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castironTitle: A Study in Squawking
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Session 11
May I be honest? If it were anyone but John who Mr. Moriarty held, if I had nothing vested in the outcome of this situation, I would happily pretend that Richard Adler is Mycroft, and then sit back to see which of them had been better at staff selection. My money would be on Mycroft, as I consider Papagena a match for any five of Moriarty's associates.
I worry, though, that my denial of being Mycroft will also rebound upon John.
I cannot think about what John may be enduring now. I cannot let Mr. Moriarty know that his harming John would rip out my own heart—metaphorically speaking, of course, but the long-term effect would be much the same.
It is growing late, and we have been talking for many hours. But before we close our acquaintance, I must tell you about yesterday.
John and I had been working all week with the Yard on another trafficking case and had finally solved it, far more successfully than the case involving the unfortunate Kratides family; our reward to ourselves was sixteen hours of sleep each. It ended up being only eight for me; I have difficulty sleeping much past dawn. While I waited for John to awaken, I was using his laptop to look up the flight speed of a South African Swallow—yes, I am aware that there is a related popular culture reference, but I actually needed to make the calculation before posting on one of the ornithology forums—when I found a file titled "Sherlock Holmes Strengths + Weaknesses".
Would you have been able to resist? I certainly could not.
Most of the list, I found quite accurate. Of course I am an expert on anatomy, particularly human and psittacid. Of course I am good at basic physics, simple engineering, and elementary electrical circuits. Of course I have extensive knowledge of Western classical music, encyclopedic knowledge of Turkish pop music of the past twenty-five years, and very limited knowledge of most other music—who introduced me to music, after all, and why should anyone be surprised that I share his tastes? Of course I know a great deal about the British and European governments and the various people within; again, with whom did I live for most of my life? Of course I have a map of London in my mind; of course I can identify buildings by their roofs and outdoor sculpture. Of course I am deeply familiar with criminal procedure and the rules on collection of evidence. Of course I am a tolerable programmer and a decent hacker. Of course I have to make an effort to follow the various human social norms one finds in London. Of course I can read six and type five languages fluently, and read eight more with the help of a dictionary, even though I only understand three spoken. Of course I enjoy reading and dislike film and television. Of course I am sometimes loud, and easily bored, and cross when short on sleep, and occasionally picky about my food, and extremely untidy.
But "suffers from Stockholm Syndrome"? Please. The present circumstance excepted, Mycroft does not hold me hostage. I do not empathize with Mycroft or view him as my source of life; I tolerate him because I must. My top three desires at this moment are John's life, Moriarty's death, and Mycroft's public humiliation, in that order; does that sound like Stockholm Syndrome?
So when John finally descended the staircase early in the afternoon, I immediately texted, *Stockholm Syndrome is a far rarer disorder than popular literature would have one believe, and in any case, I do not have it.*
"Are you on my laptop again? What's wrong with yours this time?"
*Just a kernel panic; I've rewritten the offending code and am still reinstalling.*
"And you wonder why I won't let you upgrade mine." He went to the kitchen and started making tea.
*Why do you think I have Stockholm Syndrome?*
He rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, it's too early in the morning."
*It is 1:47 p.m. Shall I forward you the formal definition and note exactly how I do NOT meet each condition?*
"If that's the worst thing you've found while snooping on my laptop, be grateful."
*You haven't answered my question.*
John set his mug down firmly. "Fine. It's Mr. Holmes. I've had all I can take of him."
*Should I be flattered that you have not reached that point with me?*
"Don't press your luck. After what you did with the milk this time—"
*The container was the right weight and dense enough to fit the space I needed.*
"Which would have been fine if you had, oh, I don't know, put it back in the fridge when you finished, instead of leaving it out all night."
*I had not finished my structural tests. Which of Mycroft's many faults was the last straw?*
He did not reply until he had finished his tea. "He wants us to take another case."
*Yes, I saw the message. So?*
"What if we say no?"
*Then we see whether he insists. But if he does, you don't have to work on it. You can do something else if you want.*
"Right. I can. I won't, but I can. You can't."
*If it bored me enough, I am certain that I could.*
"Really? Because you rolled your eyes at that last one, and you took it anyway."
*I do not roll my eyes. That is a human gesture. And the case turned out to be quite fascinating.*
"Yeah, luckily for you." He ran a hand through his hair. "You say you don't give a damn about him, but when he calls, you're there. He owns you. He owns you, and it's just—it's just wrong." He laughed, the stress-relieving variety rather than the amused one. "Christ, I sound like Ivan Vorpatril."
*Who?*
"Never mind. I hate that he's always in the background, no matter what we're doing."
I sought for words that would comfort him. *Would you feel better thinking of me as a child under guardianship? While I am mentally and physically an adult parrot and have been for some years, a human of my age still has many years remaining under parental guidance.*
"As you point out, you're not human. And Mycroft's not going to let you loose when you're eighteen. Why the hell do you put up with him?"
Those words triggered my irritation. *Do you remember the people we just rescued?*
"Christ, I'm never going to be able to forget them."
*Do you think ill of them for not breaking out of that room, when they were told their families would be killed if they did? Do you scorn them for accepting their captivity, when the Ricolettis held their passports and when they had no money or English language skills?*
"Of course not."
*Then why do you scorn me?*
"It's not the same situation."
*The parallels are sufficient. I have no legal status in this country—in any country. I am, in fact, property. Mycroft can, if he wishes, have me killed at any time, and if it is done humanely, no fuss would be made about it. I cannot earn my living without a go-between. If left on the street I would starve in a matter of months; the pigeons would do many things for me, but feeding me is not one of them.*
"Yes, but...."
*And you dare to ask me why I tolerate Mycroft? I tolerate Mycroft because all the other options are worse.*
John folded his arms. "Norbury."
*Oh? Kindly enlighten me, if you know so much more about it than I do.*
"To start with, why does it have to be Mycroft? Why couldn't you tell Mycroft you want a new owner? I'd take you. Anderson would take you. Hell, Anderson's ex-wife would take you."
