sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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Any scenario in which someone believes either John or Sherlock is being abused by the other. Preferably outside POV, established relationship which may or may not be known.

I wrote this in like 15 mins, so I'm sorry about any mistakes, but it was just too fun not to do a quick fill! And I love Sally being awesome, so here it is.
Any and all comments are welcome. Hope you like it!

- - -

The signs are subtle at first. It's hard to notice anything in the whirlwind of bespoke suits and dark curls that is Sherlock Holmes, especially when everything that comes out of his mouth seems to be purposefully shaped as an insult. But Sally is a sergeant for Scotland Yard, and she didn't get her job for being pretty. So she sees. She observes.

An arm cradled a bit too close to the chest. A slight limp of the leg. A cut lip.

She would've disregarded it, normally. God knows Holmes gets into enough trouble to warrant a different injury - or a dozen - every week. But there's something about the way he acts lately, so different from how he used to be. He's not meek by any definition of the word. He's not suddenly polite or, heaven forbid, nice. But he's. Different. More calm, maybe.

It's unnatural.

She doesn't do anything about it. She has nothing to back her up other than a feeling in her gut, dark and heavy, a tug at the back of her brain that keeps telling her to watch out. So she watches, quietly, and waits.

Until it happens.

It's been a long case. Two kids are dead, one missing. They have no leads, no suspects, only the terrifying certainty that a third body is going to appear soon and they are powerless to prevent it from happening. Everyone is at their wits' end, but Holmes worst of all. He paces, he mumbles, he tears at his own hair. He snaps at everything and everyone until, apparently, it's one time too many. Watson, looking as composed as ever, walks up from where he was resting against a tree, grabs Holmes by the arm, and drags him away. Everyone breathes a little easier, except for Sally. She feels like throwing up and, with a quick look to a confused Lestrade, trails after the consultants.

She's not close enough to hear, but she can most definitely see. How Watson manhandles the freak and pins him against a wall half-hidden by the shadows. How his hand wraps against Holmes' throat, firm and unyielding. How he says something, quiet, in what Sally knows is his Captain Watson voice.

Holmes doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't do anything at all but stay still against the wall and nod at Watson's words.

It's the scariest thing Sally has ever seen.

It makes no sense at all. She certainly would never have imagined Watson would blatantly abuse the freak like that. If anything, she would've guessed it being the other way around. But isn't that how it always goes? Oh, I never imagined he'd be capable of something like that. He seemed like such a good man. He was always so nice. Maybe Watson finally had enough.

No, she shakes her head as if to vanish her own thoughts. Nobody deserves something like that, not even the freak.

She runs off, unsure of what to do with her new-found knowledge. Holmes and Watson follow soon after, and the freak is eerily calm as he asks Lestrade to go over the case file for him once more.

It's enough.

Sally is seething when she grabs Watson, much like he'd done to the freak earlier, and all but slams him against the closest wall. The place is empty enough that they're not causing a scene, but a few young constables are looking at them curiously. She doesn't care.

"I'm watching you, Watson" she snarls, close enough that the man won't be able to just slip away without moving her. Watson looks confused and maybe a bit alarmed, but not threatened, and Sally wants nothing but to punch him square in the face. "I don't know where the fuck you get off on all this, but this ends now. He might be a freak of nature, but even he doesn't deserve being around the likes of you. So you can either leave him alone, or I -"

"Or what, Sally?" a voice interrupts and she turns, only to find the freak himself standing behind her, looking at the scene with a raised eyebrow and a vaguely amused expression.

Sally is furious.

"Or I'll bloody well drag him to the Yard with me and leave him to rot somewhere! How can you let him do this to you?" she yells, beyond reasoning now. She knows that's not how it works, knows being clever is worth jack shit when you're being abused, but she can't help the words that come out of her mouth. The freak should know better by now. "You're smarter than this, Holmes! God knows you keep reminding us all every bloody day!"

"I assure you, sergeant. John has never hurt me."

"Bollocks! I've seen the bruises. I've seen him pushing you around."

Holmes tilts his head, as if conceding Sally's point. He glances over at Watson, still being held against the wall, before focusing back on Sally.

"Allow me to rephrase then; John has never harmed me. Everything he's done, everything you've seen, is well within the boundaries of our relationship"

Sally gapes at that, her brain going over the words. The uncomfortable silence drags on between the three of them. Or maybe it's just uncomfortable for her. Watson looks sheepish, a grin threatening to break out on his bright-red face, and Holmes seems to be having the time of his life.

