Authors Note: I was thrilled with the last Season of Sherlock but I didn't get everything I wanted. I wanted a scene with Sally and Sherlock. I wanted an apology...and no, not the one people who hate her character want. One where she grovels at his feet for, oh, I don't know, doing her job. But one where he apologizes to her for how he treated her. This past season was all about, among other things, Sherlock's growth, his loyalty, his capacity for forgiveness and love. So in the Sally!Lock universe I fashioned here is the scene I didn't get. Please, please, please, if you haven't already, read "Freak". Otherwise this will seem a bit too random. Ok, that's all I've got. Hope you enjoy it.
Bad Penny
An unexpected sequel to "Freak"
The shower was hot, relaxing and so very needed after the exhaustingly long day she'd had. In fact she would have remained there even longer than she did, but eventually the water began to run cold and with a regretful sigh she stepped out. Grabbing a towel she wrapped it around her body and exited the bathroom to discover her mobile buzzing frantically. That was more than a little odd. It was late, well after midnight as a matter of fact and on top of that this was her work phone. She was about to check it when there was a knock on the door.
Someone knocking at her flat, after 12 at night and she only in a towel.
Sally cursed softly under her breath and reached for her gun.
"Who is it?" She called out emphasizing the edge in her voice.
There was a pause.
"A ghost."
She froze, suddenly rooted to the spot. But it wasn't for the reason she or anyone else might expect. Sally had known this would happen sooner or later because Sally knew he wasn't dead.
Just because she didn't walk around bleating about it like Anderson didn't mean she'd bought that tall tale. Nope. Not by a long shot.
She'd found out the same way everyone else had. A sudden influx of emails, her mobile buzzing relentlessly. She was up to her elbows in paperwork and tried her best to ignore it for as long as she could. That is until she heard the and saw the commotion outside her office. people gathered around the telly, whispering to one another, hands against mouths, looks of shock, looks of...smugness. She stood, left the room and almost bumped into a clearly distraught Lestrade.
"That bastard...sonofbitch..." He muttered barely noting her. But she noted there was no anger in his tone as he swore, just sorrow. Sorrow and disbelief. She hurried over to the television and read the scroll.
Defamed Detective Sherlock Holmes Allegedly Commits Suicide.
She turned to another screen and saw the same thing. Blindly she fished for her phone and began skimming through the message.
Holmes Commits Suicide
Disgraced Consulting Detective Kills Self
Private Dick Bites It
"Suppose you're satisfied now, aren't ya?"
That was the voice of a co-worker. She didn't bother to glance away from her mobile to figure out who. It didn't matter.
Sherlock Holmes: Dead At 36
"Ice Queen that one." Someone else murmurred. "Drives a man to his death and doesn't even bat an eyelash."
Sherlock Holmes Leaps To His Death
Sally had begun a slow walk back to her office more dazed than she thought she'd could be as she clicked through story after story after story. She hadn't noticed Anderson following behind her closely.
"Can you believe this?" He asked gesturing to the din outside.
"Sell's papers I suppose." She replied absently.
Witnesses say that Holmes, only recently proven to be a fraud left from top of St. Bart's to the horror of those below.
"Sell's papers?! He's dead. Do you know what that means?"
His associate, one Dr. John Watson appeared to be suffering from an as yet undetermined injury of his own.
"No...what's it mean?" Finally Sally raised her head, her brow furrowed in consternation. She softened a bit when she met her friends pink rimmed eyes. "He won't be sticking his nose in our cases anymore." She concluded but with far less bite that she'd thought she'd have. She wilted a bit under Anderson's guilt. She could see it rolling in like the tide and any minute she expected it to hit her as well. Carry her away like so much flotsam, coursing down the Thames and out to sea.
But it didn't. She felt no guilt. She had been doing her job, she and Anderson both and she wouldn't feel bad for what an obviously disturbed man had chosen, yes chosen, to do. But that wasn't all. There was more. There was something else she couldn't put her finger on.
