The Coffee Shop

Chapter 13 - Thursday 6th April, 20:18

Sally Donovan was an organised woman. She got up every morning at six, brushed her teeth, cleansed her face, styled her hair. She would go to her wardrobe and pick out a suitable outfit for work, before quickly grabbing a latte from the coffee shop down the road and taking the train to headquarters.

She liked everything to be just, for her own peace of mind. People, she thought, ought to be sensible, and follow the rules – breaking them was just foolish.

This is why she did not trust Sherlock Holmes.

"He's what?"

She held her mobile phone close to her ear while rifling through the paperwork on her desk. She was looking for Detective Inspector Dimmock's notes on the James Grant case.

Anderson spoke to her through the phone.

"He's missing. We think he's trying to solve the case on his own."

"But, but..." Sally said, dumbfounded.

"I assume John Watson is with him. We've tried contacting Mycroft, but he was always pretty elusive..."

"This is ridiculous!" Sally said, throwing the notes down. "He's gone out to find that boy himself, I just know it."

"Calm down, Sally. He's not going to hurt anyone."

"Ha," Said Sally, "Yeah, other than himself."

"Don't tell me now that you care for the man."

"Like you're innocent!" Sally retorted. "You can't point fingers."

Silence. Then,

"I've got Dimmock's notes here. Will you come to Scotland Yard, so we can go through them together?"

"I can't," Anderson told her. "You know why."

"We won't do anything," Sally said quizzically. "I just want a second pair of eyes."

"It's late." The man sighed. "And I don't want to."

He hung up.

Prick, Sally thought. Well, she'd just have to get on with it alone.

She wondered where Lestrade was. He had appeared at work this morning, but had taken the afternoon off, due to him feeling ill. He was a hard worker, and Sally respected him for that – he almost never took sick days, and when he did, it was for what she considered legitimate reasons, like the flu. He had seemed pretty wired, now that she thought about it, but they all were, the case weighing over them like a dark storm.

She looked through the other detective inspector's notes. Dimmock was not as thorough as Lestrade, but his notes were organised and diligent. The time of the disappearance was noted, he kept a transcript of the interview with James' parents, and had even sketched an idea of the weapon used to injure James.

It was analytical, and detailed. But it was not enough.

For the first time in her life, Sally realised why Scotland Yard relied upon Sherlock's help so frequently. Lestrade kept him around, not because he was brilliant (though Sally knew that was part of it), but because he was insightful in a way that was altogether quite unusual. This peculiarity had always unsettled her, but now that he was presumably running around London unsupervised, Sally found that she worried for him.

"God help me," She muttered.

She picked up Dimmock's notes, tapped them on the table to straighten them, and used a clip to keep them together. She opened her desk drawer, and slid them in, then logged out of her computer. She stood, alone at her desk in the quiet office, then looked out the window onto the streets of London below.

Then she straightened up. Lestrade put his faith in the man, so she would too, for the time being. She was curious to see where this was headed.

Besides, she thought to herself, she wanted to prove Anderson wrong.

Picking up her coat, her purse and her phone, she walked through the now vacant office space, and pressed the button for the lift. While waiting, she checked her watch, and tapped her foot on the vinyl floor. She was not impatient, just eager to leave.

The lift doors opened, and she stepped inside. Her car was waiting, and she had a lot to think about.