Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.
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Where were you when the world was ending?
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Five
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Sally Donavon
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A Steady Hand.
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Sally Donavan has a knife.
She has seven actually.
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Ten months ago...
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Lestrade grabbed her by the elbow, pushing her back into the elevator, then hastily changed direction and dragged Sally toward and down the emergency stairs.
The look on his face keeps her from protesting.
"Go to Sherlock's. Tell him and John to run, to hide. Tell him I told you to go with him."
"Sir-" She almost has to run to keep up with him
"Something's happening. I think it's already happened." He gave her the keys for the car they'd kept out the records for when they needed to follow people, "We've been told to carry on as normal, but there are already... changes. You, Sherlock and John will have to find out what's going on and fix it."
They reached the bottom of the stairs and he wrapped his arms around her in a tight bear hug, stepping back as he released her, propelling her through the fire door.
"Go!"
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Nobody cared about a D.S. who'd suddenly abandoned her work.
Coppers burnt out all the time.
Especially one who'd had her married lover beg for his wife's forgiveness.
Sally Donavon was as invisible as you could be in a city full of cameras.
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Nine months ago...
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"We need to find Mycroft." Sherlock said.
The first he'd spoken since Sally and John had dragged him away from Baker Street, away from the officious looking men and uniformed police officers putting Mrs Hudson into an unmarked car.
"If he's still alive, he'll know what's going on."
"We were invaded." John responded calmly, "By someone who, for some reason, thinks we might be able to get rid of them."
"It was a corporate takeover John." Sherlock gave him a withering look.
"Only if you count the Monarchy as a corporation." John countered.
Sally bent her head further over her dinner to hide a smirk.
"Mycroft-"
"Would be the first person I'd make sure was unavailable, followed closely by the Queen." John gave a dry, wry smile, "And isn't she somewhere in Scotland at the moment?"
Sherlock scowled at him.
"If he could, he would have contacted you by now."
"I'm in hiding."
John didn't bother to hide his smirk. "You could be in another galaxy and Mycroft would still be able to find you."
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Sally's first knife is a silver bladed, pearl handled paring knife.
Sherlock had stolen it from the antique shop they'd ducked into, to see if they were being followed, and he'd observed her admiring it.
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Eight months ago...
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Sally twitched the curtain open an inch, trying to see the people on the street below.
Sherlock opened his mouth, caught John's glare and coughed his warning instead.
She ignored them, opening the curtain a little more and leaning closer to the glass, feeling a little less claustrophobic.
They had been stuck in the attic flat for a record six days this time.
Sally sighed.
Then yelped as Sherlock suddenly shoved her back into the room, sending her to her knees in front of his precious violin.
"If you really want to die, Miss Donavon," He yanked the curtain closed, sneering as she got to her feet, "There's a theory I'd like to prove."
They stared at each other for almost a minute.
Then Sally picked up the violin, gave a few test swings and aimed it at the wall.
It shattered with a satisfying, hollow thud.
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It's Sally's idea at first.
She'd taken self-defence classes when she'd been in uniform, but had let them slide after making D.S., in favour of overtime and sleep and of all the stupid things...Anderson.
Sherlock fights in an older style, and dirty.
John's style of fighting is Army training. The stuff that isn't, is even dirtier than what Sherlock knows.
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Seven months ago...
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Sherlock corrected Sally's grip, earning himself a glare.
"I know how to hold a knife, Freak."
John rolled his eyes, stepped between them and corrected Sherlock's correction.
"Now you do."
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John was a better teacher than Sherlock.
Straight forward and practical about the lesson.
And without any of the other man's glee at the irony of former Detective Sergeant Sally Donavon being a murderer before he was.
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Six months ago...
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The informant, one of London's growing population of poor and homeless, slapped Sherlock across the face.
Hard.
Sally's jaw dropped.
John appeared concerned, but not for his friend.
"How did Miss Adler seem?"
The informant, a young woman who'd probably been at one of the universities before half the classes had been cancelled, shrugged.
John passed her a can of tomato soup, the payment for information these days.
"Thin. An' she's always got a..." She waved two fingers in the air, miming someone smoking, "And bad tempered, like a wet cat."