*Because Mycroft will never sell me, as you would know if you'd ever made the offer.*
John didn't reply, but the tiny flicker of tension, the brief motion of his eyes gave him away.
*You did make an offer.*
After a pause, John said, "Yes. I did."
*When?*
"That night when he gave us Ms. Melas's case, after you'd gone to bed."
My irritation rose. *That was four months ago. When were you going to tell me?*
"The moment he accepted. Which he didn't."
*And what if I had said I didn't want to?*
"Then I'd have called him back and said the deal was off, of course. Christ, you don't think I'd buy you against your will, do you?"
*You certainly took the first step towards it without consulting me.*
"Okay. You're right. I'm sorry." He ran his hand through his hair again. "It's just.... Look, before I met you, every morning I'd lie in bed wondering whether this was the day I was finally going to top myself. And once I'd decided no, I was going to live for one more day, well, that used up my ration of decision-making power, and the rest of the day just didn't matter. Then I meet you, and thirty-six hours later I'm running around London helping to catch a murderer because you knew how to find him. Do you know what it's like, finally having a life that's worth living again?"
*Yes, as a matter of fact.*
My statement did nothing to calm him; if anything, he grew more agitated. "You give me something to wake up for. My mind's always busy trying to keep up with yours. I'm never bored. I'm actually useful. And the moment Mycroft bloody Holmes gets a whim, I can lose you, lose this life and be back where I started."
*Your future does not depend on Mycroft. If you had half a brain in your skull, you'd apply to work for MSF and have all the adventure and all the usefulness you could want.*
"And I'm sure they and Mycroft would let me haul a parrot into a warzone or disaster zone. Don't you get it? You always talk about bonding; did you really think it only went in one direction?"
*Of course I know you are attached to me, just as I know that Mycroft retains some attachment to me.*
"There's a flattering definition of attachment... you know, forget it. We never had this conversation."
*Ridiculous. We clearly did; the texts are there to prove it.*
John held up his phone and punched several buttons. "Not anymore." He stalked up the stairs, and a few minutes later he came back down wearing his lightweight jacket, which meant he was carrying the gun. "I'm going out. I probably won't be back until late. Don't wait up for me."
*Even if I want to read the texts you say don't exist?*
John snorted and slammed the door as he left. I reviewed our conversation and tried to determine what had angered him, but came to no conclusion until the next morning. I would blame lack of sleep for that stupidity, but sadly—
And that is nearly the end. I woke at quarter past five this morning to the message "MR ADLER IS MISSING SOMETHING" on John's blog, and a flat empty of John and suffused with Mycroft.
"We believe he has been kidnapped," Mycroft said shortly.
I was too shocked by the news to feel anything. *Where was he last seen? I will start the search.*
"You will do no such thing. I cannot risk your being taken as well."
*I must.*
"Whatever guilt you feel over your debate of yesterday afternoon...."
I raised my wings in frustration. *I thought I found all the bugs this time.*
"...flapping about the city will not help him. And with situations developing that need my attention, it is impossible for me to supervise you at this time. The Yard is on the case. We are taking you to a safehouse in the meantime."
*No.*
"My dear bird, you have no choice."
*Why? Because my life is in danger from his kidnappers? I would sooner be killed looking for John than safe and waiting for him.*
"And I would sooner you live to see him again. You remain my responsibility, hard as that may be on both of us."
*I need not remain so. Why wouldn't you sell me to John?*
"Do I need to answer that? You are a classified experiment."
*John has been thoroughly vetted. John—* Suddenly his statements of last night made sense, and I berated myself for my stupidity. *He was trying to tell me that I am as essential to him as he is to me. I am not essential to you.*
"Nevertheless, you must be protected. Your genes and your brain would be tempting targets to anyone who knew about them."
*You do not need to own me to protect me.*
"Stop being silly. Of course I do not, but it is far simpler."
*You scoff at simplicity. Please, Mycroft, let me go. John is in danger.*
"I am sorry, my dear bird. You are going to a secure location. I will do my best to locate John, but in return I want you to speak with a professional I have arranged to meet you."
*A professional what?*
"Dr. Hunter has proven useful in other cases of emotional trauma and extreme stress; I am sure you will find her comforting."
*Comforting?* Now I was becoming agitated, as the reality of John's danger sank in. *Comforting? John is missing. It might have been Moriarty who took him, and you expect a psychiatrist to be comforting?*
"Yes. Now, as I do not trust you not to escape the moment we go outside, would you like to enter this carrier under your own power, or must my assistants force you?"
It required four of them to secure me, and I do not apologize for the tetanus shot that one required afterwards.
They brought me here. You know the rest.
The car is on its way? Good. Though I must say, I have found our conversation more satisfying than I had expected.
Yes, I would even say it has been successful. I know now what my goal is.
What else? John has been patient with me. John has been my friend. John risked a murder conviction for me, when my own would-be killers would have at most been convicted of animal cruelty or property destruction. John is trying to keep Mr. Moriarty from finding out who and what I am, even though Mr. Moriarty has done his best to rip out his heart. My goal is to help secure John's safety, whatever small step I can take toward that. I am calmer now, and ready to wait and to do what is best.
By all means, let us wait in the lobby instead of in here. It is good to have a change of scene.
Before I leave, might I tell you about one more thing that is on my mind?
When Mycroft left me here this morning, I said to him, "You cannot stop me; you cannot prevent my escape. I will get away from here, one way or another. And I will finish this." In retrospect, that was too unkind, even toward my enemy.
Oh? Let me say it to you as I said it to him.
Of course it sounds innocuous to you. You might even have thought that he did not react. I assure you that Papagena was not fooled, however; I certainly was not.
I lived for six years with Mycroft as my friend and several months with him as my enemy. I know him. I know his possessions, his collections, and his files.
There is a recording—originally it was clearly a videotape; the quality is awful. When I found it, it had been transferred onto a DVD. I am certain that by now it is also a file on a hard disk or flash drive, backed up in at least six locations across two continents, even though Mycroft has never played the recording in all the time I have known him.
I played it. I watched a man writhe in his restraints on a hospital bed. I heard him begging for drugs, for help, for death.
