Entry tags:
Fic: A Study in Squawking, chapters 1 and 2 of 12
Title: A Study in Squawking
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Rating: No onstage sex; implied offstage sex; none of it interspecies. Little to no onstage violence; implied offstage violence; reference to bad stuff that happened in the past. Occasional blasphemy and profanity. Would let my preteen read it if he were literate.
Summary: "Why do you want me to tell you my life story? Surely Mycroft has briefed you. I thought that therapists were supposed to help solve problems. This is my problem: John is gone. John has probably been kidnapped. John may be dead. Mycroft has imprisoned me here and will not let me search for him. How will telling you my life from the egg solve any of these problems?" The autobiography of Sherlock Holmes, intelligent macaw, as told (under duress) to a therapist.
Yep, this is that fic inspired by that dream I had a few months ago. Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legionseagle for Brit-picking.
Also on AO3.
From the personal files of Mycroft Holmes: Transcript of text input by subject "S" to Dr. V. J. Hunter, 18 June 2011
Session 1
Let me state for the record that I am only talking to you because Mycroft ordered it. Normally I don't care what that snake wants, but he has said this is his condition for his help. I have no idea why; even I find Mycroft inscrutable at times.
Yes, I have been exhibiting stress behaviours. Will all your comments be this obvious? Are you now going to tell me that I'm blue and that there are circles around my eyes?
Why do you want me to tell you my life story? Surely Mycroft has briefed you. I thought that therapists were supposed to help solve problems. This is my problem: John is gone. John has probably been kidnapped. John may be dead. Mycroft has imprisoned me here and will not let me search for him. How will telling you my life from the egg solve any of these problems?
Very well. I accept that it will at least fill an hour or two while we wait. Do you have a pen or pencil that is expendable?
That relieved some stress. The beginning, then.
I was part of an experiment in augmenting intelligence through genetic manipulation. The experiment was largely unsuccessful; most of the subjects died as embryos. By the time I was three, the funding had been cut. There was obviously other mismanagement as well—why, for example, would any sensible scientist use a rare species for research when a more common species would have worked as well? And no one realized the full extent of my intelligence; I was at that time unable to speak.
I should be precise. No one in the lab realized. Mycroft, nose in a thousand nests, read the reports and recognized my brain for what it is. One brilliant mind always knows another, he says. He is wrong, I hope, because if John is with Moriarty and Moriarty realizes that he hasn't taken the brains....
How many more of those pencils do you have?
Instead of being exterminated, I was transferred to Mycroft's custody. He hired specialists to spend days with me, but evenings were always ours. The specialists taught me to speak, and kept me entertained with toys and puzzles, but he was the one who taught me to read and to type, to translate visual estimates and recognized patterns into words. He showed me the computer; he taught me to program. Before texting was common and cell phones became tiny, he had an early version of this device made for me so that I could communicate more easily. He introduced me to music; I could sing the soprano and contralto parts in Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde" before I could say my own name. He gave me my name; in the lab, I was usually called Mr. Bucket.
Yes, I am aware that it was a form of wordplay. I don't know the details; it makes no difference to me. Mycroft called me "Sherlock", and at the time, Mycroft was everything. And later, I had become accustomed to the name, and John likes it and has never suggested a new one.
Why are you asking me that? Do you want me to talk about my youth, or do you want me to skip to why I hate Mycroft? I don't understand you humans. So few of you listen. You can't see patterns because you don't take the time to see everything, hear everything, sense everything. Do you know why Lestrade's solve rate doubles when I'm brought to the crime scene? It's because I observe and they don't.
Call Lestrade. Get my bodysuit and my flightpack. Give me every clue Mycroft has. I'll find John before any of you.
Fine. Give me another pencil.
You ask me the wrong questions. My origins don't matter. My relationship with Mycroft doesn't matter. These things matter: solving crimes, flying, coconuts, and John.
