"Sherlock." He turned at the sound of his name. Sally Donovan was striding up to him, hair bouncing and free. Sherlock had often wondered about it - was it as soft as it looked? Or was it more coarse and stiff. He'd tried once, to reach out and touch it, but had remembered that that was considered inappropriate. He'd changed it to move a small piece of lint from her shoulder instead, small smile as he plucked it off her suit jacket and dropped it to the floor. She'd smiled and thanked him, and he'd nodded and said nothing. Nothing was always easier around her.
He paused, waiting for her to catch up. Her smile was wide, and her gait was fast - she was hurrying towards him. For what, though? He couldn't quite make out what was so important right then. He'd given Lestrade his assessment, pointing him in the right direction on this case.
"Donovan?" He kept his voice soft, kind. He knew from study that women liked that, liked being talked to in gentle tones.
"That was really impressive." Her smile somehow broadened, threatening to split all the way around her head. Sherlock imagined that momentarily before pushing his thoughts back into focusing on her. People wanted you to pay attention when they talked, despite talking about the most trivial and ridiculous things.
"Thank you."
"Did you... need a ride? Back home?" Sally gave him a hopeful look that he did not notice, because he was already looking towards the main roads for a taxi.
"I don't mind taking a cab."
"I just thought..." She paused, which made Sherlock look at her again. "Maybe you'd like a bit of company."
"Alone is better, people tend to talk while I think." He watches her face - she looks down at her shoes, smile fading - and realizes this was not what she wanted to hear. "Although." He struggled to find the words to make this right. Lestrade was always telling him to be nicer to the constables and sergeants. "Perhaps company would be nice, this time." His words came slow and deliberate, his eyes watching her face as he said it. She looked back up at him and smiled, tentatively. He gave her a smile in return - this was the general social convention, was it not? Someone smiles at you, you smile back. Be nice. Friendly. Maybe she wouldn't hate him the way Anderson did. Lestrade would be proud.
"Great." She reached up and swiped her hair behind her ear. Pupils dilated. Sherlock noticed - sign of sexual arousal? Attraction? That was interesting. Could Sergeant Sally Donovan be coming on to him? "I'll just go get my car." She rubs her left arm, right arm slung across her torso, just under her breasts. Drawing attention to them. Sherlock smiled again and nodded, and she turned, walking away slowly. He stayed where he was, watching her. Counting down from seven in his head. When he got to three, she turned around and looked at him before continuing on - her pace quickened this time, and she stopped to talk to one of the constables. They nodded, and she continued on, slipping under the police tape. He turned and ducked under the tape nearest him, walking towards the street corner.
A few minutes later, a car pulled around to where Sherlock was standing. He opened the passenger door and ducked in, door closing behind him.
"So, where to?" Donovan waited for him to buckle his seat belt and give her the address.
"Baker Street." She looked at him.
"Number?" He shook his head.
"No no, I don't live there yet, I just need to stop by and see someone for a moment. Won't be long." She nodded slowly and shifted back into drive.
"So, what's on Baker Street?" Sherlock looked over at Donovan - no, she'd probably want to be called Sally now, Donovan was work and Sally was personal. People liked being called by their first names when they weren't at work, didn't they?
"An old friend." Sally's mouth turned down slightly but she didn't question this.
"Where to after that?" she asked. Sherlock pressed his long fingers together, the tops touching the underside of his nose, sides against his lips.
"That's more than enough, I can take a taxi from there."
"I don't mind." Sherlock glanced at Sally Donovan. "Really. I can drive you home from Baker Street."
"I don't think I'll be going home right away." Sally looked at him as she stopped at a light.
"Why?"
"Dinner."
"What?" Sherlock looked over at her.
"I'm going to have dinner before going home." She nodded, still watching him. Oh. She was expecting an invitation now, wasn't she? He swallowed. "Are you... hungry?" She smiled.
"I could eat. Feel like I've been on my feet all day and the only thing I remember having all day was a couple pots of terrible coffee." Sherlock nodded. The light changed and Sally stepped on the gas again. "Anywhere you have in mind?"
"Angelo's. Right around the corner from Baker Street."
"Angelo's? Isn't that... isn't that the guy we got for housebreaking?"
"Yes." Sally looked at him for a moment before focusing on the road again.
