Reckoner
Sergeant Sally Donovan stood for a long moment on the unfamiliar doorstep, fists clenched at her sides.
It was now or never.
The last time she'd actually seen him face to face had been a complete disaster. Even now, she wasn't sure how they'd managed to convince him to come in to the NSY, after—well, after everything. But when she'd walked in and seen him sitting there in Lestrade's office, Donovan's first thought had been that the good doctor looked broken. Exactly as one might expect of a man whose best friend had committed suicide right before his eyes.
He'd lifted his head at her approach. And the accusation in his reddened eyes had overwhelmed her.
Defensive, Donovan had coped as she usually did: by unleashing her sharp tongue. In an attempt to justify herself, to expiate the guilt roiling in her belly, she'd said some dreadfully unpleasant and unfair things to him. All of which had been decidedly 'Not Good,' to borrow one of Freak's phrases. ("He confessed to it all, didn't he, right before he jumped? So why are you still trying to defend him? Jesus, John, can't you see he's just done us all a favor by offing himself?")
He'd snapped. The calm, kind, easy-going doctor had lashed out at her with an intensity she'd never dreamed that he possessed. (He is my friend, you cold-hearted, sanctimonious bitch. Can't you lay off him even for one sodding minute? He's DEAD! Isn't that enough for you?)
They would've had themselves a full blown screaming row right there in the middle of Lestrade's office, if Lestrade himself hadn't leaped between the two of them and ordered her to leave. Even now she was certain that John would've struck her, regardless of her gender or occupation, if Lestrade hadn't intervened at that exact moment. But as she'd stormed away, doing her best to ignore the stares and whispers, Donovan had glanced back just in time to see her superior officer gently place his hands on John's shaking shoulders.
And she'd hated herself.
Two sleepless nights later, Donovan had made herself a promise: she would apologize to Dr. Watson. She knew full well that she'd crossed the line. She'd been cruel and vicious to a decent man who'd never done anything but be pleasant and polite to her. Even if he hadn't been such a decent person, John Watson still didn't deserve the nasty things she'd said. So she'd resolved to face him, one on one, to tell him so.
But the days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still she hadn't gone to see him. Doubts had surfaced about this Richard Brook person, who seemed to be no more than a shadow and a ghost. But they couldn't prove the existence of a James Moriarty either, and so nothing had really been resolved.
The media went back and forth, calling Sherlock Holmes a criminal mastermind one day and a poor, misunderstood genius the next. Whenever his name was mentioned, accusations flew and tempers flared.
Through it all, John held his head high and refused to speak to anyone about him, looking right through the clamoring reporters as though they weren't even there, rejecting tantalizing offers for exclusive interviews left, right and center. In the photos she saw in the papers, he always looked grim, but never ashamed of himself or his friend. And the hot little ball of guilt in Donovan's belly grew.
Finally, more than half a year after 'the incident,' Sergeant Donovan found herself standing at his door. She'd been chasing a lead on an open case and wound up in a part of town she rarely visited. And she'd realized how close she was to the address Lestrade had recently mentioned in passing. It was impulsive, yes, and it was getting a bit late, but she'd put this off long enough now.
It was time.
A.N. Just a little unfinished something I 've been playing with lately. This is my first foray into the BBC Sherlock-verse, and sadly, I'm not British in the least...so please forgive me for any blatant Americanisms. Or feel free to point them out! As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated :)
xoxo Janie