When I spoke to Mycroft in the voice and words of his brother, his brother who successfully overdosed days after that recording, his brother who I am named for? I now think that is the worst thing I could have done to him.
Since I know Mycroft will read this, later if not now, I will say it:
Mycroft, I apologise.
The human brain desperately seeks patterns and will find them where no pattern actually exists. Perhaps this is a trait of all intelligence, as I too understand the appeal of finding a pattern and assigning meaning to it. The idea of reincarnation is rubbish. That I was conceived on the day your brother died is a coincidence; that I hatched on his birthday is another; that my personality reminds you of his is yet another. But I cannot scorn you for seeing me as a second chance, for trying to protect me as you could not protect him, even though your actions were misguided.
And really, "apologise" is neither adequate nor accurate. Mycroft, I am sorry.
Yes, I do know the words. I even understand the sentiment: regret for harm caused, whether by wrong choices, by accident, or as an unavoidable consequence to a right choice. Mycroft, what I inflicted on you with my mimicry this morning was the first.
Dr. Hunter, I am about to do the third. I am sorry. Cover your face.
***End of Session Transcripts***
Transcriptions from Recovered Device
Hello, Jim. Thank you for your punctuality. I hope you will forgive the long waits for my responses; I type very slowly.
Text-to-speech is an amazing invention, is it not?
Oh, some wires had to be re-laid, but there was enough of the PA system left to work with. These platforms are in excellent shape given that they have been abandoned for nearly four years.
You are remarkably patient. I appreciate that.
I assure you that I am here. I merely wish to prolong the pleasure of anticipation, before we meet face-to-face.
Have you brought Dr. Watson?
John. You look terrible.
Have I ever been tactful?
Oh, and to verify my identity: My great-aunt is not an author.
I am also sorry about yesterday. Shall we call it even?
Good. My time working with you has been the best of my life. Thank you. For everything.
Jim, I am pleased that you find this touching.
Let us get down to business, then. You want my bird. I want my assistant.
Yes, you had mentioned that before. Shall we let my bird meet you?
I am sending him; he will arrive in just a minute.
No, I am not sure what that sound is. Perhaps it is a few thrill-seeking pigeons, dropping bundles of Semtex and broken glass, attempting to disable your snipers without getting killed themselves.
Unlikely, I grant you. It is quite difficult to find sufficiently reckless pigeons. And yet—
Notice that Sherlock was not shot when he pulled the gun from your belt.
A trained parrot does prove useful.
I am sure he will come down from the rafters in a minute.
Yes, I fear those squawks are evidence that he strained muscles lifting the gun.
I understand your amusement. Between the broken phalanges, the duct tape wrapping his fingers, and the rope binding his wrists, Dr. Watson might barely be able to hold and aim his gun, but he cannot pull the trigger. You are a master of psychological torture.
Hmm. You are correct. My typing speed has indeed increased.
Again, correct. While I have impairments, they do not affect my typing speed, especially with a good auto-complete program. You really are quite good at deduction.
You made other correct deductions as well. Richard Adler is, in fact, a pseudonym.
You have failed to deduce one thing, though.
Oh, I am the person you are looking for. But I am neither Richard Adler nor Mycroft Holmes.
My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I can pull a trigger.
Further Documents from the Personal File of Mycroft Holmes
Transcript of patient interview, 20 June 2011; some details redacted
Interviewer: Good morning.
Patient: How is he?
I: Still unconscious. Dr. Trevor is not certain whether he will recover, or how much mental function he will retain if he does.
P: Damn.
I: And how are you?
P: As if you needed to ask.
I: One sometimes wants the subjective perspective rather than the medical charts.
P: I'm great, then. Much better than when I was in for my shoulder.
I: I am sorry to trouble you while you are recovering, but it would be very helpful if you could tell me exactly what happened at [REDACTED]. There are, sadly, no recordings of the incident, and no indication other than the texts as to what happened.
P: All right. What do you want to know?
I: You know where his texts ended.
P: I'm surprised you let me read all that. I can understand the texts from the [REDACTED], but I didn't expect the ones from the rest of the day.
I: It was—well. I thought you should read them.
P: Yeah. What the hell did he do to Dr. Hunter and your people?
I: He arranged for a flock of [REDACTED] to surround them when they left the building. He escaped in the confusion. I assure you that everyone was unharmed.
P: And I can fill in the rest. He went to one of his caches, got supplies—God, if I'd known he had stolen Semtex out of [REDACTED]'s cellar—I wondered why it took so long for him to come back to me after he got out of there.
I: I shall have to find the rest of the caches and see whether he has stashed explosives anywhere else. It is worse than dealing with a bored teenager. [pause] Pardon me; I must be allergic to one of the disinfectants.
P: He hadn't told me that last bit about your brother. I'm sorry.
I: It was many years ago. [pause] He would have liked you, I suspect, as far as he was capable of liking anyone. But we are here to talk about the recent past, not the ancient. What happened after his last text?
P: You know he pulled the gun from [REDACTED] and dropped it into my hands—not that I had much grip with all that duct tape, but I was at least able to hang on and point it. He flew down and landed on my shoulder; I think he'd written that last text but waited to hit "send" until he was in position. God, [REDACTED]'s expression -- it was brilliant. And the moment the text reader finished, Sherlock pulled the trigger for me.
I: And?
P: What do you think happened, when I couldn't grip the gun? Damn recoil nearly ripped his head off.
I: An exaggeration. Dr. Trevor says he did have a severe neck injury and concussion, but no spinal breakage.
P: God, when you say that, I can tell who taught him to talk.
I: His mimicry was—is, one hopes—impressive. He could not have known what the consequences....
P: Oh, he knew. He'd said once that he'd love to learn to shoot, but between the recoil and his limited binocular vision, there'd be no point.
I: [inaudible mumble]
P: I'm surprised you know those words.
I: A minor civil servant receives many opportunities to increase vocabulary. What happened next?
P: [REDACTED] was still alive. I'm not a bad shot, but even I can't aim that well tied up and with no grip. He was dying, though, and he knew it. I'd caught Sherlock before he hit the ground, and I just said good-bye to [REDACTED] and walked away.