The informant nodded to herself, and then at the still slightly stunned Sherlock. "She's definitely not happy with him."
"Where do you see her?"
"In the alley outside that club they set up in Downing Street. She's their fancy new singer."
Sherlock grinned.
"She's our way in." Sally realised.
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Four knives are kept under her pillow, to be taken out and used as she needed them.
One is strapped to her right calf.
One is behind the cistern in the bathroom.
And one is tapped to the inside of the emergency exit.
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Five months ago...
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Simon Croft had screamed like a little girl.
A high-pitched grating sound that had Sally not quite believing her own ears.
Two men had made the current situation possible.
James Moriarty.
And a nothing-looking man, who'd screamed like his hair was still in pig tales and had secretly worn frilly pink dresses on the weekend.
Sally stepped away from the slowly spreading pool of blood, remembering at the last moment not to wipe her hands on her clothes.
She could wash her hands free of Simon Croft's blood easier than she could wash her clothes.
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Sally liked her knives.
Not what she used them for, but the way they felt in her hands, the weight of them, the sharpness of the blades.
The way even Sherlock was wary of her when John made her practice using them.
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Four months ago...
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Sally left the scene; a woman this time, via the back door, passing her bloody coat to the informant of Sherlock's who waited there.
The coat would be at the bottom of the Thames or burnt, before she got back to the safe house.
Three streets over and one down, she swapped her shoes and shirt for clean ones.
The telltale items would join the coat.
Sally ducked into a shop selling retro/vintage clothing and changed into a pre-arranged outfit.
There was a fake I.D. in the jacket pocket.
She used the money with it to buy food for the next couple of days.
Her former next door neighbour didn't recognise her.
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Sally hated Lestrade for putting her in the position.
She hated Sherlock for realising it needed to happen.
She hated John for showing her how.
She hated herself for going along with it.
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Three months ago...
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In a less than graceful move, Irene Adler fell out of bed.
Sally ignored her, shoving the stiletto Sherlock had lifted from a museum for her, between the ribs of the bed's owner, and into his heart.
She left it there.
Irene glanced down at the body.
"Why did Sherlock want this one dead?" She asked, appearing unaffected by what had happened.
"Not Sherlock," Sally shook her head, "John."
"The Good Doctor?" Now Irene sounded surprised, "John wanted you to... kill... someone?"
"John wanted it... But Sherlock..."
Irene nodded in understanding, a resigned look on her face.
"It's always Sherlock, isn't it?"
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There are ten scars on Sally's left arm.
A short jagged one from when her sister's cat once latched on and had to be carefully prised off.
Three long curvy ones showing where the glass had cut after she'd been slammed into a window during a brawl her second week in uniform.
And six that are perfectly straight, and exactly an inch long.
One for every person she was directly responsible for the death of.
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Two months ago...
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Lestrade studied the crime scene photos.
Three victims on the board so far, the fourth's photos were printing now.
Men and women, all stabbed, all high level government positions; before and after the regime change, and killed by someone not tall enough to be Sherlock and who was right handed.
He very carefully did not think about Sally Donavon.
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She sleeps and eats just enough to satisfy John.
Just enough to get through each day.
Just enough to not fade away more than she already had.
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One month ago...
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Sally could barely remember Molly Hooper from before.
But Molly remembered her.
Enough to let her in, to smile brightly, and to tell her everything that Moriarty had let slip during his weekly visits.
He'd never forgotten her.
Still smiling, Molly shows Sally the few patches of unbruised skin she has, explains about the sleeping pills and apologises for not being able to wait a little longer.
Sally sits with her for a bit, and then calls for the ambulance, which will arrive too late.
She takes the letters Molly had written for her family, to them post when she can, and pockets the one meant for Sherlock.
Sally gave it to him that evening, not really certain if it was the right thing to do.
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She refuses to have more than seven knives.
It's a nice easy number to remember.
Seven knives for seven people.
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Now...
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James Moriarty bleeds red.
Just like everyone else.
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Finish.
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A Poison Tree
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I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I summoned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.
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William Blake (1757-1827)
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A/N: Thank you to my beta's, mostly veritygrey, Darkskysong and kaazei.
Who have more patience with me than I have with my ramblings