He stared at the phone for a long moment— it was unthinkable that the screen really said what he'd thought it did.
Eventually, though, he had to bring it up to his ear— he answered.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"You fucking know who this is, you twat."
The voice scowled over the phone— he could practically hear her pacing.
"Listen— I don't have the time for our normal freak-adulterer-psychopath-idiot banter. How far are you from Hackney?"
He considered.
"Approximately twelve minutes. Eleven minutes and twenty seconds, if I don't get stopped by any red lights."
Sally Donovan laughed over the phone. It was not a kind laugh.
"Of course you are. I can give you half an hour on this scene before anyone who will disagree will see you, but the half hour starts now. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course I can."
She did not sound relieved when she thanked him.
"And for God's sake, don't wear that coat of yours. Try to be inconspicuous."
She gave him an address, and he flagged down a taxi.
There were four people in the flat by the time Sherlock had arrived— eleven minutes, faster than he'd said possible.
He didn't have his coat to twirl around his knees but he made do without, sauntering down the sidewalk to the three-storey complex. He didn't have a collar to pop, but his eyes preserved any intensity that he may have feared that he'd lost— he ducked under the police tape with an exercised ease, hoping that he earned the look of regret on Sally's face when she'd seen him.
Lestrade wasn't there— probably with the rest of the team, stalling them and giving Sherlock some time. But Anderson was present, and was pointedly ignoring Sherlock.
Just as well.
"Where's the body? I have nineteen minutes to solve this crime for the yard, don't I?"
Donovan swept her hand through the air, inviting Sherlock into the bedroom—
"Fourteen. I need you well out of here and unseen before the rest of the team even have the chance to turn onto Lansdowne Drive."
The body was crumpled on the ground, the balcony glass door half open— the room was cold because of it. It was a rather cramped apartment— the man clearly did not like the idea of throwing anything away. Christian in at least a minor degree— there was a cross hanging from the wall and a small Christmas tree sitting on the end table. No presents— no holiday plans.
"Would you like me to start?"
Sally rolled her eyes.
"Whenever you're ready, Holmes."
He took a deep breath. Fought the smile from his face.
"Surgeon— ER. Works very well under pressure. Asthmatic— but don't you smell cigarettes? He has a lover who smokes. She wasn't over last night— no, of course she wasn't— but the scent was on his clothing and he needed some fresh air. I think you'll find a recently rented flat across the street that, even if it's been paid for every month without problem, is completely empty. There may even be a note for me. There was in the house across the street from Elijah Campbell's."
Two seconds to gawk at him, one wasted on opening her mouth— she drew in a breath instead, composed herself with a well-placed eyeroll.
"I've decided not to comment on the fact that you're apparently confessing to breaking and entering on at least two accounts. How did the killer get in? Doors were still locked, there's no way he could have scaled the wall."
"Isn't it obvious? There's quite a hole in his head. But if you'd allow me to—"
He moved towards the body, making to move his head—
"For Christ's sake, step away from the body, Holmes. No, there's no exit wound."
He straightened himself up, coy grin.
"I'll hazard a guess that it, like all of the others, he was shot from the same handgun from a considerable distance. The flat I just mentioned, quite possibly. Would you like me to write all of this down for you to remember?"
"No."
"Well then, you better pay attention—"
"I meant, no. There's no way it could have been shot from across the street. There's just no way, Sherlock."
"Oh, just because your department won't believe it doesn't mean that you can't, either. Look at the evidence, Donovan!"
"There is an infinitely small percentage of making that target with that weapon, from that distance. I ran a ballistics report."
"You ran it?'
He raised an eyebrow. Sally, as a rule, never distanced herself from her work. She was the Yard. It would have been we ran a ballistics report unless—
"None of the other inspectors would even humour the notion. They said it was all too Holmesian."
Sherlock scoffed— if he was pleased by the fact that he'd been turned into an adjective, it looked quite a bit like scorn.
"An infinitely small percentage."
"Yes- there's practically no chance that anyone would make it."
"What about a trained sniper? Best in his field? Would anyone be able to make that shot?"
Donovan didn't roll her eyes at the idea— that's what she thought, too, then.
"Yes. A trained sniper— a very good trained sniper would be able to make that shot. But why? Why would anyone hire an assassin to kill these men?"
"Well, if you're quite finished with the allegations you've made against me, and considering I am standing here on your request I'm confident in saying that that you have, we can entertain the notion that it's James Moriarty, because he's the only person with the will and the resources for something of this level."
"I can't go putting in the report that Moriarty is killing these men. He hasn't been seen in six months- and that's assuming that most of Britain even believes in him. Which they don't. There've been no leads in looking for him mostly because the majority of the Yard likes to think Rich Brook ran to get away from you."
Sherlock scowled.
"Thirteen men have died at his hands, from this exercise alone. Wouldn't it be kinder to just—"
"You don't get to use that word, Holmes."
"Nor do you, Donovan."
They locked eyes- no one could glare at Sherlock quite like Sally could. Even Mycroft's glares were tainted by the fact that he, at some efficient, base level, cared about Sherlock— Sally's eyes held nothing but contempt at Sherlock, and contempt at the idea that she needed him.
He preferred her looks. They were simple, easy to understand and respond to. When she spoke, she spat out her words, aiming to hurt with them.
"What would you have had me do? Not even John could account for your whereabouts the time of the kidnapping. The way that girl screamed— wouldn't talk to any of us. I was lenient for you- way, way too lenient. But I couldn't just let that one go. All of the evidence was stacked against you; it really looked like you had kidnapped those kids."
"So you're admitting you were wrong, then?"
She wouldn't.
"I'm admitting that it was a perfectly reasonable thing for me to do. It doesn't matter if it was wrong- it was what I was supposed to do. It was what I should have done years ago."
"I've saved more people in the few years that I worked with the Yard that you ever will, and you know that."
He'd struck a nerve. She'd thought so, too, then.
"But that's not what you're into, now, is it? No, it's the puzzle for you. You're a psychopath- even if you didn't, how am I supposed to believe that you wouldn't kidnap those kids? Set up all those crimes? How am I supposed to know that you really didn't just create Moriarty?"
He laughed at her— his cold eyes chilled the deep tone. His anger served to fuel her own—
"You don't care. You just run around solving whatever we give you with no regard to the lives you affect."
He narrowed his eyes—
"You don't have the best record yourself. You destroyed my reputation and set Moriarty's path in motion that ultimately led to— our present situation."
She misunderstood what situation he'd meant. She thought he was blaming her for something that should not be given blame to.
It frightened her— because it wasn't the first time she'd heard it.
She jabbed a finger to his chest, snarling up at him.
"You were the one that put him in danger in the first place! He would have been alive right now if you hadn't snatched him up like a collectible to be dangled in front of that madman—"
Sherlock's eyes, for a very quick second, widened— first in surprise, then in rage.
An instant flash of regret— she looked away, but she was too prideful to apologise. When she looked back to him, her face was blank.
"You have three minutes to tell me what else you know about this murder. Else, get out of my sight."
He set his jaw, straightened up— at their close range, their height differences were drastic. Their glares deathly.
"I've told you everything there is to know. Moriarty is hiring a military— trained killer to murder innocent men in the greater London area. He's using a handgun to assassinate men with very little reason other than— well, why not?"
He pulled his blue gloves off at the middle finger, balling them up and tossing them on the ground as he turned from her.
"Put that in your precious report."