Chapter Text
"Rot in hell, freak," Sally Donovan thinks as she moves her stuff into Lestrade's office. Lestrade was suspended, awaiting demotion or retirement depending on the revision, and she's acting Detective Inspector now, confirmation of her promotion just a formality, the Chief Superintendent had assured her. She had craved that promotion, sure - how could she not? But not at this price. Not when it had cost Lestrade his job. But what exactly had they thought would happen, when they blackmailed him into reporting Holmes to the Chief Super, Anderson and she? It was all Holmes' fault.
She's also been made a member of the newly formed Holmes Revision Group (HRG) assigned to do just that: revise every single case the freak ever touched. Meanwhile, convicted criminals are howling for retrials, claiming to have been taken in by Sherlock Holmes, who was, of course, the real perpetrator of the crimes they were convicted of.
Taken in, oh yes, she can imagine that. She'd been taken in herself when she met him the first time, some three years ago. She'd just joined Lestrade's team and it was down at the Thames, at some waterfront warehouse, when she'd heard the muffled sound of an engine, followed by the dull thud of a car door, and then he'd stepped out of the fog like an apparition.
Feanor, she'd thought dumbstruck, romantic at heart that she still was (and is), able to quote whole passages from Tolkien's 'Silmarillion'. An elf prince, indeed, tall and slender, with dark hair and silver eyes, son of the Noldor. She'd been smitten at first sight. And that voice.
"Sherlock Holmes, here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he'd introduced himself, politely enough. And she had actually blushed and stuttered, she remembers angrily. Blushed and stuttered, like a teenager, not the freshly minted Detective Sergeant she was.
Everything about him had spoken of old money: the looks, the attitude, the public school accent, the clothes - all understated elegance and oh, so posh. Not the product of a housing project, this one. No, this one was 'landed gentry', right out of an Austen novel.
And right there and then the first seed of envy and resentment had been sown, to grow and thrive and finally, three years later, burst into full bloom.
In the warehouse he had looked at the bodies, flipped out his magnifying glass, surveyed their clothing, hands, wounds, stepping around them, then inspecting the surroundings and had started spouting facts - and insults - combining them in ways no one had as yet thought of, leading to an arrest only hours later.
"How do you do that?" she had asked, perplexed.
"You could do it, too," he had said. "It's all out there. Only you see, but you do not observe." Then he'd vanished without a good-bye.
That night, at home, she had taken out her 'Silmarillion' and looked up the professor's description of young Feanor: 'He was tall, and fair of face, and masterful, his eyes piercingly bright and his hair raven-dark; in the pursuit of all his purposes eager and steadfast.'
How she had longed for someone like that. Someone larger than life. She had always wanted more.
A few weeks later Lestrade had called him in again, to a posh location in Kensington. This time it was a dead child - a baby, actually, and the question was if it really was sudden infant death or something darker - and she had felt deeply uncomfortable with his obvious lack of distress. They were all used to dead bodies and wounds and blood and all the horrors their job brought with it, only they weren't, not really. Of course, no one was going to lament and wail about a gang-related shooting, but with a child? Everyone was concerned, and there were dark miens and a lot of swearing going on. Except for him. He'd been cool as ever, no emotion showing on his face. How could anyone be so unfeeling? The case had been closed within twenty-four hours. Something very dark, indeed.
"You really should get paid for your help," she'd suggested.
"I'm not interested in money," he had said with the casual negligence of those who've never really lacked for funds.
And a tiny shoot had broken through the soil and stretched upwards into green sunlight.
After he'd solved that particularly gruesome triple murder - which had not, after all, been committed by the burglar they had suspected at first – they'd all been in high spirits and she had actually gathered the courage to ask him to join them at the pub later. He had stared down his aristocratic nose at her, obviously surprised, and had answered crisply, "I don't socialise. No offense."
But what she'd heard was, "… with the likes of you." Lestrade had shaken his head after he was gone and had said, kindly, "Forget it, Donovan. Out of your league."
