Assassin
Disclaimer: I don't own the show and regarding the angry fans demanding an overdue season heading his way, I can't say I envy the Moff too much.
*A/N* I felt like I demonized Sally Donovan far enough (guess if I rewatch Reichenbach that feeling will go up in smoke) and also this fic needed a tiny bit of action, so, I hope you like it.
Life was back to normal at the office. Or at least that was what he was trying to tell himself.
The image of a not-so-dead Sherlock Holmes was still lurking around in his head, blatantly impossible and yet shockingly real. He couldn't stop pondering about it. The whole thing was so weird, so bizarre, it seemed a case for Sherlock, not for him. He felt like he was watching one of these mystery thrillers on the telly from the wrong side of the screen. And he hated those as it were.
Adding to this was the ominous message that had turned up within the last week. A virus, their technicians had declared, harmless, but very clever, impossible to retrace.
But Lestrade wasn't so sure about harmless. Because the whole thing reminded him far too much of a press conference some two years back when everyone in the room had received the same text. The man behind those texts had either been a very talented fraud or a bloody genius, and even though Lestrade didn't really believe that Sherlock had committed any crimes, "harmless" had hardly been a word to describe him.
And in the end, a threat was a threat and "bring destruction down upon" someone did not sound very peaceful to his ears. Sadly, most of his colleagues did not agree. Their responses ranged from it being a silly joke over Lestrade becoming paranoid up to his personal favourite, that it had been a message that had gone wrong since "clearly nobody here understood it and therefore it could not have been meant for any of us".
Right. He was obviously surrounded by a bunch of geniuses.
Or he was indeed becoming paranoid, but that was a thought that he tried to ignore the best he could.
~o~o~o~
"Anything new about that message?"
"No, nothing," he muttered and fumbled with the coffee pads. "Or they didn't tell me, I'm not exactly the head office's favourite at the moment."
Donovan leaned against the counter and turned her cup in her hands. Considering he had yelled at her for ten minutes straight and then hurled a vase past her head through the window, she was still very polite when she was talking to him. It surprised him a bit, he had always believed her to be a rather resentful person.
"Thomas believes it was Holmes."
He snorted, trying to mask that the thought had occurred to him, too. "Well, yeah, only he's dead. It's very much his style, though."
"Gregson said it was a joke."
"Rubbish," Lestrade answered decidedly over the roaring of the coffee machine. "Someone's bloody threatening one of us, and whoever it is, I bet they knew exactly what it meant."
Donovan threw him a thoughtful glance, then placed her empty cup on the counter. "Sir, I think I know-"
She was interrupted by DI Dimmock who strode through the door and, with a light nod in their direction, proceeded straight towards the coffee machine.
"Sorry, you were saying?" Lestrade asked quietly, but she threw the other man an odd look and muttered:
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
The way he knew her, she wouldn't start a sentence to say something that didn't matter, especially not one beginning with "sir", but he was not going to rub it in. Their relationship was strained enough as it was.
"Okay. Listen, the morgue called, they're finished with the autopsy report of McKinley. I'd like you to come along. In, say, half an hour?"
"Sure," she muttered, still eyeing the Detective Inspector warily.
~o~o~o~
On the way to Saint Bart's, he was mostly occupied with telling himself that it was perfectly normal to look forward to a stroll around the morgue if it meant he'd meet someone he barely knew. Because yes, he was always pleased to see Molly Hooper, no matter where or under what circumstances.
And she was just a friend. Someone who listened. Just a friend.
His mantra kept him from making a lot of conversation, and it also stopped him from noticing that his Sergeant was looking worried. Sally Donovan's eyes never left the rear-view mirror.
~o~o~o~
But when they got out of the car even he couldn't fail to notice what she had just shoved into her coat pocket. Given the circumstances, he decided not to make a comment about bringing a gun to an autopsy. Even though it seemed pretty pointless to him - a morgue was probably the most peaceful place a policeman ever went.
The next thing he heard was a loud, sudden noise his brain couldn't place quickly enough. Something pushed him brutally at the shoulder, he lost his balance and slammed onto the pavement, hitting his head on a parked car. It took him several painful seconds and another bullet that missed him by inches to realize he was being shot at.
He jerked his throbbing head up just in time to see Donovan fire several times, he couldn't see whether or not she had hit or even who it was because most of his view was blocked by the cars.
Several passers-by were running up and down the street by now, their screams echoing from the building on either side.
Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and almost toppled over again. He must have hit his head pretty hard, he concluded hazily and ducked behind the car when he realized his pockets were empty. His gun was exactly where it should be right now - in the locked drawer of his desk. Hallelujah.
Another shot rang through the street, then everything suddenly fell silent as if someone had turned down the volume. The only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
He pulled himself up on the car and stumbled to his Sergeant's side. She had gone very pale.
"Donovan, are you okay?" he panted and quickly scanned her for wounds.
"I'm fine," she muttered and stared at the gun in her hand. "What do I do with that now?"
He rubbed his aching temple and shrugged. "Put it in your pocket, they won't take much of a look on it anyway."