"Your concern is touching, sergeant, but unwarranted. Safe, sane and consensual. Isn't' that how it goes?" Holmes meets Watson's eyes, and there's a dark look there that Sally very much does not want to evaluate. She stumbles back, her mind still reeling over the words.

It makes sense. More than the abuse, now that Sally looks back carefully. But she was so certain, so confident. All the signs were there. She knows she's a brilliant detective, but Lestrade often does chide her for jumping into conclusions.

There's nothing left to say as Watson slips her hold and goes to stand next to Holmes. There's a warm, almost grateful expression on his face that Sally has never received after yelling at someone like that, but she knows he's happy about her reaction. Pleased that Sally still looks after her team. Every single one of them, in spite of their differences.

The two freaks leave, after a short word with the DI, while Sally stares at them, dumbfounded by the discovery.

"What was that all about?" Lestrade asks, eyes shifting between the consultants and his sergeant.

Sally shakes her head at him. "Nothing. Freaks being freaks." she sighs, and it's almost affectionate.

Lol! This is a great example of why nobody should ever meddle with johnlock. :)))

yes! Perfect!

And Captain John Watson mode... Mmmmmm...

OP here - just discovered this had been filled. Just brilliant! I can't tell you how thrilled I am. It's pitch perfect in every way. (Also, may I add that I've often thought a D/s relationship with John as Dom would do Sherlock a WORLD of good.) Bravo!

Aw :,) They probably went home and had a nice laugh but deep down you know they both appreciated her more after.

(To previous author-anon:Hi there! I saw just the subject on the Filled Prompts post and didn't realize anyone else had filled this when I started writing. Sorry. I haven't read yours yet, though, so hopefully this isn't similar. . .)

(And to OP: I'd apologize for the second fill, but. . . who are we kidding; no one EVER minds a second fill. ;)

Pairings: Sherlock/John (brief mention of Donovan/Anderson if you squint)
Rating: Explicit/NC-17
TW: Dark, non-con, unhealthy relationship, no fluff or comfort at all (no seriously it starts out cute but it don't stay that way), whump, some voyeurism

----

Sally Donovan couldn't help but watch her boss rip the Freak a new one. The invective was tired and a bit cliche, but it was the rage that counted.

"Sherlock fucking Holmes, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times: you aren't a law unto yourself, if there's been a crime you MUST call it in, you and John can't just go faffing about doing whatever the fuck you like without a single consequence---!" Lestrade rarely got so angry that he'd raise his voice, but when he did he could be heard for miles.

She knew most of this tirade by heart, though, so she turned her attention away from her poor boss. The guv would always be attractive, but she'd met him less than a year before he'd met the Freak, and his hair had been pure chestnut. And that's all she was saying about that.

The Freak wasn't paying attention. Wasn't even pretending to pay attention. He was standing there, still in front of Lestrade (at least he hadn't just up and walked off yet) and texting. Lestrade didn't seem to care as long as the man was still in shouting range.

Watson, though, Watson was interesting. He was standing slightly behind the Freak, half-blocked from Lestrade's ranting, but he seemed to be taking it completely personal. He was still standing tall, but his face was creased and upset and the corners of his mouth were turned far down. His shoulders were squared and his feet firmly planted, but the way his arms were folded across his chest looked less like he was being intimidating and more like he was hugging himself.

Sally is many things, but one thing she is never is dishonest. She may be tactful, which is a distinction that's completely lost on the Freak, but she manages to walk the line between polite and lying with the ease anyone with both a conscious and a shred of compassion can manage. And if she's honest with herself, she knows that the Freak and Watson to still be showing up at crime scenes together can mean only that one of them is really, really good in bed. The problem is she can't decide which one of them it must be.

On the one hand, the first and obvious choice is that it must be the Freak. He must be the proverbial 'freak in the sheets' to get someone as nice as Watson to give him the time of day. And Watson isn't bad-looking, per se, but (again, if she's honest with herself), Philip is a bit worse-looking than him, and even he manages to have both a wife and a girlfriend. Sometimes he's even in both their good graces at the same time.

The more she thinks about it, though, the more she thinks that actually Watson is probably the one putting out. Why the hell else would the Freak put up with someone as blindingly stupid as him?