She'd known something like this could happen, might happen...and still...still the wall of detachment she had been attempting to build was showing small cracks.
Try as she might have, all her anger and distrust and yes eventual fear of what he was capable of did nothing to replace her memories of Sherlock. Good memories of intwined fingers and limbs, soft bickering and loud sex, how she grew to love his presumption and his unspoken want when it came to having her around, Sunday morning, watching his curls dry after they showered together.
Pictured: Dr. John Watson, flatmate and friend of Holmes stares blankly as he is tended to by an unnamed physician.
"You don't think that-"
She cut him off before he could continue.
"No. No, I don't not for one moment."
See below for video of a distraught Dr. Watson taking a swing at our cameraman!
Fucking Daily Mail.
"I never meant for..." He trailed off and Sally watched him stare down at his feet.
"I'm so sorry." She heard Anderson whisper under his breath. But it wasn't to her. It was to the late Mr. Holmes.
As she tried to digest what had really she read the description of exactly what had happened on that rooftop. As she saw hastily snapped pictures that still showed streaks of blood on the pavement Sally Donovan had whispered three words of her own.
"This is bollocks."
Nothing was ever really the same from that moment on. Half of the office gave her the cold shoulder, the other half decided to congratulate her for being the hardest of hard arses. Lestrade, for the most part chose to ignore her.
Anderson went into a tailspin.
The funny thing was they were both trying to prove the same thing but for entirely different reasons. He was looking for forgiveness. She saw the guilt hanging off him everyday he came into work. Well, at least every day he bothered to come in. His absences grew and both his hours and Lestrade's patience shrank. Both men tried to talk to her about it but she was remote.
Her free time was spent scouring foreign news sites, forums, blind items any collection of odd tales of crime and criminals looking for any hint of him.
She allowed herself one night, just one every other month or so to cry.
As information slowly surfaced about Richard Brook, Moriarty and every thread of web they'd been entangled in, she felt foolish. And Sally Donovan was nobody's fool.
They were tears of loss, because it didn't really matter if he was dead or if he'd been swept away to some foreign country or just underground. He was gone.
She didn't exactly mourn for the man she'd seen last but rather the one she'd released ages ago. Sherlock had a way of turning your life into a crime scene; something to be dissected, analyzed. Their entire relationship had been a postmortem or at least that's what she thought sometimes. That's what she remembered. But memories were often faulty.
She'd been afraid to admit she loved him at the time. She wasn't in love with him. She could see that as clearly now as she could then but she did love him. Expected him. Counted on him. Needed him. And as much as he would allow himself to, she believed he'd loved her.
Sally would test him at times. The first rule of any interaction with Sherlock was not to bore him. While he depended on routine for his deductions he loathed it as well. Sometimes, just to throw him off base she'd deviate from her normal schedule, come home later, earlier, take a different route, all just to keep him guessing. A guessing Sherlock was an interested Sherlock and she liked throwing red herrings at him as he tried to piece together what her day had wrought. It made her happy and the consternation on his face made her smile. It had made them both smile.
One day in particular she hadn't felt much like playing. A shiny day in London that seemed obscene considering what had just happened.
It was after that terrible suicide, after he'd taken her in his arms in the kitchen and told her perhaps she wasn't cut out for this job if it bothered her so much.
"It's a ridiculous thing for you to have to investigate. A complete waste of time."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's foolish."
"What is?"
"Suicide."
"What, are you an optimist? Is the freak actually a believer that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, as they say?"
He affected an affronted look.
"Hardly." He sniffed. "My point is that peoples view of this planet is entirely too small. There countless places one can hide, start over, start an entirely new life."
"Not everyone wants to do that, Sherlock. Not everyone can."
"Not everyone tries."
"For some people that's just impossible."
"Nothing is impossible if you're willing to let everything go."
"You talk like an elitist. Not that I'm surprised."
"You misunderstand me. I'm not saying cash out your Swiss bank account and go live in Dubai. I am proposing nothing of the sort. Not a life of glamour and rest. Perhaps a life of work, hard work in a hard place. But it's life nonetheless."
