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Fic: A Study in Squawking, chapters 3 and 4 of 12
Title: A Study in Squawking
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Session 3
I apologize for the condition of your desk corner; the pencils were not sufficient to dispel my frustration. I had hoped the pigeons were bringing news, but they were only trying to locate me for 579,115. 579,115 had nothing to report and was concerned at not finding me at Baker Street. 6,900,224 said that they will spread John's description further. I should have asked 579,115 to do that, but I was not thinking clearly. If millions of pigeons do not find John, then he is most likely not in the city. Is he even in the country? Could Moriarty have smuggled him abroad without Mycroft noticing? Perhaps he could; I smuggled myself abroad without Mycroft noticing. But I fit into a much smaller container than John.
Pencil. Now.
I can't tell you anything about Moriarty; I haven't met him or her. I have only some texts to John to go by. If I had met Moriarty, then of course I could tell you a great deal.
Observation. Simple observation. You don't believe me? Let me tell you about yourself. You grew up within 25 kilometers of Bristol, and studied at UCL—you are a few years younger than John, so your years there do not overlap his. You are on good terms with your parents and poor terms with your younger sister, who thinks psychiatry is little better than a sham, but she believes in crystal healing, so what does she know? You knit and embroider; you also run. Your first marriage ended poorly; your current one is happy, in spite of your husband's infertility.
You are now terrified. Don't be. With some practice, you could observe the same things I did. I admit that last one was not deduced from your appearance and surroundings; during your toilet break, you left your phone in your purse, and I looked at your browser history. The contents of the phone also confirmed some of the deductions about your family and birthplace that I had made from office photographs and your vowel pronunciations.
No, I have not done anything else with your phone. You are merely following Mycroft's orders and do not merit retaliation. And there is no reason for me to attempt outside contact from your phone; I can do it from my own, when I am sure said attempt will help John and not harm him. Many animal behaviourists say that the real difference between humans and other primates is the human ability to delay gratification. That is an ability that I have; I am able to wait until the best moment to act.
Easing my loneliness, for example. Over three months of living alone, I gradually realized that even Mycroft at a distance was better than nothing. But I am more logical than most humans; I reasoned that someone else at a distance would also be better than nothing.
When I next spent a day in Dr. Stamford's lab, I asked him if he had any students who were looking for housing and would accept a low or free rent in return for evening conversation. Once he realized I was serious, he said that most of his students were looking for evening study time, not evening conversation. I pointed out that I would be happy to quiz them on anatomical structures and compare the human structures with the psittacid; this amused him even further.
He left for lunch, and I returned to my work, wondering whether I might have better luck with a police officer as a flatmate; surely they were able to spend some evenings at home.
I was studying paint samples when Dr. Stamford came back to the lab with a companion.
The details were fast and obvious. Hair and posture—military. Tan lines—service somewhere sunny. Knew Barts—medical. Cane—leg injury; invalided out. Dr. Stamford had brought him in, and had not mentioned expecting a visitor—they had just run into each other. And why would Dr. Stamford have come into the lab with him, rather than arranging to meet later or calling to let us know he was taking a longer lunch? The man needed a place to stay.
He—John!—nodded towards me. "Don't think that's especially sanitary, though I suppose the nappy helps."
"Our mascot," Dr. Stamford said. "We haven't let him perform surgery yet."
John chuckled. "Any good with diagnosis?"
John's movements caused me to revise my own initial diagnosis. But when I finally managed to say "injury to left scapula," Dr. Stamford was already saying, "Better than most of the students."
*All the students*, I texted to him before I flew over.
I pulled John's phone from his pocket. John jumped back in surprise as I flew back to my microscope. "Don't worry," Dr. Stamford said. "He's actually quite gentle with the equipment."
I opened the phone, checked the number, then returned it. As John examined the phone—really, I could not have scratched it up more than it already was—I texted him. *Afghanistan or Iraq?*
He stared at his phone. "Is someone playing a joke?"
I texted again. *No joke. I have no sense of humour. Did Dr. Stamford tell you about the flat? Or am I surprising you with it now?*
And John, sensible and observant John, looked at his phone, looked back at me and at the phone I held, and said to Dr. Stamford, "Did I just receive a text message from that bird?"