I: Carrying Sherlock with your hands tied? I am impressed.
P: He doesn't weigh more than a couple of kilos. Trying to keep his head supported hurt like fuck, though. No, can't say that. He'd say "Why do you use an activity that you clearly find pleasurable to describe something unpleasant?"
I: The mysteries of the English language. And then the bomb exploded?
P: [REDACTED] must have had it as a backup. At least it was Saturday; I hate to think what would have happened if he'd done it at 8:00 on a Monday morning. He is dead now, isn't he?
I: I guarantee it.
P: Good. Anyway, I saw [REDACTED] hitting something on his phone, and, well, old habits die hard; I was down and shielding Sherlock before the blast hit. Never lost consciousness...wished I had, but can't be helped.
I: At least you were not trapped long before we found you. I am unimpressed with how long my people took to intercept and interpret Sherlock's texts.
P: Good thing [REDACTED] didn't make an ABBA reference, or Sherlock would never have known where to go.
I: Indeed. Now, of course there are repercussions. I'm afraid that you are reported as dead. And unfortunately, you will have to remain dead for some time.
P: You have got to be...no, you don't have any more sense of humour than Sherlock does.
I: You wound me. [REDACTED] is dead, but he still has several associates who are now looking for revenge. We are working to apprehend them, but it may take months.
P: Or longer.
I: Or longer.
P: And you want to send me to a safehouse? No. I'd last a month before I broke out or topped myself.
I: You and Sherlock alike. Believe me, I have observed you long enough to know that. That's why I have arranged for you to go to [REDACTED] under an assumed identity.
P: Do you really think I'll meekly go along with that?
I: A [REDACTED] there is in need of a doctor. And given the issues they have had with poachers and difficult interactions with them, your military and medical experience would be exactly what the doctor...well, that pun would be too obvious.
P: No.
I: You act like you have a choice.
P: I may not have a choice, but I certainly have conditions.
I: And they are?
P: You made me a job offer a year and a half ago. Is it still open?
I: It could be, but I am surprised that you ask. You were very much against acting as his caretaker back then.
P: Yeah, because then he didn't need one. Maybe in a few months he won't need one again. Right now, he does.
I: Do I understand that you are asking for a position that you expect to be temporary, then?
P: Exactly. And if it's not, I owe him.
I: Are you aware of the lifespan of [REDACTED]?
P: Fifteen years? Twenty?
I: Forty to fifty. Quite possibly longer.
P: Oh. And he's only, what, [REDACTED]?
I: Yes. It is not unlikely that he will outlive both of us.
P: That's fine. That's great, actually.
I: If he recovers. I will remind you that he is a [REDACTED]; it might be kindest to simply....
P: Tell you what: If it becomes clear that he's brain-dead, I'll take care of the rest. If he ever tells me he's had enough, I'll help him finish it. Otherwise, since he didn't exactly have an advance decision on file, I'm willing to wait and see how far he recovers. And I'm not going to [REDACTED] without him.
I: It may surprise you to know that I anticipated that. Do you know what the [REDACTED] region is noted for?
P: Clearly not, but I'm sure you can't wait to tell me.
I: It is one of the few places with a significant population of [REDACTED].
P: Oh. That's...actually, that's brilliant. You're going to hide him in plain sight?
I: Of course. The [REDACTED] has a rehabilitation center, and I am sure that Sherlock will receive the best possible care.
P: All right, then. As long as we go into hiding together, it's fine.
I: And the position you refer to is open if you wish it. However, you had also made me an offer some months ago.
P: I had.
I: I now have a price.
P: And?
I: One pound.
P: I offered you ten thousand.
I: You do not have ten thousand pounds, and with the salary you can expect, it will take too long to save it.
P: One pound, and Sherlock's consent.
I: Done.
P: Sorry I can't exactly shake hands right now.
I. Think nothing of it.
Excerpts from Dr. M. E. Morstan's emails to Mycroft Holmes, 2011-2014
Staff Listing, Website of Adler Investigation Ltd., 2014
John H. Watson, MBBS
Manager and Private Investigator
Mary E. Morstan, Ph. D.
Zoological and Wildlife Investigator
Sherlock Holmes Watson
Consulting Detective
FIN
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Session 11
May I be honest? If it were anyone but John who Mr. Moriarty held, if I had nothing vested in the outcome of this situation, I would happily pretend that Richard Adler is Mycroft, and then sit back to see which of them had been better at staff selection. My money would be on Mycroft, as I consider Papagena a match for any five of Moriarty's associates.
I worry, though, that my denial of being Mycroft will also rebound upon John.
I cannot think about what John may be enduring now. I cannot let Mr. Moriarty know that his harming John would rip out my own heart—metaphorically speaking, of course, but the long-term effect would be much the same.
It is growing late, and we have been talking for many hours. But before we close our acquaintance, I must tell you about yesterday.
John and I had been working all week with the Yard on another trafficking case and had finally solved it, far more successfully than the case involving the unfortunate Kratides family; our reward to ourselves was sixteen hours of sleep each. It ended up being only eight for me; I have difficulty sleeping much past dawn. While I waited for John to awaken, I was using his laptop to look up the flight speed of a South African Swallow—yes, I am aware that there is a related popular culture reference, but I actually needed to make the calculation before posting on one of the ornithology forums—when I found a file titled "Sherlock Holmes Strengths + Weaknesses".
Would you have been able to resist? I certainly could not.
Most of the list, I found quite accurate. Of course I am an expert on anatomy, particularly human and psittacid. Of course I am good at basic physics, simple engineering, and elementary electrical circuits. Of course I have extensive knowledge of Western classical music, encyclopedic knowledge of Turkish pop music of the past twenty-five years, and very limited knowledge of most other music—who introduced me to music, after all, and why should anyone be surprised that I share his tastes? Of course I know a great deal about the British and European governments and the various people within; again, with whom did I live for most of my life? Of course I have a map of London in my mind; of course I can identify buildings by their roofs and outdoor sculpture. Of course I am deeply familiar with criminal procedure and the rules on collection of evidence. Of course I am a tolerable programmer and a decent hacker. Of course I have to make an effort to follow the various human social norms one finds in London. Of course I can read six and type five languages fluently, and read eight more with the help of a dictionary, even though I only understand three spoken. Of course I enjoy reading and dislike film and television. Of course I am sometimes loud, and easily bored, and cross when short on sleep, and occasionally picky about my food, and extremely untidy.