That hadn't at all been what she was expecting. She had truly expected him to regurgitate some sort of horrible out of touch nonsense about a permanent vacation, but he hadn't.
"The only two things that one cannot outrun are death and their own ego. And even death can be bargained with a bit."
"But not ego?"
"Never ego. There are undiscovered corners of this world where you can live as a pauper or a prince. You can always disappear because there is always a place to hide."
"Have you never been so low...so low you thought just...maybe..." She trailed off.
"Of course I have."
"So what did you do?"
"I stopped."
"So you think they're cowards then?" She asked dreading the answer.
He bristled at once pushing her away and pulling her in closer.
"I didn't say that. I said they weren't thinking. People never think. Suicide is the last refuge of the unimaginative. There's always a way out."
"Your pillow talk needs some work."
"Really? You've never complained about my efforts in bed before,
From there innuendo lead where it must and they put the matter and themselves to bed. At the time Sally had filed it away as a another interesting fact about Sherlock. Another way no one ever quite measured up to his standards.
But after that day...that day, it had come back to her.
There's always a way out.
She put a shaky hand to the door knob and turned. She didn't open it a crack and peak around it, meek and timid. She swung it wide and stood there, hair still wet, towel wrapped around her body, meeting him eye to eye.
Sally pressed her lips together just to suppress the emotions. There is a sharp and distinct difference between knowing something and knowing it.
Here he was, alive, well, strong, tall...handsome and looking just slightly tan. Was this bastard actually tan?
"So, not dead then?"
He didn't look surprised that she wasn't surprised. In fact he looked relieved. If she had been so shocked as to have fainted dead away he would have likely been disappointed. Sally had no intention of fainting anytime soon.
"May I come in, Sally?"
"Oh he's developed manners, has he? Yeah...come in."
She stepped back so he could pass and closed the door to her flat behind him. Glancing down she remembered she was still in a towel but she didn't make a move to cover herself more. She wasn't going to rushing off to her room to grab a dressing gown like some dizzy teenager. She's been in far more scandalous positions with the consulting detective. Positions that left them both sweaty and moaning, nearly clawing at one another as they-
Stop it, Sally. Just stop it.
She squared off out of habit and stared at him waiting for whatever might come next.
He stood there looking...unsure? She hadn't seen that look on him in a dogs age. The truth was she didn't know what to say either. So they just stood there, silently for nearly a good minute.
"Fancy a cuppa?" She asked suddenly and he seemed relieved.
"Yes, thank you." He nodded and his curls waggled with the effort.
She hurried to the kitchen trying not to notice how her hand shook as she reached to fill the kettle.
"I'm surprised I made the cut." She said suddenly.
"Pardon?" He asked apparently taking her words as an invitation to join her in the kitchen.
"I said I'm surprised I made the cut. Of your apology tour. That's what this is isn't it?"
He nodded.
"Something like that." A pause. "Everyone else has greeted me with a certain air of shock, surprise, disbelief. But not you." He narrowed his eyes at her in that appraising way he had. "Why?"
"How do you take your tea?"
"You know how I take my tea." He said quickly and with a surprising amount of bite and perhaps a touch of hurt as well.
He was right, she did know how he liked it. Three sugars and milk, lots of milk. She'd teased him because it's the way a child would drink it. And then one day she'd added a little honey and enjoyed watching the little pleased look that had come to his eyes as it hit his tongue.
They'd found other ways to use that honey that evening if her memory served.
Automatically she started rooting through her cupboard to see if she had any on hand now.
More silence, a valley of silence, long enough for the kettle to whistle in announcement that it was done.
"You kept your job I hear.' He said, his voice as melodious as she recalled, deep, rumbling, like thunder in the distance.
"Of course I kept my job." She handed him a mug of warm tea and cursed herself for making it just as he liked it, down to the honey she'd found moments before.
"Anderson couldn't manage."