Oh, come on. Do Lestrade and his people know why they like solving crimes? Do you know why you like psychiatry? Does Mycroft know why he likes running the British government in secret? I like solving crimes. The puzzles are more challenging than most artificial puzzles, and it has the side benefit of making my life and my continued health worth protecting. If I were in the wild, I would be using these skills to find food and protect my mate's eggs from predators. In captivity, I use these skills to earn food and to trap predators.
By the first time I helped Lestrade, I was an expert in observing humans. Mycroft had brought me to numerous receptions and parties, excursions to parks, concerts—nothing where important secrets were discussed; no one with sense discusses secrets in front of a psittacid, but the events were nonetheless fascinating classrooms for human behaviour. And many humans have no sense.
As for learning forensics, there are these things called "books". Poor substitutes for experience, I agree, but their information created the box that I could later line with practical learning.
Why are you surprised? I like metaphors. They are much easier to understand than puns.
The first time I helped Lestrade, I must admit, was an accident. By that time, I was growing bored with my daytime caretakers and frustrated with Mycroft's evening distance. Escape became a game, the most interesting part of a tedious day and fraught night.
Difficult? You would be surprised. Even a parrot of normal intelligence can often plan an escape. Even an unmodified Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus can break a coconut with its beak, let alone a too-thin cage wire or latch. For me? Trivial.
Escaping from this office? Simplicity itself.
I have not tried to escape because Mycroft said he has marksmen waiting with tranquilizer darts. John may be alive. I don't want to break my wing falling yet.
So on the day in question, there had been a morning news story about a murder. The reporter did not give the address, but they had named the borough. Aerial reconaissance supplied the rest—and what they had missed.
"Get that bird out of here! Anderson, do you have a net?" Lestrade's first ever words to me, but this does not convey the tone. Let me say it.
Exactly. Nothing surprises Lestrade. Irritates, frustrates, bemuses, yes. Surprises? No. Even when I took a minute to put the words together, and then said, "The phone on the ledge. Victim's or murderer's?"
It took two tries before he seemed to understand me, and even then, he shouted for Anderson again and ignored my words. So I grabbed a spare shoe cover and flew to the ledge in question. One of the drawbacks of being a bird—I do have to make an extra effort not to contaminate a crime scene. "Phone! Whose?"
Lestrade stared at me, and Anderson, when he finally joined him, looked even more astounded. "That can't be. I know everyone in the city who has a hyacinth macaw, and I've never seen this one. And Melanie would've called if someone posted on the mailing list about theirs escaping."
I tried not to flutter and shed feathers, but it took effort. "Come! Get! This! Bloody! Phone!"
They finally listened. The aftermath of the case was boring, and I do not count it as one I solved; they would have interviewed everyone in the block of flats anyway, and most likely found the murderer in the right one without my help. I simply accelerated matters.
The relevant part: fifteen minutes later, Mycroft arrived on the scene and ordered both Lestrade and myself into the car for a discussion. By the time we dropped Lestrade off at the Yard, he had agreed to allow my presence at future crime scenes.
Anderson became my nominal handler when I worked with them. He has no deductive ability, but he is competent at collecting evidence, and he does understand birds. I wanted to live with him after Mycroft and I became enemies, but Barbara would have none of it.
His former wife's first name is Melanie. Barbara is a Cacatua galerita. A very pleasant bird, but she made it very clear that Anderson was hers and I was not welcome.
Of course I can still communicate with other birds. I converse easily with parrots, and I can understand and make myself understood to crows and ravens with a little more effort. I would like not to understand pigeons; the philosophy of aesthetics is not one of my interests, and they talk of little else. But they have excellent memories, and I have often called on them to find whether a person was seen in a particular location, when the CCTV cameras have been no help.
579,115! Has she been back to Baker Street? 579,115 said she saw John yesterday evening and that she would ask after him.
True. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't recognize 579,115. But if I went back there and waited for her.... Can Mycroft bring her here? I can find out what she's learned, and then we can find John.
Please. Please. Mycroft, are you reading this right now? I will tell you exactly what the Flemish Minister for Brussels Affairs said on 19 February if you will let me out of here now. Please.
You are not helping. This is not helping. I need a break. I need something to break. Get me a coconut. And more pencils.