Dr. Stamford smiled. "John, meet Sherlock. Sherlock, Dr. John Watson."
John stared at me. "You said "left scapula" earlier, didn't you?"
That startled me. He had listened! *Yes.*
"How did you know?"
*The way you move. Would you like to see the flat?*
He rubbed his face. "You are a bird, and you are texting me. In English. Mike, am I showing any signs of brain injury?"
*I am an Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus, common name Hyacinth Macaw. You speak English, so I assume you read it. You are not hallucinating. You are a doctor, and a soldier who served in either Afghanistan or Iraq before your shoulder injury. The leg injury may have been a factor as well, but I need to see you walk more before I conclude anything. Your pension is insufficient for a tolerable lodging in London. You are currently unable to work, possibly due to your injuries, though PTSD would not surprise me. You have a sibling, probably male and straight but possibly female and lesbian, who you do not get along with well enough to live with. Flat: Y/N?*
John's eyes widened as he read my text; he looked at Dr. Stamford, who grinned. "Sherlock just sent you your life story, didn't he?"
"You didn't tell him...no, you couldn't have; you had no idea that you were going to meet me, and I'd have noticed if you'd stopped talking to me to send a text."
Those words made me John's. He observes! He does not always understand what he observes, but he thinks and he reasons and he listens.
John suddenly laughed. "Flat. Why not? Intelligent avian flatmate—can't wait to explain that to people. Or are you a top secret project?"
*Top secret, no. But I regret to inform you it would be best that you not publicise the extent of my intelligence.*
This has always been a topic of contention between Mycroft and me. Mycroft loves secrets. And I understand the need for discretion; an intelligent and highly photogenic bird would be carrion to the tabloid vultures.
It is a metaphor. If any lab had created hyperintelligent vultures, Mycroft would have heard about it.
Oh, you are making a joke. I have trouble understanding verbal humour. To the extent I experience what you manifest as gleeful laughter, it is while flying and performing aerobatics. I cannot do that nearly as often as I would like—the need for discretion again. I am a large bird of a distinctive colour and a species not found in the wild anywhere this side of the Atlantic; when I fly, I am noticed, and people assume I am an escaped pet and try to catch me. We had one case where I broke up a bird smuggling ring by being captured; I was almost sorry to see Ms. Wilson arrested, as she treated me very well.
Still, the work sometimes requires unpleasant choices. And the work requires that I not be hounded by journalists or frightened people. It is openly known that I am more skilled than the average parrot and that I am used to search for unusual objects at crime scenes. My actual intelligence and understanding, however, are kept quiet. Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan all know and as a result have received developed vetting that would clear them for work in MI-5. Dr. Stamford—I will just say that his conversations with Dr. Trevor about me in no way broke any security rules. You yourself? Mycroft would not have had me talk to anyone who could not be trusted.
But while I understand the need for discretion, I dislike it immensely. I need companions; I need conversational partners; I need the stimulation of new and different minds. Thus Mrs. Hudson; thus John.
I begin to see the merits of your profession. I am still afraid for John; I am still under stress. But talking to you is distracting me from the fear. Perhaps I will be able to think more clearly.
Have you found a coconut yet?
Very well, the hazelnuts will do for now. Scatter them on the floor; I feel better when I have to work to find them all.
No, I am not offended that you are taking your phone with you. I applaud your ability to learn from experience.
Session 4
Did they trace it?
What use are they, then? Give me five minutes on the mainframe! Or let me go through a proxy server and post to the firm's website!
Mycroft said. Right. Mycroft said for me not to send outgoing messages until he gave clearance. Mycroft may actually know hackers who are more skilled than I. Mycroft can take his umbrella and—
Well, since I had already damaged your desk, I saw no reason not to continue. Besides, Mycroft is not here, so it was a choice of your desk or my remiges, and I must retain the ability to fly.
