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Title: Five times Sgt. Sally Donovan contemplated putting a bullet in Sherlock (and one time she took a bullet for him).
Summary: Written for this prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink_meme.  Sort of turned more into "Five times Sgt. Sally Donovan was wrong about Sherlock (and one time she realised it)."  Sgt. Sally Donovan hates Sherlock Holmes, enough to save his life.  But only after shooting him first (mentally).
Word Count: 1738

1 - Petty
As Sally stormed away from the crime scene, catering to bloody Sherlock Holmes' every whim like the rest of the blasted Scotland Yard, she wished that once, just once, the Freak could be a little less awful.  The sodding man had managed to insult everything about her, from her looks to her personality to her choice in men, by comparing her to the dead woman.  The dead woman who had severe acne due to her obscene weight, hair that was falling out in patches, and, as it turns out from the fucking smell in the fucking hallway, had been killed by the gigolo she'd been married to.  Because she couldn't handle him "cheating" on her anymore, and he couldn't handle her fucked up attitude.

The absolute worst thing, Sally thought as she managed to soak her shoes in a puddle, was that she could see what he meant.  Anderson (and no, she would not think of him by his first name when she was furious) was cheating on her just as much and the gigolo was for the dead woman.  She was the "other woman", she couldn't tell him to stop seeing his wife and family just as much as the dead woman couldn't tell her husband to stop their only source of income.  It was completely unreasonable to be furious about it, but she was, and even though she hadn't put on any weight, and God knows her hair was fine, she'd been eating more fatty food and she did definitely have a spot this morning.

The third taxi whizzed by, ignoring her hail.  She flipped it off and was promptly soaked by another car passing.  A surge of anger assaulted her, different than the simmering fury that had been building for the last hour, and she imagined, just for a moment, how satisfying it would feel to shoot him in the calf.  Painful, but ultimately not debilitating.  The sky opened and her umbrella was at home, so she hunched over in her coat and began walking toward the main road, rain running rivulets down her neck.  She wished he could be less awful, because goddamn it he was brilliant, and even though it wasn't true, it just wasn't, she could see where he was coming from.

And damnit, it hurt.

2 - Right
He wasn't even here this time.  She hadn't even seen him in a fortnight and she wanted to put a bullet in him.  His forearm, probably.  Let's see how arrogant he is when he can't even feed himself without help.  Can't type, can't assault the mortuary, can't perform experiments, can't even use his phone.

Stupid shit is probably ambidextrous anyway.  Two bullets then.

She was on a bus watching teenagers suck face across from her, going home from a nightclub.  One she gets dressed up to go to, just to remind herself that she is beautiful and men do fall over to get her.  She's been doing this more often lately, and there seemed to be a startling correlation between the worse she feels and the length of her dress.  Today she wasn't even wearing a dress, just ridiculously high heels and a skirt that should probably be classed as underwear.  And now she was going home in this ridiculous clothing and trying not to cry, because she'd just walked out with a date.  Even up to a year ago she'd never have even dreamed of cheating on someone.  Those who cheat are the scum on the Earth.

Now look at her.  She's cheating on her boyfriend who's cheating on his wife.

And fuck it, the bloody genius has got nothing to do with it, except that he was right, and he's always right, and that those who cheat once are more likely to cheat again and look at her.  And can't he just not be right once?

3 - Megalomaniac
The girl kept texting.  Beautiful and rude, the epitome of a rich upper-class daddy's little snob.  Or maybe she was a kept girl, poor little dear who'd always dreamed of more and never grew up when she was spotted by a fat, balding politician.

She flicked her eyes at Sally, and Sally sneered.  Only internally though.  The car stopped and the girl had the door open and was glaring her out before Sally had unbuckled her seatbelt.  The door slammed behind her, and the only way to go was into the building.  Glaring at the pavement for good measure, Sally complied.  Just as she complied with the long hallway where all the doors were locked and the lift where only one button worked.  Not to mention the working cameras in a derelict building that had a warning of demolition posted out the front.

Her main impression on man waiting for her was that she'd really like to stick the umbrella he couldn't seem to drop up his unnecessarily degrading arse.  She was envisioning all the ways that could go down (most of them realistically ended with her being imprisoned or assassinated in her sleep) until he finally told her why she was here.  Of course it would be because of Sherlock that she was kidnapped and late to work.  The bastard just had to make an enemy out of everyone, especially megalomaniacs.

She switched to cheerfully figuring out where she'd like to shoot Sherlock Holmes.  If it shattered a bone it'd be painful for ages.  That could work nicely.

4 - Pain
The man sitting opposite her (Mike, Josh, William?) started telling another anecdote about his friend that worked in accounting.  She sipped her coffee and evaluated him again.  He was funny and attractive, not particularly engaging, but he obviously knew how to hold an audience.  He'd insisted on paying for the drinks and her bagel, and he'd opened the door for her and pushed her seat in, so obviously learned the basics of being a gentleman.  He knew how to dress well and had a good job.

Yes, he'd be exactly what she needed.  Sally relaxed back into her seat and engaged in the conversation.  A nice, simple morning to look forward to.  Such fun.

Her date's (Liam, Alan?) eyes flicked to the door, widened, then back to her.  Sally turned around, slowly, and watched Sherlock Holmes standing in the open door, chin up, eyes roving the coffee house.  He looked like a wild animal determining whether a watering hole place was safe.  Sally's fingers itched.

He strode straight over to their table (of course) and said:

"He's lying to you."

Sally bit her tongue, staring defiantly at him.  He stared back, obviously waiting for either immediate belief or a request for the thought process.  Her fingers itched for a gun she wasn't carrying.  The man huffed, impatient, and cut of her date's (Richard?  Barbossa?) sputtered astonishment.

"Of course, I could be wrong, but I did think you might be above dating a gay man.  What's the colloquial term, a beard?"

Sally stood and walked out.  Even if he had been gay (and if Holmes said he was he was) she could have enjoyed a nice meal and a good time.  But now the man would spend the rest of the morning either denying it or defending why he hadn't told her in the first place, and she'd really just rather leave now.

Her fingers itched to jam the butt of a gun into where Holmes' neck meets his shoulder.  A bit of pain'd do him good.

5 - Heartless
His heart.  Right in his fucking heart this time.  She was sobbing in her boss' shoulder, sitting on a street somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere.  It was too much.  So what if she'd decided to break it off with a coworker?  So fucking what, she was dealing with it, she was professional and ethical and not letting her feelings get in her way.  The bastard had no right to announce it to everyone.  He had no right to waltz into the middle of the crime scene, take one look at her and explain exactly what happened for exactly what reasons and exactly why he was right this entire time.  He had no right to make her cry and he had no right to make her run away from her job and he especially had no right to the fucking audacity of turning around and asking his fucking pet doctor why she was acting "in such an unprofessional manner".

So as Lestrade rested his chin on her head and held her and rubbed circles on her arm and she cried onto his shoulder, Sally decided she couldn't shoot him in the heart because the heartless bastard didn't have one.  But fuck she wished he did.

1 - Bullet
Well, she thought as the gurney bumped around in the ambulance, at least she's not dead.  Or crippled.  Imagine, injured to protect Sherlock Holmes, arrogant freak extraordinaire with no concept of humanity in it's essence and too many enemies.

But that's not entirely true.  Sure, the bastard's a genius, but he's not omniscient, and he does genuinely care about some people.  It was probably his face when he'd realised they were targeting his brother (his brother!  Not a criminal mastermind, not a megalomaniac, his brother!) and had actually gotten close enough to capture his assistant.  That's what made her push him out of the way when she saw that he'd insulted them too much.

Because pain isn't good for him.  He'd led them into a trap, and been clubbed over the back of his head for his trouble.  Under non-life threatening circumstances a concussed Sherlock might be a sight to behold, but it just made him make stupid, amateur decisions that led to her getting shot.

And it was him that called the ambulance, and him that wouldn't stand still until two diagnoses had proved she'd be okay, and it was him that had made sure her gun was firmly, reassuringly in her hand before they'd closed the doors on the ambulance and sped off.

So it was him that she'd taken a bullet for, which meant that he'd be on the same level as Lestrade.  Or maybe she just couldn't stand the thought of the incessant whining that would inevitably follow an extended stay in hospital.  Or maybe the pain was making her think funny, and she should stop now.  But the bastard had better visit her in hospital.  She's allergic to most flowers.
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Javiia Faey Evelyn

August 2011

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