Sherlock Fic: A Journey from London
Title: A Journey from London
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.
Pairings/Warnings: Future-fic. Where this sits of the romance/bromance scale is entirely up to the reader.
Summary: Years in the future DCI Sally Donovon makes a journey from the city to a small village in Suffolk in order to ask for help.
A/N: This is my March entry for thegameison_sh It came joint third.
Sally had almost forgotten countryside like this still existed. Endless, sunshine-yellow crops had contrasted with rich brown fields of potatoes throughout her drive, marred only strips of lush green woodland and the occasional grey and pink blur as she sped past a pig farm. Occasionally a lane led her through one of the pretty Suffolk villages; and if she blurred her eyes and ignored the signs advertising Wi-Fi access she could imagine that she’d stepped into a Miss. Marple novel.
This was not where she had imagined he’d live.
An empty village shop provided her with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a cheese roll (she had no idea why grief was said to ebb hunger, if anything she was eating like a horse) which she ate while leaning against the hood of her car.
This was the sort of place she’d once imagined living. But she’d never done things in a normal fashion - and by the time she was promoted to DI she was forty-three and the prospect of a meaningful relationship seemed faint. She’d never managed one before then, after all. Her only meaningful relationship had been with…well, that was why she was here.
The house she eventually approached looked just like the hundreds of other houses she’d passed on her journey - scenic and a bit chocolate box-y. But as she got closer she noticed the rose-bush by the gate had scorch marks, and the bark on a nearby tree looked like it had been attacked with a small axe. This had to be the place.
She opened the gate and walked slowly to the door. A piece of paper pinned to it caught her attention.
Donovon,
Am around the back dealing with a tricky hydrangea.
SH
Of course he'd known she was coming. Of course. He probably knew what she’d had for breakfast. Though as her breakfast had been the cold remains of the gigantic Indian she’d ordered for herself last night, so could anyone within smelling distance. She discreetly checked her breath.
After a long hesitation she steeled herself and walked around the side of the house. She was tempted to take off her heels so as not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her coming.
“Donovon!” he called impatiently as soon as she had rounded the corner. He was crouched in front of what she assumed to be a hydrangea. “Do these petals look yellow or orange to you?”
He hadn’t even turned around to look at her. She went forward to meet him instead.
“Orange. Why?”
There was an indrawn hiss of breath. “It should be yellow! I’ll have to go back to the drawing board.”
Despite herself, Sally was curious. “Why? Are you interested in gardening now?”
“Heavens no. I’m attempting to make a solution that will revolutionise fingerprint technology. If I was right the petals should have turned yellow when sprayed.”
Now that she could look at him more closely, Sally was startled to see how much he’d aged. She hadn’t said a word to him since she’d banned him from ever coming near one of her cases - five minutes after she got promoted. Now, in his late-fifties, he had wrinkles and greying hair. He was dressed as casually as she’d ever seen him in a mere dress shirt and trousers.
“John said I could do what I liked to the hydrangea. It’s apparently arrogantly encroaching on the territory of the other flowers.”
Sally looked around. “Where is he, by the way?”
Sherlock's expression turned pinched.
“Contrary to popular belief, John doesn’t actually live here. He lives and works in Ipswich and merely comes here to bother me and take an unhealthy interest in my garden.”
From Sherlock’s expression Sally strongly suspected that if John had lived in Sherlock’s garden shed, this would still be tantamount to abandonment as far as Sherlock was concerned.
“How did you know I was coming?” she asked. God, she loathed these explanations. But they offered a kind of comfort now.
“Oh please. We saw Crimewatch last night. Terence Donovon, thirty, stabbed in the street in broad daylight. It made sense that if your colleagues weren’t getting anywhere, you’d come to me as a last resort.”
Sally bowed her head and nodded. “Ok. Yeah. This is me eating humble pie, right? I… need your help. Please.”
To his credit, Sherlock didn’t look smug. “Fifteen year age gap…strong resemblance…your younger brother I assume?”
Sally swallowed.
