Every Action Produces an Equal and Opposite Reaction
A fuming Sally Donovan watched John Watson walk away from her without so much as hesitating, never mind looking back, after threatening to assault her if she called the freak by his proper (well, alright, accurate) name again. She truly couldn't decide what infuriated her the most: the fact that Watson had threatened her, that he had done so over Sherlock bloody Holmes, or that he'd had the audacity to throw her affair with Stewart Anderson in her face. As if sleeping with a married man (who was in no way reluctant to come to her bed) was the same as being a freak who got off on solving murders!
Her temper wasn't helped by the fact that during the entire confrontation, Watson had been calm, collected, and self-possessed, whereas she (and Donovan was self-aware enough to admit it) had let her feelings get away from her more than once and had doubtless come off as utterly unreasonable – if not hysterical.
Which just pissed her off more.
As she watched the freak stalk toward the body stapled (stapled?!) to the fire escape, his tagalong following, Sally Donovan felt the first true stirrings of hatred. She'd never liked Sherlock Holmes, not from the moment she'd first seen him. Even now, almost three years later, the memory of him swanning onto the crime scene like he owned it while insulting Lestrade's intelligence without even looking at him, could still set her off. Worse had been his complete dismissal of her – being both a woman and black, Sally had spent far too much of her life overcoming these pre-built handicaps to ever put up with being dismissed (a small part of her whispered sometimes that it wasn't personal; the freak dismissed everybody as beneath him. Like a disproportionally large number of human beings, Sally seldom listened to that part of herself. She would have been shocked into a coma to know that Sherlock Holmes occasionally had the same thought – and reaction.).
So. Sally had never liked the freak, and time had only nurtured the feeling. His smug superiority, his condescending attitude, and his insufferable arrogance made it beyond easy to dislike him, and his abrasive personality put paid to any attempt at getting to know him that a sane person might have made (but there was Lestrade, and that morgue worker Hooper, and a DCI who had transferred to Surrey with the promotion, and Lestrade's newbie Hopkins, and his old landlady, and some Italian restaurant guy, and -). Anyway, he was easy to dislike. In addition, his frustrating habit of always being right caused resentment to breed as well and when it was paired with his attitude that the world was too stupid to breathe, people's dislike joined their resentment and fostered contempt. Thus, Sally felt perfectly justified in her actions and had no qualms about calling things like she saw them.
Or in calling the freak a freak.
Thus, John Watson calling her out like she was a bloody schoolgirl rankled deeply. She could grudgingly admit that the freak had gotten more tolerable since his tagalong had arrived, but that in no way gave Watson license to call her names or tell her to grow up. The sheer presumption was enough to leave her breathless, and she damned well wasn't to going to meekly accept his ultimatum! Like he had any power over her, or would follow through on his threat. Still, she wasn't stupid, and despite her fury at Watson, she had every intention of biding her time. Just because Lestrade kept calling the freak in for consults didn't mean she had to like it.
And one way or another, she was going to put the freak's tagalong in his place.
To Sally's own surprise, it took almost a month before her hatred of the freak finally exceeded her control.
The crime was grisly even by Lestrade's team's standards (really, it was sad that Lestrade had his own qualifier on such things). There were enough body parts in the dumpster to make at least five people, and they had either been killed extremely recently or the murderer had brought a bucket (or 3) of blood with him. Two of the uniforms had already lost their last meal and Sally was hard-pressed not to join them. It was only her iron-clad will that kept her upright.
So, already tense from the murders and stressed from keeping her body under control, it was only inevitable that the arrival of the freak lit the fires of her hatred. The sight of Watson following him (as ever) only fanned the flames, especially since his humiliation of her (in from of junior officers, no less!) was seldom far from her thoughts.
"Hello, Sally," Holmes' deep baritone drawled, as the man himself strolled up to her – and in her present state, petty though even Sally knew it was, him being so much taller than her (and thus, forcing her to look up), just pissed her off more.
"Hello, Freak," she sniped back, not even gracing Watson with a glance as he stood behind his friend's shoulder.
The freak didn't even roll his eyes. He merely stepped past her and made a beeline for the dumpster, Watson following a step behind. Neither man gave her so much as a glance.
This observation made Sally smirk. She'd disobeyed Watson's directive (as if he had the right to give her orders) and he'd done nothing. Clearly, she'd placed far too much emphasis on her conversation with the tagalong a month ago. It was time to take the initiative and re-establish the natural order of things.