"You want to go eat there? After what he did?"
"Housebreaking is less reprehensible than murder, am I wrong?"
"What?" Sherlock sighed.
"Angelo was housebreaking. Not on a murder spree. I find I can still live with eating at his restaurant in his absence."
"Would you feel that way if he had been on a killing spree?"
"Probably." Next to him, Sally tensed. Ah, another wrong turn. People didn't like it when you sympathized with murderers and rapists. "Uh, probably... something I'd have to consider more carefully." She relaxed slightly. Sherlock filed that away for future reference.
They pulled onto Baker Street and Sherlock directed Sally towards an open parking area. "It's easier to park here and walk than it is to try and get closer." She nodded and pulled into a space. "Won't be but a moment," he told her as he quickly unbuckled his seatbelt.
"Should I..." He turned to see her looking slightly uncertain.
"Should you what?"
"Maybe... come with you?" He sucked in a breath. Of course. He'd accepted her offer of a ride, then invited her to dinner. He nodded slowly.
"If you'd like." She nodded and smiled before getting out of the car.
They walked up the street until Sally saw a large awning for Speedy's Sandwich Bar & Cafe.
"Just past that is 221B." She nodded, walking a little closer to him.
"That's where she lives, then?" Sherlock looked at her. She had figured it out? Perhaps he had underestimated her.
"Who?" He refused to give in and simply admit she was right.
"Your... ex-girlfriend?" Sherlock snorted. Not a case of underestimating her, then.
"No."
They came to the door and Sherlock reached out one gloved hand, knocking three times with the heavy brass knocker on the door.
"Ex-boyfriend then?" Sherlock looked at her, his face blank. She shrank back a little. Maybe he wasn't keeping his face as blank as he thought.
The door opened and an elderly woman nearly squealed in delight. "Sherlock!"
"Mrs. Hudson." Sally looked at him, astounded. The woman stepped outside and hugged Sherlock tightly, as though he were one of her own children. Kissed his cheek. Ran her hands over his face. Such motherly gestures. Sally wasn't sure what to think. "This is Sergeant Sally Donovan." Mrs. Hudson looked over at her, interest and curiosity in her eyes.
"Oh? Got yourself a girlfriend, Sherlock?" Sally blushed.
"No, no, we're just... colleagues." Sherlock looked at Sally as she said this. "I just... offered him a ride." Mrs. Hudson's smile never wavered as she ushered them both inside.
"So Sherlock, you made a decision on the flat?" Mrs. Hudson led them through her tiny kitchen into an equally small sitting room.
"I'm thinking I'll take B," he said absent-mindedly. "C doesn't quite have the room I need. Just hold it for me a bit longer, I'll find a flatmate." She nodded.
"Tea?" Mrs. Hudson was looking at Sally.
"No, thank you." Mrs. Hudson flitted about between kitchen and sitting room, setting out biscuits and tea anyway.
"Came to see if you needed any more help in the meantime." Sherlock was looking at Mrs. Hudson. She smiled at him, walking over and stroking his cheek again.
"You're such a wonderful young man, Sherlock. I could use some help this weekend. Having a new table brought in for the kitchen. Think you could manage it?"
"Of course," he told her. Sally could not believe she was hearing genuine affection in his voice - in Sherlock's voice, of all people. Sherlock always seemed to clinical and detached. He chatted with Mrs. Hudson for a moment more before he excused them both - crime solved, hadn't eaten in days, off to Angelo's for a late one. Mrs. Hudson shooed them out, admonishing Sherlock for having taken such poor care of himself of late.
"You're looking too thin, Sherlock. You need to keep better care of yourself, don't want to fall down at one of these crime scenes and go face first into a body, now." Sherlock smiled at her, kissed her cheek and hugged her.
"I'll be by Saturday, 'round lunch time." She nods and waves them off. Sally steps in close to Sherlock again as they walk, her arm brushing his with each step.
"She's nice."
"What?" Sherlock looked at her, not sure what they were talking about. Sally smiled.
"Mrs. Hudson. She your... aunt?"
"No."
"Oh." They fell into silence for a few moments. Sherlock was trying to figure out why Sally was bringing up Mrs. Hudson now.
"So... how d'you know her, then?"
