Fic: Double Vision
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sally Donovan, others
Pairing(s): surprise!
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sally Donovan isn’t quite what she seems.
Warnings: Character death, explicit language, police corruption,
Word count: 1661
'Donovan,' she says, presenting her fake credentials. 'Sally Donovan.'
The DI gives her a cursory look. She's radiating eager-nervous-young policewoman the best she can. She's almost afraid she's overdoing it.
'Transferred from Manchester, right?'
'That's right, sir,' she lies.
The police's grown so vast lately, that it's almost insultingly easy to conjure up a fake background. Should he want to check her references, he'll find a few bribed or blackmailed coppers, willing to swear on how good she is, how driven, ready to give details of first cases and heroic deeds that never happened. She doubts he will; he looks overworked as it is already.
'Well, you can start by reading up on the case. Maybe an outside perspective will help. God knows I'm willing to give anything a chance right now.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you.' She flashes him a grateful if slightly uneasy smile, but he's already turning away.
Keep an eye on things. Don't cause trouble, stay under the radar.
Well, she can do that.
***
Lestrade calls in Holmes two days later. The others are glad that there's a newbie around to deal with the freak: usually they pull straws.
Not that they mention this to her, of course. They play it like it's just a boring old routine job, babysitting an external expert, and she plays innocent, says it's no trouble, of course she'll escort whoever he is.
It's very hard to hide her curiosity.
He's waiting by the police tape, eyes flitting from one detail to another. It's a characteristic she's intimately familiar with, even if it's strange to see it on someone else's face.
'Alright then, where's the scene of crime?' he snaps impatiently when she approaches him, barely looking at her.
'I'll have to see some credentials first, please, sir,' she says politely, with just a hint of impatience of her own.
He looks at her with that x-ray intensity she knows so well, first her face, then her sensible, worn flats, the silver earrings, her skirt and coat. It's almost predictable, really.
'Originally from London, spent a few years somewhere in the north, Manchester probably, returned just recently, only daughter, went to university but joined the police against the wishes of your parents, just out of a long-term relationship, probably because the boyfriend didn't want to leave Manchester, a decision you're still not entirely comfortable with judging by how you're fiddling with that necklace - Valentine Day's gift, was it? Is that credentials enough for you?'
He gives her a smug look and it's really, really hard to keep from laughing. She barely manages to keep up the look of mingled surprise and anger that's expected from her.
The funny thing is that he's almost completely right, if you replace police with army and the boyfriend, well...
He sweeps past her and she follows, biting the inside of her cheek. She tucks her necklace back inside her shirt, the only part of her that isn't a lie, the little golden S warm between her breasts.
***
'Saw him today,' she says on the phone.
'And?'
'He fell for it. Not that clever, is he? Pretty though.'
A laugh. 'Don't get too attached. I have plans for him.'
'You have plans for everyone.'
'That I do. See you around, darling.'
***
He keeps coming, Holmes, each time just a little bit more insufferable than the last. She can hardly wait until they start the plan.
'Well, you know what I think, don't you?' she says when he shows up once again, unable to resist.
'Always, Sally,' and she has to bite down hard on her smile, but then, 'I know you didn't make it home, last night.'
Her breath catches and for one terrible second she comes close to breaking character, almost grabs the front of his fucking coat and shouts what do you know, almost physically attacks the bastard. But she fights it down, just like she was taught, deflects him and keeps her poker face on. Calm down, she tells herself. So what if she spluttered a bit? It’s nothing more than is expected when you are caught sleeping with a married man.
Nevertheless, she spends the next minute or so in something close to panic, even though she manages to hide it - and then Holmes sneers at Anderson and she almost laughs in relief.
Of course he doesn't know.
***
he's got a new friend, she texts immediately after she plants the first seed of doubt in the good doctor's head. john watson, ex-army dr
'So who is the lucky man?'
She presses send and turns. Anderson's standing next to her, holding out a coffee. She doesn't have to fake her gratefulness.
'Sorry?'
'You know. The Freak.'
She shrugs. 'Well, maybe I just like men's deodorant and I really did clean my floors yesterday. He does get things wrong, you know.'
'Apparently. Or I somehow managed to have an affair with you without knowing, which I find hard to believe.'