Because Watson is stupid, much as Sally hates to admit it. Lestrade is intelligent and the Freak can barely tolerate him. As for her--- She realizes that she's not as smart as the Freak. She knows that. Again, it's something she never lies about to anyone, even if she only actually admits it to herself. But she's not as smart as him. That doesn't mean, though, that she's stupid. That is something she is definitely not. She may not be able to see everything at a glance, which is why she has to look so carefully at everything. And look she does. She pays attention, just not as fast as the Freak. She's trained herself to pay attention, to lurk in corners if she has to, to read body language and listen to how people speak and everything she needs to do to be a good copper. And she goes where the evidence leads. And, again, all the evidence points to Watson being dumber than dirt.

Not in a way that most people would notice straight off. He has a doctorate for fuck's sake. He speaks intelligently, his eyes are clear and alert, and when the Freak points out one or two seemingly random things to him, he usually comes up with what the Freak terms the right answer before Sally or Lestrade even has a chance. That, though, is more to do with Watson spending enough time with the Freak to start learning how to read him, rather than actual intelligence on his part. And there's proof of his idiocy right there.

He still hangs around the Freak. Lives with him, even. Follows him around like a brain-washed puppy. Puts up with his insults. Gets angry or insulted when people fail to notice him, but doesn't blame the Freak. Gets kidnapped, shot at, beat up, jumped, drugged, dunked in fishponds and the Thames, worse things than that even. . . and he's still here.

Love, her mother would say if she were around for Sally to ask. Love makes people do crazy things. But the Freak is a psycho. He doesn't love anyone; can't love anyone. He's not even a narcissist capable of loving himself. Nope. Straight-up psycho. Not a single positive emotion anywhere in him. And she's seen them, heard the way they talk to each other, seen the way they move around each other. The Freak doesn't love Watson.

What she figures out after a little while, though, is that Watson doesn't necessarily love the Freak, either. That's a point in his favor, at least. Watson doesn't gaze after him and sigh. He does look at the Freak with stars in his eyes, but only when the Freak is doing something pompous and clever. Watson never touches his hand, or leans towards his shoulder, or watches his arse when he walks away. Nothing.

So again, it's nothing sharp, but the very fact of Watson's presence is incontrovertable proof of his stupidity. Everyone knows that the definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. And Watson silently begging for the Freak's friendship certainly counts. He must be the stupidest man in the world.

Problem solved, then. It's definitely Watson letting the Freak do whatever he wants to his poor body between the sheets. None of her business, but Christ is that man a moron.

At least, that's what she thinks until tonight. Until Watson tips his head a bit, and she sees the bite mark.

Normally it would have been well-hidden, but his shirt is ripped from throat to elbow, and it's enough for her to see that near the front of his throat, at the base near the collar bone, there is definitely a bite mark. And it's definitely human. And it definitely would have been hard enough to hurt.

Again, Sally isn't fast but she also isn't stupid. She pays even closer attention than normal to the Freak and his pet for the rest of the night, but by the time they fuck off she hasn't seen anything else out of the ordinary. Which is worrisome all by itself when she thinks about it. How long has this been going on?

She makes a list when she gets home. It's late and she'd love to go to bed, but there are so many reasons to do this. On the one hand, someone could be in trouble (even if he's ex-military and out to be able to take care of himself), and further, if she can prove this, the Freak could get sent down the river. Even if he doesn't, even if that mysterious and fucking annoying thing happens where there are inexplicably no legal consequences for his crimes, hopefully no DIs at the Yard will work with him anymore. And as long as he's out of her hair, well, what more can Sally ask for?

So she makes a list of every single injury she can ever remember Watson sporting. There are a lot, and it takes ages. After a little while she stops trying to put them down in chronological order, and just writes severity and location. Anything hidden by his clothes she can't be sure about, obviously, but she's noticed when he winces when something hurts.

- Limp, severe
- Black eye, minor
- Broken wrist
- Broken ribs?
- Bruises around the throat, minor
- Bruised cheekbone, minor
- Bruised forearm, severe
- Laceration on jaw, minor
- Two black eyes and tender nose, severe
- Tender shoulder, minor

On and on and on and on.

Once she's pretty sure that's all of them, she goes back and starts crossing off the ones she can be reasonably certain were for a case. Either something she saw herself, or something Lestrade or Philip saw happen. One of those black eyes was definitely from the Buckley case last month. The thing with the greenish cuts on seven of his fingers was, Lestrade swore up and down, necessary and painless. She doesn't know how long she sits there, going over every Freak-related case in her head, until she's certain she's accounted for every injury she possibly can. Then, just to be fair, she crosses off half of the minor injuries that could (theoretically) have been caused by the crimes the Freak doesn't tell them about. Then she goes back and counts.