But "suffers from Stockholm Syndrome"? Please. The present circumstance excepted, Mycroft does not hold me hostage. I do not empathize with Mycroft or view him as my source of life; I tolerate him because I must. My top three desires at this moment are John's life, Moriarty's death, and Mycroft's public humiliation, in that order; does that sound like Stockholm Syndrome?
So when John finally descended the staircase early in the afternoon, I immediately texted, *Stockholm Syndrome is a far rarer disorder than popular literature would have one believe, and in any case, I do not have it.*
"Are you on my laptop again? What's wrong with yours this time?"
*Just a kernel panic; I've rewritten the offending code and am still reinstalling.*
"And you wonder why I won't let you upgrade mine." He went to the kitchen and started making tea.
*Why do you think I have Stockholm Syndrome?*
He rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, it's too early in the morning."
*It is 1:47 p.m. Shall I forward you the formal definition and note exactly how I do NOT meet each condition?*
"If that's the worst thing you've found while snooping on my laptop, be grateful."
*You haven't answered my question.*
John set his mug down firmly. "Fine. It's Mr. Holmes. I've had all I can take of him."
*Should I be flattered that you have not reached that point with me?*
"Don't press your luck. After what you did with the milk this time—"
*The container was the right weight and dense enough to fit the space I needed.*
"Which would have been fine if you had, oh, I don't know, put it back in the fridge when you finished, instead of leaving it out all night."
*I had not finished my structural tests. Which of Mycroft's many faults was the last straw?*
He did not reply until he had finished his tea. "He wants us to take another case."
*Yes, I saw the message. So?*
"What if we say no?"
*Then we see whether he insists. But if he does, you don't have to work on it. You can do something else if you want.*
"Right. I can. I won't, but I can. You can't."
*If it bored me enough, I am certain that I could.*
"Really? Because you rolled your eyes at that last one, and you took it anyway."
*I do not roll my eyes. That is a human gesture. And the case turned out to be quite fascinating.*
"Yeah, luckily for you." He ran a hand through his hair. "You say you don't give a damn about him, but when he calls, you're there. He owns you. He owns you, and it's just—it's just wrong." He laughed, the stress-relieving variety rather than the amused one. "Christ, I sound like Ivan Vorpatril."
*Who?*
"Never mind. I hate that he's always in the background, no matter what we're doing."
I sought for words that would comfort him. *Would you feel better thinking of me as a child under guardianship? While I am mentally and physically an adult parrot and have been for some years, a human of my age still has many years remaining under parental guidance.*
"As you point out, you're not human. And Mycroft's not going to let you loose when you're eighteen. Why the hell do you put up with him?"
Those words triggered my irritation. *Do you remember the people we just rescued?*
"Christ, I'm never going to be able to forget them."
*Do you think ill of them for not breaking out of that room, when they were told their families would be killed if they did? Do you scorn them for accepting their captivity, when the Ricolettis held their passports and when they had no money or English language skills?*
"Of course not."
*Then why do you scorn me?*
"It's not the same situation."
*The parallels are sufficient. I have no legal status in this country—in any country. I am, in fact, property. Mycroft can, if he wishes, have me killed at any time, and if it is done humanely, no fuss would be made about it. I cannot earn my living without a go-between. If left on the street I would starve in a matter of months; the pigeons would do many things for me, but feeding me is not one of them.*
"Yes, but...."
*And you dare to ask me why I tolerate Mycroft? I tolerate Mycroft because all the other options are worse.*
John folded his arms. "Norbury."
*Oh? Kindly enlighten me, if you know so much more about it than I do.*
"To start with, why does it have to be Mycroft? Why couldn't you tell Mycroft you want a new owner? I'd take you. Anderson would take you. Hell, Anderson's ex-wife would take you."
*Because Mycroft will never sell me, as you would know if you'd ever made the offer.*
John didn't reply, but the tiny flicker of tension, the brief motion of his eyes gave him away.
*You did make an offer.*
After a pause, John said, "Yes. I did."
*When?*
"That night when he gave us Ms. Melas's case, after you'd gone to bed."
My irritation rose. *That was four months ago. When were you going to tell me?*
"The moment he accepted. Which he didn't."
*And what if I had said I didn't want to?*
"Then I'd have called him back and said the deal was off, of course. Christ, you don't think I'd buy you against your will, do you?"
*You certainly took the first step towards it without consulting me.*
"Okay. You're right. I'm sorry." He ran his hand through his hair again. "It's just.... Look, before I met you, every morning I'd lie in bed wondering whether this was the day I was finally going to top myself. And once I'd decided no, I was going to live for one more day, well, that used up my ration of decision-making power, and the rest of the day just didn't matter. Then I meet you, and thirty-six hours later I'm running around London helping to catch a murderer because you knew how to find him. Do you know what it's like, finally having a life that's worth living again?"
*Yes, as a matter of fact.*
My statement did nothing to calm him; if anything, he grew more agitated. "You give me something to wake up for. My mind's always busy trying to keep up with yours. I'm never bored. I'm actually useful. And the moment Mycroft bloody Holmes gets a whim, I can lose you, lose this life and be back where I started."
*Your future does not depend on Mycroft. If you had half a brain in your skull, you'd apply to work for MSF and have all the adventure and all the usefulness you could want.*
"And I'm sure they and Mycroft would let me haul a parrot into a warzone or disaster zone. Don't you get it? You always talk about bonding; did you really think it only went in one direction?"
*Of course I know you are attached to me, just as I know that Mycroft retains some attachment to me.*
"There's a flattering definition of attachment... you know, forget it. We never had this conversation."