She smiles at him. The poor sod's been awkwardly flirting with her ever since she joined, but she's been careful not to encourage him too much - she's done a lot to keep her cover but there are some things she will not stoop to. But he's been useful, and he doesn't seem to mind much that she doesn't reciprocate, doesn't mind just staying friends.
'Fine, keep your secrets. But he better treat you well, Sally.'
She thinks of the bruises on the inside of her thighs, on the back of her neck, hidden by her hair, of his mouth against hers, hot and demanding.
'Don't worry, he does.'
***
Watson shoots the cabby. She's the only one who puts the pieces together, apart from Lestrade, who orders them to leave Holmes and his friend alone, no need for further questioning. An army friend with a steady aim for the troubled genius, nature loves symmetry.
'You'll have to deal with him,' she says later when she calls him, sitting on her bed. 'He's becoming a risk.'
'He definitely makes things interesting.'
'Will it still be interesting when I'll have to break you out of prison?'
'Please, if ever I go to prison it'll be because I want to go. Now, how are you?'
'Fine.' She falls backwards, stares at the ceiling. 'Missing you.'
'I'll be back in a week, until then you'll just have to pine.'
She snorts. 'I don't fucking pine, sweetheart. You should know that.'
He laughs in the phone, the quiet laugh, one of the few that doesn't make him sound mental.
'Don't do anything stupid while I'm away, now,' he says, sounding paternal.
'Same goes for you, you insane bastard.'
She throws the phone on the duvet and folds her hands beneath her head. She's growing tired of policing, of pretending. She's been pretending all her life, grown so good at it even the great Sherlock Holmes can't see through her disguise.
Only one person ever really saw her.
***
In the end it takes more than two years before they decide to take Sherlock Holmes out for good. It's a long con, a complicated plan with more risks and unpredictables than she's comfortable with.
But she plays her role admirably. Not that it's difficult, all it takes is the slightest push in the right direction, a hint here, a suggestion there, and suddenly everyone's convinced the great detective's a serial killer.
Everyone's always suspicious of people cleverer than they are, he said. It'll be easy. People are so-o gullible.
And they are. One little kid screaming is all the evidence they need. But Lestrade still stands in the way, adorably loyal until the end. So she corners Anderson and suggest going to the Chief Super.
‘Sally, are you sure?’ he asks, frowning. ‘That’s career suicide. You’re risking - if they sack you, you’re done for.‘
‘I don’t care,’ she snaps, brimming with righteousness, even though inside she’s can’t wait for this fucking job to end.
Even then Lestrade clings to his belief, but the ball gets rolling, Holmes and Watson start running, and everything goes according to plan.
***
According to plan.
She throws up violently, clutching at the sides of the toilet bowl. But she’s almost grateful for it, at least it means she doesn’t have to think, about guns and bullets and blood and skulls and -
She heaves again, muscles cramping, tears in her eyes. Anderson knocks at the door, asking if she’s alright, and she can’t think, her mind’s wiped clean, she can’t breathe -
All according to plan.
She retches, even though her stomach’s long empty, feeling sick to her bones.
***
Lestrade gets demoted. She miraculously doesn’t get sacked but resigns anyway. No-one is surprised, no-one is particularly sorry to see her go; Holmes' suicide hangs around her like a bad smell.
Anderson finds her when she's packing up her stuff. 'Don't feel guilty,' he says, a friendly hand on her shoulder. 'It isn't your fault.'
She squeezes her eyes shut, because she does, she does feel guilty, and angry, like she wants to tear the world apart, punch Anderson in his stupid face and break his nose, find Lestrade and shoot him through the fucking head.
But they're not the ones she wants to hurt, really, properly hurt, they way they hurt her. She's done with pretending. Time to be herself again.
'Sally? Have you thought about what you're going to do now?'
She opens her eyes. Anderson's expression changes from concerned to unnerved. No more playing nice girl. 'Yes,' she says calmly. 'I know exactly what to do.'
***
Holmes is frowning at her, looking between the gun and her face, still not understanding.
'Donovan, what - '
'My name's not Sally Donovan.'
Holmes exchanges a confused look with Watson, who's struggling frantically with his handcuffs. He looks back at her and his eyes widen. 'Of course.'
'Allow me to introduce myself,' she says, pressing the barrel of her gun to his forehead. Watson makes a choked noise.
'Sabina Moran.'
She pulls the trigger.
Characters: Sally Donovan, others
Pairing(s): surprise!
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sally Donovan isn’t quite what she seems.
Warnings: Character death, explicit language, police corruption,
Word count: 1661
'Donovan,' she says, presenting her fake credentials. 'Sally Donovan.'
The DI gives her a cursory look. She's radiating eager-nervous-young policewoman the best she can. She's almost afraid she's overdoing it.
'Transferred from Manchester, right?'
'That's right, sir,' she lies.
The police's grown so vast lately, that it's almost insultingly easy to conjure up a fake background. Should he want to check her references, he'll find a few bribed or blackmailed coppers, willing to swear on how good she is, how driven, ready to give details of first cases and heroic deeds that never happened. She doubts he will; he looks overworked as it is already.
'Well, you can start by reading up on the case. Maybe an outside perspective will help. God knows I'm willing to give anything a chance right now.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you.' She flashes him a grateful if slightly uneasy smile, but he's already turning away.
Keep an eye on things. Don't cause trouble, stay under the radar.
Well, she can do that.
***
Lestrade calls in Holmes two days later. The others are glad that there's a newbie around to deal with the freak: usually they pull straws.
Not that they mention this to her, of course. They play it like it's just a boring old routine job, babysitting an external expert, and she plays innocent, says it's no trouble, of course she'll escort whoever he is.
It's very hard to hide her curiosity.
He's waiting by the police tape, eyes flitting from one detail to another. It's a characteristic she's intimately familiar with, even if it's strange to see it on someone else's face.
'Alright then, where's the scene of crime?' he snaps impatiently when she approaches him, barely looking at her.
'I'll have to see some credentials first, please, sir,' she says politely, with just a hint of impatience of her own.
He looks at her with that x-ray intensity she knows so well, first her face, then her sensible, worn flats, the silver earrings, her skirt and coat. It's almost predictable, really.
'Originally from London, spent a few years somewhere in the north, Manchester probably, returned just recently, only daughter, went to university but joined the police against the wishes of your parents, just out of a long-term relationship, probably because the boyfriend didn't want to leave Manchester, a decision you're still not entirely comfortable with judging by how you're fiddling with that necklace - Valentine Day's gift, was it? Is that credentials enough for you?'
He gives her a smug look and it's really, really hard to keep from laughing. She barely manages to keep up the look of mingled surprise and anger that's expected from her.
The funny thing is that he's almost completely right, if you replace police with army and the boyfriend, well...
He sweeps past her and she follows, biting the inside of her cheek. She tucks her necklace back inside her shirt, the only part of her that isn't a lie, the little golden S warm between her breasts.
***
'Saw him today,' she says on the phone.
'And?'
'He fell for it. Not that clever, is he? Pretty though.'
A laugh. 'Don't get too attached. I have plans for him.'
'You have plans for everyone.'
'That I do. See you around, darling.'
***
He keeps coming, Holmes, each time just a little bit more insufferable than the last. She can hardly wait until they start the plan.
'Well, you know what I think, don't you?' she says when he shows up once again, unable to resist.
'Always, Sally,' and she has to bite down hard on her smile, but then, 'I know you didn't make it home, last night.'
Her breath catches and for one terrible second she comes close to breaking character, almost grabs the front of his fucking coat and shouts what do you know, almost physically attacks the bastard. But she fights it down, just like she was taught, deflects him and keeps her poker face on. Calm down, she tells herself. So what if she spluttered a bit? It’s nothing more than is expected when you are caught sleeping with a married man.
Nevertheless, she spends the next minute or so in something close to panic, even though she manages to hide it - and then Holmes sneers at Anderson and she almost laughs in relief.
Of course he doesn't know.
***
he's got a new friend, she texts immediately after she plants the first seed of doubt in the good doctor's head. john watson, ex-army dr
'So who is the lucky man?'
She presses send and turns. Anderson's standing next to her, holding out a coffee. She doesn't have to fake her gratefulness.
'Sorry?'
'You know. The Freak.'
She shrugs. 'Well, maybe I just like men's deodorant and I really did clean my floors yesterday. He does get things wrong, you know.'
'Apparently. Or I somehow managed to have an affair with you without knowing, which I find hard to believe.'
She smiles at him. The poor sod's been awkwardly flirting with her ever since she joined, but she's been careful not to encourage him too much - she's done a lot to keep her cover but there are some things she will not stoop to. But he's been useful, and he doesn't seem to mind much that she doesn't reciprocate, doesn't mind just staying friends.
'Fine, keep your secrets. But he better treat you well, Sally.'
She thinks of the bruises on the inside of her thighs, on the back of her neck, hidden by her hair, of his mouth against hers, hot and demanding.
'Don't worry, he does.'
***
Watson shoots the cabby. She's the only one who puts the pieces together, apart from Lestrade, who orders them to leave Holmes and his friend alone, no need for further questioning. An army friend with a steady aim for the troubled genius, nature loves symmetry.
'You'll have to deal with him,' she says later when she calls him, sitting on her bed. 'He's becoming a risk.'
'He definitely makes things interesting.'
'Will it still be interesting when I'll have to break you out of prison?'
'Please, if ever I go to prison it'll be because I want to go. Now, how are you?'
'Fine.' She falls backwards, stares at the ceiling. 'Missing you.'
'I'll be back in a week, until then you'll just have to pine.'
She snorts. 'I don't fucking pine, sweetheart. You should know that.'
He laughs in the phone, the quiet laugh, one of the few that doesn't make him sound mental.
'Don't do anything stupid while I'm away, now,' he says, sounding paternal.
'Same goes for you, you insane bastard.'
She throws the phone on the duvet and folds her hands beneath her head. She's growing tired of policing, of pretending. She's been pretending all her life, grown so good at it even the great Sherlock Holmes can't see through her disguise.
Only one person ever really saw her.
***
In the end it takes more than two years before they decide to take Sherlock Holmes out for good. It's a long con, a complicated plan with more risks and unpredictables than she's comfortable with.
But she plays her role admirably. Not that it's difficult, all it takes is the slightest push in the right direction, a hint here, a suggestion there, and suddenly everyone's convinced the great detective's a serial killer.
Everyone's always suspicious of people cleverer than they are, he said. It'll be easy. People are so-o gullible.
And they are. One little kid screaming is all the evidence they need. But Lestrade still stands in the way, adorably loyal until the end. So she corners Anderson and suggest going to the Chief Super.
‘Sally, are you sure?’ he asks, frowning. ‘That’s career suicide. You’re risking - if they sack you, you’re done for.‘
‘I don’t care,’ she snaps, brimming with righteousness, even though inside she’s can’t wait for this fucking job to end.
Even then Lestrade clings to his belief, but the ball gets rolling, Holmes and Watson start running, and everything goes according to plan.
***
According to plan.
She throws up violently, clutching at the sides of the toilet bowl. But she’s almost grateful for it, at least it means she doesn’t have to think, about guns and bullets and blood and skulls and -
She heaves again, muscles cramping, tears in her eyes. Anderson knocks at the door, asking if she’s alright, and she can’t think, her mind’s wiped clean, she can’t breathe -
All according to plan.
She retches, even though her stomach’s long empty, feeling sick to her bones.
***
Lestrade gets demoted. She miraculously doesn’t get sacked but resigns anyway. No-one is surprised, no-one is particularly sorry to see her go; Holmes' suicide hangs around her like a bad smell.
Anderson finds her when she's packing up her stuff. 'Don't feel guilty,' he says, a friendly hand on her shoulder. 'It isn't your fault.'
She squeezes her eyes shut, because she does, she does feel guilty, and angry, like she wants to tear the world apart, punch Anderson in his stupid face and break his nose, find Lestrade and shoot him through the fucking head.
But they're not the ones she wants to hurt, really, properly hurt, they way they hurt her. She's done with pretending. Time to be herself again.
'Sally? Have you thought about what you're going to do now?'
She opens her eyes. Anderson's expression changes from concerned to unnerved. No more playing nice girl. 'Yes,' she says calmly. 'I know exactly what to do.'
***
Holmes is frowning at her, looking between the gun and her face, still not understanding.
'Donovan, what - '
'My name's not Sally Donovan.'
Holmes exchanges a confused look with Watson, who's struggling frantically with his handcuffs. He looks back at her and his eyes widen. 'Of course.'
'Allow me to introduce myself,' she says, pressing the barrel of her gun to his forehead. Watson makes a choked noise.
'Sabina Moran.'
She pulls the trigger.