"Helped out with a situation not long ago." Sally nods. They turn the corner and head up Northumberland street. Sally can see the lights for Angelo's already, and her stomach growls slightly.
"Smells good," she said, nodding to to restaurant.
"Angelo takes a lot of pride in what he does." They walked inside. The host, Billy, looked at them and smiled.
"Right this way, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock, please."
"Of course, Sherlock." Sally strides behind them both as Billy brings them to a small, intimate table. There's a candle on it, which Billy lights as they sit down. Menus appear in front of each other them.
"Angelo has said that you are to have anything you want, on the house," Billy tells him. "And we will of course extend the courtesy to your lovely lady friend." Billy smiles at Sally, and she blushes again.
"Thank you, Billy. I think the artichoke dip to start would be perfect."
Billy nods and steps away. The door opens - a bell chimes. Sherlock watches everything for a moment. The staff here is good - so good, he almost doesn't see when Billy motions to one of the waiters. Sherlock smiles.
"So, any recommendations?" He turns back to Sally. She's smiling. Hand brushes hair back again. Leaning forward. Pupils dilating again. Sherlock could almost hear her pulse beating - elevated, but staccato, unsure if she was reading too much into this. She thought she was, but was hoping she wasn't. Attraction. Sexual desire. For him? Interesting. Several dozen experiment ideas ran through his head. And then Lestrade's voice. "For God's sake, Sherlock, that's a living, breathing, human being! You can't make people into your experiments." Sherlock had tried apologizing after that, but Anderson wouldn't hear it. Perhaps the only time that Sherlock had ever believed Anderson understood was when he had looked at Sherlock and told him his apology was meaningless, because it wasn't genuine. Maybe everyone was smart, in tiny doses at least.
"Sherlock?" He realized he'd been silent too long. Their artichoke dip had arrived, and Billy was standing there next to them.
"Chicken carbonara is especially nice," he told her. "My usual, Billy." Billy nodded.
"I'll take the carbonara, then." Sally smiled, handing Billy her menu. He smiled and took the menus back to the front.
"Where were you, just then?"
"I..." Sherlock stopped himself. He shouldn't say he was figuring out that she was highly attracted to him and that she was considering offering him a ride back to her own house tonight. He shouldn't tell her that he could see that she would be willing - so very willing - if he were to try anything with her. He shouldn't tell her that anytime he looked at her, he didn't always see her as Sergeant Sally Donovan. To be fair, though, every officer at any crime scene was either Lestrade, Anderson, or Not-Lestrade. Though Donovan was quickly becoming another face and name he recognized. He shouldn't tell her that he was beginning to remember her because in her current state, she would take that as a compliment - probably even take it as a come on. "I was simply... thinking."
"You do that a lot."
"No. I do it always."
"That too." She looked down, grabbing one of the fresh-made pita chips around the dip. She sunk it into the dish - creamy and tangy and just the slightest hint of sweet to the dip, salt and flour and pepper in the chip. Brought it to her mouth and took a bite, licking some of the creamy sauce off her lips. Deliberate - a not so subtle metaphor for what she could be doing to him later. Sherlock stared - that was what she wanted, after all. And while he might not go as far as he could - as far as she'd let him, and she'd let him go oh so far if only he said he wanted to - he could at least indulge a little of his curiosity at this very human behavior. Her lips quirked - full, plump. Blood rushed through them as she smiled at him.
"Like what you see?" Ooo, that was far more direct. He let his eyes roll up to hers slowly. He had no idea what to say, but the silence and eye contact seemed to be more than enough for Sally. They sat and stared at each other for a few moments. The wait staff came back with their dinners. Sally looked at her chicken carbonara eagerly. She looked over and saw a simple but elegant looking plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
""You... you order that every time?" Sherlock looked at her as he cut into one of the meatballs - they were the size of a child's fist.
"There's something very comforting about this meal. I've tried everything on the menu here, but this - this has always been my favorite." Sally smiled.
"Childhood comfort food?" Sherlock snorted as he bit into a mouthful of noodles and sauce. He chewed, taking a sip of water.
"Hardly," he told her, picking up another forkful and shoving it into his mouth. Her smile turned sad, and they ate in relative quiet for a few moments.
"The carbonara is amazing." Sherlock smiled at her.
"I'm glad."