My mind is a blur again. I run through the details of yesterday—John leaving the flat in the afternoon, John texting to say he would be late coming home, the anonymous message left on John's blog at 4:17 a.m., that I now know must be from Moriarty—but my brain is an engine with a broken crankshaft. I am missing something important, something obvious.
Yes, I will continue talking to you and see if that calms me enough to remember. You will tell me right away if Mycroft contacts you, won't you?
What do you mean, who is Richard S. Adler? Do you have my file? Did Mycroft tell you anything? Richard S. Adler is one of my pseudonyms, of course. After I was featured under my full name in a newspaper article on animals used by the police, Mycroft forbade me to use "Sherlock Holmes" online. As if I had not long since discovered the benefits of alternate identities—do you know how many birders know me online as Anders Sigerson? When John and I set up my consulting detection website, Adler was the name I decided to use. I picked it to honour my favorite opera singer. Listen:
Indeed, Ms. Adler has an amazing instrument. I have never been able to get Mycroft to arrange my admission to a concert hall, but someday I hope to hear her live. John found that she will be performing at an outdoor concert here next September and has said that he will take me.
Do you really think talking about this will be helpful? Everything remaining to tell you about my life involves John. Will talking about John in the past really distract me from John as a prisoner in the present?
Moriarty almost certainly has John. What part of this do you not understand? Do you expect me to be calm about it? John is brave; John is stubborn; John can endure simple kidnapping. But John can be hurt, can be killed, can be broken.
I know he can endure kidnapping because of the day he was supposed to see the flat. We had agreed he would come at 4:00 p.m. When 5:30 passed and he still had not arrived, I questioned my deductions of his personality; then I remembered that Dr. Stamford had spoken briefly with Mycroft's driver the previous day. Just to make certain, I hacked into the GPS system and located John's phone.
Legal? I am a bird. For those laws to apply to me, I would have to be recognized as the sentient creature I am. Most likely I would be considered Mycroft's accessory, and Mycroft certainly can track anyone's phone he pleases.
The phone was at a location I recognized; I knew immediately who delayed him. I texted them both:
*John: tell Mycroft that you are late for our appointment. Mycroft: you are a snake and an eggsucker. I have a perfectly good flat that you may use for your interrogation of my potential flatmate.*
Fifteen minutes later, they were both seated by the fireplace while I perched nearby. "It is for your own good, Sherlock," Mycroft said.
*I was not aware that Mr. Evans had rescinded your access to their files. I would have been happy to break in for you if you had only asked.*
"Dr. Watson seems a perfectly acceptable candidate on paper, but as you should know, traits concealed on paper may become apparent in person."
John stood, completely calm in spite of Mycroft's recent intervention. "Do I pass your scrutiny, then? If I do, then I'd like to have a look around."
"Be my guest," Mycroft replied. At my squawk, Mycroft said, "Sherlock, might I remind you who actually pays your rent?"
"Only half the rent, if I accept," John said.
"As I said earlier, Dr. Watson, you will be acting more as a caretaker than as a flatmate. Financial compensation for such duties is customary."
I reacted, sadly, with indignation. Mycroft has some skill in probing the edges of my self-control. We argued, Mycroft finally switching to texts so as not to embarrass John further. John dutifully ignored us and examined the flat, spending several minutes on the bookshelves, raising eyebrows at the pigeon skeleton—892,712, who lost a fight with a cat while waiting to give me a message—puzzling over the mixed Meccano and Lego constructions on the kitchen table, limping up the stairs to see the unoccupied bedroom. When he returned downstairs, he said, "How soon would you like me to move in?"
*Tonight? Too late to pack, I suppose. Tomorrow?*
"I'll arrange for a removal...." Mycroft began.
"Thanks, but no thanks. My things might fit in two boxes if I pack loosely. Do you have a spare key? Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Holmes. See you soon, Sherlock."
Mycroft remained for a few minutes after John left. "Sometimes you exhibit the caution and wisdom that I would wish for in the highest ranks of government. Other times you show the sense of a deranged toddler. My dear bird, must you keep revealing yourself to unvetted strangers?"
*Dr. Stamford thought he was worth introducing. Not a sufficient imprimatur, I grant you, but enough combined with my own observations that I found it worth the risk. What did you offer him?*
"What makes you think I offered him anything?"