Still feeling dizzy, he made his way through the crowd that was already forming around the scene and stopped dead when he recognized the man on the concrete.
"That's Dimmock," he stuttered and stared at the familiar face. There was no doubt whatsoever, it was their colleague. And, as far as he could tell, Donovan had been thorough with him. He didn't move.
One of the spectators was kneeling next to him, apparently in an attempt of first aid.
"Is he still alive?" Lestrade inquired and caught himself wondering about the massive amount of paperwork he would have to deal with if Donovan had killed him. He shoved the inappropriate thought away, a bit ashamed of himself.
"There's still a pulse, but he is not conscious. I'm not an expert, but I think it's not looking good," the man replied reluctantly. He had an heavy accent, German at a guess.
"Police," Lestrade heard a woman shriek. "Someone call the police!"
With an oddly blank mind, he rummaged through his pockets in search of his mark. Sherlock's nicked it again, he thought, then, seconds before his fingers found it, he realized he couldn't have.
"No need," he called and held it up. "We're police."
He stared at the DI lying on the pavement, then turned to Donovan and muttered: "We need a doctor."
"You alright, sir?"
"Not for me, for him," he snapped and sought support at the nearby wall. No, he wasn't alright, of course he wasn't.
He'd been shot at. And here, of all places...
"I don't understand," he whispered. "What the hell got into him?"
Donovan seemed to pull herself together a bit and answered equally quiet:
"I thought that the message was meant for him, I meant to tell you back at the office, but then he interrupted."
"Excuse me what?"
"When that virus turned up, everyone was confused and running about asking what was wrong, but he didn't. He just sat there in his office and he'd gone all pale. He was terrified."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?", he demanded incredulously.
"Getting a message is not a crime, is it? And he would have denied it all anyway." He tried to say something, but she cut him off. "Ever since Thomas stumbled upon that tape, Dimmock's been hanging around you. I wouldn't have noticed, but I kept running into him whenever I needed to see you."
Again, he opened his mouth to argue, but then he realized she was right. He had been there pretty much all the time.
"Yeah, but… even if it was him, what does he want from me? Why's he trying to kill me, what did I do to him?"
She gave a helpless shrug. "No idea. I mean, I always thought he was a bit creepy, but… Dunno."
"Well, let's hope we'll be able to ask him," he muttered and closed his eyes for a second. He could feel the adrenaline dying away, leaving him shaky and exhausted.
"You just saved my life," he stated then with a forced smile.
"God knows if he'd hit you…"
"Rubbish, 'course he would have." He paused for a while, watching as the paramedics carted Dimmock away. "Thank you."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not. I owe you one," he gave back decidedly, still not daring to look at her. "In fact, I owe you two for that stunt last month for which I am really sorry. It was childish and unprofessional. Not to mention it was pretty rude."
"You owed me a new window pane and I got one. It's fine. I was unprofessional, too and I get that you don't approve of me and Thomas because of that thing with your wife. I wound you up and in the end it was my own fault."
He bit back a comment about how it was not right to sleep with a married person, grimaced and muttered: "What you do with Anderson is none of my business. I don't have to approve of anything. I'm your superior, not your nanny."
"Thank you, sir."
He rubbed his head. "Er, alright then. Donovan, some colleagues are bound to turn up any moment now and will question you about the attack. That's their job, nobody blames you. What you did was right. Tell them what happened and then I want you to take the rest of the day off. I'm gonna go and see one of the doctors about my head. How lucky we're in front of a hospital," he added drily and threw her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.
~o~o~o~
"Hey, I just heard what happened." Molly Hooper stood in the doorframe, visibly unsure whether to enter or not. "You okay?"
"Yeah, a light concussion and a bunch of bruises, I'll be fine." He sighed and got up. "I reckon I can just go, right? The doctors didn't say anything."
She cast a helpless glance over the busy corridor. "Suppose so."
"Okay then," he muttered and turned to leave, then thought better of it. "Do you know anything about Dimmock? The guy who Donovan shot?"
Something seemed to dawn on her. "DI Dimmock? He… he came here with Sherlock once, about this Chinese smuggler thing. That's the one who shot you?"
"Shot at me," he corrected softly, then added: "Weird, huh? I mean, we've worked in the same department for years, and now this…"
"Wow. Er, no, no idea. They haven't transferred him to me yet, anyway."
"Good," he whispered. "I'm dying to hear his story."
A feeble smile crept across her face. "Me too. You… you don't believe this has anything to do with… that thing you told me?"
"I can't see how, but in some way this is all connected. Donovan believes that message we got was for him, too. Maybe he just panicked when he saw it."
"And tried to shoot his colleague? Why?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Don't know. But I've got a feeling it's not healthy to know about all this, so you better be careful."
"Yeah, sure."
Again, he made an attempt to leave and turned back. "You free now?"
"Well, as long as your colleague's not dead, my work is done," she muttered.
"I'll go for a coffee, since I'm not allowed to sleep yet. You could join me."
"Okay, um, I'll just... get my things then."
Now that was a dangerous move, Greg, he told himself, but then decided he could always blame his damaged head for it.
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