She had been mortified. More so by Lestrade's remark, in fact, than by Holmes' rejection, but of course it wasn't the DI's fault. It was Holmes'. So that was it. Not good enough. Never good enough.
But even if he was posh - how could anyone deem her not good enough? She knew she was beautiful, with her large, dark eyes, fine features and slim, fit body. She was intelligent, too and educated well enough for anyone. She was a policewoman and had made it through the ranks to Detective Sergeant on her own, solely based on her smarts and capabilities. But Mr No-real-job-and-no-need-of-money was out of her league?
That evening she'd popped her 'Pride and Prejudice' DVD into the player - she preferred the 1980s version with Elizabeth Garvie and David Rintoul above all others - and snuggled up on the sofa with a mug of cocoa, letting the love story of poor but witty Lizzie Bennet and proud but shy Fitzwilliam Darcy wash away her anger.
Perhaps, one day, he would acknowledge her for what she was. See her worth. It could happen. She needed it to happen.
It never did.
Sadly, her hurt feelings didn't make her stop yearning. Couldn't make her stop looking. Admiring. Gosh, but he was a fine specimen of a man.
And the seedling had grown and developed leaves.
Next time she'd seen him she had not been so friendly anymore, but he hadn't even noticed. They hardly counted, any of them, to him. Too dull, too slow, too ordinary. All he ever paid attention to were the dead bodies. Gunshot wounds warranted a slightly bored "Hmmm…"; bodies sliced and diced like kebab an "Interesting!"; Poison? "Fascinating. Send it to the lab!" Never a word about the victims. No compassion, no sympathetic emotion at all had ever been displayed on his arrogant features.
How did Lestrade put up with it? And why, for heaven's sake? He did seem genuinely fond of Holmes. Indulgent. Treating the insufferable git like a spoilt child and seemingly in awe of his so-called deductions. It was true, his team had the highest clearance rate on the force, but that wasn't solely due to his consultant. They did good work, all of them. Even without him.
She'd already begun to think of him as 'the freak', and then one day Anderson, who had just attended a one-week seminar on profiling, had taken her aside and explained to her that Holmes was a psychopath by every definition of the word.
"Look at that checklist," he had said and given her his notes. "See how it all fits?"
"Glib and superficial charm, " she had read aloud, "grandiose estimation of self - ha, you can say that! - need for stimulation, pathological lying, cunning and manipulative, lack of remorse or guilt, shallow emotional responsiveness - indeed! - callousness and lack of empathy - absolutely - parasitic lifestyle, poor behavioural controls, sexual promiscuity, early behaviour problems, lack of realistic long-term goals, impulsivity, irresponsibility, failure to accept responsibility for own actions, many short-term marital relationships, juvenile delinquency, revocation of conditional release, criminal versatility…
"Well, I don't know about the charm. And we have no idea about his private life. But I'm pretty sure he isn't married. Lestrade would have mentioned a wife, don't you think?"
"All right, scratch that. But fifteen out of twenty? Still pretty good, if you ask me."
"But 'parasitic lifestyle'? And how do you know he had 'early behaviour problems' or was a 'juvenile delinquent'?"
"Well, he sure doesn't make any money with the Met, does he now? So, what does he live on? And regarding the juvenile delinquency I heard from Stratton before he retired that Lestrade had arrested him for use and possession once. And even if he doesn't display all the traits yet, I'm sure he will given time and opportunity. He will cross the line, Sally, be sure of it."
The seedling had grown into an adult plant now, with many leaves and offshoots.
Later that year she'd taken up with Anderson, himself tall, dark and handsome in a way, not exactly elf prince material and married to boot, but 'in her league', for all she knows. But she had never stopped longing for something better. Someone poised and self-assured, quick-witted and able to parry each of her insults with one of his own. So sarcastic, so… superior.
When the freak had turned up with that doctor fellow in tow for the first time, she'd been totally taken aback. She had never seen him in anyone's company before. He didn't do company. He'd said so himself. And she had been extra flippant to let the doctor know right from the start how little they valued his companion. Which had led to the freak exposing her relationship with Anderson. Even if none of their colleagues had been in ear shot, how did he dare threaten them that way?