*Ridiculous. We clearly did; the texts are there to prove it.*
John held up his phone and punched several buttons. "Not anymore." He stalked up the stairs, and a few minutes later he came back down wearing his lightweight jacket, which meant he was carrying the gun. "I'm going out. I probably won't be back until late. Don't wait up for me."
*Even if I want to read the texts you say don't exist?*
John snorted and slammed the door as he left. I reviewed our conversation and tried to determine what had angered him, but came to no conclusion until the next morning. I would blame lack of sleep for that stupidity, but sadly—
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
been having words with johnny about lies and how theyre bad. but he still insists yre mycroft. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Given what I know of how you work, I am surprised that I must make this explicit. How do you know that Dr. Watson has ever seen me? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
he knows who you are. trust me. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
He thinks he knows. Your assessment of his intelligence aside, he is not without reasoning, and he has come to a conclusion based on the evidence made available.
You should understand that, Jim. Do all of your assistants know your face? Do they know your first name? Do they know that you are called JIM not only as a nickname for James, but because those are your initials? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
you are good! very good! why can't we be friends? xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Because our goals and aims are entirely incompatible. I assure you, however, that I greatly admire and respect your mind. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
ditto. ill find you yet. xoxoxo jm
And that is nearly the end. I woke at quarter past five this morning to the message "MR ADLER IS MISSING SOMETHING" on John's blog, and a flat empty of John and suffused with Mycroft.
"We believe he has been kidnapped," Mycroft said shortly.
I was too shocked by the news to feel anything. *Where was he last seen? I will start the search.*
"You will do no such thing. I cannot risk your being taken as well."
*I must.*
"Whatever guilt you feel over your debate of yesterday afternoon...."
I raised my wings in frustration. *I thought I found all the bugs this time.*
"...flapping about the city will not help him. And with situations developing that need my attention, it is impossible for me to supervise you at this time. The Yard is on the case. We are taking you to a safehouse in the meantime."
*No.*
"My dear bird, you have no choice."
*Why? Because my life is in danger from his kidnappers? I would sooner be killed looking for John than safe and waiting for him.*
"And I would sooner you live to see him again. You remain my responsibility, hard as that may be on both of us."
*I need not remain so. Why wouldn't you sell me to John?*
"Do I need to answer that? You are a classified experiment."
*John has been thoroughly vetted. John—* Suddenly his statements of last night made sense, and I berated myself for my stupidity. *He was trying to tell me that I am as essential to him as he is to me. I am not essential to you.*
"Nevertheless, you must be protected. Your genes and your brain would be tempting targets to anyone who knew about them."
*You do not need to own me to protect me.*
"Stop being silly. Of course I do not, but it is far simpler."
*You scoff at simplicity. Please, Mycroft, let me go. John is in danger.*
"I am sorry, my dear bird. You are going to a secure location. I will do my best to locate John, but in return I want you to speak with a professional I have arranged to meet you."
*A professional what?*
"Dr. Hunter has proven useful in other cases of emotional trauma and extreme stress; I am sure you will find her comforting."
*Comforting?* Now I was becoming agitated, as the reality of John's danger sank in. *Comforting? John is missing. It might have been Moriarty who took him, and you expect a psychiatrist to be comforting?*
"Yes. Now, as I do not trust you not to escape the moment we go outside, would you like to enter this carrier under your own power, or must my assistants force you?"
It required four of them to secure me, and I do not apologize for the tetanus shot that one required afterwards.
They brought me here. You know the rest.
The car is on its way? Good. Though I must say, I have found our conversation more satisfying than I had expected.
Yes, I would even say it has been successful. I know now what my goal is.
What else? John has been patient with me. John has been my friend. John risked a murder conviction for me, when my own would-be killers would have at most been convicted of animal cruelty or property destruction. John is trying to keep Mr. Moriarty from finding out who and what I am, even though Mr. Moriarty has done his best to rip out his heart. My goal is to help secure John's safety, whatever small step I can take toward that. I am calmer now, and ready to wait and to do what is best.
By all means, let us wait in the lobby instead of in here. It is good to have a change of scene.
Before I leave, might I tell you about one more thing that is on my mind?
When Mycroft left me here this morning, I said to him, "You cannot stop me; you cannot prevent my escape. I will get away from here, one way or another. And I will finish this." In retrospect, that was too unkind, even toward my enemy.
Oh? Let me say it to you as I said it to him.
Of course it sounds innocuous to you. You might even have thought that he did not react. I assure you that Papagena was not fooled, however; I certainly was not.
I lived for six years with Mycroft as my friend and several months with him as my enemy. I know him. I know his possessions, his collections, and his files.
There is a recording—originally it was clearly a videotape; the quality is awful. When I found it, it had been transferred onto a DVD. I am certain that by now it is also a file on a hard disk or flash drive, backed up in at least six locations across two continents, even though Mycroft has never played the recording in all the time I have known him.
I played it. I watched a man writhe in his restraints on a hospital bed. I heard him begging for drugs, for help, for death.
When I spoke to Mycroft in the voice and words of his brother, his brother who successfully overdosed days after that recording, his brother who I am named for? I now think that is the worst thing I could have done to him.
Since I know Mycroft will read this, later if not now, I will say it:
Mycroft, I apologise.
The human brain desperately seeks patterns and will find them where no pattern actually exists. Perhaps this is a trait of all intelligence, as I too understand the appeal of finding a pattern and assigning meaning to it. The idea of reincarnation is rubbish. That I was conceived on the day your brother died is a coincidence; that I hatched on his birthday is another; that my personality reminds you of his is yet another. But I cannot scorn you for seeing me as a second chance, for trying to protect me as you could not protect him, even though your actions were misguided.
And really, "apologise" is neither adequate nor accurate. Mycroft, I am sorry.
Yes, I do know the words. I even understand the sentiment: regret for harm caused, whether by wrong choices, by accident, or as an unavoidable consequence to a right choice. Mycroft, what I inflicted on you with my mimicry this morning was the first.
Dr. Hunter, I am about to do the third. I am sorry. Cover your face.
***End of Session Transcripts***
Transcriptions from Recovered Device
To: [REDACTED]
My dear Jim, I have considered our conversations, and I have a new game that I hope you will agree to: Let us meet in person, tonight.
You name the place. You name the time. I will be there--alone, or at least without human accompaniment, though I cannot promise that I will not be followed.
My sole rule: You must bring my assistant: alive, conscious, and intact. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
richard the pseudonym! ill play!
and for more fun ill make it another puzzle! todays date tells you where. program with variant on conjguate gradient method tells you which. time? year it closed. dont be late!
ill bring your asst if you bring your bird. maybe we can trade! xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Very clever! You are clearly the Napoleon of crime. Platform 23 it is; Sherlock and I will see you at 20:07. --RSA
Hello, Jim. Thank you for your punctuality. I hope you will forgive the long waits for my responses; I type very slowly.
Text-to-speech is an amazing invention, is it not?
Oh, some wires had to be re-laid, but there was enough of the PA system left to work with. These platforms are in excellent shape given that they have been abandoned for nearly four years.
You are remarkably patient. I appreciate that.
I assure you that I am here. I merely wish to prolong the pleasure of anticipation, before we meet face-to-face.
Have you brought Dr. Watson?
John. You look terrible.
Have I ever been tactful?
Oh, and to verify my identity: My great-aunt is not an author.
I am also sorry about yesterday. Shall we call it even?
Good. My time working with you has been the best of my life. Thank you. For everything.
Jim, I am pleased that you find this touching.
Let us get down to business, then. You want my bird. I want my assistant.
Yes, you had mentioned that before. Shall we let my bird meet you?
I am sending him; he will arrive in just a minute.
No, I am not sure what that sound is. Perhaps it is a few thrill-seeking pigeons, dropping bundles of Semtex and broken glass, attempting to disable your snipers without getting killed themselves.
Unlikely, I grant you. It is quite difficult to find sufficiently reckless pigeons. And yet—
Notice that Sherlock was not shot when he pulled the gun from your belt.
A trained parrot does prove useful.
I am sure he will come down from the rafters in a minute.
Yes, I fear those squawks are evidence that he strained muscles lifting the gun.
I understand your amusement. Between the broken phalanges, the duct tape wrapping his fingers, and the rope binding his wrists, Dr. Watson might barely be able to hold and aim his gun, but he cannot pull the trigger. You are a master of psychological torture.
Hmm. You are correct. My typing speed has indeed increased.
Again, correct. While I have impairments, they do not affect my typing speed, especially with a good auto-complete program. You really are quite good at deduction.
You made other correct deductions as well. Richard Adler is, in fact, a pseudonym.
You have failed to deduce one thing, though.
Oh, I am the person you are looking for. But I am neither Richard Adler nor Mycroft Holmes.
My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I can pull a trigger.
Further Documents from the Personal File of Mycroft Holmes
Transcript of patient interview, 20 June 2011; some details redacted
Interviewer: Good morning.
Patient: How is he?
I: Still unconscious. Dr. Trevor is not certain whether he will recover, or how much mental function he will retain if he does.
P: Damn.
I: And how are you?
P: As if you needed to ask.
I: One sometimes wants the subjective perspective rather than the medical charts.
P: I'm great, then. Much better than when I was in for my shoulder.
I: I am sorry to trouble you while you are recovering, but it would be very helpful if you could tell me exactly what happened at [REDACTED]. There are, sadly, no recordings of the incident, and no indication other than the texts as to what happened.
P: All right. What do you want to know?
I: You know where his texts ended.
P: I'm surprised you let me read all that. I can understand the texts from the [REDACTED], but I didn't expect the ones from the rest of the day.
I: It was—well. I thought you should read them.
P: Yeah. What the hell did he do to Dr. Hunter and your people?
I: He arranged for a flock of [REDACTED] to surround them when they left the building. He escaped in the confusion. I assure you that everyone was unharmed.
P: And I can fill in the rest. He went to one of his caches, got supplies—God, if I'd known he had stolen Semtex out of [REDACTED]'s cellar—I wondered why it took so long for him to come back to me after he got out of there.
I: I shall have to find the rest of the caches and see whether he has stashed explosives anywhere else. It is worse than dealing with a bored teenager. [pause] Pardon me; I must be allergic to one of the disinfectants.
P: He hadn't told me that last bit about your brother. I'm sorry.
I: It was many years ago. [pause] He would have liked you, I suspect, as far as he was capable of liking anyone. But we are here to talk about the recent past, not the ancient. What happened after his last text?
P: You know he pulled the gun from [REDACTED] and dropped it into my hands—not that I had much grip with all that duct tape, but I was at least able to hang on and point it. He flew down and landed on my shoulder; I think he'd written that last text but waited to hit "send" until he was in position. God, [REDACTED]'s expression -- it was brilliant. And the moment the text reader finished, Sherlock pulled the trigger for me.
I: And?
P: What do you think happened, when I couldn't grip the gun? Damn recoil nearly ripped his head off.
I: An exaggeration. Dr. Trevor says he did have a severe neck injury and concussion, but no spinal breakage.
P: God, when you say that, I can tell who taught him to talk.
I: His mimicry was—is, one hopes—impressive. He could not have known what the consequences....
P: Oh, he knew. He'd said once that he'd love to learn to shoot, but between the recoil and his limited binocular vision, there'd be no point.
I: [inaudible mumble]
P: I'm surprised you know those words.
I: A minor civil servant receives many opportunities to increase vocabulary. What happened next?
P: [REDACTED] was still alive. I'm not a bad shot, but even I can't aim that well tied up and with no grip. He was dying, though, and he knew it. I'd caught Sherlock before he hit the ground, and I just said good-bye to [REDACTED] and walked away.
I: Carrying Sherlock with your hands tied? I am impressed.
P: He doesn't weigh more than a couple of kilos. Trying to keep his head supported hurt like fuck, though. No, can't say that. He'd say "Why do you use an activity that you clearly find pleasurable to describe something unpleasant?"
I: The mysteries of the English language. And then the bomb exploded?