*I know what you pay Anderson to report on my work at the crime scenes. I help him write the reports half the time.*
"I had suspected. Shall I desist with the payments?"
*Only if you want me to have a friend who is motivated to thwart you. He never censors his reports; the more outrageous I am, the more he enjoys telling you. What did you offer John?*
"A very respectable salary to work formally as your caretaker. He refused."
*Really?*
"He said that both Dr. Stamford and you had presented it as a flatshare, and unless you told him otherwise, he was going to be your flatmate and not your keeper. He has no idea what he's letting himself in for, does he? I'm sure he'll reconsider the salary the first time you wake him at dawn imitating the smoke alarm. Well, good evening, Sherlock. Try not to drive him away before breakfast."
I listened to the quiet after he left, telling myself that it was the last time I would have to endure it. I texted Mrs. Hudson to tell her John had accepted and to expect him the next morning. It was a surprise later that evening, therefore, to hear the outer door opening and Mrs. Hudson's exclamation, followed by two sets of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, set down a suitcase, and held the door for John. "Are you sure that box isn't too heavy? Well, sit down and rest; Sherlock won't have any tea in the kitchen, so I'll bring you a cup. Just this once, mind you; I'm not your housekeeper."
She left us alone, and he smiled at me. "Not a tea drinker, then?"
*Caffeine is poisonous to parrots. I didn't think you'd come until tomorrow.*
"I really didn't have much to pack. Though if it's inconvenient, I can go back to the bedsit for tonight."
*It is perfectly convenient.*
"Good." He said that like someone who had also realized he was part of a social species. "I should've asked earlier, is it better if I text you instead of talking?"
*If I wanted to read text, I would have found an online forum rather than a flatmate. Why didn't you take Mycroft's offer?*
"I make a point of never accepting job offers from people who have to kidnap the candidates."
*Thus your military service.*
"Yeah, well, conscription wasn't involved there. Look, Mike said he knew someone who wanted a flatmate; you said you wanted a flatmate; I wanted a flatmate; here I am." He grinned. "Mind you, I still think I'm hallucinating when I talk to you, but I'll get used to it."
It was the best evening I had spent in months. Mrs. Hudson brought his tea, as well as some biscuits for John and a couple of macadamia nuts for me. John asked me how I'd known about his background, and was impressed by my deductions. He told me stories about himself and Dr. Stamford when they were still in medical school. I told him about my work and how the paint I had been examining when we met had proved a woman innocent of murder.
And just as I was about to retire to my sleeping box and leave him to unpack, the evening became even better: Lestrade texted.
As I said earlier, I rarely attend crime scenes at night. Parrots are generally diurnal, and I function best on ten hours of sleep. But sometimes a scene is abstruse enough and the situation urgent enough that Lestrade prefers my immediate input rather than risking the loss of evidence.
*There's been another serial killing,* I told John. *Lestrade said this one's different and that I should come. The car's already on its way.*
"Oh. Well, I hope you'll find some useful clues. Should I wait up for you?"
I paused in my collection of my gear. *Aren't you coming along?*
Yes, I realized afterwards that it had been foolish to assume that. He was my new flatmate, not my new handler. He had no reason to follow me.
And yet, when he read my question, he hesitated only a moment before saying, "Why not?"
And when we went outside to wait for the car, he asked if I would rather stand on his shoulder than on the steps. I could not believe my hearing for a moment, and then I was flapping and landing and perching—his right shoulder, of course, not the injured one.
I had never felt so content in my life; it was the first time that the arrival of Mycroft's car disappointed me.
Enough! Is there news? Pigeons? A message from Mycroft? Anything?
Yes, I know. Mycroft is trying to keep me safe. Mycroft worries about me. Constantly. Do you really think I care? What does my safety matter, when John's is nonexistent?
True. It might matter to John. But he doesn't know I'm safe.