Dinner finished, Billy came by with two servings of tiramisu. Sally and Sherlock ate their dessert, smiling at each other. Sherlock reckoned that this must be what a date felt like. He'd never actually been on one before. They finished, and Billy refused so much as a tip for everything. Sherlock slid one onto the table anyways. Sally noticed it was a rather nice tip, at that. Kind with Mrs. Hudson. Generous to waiters. Was this really the same Sherlock Holmes who had stood at crime scenes and traded insults and abuses with Anderson? Who would smile at Lestrade and remind him that his forensics team would always be at least fourteen steps behind him?
They walked back to the car. This could be a companionable silence - at least, Sherlock thought it could. It had been a long time since he'd experienced it, but the chemicals whirring through his brain seemed familiar. They arrived at the car, and Sally leaned her arms on the rooftop, looking at him across it.
"So, where to next?" He paused. He could always... "Or..." Ah, there it was. The invitation back to her place. Cup of coffee, maybe glass of wine. They'd sit on the couch, Sally would cross her legs towards him, one foot tucked up under her. She'd ask about his life - how'd he get into this while consulting detective business - or maybe ask about his brother, and why Sherlock had never gone into government work. He'd give her minimal details - she'd find him mysterious. Reach out, stroke his hair. Tell him she wasn't sure how he was single, which was both a blatant lie and an invitation for him to say something along the same lines. Realization would hit - they were obviously right for each other. And the wine would allow her an out, an excuse, if she were to suddenly kiss him, pull him into her arms. If he resisted, she'd say she was sorry, too much wine, act embarrassed. If he consented, she'd say that the wine was only making her see things clearer, lowering her inhibitions, and oh she should have done this ages ago...
"Or?"
"Well... we could go back to my place, if you liked." Sherlock stared at her.
"541 Downs Garden." Her face said it all. She was feeling a bit rejected that he hadn't even considered her place, but was recalculating her move - take him to his place, ask if she could come in for just a moment - use the restroom, glass of water or cup of coffee, maybe. People often offered coffee after a date, though Sherlock couldn't understand why they didn't just ask about having sex, since that was the whole reason for the coffee invitation. She smiled and nodded.
"Hop in then."
It wasn't a long drive - less than ten minutes. Sherlock looked out the window for most of the trip. How far was he willing to take this? He'd have to figure it out soon. They were getting closer and closer with every passing light.
When they pulled up in front of the building, Sally's mouth dropped a bit.
"You live here?"
Sherlock looked up at the building. It was a nice rowhouse. Bit too much for him, though, if he was honest.
"Only temporarily." He stepped out of the car and strode towards the wrought-iron gate in front of the rowhouse. He pulled out a key and opened the lock. He pushed the gate open and turned to look back at Sally. She was standing next to the car still, watching him. Arms crossed over her chest. Waiting. Invitation or dismissal. Time to choose.
"Would you... like to come in?" he asked her. Her smile returned.
"Love to." She walked towards him. Her hips swayed stronger than before - an attempt to gain attention. Looking for approval, confirmation that she was wanted. Sherlock couldn't think of anything to say so he simply watched her stroll up the walkway to the door. He closed and latched the gate behind them, then followed her to the door.
"It's unlocked?" she asked as he reached past her and turned the knob. He looked at her curiously.
"The gate was locked."
"You are not what I expected, Sherlock." He frowns a little, thinking.
"Thank-you," he said, sounding confused.
Lights flicked on as they entered the formal living room. It all looked far too posh to ever be used. Sherlock led the way through it into a smaller, more intimate sitting room. There were several books on the floor around the couch, and a laptop on the coffee table. It looked like Sherlock had set up shop here - there was a small stack of blankets and a couple small pillows to one side of the couch. Large pile of clothes behind it, and a small stack of clean, folded clothes next to the laptop.
Sally could not understand why a man who lived in a house like this would want to relegate himself to one room. Or why he'd want to give it up for a flatshare off Baker Street, next to a sandwich shop.
"Well, this... is where I spend most of my time," he admitted. Gain trust, perhaps even earn sympathy. Sally would wonder at why he stayed in this room so much that he had clothes and bedsheets here along with books and his laptop. She'd fuss over him a bit, asking why.
"Just this one room?"
"Well, the kitchen as well, but that's mostly for experiments."