And then Lestrade had let both of them - civilians! - traipse around their crime scene. Anderson had been livid.
She had even gone so far as to warn the doctor, telling him to stay away from the psychopath. But did he listen? Of course not. Totally beguiled. Not even the disclosure that the freak was an addict - a junkie - later that night during the drugs bust had turned him off.
A few months later Dr. Watson had still been around and trailing after the freak. How was that a job for an adult man? Running after your crazy flat mate solving crimes as a hobby? How could they afford it? And really, what was it with those two? Were they… a couple? Was that why the freak had never given her a second glance? The way Watson looked at him… Full of admiration and genuine affection, infatuated even.
Was that what she had looked like to everyone else? Had she made a complete fool of herself?
Buds had developed on the plant, tiny at first, but with promise.
But finally, there had come a time when the freak had made a mistake and Anderson and she had been proven right. It was not humanly possible for anyone to discover the kidnapped children's whereabouts just from a footprint. And then the little girl had screamed at the mere sight of him. Lestrade hadn't wanted to listen to them at first. But they had pressured him into going with them to the Chief Superintendent. And then their fondest wish had come true: a chance to be rid of the freak once and for all. She had been witness when they handcuffed him and marched him roughly down the stairs.
"Told you so the first time we met," she had said to the doctor. "Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day he’ll cross the line."
Even then he didn't want to believe it. He'd broken the Chief Superintendent's nose instead.
How she had been looking forward to seeing the freak stand accused of all his crimes, convicted and imprisoned, finally brought low and humiliated! She had imagined visiting him in Pentonville: he would be behind bars, in prison garb.
"Not so haughty now without your bespoke tailoring, huh?" she would have said. "I'm sure they've got a use for that pretty mouth of yours other than spouting insults."
It had been a short-lived fantasy.
And the buds, full and plump now, had burst open, revealing poisonous, neon-coloured blooms.
After the freak has taken off with his friend – hostage, yeah, my arse – they had only pursued him for a few hours, when the order came from up on high that they were all being pulled to assist in Croydon post-haste, and not to forget the combat gear. For there were riots going on.
On-site there were a few elderly cars burning here and there, but most of the fires were in oil drums, and most of the shattered windows belonged to shops which were closed down anyway. The rioters seemed to be more interested in playing cat and mouse than in actual rioting, and so they chased after hooded figures for most of the night and had little to show for it in the morning.
When they returned to the Yard midmorning for a cuppa and the inevitable reports, Anderson was standing at the door to Lestrade's office with a face that wasn't sure which expression it was supposed to show and THE SUN under his arm.
"Have you heard?" he asked. But of course they hadn't and so he went on, "The freak. He's dead. Jumped off Bart's. Here's why," and presented them with the headline 'SHERLOCK HOLMES A FAKE!'
Lestrade grabbed the paper and sank heavily into his chair, spreading the sheets and starting to read. "God, no," he said and buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again he had aged ten years and his eyes were hollow.
"I don't believe it," he said. "He wouldn't. It can't… Are you sure?"
Anderson nodded and shifted uncomfortably. "It's official. There were witnesses. His friend even saw it. The idiot jumped right in front of him, can you imagine?"
"Show me the report!" Lestrade demanded and Anderson hurried off to fetch it.
She was so shocked at first - the freak committed suicide? Does that mean he was human, after all? - that she wasn't sure how she felt about it right away, but satisfaction settled in pretty soon.
"But don't you see," she said, reading Kitty Reilly's article for herself, "that proves it! He was found out and couldn't stand the heat! It must be true. Why would he off himself, if it wasn't?"
The flowers' venomous perfume enveloped her and it was a heady scent.
They found traces of blood up on the roof of Bart's that didn't match the freak's - so whose was it? Lestrade went down to the morgue and demanded to see the body, but it had already been identified by Holmes' brother and was still being processed and even he didn't have the nerve to witness that.
