Donovan props herself up on one elbow, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, and regards her lover.
"We're going to get caught eventually" she comments, and Anderson ignores her, his eyes closed against the bright morning sun. While he doesn't look at her, his fingers trace a dancing line over her hip and across her ribcage to the underneath of her breast.
He lowers his lips to her collarbone and feels her head tip back, the sheet sliding down to her waist, and he takes a more possessive hold of her, thumbs grazing her hipbones as she makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat.
Afterwards she looks up at him, curious, and stretches out languorously.
"What's put you in such a good mood?"
He smirks at her, and she bats his hands away playfully, but her eyes are still serious as she looks up at him, and he is reminded why it is that he loves her. She really does care for him, he knows. She worries about him too, and about the allegations that Sherlock makes, about his relationship with his wife. It breaks his heart sometimes that Sally is the one who seems to bear the burden of these worries, when she's the one with the least to lose.
He wonders how she would react to what happened to John. Probably badly; he's never done anything to her, but would she see the bigger picture? Would she understand the repercussions for Sherlock, Sherlock who has always belittled her and knocked her down? He's not sure…
"You" he says simply, touching her chin with his finger and watching her eyes slip closed with a happy smile.
Lestrade sits opposite John, rolling his pint between his hands and shifting awkwardly. John for his part doesn't seem to have noticed; he looks like a zombie, pale and markedly thinner than when he first met Sherlock. Lestrade's no close friend of either man, but he's willing to bet that Sherlock won't have raised the subject and he can't really think who else would.
The problem is, he doesn't know how to approach the situation. He doesn't really know what he's asking; so many things have occurred to him; has there been a bereavement? Is John unwell? Has Sherlock hurt him somehow? It seems unlikely but the more Donovan spouts off about Sherlock being a psychopath the more people start to talk.
Before he can chicken out or John gets up and leaves, Lestrade sits up and fixes him with a look.
"Is everything alright, John?"
Watson blinks owlishly at him and smiles.
"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"
Lestrade flounders, caught in the trap of not wanting to state the bleeding obvious and not wanting to stammer and stutter like an idiot. In the event he does a little of both, mumbling something about looking a bit under the weather and living with Sherlock not being without its challenges, and John smiles benignly.
"He can be difficult, yes" he answers, sidestepping the question, and then on seeing Lestrade's exasperated expression shakes his head, "No, honestly. I'm fine. All this running around London's got me shedding the pounds."
Lestrade keeps his opinion that John most certainly doesn't need to shed any pounds to himself, knowing it won't help.
"Well, if you ever do need anything…"
John smiles, and Lestrade doesn't know if it's wishful thinking, but this one looks a bit more sincere.
"Will do, thanks".
And there's nothing more Lestrade can do.
When Sally sees John, she has heard all the gossip. How unwell he looks; how Lestrade himself has been to see what's going on and to offer his support, how even Sherlock has been affected and is irritable (moreso than usual) and distracted at work.
It doesn't prepare her for how he looks when he does come in one morning, trailing behind Sherlock.
She has never seen a man look so crumpled; as though someone has removed the framework holding him up and left him to sag. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and every step looks like an effort; he avoids the gaze of everyone in the room with practiced ease, his eyes flicking back and forth but never engaging.
When Sherlock calls his name, he stops just shy of flinching, and swallows reflexively when anyone other than Sherlock moves too close to him, his fists clenching and relaxing, and Sally wonders how on earth anyone could have not seen these signs.
The obvious answer is that as one of the only females working in the team she is left to work with the victims of domestic abuse, and the men just don't know the signs. She hadn't seen the signs, she reminds herself, until now. How long has it been going on? How many people have failed John Watson?
She waits until she knows Sherlock is at a case with Lestrade, calling in a favour to buy herself more time, and makes her way briskly to their flat. John answers the bell after a short pause, hair and clothes rumpled in a way that makes her think guiltily that she's roused him from a well-earned sleep.
"Sherlock's out" he says flatly and she moves her foot into the doorway just in case he tries to slam it on her. She doesn't think he would, but there's no telling what kind of effects living with Holmes will have on anyone long-term.
"It was you I wanted" she says calmly, and he looks surprised.
"Would you like to come in?"
She steps over the threshold and follows him up the stairs, politely declining his offer of tea. They both know what she's seen lurking in the cupboards on the many drug busts.
When he asks her, politely, what he can do for her, she has to take a deep breath. She's never had to deal with this situation before, precisely. Abused and assaulted females, hysterical with shock and grief, yes. This, not even close. But her worst shot is still a million times better than anything Lestrade or Anderson or Holmes could manage.
"Look, I know we've never seen eye to eye" she says hesitantly, seeing his shoulders tense already, his mouth set into a hard line, "But please just hear me out, okay?"
He doesn't say anything, arms crossed over his chest.
"I don't know who's hurt you, but you really need to talk to someone about it. For yourself and to protect others in the future. Trust me John, I've had experience in this – I know what you're dealing with…"
She is cut off by John launching himself from his seat, his face stony with fury.
"Did he send you here?" he asks, his mouth twisted, "Did he send you here to mock me?"
Sally stares at him, uncomprehending, terrified of the anger in his eyes. He looks like a wounded animal, capable of lashing out at anyone or anything in his path.
"Nobody sent me here, John" she says softly, holding her hands out in front of her. "I've had experience dealing with domestic…"
"Domestic?"
She'd prefer it if he would rage at her; his quiet, incredulous tone fills her gut with something creeping and unpleasant.
"You think Sherlock has been hitting me, don't you?"
Her silence tells him all he need to know and he lets out a short, barking laugh.
"What makes you think you can help me when you can't even see what's right under your nose?" he asks, and there's no trace of mockery in his voice, just sadness and exhaustion and a tinge of bitterness.
"I don't need your help, Sally. I'm doing just fine."
She leaves helplessly, mind whirring with what he's said and what he hasn't and feeling like she might have made things even worse.
AN: I am so blown away with all the reviews, I can't believe how much positive feedback I've been getting so thank you all so much :)