"So... you live with other people?" Sherlock was picking up the books on the floor when she asked this. He paused and looked at her.
"No."
"You live here alone?"
"Yes."
Sally's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Finally she settled on a question. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why look for a flatshare and a flatmate when you have all of this right here?" He stiffened. She noticed. "Oh." She tried to backpedal. "Bad subject, I take it."
"A bit." He looked down then back up. Small smile. Don't give her too much. She smiles back, just a little. Everything is going exactly as he had believed it would. He was shocked it was all working so well.
"Family problems."
"What?" He hadn't expected her to get that.
"Family problems. I get it. My mum was never happy about me joinin' the police force. Thought I'd end up dead in a year. When I told her I wanted to go for Detective, she all but screamed at me that I was a fool. Then my little brother went missing." Sherlock watched her. He had figured out before that she had a younger brother - picture on her keychain of her, her brother, mother, and step-father. Step-father? Of course. He was easy to figure out - Sally and her brother and mother were all of African decent. Her step-father was Asian.
"I didn't know."
"Most people don't. But you should have. You worked the case." Sherlock's head cocked to the right for a moment. Then the memory flashed over him.
"You were a constable," he almost whispered. She nodded. "Lestrade told me this was for "one of their own." I wasn't entirely sure what he meant at the time, but I threw myself into it. One of the first cases I ever had with Lestrade."
"Right before he became Inspector," Sally nodded. "He put everything he could into finding Ryan. You included."
Sherlock nodded slowly. "I'm glad I was able to help." Sally smiled.
"Would I... could I maybe have a cup of coffee?" Sherlock smiled.
"Of course."
He led her into the kitchen. Stainless steel everything glinted at them - there was an almost surgical feel to the room. Sally saw a large island in the middle of the kitchen, covered in beakers and test tubes and all manner of scientific items that Sally hadn't seen since she'd been in school.
"Your experiments?" Sherlock looked back and nodded. He put the kettle on, pulled a french press out of a cabinet. Bean grinder next. Both of them in stainless steel and clear glass and plastic, small black accents everywhere. Designer style - not something she would have associated with Sherlock Holmes. The more she looked around, the more she saw - the kitchen may have a very surgical, clinical feel to it, but there were touches here and there that showed it was used, and it was loved.
Sherlock was in another cabinet now, across the room form where the french press was. He pulled out a small bag - bright red, with what looked like tattoo designs on the front of it. He brought it over to the grinder, opening it up. The aroma of the beans was strong but comforting. Sally would have to get the name of this - even if it tasted no better than the stuff at the station, she'd be content to simply open the bag and smell it every night.
Sherlock scooped beans into the grinder until satisfied, clicking the lid closed and pushing the button. The sound startled her, but only for a split second. Sherlock looked over at her, smiling a little. She returned it.
Kettle clicked off - beans were ground, and they went into the press. Then the water. Sherlock slid the lid in place and grabbed a small timer, pushing the buttons a few times before setting it back down.
"Four minutes."
"Is that all?" she asked. He nodded. "So, we've got four minutes to kill. Any ideas?" She leaned against the counter. Sherlock could see it. The way her hip was cocked suggested she was more than happy to let him have a go at her right here, right now. She wouldn't mind the coffee on the counter, or the experiments on the island, or even the fact that Sherlock would be insistent that she keep her hands away from everything. Something inside Donovan was broken long before her brother had been kidnapped. Possible molestation? Uncle was always most likely, or a close family friend who was like an uncle, but Sherlock recalled every conversation they'd ever had (or that he'd decided to overhear) about her family, and she never mentioned her father. Perhaps...
"I'm open to suggestions," was all he said instead.
She sauntered over to him, standing in front of him. Close, she was so close, and Sherlock could almost feel her hair on his face now, and if he closed his eyes he was sure he'd feel it brush against his cheeks, his neck...
He did close his eyes, swallowing. His blood was racing for all the reasons she wouldn't want to hear - he had seen this all, had been able to predict her movements and intimations and she was none the wiser in the least. Experiment's progress going well thus far. Where was the ending point? When would he have accumulated enough data? Would he be able to stop when he got to that point, or would he be too excited to learn more? Or worse, would he even know when he'd reached that point?