[Note: Anderson's ex-wife's name is shamelessly stolen from Mazarin221B's Would You Like Me to Seduce You?]
Session 2
Is there any news?
Yes, I was talking to myself when you came in. "It's all fine." Things are not fine, but I can remember John saying that, and I can hope that he still believes it. It is certainly more soothing than typing my autobiography for you.
Because I can't. More accurately, I could speak rather than type, but it takes too long. I have to remember the words and phrases, the syntax, the pitch, the voice. If I haven't heard someone say the sentence, I have to put it together, and it is a slow process. Here, let me say the previous sentence for you.
See? Most people would give up on listening before I found all the words. Written language is much easier for me; I am able to type fluently and fast. But there are some phrases I've heard often that I can speak without thought. For example:
That was Anderson's voice. "Mutant dinosaur" is his affectionate name for any bird; he calls Barbara that too. Though I believe he has been told that I am genetically engineered; he certainly has long since realized that I am far more intelligent than a normal parrot.
Then there's this phrase:
Yes, that voice was Mrs. Hudson. It's "not your housekeeper, dear" to John, and "not your zookeeper, dear" to me. Except for that one afternoon when John and I experimented to see whether I could avoid a net; we both received the zookeeper line that day.
I met her through a case, of course. By then I had been working for some years with the Yard, and I was developing some skill in detection. The murder of Andrew Vamberry in his off-licence—I was the one who found the unusually dusty bottle of vodka and synthesized the details that led to both the arrest of the murderer and the breakup of a smuggling ring. The kidnapping of Irina Tsurikova—I put together the condition of the paint on the windowsill, the amount of water in her glass, and the shirt button under the radiator to describe how it was done, and once I hacked into her grandson's computer we were able to determine the rest. My skills have their limits; I cannot interview suspects, of course, and I have been known to miss clues due to ignorance of human cultures and conventions. But what I miss in being unaware of all that humans consider important, I gain in observing what humans consider beneath notice or too obvious to notice.
One afternoon, when I was invited to join the Andersons, Barbara, and Dinsdale for an outdoor walk, we stopped outside a cafe. There I overheard Mrs. Hudson telling a friend about the mysterious letter her husband had left—
I'm telling you about Mrs. Hudson, not Dinsdale.
Oh, very well. Dinsdale is a Psittacus erithacus, and was a good friend of mine, to the extent that an ordinary parrot could be my friend. Sadly, she moved with Melanie Anderson to Oxford after the divorce. She was actually an accessory to their divorce; she enjoyed mimicking their mating noises, and did the same when Anderson started having sexual relations with Sergeant Donovan. He should have gone to Donovan's flat instead of bringing her to his house; I like Anderson very much, but he is one of many humans with no sense.
Do you have any more tangential questions, or might I return to Mrs. Hudson?
The affair of Mrs. Hudson's husband was a misjudgment on my part. Pickpocketing her phone to get her number was a reasonable action. Texting her to let her know I worked with the police, had heard the conversation, and would like to see the letter—still reasonable. Revealing myself as an intelligent macaw rather than a human—a calculated risk, and a successful one. Taking the case entirely upon myself rather than leaving it for the police? Misjudgment.
It was necessary. I would not have been able to solve the case without smuggling myself to Florida and finding Mr. Hudson's hideout myself. I did solve the case. Mycroft arranged my go-between to present my evidence to the local police. But not even Mycroft could keep me from being quarantined at home when I was returned to Britain. Nor would he try to prevent it; if anything, he encouraged its extension, saying that leaving the country on my own was foolish, and I needed to experience the consequences of my poor decisions. It was the most boring six months of my life, though I did use that time to learn to read Chinese and Hungarian.
During the quarantine, other matters came to a head.
You asked me earlier why I hate Mycroft. I hate Mycroft because he rejected me, over and over, for years.
Macaws, like most parrots, form bonds, with other macaws or with humans. I tried to bond with Mycroft throughout the years I lived with him, and he always kept his distance. Finally, when I returned from quarantine and tried to sit on his wrist, he told me he was not willing to form a closer bond with me. "I am married to my work," he said, "and she is a most jealous mistress."
