Work Text:
Sally felt a slight shudder run up her spine as she walked up the street to the flat. In his usual infuriatingly cryptic manner, he'd sent the sergeant a single text to request her visit.
Come over. Tea.
-SH
Deceptively friendly. No doubt, he wanted to involve her in something beastly, like one of his creepy experiments. What would he do? Ask her to dissect a human liver? No, knowing him, he'd probably slip some poison into her tea just to see if he could cure her. But, she would still go to tea with the arsehole. Otherwise, he'd probably have that obnoxious, overbearing bureaucrat brother of his come and kidnap her.
So, here she was, knocking at the door of 221b like a fucking idiot. She'd even tried to dress up a little nicer than usual, not much, just a nicer scarf and a more high-end pair of slacks, just so the bastard wouldn't find something to pick at about her. He probably would, anyway, probably say something about how her favorite black oxfords were worn out. They were, but that just made them more comfortable for a woman who spent 90% of her day on her feet.
A sprightly, elderly woman with a motherly smile opened the door.
"Why hello, Sergeant Donovan!" The woman Sally knew to be the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, invited her inside. "He's right upstairs, he's been waiting for you." Sally trekked up the staircase, taking a breath to steady herself for the inevitable bullshit she'd have to put up with. In that breath, she detected an absolutely delightful smell. One that led her to practically run up the stairs and to the flat door in spite of herself.
As soon as she opened it, she found no sign of the annoying detective, but instead found a kitchen table, neatly set with a lacey white cloth and an antique china tea set. The tea set had a gold trim, and an elegant pattern of bright purple flowers. She gingerly sat down in one of the chairs, almost laughing as she found that a pale lilac cushion had been placed on it for comfort. The insufferable git really decided to be posh, she thought, rolling her eyes. Of course he did, bastard has a rich family. The unmistakable screech of a whistling tea kettle came from the kitchen, and clad in nothing but a housecoat and slippers, burst the equally unmistakeable Sherlock Holmes from his bedroom. The twat looked actually embarrassed at the sight of the sergeant, a blush spreading across his sharp cheekbones.
"F-forgive me, Donovan. I didn't hear you come in. Otherwise I would've-"
"No worries, Holmes." She waved a hand nonchalantly. "I'm a detective sergeant, I've seen worse than a man in his housecoat."
"Right then." He cleared his throat. "Tea." He took the kettle off the stovetop and brought it out of the kitchen and to the table, alongside a box of tea bags. As soon as he took a bag out of the box, Sally recognized the smell she had detected outside of the apartment. Part of what made her a good detective was her unusually strong sense of smell. Though this earned the cruel childhood nickname of "Bloodhound Sally", it was a talent she was proud of, one strong enough to detect unboiled tea that was still in its box from the outside of the apartment. It was earl grey créme, her favorite, and not the cheap stuff, either. As soon as Sherlock poured the steaming hot water into the pot with the tea, the smell magnified, giving the entire room a soothing aroma. Sally settled into her chair, relaxing slightly. Maybe he wouldn't try to poison her. He poured her a cup, which she accepted. He darted back into the kitchen, and pulled out a box with the name of a nearby French bakery on the top, tied with a white ribbon.
"I don't know if you want any, but I saw these in the window and thought that it's not a proper tea without something to eat." He untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, exposing the petit fours inside. Sally felt her mouth water a bit. She hadn't had a chance to eat since breakfast, and even then it had just been one of those nasty protein shakes her mum kept buying. And she hadn't had petit four since she was a very little girl. Unlike the Holmeses, the Donovans were not a wealthy family, and petit four was a rare Christmas treat. Even as an adult she hadn't had the chance to try them again. She wasn't exactly living with her mother by choice, and she could never justify the expense. She eyed the ones on the bottom row of the box, wrapped in purple marzipan. She tried to shove one in her mouth as politely as she could. Vanilla sponge cake with elderberry syrup. Bastard had good taste.