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
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Session 3
I apologize for the condition of your desk corner; the pencils were not sufficient to dispel my frustration. I had hoped the pigeons were bringing news, but they were only trying to locate me for 579,115. 579,115 had nothing to report and was concerned at not finding me at Baker Street. 6,900,224 said that they will spread John's description further. I should have asked 579,115 to do that, but I was not thinking clearly. If millions of pigeons do not find John, then he is most likely not in the city. Is he even in the country? Could Moriarty have smuggled him abroad without Mycroft noticing? Perhaps he could; I smuggled myself abroad without Mycroft noticing. But I fit into a much smaller container than John.
Pencil. Now.
I can't tell you anything about Moriarty; I haven't met him or her. I have only some texts to John to go by. If I had met Moriarty, then of course I could tell you a great deal.
Observation. Simple observation. You don't believe me? Let me tell you about yourself. You grew up within 25 kilometers of Bristol, and studied at UCL—you are a few years younger than John, so your years there do not overlap his. You are on good terms with your parents and poor terms with your younger sister, who thinks psychiatry is little better than a sham, but she believes in crystal healing, so what does she know? You knit and embroider; you also run. Your first marriage ended poorly; your current one is happy, in spite of your husband's infertility.
You are now terrified. Don't be. With some practice, you could observe the same things I did. I admit that last one was not deduced from your appearance and surroundings; during your toilet break, you left your phone in your purse, and I looked at your browser history. The contents of the phone also confirmed some of the deductions about your family and birthplace that I had made from office photographs and your vowel pronunciations.
No, I have not done anything else with your phone. You are merely following Mycroft's orders and do not merit retaliation. And there is no reason for me to attempt outside contact from your phone; I can do it from my own, when I am sure said attempt will help John and not harm him. Many animal behaviourists say that the real difference between humans and other primates is the human ability to delay gratification. That is an ability that I have; I am able to wait until the best moment to act.
Easing my loneliness, for example. Over three months of living alone, I gradually realized that even Mycroft at a distance was better than nothing. But I am more logical than most humans; I reasoned that someone else at a distance would also be better than nothing.
When I next spent a day in Dr. Stamford's lab, I asked him if he had any students who were looking for housing and would accept a low or free rent in return for evening conversation. Once he realized I was serious, he said that most of his students were looking for evening study time, not evening conversation. I pointed out that I would be happy to quiz them on anatomical structures and compare the human structures with the psittacid; this amused him even further.
He left for lunch, and I returned to my work, wondering whether I might have better luck with a police officer as a flatmate; surely they were able to spend some evenings at home.
I was studying paint samples when Dr. Stamford came back to the lab with a companion.
The details were fast and obvious. Hair and posture—military. Tan lines—service somewhere sunny. Knew Barts—medical. Cane—leg injury; invalided out. Dr. Stamford had brought him in, and had not mentioned expecting a visitor—they had just run into each other. And why would Dr. Stamford have come into the lab with him, rather than arranging to meet later or calling to let us know he was taking a longer lunch? The man needed a place to stay.
He—John!—nodded towards me. "Don't think that's especially sanitary, though I suppose the nappy helps."
"Our mascot," Dr. Stamford said. "We haven't let him perform surgery yet."
John chuckled. "Any good with diagnosis?"
John's movements caused me to revise my own initial diagnosis. But when I finally managed to say "injury to left scapula," Dr. Stamford was already saying, "Better than most of the students."
*All the students*, I texted to him before I flew over.
I pulled John's phone from his pocket. John jumped back in surprise as I flew back to my microscope. "Don't worry," Dr. Stamford said. "He's actually quite gentle with the equipment."
I opened the phone, checked the number, then returned it. As John examined the phone—really, I could not have scratched it up more than it already was—I texted him. *Afghanistan or Iraq?*
He stared at his phone. "Is someone playing a joke?"
I texted again. *No joke. I have no sense of humour. Did Dr. Stamford tell you about the flat? Or am I surprising you with it now?*
And John, sensible and observant John, looked at his phone, looked back at me and at the phone I held, and said to Dr. Stamford, "Did I just receive a text message from that bird?"
Dr. Stamford smiled. "John, meet Sherlock. Sherlock, Dr. John Watson."
John stared at me. "You said "left scapula" earlier, didn't you?"
That startled me. He had listened! *Yes.*
"How did you know?"
*The way you move. Would you like to see the flat?*
He rubbed his face. "You are a bird, and you are texting me. In English. Mike, am I showing any signs of brain injury?"
*I am an Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus, common name Hyacinth Macaw. You speak English, so I assume you read it. You are not hallucinating. You are a doctor, and a soldier who served in either Afghanistan or Iraq before your shoulder injury. The leg injury may have been a factor as well, but I need to see you walk more before I conclude anything. Your pension is insufficient for a tolerable lodging in London. You are currently unable to work, possibly due to your injuries, though PTSD would not surprise me. You have a sibling, probably male and straight but possibly female and lesbian, who you do not get along with well enough to live with. Flat: Y/N?*
John's eyes widened as he read my text; he looked at Dr. Stamford, who grinned. "Sherlock just sent you your life story, didn't he?"
"You didn't tell him...no, you couldn't have; you had no idea that you were going to meet me, and I'd have noticed if you'd stopped talking to me to send a text."
Those words made me John's. He observes! He does not always understand what he observes, but he thinks and he reasons and he listens.
John suddenly laughed. "Flat. Why not? Intelligent avian flatmate—can't wait to explain that to people. Or are you a top secret project?"
*Top secret, no. But I regret to inform you it would be best that you not publicise the extent of my intelligence.*
This has always been a topic of contention between Mycroft and me. Mycroft loves secrets. And I understand the need for discretion; an intelligent and highly photogenic bird would be carrion to the tabloid vultures.
It is a metaphor. If any lab had created hyperintelligent vultures, Mycroft would have heard about it.
Oh, you are making a joke. I have trouble understanding verbal humour. To the extent I experience what you manifest as gleeful laughter, it is while flying and performing aerobatics. I cannot do that nearly as often as I would like—the need for discretion again. I am a large bird of a distinctive colour and a species not found in the wild anywhere this side of the Atlantic; when I fly, I am noticed, and people assume I am an escaped pet and try to catch me. We had one case where I broke up a bird smuggling ring by being captured; I was almost sorry to see Ms. Wilson arrested, as she treated me very well.
Still, the work sometimes requires unpleasant choices. And the work requires that I not be hounded by journalists or frightened people. It is openly known that I am more skilled than the average parrot and that I am used to search for unusual objects at crime scenes. My actual intelligence and understanding, however, are kept quiet. Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan all know and as a result have received developed vetting that would clear them for work in MI-5. Dr. Stamford—I will just say that his conversations with Dr. Trevor about me in no way broke any security rules. You yourself? Mycroft would not have had me talk to anyone who could not be trusted.
But while I understand the need for discretion, I dislike it immensely. I need companions; I need conversational partners; I need the stimulation of new and different minds. Thus Mrs. Hudson; thus John.
I begin to see the merits of your profession. I am still afraid for John; I am still under stress. But talking to you is distracting me from the fear. Perhaps I will be able to think more clearly.
Have you found a coconut yet?
Very well, the hazelnuts will do for now. Scatter them on the floor; I feel better when I have to work to find them all.
No, I am not offended that you are taking your phone with you. I applaud your ability to learn from experience.
Text Message Received
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
helloooo dickie-bird! that's what somebody named your number in his phone, mr. richard s. adler. not very respectful, is he?
bet you're wondering where he is. xoxoxo
Session 4
Did they trace it?
What use are they, then? Give me five minutes on the mainframe! Or let me go through a proxy server and post to the firm's website!
Mycroft said. Right. Mycroft said for me not to send outgoing messages until he gave clearance. Mycroft may actually know hackers who are more skilled than I. Mycroft can take his umbrella and—
Well, since I had already damaged your desk, I saw no reason not to continue. Besides, Mycroft is not here, so it was a choice of your desk or my remiges, and I must retain the ability to fly.
My mind is a blur again. I run through the details of yesterday—John leaving the flat in the afternoon, John texting to say he would be late coming home, the anonymous message left on John's blog at 4:17 a.m., that I now know must be from Moriarty—but my brain is an engine with a broken crankshaft. I am missing something important, something obvious.
