marysutherland: (Sally)
BBC Sherlock

Rating: 12 (violence)

Spoilers: for The Reichenbach Fall

Summary: what else had Sally Donovan been supposed to do?


Sally got blamed, of course, when Sherlock was eventually cleared, but she hadn't wanted to imagine that he was a psychopath, endangering children to make himself look good. She'd spent years trying to suppress her gut instincts telling her that Sherlock was dangerous. Because Greg and Dr Watson trusted Sherlock, and they were good men. And the cases had been solved; she'd been prepared to turn a blind eye to all the irregularities, because of that. Tell herself that Sherlock was an anti-social weirdo, but that didn't stop him being a genius.

But what could you do when you had reasonable suspicion? Two minutes to identify one spot in the whole of greater London simply wasn't possible. And the girl having hysterics about Sherlock: Sally couldn't ignore that. You had to pay attention to kids, take their evidence seriously, even if they couldn't explain their fears.

It wasn't telling tales out of school or getting her own back, whatever people thought. What she'd done was the only sensible course of action: get the matter investigated, shed some light on it. If Sherlock had only co-operated when Lestrade went round, she wouldn't have had to go to the Chief Superintendent. If he'd just been prepared to talk, give a plausible explanation for what had happened, rather than simply expecting – demanding – blind belief.

marysutherland: (Default)

Happy Christmas to fengirl88.

BBC Sherlock

Rating: 15 (femslash)

Prompt: Sally/Ella

Notes: Sequels to PC World and Straight, Scholar, Smooth

Calm

Ella was a careful woman, especially when her straight friends were concerned. There was a fine line between appreciation and causing alarm. Though less so with Sally Donovan. Sally was breathtakingly sexy sometimes, almost demanding that everyone in the room should desire her. Ella had grown used to letting her eyes linger unashamedly on Sally's breasts, or the strip of pale brown skin between crop top and jeans.

“What do lesbians do in bed?” Sally asked her out of the blue one day.

“Whatever they find erotic,” Ella replied calmly.

“Wanna show me?”

Sally was adventurous; it was doubtless the taboo-breaking that was driving her interest more than Ella. But she was also gorgeous.

“If you like,” she replied, and let her hand reach out to brush Sally’s cheek.

***

As she’d expected, Sally was impatient, almost aggressive in bed. Used to men with inadequate foreplay, Ella deduced. Let’s try and change the tempo a bit.

“Lie still,” she murmured, “I’ve been longing to get my hands on you.” Her skilful fingers started a slow, thorough exploration of Sally’s body, from the dense spring of her hair to her pale insteps. Only then did they reach into the warm heat inside Sally, slowly increase the intensity till she had her panting, desperate. Afterwards, Sally didn't speak, just lay there, gasping for breath.


Storm

Ella had dignity, that was the word, Sally decided. The calm, ageless beauty of a bronze statue. Not like her, always losing her rag, letting the bastards get to her. Ella had poise and Sally admired, envied that. But sometimes she found Ella’s self-control unnerving. Every action, every word carefully considered, as if she had forgotten the rawness, the passion that she must once have had.

Even in the bedroom, Ella found it hard to lose control: a slow simmer rather than boiling lust. But Sally was a detective: it wasn’t long before she found the parcel hidden away at the back of Ella’s wardrobe.

“You into handcuffs, then?” she asked, dragging them out.

“Not really,” Ella replied smoothly. “I bought them ages ago, but my partner then didn’t like the idea.”

“What you need a copper for,” Sally said smiling. “Teach you to use them properly.”

“I don’t need you to-,” Ella began, and Sally knew she was blushing now, even if she couldn’t see it.

“You didn’t return them or dump them.” Sally let her voice grow husky.  “You still wonder, even though it feels wrong. Maybe specially 'coz it feels wrong. Tonight, Ella, we’re gonna do dirty things together, all the things you've never dared to want. And I’m gonna make you come till I melt your bones."

marysutherland: (Default)
BBC Sherlock

Spoilers: None

Rating 18 (warning for non-graphic references to rape, explicit het sex, swearing, racism)

Betaed by the wonderful Blooms84

Summary: Sally's going to stop the Lambeth rapist, whatever the cost to John and herself.

Part 1, Part 2

     
The briefing meeting next day was in one screen of the cinema at Gloucester, which was bizarre, but effective.  )
marysutherland: (Sally)
BBC Sherlock

Rating 15

Written originally as a little present for my indefatigable beta Blooms84, who first saw the possibilities of Anthea/Sally



The texter had withheld their number, but Sally clicked on the URL anyhow, in case the message was from an informer.  )
marysutherland: (Default)
BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG (pre-slash, femslash)

Sequels to PC world

Straight

Sally Donovan was straight, always had been. Straight talking, calling a spade a spade, a freak a freak. A straight copper, no dodgy business. Playing it by the rules, no-one loved mavericks, well, not black, female mavericks.

Though she wasn't all straight, of course. She'd never straightened her hair, that would be running away from herself. And not exactly strait-laced anymore, not like when she and her mother went along to the Church of God of Prophecy every Sunday and Wednesday. Good job her mother never heard about Anderson. In the police, it was hard to get to know anyone but colleagues and lowlife, but combining the two had been a serious mistake.

It had been about an hour into their first interview, conversation, that Ella had said she was a lesbian. Sally had made some stupid joke about whether she was disabled as well, tick off all the quotas in one person. Ella said nothing for a while, she was good at that. And then she said that maintaining boundaries was important, and she was always careful not to let her sexuality make her straight friends feel uncomfortable.

Ella did straighten her hair sometimes, but she wasn't running away from herself. An impressive woman, Ella. Sally wondered for the first time whether it might be good to be slightly bent.


Scholar

Ella always studied her clients’ service records carefully, almost memorised them, so she knew about the three years of her life Sally didn’t mention. But Sally wasn’t a client anymore, but a friend, maybe something more. Ella didn’t ask and Sally didn’t tell, till the day when Ella mentioned Mozart, and Sally said:

“Miss Thorpe tried to get me into him.”

“Miss Thorpe?”

“My geography teacher.”

Ella said nothing.

“It was all part of teaching me about culture. Seeking out the best, she said, nothing should be off limits.”

Keep quiet a little longer, thought Ella.

“You know where I went to uni, don’t you?”

“It’s very impressive,“ Ella replied, “Not many black women get to Cambridge.”

“Down to Miss Thorpe. I was drifting, Mum talked about sending me ‘back home’ to school, as if Jamaica was my home. Then Miss Thorpe made me her project. She told me what to read and to do, there was a mentoring scheme. And I got lucky at the interview.”

“And you hated it?”

“Yes, no. A bit. Made some friends, did some fun stuff. But the posh white boys were wearing. Three years were enough, it wasn’t really me.”

The psychologist in Ella that never quite shut down, even with a friend, made a mental note: Sally is ambivalent about her own brilliance.


Smooth

There were voices that automatically got Sally’s hackles up: smooth, confident voices, that told you their owner was in charge, and you weren't. She wished Ella’s voice wasn’t like that.

“My accent distracted my clients,” Ella replied. Smoothly, of course. “I’m there to be a mirror for them as much as anything, if they’re too conscious of me as a person, it can be unhelpful.”

“What’s wrong with a West Indian accent?”

“Nothing. I didn’t have one. I had a Brummie accent, pure Berming-gum. People used to ask me if I was related to Lenny Henry. If I wanted to get somewhere, I had to change it. Now it seems faked if I talk in my old voice.”

Ella’s smoothness was hard won, of course, that was the difference between her and the posh boys. The accent, the clothes, the education that marked her out as a professional appeared natural now. You’d never guess that she’d had to fight to get herself qualified, not drop out of college, make a success of her life. Unless you knew that Ella was 37 and had a grown-up son.

There were some lines now on Ella's smooth, almost polished skin, but she still looked gorgeous. Sally found herself wondering, more and more, if Ella would still be quite so smooth, so polished, in bed.
marysutherland: (Default)

Sherlock BBC

Rating: PG (femslash, pre-slash)

Spoilers: none


Psychologists cottoned on that the best way of dealing with trauma was talking with your mates long after old-fashioned cops like Sally. About when the Met, at the trailing edge of thought, introduced mandatory debriefing with a therapist after 'extreme incidents'.

After the first time, Sally retaliated in the only effective way: with a complaint about 'gender and cultural insensitivity'. But following this last case, she had received another appointment, with someone called Ella Thompson. Why was that name familiar? Not one of the Met's normal bunch of head-shrinkers, but supposedly 'experienced in dealing with the uniformed services'. Then something clicked.

***

"Weren't you John Watson's therapist?" Sally asked, as she sat down.

"I can't discuss other patients," Ella replied blandly, "And how did you know, anyhow?"

"You left messages on his blog. So did I. Do you remember our discussion about men and map-reading?"

Ella went very quiet.

"If I don't tell anyone," Sally said, "can we not talk about the Gresham case?"

"We have ninety minutes, we have to fill it somehow."

"We could talk about ourselves."

***

"Can't work late," Sally told Lestrade a few months afterwards, "going to a gig with Ella."

"Your therapist?"

"Ex-therapist."

"Wouldn't have thought you'd have much in common. Well, except John did say-"

"Yes, perhaps it is because we is both black."

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