P: [REDACTED] must have had it as a backup. At least it was Saturday; I hate to think what would have happened if he'd done it at 8:00 on a Monday morning. He is dead now, isn't he?
I: I guarantee it.
P: Good. Anyway, I saw [REDACTED] hitting something on his phone, and, well, old habits die hard; I was down and shielding Sherlock before the blast hit. Never lost consciousness...wished I had, but can't be helped.
I: At least you were not trapped long before we found you. I am unimpressed with how long my people took to intercept and interpret Sherlock's texts.
P: Good thing [REDACTED] didn't make an ABBA reference, or Sherlock would never have known where to go.
I: Indeed. Now, of course there are repercussions. I'm afraid that you are reported as dead. And unfortunately, you will have to remain dead for some time.
P: You have got to be...no, you don't have any more sense of humour than Sherlock does.
I: You wound me. [REDACTED] is dead, but he still has several associates who are now looking for revenge. We are working to apprehend them, but it may take months.
P: Or longer.
I: Or longer.
P: And you want to send me to a safehouse? No. I'd last a month before I broke out or topped myself.
I: You and Sherlock alike. Believe me, I have observed you long enough to know that. That's why I have arranged for you to go to [REDACTED] under an assumed identity.
P: Do you really think I'll meekly go along with that?
I: A [REDACTED] there is in need of a doctor. And given the issues they have had with poachers and difficult interactions with them, your military and medical experience would be exactly what the doctor...well, that pun would be too obvious.
P: No.
I: You act like you have a choice.
P: I may not have a choice, but I certainly have conditions.
I: And they are?
P: You made me a job offer a year and a half ago. Is it still open?
I: It could be, but I am surprised that you ask. You were very much against acting as his caretaker back then.
P: Yeah, because then he didn't need one. Maybe in a few months he won't need one again. Right now, he does.
I: Do I understand that you are asking for a position that you expect to be temporary, then?
P: Exactly. And if it's not, I owe him.
I: Are you aware of the lifespan of [REDACTED]?
P: Fifteen years? Twenty?
I: Forty to fifty. Quite possibly longer.
P: Oh. And he's only, what, [REDACTED]?
I: Yes. It is not unlikely that he will outlive both of us.
P: That's fine. That's great, actually.
I: If he recovers. I will remind you that he is a [REDACTED]; it might be kindest to simply....
P: Tell you what: If it becomes clear that he's brain-dead, I'll take care of the rest. If he ever tells me he's had enough, I'll help him finish it. Otherwise, since he didn't exactly have an advance decision on file, I'm willing to wait and see how far he recovers. And I'm not going to [REDACTED] without him.
I: It may surprise you to know that I anticipated that. Do you know what the [REDACTED] region is noted for?
P: Clearly not, but I'm sure you can't wait to tell me.
I: It is one of the few places with a significant population of [REDACTED].
P: Oh. That's...actually, that's brilliant. You're going to hide him in plain sight?
I: Of course. The [REDACTED] has a rehabilitation center, and I am sure that Sherlock will receive the best possible care.
P: All right, then. As long as we go into hiding together, it's fine.
I: And the position you refer to is open if you wish it. However, you had also made me an offer some months ago.
P: I had.
I: I now have a price.
P: And?
I: One pound.
P: I offered you ten thousand.
I: You do not have ten thousand pounds, and with the salary you can expect, it will take too long to save it.
P: One pound, and Sherlock's consent.
I: Done.
P: Sorry I can't exactly shake hands right now.
I. Think nothing of it.
Excerpts from Dr. M. E. Morstan's emails to Mycroft Holmes, 2011-2014
...I must thank you again for finding James MacArthur for us. He has quickly become a valued colleague, cheerful about our privations and working well with even the difficult personalities.
I'm afraid the injured macaw Dr. MacArthur found on his way here is never going to return to the wild, but it is slowly recovering some use of its wings. He has christened it "Mr. Bucket", though we have not actually done DNA testing to confirm its sex. It has bonded quickly with him, though; they are nearly inseparable when he is not seeing patients.....
....I am delighted to tell you that Mr. Bucket is indeed a Mister. He and my favourite of the rehab birds, Irina, have produced a clutch; one egg did not hatch, unfortunately, but the other chick seems healthy. A picture of Violet and her parents is attached. Dr. MacArthur has declared himself an uncle and jokes about buying her unsuitable toys....
We have, if not a rehabilitation success, at least a great improvement. Attached is a video of Mr. Bucket, in true flight! A very short one, but nonetheless, a milestone. James is thrilled, though when I mentioned that perhaps Mr. Bucket will be able to return to the wild in time after all , he was clearly unhappy about the prospect. I understand his feelings, and am actually grateful that Irina will have to live out her life in captivity, but our job is not to create pet birds; it is to preserve the wild population.
Thank you for the information packet you sent. It is quite interesting, to say the least, and will take some time for me to absorb and understand thoroughly, but I am glad I received it before making any life-altering decisions (or, I should say, any further life-altering decisions). Please give my regards to your assistant; her Portuguese is excellent.
Mr. Bucket's rehabilitation continues apace, and I think it safe to say that while his physical condition still leaves room for improvement, there has been no lasting damage to his cognitive abilities.
Also, J says to tell you that he received your receipt for one pound sterling.
....attached is the official offspring photo. The baby is Richard; the chick is Mycroft. I am told to tell you that the latter name was by unanimous agreement, as J thinks he isn't very bright.
...the commotion has finally died down, now that Colonel Moran has been taken into custody. Who'd have thought that an animatronic bird would have fooled him into shooting? (You can almost certainly guess whose idea it was; J shakes his head and comments about love of the dramatic, but as it worked, he seems quite proud of his friend.)
While I have enjoyed my years in South America, I am looking forward to living in London again. Our next challenge: finding out whether filling out CITES forms for four birds is easier or harder than my last grant application....
Staff Listing, Website of Adler Investigation Ltd., 2014
John H. Watson, MBBS
Manager and Private Investigator
Mary E. Morstan, Ph. D.
Zoological and Wildlife Investigator
Sherlock Holmes Watson
Consulting Detective
FIN