Unconnected

Chapter 3: Tenacious

Bending to pick up the fallen package, Sally heard a sudden, swift motion behind her before everything went blank.

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Sherlock followed unnoticed behind the sergeant, turning his coat collar up against the persistent breeze. Though he tried to keep his thoughts professional, he couldn't help but notice the way her lithe figure minutely twisted and turned as she walked.

A fine ass-set indeed.

His attention perked up when he saw her pause before cautiously stepping into a side street.

Here we go, he thought as he stealthily began to follow her, keeping a fair distance between them. He could only hope that the space between them proved enough to maintain plausible coincidence without providing enough for serious harm to come to her.

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Ever so slowly, the black fog eased and consciousness returned. Despite losing consciousness, she suspected that she had not been out for long. Of course, she hoped to keep that information from her assaulter, or the damage might be increased.

Sally had never been more grateful for the mad little helmet-type contraption that Sherlock had made her wear under her hat. Though her head still rang with the force of the hit she'd received, the fatal blow was rendered ineffective enough to leave her alive.

Careful to not move a muscle and give away her vitality, she reached out with her other senses to make sense of her surroundings. She could feel her hat still secured to her head, her bag remained under her body, though she could feel it being tugged away as she thought.

Her assaulter was leaning over her, breathing heavily from exertion as she tugged the purse away. As soon as the bag was free, there was a scuffle, presumably of the woman gathering up her packages, and then quick steps as she ran off.

Clearly, the elderly persona had been a deception.

It was then that Sally realized that the phone that had been in her hand was gone as well.

Could have seen that coming.

As the footsteps faded and she heard new footfalls approaching her, Sally dared to open her eyes. As she did so, striking blue eyes met hers, accompanied with a look of concern.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.

"Peachy," she groaned, rolling up to a seated position, pushing down her nausea at the change in posture.

"Well, off with it, then. Shall we catch ourselves a killer?" A gleam replaced his concern as he took off to run down the street where the woman had gone.

With a groan, Sally pushed herself to her feet and ran after him.

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By the time Sally caught up with Sherlock, he already had the woman pinned to the ground, having apparently tackled her. Her cane was lying to the side, packages and her purse scattered all around.

There was also a wig on the ground near where it would have fallen off the…woman's... head.

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan, I was wondering when you would turn up. I believe you know our friend?" Sherlock's calm, almost conversational tone belied the obvious effort of subduing the pinned attacker.

Standing, he brought the assailant up after him by the cuff of…his…jacket.

Instead of the elderly woman she had seen in the alley, Sherlock was holding a young man wearing an old fashioned dress. It was no wonder how he had been able to gain the trust of his previous victims dressed as he was. Who would suspect a little old lady of trying to kill them?

Ignoring the continual buzzing in the back of her head that threatened to pull her under again, she reached behind her to grab the handcuffs she had tucked into the small of her back and proceeded to arrest the man, who was now looking incredibly confused and anxious over the sudden change in events. After all, it wasn't every day that the person you thought you had just killed appears in front of you.

Quick footsteps approached them as John Watson hurried over.

"Am I too late? Did I miss all the fun?"

"Unfortunately, you were too absorbed in your conversation with the waitress and more interested in getting her to write her number on your hand than in checking your text message, which I sent you when we were on the move. I'd like to tell you that your delay could at least result in a date, but I recommend that you not call Miss…Doreen as she's a rubbish waitress, and probably already married."

John rolled his eyes and addressed his next question to Sally.

"Are you alright?" His voice held a note of true sincerity, with just a touch of shame over being late in such a serious situation.

"Yeah, I'm great. A bit lightheaded from a crack to the skull, but alive, which is the main thing."

"Of course you're alive. The killer always attacked by a single blow to the head, and we took precautions. If it had truly been a life-threatening situation, I wouldn't have sent you in," Sherlock rattled off while typing into his phone furiously.

"Oh, so you're the one calling the shots now? Deciding when it's safe to put my life on the line? I have no say in the matter, after all, I'm just a stupid officer—"

"Yes, I am the one calling the shots in this case," Sherlock interrupted her, finally looking up to glare down into her blazing eyes. "I hope the recent hit to your head hasn't caused you to forget that you were the one who came to me seeking guidance—"

"Guidance!" she scoffed.

"And I graciously agreed to take you under my wing and show you how to properly do your job. The proof of my success is the handcuffed man standing before you."

"Well you can graciously shove it right up your—"

"Hold, hold," John interrupted. "Okay, now, we've just had a very long night. I believe that we need to calm down for a bit and look to what needs doing. There's a man here who needs to be taken in for questioning, right? Let's start with that, and then you two can finish…whatever the hell this is."

An awkward tension stood between them for a few moments before the flashing lights of an approaching police car drew their attention. With a huff, Sally shoved the man, who still had not uttered a word, towards the car that would take him down to Scotland Yard. Sherlock and John trailed after her.

"You texted Lestrade to pick us up here," John stated more than asked.

"Of course. I wasn't about to share a cab with a killer who had just attacked someone."

"Good call with the helmet idea."

"Simple padding with a thin metal shell covered by a hat. As I said, an easy precaution that was sure to work."

"And the coffee break I saw you take with her? Was that just a 'precaution' as well?" John eyed his friend knowingly.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock picked up his pace, effectively ending the conversation.

"Yeah, sure you don't," John muttered after him.

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It was not until her assailant was behind bars that Sally finally allowed herself to be examined. While John shined a light back and forth in her eyes, Sherlock stood mere feet away from her, typing furiously into his phone all the while.

"Well, I'm afraid you have a concussion," John concluded. "You'll have a bit of a headache for a few days and you will need someone to keep a close eye on you tonight, but I'd say it's still a fair better cop than being dead."

"I'd have to agree with you there, Doctor Watson," she smiled wryly. "I can ask my friend Maggie to—"

"Don't be silly. You're coming home with us."

Sally and John's heads wrenched towards the detective who had so calmly said the absurd.

"Come with you? The hell I—"

"Sherlock, I really don't think that's—"

"Of course she's coming with us," Sherlock talked over their protests. "It's the most logical course of action. I won't be sleeping tonight, so I can be sure to wake her on a routinely basis, and there will be a medically trained man in the next room should the unlikely course of events make his presence necessary. Sally's friend, Maggie, will be too preoccupied with her four young children to be too helpful in this instance. Now," he finally put his phone away and looked up, "shall we go? There are some experiments I would like to get started on tonight."

Dumbstruck, the sergeant and the army doctor followed the consulting detective outside, unable to offer a coherent objection.

By the time the duo caught up, Sherlock was outside the Yard, flagging down a taxi.

"221 Baker Street," Sherlock ordered, leaving the door open for his companions to scramble in after him. Electing to sit in the front, Sally tried to make sense of her sudden situation in the brief space she had, pointedly ignoring the men in the back.

Her effort at ignoring them was pointless, as each man seemed lost in his own world, both staring out their respective windows into the darkened city passing by. Sally followed their example, sorting through her thoughts until the driver pulled off to the side of Baker Street.

John stepped out, opening Sally's door for her and offering a welcome hand to her uncertain feet, while Sherlock sprang out and bounded up the stairs without a backward glance.

Slowly making their way up the stairs, John had one hand supporting her around her back when Mrs. Hudson bustled out.

"What's this, then? Are you okay, dearie?"

"She's okay, Mrs. Hudson, just a little concussed. A spot of tea would be lovely, though."

"Concussed? Oh, dear. Well, I suppose this once I could bring up a cuppa, but you really oughtn't to make it a habit to think I'll keep bringing you tea whenever you have a lady guest. I'm not your housekeeper." Her voice faded away as she retreated to her kitchen, leaving behind her a wake of amusement.

"I hope I'm not imposing," Sally half questioned, unwilling to put the kind lady out.

"Oh, don't mind that. Secretly, I think she loves being useful. She just likes to take the micky out of Sherlock and me whenever she can," John smiled at her.

Finally making it to the apartment, they found Sherlock lounging on the couch, his hands steepled under his chin in what was his favorite thinking pose.

"Sherlock, can we get to the couch? I need to set it up for Sally."

"Don't be ridiculous. She will be sleeping in my room."

"Like hell!" Sally exploded from shock.

"That might be a bit…awkward, don't you think?" John tried to reason.

"I would think sleeping on the couch would be far more awkward, seeing as how she'd be unable to fully recline in a comfortable position. I've already said I don't plan to use my bed tonight, and I can carry out my experiments much easier without needing to be worried about waking her if she's in the same room."

"I'm not sleeping in your bloody bed," Sally protested, finding the idea…strange. She was unwilling to further examine the sensations the idea brought forth.

"Second door on your left. The sheets are fresh, so no need to worry about any contamination, or whatever it is that is making you uneasy. Now, go get yourself ready for sleep. I'll be in to wake you in two hours."

Summarily dismissed, Sally stared at him, somehow still surprised by his brashness.

"Hoohoo," Mrs. Hudson called, breaking the tense silence. "Here's your cuppa, dearie. I wasn't sure how you take it, so I brought you up some milk and sugar for you to fix it the way you like." She placed a tray with a teapot, cup and small plate of biscuits on the table, giving Sally a warm smile before heading back out.

"Only one cup?" John asked, turning pitiful eyes on her.

"You have two fine legs and two fine hands, and I doubt you have a concussion. I'm sure you can manage to fix your own tea. Not your housekeeper, remember?"

John and Sally shared a snicker as the woman headed back downstairs. Sherlock was completely ignoring all of them by that point. Seating herself at the table, she offered a biscuit to John, who happily took one, munching as he headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Slowly pouring in a spot of tea and stirring it with the small spoon the thoughtful landlady had provided, Sally marveled at how comfortable she felt despite the unusual circumstance. She ought to be thoroughly irritated at the way Sherlock had taken over the situation with as little tact as possible, but she couldn't find the energy necessary to sustain any lengthy annoyance.