"Anderson went barmy." She said with a shrug. "He let his obsession with you get the better of him."
"But not you."
She scoffed, no longer interested in tea and brushed past him. The towel was damp and uncomfortable and she longed to change into dry, comfortable clothes. Sally headed for her bedroom, he could follow or not.
He followed.
"Have you heard some of his theories?" She called over her shoulder. "Very complex. Lost of conspiracies involving you being buddy-buddy with Moriarty and all sorts of ties to MI6."
"He and I must have a sit down and discuss them some day."
"I'm sure he'd love that." She said as she rooted through her basket of clean clothes that she still hadn't had a moment to put away. "He could use a friend."
There was a dull, light thunk as he set the mug down atop her dresser.
"After things with Richard Brook were brought to life, I imagine life got rather difficult for you both. For you in particular."
She found a comfortable t shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms. Giving the lightweight trousers a shake she climbed into them somehow managing not to dislodge the towel.
"Life has always been difficult for me, Sherlock, you know that. I went from 'that-bitch-who's-always-up-Lestrade's-arse' to 'that-bitch-who-framed-a-hero. Worst of all I didn't even have the decency to be sad about it."
"You weren't?
She turned to face him and looked him directly in the eye.
"No, I wasn't. I was doing my job. What no one seems to realize or acknowledge or accept is that this is what Moriarty wanted. So what they're doing when they demand that Phillip and I should have known better is that we should have been more clever than both the worlds smartest consulting criminal and the genius consulting detective." She inhaled sharply through her nose. "Every sign pointed to you. Every single one. I. Did. My. Job. And anyone who doesn't think so can go fuck themselves."
She stood there just staring at him as he stared right back. At first glance it seemed his face was implacable. But when she looked closer, the way she used to she noted that slight twitching around his mouth as though he wanted to say something but couldn't force the words up and out. There were shadows in his eyes but she couldn't tell what they hinted at.
"There was something more though...wasn't there?" He said finally.
"Yeah..." She turned away from him though not bothering to do so fully and she let the towel drop. How much he saw of her she didn't know and didn't care. It certainly wasn't the first time. She heard his breath catch, ever so softly. She wasn't sure if anyone else would have noticed but she remembered that catch, breathy and soft, nearly imperceptible unless you were attuned to Sherlock Holmes. She guess after all this time she still was.
Why did that bother her? Why did the hurt still hurt so badly?
Grabbing the shirt she pulled it over her head and then plunked down onto the bed. "You'd never kill yourself."
A smile played at his lips, there then gone.
"No?"
"No. I can't believe anyone bought that. I can't believe John-" She stopped herself. She learned to tread wisely around that name. "If you killed yourself, Moriarty won. It's as simple as that and you never, ever let someone win."
He lowered his head slightly and looked away from her. Perhaps he didn't like her assessment.
"Disappointed that I figured it out? No such thing as a perfect trick, Sherlock. And even if there were, there's always someone or something to trip up a good plan or a winning streak. Even a solid punch was enough to kill Houdini."
"Houdini wasn't prepared. I on the other hand am always prepared. And on the contrary, I would have been disappointed had you believed it. You wouldn't be nearly the woman I thought you were."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment. You patting me on the head like I passed some sort of test."
"This was always our problem wasn't it?" He said suddenly, furrowing his brow. She was so taken aback by how frank, raw, unexpected and completely off base that question was that for a moment she was stunned into silence.
"No, our problem was you thought things like that were our problem."
There was a stretch of silence and neither of them seemed to know what to do with their hands or where to focus their eyes.
"I'm sorry, Sally."
She sighed.
"You did what you had to do. I've looked at the case. I know what happened, where you stood. You made the only decision you could."
"That's true. But that's not what I was apologizing for."
Now their eyes met, cool blue to amber and brown.
She wanted to hear more and bit her lip to not fill in the words for him.