She grabbed a few more and put them on her tea saucer, trying not to look too happy about it. She looked him over, trying to deduce from his expression anything sinister. But, he remained expressionless, not moving one facial muscle, or even blinking. Just staring at her, in his characteristic "thinking pose" with his hands pressed together in front of his thin lips. It was starting to get creepy.
"So, why did you invite me here?" Sally said between sips of her tea. "Let's be perfectly honest, I don't like you, and you definitely don't like me. So why?" His expression immediately changed, to one that seemed to be barely concealed embarrassment. He cleared his throat before speaking.
"Donovan, you are aware of the young Miss Watson, correct?" Only Sherlock Holmes would refer to a toddler as "the young Miss Watson".
"Yeah, John's daughter, what about her?" Sherlock sighed, squirming a bit in his seat. His eyes darted all around the room, as if he were unsure of where to look.
"She's getting older, and as she matures I am becoming astutely aware of the fact that she is one day going to have to interact with a world that will treat her in a certain manner simply because the word 'female' is written on her birth certificate. And as her godfather, it is my duty to protect her as much as possible from that kind of injustice. And thanks to some literature recommended to me by Miss Adler,..." His eyes land on a stack of books resting on a coffee table. Sally recognized the names of bell hooks and Roxane Gay. "I was implored to examine the misogynistic tendencies that seem to permeate every aspect of human life, and in doing so, examine the tendencies that I express myself." Sally bit back the urge to burst out laughing.
"My God, is Sherlock Holmes becoming a feminist?" She giggled, stirring some sugar into her tea.
"I wouldn't call myself one, as doing so would seem incredibly performative to any woman who knows me, but I am a man trying to remedy the way he treats the women in his life, before he imparts some form of self-loathing, internalized sexism, or other damage onto his goddaughter." He places a hand against his mildly sweaty forehead. "Hooper has had to bear the brunt of my chauvinist behavior for most of the time she's known me. My comments about her, especially concerning her manner of dressing or her body, including her weight, were entirely out of line, and she never bothered to stand up for herself simply because she loved me. I wish she would've, because I might be a better man for it."
Sally set her teacup down, watching the other detective with curiosity in her eyes. Sherlock was a magnificent liar, and she had no real way of discerning if he was telling her the truth. But in her 10 years of working in Scotland Yard, her instincts had (almost) never failed her. And right now, they were telling her that he, no matter how impossible it seemed, was being sincere.
"The women in my life that I've treated with intolerance include you, Donovan. And that brings us to the reason I've invited you over. To give apologies where they are due. And I believe I owe you one."
In her utter shock, the pink color drained out of Sally's cheeks, leaving her complexion tinged with a yellowish pallor. She could not have possibly heard that. Was Sherlock bleeding Holmes about to give her an apology? The biggest arsehole in London, possibly in the entire United Kingdom, apologizing!? She'd sooner believe flying pigs, or a fresh snowflake in hell, or the sky falling.
"There's a particular incident, or rather, a particularly boorish thing that I did concerning you, that I'm sure you remember given how unfathomably ill-mannered it was. Mummy would've killed me had she heard it, and even Mycroft would disapprove."
"Remind me of it." Sally said once she regained the nerve to speak. She knew exactly which "incident" he was talking about, but an apology from Sherlock was a rare thing indeed, and she wanted to milk it for all it was worth. He took a deep, shaky breath.
"About 8 years ago, there was a string of what appeared to be serial suicides, but were actually the work of a murderous, genius cab driver."
"I remember that. The paperwork was hell."
"At the crime scene of the murder of Jennifer Wilson, you were one of the detectives assigned to the case." His voice was starting to become shaky. "We're both detectives, Donovan. You know how deduction works." Sally nodded.
"To put it simply, you find as many pieces of information as possible, determine any possible patterns the information fits, then determine the most likely set of patterns."
