cop_an_attitude | 02 | [Written/Voice/Action]

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02 | [Written/Voice/Action]

[Early enough in the morning that it's clear someone couldn't get back to sleep, a series of doodles appear on the page: they're Sally's best estimate of the floor plan of her apartment, with little rudimentary sketches of furniture in various placements. Over the span of a half hour, several are drawn with different configurations and crossed out before one ends up circled. A check mark is drawn next to it for good measure.

She was too lazy to get out of bed and find real scrap paper, but she figured no one would care.

Much later in the morning, at a reasonable hour, Sally makes a voice recording.]

Right. I've got a question, much as I hate to ask it: since I've been a bit of a dosser when it comes to actually talking to people since I've come here, what with the rampant madness of...everything, and being busy with a few things, I've run short of friends who're willing to do me favors. That being said, I've several articles of heavy furniture that need to be moved up seven flights of stairs.

My usual find-help-moving-house tactic of offering free beer and crisps is moot here, but if there's anyone who can help me out, I'd be happy to negotiate some sort of payment. A favor in return, or something. As I said, I wouldn't ask, but...well. Some of you lot have magic and super strength, and I'm just a regular copper with one very slightly weak ankle. [A self-deprecating laugh that's a little more rueful than she intended. Sally really hates asking for help, but she also really wants her flat not to look like a room in a mental institution, so something had to give.] Thanks, everyone.

[In the afternoon, Sally can be found poking around the item shop, looking for home decorating items and some things she's hoping will show up from her world, and in the evening she'll be at the library doing some cursory research of other worlds and waiting for something interesting to jump out at her.]

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[Sally sees Sherlock as soon as she turns the corner, but she's just on her way out, so she holds her head high and commits to just walking by.

Until she notices items in his possession that could be used to dismantle a house. Then she slows to a crawl.

Which leads her to notice the book, and then she stops entirely, forgetting her usual ire in surprise.]

Oh, that's funny. [She nods to the book.] Conan Doyle; he wrote those mysteries, right? I've never heard of that one. Is that where John got the title for his blog?

[He looks over at the voice, but the question... It's enough to make him forget his usual sarcasm.]

I read every one of his stories as a child.

This one was written, according to the inside cover, in 1886. But I've never heard of it.

[He's dead serious as he picks the book up and opens it.

Is she his prime candidate for a first audience? No. But he wants to make sure he's not just hallucinating or something

He flips past the introduction and dedications to the first page and holds it out, letting her see the first page of the actual story.]

Study in Scarlet
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson , M.D. , Late of the Army Medical Department

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

[Sally...doesn't understand. She blinks at the title page in confusion, and after a moment she lets out an incredulous laugh.]

What is that, some sort of...I don't know...joke? Some kind of...

[She looks up at Sherlock in suspicion and jabs a finger at the book.]

Did you do this?

Why would I bother?

[He isn't even annoyed by the question. His reply is merely statement of fact. He gains nothing by it, and even if he did, he doesn't have the materials to do it here.]

Someone mentioned it. Over the journals.

I had to see for myself.

[And if he's talking to her about it, it must have struck him quite hard.]

[Good point. He definitely wouldn't bother. But then...how, what, why?

And then something hits her.]

Oh god, am I in it? Is there another copy?

It was written in 1886.

[It's repeated not as an insult, but as a reminder. To have a woman in any form of police capacity, it would have to be from 1914 or later. 1973 if part of the main body of police force.

But as to the rest:]

Two other copies of this in the library. He wrote... several books, apparently.

This is the first. [Study in Scarlet. Study in Pink. The first case. Doctor John Watson, recently returned from military service in Afghanistan, sent toward Mister Sherlock Holmes by way of Stamford, as both men were looking for someone to share rent of a London flat...

He's keen to read it, to try and understand... but also wary.]

I wouldn't have to be a policeman, would I? I bet the version of you in this book doesn't make half his deductions via smartphone.

[A version of her own world from the turn of the 19th century...Sally reaches to take the book out of Sherlock's hands, but stops herself. She shakes her head.]

Right. I'm getting that out of the library. I'm making pizza for a giant turtle later and this is still the most unnerving part of my day.

[...Giant turtle.

That gets a look, Sally. Congratulations: You've finally found something he can't respond to. Not that, at this point, he's surprised. Not really. With everything this strange place has, it's only natural that things should continue to surprise him.

But Donovan. Giant turtle. And pizza.

That's a collection of thoughts he can't quite bring into focus immediately.]

[Sally's still a bit dazed by this revelation, but after a moment passes in silence, she becomes suspicious at the lack of Sherlock's typical snide remark and looks up. What she sees on his face makes her frown sharply.]

Oh, don't give me that look, Freak. Yes, he's a turtle, but he's nice. I don't profile.

[He can't be worse company than Anderson.

But he doesn't actually say it. Because, even after the Chief Superintendent being in his flat, he doesn't hate Sally. And Anderson only really gets his ire when he's around to harass in person. Doing it through a third party? Pointless.]

Didn't know turtles could eat pizza.

[It's almost conversational.]

Yeah, neither did I, but apparently he's a fan. Oh, I should've asked if it has to be vegetarian...

[The latter was mostly to herself, but seriously, Sally knows nothing about turtles, giant and talking or otherwise.

Her attention is brought back to the various tools in Sherlock's box.]

Tell me those aren't for something horrible.

Building project.

[...Which isn't "not something horrible."

Well, at least, it could be something horrible. And, in typical Sherlock style, it doesn't seem he's going to elaborate.]

[Sally folds her arms. She knows you, Sherlock.]

Building what, exactly?

[He's hurt, Sally. Don't you trust him?

...Okay, no he's not because you really shouldn't, and he knows it.]

Tearing down a wall.

[Okay, give her a second to just rub the bridge of her nose and will away an encroaching sense of dread.]

Do you mind if I ask which wall, where, and for the purposes of Luceti security you may consider that not to be a question.

Temperance [he doesn't care if you know who that is or not, Sally] and I are removing the wall between the two bedrooms in her flat.

She found the single bedroom in my flat to be unsatisfactory.

[...Sherlock. Without further explanation. There are so many things wrong with that statement.]

[Sally tries to process that statement...

And then tries not to...

And then just stops and...and just stops.]

I knew it was going to be something I didn't want to know the answer to. I knew it was, and I asked anyway. I brought this on myself. Why would you need that much room to - no, I really, really don't want to know.

[...He doesn't get what's so confusing.

Of course a single bedroom isn't much space for a laboratory. Especially with two people working. Especially if he needs John's assistance and there are three. Three people even sitting and talking in a room that size is uncomfortable, then to factor in space for supplies and work areas...

But he doesn't feel any pressure to explain. Which might not help what she thinks.]

Then perhaps-- [he's looking at something on the shelf nearby again, examining it. Not avoiding her, just something that caught his eye] --next time you shouldn't ask.

No, see, I can't do that. I can't just not ask. You make it necessary for me to ask. Remember how I've been in your flat? Remember eyeballs in the microwave and bullet holes in the walls?

[She leans over so she's further into his field of vision, just to drive this all home.]

You do things that are illegal and dangerous on a constant basis. It's different in London when we've reason not to arrest you, but here, you're useless, and everyone lives in very close quarters. I don't care if you're building some sort of...

[She waves her hands around ineffectually, trying to collect a few particularly horrifying thoughts.]

Some sort of bloody dungeon, or whatever it is you're doing, but I would like to know if you're taking this "everything's free" situation too far and decided to take a wall out of the restaurant because having a better view of the street helps you think!

I am assisting in the removal of a wall of a-- [what's the right word? he'll settle for the one he first used for John] --colleague's wall on her suggestion.

[Cold. Flat.

Most of what she's said rolls off him. He could point out that there's no way to arrest him here. That she has no authority.

But there's a word that cools every argumentative tendency. Chills every fire in him. It creates the deadly calm he is right now, makes his muscles tense ever so slightly.

"Useless."

"Here, you're useless."

It hits too close to home, so he pretends to ignore it... and almost everything else.]

[She hates it when he goes cold like that, especially lately. It's easy to forget everything that happened back in London and just feel...not safe, that's completely the wrong word, but sort of normal around Sherlock - he was a prat, he helped with cases, he was a fact of life. She'd never felt that he was a threat to her safety.

Right now she remembers, when he shuts off like that, that she's standing in very close proximity to a (okay, debatably) violent criminal.

And that she's given him every possible reason to hate her.

But. She also realizes she was out of line, though for what, she has the wrong idea.]

I...didn't mean to - that was. I shouldn't have said anything; I shouldn't even have speculated. What you do with your...colleagues is your own business and I was being unnecessarily crass. My point was that you do have a history of needing to be looked in on by the authorities.

No. I don't.

[Still hard. Still cold.

Because it's easier to force a show of shutting everything off, of presenting a blank, neutral appearance than to delve into emotion. He reacts sometimes-- her talk of Lestrade during their last conversation. But this...

When it's him, personally, it's easier to not react.]

I have a history of people believing that I need looking in on.

We both know how very well that worked out.

[Whether because he was a criminal (he had no proof here that he was not behind the crimes he'd solved, and he would admit to having committed other crimes in the process of solving worse ones) or because all the "looking in on" in the world hadn't changed what happened on that roof.

...That he'd been in that situation because of the primary man who felt he needed looking after...

Either way-- both, if she took the time to consider the possibility he'd asked of her before, if she would think that she could have misinterpreted what she saw in evidence-- familial and police interference in his life hadn't stopped whatever it was one considered him to have done.]

[It would be easy to fall back on smug insults and the badly-faked friendliness she tends to use on people who really piss her off, to snipe at him until she can put a crack in that cold mask, but she knows that it would be useless and juvenile and as much as she dislikes and mistrusts Sherlock, now is not the time or the place.

Especially considering that a lack of hard evidence coupled with the fact that he's just been so weird about some things are starting to give her the horrible impression that she really might have been wrong about him.

So instead, she just stands up straight and wipes off whatever expression might have been on her face.]

You know, I have to say that I prefer it when you're just an obnoxious, arrogant prat who speaks his mind. Wounded and passive aggressive is not a good look for you. Not that I'm encouraging you to go off on one of your room-dominating tangents in the middle of a shop, but if you'd like to call me a bitch in a controlled tone of voice I won't stop you.

I've no reason to call you that. [Still so calm.] You're good at your job, though I am concerned that the ability of your misplaced righteousness [a hint of a fire, something other than detachment, at least] to override your sense of loyalty might become a problem. Especially when people-- [Lestrade] --trust you.

[He's forced everything down again, gone cold:] I'm not the one you need to supervise here.

Excuse me?

[He questioned her loyalty. This is Not On.]

Nothing has ever overriden my sense of loyalty, thank you very much! What the hell are you talking about? When have I given anyone reason not to trust me?

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