"I'm sorry that..." He stopped and started again. "I have had people in my life who cared for me or tried to care and I ran them ragged and then ran them away. I have had people who looked at me as something of a mountain to climbed and conquered, who thought if they could just find the one key that unlocked the door I would open up completely to them and be a new man. A man more to their liking. The people who have stayed...or who have tried to stay have always been the one for whom changing me was never part of the process. Bettering me, yes. But not changing. Those also the ones I tried the hardest to drive away. I never concerned myself for the others, I knew they'd drift away like leaves. I...I regret how I've treated you in private, in public. My behavior was inexcusable. But I...deeply regret driving you away. I consider it one of my few failures."
She would have been breathless had she been breathing. In her sillier moments, those powered by wine and memories she had dreamed of him coming to her like this. Hat in hand and a very Sherlock apology on his lips. But she hadn't ever believed it would happen.
That wall of detachment finally fell.
She stood up from the bed wordlessly, walked over to him and embraced him in a hug. He was stiff at first, but that was alright, neither of them had yielded to the other for years. They had once and for a brief time moved like clockwork, but now the gears were jammed, it would take awhile to get them going again.
After a moment he loosened and embraced her as well.
"You asked me a question once, a very long time ago." he began, his voice soft against her damp hair. "What would I do if... I would find him. I would take him to a place where no one would ever find the two of us. I would take pleasure in his very slow and painful death. I would drag his body by night and throw it into the Thames and I would take the greatest satisfaction as it sank to the bottom. And do you know what?"
"What...?"
"I wouldn't have the slightest fear of getting caught because the greatest mind of the Yard would already have been taken. And then I would mourn you...in a way so deep that it frightens me to consider it."
It was an odd thing to have whispered in her ear. Odder still how it fixed a hairline crack inside of her, a fracture they had somehow both caused.
He held her the same. He smelled the same.
"I should go." He said, still just as softly. She nodded and pulled away, warmed by him, his presence, his words but still determined not to go weak sister because of it.
They moved in silence from then on as she escorted him back through her flat, opening the door so that he could leave. They didn't say goodbye.
He stepped into the hall and started to walk away.
"Oi,...Freak?" She said testing out the old name. Not the biting use of it, the angry one, but it's genesis, pure, affectionate, mischievous and missed.
He turned to look at her.
"Yes, Sally?"
"Don't disappear again, ok? "
He paused and then covered the distance between them with a few strides of his long legs. Drawing her close, an arm around her waist he brought their bodies flush a moment before he did the same with their lips. She closed her eyes immediately, returning the surprise affection and losing herself in memories of a time when this was her normal.
He pulled away too soon.
"Hmm." He said with a raise of his eyebrow. "I expected to be slapped for taking such a liberty." There was a twinkle in his eye that they hadn't shared with one another in ages. "You're losing your touch."
It galled and excited her that he's swept in like that, like some romance hero and as he was walking away again she grabbed him by the pompous scarf he wore. Yanking him toward her she kissed him this time, a little bit hard, a touch bruising and she picked just the right moment to pull back...just as he was starting to get hungry.
"You should keep in touch." She said clearing her throat, not bothering to hide the smirk that rose to her lips at his flustered appearance.
He regained his composure enough to straighten his scarf and coat. He tried to keep his face collected but the flush to his cheeks and the crinkle around his eyes of an unbidden amused smile betrayed him. He quickly started to walk away no doubt thinking a quick exit was needed lest he embarrass himself.
"You know me, Sergeant." He called over his shoulder. "I'm always around."
Sally stepped back into her flat, dazed once again by Sherlock Holmes but for the first time in a very long time, it was in a good way. It wasn't that she expected anything to come of it. It wasn't even that she wanted that. All along, she had just wanted things set...right. And not it felt as if they had been.
Finally she looked at her mobile, surprised the battery hadn't gone dead with all its buzzing. Picking it up she swiped her finger on the screen and checked the first text. It was a message, from Lestrade.
It was only two words.
HE'S BACK!
Putting the phone back in its place she brushed a finger across her lips and smiled.
He was indeed.