More than half of Watson's numerous injuries are not case-related.

She can't prove it, of course. But that bite mark was compelling. She'll have to wait, and watch, and hope he's not able to cover up everything so that Sally can help him.

-------

Sally honestly can't say if Watson starts sporting even more injuries after that, or if it only looks that way because now she's paying such close attention. But whatever the reason, the fact remains that when one looks closely at John Watson, he is a fucking motley of half-healed bruises and scrapes. There are bruises just under what his collar hides, though Sally usually can't get a good look at them so she can't quite tell if they're in the shape of a big mouth or long fingers. There are scratches on his wrists that are just the right spacing for fingernails. One time, about two weeks later, the case gets literally messy and he ends up standing in the Yard in just his vest and a borrowed t-shirt, and she sees yet more fingernail scratches on the base of the back of his neck and his shoulders. One time he's walking around Lestrade's desk and the corner clips him on the front of the hip, and he hisses and flinches much harder than he should. A while later he spends an entire case on his feet, and when he finally does sit down, he hisses and shifts and glances around to see if anyone else notices how uncomfortable his bottom is. Sally's on the other side of a half-open door an Watson isn't as observant as she is, so he doesn't see her.

That proves it, then. Also lays to rest her earlier question: it's DEFINITELY Watson being used and abused between the sheets in exchange for the Freak's company, and the man is definitely the biggest retard to ever walk the earth. Too stupid to save himself. Sally will have to do it for him.

----------

Easier said than done, of course. Watson is clearly suffering from Stockholm syndrome or something like it, so she won't be able to get him to admit it, much less ask for help. And it's not like she can bug their flat or something. (Oh, and the thought of someone actually living with the man who's habitually raping them. . . the thought makes her blood boil and her skin crawl.)

She's just started considering trying to gently start cluing Lestrade in so he can help when a case comes up that apparently requires the obnoxious presence of the Freak himself posthaste. And he's not answering his phone. Sally masks her eagerness with as much anger as she can muster when she volunteers to go fetch him herself.

She takes a cab in the hope that maybe it will delay the Freak figuring out that the coppers are after him. Sends it away so he won't see it waiting outside. Then she rings 221A, his landlady, rather than 221B. Rings again. And once more. No answer. Probably out, then, rather than just watching telly or asleep at three in the afternoon.

The street door isn't locked, so she slips inside and closes it as quietly as possible behind herself. For a moment she considers taking off her shoes to walk up the stairs more quietly, but even Watson isn't so thick he wouldn't question her showing up carrying her shoes. Besides, she's a professional woman as well as a damn good copper; she can sprint for a block and a half in stilettos. Walking quietly up a flight of stairs will be no problem.

She's halfway up the stairs when the noise starts. Crashing, shouting. More shouting. Some banging. A single shriek. Then voices, but lower (muffled?) then some thumping. Some very. . . rhythmic thumping. Voices.

Oh, this is so very, very good. Terrible that it's happening, obviously, but that it's happening now, when Sally's actually here, is wonderful. Proof.

She continues up the stairs slowly, not letting her eagerness propel her any faster. The worst thing that could happen would be one or both of them realizing she's here. When she gets to the top of the stairs she slips her phone out of her pocket, turns the volume on the ringer and on the screen completely off. Opens the camera app, but doesn't want to waste space recording before she's sure she can get a good enough shot for incontrovertable evidence.

The door to 221B is slightly open (God, it's like that sick Freak wants someone to see what he's doing, wants to be caught. . . Well, in just this one thing, Sally is more than happy to oblige him), and she stands outside listening for a moment. There is definitely rough sex happening in the next room. Thankfully it sounds like it's not right next to the door, though, so she can move enough to see through and hopefully remain unnoticed.

Before she can move, though, the harsh grunts and gasps on the other side of the door turn into words. "What have I told you? How many times have I told you? We," harsh, muffled groan; sounds like he's timing these words with thrusts, "fucking, eat, in, there!" A tiny cry.

For a second, Sally can't move. Because she might not be as quick on the uptake as the Freak but she's not an idiot and she's not deaf and that was not the Freak's voice.

Sure enough, when Sally moves just enough to be able to see through the crack in the door, she's treated to the sight of John Watson positively fucking the stuffing out of Sherlock Holmes.