*If you are married to her, then she is your wife, not your mistress,* I replied.
He critiqued me for applying modern semantics to an archaic expression, and then told me that he would be happy to hire evening caretakers if I was finding myself lonely. I pointed out the various facial expressions and movements that showed he already had formed a degree of attachment to me; he told me that I was of interest as an experiment and for my analytic mind, but not as a friend. I kept my temper under control and satisfied myself by perching on his umbrellas until I emptied my cloaca.
Of course he was lying. It was obvious. And even if I could not read human behaviour, my very name is evidence that he felt a personal interest in me. Otherwise I would still be Mr. Bucket or Richard, or he would have given me an entirely unrelated name.
You raise a valid point. Mycroft rarely talks about him, but I have gathered that he was also fiercely intelligent, interested in crimes and solving problems. Perhaps Mycroft saw that similarity between us, and chose the name for that reason. But even if my name is only a memorial, you must still account for the countless ways Mycroft showed friendship to me. He was attached to me—but only so far, only so much.
I considered the problem during my quarantine and for some weeks after I again was able to work with Lestrade's team. It became clear to me at last: I must find other lodgings. Anderson was unable to accommodate me; Lestrade would have sooner joined a gang than let me live in his flat; Donovan, though tolerant of Barbara, doesn't like birds; Dr. Stamford said he wouldn't have time to supervise me—
Do you want to hear this story in some semblance of chronological order and continuity? Clearly you don't, as you keep interrupting. Very well. Dr. Stamford was a friend of one of the veterinarians who worked with me when I was a chick. He had heard about my work for the Yard—probably from Hooper in the Barts morgue; an intelligent person, but smells too much like feline for my comfort—and wondered if I might be the same bird Dr. Trevor had talked about. We finally met three years ago when I had Lestrade bring me along to the morgue to see a body. Dr. Stamford lets me use his laboratory as long as I wear a nappy and bodysuit. He likes telling visitors that I am part of an experiment to train parrots to perform lab tests, and he is genuinely impressed with my lab technique.
But he could not solve my housing problems. So I contacted the one other person who knew me, knew my capabilities, and as a bonus, owed me a favour. That night I laid my plan before Mycroft.
*Mrs. Hudson has a flat to let. I would like to move into it.*
"Who is going to pay the rent, my dear bird?"
*I am not your dear anything, except perhaps in the sense of expense. And you are paying, of course. Unless you have found a way for me to draw a salary?*
"Much as I would love to see Inland Revenue's reaction to your tax forms, no. Very well; it will be easier on both of us if you find other living arrangements. But you cannot live there by yourself."
*I can lock the door, change my own papers, and work the sink tap if we install the correct handles. If I have an internet connection, a computer, and access to a bank account, I can pay my bills and arrange grocery delivery. Since you insist on my using one of your cars for transport, I see no reason for that to change. What more do I need?*
"Companionship, Sherlock. You are part of a social species."
*So are you, in theory. And I can always visit Mrs. Hudson if I am lonely.*
He laughed at me, but agreed to a trial of the flat.
Unfortunately, he was correct. Days were bearable; I had the work, the extra computer in Anderson's office at the Yard, the crime scenes, the research, the early evenings in the lab.
Nights were infinitely lonely. Mrs. Hudson was often busy or out. I was rarely able to attend night-time crime scenes; my night vision is poor enough and my alertness low enough that I am of little use to Lestrade after dark. Texts to acquaintances and pseudonymous posts on the internet were not companionship any more than reading books was.
I am indeed part of a social species. In nature, I would be surrounded by others of my species, or at least other parrots. My enhanced intelligence makes the company of birds far less satisfying than it would otherwise be, but humans are a more than adequate substitute. The prospect of evenings alone, days alone when I was not called to crime scenes—it was terrible then.
It is worse now.
Is there no news at all? Forty minutes have passed. Has Mycroft gathered no new data? Has Lestrade found no lead? Are there no pigeons outside?
