Another update! There should only be one (maybe two) more chapters after this one. Enjoy, and feel free to review! Every review I read makes my day a bit brighter.
Chapter 3
She was in her office hours later, actually enjoying the mind-numbing effect of paperwork, when she heard the door open. Ignoring the way her bruises screamed, she jumped up, knocking over her coffee in the process.
"Want any help with that?"
Sally wasn't sure whether Anderson was asking about the paperwork or the coffee softly dripping onto the floor.
"No. Get out."
"Hey, don't be like that."
She just looked at him, every muscle in her body tense. She had left her gun with her uniform – downstairs.
He took a step closer and she backed away, bumping into the desk, feeling the coffee begin to drip down the backs of her legs.
"I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed last night. Do you want to grab dinner?"
It was the smile that did it – the little self-satisfied smirk that ignored any possibility Sally hadn't enjoyed it has much as he did.
She opened her mouth to shout at him, to tell him to get the fuck away from her, but something broke inside of her and she choked on her words as they tried to get out.
God, she was a police officer, and she couldn't even take care of herself. She couldn't even tell someone to get out of her office.
She shook her head, once, back and forth.
He took another step closer.
"Come on, you don't mean that. I know you enjoyed it—"
"Anderson?"
Sally looked over his shoulder and to the door that Lestrade had just poked his head around.
Anderson hastily took a step backwards. "Lestrade. Do you need something?"
Lestrade pulled the door all the way open, clearly telling Anderson to get out. "A moment with Sergeant Donovan, if you don't mind."
Anderson smiled somewhat nervously at her, and left. She stayed where she was as Lestrade walked in.
"Do you want some help with that?"
No, not Lestrade, not Lestrade too –
Panicked, she looked at him. His eyes were on the coffee spill spreading slowly across the desk, and held no hint of any ulterior emotion.
"I—no, I'm fine, I'll just—" She looked somewhat frantically around the office for something to clean up the spill. Pull yourself together. You are better than this. Looking up, she managed a smile. "I'll get it in a minute. What do you need?"
"I'm worried about you, actually. Mind if I sit down?"
"Go ahead."
She watched him take a seat in the other chair on the side of the desk.
"You can sit down as well."
"Yes, of course." She sank down into her chair and tried to look relaxed. God, Sally, Anderson whispered in her mind. You look great.
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but you've been acting very edgy today." She didn't say anything. His brows pulled together. "We've worked together almost as long as I've been Detective Inspector, and… I wouldn't normally say anything, but if something is bothering you…."
She swallowed. She was strong. She should be strong. This was pathetic.
"Nothing, sir."
He sighed, and stood. "I'll take you at your word. But if there's anything you want to talk to me about, my office is open."
She tried to say thank you, but it emerged so quietly that she wasn't sure if he'd heard. The door clicked shut behind him.
Thank god, he doesn't know… Just like Sherlock.
Somehow, that was the hardest thing. Sherlock had read the situation just as Anderson did… And if Sherlock hadn't noticed, then she could bloody ignore what had happened, because it wasn't worth noticing.
The days passed. That was the only good that could be said of them – they did pass. That day was the last day where she let any of it show – she buckled on a mask so tightly that sometimes she couldn't even tell herself what she was thinking. During the day, she was Sergeant Sally Donovan, heels and hair and brisk efficiency and a quick temper. Working with Anderson on cases made her skin crawl, but she grit her teeth and kept at it. This was her job, and she was going to do it.
The nights were hell. When she slept she did so fitfully, plagued with nightmares that woke her sweaty and screaming. A bedmate might've helped, but she couldn't bring herself to strike up conversations with strangers anymore – much less invite someone into her house.
She had met Anderson on her first case, fresh out of school and thoroughly cowed by the grimly efficient officers paying her no mind. He had come up to her and brought her to Lestrade, and smiled at her on her first real case. They talked and got lunch and did everything that proper friends did. She might've even brought him home someday.
If Anderson could do something like that, then no man could be trusted. She ran it over and over again in her mind, dissecting every moment when she could've run, or fought him off, or said no a bit louder. But at first she hadn't thought it was anything more than a poorly-timed romantic invitation. She was well-trained, strong, and perfectly capable of looking after herself, and by the time she began to panic it was too late. He was taller than her and just as well-trained at subduing criminals without a fuss.
Sherlock Holmes, she watched. She watched as he rose with the Reichenbach case, watched bitterly and at times obsessively. How could someone who had failed so deeply with her have such success with the rest of the world?
When the children were kidnapped, and the girl screamed, it was as if everything she had ever wished in regards to Sherlock Holmes was falling into place. If he was a fraud, if he was just another criminal, then it didn't matter that he had missed what had really happened between her and Anderson.
"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," she told him grimly, more pleased than she could say to be snapping on the handcuffs. Anderson was still standing there, smirking, but it felt like justice.
It wasn't long after that he jumped.
The day after, she made her way to the vacated crime scene, squinting up at Bart's in the morning sun.
"You won't know now," she told the empty air, as empty as she felt. Sherlock hadn't known, and now no one ever would. Maybe she could finally get past it and actually put herself back together. No one would ever have to know.
Behind her, Sherlock frowned.