So, while the freak swanned around and poked, peered, and prodded at everything under the sun, those crazy blue-grey eyes glinting with sheer enjoyment (the sight of which only served to fuel her anger; those remains had once been PEOPLE and they deserved respect), Sally took the occasion to fall back into familiar patterns. She made sure not to over-do it, but she also made no effort to rein herself in. And all the while, Watson never once looked at her. This complete lack of contact should have concerned her (and indeed, Sally's instincts were chiming a warning), but she was too involved in proving her point to pay attention.
After nearly ten minutes, Lestrade finally stepped in and demanded an update. The freak did his usual act, posturing and spitting out his 'deductions' at a rapid pace. The DI was so affected by the sheer viciousness of the crime that he didn't even snap at Sherlock for his arrogance, which also annoyed Sally. Lestrade was a bloody good cop, as were his team members, and there was no reason that he should a) have to call in the freak for help, and b) put up with the abuse and insults the man hurled like a bleeding javelin (A Knight's Tale had been on the telly last night. Cute men, horses, and armor. What's not to love?).
"Oh, don't be dull, Lestrade! Of course it's a butcher! Who else would have access to that much blood without rousing suspicion?"
"Umm . . . a med student?" one of the uniforms – Fletcher – ventured. The freak turned to him, a scathing remark so clearly forming on his tongue that Lestrade flinched and Fletcher stumbled back a step.
And then Watson put a firm hand on the freak's arm, and he stilled, took a deep breath, and visibly grabbed for patience before answering.
And every person on the scene was shocked speechless when his reply lacked everything but sarcasm.
"A medical student – or, indeed, anyone in that profession – could not take that volume of blood without someone noticing."
"He's right," Watson confirmed with a nod. "In a hospital, if it's not in a bag for transfusions, it's mopped or wiped up. There really isn't a way to collect it - especially that much."
Even Watson was affected by the scene, if the way he gave the dumpster a quick, wary glance was any indication.
The freak, of course, took Watson's confirmation of his theory as license to swirl about and head back to the street.
"Let me know what you find, Lestrade," he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
Watson, who had been following him, paused by the exasperated DI and offered him a rueful smile.
"Well, it's definitely grabbed his interest, so I don't think it'll take him long to catch the bastard, yeah?" he said, nudging the other man lightly in the upper arm.
Lestrade blew out a breath and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he agreed. "Thank God for small mercies. Oh, hey, you wanna grab a pint tonight? Assuming nothing else blows up, of course."
There was a moment of silence before Lestrade realized what he'd said and went a little green. "Sorry," he muttered, looking down for a few seconds before meeting the doctor's eyes again. "You know what I mean."
"I do," Watson replied. "And I would, but I'm pretty sure you'll be busy tonight."
And Sally, who had been edging steadily closer without realizing it, caught a fleeting glimpse of Lestrade's confused expression just before John Watson backhanded her across the cheek so hard she actually staggered back a few steps before falling flat on her arse in the filthy, muddy alley.
Dimly, above the roaring in her ears and Lestrade's shout of, "Oi! What the fuck was that?!", Sally was feeling so much shock that she thought she might pass out. Then the pain hit, a harsh, throbbing sensation that rolled in sickening waves across her cheek and nose. Loud shouts of her name finally penetrated the stunned haze she was in and she turned her head until she saw Anderson, kneeling next to her and gripping her shoulders hard enough to hurt.
That pain cleared her head a little and she twisted back around, searching for Watson. He was standing in the same spot, staring at her with a face devoid of any expression - but his eyes were blazing with rage and no small amount of contempt. Lestrade was apparantly torn between grabbing Watson or helping Sally, but the other man spoke before he could decide.
"I told you what would happen, Sally," he said calmly, his voice almost . . . conversational. Lestrade. who had chosen to help her, actually stopped mid-step and looked back at Watson, bewilderment stamped all over his face.
"Joh - what - war - the hell?!" he demanded, his expression furious but his voice plaintive. Watson gave him a considering look before answering.
"I told her that if she didn't grow up about Sherlock, I'd retaliate. She's been well-controlled recently - remarkably so, in fact - so there was no reason for it, but it seems she couldn't take it anymore and thought she'd test my resolve."
He drew in a breath to continue, but his phone chimed and after a quick look, he turned and loped off - without so much as another word or a look back.
"John, you can't just leave!" Lestrade bellowed after him as he started to follow. "You assaulted an officer!"
"You know where I live," drifted back as Watson rounded the corner. Swearing, Lestrade made to follow, but Fletcher - who had recovered from the shock of seeing a cop get bitch-slapped like an unruly dog - caught his sleeve. Lestrade stopped and glowered at the officer, who flushed but stood firm.