“No. No. He was… my son.”
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.
Pairings/Warnings: Future-fic. Where this sits of the romance/bromance scale is entirely up to the reader.
Summary: Years in the future DCI Sally Donovon makes a journey from the city to a small village in Suffolk in order to ask for help.
A/N: This is my March entry for thegameison_sh It came joint third.
Sally had almost forgotten countryside like this still existed. Endless, sunshine-yellow crops had contrasted with rich brown fields of potatoes throughout her drive, marred only strips of lush green woodland and the occasional grey and pink blur as she sped past a pig farm. Occasionally a lane led her through one of the pretty Suffolk villages; and if she blurred her eyes and ignored the signs advertising Wi-Fi access she could imagine that she’d stepped into a Miss. Marple novel.
This was not where she had imagined he’d live.
An empty village shop provided her with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a cheese roll (she had no idea why grief was said to ebb hunger, if anything she was eating like a horse) which she ate while leaning against the hood of her car.
This was the sort of place she’d once imagined living. But she’d never done things in a normal fashion - and by the time she was promoted to DI she was forty-three and the prospect of a meaningful relationship seemed faint. She’d never managed one before then, after all. Her only meaningful relationship had been with…well, that was why she was here.
The house she eventually approached looked just like the hundreds of other houses she’d passed on her journey - scenic and a bit chocolate box-y. But as she got closer she noticed the rose-bush by the gate had scorch marks, and the bark on a nearby tree looked like it had been attacked with a small axe. This had to be the place.
She opened the gate and walked slowly to the door. A piece of paper pinned to it caught her attention.
Donovon,
Am around the back dealing with a tricky hydrangea.
SH
Of course he'd known she was coming. Of course. He probably knew what she’d had for breakfast. Though as her breakfast had been the cold remains of the gigantic Indian she’d ordered for herself last night, so could anyone within smelling distance. She discreetly checked her breath.
After a long hesitation she steeled herself and walked around the side of the house. She was tempted to take off her heels so as not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her coming.
“Donovon!” he called impatiently as soon as she had rounded the corner. He was crouched in front of what she assumed to be a hydrangea. “Do these petals look yellow or orange to you?”
He hadn’t even turned around to look at her. She went forward to meet him instead.
“Orange. Why?”
There was an indrawn hiss of breath. “It should be yellow! I’ll have to go back to the drawing board.”
Despite herself, Sally was curious. “Why? Are you interested in gardening now?”
“Heavens no. I’m attempting to make a solution that will revolutionise fingerprint technology. If I was right the petals should have turned yellow when sprayed.”
Now that she could look at him more closely, Sally was startled to see how much he’d aged. She hadn’t said a word to him since she’d banned him from ever coming near one of her cases - five minutes after she got promoted. Now, in his late-fifties, he had wrinkles and greying hair. He was dressed as casually as she’d ever seen him in a mere dress shirt and trousers.
“John said I could do what I liked to the hydrangea. It’s apparently arrogantly encroaching on the territory of the other flowers.”
Sally looked around. “Where is he, by the way?”
Sherlock's expression turned pinched.
“Contrary to popular belief, John doesn’t actually live here. He lives and works in Ipswich and merely comes here to bother me and take an unhealthy interest in my garden.”
From Sherlock’s expression Sally strongly suspected that if John had lived in Sherlock’s garden shed, this would still be tantamount to abandonment as far as Sherlock was concerned.
“How did you know I was coming?” she asked. God, she loathed these explanations. But they offered a kind of comfort now.
“Oh please. We saw Crimewatch last night. Terence Donovon, thirty, stabbed in the street in broad daylight. It made sense that if your colleagues weren’t getting anywhere, you’d come to me as a last resort.”
Sally bowed her head and nodded. “Ok. Yeah. This is me eating humble pie, right? I… need your help. Please.”
To his credit, Sherlock didn’t look smug. “Fifteen year age gap…strong resemblance…your younger brother I assume?”
Sally swallowed.
“No. No. He was… my son.”