So, he had a brother. She had never considered the possibility of the freak having a family. Parents and siblings who would probably mourn him.
Cause of death: crushed skull, multiple broken bones, internal bleeding, etc. Must have been over in seconds. All that hauteur gone in a big SPLAT on the pavement.
"I wonder how you can sleep at night, Donovan," Lestrade says on his last day when he comes out of the Chief Super's office and starts packing his things. He looks at her as if he doesn't know her at all, after three years of shared work and bad coffee and night shifts and chilling out at the pub after a successful investigation.
John Watson's grim and hostile when he's summoned for questioning, but he's only too willing to let them have whatever proof he can find for Holmes' whereabouts during the time they lived and worked together. The charges against him for hitting the Superintendent are withdrawn - directive from the Home Office via the PR department.
They have Kitty Reilly in, who's convinced that Holmes killed Brook after a confrontation in her flat. But the freak was on the run that night, so where did he leave the body? And even if the blood on the roof was Brook's, there's still no body to compare it to. So what happened there before Holmes jumped?
Kitty gives them her background material, proof that Brook was an actor, copy of his birth certificate and such. But the show he claimed to be on was cancelled after only one season and no one working on it remembers him. The DVDs are of professional quality, but they don't match the format of the show, which has never been released on DVD anyway, and the only copies they have of it are private recordings. No friends or relatives of Richard Brook are to be found, not even after THE SUN offers a five-digit reward for new information.
A few days after the suicide, Interpol contacts them and demands a video conference. There's a French official named Renault, who in heavily accented but otherwise perfect English demands to know if the press coverage is a hoax or if they are doing an undercover operation? Surely they know that Mr Holmes has cooperated with Interpol and to great success?
They had no idea.
"And we 'ad 'oped to consult with Mr 'olmes on a case of cannibalism crossing several European borders that we cannot make any sense of. We are… perplexed. So this is really disturbing."
They agree.
"Surely you know that Mr 'olmes 'olds the Grand-croix de la Légion d'Honneur? Youngest person ever to be awarded this 'onour. Non?"
They are baffled.
"I cannot talk about the case because it is classified. But the stock market in France would 'ave collapsed. Can you imagine that? Riots in the streets! The government toppled! A major economic and political crisis! Consequences for the 'ole of Europe! And then 'e didn't even want the medal! Our Ambassadeur had to cast it into his letterbox! Does that not strike you as curious when 'e was just an attention-seeker according to your press?
They have no answer to that.
"But then the English newspapers 'ave always 'ad a reputation for being exceptionally vicious."
Well, he's right in that respect…
"It is a great loss. Madame, messieurs." And he switches off.
They look at each other, feeling uncomfortable for the first time. But that's the French for you. Excitable, over the top. It has no bearing on their case. Not really.
They are six weeks into the revisions when they have to admit that nothing adds up. Okay, so yeah, in a few cases there's room for doubt. He could have engineered these. But some are overlapping and even Sherlock Holmes could not have been in two or three places at the same time. The Home Office is cooperative for once and even efficient, and they get hours and hours of CCTV footage showing him moving around London, so distinctive a figure you can't miss or confuse him, all with time stamps and above all doubt.
At the same time they're getting calls and e-mails and letters telling them about cases they didn't know about. Private investigations he had taken on and never mentioned anywhere. There are people from all stations of life, from a member of the House of Lords to a teenaged mother living on the dole in Wales, claiming that he helped them. Some detail exactly what he did for them, others remain vague, referring only to 'private or family matters'.
So, they've found his source of income. But who's to say that he couldn't have solved a few small, private cases? Doesn't mean they're wrong that he instigated the others, the prominent ones.
Two months into the revision they even have a letter from the bloody Vatican! Cream-coloured, heavy stationery with a red wax seal – and who the hell seals letters in this day and age? - hand-delivered by the Apostolic Nuncio to England, replete in black and purple robes with bodyguards and a black limousine. Apparently the freak solved a case of art theft for the Holy See.