Yes, I will continue talking to you and see if that calms me enough to remember. You will tell me right away if Mycroft contacts you, won't you?
What do you mean, who is Richard S. Adler? Do you have my file? Did Mycroft tell you anything? Richard S. Adler is one of my pseudonyms, of course. After I was featured under my full name in a newspaper article on animals used by the police, Mycroft forbade me to use "Sherlock Holmes" online. As if I had not long since discovered the benefits of alternate identities—do you know how many birders know me online as Anders Sigerson? When John and I set up my consulting detection website, Adler was the name I decided to use. I picked it to honour my favorite opera singer. Listen:
Indeed, Ms. Adler has an amazing instrument. I have never been able to get Mycroft to arrange my admission to a concert hall, but someday I hope to hear her live. John found that she will be performing at an outdoor concert here next September and has said that he will take me.
Do you really think talking about this will be helpful? Everything remaining to tell you about my life involves John. Will talking about John in the past really distract me from John as a prisoner in the present?
Moriarty almost certainly has John. What part of this do you not understand? Do you expect me to be calm about it? John is brave; John is stubborn; John can endure simple kidnapping. But John can be hurt, can be killed, can be broken.
I know he can endure kidnapping because of the day he was supposed to see the flat. We had agreed he would come at 4:00 p.m. When 5:30 passed and he still had not arrived, I questioned my deductions of his personality; then I remembered that Dr. Stamford had spoken briefly with Mycroft's driver the previous day. Just to make certain, I hacked into the GPS system and located John's phone.
Legal? I am a bird. For those laws to apply to me, I would have to be recognized as the sentient creature I am. Most likely I would be considered Mycroft's accessory, and Mycroft certainly can track anyone's phone he pleases.
The phone was at a location I recognized; I knew immediately who delayed him. I texted them both:
*John: tell Mycroft that you are late for our appointment. Mycroft: you are a snake and an eggsucker. I have a perfectly good flat that you may use for your interrogation of my potential flatmate.*
Fifteen minutes later, they were both seated by the fireplace while I perched nearby. "It is for your own good, Sherlock," Mycroft said.
*I was not aware that Mr. Evans had rescinded your access to their files. I would have been happy to break in for you if you had only asked.*
"Dr. Watson seems a perfectly acceptable candidate on paper, but as you should know, traits concealed on paper may become apparent in person."
John stood, completely calm in spite of Mycroft's recent intervention. "Do I pass your scrutiny, then? If I do, then I'd like to have a look around."
"Be my guest," Mycroft replied. At my squawk, Mycroft said, "Sherlock, might I remind you who actually pays your rent?"
"Only half the rent, if I accept," John said.
"As I said earlier, Dr. Watson, you will be acting more as a caretaker than as a flatmate. Financial compensation for such duties is customary."
I reacted, sadly, with indignation. Mycroft has some skill in probing the edges of my self-control. We argued, Mycroft finally switching to texts so as not to embarrass John further. John dutifully ignored us and examined the flat, spending several minutes on the bookshelves, raising eyebrows at the pigeon skeleton—892,712, who lost a fight with a cat while waiting to give me a message—puzzling over the mixed Meccano and Lego constructions on the kitchen table, limping up the stairs to see the unoccupied bedroom. When he returned downstairs, he said, "How soon would you like me to move in?"
*Tonight? Too late to pack, I suppose. Tomorrow?*
"I'll arrange for a removal...." Mycroft began.
"Thanks, but no thanks. My things might fit in two boxes if I pack loosely. Do you have a spare key? Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Holmes. See you soon, Sherlock."
Mycroft remained for a few minutes after John left. "Sometimes you exhibit the caution and wisdom that I would wish for in the highest ranks of government. Other times you show the sense of a deranged toddler. My dear bird, must you keep revealing yourself to unvetted strangers?"
*Dr. Stamford thought he was worth introducing. Not a sufficient imprimatur, I grant you, but enough combined with my own observations that I found it worth the risk. What did you offer him?*
"What makes you think I offered him anything?"