There are? Let them in! Let me talk to them! They may have seen John, and I am the only one who can translate!
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Rating: No onstage sex; implied offstage sex; none of it interspecies. Little to no onstage violence; implied offstage violence; reference to bad stuff that happened in the past. Occasional blasphemy and profanity. Would let my preteen read it if he were literate.
Summary: "Why do you want me to tell you my life story? Surely Mycroft has briefed you. I thought that therapists were supposed to help solve problems. This is my problem: John is gone. John has probably been kidnapped. John may be dead. Mycroft has imprisoned me here and will not let me search for him. How will telling you my life from the egg solve any of these problems?" The autobiography of Sherlock Holmes, intelligent macaw, as told (under duress) to a therapist.
Yep, this is that fic inspired by that dream I had a few months ago. Thanks to
legionseagle for Brit-picking.Also on AO3.
From the personal files of Mycroft Holmes: Transcript of text input by subject "S" to Dr. V. J. Hunter, 18 June 2011
Session 1
Let me state for the record that I am only talking to you because Mycroft ordered it. Normally I don't care what that snake wants, but he has said this is his condition for his help. I have no idea why; even I find Mycroft inscrutable at times.
Yes, I have been exhibiting stress behaviours. Will all your comments be this obvious? Are you now going to tell me that I'm blue and that there are circles around my eyes?
Why do you want me to tell you my life story? Surely Mycroft has briefed you. I thought that therapists were supposed to help solve problems. This is my problem: John is gone. John has probably been kidnapped. John may be dead. Mycroft has imprisoned me here and will not let me search for him. How will telling you my life from the egg solve any of these problems?
Very well. I accept that it will at least fill an hour or two while we wait. Do you have a pen or pencil that is expendable?
That relieved some stress. The beginning, then.
I was part of an experiment in augmenting intelligence through genetic manipulation. The experiment was largely unsuccessful; most of the subjects died as embryos. By the time I was three, the funding had been cut. There was obviously other mismanagement as well—why, for example, would any sensible scientist use a rare species for research when a more common species would have worked as well? And no one realized the full extent of my intelligence; I was at that time unable to speak.
I should be precise. No one in the lab realized. Mycroft, nose in a thousand nests, read the reports and recognized my brain for what it is. One brilliant mind always knows another, he says. He is wrong, I hope, because if John is with Moriarty and Moriarty realizes that he hasn't taken the brains....
How many more of those pencils do you have?
Instead of being exterminated, I was transferred to Mycroft's custody. He hired specialists to spend days with me, but evenings were always ours. The specialists taught me to speak, and kept me entertained with toys and puzzles, but he was the one who taught me to read and to type, to translate visual estimates and recognized patterns into words. He showed me the computer; he taught me to program. Before texting was common and cell phones became tiny, he had an early version of this device made for me so that I could communicate more easily. He introduced me to music; I could sing the soprano and contralto parts in Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde" before I could say my own name. He gave me my name; in the lab, I was usually called Mr. Bucket.
Yes, I am aware that it was a form of wordplay. I don't know the details; it makes no difference to me. Mycroft called me "Sherlock", and at the time, Mycroft was everything. And later, I had become accustomed to the name, and John likes it and has never suggested a new one.
Why are you asking me that? Do you want me to talk about my youth, or do you want me to skip to why I hate Mycroft? I don't understand you humans. So few of you listen. You can't see patterns because you don't take the time to see everything, hear everything, sense everything. Do you know why Lestrade's solve rate doubles when I'm brought to the crime scene? It's because I observe and they don't.
Call Lestrade. Get my bodysuit and my flightpack. Give me every clue Mycroft has. I'll find John before any of you.
Fine. Give me another pencil.
You ask me the wrong questions. My origins don't matter. My relationship with Mycroft doesn't matter. These things matter: solving crimes, flying, coconuts, and John.
Oh, come on. Do Lestrade and his people know why they like solving crimes? Do you know why you like psychiatry? Does Mycroft know why he likes running the British government in secret? I like solving crimes. The puzzles are more challenging than most artificial puzzles, and it has the side benefit of making my life and my continued health worth protecting. If I were in the wild, I would be using these skills to find food and protect my mate's eggs from predators. In captivity, I use these skills to earn food and to trap predators.