"With respect, Sir, I was there when the doc talked to Donovan. And honestly, Sir, he just pointed out that her calling Holmes a freak was a bit rich, given she's shagging Anderson." He ignored Anderson's sqwack of protest. "Then he told her that he didn't care if she likes Holmes or not, but if she called him 'freak' or . . . soci - no, psychopath, in front of either of them again, he would not hold himself back. Wait, no. He said he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. Yeah, that's it. He also told her would do damage."
At Lestrade's look of stunned disbelief (which was a near-perfect mirror to Sally's), the uniform shrugged. "I have to say, Sir, it was fair. More than. The last thing he told her was 'Grow up or suffer the consequences.' Donovan had ample warning and ignored it." He paused here, his face darkening. "And honestly, Inspector, if someone called my best mate a freak because he can do something they can't, I'd punch 'em in the face, too. Male or female wouldn't make no never mind to me."
There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Sally's harsh breathing, as Lestrade absorbed what he'd seen and heard. After two or three minutes, he looked down at his Sergeant and asked, "Is this true, Sally?"
Her first instinct was to deny it, but Fletcher's testimony had reminded her that two more uniforms had been present, so she swallowed with a wince and nodded. Her DI closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
"So, you are told in no uncertain terms not to call Sherlock a freak again, at least in Watson's hearing, and if you do, he would retaliate physically. And . . . you . . . don't come to me and let me know about it, or the ethics hotline, or even another DI. Then you decide to test a man who survived three tours of Afghanistan on the front lines. I thought you were smarter than that, Sally."
The disappointment in Lestrade's voice stung even more than her cheek did, and Sally looked down. She didn't regret her actions, but she did wish she'd been less obvious.
Luckily, the DI took this as a sign of remorse and his voice softened a little - not that it helped.
"Based on what I've heard, Detective Sergeant Donovan, Doctor Watson's actions were justified. You are hereby suspended without pay for three days and when you return, I will be enforcing his dictate. God knows Sherlock is an ass, but he also assists us at my request, so he will be treated civilly. I don't care if you like him, but the next person who insults him past the level he insults you will be suspended. If I hear 'freak' again, that person is fired."
Stunned silence fell as everyone in the alley goggled at their DI. He met their gazes without flinching, one by one, before continuing.
"I accept full blame for allowing it to get this out of hand, and I will accept the responsibility, but every person here and at the Yard is, according to their records, an adult. Therefore, you are capable of behaving in a mature, responsible fashion. You will do so, or *I* will take care of it. And I promise, between me and John Watson, you want me. All I'll do is fire you. John'll take your head off."
Since Sally was still crumpled on the ground, no one disputed this.
Anderson, however, finally found his voice.
"And what the f-Holmes?!" he demanded, his voice going a bit shrill. "It isn't like we're unprovoked!"
"I know," Lestrade replied. "But I also know Sherlock, and based on what little I've actually seen firsthand these past few months, this farce has escalated way beyond 'he insults you, you throw one back, and he goes on to the scene.' Sherlock can - and has, actually - try the patience of a saint, but Watson wouldn't have taken action if he didn't feel it was necessary. And don't think it's escaped my notice that Sherlock has been less . . . abrasive . . . in the last couple of months.
"And, regardless, my decision stands," he snapped when Anderson started to object. "I will go speak to both of them tonight and if I feel that their answers aren't satisfactory, then I will bring John Watson in for assault myself. Make no mistake: I am first and foremost an officer of the law. And a huge part of that is being responsible for and to the population I protect. If I find out that any memeber of MY team has been abusing their rank or position because they don't like someone, then I. Will. End. It."
Another silence fell. This time, it was full of shame. Greg Lestrade was an extremely easy-going, laid-back man, but he had a spine of pure steel. The former had kept too many people from truly understanding the latter.
That was about to change.
Slowly, every officer but two straightened and met their DI's gaze. One by one, they bowed their head in acknowledgement of his authority. Then they calmly returned to their duties, studiously ignorning the woman still sprawled on the ground.
And Sally Donovan's hatred consumed her.
She barely heard Lestrade order Anderson to take her home and didn't even feel the pain that getting up caused. All she could think about was the fact that because of Sherlock bloody Holmes, she was suspended and disgraced. Because of the freak, she now had an official black mark on the record she had worked so hard to build and maintain. Because of an unbalanced psychopath who would eventually turn into a serial killer, she was less than she had been.
That she was in large part responsible for her own actions never crossed her mind.
She nurtured her hate, building it on resentment (and not just from the freak. It was from every person who had ever slighted, dismissed, or overlooked her) and feeding it with self-righteous justification (she had the right to defend herself, even as a preemtive strike). And she waited and watched.
She observed.
And, a little more than two months later, when a kidnapped girl screamed at the sight of the freak, Sally Donovan smiled.
Her time had come.