He opened his eyes again and looked down at Sally. Pupils - dilated. Breathing was shallow and a little rushed. Her face was flushed slightly, painting her cheeks with a pinkish stain that Sherlock had to admit looked nice.
"Sally-"
She leaned up and kissed him. Arms wrapped around his neck - the proverbial damsel throwing herself at the man she thought was her knight in shining armor. He was still for a moment, caught off guard. He'd expected the kiss, but now right now - she hadn't had any wine at dinner, and there was no excuse for her to fall back on. He felt his arms rise up and encircle her waist slowly. Not his area of expertise, he had to admit. It seemed to be the response Sally had wanted, though. Her hands dropped to his shirt front. Pop, the first button was undone. Pop, the second. Pop, the third.
"Sally!" Sherlock pulled away, his voice breathy and slightly higher than normal. His hands were on her arms, her hands were still on his shirt, pulling it out of his pants a bit as he stepped away from her.
"What?" She was hurt - he was rejecting her. Her face began to crumple. "I thought..."
Sherlock looked at her and he could see it, oh he could see it all laid out before him like a picture book. He could pull her back into him, kiss her again, soothe her ego and touch her hair - that exquisite, gravity-defying hair that seemed to bounce even when she didn't move. They would fumble over each other's clothes - both trying to unbutton the other's shirt until finally one or both of them yanked - impatient, anxious - and popped the buttons off. Sounds like rice or beans scattering on the floor, they'd laugh. Sherlock would kiss her again and take her hand, leading her to his bedroom. Upstairs. Down the hallway to the left. Last door, straight ahead. He'd push her down on the bed and kiss his way up her exposed stomach. Pause to slip the clasp that held her bra on - Sally was obviously someone who enjoyed bras with front clasps. She'd gasp, and whisper his name. He'd shove his pants off while she shimmied out of her own, and they'd stay there for a moment, staring at each other. Then he'd crawl across the bed to her again. She'd ask if he had a condom. He'd tell her of course he did, and reach over to his bedside table. He'd kiss every inch of her skin he could, let his hands roam over her while hers did the same to him.
It would take a very, very long time, and Sally Donovan would never, ever forget it. Sherlock may not be the most experienced at these things, but sometimes, hours of study was better than hours of practice. They would lay in bed, twined together after that, and she would whisper those words no one should say after dinner and a shag. And Sherlock would look at her, brush that hair - that amazing hair he couldn't stop wondering about - out of her face and say...
"I think you should go."
"What?" He looked up at her. Her face was murderous. He stepped back, now just out of her reach.
"Sally... I'm sorry." She stared at him for a moment before turning around and storming away. Angry footsteps in expensive heels. He heard the door open, then slam shut. He stood there, not bothering to fix his shirt, wondering just how far over the line he'd let his curiosity take him.
The timer chimed. He turned it off and walked out of the kitchen.
He had not expected to walk through his sitting room and into the formal parlor to see Sally still standing there by the door. Her arms were crossed in front of her - over her breasts this time, not under them. Cutting him off, out of her thoughts. Trying to, at least. He stared at her from across the room.
"You know what the worst part of this is?" He said nothing - he was fairly certain this was one of those rhetorical questions Lestrade had mentioned before. "The worst part is, they're all right. About you. You're a nutter."
He looked down. "I can assure you I am in complete control of my mental faculties."
"You're a psychopath!" She was shouting now. Hands fisted tight, held hard by her sides. "Anderson tried to tell me. Tried to say you get off on the crimes and making other people feel stupid! Well, job well done. You freak." Sherlock looked up at her then. The pain in her eyes was hot and wild and Sherlock wanted very much to study it, to record everything he saw. But all he could do was stand there, shirt half undone still, and let her shout abuse at him. He briefly wondered what that said about him. But he knew. He'd always known.
"I can tell you," he said calmly, trying to diffuse the situation, "that I shall be the soul of discretion."
"Piss off!" She was still shouting. "You can do whatever you bloody well like! I don't care!"
And then she was gone. Sherlock walked to the door - she'd left it open. He saw the gate swinging in the light breeze. A flash of lightning bolted through the sky. Heavy rain was soaking the top of Sally's head, that impossible hair unable to fight the power of a downpour. She glanced back once more before getting into her car. The engine revved, and she pulled out into the street quickly. It was getting late - nearly one in the morning now - so there were very few people on the road. Sherlock slumped against the door frame and watched her taillights vanish into the dark and rain.