There's this low chrome-and-leather armchair on the other side of the room, facing the door. Bent over the back of it and therefore also facing the door, his head nearly touching the seat, is Sherlock. She can see his back and his left arm and a bit of his hip, and it looks as though he's stark naked. John is standing behind him, his chest bare and far more muscled than she'd ever thought.

John is holding Sherlock's hips and thrusting into him. Sally can't see very well from this angle, but what she can see is more than enough. The slap-slap-slap of skin on skin has stopped, though John's still moving. "What have I told you?" he demands again. There's a little twist of his hips that time, and Sherlock lets out another muffled, high-pitched noise. His left arm is bent, his hand covering his face.

"Y-You've said," he gasps, and John slows his thrusts, now appearing to go slow and deep, probably so Sherlock can talk without his teeth rattling, "no, no, ungh, n-no notoxinsinthekitchen----!"

"That's right," John leans forward and growls in Sherlock's ear. "No toxins in the kitchen. Ever."

Before Sherlock can respond, John moves. He leans forwards to press against Sherlock's back, wraps his right arm tight about his waist, and shoves his left hand between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock cries out and jerks forward. "No, John, no, no, please, no---"

John just presses closer to his back and jerks him harder. After a moment he stops and Sherlock visibly sags with relief, but John only removes his hand long enough to bring it to his face and thoroughly lick his palm before he's hitching Sherlock close again and jerking him furiously. Sherlock jerks and twitches and begs. His right arm must be tied to the chair; he can't get it free. His left hand is still covering his face. And John's cock is still inside him.

It doesn't take long before Sherlock starts twitching even worse, and then his breath gasps and stutters, and then his body goes taut as a bowstring while John thrusts slow and so deep inside him and wanks him viciously through his orgasm. Sherlock says, "no, no, no, no, no, no" the whole time.

Sherlock sags over the chair, his forehead pressed to the seat, his arm lax next to his head, his arse still shaking where it's pressed to the front of John's hips. His shoulders move. He might be crying.

John's hands move firmly, slowly, possessively up and down the length of his back. "No more toxins in the kitchen. Ever."

Sherlock takes a deep, rattling breath. Then another, this one smoother. His voice, when he speaks, is more firm than it had been. Trying to retain some shred of dignity or control. "It wasn't for just any reason, it was for science and could be very important to any case involving--" he cuts off into a wordless shriek. John grabs his hair and thrusts again.

"I don't care why. I don't care. No toxins in the kitchen. No toxins where we eat. Not for any reason. You can go to Bart's if you must, but no toxins in the kitchen." Despite the heavy breathing, he sounds remarkably composed for a man buried balls-deep in someone else.

"But John---" It doesn't sound like petulant whining, more like the beginning of a long explanation.

John brings the flat of his hand down on the side of Sherlock's arse with a sound like a gunshot. Then again. Slap! Sherlock struggles. Ah. This must be how Watson gets so roughed up. Sherlock throws himself backwards, grunting in pain when he impales himself further in the process. His left arm reaches up and back and he claws at any bit of Watson he can reach--- his neck, his shoulder, his upper arms--- and uses one foot to try and stomp on him. His right arm is bound to the chair by what looks to be a belt.

Johnmoves his foot far enough to not be stepped on, and then for a little while just lets Sherlock claw at him. He keeps one hand on Sherlock's hips and uses the other to keep slapping this sides of his arse. First one for a few strokes, then he switches hands and uses the other. Sherlock cries out every time.

Then John moves one arm to cross over Sherlock's chest and holds him by the opposite shoulder, while his other hand takes hold of the hand that's trying to claw his skin off. He holds on, doesn't even try to maneuver Sherlock into a better position, just leaves him like that and starts fucking him again.

Sherlock's gasping, trembling, still fighting back, but it's slower and weaker. Slowly, John presses forwards and bends him over the chair again. When Sherlock is supporting the weight of his upper body on his left arm, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and starts rolling his hips like he's riding a horse. Sherlock keens. John bites the back of his neck, beneath where his shirt collar will cover, like a tomcat scruffing an unwilling female.

Sherlock keeps making choking noises, like John is fucking his throat instead of his big arse, but his left arm starts creeping towards his right. He's finally in such a position that he could reach the belt binding him to the chair, if he could do it without John seeing.