Through the haze that had settled over her mind, she was nearly grateful that she didn't need to make any decisions at the moment. It was nice being cared for. Well, cared for in a Sherlockian way, which was not quite the same as the way other people cared, but somehow all the more special for that.

John and Mrs. Hudson had also gone a long way to ensure her comfort. How in the world had the rudest man she'd ever met been able to surround himself with such considerate people? Maybe she only thought they were so kind in comparison to him. Would she always view people based on how the measured up, or didn't, to him? She needed to stop thinking now. Her thoughts were becoming much too…farluffled. Farluffled? Was that even a word?

Eager to escape her uneasy train of thought, Sally pushed herself to her feet, only to realize that she had risen much too quickly in her current state. The ground spun crazily for a moment as black clouds edged into her periphery. Grasping the table, she steadied herself as the dizziness passed.

"You ought to take more care. It will do you no good if you fall and hit your head again for the second time tonight."

Sally narrowed her eyes at the man still reclining on the couch. He didn't seem to have moved a muscle aside from loosening his jaw since requisitioning the spot.

"You know very well I didn't just 'hit my head' earlier. A homicidal madman tried to kill me by bashing my head in."

"Yes, but we knew he would do that before we even started, so I see no reason why you keep bringing it up as though it surprised you. What I do know is that you are currently fit for little else besides sleep, which is what I recommend you do now. Second door on the left."

Sighing in reluctant agreement, she trudged off into the room she had wondered about in some of her more unguarded moments. She wasn't sure what she expected to find—dark walls, a crypt, maybe even a wall full of ongoing cases—but she was unprepared for the oddly tidy and sparse room with neutral colors. Aside from a framed poster of the periodic table, there was very little of Sherlock's personality in his room. Clearly, it was not a place where he spent much time.

Feeling strangely as though she were in some version of a high-end hostel, Sally sank onto the bed. The mattress was soft and inviting, urging her to curl up under the covers without another thought for the world, which is exactly what she did.

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Moments after closing her eyes, an irksome shaking on her shoulder urged her to open them again.

"What?" she grumbled, slowly opening one eye.

"What's your favorite color?" came Sherlock's voice from the fog.

"What the bloody hell are you on about? You woke me up just to ask my favorite color?"

"You've been asleep for two hours. I need to ask you questions to make sure your mental faculties are undaunted by your recent concussion. Now, which color is your favorite?"

"Blue, now leave me alone," she attempted to roll over to go back to sleep, but Sherlock's hand restricted her movement. Rather than letting her move into a more comfortable position, he moved his hand to her back, maneuvering her into a seated position.

"Oh, come on. I want to sleep." If she had been more awake, she might have cringed at how her voice was whining.

"Soon enough. First, you need to drink some water and change into some pajamas."

"I don't want pajamas and I'm not thirsty. Leave me alone." Sherlock's still present hand prevented her from scooting back down.

"Would you rather sleep without any clothes? That's perfectly acceptable if you wish. What is unacceptable is sleeping in my bed in your street clothes, especially seeing as how your clothes have very recently been on the ground in an ally in the back part of London."

Prying both drowsy eyes open, she tried to focus her gaze on the small pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. Sherlock seemed to have provided her with a pair of boxers and a shirt that would undoubtedly be too big for her.

"Fine," she grumbled, reaching down to pull her shirt over her head in an uncoordinated movement. Her muddled mind barely registered when another set of hands helped pull her shirt off, quickly replacing it with a looser, baggier one before repeating the process for her bottom half. Almost as soon as her soiled clothing was gone, her head was back on the pillow and she was again lost to the world.

Sherlock looked down at the officer who somehow looked so much smaller and more fragile asleep in his clothes. Her face was so peaceful in sleep. It was a shame she was so difficult while awake. She was somewhat of a pleasure to look at when she wasn't so busy snarling at the world.

Scooping up her dirty clothes, he tossed them in his hamper before returning to the living room, leaving the water glass on the bedside table. He'd just have to get her to drink it in a few hours when he woke her again.

Placing a new slide under the microscope, Sherlock tried to direct his attention to the experiment at hand, but the back of his mind was wondering what question he should ask her next. The current situation provided an unprecedented opportunity to delve into the undefended mind of Sergeant Sally Donovan. As unwilling as he was to admit it, he was eager to see what secrets he might uncover while she was in this state. He figured he probably had about two or three more questions before she was done sleeping. Now to decide what they would be.

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AN: Well, I was going to add a bit more to this chapter to finish it out, but I'm leaving in the morning and will be unable to upload for a week, so I figured I'd give you what I already had. What do you think? What questions would you ask Sally if you were in Sherlock's position?