By the first time I helped Lestrade, I was an expert in observing humans. Mycroft had brought me to numerous receptions and parties, excursions to parks, concerts—nothing where important secrets were discussed; no one with sense discusses secrets in front of a psittacid, but the events were nonetheless fascinating classrooms for human behaviour. And many humans have no sense.
As for learning forensics, there are these things called "books". Poor substitutes for experience, I agree, but their information created the box that I could later line with practical learning.
Why are you surprised? I like metaphors. They are much easier to understand than puns.
The first time I helped Lestrade, I must admit, was an accident. By that time, I was growing bored with my daytime caretakers and frustrated with Mycroft's evening distance. Escape became a game, the most interesting part of a tedious day and fraught night.
Difficult? You would be surprised. Even a parrot of normal intelligence can often plan an escape. Even an unmodified Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus can break a coconut with its beak, let alone a too-thin cage wire or latch. For me? Trivial.
Escaping from this office? Simplicity itself.
I have not tried to escape because Mycroft said he has marksmen waiting with tranquilizer darts. John may be alive. I don't want to break my wing falling yet.
So on the day in question, there had been a morning news story about a murder. The reporter did not give the address, but they had named the borough. Aerial reconaissance supplied the rest—and what they had missed.
"Get that bird out of here! Anderson, do you have a net?" Lestrade's first ever words to me, but this does not convey the tone. Let me say it.
Exactly. Nothing surprises Lestrade. Irritates, frustrates, bemuses, yes. Surprises? No. Even when I took a minute to put the words together, and then said, "The phone on the ledge. Victim's or murderer's?"
It took two tries before he seemed to understand me, and even then, he shouted for Anderson again and ignored my words. So I grabbed a spare shoe cover and flew to the ledge in question. One of the drawbacks of being a bird—I do have to make an extra effort not to contaminate a crime scene. "Phone! Whose?"
Lestrade stared at me, and Anderson, when he finally joined him, looked even more astounded. "That can't be. I know everyone in the city who has a hyacinth macaw, and I've never seen this one. And Melanie would've called if someone posted on the mailing list about theirs escaping."
I tried not to flutter and shed feathers, but it took effort. "Come! Get! This! Bloody! Phone!"
They finally listened. The aftermath of the case was boring, and I do not count it as one I solved; they would have interviewed everyone in the block of flats anyway, and most likely found the murderer in the right one without my help. I simply accelerated matters.
The relevant part: fifteen minutes later, Mycroft arrived on the scene and ordered both Lestrade and myself into the car for a discussion. By the time we dropped Lestrade off at the Yard, he had agreed to allow my presence at future crime scenes.
Anderson became my nominal handler when I worked with them. He has no deductive ability, but he is competent at collecting evidence, and he does understand birds. I wanted to live with him after Mycroft and I became enemies, but Barbara would have none of it.
His former wife's first name is Melanie. Barbara is a Cacatua galerita. A very pleasant bird, but she made it very clear that Anderson was hers and I was not welcome.
Of course I can still communicate with other birds. I converse easily with parrots, and I can understand and make myself understood to crows and ravens with a little more effort. I would like not to understand pigeons; the philosophy of aesthetics is not one of my interests, and they talk of little else. But they have excellent memories, and I have often called on them to find whether a person was seen in a particular location, when the CCTV cameras have been no help.
579,115! Has she been back to Baker Street? 579,115 said she saw John yesterday evening and that she would ask after him.
True. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't recognize 579,115. But if I went back there and waited for her.... Can Mycroft bring her here? I can find out what she's learned, and then we can find John.
Please. Please. Mycroft, are you reading this right now? I will tell you exactly what the Flemish Minister for Brussels Affairs said on 19 February if you will let me out of here now. Please.
You are not helping. This is not helping. I need a break. I need something to break. Get me a coconut. And more pencils.
[Note: Anderson's ex-wife's name is shamelessly stolen from Mazarin221B's Would You Like Me to Seduce You?]
Session 2
Is there any news?
Yes, I was talking to myself when you came in. "It's all fine." Things are not fine, but I can remember John saying that, and I can hope that he still believes it. It is certainly more soothing than typing my autobiography for you.
Because I can't. More accurately, I could speak rather than type, but it takes too long. I have to remember the words and phrases, the syntax, the pitch, the voice. If I haven't heard someone say the sentence, I have to put it together, and it is a slow process. Here, let me say the previous sentence for you.
See? Most people would give up on listening before I found all the words. Written language is much easier for me; I am able to type fluently and fast. But there are some phrases I've heard often that I can speak without thought. For example:
That was Anderson's voice. "Mutant dinosaur" is his affectionate name for any bird; he calls Barbara that too. Though I believe he has been told that I am genetically engineered; he certainly has long since realized that I am far more intelligent than a normal parrot.
Then there's this phrase:
Yes, that voice was Mrs. Hudson. It's "not your housekeeper, dear" to John, and "not your zookeeper, dear" to me. Except for that one afternoon when John and I experimented to see whether I could avoid a net; we both received the zookeeper line that day.
I met her through a case, of course. By then I had been working for some years with the Yard, and I was developing some skill in detection. The murder of Andrew Vamberry in his off-licence—I was the one who found the unusually dusty bottle of vodka and synthesized the details that led to both the arrest of the murderer and the breakup of a smuggling ring. The kidnapping of Irina Tsurikova—I put together the condition of the paint on the windowsill, the amount of water in her glass, and the shirt button under the radiator to describe how it was done, and once I hacked into her grandson's computer we were able to determine the rest. My skills have their limits; I cannot interview suspects, of course, and I have been known to miss clues due to ignorance of human cultures and conventions. But what I miss in being unaware of all that humans consider important, I gain in observing what humans consider beneath notice or too obvious to notice.
One afternoon, when I was invited to join the Andersons, Barbara, and Dinsdale for an outdoor walk, we stopped outside a cafe. There I overheard Mrs. Hudson telling a friend about the mysterious letter her husband had left—
I'm telling you about Mrs. Hudson, not Dinsdale.
Oh, very well. Dinsdale is a Psittacus erithacus, and was a good friend of mine, to the extent that an ordinary parrot could be my friend. Sadly, she moved with Melanie Anderson to Oxford after the divorce. She was actually an accessory to their divorce; she enjoyed mimicking their mating noises, and did the same when Anderson started having sexual relations with Sergeant Donovan. He should have gone to Donovan's flat instead of bringing her to his house; I like Anderson very much, but he is one of many humans with no sense.
Do you have any more tangential questions, or might I return to Mrs. Hudson?
The affair of Mrs. Hudson's husband was a misjudgment on my part. Pickpocketing her phone to get her number was a reasonable action. Texting her to let her know I worked with the police, had heard the conversation, and would like to see the letter—still reasonable. Revealing myself as an intelligent macaw rather than a human—a calculated risk, and a successful one. Taking the case entirely upon myself rather than leaving it for the police? Misjudgment.
It was necessary. I would not have been able to solve the case without smuggling myself to Florida and finding Mr. Hudson's hideout myself. I did solve the case. Mycroft arranged my go-between to present my evidence to the local police. But not even Mycroft could keep me from being quarantined at home when I was returned to Britain. Nor would he try to prevent it; if anything, he encouraged its extension, saying that leaving the country on my own was foolish, and I needed to experience the consequences of my poor decisions. It was the most boring six months of my life, though I did use that time to learn to read Chinese and Hungarian.
During the quarantine, other matters came to a head.
You asked me earlier why I hate Mycroft. I hate Mycroft because he rejected me, over and over, for years.
Macaws, like most parrots, form bonds, with other macaws or with humans. I tried to bond with Mycroft throughout the years I lived with him, and he always kept his distance. Finally, when I returned from quarantine and tried to sit on his wrist, he told me he was not willing to form a closer bond with me. "I am married to my work," he said, "and she is a most jealous mistress."
*If you are married to her, then she is your wife, not your mistress,* I replied.
He critiqued me for applying modern semantics to an archaic expression, and then told me that he would be happy to hire evening caretakers if I was finding myself lonely. I pointed out the various facial expressions and movements that showed he already had formed a degree of attachment to me; he told me that I was of interest as an experiment and for my analytic mind, but not as a friend. I kept my temper under control and satisfied myself by perching on his umbrellas until I emptied my cloaca.
Of course he was lying. It was obvious. And even if I could not read human behaviour, my very name is evidence that he felt a personal interest in me. Otherwise I would still be Mr. Bucket or Richard, or he would have given me an entirely unrelated name.
You raise a valid point. Mycroft rarely talks about him, but I have gathered that he was also fiercely intelligent, interested in crimes and solving problems. Perhaps Mycroft saw that similarity between us, and chose the name for that reason. But even if my name is only a memorial, you must still account for the countless ways Mycroft showed friendship to me. He was attached to me—but only so far, only so much.
I considered the problem during my quarantine and for some weeks after I again was able to work with Lestrade's team. It became clear to me at last: I must find other lodgings. Anderson was unable to accommodate me; Lestrade would have sooner joined a gang than let me live in his flat; Donovan, though tolerant of Barbara, doesn't like birds; Dr. Stamford said he wouldn't have time to supervise me—
Do you want to hear this story in some semblance of chronological order and continuity? Clearly you don't, as you keep interrupting. Very well. Dr. Stamford was a friend of one of the veterinarians who worked with me when I was a chick. He had heard about my work for the Yard—probably from Hooper in the Barts morgue; an intelligent person, but smells too much like feline for my comfort—and wondered if I might be the same bird Dr. Trevor had talked about. We finally met three years ago when I had Lestrade bring me along to the morgue to see a body. Dr. Stamford lets me use his laboratory as long as I wear a nappy and bodysuit. He likes telling visitors that I am part of an experiment to train parrots to perform lab tests, and he is genuinely impressed with my lab technique.
But he could not solve my housing problems. So I contacted the one other person who knew me, knew my capabilities, and as a bonus, owed me a favour. That night I laid my plan before Mycroft.
*Mrs. Hudson has a flat to let. I would like to move into it.*
"Who is going to pay the rent, my dear bird?"
*I am not your dear anything, except perhaps in the sense of expense. And you are paying, of course. Unless you have found a way for me to draw a salary?*
"Much as I would love to see Inland Revenue's reaction to your tax forms, no. Very well; it will be easier on both of us if you find other living arrangements. But you cannot live there by yourself."
*I can lock the door, change my own papers, and work the sink tap if we install the correct handles. If I have an internet connection, a computer, and access to a bank account, I can pay my bills and arrange grocery delivery. Since you insist on my using one of your cars for transport, I see no reason for that to change. What more do I need?*
"Companionship, Sherlock. You are part of a social species."
*So are you, in theory. And I can always visit Mrs. Hudson if I am lonely.*
He laughed at me, but agreed to a trial of the flat.
Unfortunately, he was correct. Days were bearable; I had the work, the extra computer in Anderson's office at the Yard, the crime scenes, the research, the early evenings in the lab.
Nights were infinitely lonely. Mrs. Hudson was often busy or out. I was rarely able to attend night-time crime scenes; my night vision is poor enough and my alertness low enough that I am of little use to Lestrade after dark. Texts to acquaintances and pseudonymous posts on the internet were not companionship any more than reading books was.
I am indeed part of a social species. In nature, I would be surrounded by others of my species, or at least other parrots. My enhanced intelligence makes the company of birds far less satisfying than it would otherwise be, but humans are a more than adequate substitute. The prospect of evenings alone, days alone when I was not called to crime scenes—it was terrible then.
It is worse now.
Is there no news at all? Forty minutes have passed. Has Mycroft gathered no new data? Has Lestrade found no lead? Are there no pigeons outside?
There are? Let them in! Let me talk to them! They may have seen John, and I am the only one who can translate!
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW