a decision to make. She knows he can help. She knows that he will see in a few minutes what it will take her days to piece together following proper channels, and that's only if she is given clearance to pursue those channels. She knows that if she says yes, that there is a greater chance of getting the creep who killed this young girl off the streets.
But she also knows that he will be dismissive with her and everyone involved. That he will want to question the family—tonight most likely—in that horribly tactless way he has. That he will insist on performing what lab work he can. That she will have to falsify her reports so that there is no mention that he was ever involved. It is moments like this that make her resent Lestrade for ever letting him near a crime scene.
Hell. She tells herself that the ends will justify the means, but she has to get a closer look at him first. She closes the gap between them and examines his face. Pupils—normal. Skin—pale but healthy. No signs of agitation or slowed motor skills.
"Are you going to ask for a urine sample next, Sargent?" he asks, smirking. "I'm clean."
"You know the conditions."
"Yes, all too well."
Sally gestures toward the door. "Go on. Have a look. I need one more."
"Thank you," he says, and ducks inside. A moment later he pops his head back out.
"Donovan?"
"What now?"
"Merry Christmas," he says, and he is gone.
She lights her last cigarette as snow starts to fall. Inhales. Exhales.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."