*I know what you pay Anderson to report on my work at the crime scenes. I help him write the reports half the time.*
"I had suspected. Shall I desist with the payments?"
*Only if you want me to have a friend who is motivated to thwart you. He never censors his reports; the more outrageous I am, the more he enjoys telling you. What did you offer John?*
"A very respectable salary to work formally as your caretaker. He refused."
*Really?*
"He said that both Dr. Stamford and you had presented it as a flatshare, and unless you told him otherwise, he was going to be your flatmate and not your keeper. He has no idea what he's letting himself in for, does he? I'm sure he'll reconsider the salary the first time you wake him at dawn imitating the smoke alarm. Well, good evening, Sherlock. Try not to drive him away before breakfast."
I listened to the quiet after he left, telling myself that it was the last time I would have to endure it. I texted Mrs. Hudson to tell her John had accepted and to expect him the next morning. It was a surprise later that evening, therefore, to hear the outer door opening and Mrs. Hudson's exclamation, followed by two sets of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, set down a suitcase, and held the door for John. "Are you sure that box isn't too heavy? Well, sit down and rest; Sherlock won't have any tea in the kitchen, so I'll bring you a cup. Just this once, mind you; I'm not your housekeeper."
She left us alone, and he smiled at me. "Not a tea drinker, then?"
*Caffeine is poisonous to parrots. I didn't think you'd come until tomorrow.*
"I really didn't have much to pack. Though if it's inconvenient, I can go back to the bedsit for tonight."
*It is perfectly convenient.*
"Good." He said that like someone who had also realized he was part of a social species. "I should've asked earlier, is it better if I text you instead of talking?"
*If I wanted to read text, I would have found an online forum rather than a flatmate. Why didn't you take Mycroft's offer?*
"I make a point of never accepting job offers from people who have to kidnap the candidates."
*Thus your military service.*
"Yeah, well, conscription wasn't involved there. Look, Mike said he knew someone who wanted a flatmate; you said you wanted a flatmate; I wanted a flatmate; here I am." He grinned. "Mind you, I still think I'm hallucinating when I talk to you, but I'll get used to it."
It was the best evening I had spent in months. Mrs. Hudson brought his tea, as well as some biscuits for John and a couple of macadamia nuts for me. John asked me how I'd known about his background, and was impressed by my deductions. He told me stories about himself and Dr. Stamford when they were still in medical school. I told him about my work and how the paint I had been examining when we met had proved a woman innocent of murder.
And just as I was about to retire to my sleeping box and leave him to unpack, the evening became even better: Lestrade texted.
As I said earlier, I rarely attend crime scenes at night. Parrots are generally diurnal, and I function best on ten hours of sleep. But sometimes a scene is abstruse enough and the situation urgent enough that Lestrade prefers my immediate input rather than risking the loss of evidence.
*There's been another serial killing,* I told John. *Lestrade said this one's different and that I should come. The car's already on its way.*
"Oh. Well, I hope you'll find some useful clues. Should I wait up for you?"
I paused in my collection of my gear. *Aren't you coming along?*
Yes, I realized afterwards that it had been foolish to assume that. He was my new flatmate, not my new handler. He had no reason to follow me.
And yet, when he read my question, he hesitated only a moment before saying, "Why not?"
And when we went outside to wait for the car, he asked if I would rather stand on his shoulder than on the steps. I could not believe my hearing for a moment, and then I was flapping and landing and perching—his right shoulder, of course, not the injured one.
I had never felt so content in my life; it was the first time that the arrival of Mycroft's car disappointed me.
Enough! Is there news? Pigeons? A message from Mycroft? Anything?
Yes, I know. Mycroft is trying to keep me safe. Mycroft worries about me. Constantly. Do you really think I care? What does my safety matter, when John's is nonexistent?
True. It might matter to John. But he doesn't know I'm safe.
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
dickie-bird can't find me! not much without your assistant, are you? tho he's not very smart—i gave him such a simple problem, and he failed. bet your bluebird's smarter than him.
are you sure you want him back? xoxoxo
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW