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No one was going anywhere. She had a lot of time for reflection.
Sally’s long suspected that there was something between the two, Holmes and Watson - something other than just friendship. She’s not a sergeant for no reason - she has been a relatively empathic and perceptive woman for some thirty years now. It’s plain to see for anyone who looked: the way they stand so close together and seek the other out when separated. When they laugh and argue and the way one will say something and look straight to the other, the other will nod and then they’ll both smile like there’s nothing better at all in the world. There’s not one thing but hundreds of the smallest of actions that all add to give something more.
That and the sheer obviousness of two grown men flatting together, neither dating and - if the grapevine was to be believed - all but living in the other’s clothes.
She didn’t say anything on the matter, despite everyone else seeming to. Partly because it was just against her nature to gossip, partly because of that stereotype of woman constantly bitching she’s keen not to promote. Mostly because she thought that Dr Watson’s actually a really nice guy, a better bloke than most (choice in partners aside), and Sally didn’t want to risk insulting him by proxy if she did say something and her dislike of his boyfriend got the better of common sense.
So Sally didn’t join in on the teasing, good natured as it was. She didn’t try to speak up when people implied that the sum of their bond was fucking each other into the mattress every night. She didn’t particularly want to think about it, for a start. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe it was just a quick fling, maybe they’ll end it in a month or two, amiably or not - even though thinking of Holmes turning up at crime scenes alone was just... strange. Wrong, now.
With a heavy feeling like a stone in the gut, Sally hoped desperately that John Watson would live long enough for that to happen, if it ever did. Because something in this last case had gone terribly wrong and now she was standing in a stalemate: helpless, with Lestrade, Holmes and half a dozen others crowded into the hotel room, able to do nothing as their suspect twitched, sobbed and pushed a gun to Dr Watson’s head.
The negotiator was on his way but somehow Sally didn’t think he’d be of much use. The door was behind the suspect - one Mr Bormann - and even if they did manage to get the negotiator here and into the room without Watson being shot out of pure panic, well, it didn’t look like Bormann was in a stable enough mental state to be reasoned with at all. She didn’t want to think of what would happen then. Watson was a good man. She liked him. There was a painful tightness in her throat she couldn’t quite swallow down.
At the very least, as one last ray of as good a fortune as a situation like this could warrant, Dr Watson was being the model hostage. Calm and not struggling even as Bormann shook him from side to side, even as the barrel of the gun was pushed with a not inconsiderable amount of force into his temple. He was breathing out carefully through his nose and when his eyes weren’t pinched shut they were doing an almost good job of hiding the fear wrapped up inside of them.
Sally didn’t want to look at Holmes. She focused on the wall instead, and waited.
When a siren went off nearby she couldn’t stop herself from flinching. It was loud and screeching and had nothing to do with them at all. Sirens were hardly an uncommon sound in this part of London but it was enough to tip Bormann over the edge.
“Don’t you follow me!” he shrieked. “Don’t you fucking dare!” Then he and Watson were out of the room, door snapping shut behind them. A pause, a moment when the air felt too thick to breathe. There was the sound of a gunshot, then another.
Her heart skipped a beat. Without thought Sally followed Holmes as he sprinted out of the room, slamming the door open hard enough to crack the plaster wall. She had barely enough time to be frightened before the relief came, rushing in to fill up her chest. Watson was sitting on the floor but he was unharmed, the gun a couple of feet away on the carpet and Bormann making a run for it down the corridor. Watson looked up, shaking and grinning a little in that hysterical way of a person running on too much adrenaline. He was grinning at Holmes like they were the only two people in the hotel.
“Sherlock,” Watson said, breathing, “can’t deny it, bit too close this time, god Sherlock -”
“John, don’t ever do that again,” Holmes was saying at the same time, “I forbid you from ever doing that -”
Sally had a second to think, somewhat abstractedly, that they’d never hear each other if they continued to talk over the other like that. Then there was another second to process just how strange Holmes’ voice had turned: breathy and strung out, like brittle wood bending. The last second was looking up to see Bormann being apprehended before her attention was caught back on Holmes as he stepped forward in front of Watson. He crumbled.
They were still speaking, more of mumbles, but Holmes was gripping onto Watson’s shoulders and then his face, hands running up and down the back of the doctor’s scalp, holding on. Watson had his hands on Holmes just the same, fingers tightening into the mess of black curls. Their faces were crowded together - not kissing, but Holmes was pressing one cheek to Watson’s forehead, into the hollow of an eye, to the bridge of his nose.
“I swear I’d never have let him -”
“It’s okay, it’s okay -”
There were two grown men crouching on the dirty floor, just holding each other, and it should have looked ridiculous but it didn’t - and in an uncharacteristically poetical moment Sally thought that they couldn’t possibly look closer even in that moment of the hypothetical shag. She was aware distantly that she ought to be doing something but everyone had gone quiet and this was something breathtaking and aching no one wanted to interrupt.
There was a wrench somewhere between her lungs as she stood with her team and watched, just for a moment.
Love was a cheap word, Sally knew, seeing Holmes and Watson like this - but she couldn’t quite think of a better one to describe the sum of their bond.