I <3 Angst
Title: One Thing in Particular
Characters: Sally Donovan, John, Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of blood, (bit of a spoiler, this:) Character Death
Word Count: Approx. 1,200
Genre: Angst
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: The characters represented in this bit of fiction belong to people who are very much not me.
Author's Note: An experiment in using Sally Donovan’s POV. Not quite sure how well it worked out, so please feel free to let me know how you feel. Also my very first (finished) piece of fanfiction that has nothing to do with a kinkmeme prompt; I’m terribly excited and nervous.
Sally Donovan is many things. Some good, some not so good, and she can accept and acknowledge that just fine, thanks. Sally Donovan is many things, but she is not cruel, and she knows this.
So when she's pressing hard onto John Watson's chest as he coughs blood onto the concrete, she doesn't say 'I told you so'. She doesn't even think 'I told you so'; it honestly doesn't even cross her mind. She's too busy pushing back panic, too busy pressing down against the flow of red and murmuring encouragements and consolations in turn.
Less than three hours ago she had been packing up for lunch, ready to head out until the moment Lestrade called her over. Cryptic texts from Sherlock, of all people, and of course her boss goes running. She remembers waiting until his back was turned to roll her eyes, but still feeling the slightest glow of pride, that even though the freak and her don't see eye to eye, it's her that Lestrade goes to first. That glow followed her all the way to the car, helped her to shrug at the London gridlock, to let go the fact that Lestrade always makes sure he's the one to drive.
It doesn't last at the scene, though. It can't. It was gone the moment she saw the blood.
John Watson's blood. Which she found more disconcerting than she would have expected, because it's John, who in their right mind would go after him with a knife? But there he was, bleeding, propped against the filthy bricks of an abandoned factory, Sherlock hunched over him like an angry cat. Sally was out the door before Lestrade could even stop the car, running over broken glass and discarded needles and crouching across from Sherlock before her brain caught up.
It never really got a chance to, in the end, because Sherlock grabbed her hand to press it over a lump of fabric, a wadded up scarf, formerly blue, currently red; pressed her hand down hard to put pressure on the hole in John.
And then he was gone. Heaving up and twirling and yelling, one hand bright red against the dark of his coat, the other perfectly clean, clenched around his mobile, thumbing never ceasing its hummingbird quick movements. Lestrade never got farther than ten feet from the car, Sherlock was already pushing him back in, talking in half formed sentences, a pawn shop, an accountant, a map, no time, no time to waste Lestrade!
John shuddered underneath her hands, so she pushed down harder as she regained her senses, shouting, "Did you call an ambulance?" over the sound the engine. And Sherlock didn't reply, didn't even look up, so she shouted again, louder, because it was important, "DID YOU CALL AN AMBLUANCE."
That earned her a wave and a nod, good enough for Lestrade, who told her, "Stay here, stay with John," as if she had something better to do at that moment, something other than to keep John's blood inside his body while swallowing her anger because a head bob and a hand motion is not an answer, it's not. John seemed to agree, silent except for his gurgling breaths, as the car pulled away with a scatter of gravel.
"Might want to... call again... just to be... safe."
John gave her a grin as he said this, and for a moment that was all Sally could focus on, that mouth full of macabre red teeth. It was another shudder that woke her, that shook her arm to action, pulling her mobile out, stuttering directions to the girl on the other end of the line. John murmured medical terms with lips stained scarlet, smiled indulgently at Sally's clichéd reassurances that were parroted to her by the flat voice telling her to stay on the line. But the smile slipped away with John's consciousness, and that was very bad, she knew it then, so she can overlook that she literally wept in relief when she heard sirens approaching.
It's another two hours before she gets back to the Yard and Sally feels absolutely dead on her feet. Not in the sense that she's incredibly tired and more than a little angry, but in the sense that she feels nothing. Everything is dull, washed out, far away, and she can't keep her feet from dragging, can’t keep from taking small steps so she doesn't feel the dried blood that seeped through her trousers rub against her knees.
There's a flurry of activity surrounding Lestrade's office, officers in uniform and out buzzing about with waving papers; the usual scene after someone has been unexpectedly arrested. Normally Sally would be in the thick of it, wearing the look of irritated pride she always had after finishing a case with Sherlock, except right now she just feels utterly horrified, and must look worse, because when she finally comes into Lestrade's eye line his face drops and he pushes aside all the officers between them to meet her in the hallway.
"John?" He asks, straight to the point, and Sally doesn't even get the chance to respond before she’s interrupted.
"He’s fine," Sherlock hisses, teeth pressed together as he stands behind Lestrade's shoulder, "he's survived much worse. Can we press on with your tedious book keeping?"
And it's his throat that Sally finds herself focusing on, long and pale and bare, and she is positive she's seen it before, but framed up the upturned collar of his coat it's so startlingly white.
"Sally?" Lestrade prompts, and somewhere she finds herself enough to straighten her neck and look Sherlock in the eye.
"He's dead. John, he's... he didn't make it."
Sherlock squints at her, just slightly, as his eyebrows slide down. Lestrade huffs out a breath and seems to deflate out of her periphery; Sally's not quite positive where he goes, as she can't seem to look away.
"You're," Sherlock starts, "you're not lying."
"No." She manages; it's a quick, sharp sound in the silence around her.
"Not lying," his eyebrows slowly relax upward and his eyes flick around her face over and over again, "why aren't you lying?"
The world seems to be in slow motion as Sherlock folds down to the floor, falling to his knees in slack-jawed shock. Sally's at a loss of what she ought to say as she carefully joins him on the linoleum. Sherlock snaps a hand out that curls into her shirt sleeve.
"You should be lying, you need to be lying, you- John-"
She does, however, know exactly what she wants to say. She can feel the words crowd in her throat, can feel 'he never made it to the hospital' shoved against 'the ambulance didn't get to him quick enough' all wrapped up in 'he would have survived, if only you'd-'
She leaves them there, lets them turn into a hard, painful lump as Sherlock Holmes stares her down, looking lost as his hand clenches and unclenches the fabric of her shirt. She says nothing, because she is many things, some good, some not so good, but she is not cruel.
She knows this.
THE END.
Characters: Sally Donovan, John, Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of blood, (bit of a spoiler, this:) Character Death
Word Count: Approx. 1,200
Genre: Angst
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: The characters represented in this bit of fiction belong to people who are very much not me.
Author's Note: An experiment in using Sally Donovan’s POV. Not quite sure how well it worked out, so please feel free to let me know how you feel. Also my very first (finished) piece of fanfiction that has nothing to do with a kinkmeme prompt; I’m terribly excited and nervous.
Sally Donovan is many things. Some good, some not so good, and she can accept and acknowledge that just fine, thanks. Sally Donovan is many things, but she is not cruel, and she knows this.
So when she's pressing hard onto John Watson's chest as he coughs blood onto the concrete, she doesn't say 'I told you so'. She doesn't even think 'I told you so'; it honestly doesn't even cross her mind. She's too busy pushing back panic, too busy pressing down against the flow of red and murmuring encouragements and consolations in turn.
Less than three hours ago she had been packing up for lunch, ready to head out until the moment Lestrade called her over. Cryptic texts from Sherlock, of all people, and of course her boss goes running. She remembers waiting until his back was turned to roll her eyes, but still feeling the slightest glow of pride, that even though the freak and her don't see eye to eye, it's her that Lestrade goes to first. That glow followed her all the way to the car, helped her to shrug at the London gridlock, to let go the fact that Lestrade always makes sure he's the one to drive.
It doesn't last at the scene, though. It can't. It was gone the moment she saw the blood.
John Watson's blood. Which she found more disconcerting than she would have expected, because it's John, who in their right mind would go after him with a knife? But there he was, bleeding, propped against the filthy bricks of an abandoned factory, Sherlock hunched over him like an angry cat. Sally was out the door before Lestrade could even stop the car, running over broken glass and discarded needles and crouching across from Sherlock before her brain caught up.
It never really got a chance to, in the end, because Sherlock grabbed her hand to press it over a lump of fabric, a wadded up scarf, formerly blue, currently red; pressed her hand down hard to put pressure on the hole in John.
And then he was gone. Heaving up and twirling and yelling, one hand bright red against the dark of his coat, the other perfectly clean, clenched around his mobile, thumbing never ceasing its hummingbird quick movements. Lestrade never got farther than ten feet from the car, Sherlock was already pushing him back in, talking in half formed sentences, a pawn shop, an accountant, a map, no time, no time to waste Lestrade!
John shuddered underneath her hands, so she pushed down harder as she regained her senses, shouting, "Did you call an ambulance?" over the sound the engine. And Sherlock didn't reply, didn't even look up, so she shouted again, louder, because it was important, "DID YOU CALL AN AMBLUANCE."
That earned her a wave and a nod, good enough for Lestrade, who told her, "Stay here, stay with John," as if she had something better to do at that moment, something other than to keep John's blood inside his body while swallowing her anger because a head bob and a hand motion is not an answer, it's not. John seemed to agree, silent except for his gurgling breaths, as the car pulled away with a scatter of gravel.
"Might want to... call again... just to be... safe."
John gave her a grin as he said this, and for a moment that was all Sally could focus on, that mouth full of macabre red teeth. It was another shudder that woke her, that shook her arm to action, pulling her mobile out, stuttering directions to the girl on the other end of the line. John murmured medical terms with lips stained scarlet, smiled indulgently at Sally's clichéd reassurances that were parroted to her by the flat voice telling her to stay on the line. But the smile slipped away with John's consciousness, and that was very bad, she knew it then, so she can overlook that she literally wept in relief when she heard sirens approaching.
It's another two hours before she gets back to the Yard and Sally feels absolutely dead on her feet. Not in the sense that she's incredibly tired and more than a little angry, but in the sense that she feels nothing. Everything is dull, washed out, far away, and she can't keep her feet from dragging, can’t keep from taking small steps so she doesn't feel the dried blood that seeped through her trousers rub against her knees.
There's a flurry of activity surrounding Lestrade's office, officers in uniform and out buzzing about with waving papers; the usual scene after someone has been unexpectedly arrested. Normally Sally would be in the thick of it, wearing the look of irritated pride she always had after finishing a case with Sherlock, except right now she just feels utterly horrified, and must look worse, because when she finally comes into Lestrade's eye line his face drops and he pushes aside all the officers between them to meet her in the hallway.
"John?" He asks, straight to the point, and Sally doesn't even get the chance to respond before she’s interrupted.
"He’s fine," Sherlock hisses, teeth pressed together as he stands behind Lestrade's shoulder, "he's survived much worse. Can we press on with your tedious book keeping?"
And it's his throat that Sally finds herself focusing on, long and pale and bare, and she is positive she's seen it before, but framed up the upturned collar of his coat it's so startlingly white.
"Sally?" Lestrade prompts, and somewhere she finds herself enough to straighten her neck and look Sherlock in the eye.
"He's dead. John, he's... he didn't make it."
Sherlock squints at her, just slightly, as his eyebrows slide down. Lestrade huffs out a breath and seems to deflate out of her periphery; Sally's not quite positive where he goes, as she can't seem to look away.
"You're," Sherlock starts, "you're not lying."
"No." She manages; it's a quick, sharp sound in the silence around her.
"Not lying," his eyebrows slowly relax upward and his eyes flick around her face over and over again, "why aren't you lying?"
The world seems to be in slow motion as Sherlock folds down to the floor, falling to his knees in slack-jawed shock. Sally's at a loss of what she ought to say as she carefully joins him on the linoleum. Sherlock snaps a hand out that curls into her shirt sleeve.
"You should be lying, you need to be lying, you- John-"
She does, however, know exactly what she wants to say. She can feel the words crowd in her throat, can feel 'he never made it to the hospital' shoved against 'the ambulance didn't get to him quick enough' all wrapped up in 'he would have survived, if only you'd-'
She leaves them there, lets them turn into a hard, painful lump as Sherlock Holmes stares her down, looking lost as his hand clenches and unclenches the fabric of her shirt. She says nothing, because she is many things, some good, some not so good, but she is not cruel.
She knows this.
THE END.