"The only things that make me any better at deductions than anyone else are two traits. One, I have sharp senses and an unusually keen eye for details. This allows me to collect more pieces of information. Two, I have a near-photographic memory. Having so much knowledge stored in my brain means that I know about more patterns that information could possibly create." He rubs at his forehead, eyes shut tight. "However, I am not immune to forcing data to fit certain patterns to suit my own biases or assumptions." He sighed, standing up from the table. "Let me stop beating around the bush and say it. Judging from a set of potentially unrelated data points, I made an assumption about your sex life, and used that as a weapon to belittle you." He began to pace across the flat, waving his hands erratically. "There were an absurd amount of other possible explanations. Men's deodorant is often cheaper than women's, thanks to the ever annoying Pink Tax, and you could've been doing home or yard work that is hard on your knees. For all I know, you could've been gardening!" He ran a hand through his hair. "And even if you had been sexually engaged with Anderson, although I would question your taste in partners, it's frankly none of my business who you are or aren't sleeping with, married or not. Even though I could probably deduce it, I shouldn't say it, especially not in a professional setting in front of your colleagues." He sat back down, looking at Sally with sorrowful, imploring eyes.
"I may not understand why a woman's sexual business is seen as something so embarrassing or shameful, but I know that it is, and I used that fact to silence you. And for that, I'm truly sorry."
Sally rested her chin in her palm, lost in thought. The night had been one of the most embarrasing of her life. While Anderson had gotten off with the same mild reprimand about workplace relationships that Lestrade had given her, she got months of rumors and whispers and name-calling. Not to mention, her new reputation as "easy" had earned her more sexual harassment from male coworkers than she had ever experienced in her life. She hadn't been harassed that much since her job as a waitress at a seedy diner in Grade 10. It was traumatic, extremely so. She still carried mace in her pocket and walked to her car with her keys between her knuckles. But, even though it was 8 years late, the apology soothed something in her. Some internalized feeling of rage, of hurt, of being treated like she was nothing. It wasn't gone, but it didn't feel as painful. Her pain had been acknowledged, and even if it was the man responsible for it, it was both comforting and vindicating to know that in the entire world, there was at least one person in the world that understood that what had happened to her was wrong. She suppressed the tears of relief that threatened to spill down her face.
"Th…thank you, Sherlock." she stuttered, sniffling a bit. "I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear that.". She took another sip of her tea, but as she looked down at the cup, she realized that she recognized the flowers in the design. They were purple hyacinths.
As a child, she went through a brief phase where she was obsessed with Victorian-era flower language. She even tried (unsuccessfully) to communicate entirely in crude drawings of bouquets for 6 months when she was 9. She knew what purple hyacinths meant, which led to a sobering realization. The heaviness of the sudden guilt that overcame her was staggering. She wasn't the only one who deserved an apology.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry, too. About everything that happened with Moriarty, and the ambassador's kids, and everything that happened that day." Her bottom lip began to quiver, but she forced it to stop. "I'm sorry I was part of the reason you had to pretend to be dead for 2 years."
"Donovan, there's no need for an apology there." Sherlock responded calmly, taking a sip from his own teacup. "You were presented with reasonable evidence, given the circumstances, and you are not responsible for the actions of a literal criminal mastermi-"
"And I'm sorry for calling you a freak!" She interrupted, shouting as if she desperately needed to get that off of her chest. "Seriously, who does that!? I sounded like a bloody X-Men villain!"
"Donovan-"
"Sure, you're a little strange and all, but that's why you're so good at solving cases! And you weren't strange, you wouldn't be you!"
"Donovan-"
"I was just jealous that you do my job better than I can! But that's not an excuse, I'm a grown woman, not a petty schoolgirl!"
"Sally!" He put his hands squarely on her shoulders, snapping her out of what seemed to be a guilt-induced trance. The tears had finally escaped, and glittered on her lashes as she looked up at him. "Apology accepted. And I'm glad you accepted mine."
She gave a light sob, and did something she never thought she'd do in a million years. She pulled Sherlock Holmes into a hug.
"Let's promise not to be arseholes to each other from now on, yeah?"
"Of course."
"And Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks for the tea."