"Dear Sirs," the letter says. "It is with great sorrow that We have learned of the death of a young gentleman named Sherlock Holmes as reported by several English newspapers available in our country. And although Our faith strongly disapproves of the concept of taking one's own life, We cannot but speak Our belief that he may have fallen prey to machinations unknown to Us and therefore will spare further judgment unto the day his death and its circumstances have been fully investigated and clarified.
"In the meantime We wish to be heard as a character witness. We have had reason to engage Mr Sherlock Holmes' considerable talents in a matter of great importance involving the vanishing of several priceless cameos from Our gallery. The matter was solved in very short time to Our complete satisfaction. No payment was accepted except reimbursement for travel expenses. Confidentiality was preserved as requested.
"And although the young gentleman did not count among Our most reverent visitors We have nevertheless gained a most positive impression of his mental faculties as well as of his bearing as a representative of your nation. In short, We cannot believe the reported rumours that Mr Holmes was a fraud who committed the crimes he subsequently solved himself. In Our aforementioned case this would have been entirely impossible.
"We will remember him in Our prayers and herewith invoke upon you and your associates the wisdom and judgment of our Lord Jesus Christ."
This is getting very strange now. But it's the Roman Catholic Church. How far can you trust such a medieval institution? The pope is an old man. Probably delusional.
And then there's the graffiti. It's all over London. One or two pieces at first, near Baker Street, then more and more are springing up everywhere.
'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.'
'We fight John Watson's war.'
'He was not a fraud.'
'Moriarty was real.'
Some are just the words, some also show his silhouette or even his portrait. The one opposite Lestrade's - her - window at the Yard simply says 'Sherlock' in stark yellow flanked by two dark wings. No matter how often they have it removed - washed off or painted over – it's back the next day. The graffiti follows her home from work, accompanies her when she goes shopping, trails her to the pub. There's no escape.
When she talks to her sister one night, Ruthie tells her that Kevin, her son, an adorable, bright boy of ten, is having difficulties at school. "They're calling him names," she says. "You see, he's so much brighter than the other children and with his new specs he looks like a little scientist. And they're calling him 'freak' and such. I tell him, of course, he mustn't let it get to him. Kids can be so cruel. When you show them that it hurts you, it'll only get worse."
When she called him 'freak' to his face the first time, he only cocked an eyebrow at her. Did she hurt him then? she wonders. Later it had become vernacular, others following her lead. Could it be that his lack of emotion was a method of self-preservation? But no, that would mean that he was human after all. He was a psychopath.
Six months in, the HRG closes the revision with a ninety-five percent negative result. Only with three or four of the cases is there a slight possibility of Holmes having been the perpetrator, and even these are not airtight. They have no idea what to do.
Press coverage has finally died down, thank God. Release a statement now and let it all flare up again? If Holmes wasn't a fake, they won't look quite as stupid after all the flak they've received for involving him in the first place. But they arrested him. Based on 'evidence' which hasn't withstood investigation. And then he died. Killed himself because of it. They'll look bad either way.
They've given up on ever finding Richard Brook. Oh, there's still a search warrant out for him, 'wanted to testify' and all that, but how likely is it that he will turn up now after they've turned every bloody stone in London searching for him?
Lestrade will probably be re-instated. Human Resources and the PR department are in conference for days to find a way to limit the damage. He doesn't answer her phone calls.
Anderson just shrugs and tells her to let it rest and be glad they're rid of the freak. They can do their jobs in peace now without anyone showing them up.
And she thinks, if he had shown her - them - some respect…
If he had just once shown some emotion…
If he had been less arrogant…
It's all his fault, and his alone. Everyone gets what they deserve. That's life, isn't it. It wasn't her. She's a good person, a good police officer. It's not her fault. None of it.
But when she lies awake at night, staring into the darkness with burning eyes and sleep's elusive, even when she's dog tired, she starts wondering: "Were we wrong? Did we hound an innocent man to his death? Was it all my fault? - Dear God, what have I done?"
And something small and mean inside her withers and dies.