A little angst ahead, Sally Donovan seems to be insinuating herself into this universe, so I'm going to see where she leads. As of now I have no plans to pair her with Sherlock but they will likely be at the very least trusted friends.
The Sensation of Survival
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Pairings: None mentioned but events and character relationships have it set firmly in my Mollstrade universe
Main characters: Sally, Sherlock, Greg
Mollstrade tie-ins: The Chosen Ties that Bind "The Old Plod and the Git"
There were fleeting images, smells, and sensations, slowly becoming stronger and more vivid, pushing themselves back to the front of Sergeant Sally Donovan's memory.
Hearing a bullet before she felt it pierce her body in a ridiculously fluke shot. The blinding pain hit her a moment later and she went down hard. No sooner had she felt the ground seemingly envelop her when she heard voices. Deep voices, familiar and comforting.
A gravelly voice of authority, shouting orders to call 999, and officer down, then stand down goddamnit, what the hell are you gonna do, SPIT AT HIM, the firearms unit will get the bastard - then becoming quieter, still gravelly, still deep – strong as a lion but gentle as a lamb - speaking to her in almost fatherly tones to hold on, don't you dare let go, and that's an order Sergeant.
A deep baritone voice that seemed unable to decide if it was frantic with panic or a voice of calm in the face of crisis, speaking to her in low tones, reassuring words. Calling her names – Old Plod or something like that, in a gentle yet urgent attempt to goad her into fighting back. In retrospect she would find herself unable to decide exactly who his words had been meant encourage.
Smells, familiar to her. Two distinct masculine scents. One a mixture of fading cigarette smoke, a stronger note of bergamot – most likely from the variety of tea he favoured – and that year's aftershave, an annual Christmas gift from his landlady.
The other with a hint of wood smoke, a bit more pronounced style of cologne, one he had made his signature scent and she knew well from years of working beside him, and a lingering hint of strong black coffee on his coat sleeves.
Hands on her, one on her forehead, sliding down to her cheek as the face framed by unruly black curls leaned down. Tri-coloured eyes with an ocular freckle she would know anywhere, filled with concern. Strong, nimble fingers – the fingers of a musician. His other hand assisting the other one's while fabric – perhaps a scarf she would later realize, were pressed firmly against her bullet wound to staunch the bleeding.
Another face leaning towards her, boyish features framed by silver hair, dark brown eyes ablaze with anger and determination not to let her leave them. His hands, stockier, not as slender as the other's, but strong and capable with training and concern, both focused on caring for her until the ambulance could arrive.
She knew who they were, and she felt safe with them, even facing death. Somehow she knew she'd survive this and be okay.
Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes would make sure of it.