One week later, Lestrade called him. "Got a strange one for ya. Will you come?"
"Text me the details. I'll call a cab and meet you there."
"Thank-you. Oh, and Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
Lestrade was quiet a moment. "Don't listen to Sally, when you get there. In fact, if I'm not there, just wait for me before you go in." Sherlock murmured - noncommittal noises always seemed to indicate commitment to what the other person said. Quite the paradox. He hung up and called for a cab. It was there in five minutes. He rattled off the address Lestrade texted him.
It was on the other side of town, but the traffic was remarkably kind, and they made good time. He arrived to see Sally - no, Donovan, she was working now - talking to Anderson. He knew that wasn't a good sign. Anderson reached up and shoved a lock of Donovan's hair out of her face. Sherlock watched this, a small twinge of jealousy stabbing through him. He knew it was irrational - jealous over finding out the texture of someone's hair - but there it was. Then he saw it - this was comfort. Too intimate a comfort for two people who were simply colleagues.
Sherlock wonders if she left him that night and went straight to Anderson. She might have cried on his shoulder. He'd have offered her wine. His wife was away, and of course it was fine if she just wanted to crash on the couch tonight. And she would kiss him, and he would kiss her back, and he wouldn't stop her when she undressed him. Wouldn't say no when she asked him to take her to bed.
Interesting. Wonder how much more he hates me now. No matter.
Sherlock started over, hands in his coat.
"Freak." He looked up, slightly surprised. Sally - no, Donovan, she's Donovan right now - stands in front of him. Between them is a thin line of police tape.
"Sergeant Donovan. Is Inspector Lestrade here? He asked me to meet him."
"Why?"
Sherlock looked at her in confusion. "He wants me to take a look at something."
"Why?" Sherlock frowned. She's never been so antagonistic.
"Probably wants to know what I think."
"Well you know what I think?" Sherlock stepped back half a step. He saw the last week written on her face.
"Yes, I believe I do." She glares at him as a car pulls up behind him.
"Donovan, let 'im in!" She lifts up the tape for Sherlock, who ducks under it and waits next to her for Lestrade, who's just closed the car door and is walking over to them.
"Evening, Lestrade."
"Sherlock, thanks. Donovan, don't you have something to be doing right now?" She glares at them both but nods and storms off. The sound reminds Sherlock of a week ago, her heels on his kitchen floor. It isn't raining tonight, he realizes.
"Sorry 'bout that." Lestrade looks at Sherlock. "Look, I don't need to know what happened-"
"Nothing happened." Lestrade was quiet for a moment, his face disbelieving.
"Right, o'course. Look, the problem is, Sally there has a bad temper and a wide mouth."
"She's been discussing our... mishap."
"Mishap? Sounds more like nuclear disaster."
Sherlock sighed. "I allowed myself to get... carried away." Lestrade stopped. Sherlock turned and looked at him.
"Do I need to sit you down and have 'the talk'? Because most people learn real fast that you can't do that." Sherlock glared at him.
"It was just an..." Lestrade's face fell - he understood now.
"Damn it, Sherlock." He muttered under his breath for a moment. "You made her an experiment." Not a question - Sherlock was proud of him, figuring it out that fast. Not questioning, knowing.
"Yes."
"Damn it, Sherlock." More feeling this time. Sherlock licked his lips.
"I never meant..."
"I know. That's the problem." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock, you've got to understand."
"I was trying to."
"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it." Sherlock sighs.
"Yes, I know. Lestrade, I know I've put you in an awkward position. And... I do apologize." Lestrade looked at him, surprised.
"Did you really just say that?"
"Don't ruin the moment." Lestrade grinned. Sherlock smiled slightly. "So, what do I do now?"
"Right now, you come look at this body. You tell me everything you can in the next five minutes. Then tomorrow, you come down to the station and we have a talk." Sherlock nodded.
"And after that?"
"After that is up to you, Sherlock." Shelock looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods again.
"Very well. Show me the body, Lestrade." They walk into the house, and Sherlock smiles. At least this one isn't alive - Lestrade can't blame him if he tries out a few theories on this one...