A/N: Warning for reference to self-harm.
The day that Sally Donovan and Sherlock Holmes reach an understanding is three days after the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan. And not a word is exchanged between the two of them.
There is nothing remarkable about the day. It is much like any other – iron-grey overcast London sky, cloying heat causing sweat to prickle at the nape of her neck, a pressing sense of altogether too many people bustling about.
And the young woman splayed dead on the floor of the office of the Wellcome Trust, a bullet in her brain and body stripped of ID.
Lestrade texts Holmes as soon as they arrive at the scene, shooting Sally a look which plainly pleads with her not to ask questions. She sighs and shrugs and goes back to the young woman who cannot be more than twenty-five.
"He needs a distraction," he says simply, kneeling beside the body and frowning, though whether at the corpse in front of him or the fact that he considers Holmes in need of a distraction she chooses not to wonder.
Holmes arrives in a swirl of black coat, face pale and oddly haggard-looking. He does not protest when presented with a white suit, and an acrid stench of tobacco lingers about him. There is no mistaking it, whatever he says about her observational skills.
Crouched on his knees, magnifying glass in hand, he rattles off deductions. "Student, I suspect, who's spent all day working in archives, if the white fibres beneath her nails are anything to go by. Likely a history student working towards a PhD. The Trust funds research into areas of medical relevance, including agricultural history and science. The calluses on her hands indicate not only is she right-handed but she spends a great deal of time both writing and at manual labour. Her nails are short, dress is practical for the weather, and along with the roughness of the backs of her hands suggest a great deal of time spent working outside in all weathers. Agricultural history is more likely. I suggest checking the Trust's records for any such students they are funding or have in the recent past." He stands and retreats to the door, both Lestrade and Sally following him as he steps out and returns to the street, stripping off his suit. "Based on the angle of the wound and the blood spatter pattern, the shooter was shorter than her and stood by the filing cabinets. Please don't disturb me again until you've something more interesting." His shirt sleeve rides up, and the sight of the raised red line on his arm causes Sally's heart to lurch, drowning out Lestrade's response. He pulls his sleeve down quickly, but there is no mistaking what she's seen.
It's a slash of a razor blade, thin and long and likely bled a great deal. The world tilts on its axis, rushing in her ears and for the briefest moment she thinks she might faint until she takes a deep breath and steadies. She's seen enough of those injuries to know what she's looking at. She's known about the drugs for some time, of course she has. But this. She never thought he would be one to turn to this. He's supposed to be more logical than that and if he's not…if he's not then what hope is there for her, or anyone else? Her mind is a whirl, swirling panic and her own arm itching and she clenches her fingers tight because no that's all behind her and this is no time to think about it. There's a woman lying dead and a killer on the loose and it is her duty to solve the case. That much she can do. She can do it. She can. She will not give in today.
Lestrade is saying something to Robins, his voice a hum that draws her back, and she realises that Holmes is frowning at her. She nods towards his arm, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to acknowledge that she knows. His sharp eyes cloud, and she taps her own left forearm as if to say, me too. His eyes widen, gaze meeting hers and so soft now, forlorn. He reaches towards her, as if to lay a hand on her shoulder. Then his hand drops and face hardens and he nods, before turning and walking away.
Sally's eyes follow him in spite of her, heart tight and aching. She never thought. She should have seen. And it was never his words that scored those lines into her skin, but what if her words…?
That night, she gets back to her apartment to find a box of chocolates and a card simply reading, I'm sorry. And there is no doubt in her mind who it is from. She's seen the same handwriting signing his name with a flourish on witness statements a dozen times.
Sally Donovan may be no Sherlock Holmes, but she doesn't need to be to understand.