"Oh, no you don't," John growls like an animal, and all at once he grabs hold of Sherlock's left wrist, stands up straight, and jerks Sherlock so that he's still bent over but supporting his weight on his bound right hand. The chair is so low that if he stands with his legs straight his hips don't rest on the back. Sherlock screams when John tugs his arm again, standing him almost upright, with John's right hand on his shoulder and John's left hand pulling Sherlock's left arm almost back to his own waist. For the first time Sherlock's cock is visible, red and wilted after his orgasm, bouncing plumply between his widespread legs in a tangle of shiny-splattered dark hair. John's balls are huge and angry red behind his own.

Then John fucks him. Before what was happening was not fucking. This is fucking. Sherlock shrieks and writhes and jerks and twists and John just holds on and pounds him.

Every thrust is so hard Sherlock's cock and fleshy arse and the dripping curls on his forehead bounce. The slap of skin on skin is so loud and fast it sounds like someone clapping. There's no telling how long this goes on for. It'll be a wonder if Sherlock doesn't end up with deep-tissue bruises on that plush arse. John fucks and fucks and fucks him.

Then John lets go of his arm. Sherlock immediately falls forward, catching himself on his left arm. John's right stays on his shoulder, bowing his spine and holding him partially upright, but his left arm goes back between Sherlock's legs. Not to his cock, though. That stays rubbing against his wrist. No, John's fingers go back further, and while there's a question as to whether or not they're rubbing his perenium or joining John's cock inside his hole, there is no question that Sherlock doesn't like it.

"No, John, no, please not again, not again, not again, not agaaaaaaaiiiiiiiii---" Sherlock stands as upright as he can, his head thrown back and his eyes rolling into the back of his head, as John fucks him as hard as before and presses at something behind his cock. With a scream, Sherlock comes again.

This time there's hardly any pause after his orgasm. He falls forward, boneless over the chair, while John grips his hips hard enough to bruise, keeps his legs upright, and fucks him.

The muscles in John's stomach clench and ripple as he fucks Sherlock faster than it ought to be possible to fuck anyone. And the noise---! Sherlock is beyond words now, and beyond control, is just lying there sobbing hugely, while John fucks him so hard and so fast it sounds like he's spanking him with a paddle.

All at once John wraps both arms around Sherlock's waist, nearly lifts him off his feet, and thrusts into him so hard each one starts out with John's knees bended and ends with him nearly on his toes. Sherlock screams like he's being murdered. His feet skitter and his free arm flails. John is holding him so hard it's a wonder he's got the breath to scream at all. John holds still deep, deep inside him for a moment, then with a sigh starts slowly (but not necessarily gently) lowering the still-sobbing Sherlock back onto the chair, while his hips start making little circular rocking motions into Sherlock.

John is still wrapped tightly and completely around Sherlock---and, incidentally, Sherlock is still crying--- when Sherlock reaches over and undoes the belt holding his arm. John begins to react but it still too hazy from what was clearly a truly spectacular orgasm and all he manages is rearing back before Sherlock whirls and catches John in the face with his elbow. New black eye, now.

Before Sherlock can lurch away, though, John tackles him, and down they go. They wrestle and call each other names until John is finally on top of Sherlock, between his legs, with Sherlock's arms pinned resolutely over his head. Sherlock is begging and cursing again and throwing his head forward to try and either bash John's face or bite him, but John's hips pin him as John starts mouthing at his neck and nipples. Sherlock's head rolls and he starts crying again.

His eyes are closed but he's facing directly towards the crack in the door, and that is Sally's cue to leave. She backs away until she's out of his line of sight, just to make sure he doesn't see her, before she slowly bends over and takes off her shoes. Her phone goes back into her pocket--- it'll beep when she turns the volume back on, so she'll do that once she gets out to the street. And then, what---? She's not sure what would happen if she told Lestrade that Sherlock couldn't come because he was too busy having sex with his flatmate. Best save that for a time when she might need it.

No, she'll go back down to the street, outside, and ring their flat. Wait for one of them to come down and open the door, then act like nothing happened, like she knows nothing. And somehow she has got to start laying to groundwork for an affair with Watson. God knows Philip could never quite manage to fuck her hard enough. And when she gets home tonight, she's going to burn all her notes on Watson's injuries. Clearly they were all acquired on cases, even if she hadn't heard about all of them. And the Freak? Was a psycho, yes, but it wasn't like he would rape anyone.

Sorry! Didn't correctly label the last post. Part 8 is the end!

Wow! I like this! :) Great work!

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