Another fanfic in a day... I've just been in a writing mood lately. Fair warning: This one is undeniably dark.
And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees.
Sally Donovan hugged her coat tighter around her as she walked against the icy wind pulling her curls away from her face. She could've hailed a cab, but this way she could pretend the moisture in her eyes was just a side effect of facing into a bracing breeze. And if she got into a cab, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to get out.
Maybe it had been stupid, hoping that he would see what no one else had. Of course it had been stupid. Everyone always assumed—as they should. Tall strong officer, she could take care of herself. But Sherlock always, always seemed to understand just what was going on, as much as you wished he didn't.
But not this time.
Maybe it was better this way. Easier to move on. Donovan shuddered convulsively as the image of Anderson this morning, hand on her arm, floated through her mind.
No. You're better than this. It was getting harder to hold herself together. The wind seemed to be trying to pull her carefully reconstructed fragments apart again – maybe she should have taken a cab. No, this was better.
She held her key hard in her hand, jagged edge facing out, knuckles white. As much as she knew it was stupid, she couldn't bring herself to put it back in her pocket. It made her feel just a bit safer.
And then she was at her flat, numb fingers fumbling at the lock. She shut it behind her and checked twice more to make sure no one would get in, then made her slow way up the stairs, glancing behind her every few steps. It wasn't until she was in her bedroom, door locked, windows shut, bolted, and covered with blinds, closet and under the bed checked, kitchen knife in her hands, that she let herself fall apart.
Clutching her hair, she slid down the wall, horrible choked sobs wracking her body. Alone, there was nothing to stop the images rushing sickening through her brain until she thought she might throw up.
A part of her was shouting, telling her to pull herself together and grow up, this happened all the time, get over yourself and move on with your life. But she couldn't stop reliving it over and over and over again, the moment when they had been talking, just talking, respected friends on a case, and Anderson had pushed her up against the wall and—
It's the trust, she thought numbly, It's the trust that kills you.
She buried the knife in the wall – or rather, tried to, as only the point went in and it stuck, vibrating. It was pathetic. She was pathetic.
All she felt now was a dull ache, reverberating from the center of her body. Everything else had been torn out of her, leaving her empty.
She clutched her hands until her fingernails bit through the skin and left little pockets of darker red on her hands. Drawing herself upright, she took the knife in her hands and promised never to sleep again.
Imagining steps on the stairs and the creak of the door opening, she lost herself to the darkness.