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Fic: A Study in Squawking, chapters 5 and 6 of 12
Title: 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
Session 5
What am I thinking? Three things.
First, I realize that therapeutic sessions traditionally fill the better part of an hour uninterrupted. However, if your goal is truly my well-being, then interrupt when there is news! My brain is an engine that needs the lubrication of data in order to function.
Second, I must admit that I do not yet understand the data I have received. The pigeon network has given me John's afternoon movements, but pigeons generally roost after sundown, and I cannot find where he went after visiting his usual pub.
But his phone! That is interesting. Found near the Fire Brigade Museum, wrapped in a sock—small man's or large woman's, but the fabric thickness suggests man's; black and red, patterned with a textured fleur-de-lis. I understand that the phone could not be brought here for fear of tracking, but I am glad to have seen the sock, especially since the pigeons were still here.
Isn't it obvious? Socks come in pairs. If the sock is meant as a message, which seems likely, then perhaps the other sock will turn up as another message. It is not guaranteed, certainly, but I consider it a strong enough possibility that it is worth setting the pigeons on it. I try not to give too many projects to the pigeons, as it is much easier to start them than to stop them; I still receive reports about graffiti using a particular shade of yellow paint, even though we solved that case months ago.
Third, I am considering the location of the human jugular vein and carotid artery, and imagining strategies for rupturing these portions of Moriarty's anatomy.
Why are you surprised? You humans have dull teeth, no claws, and weak muscles when compared to other primates, yet even without tools you can inflict debilitating injuries. I am a herbivore, and like most birds have far less mass than my size would suggest. But I have anatomical knowledge, the ability to plan, and tools designed for me. Even a normal parrot can seriously injure a human; how much more could I do?
Which may be why Anderson threw a fit when, on our first night as flatmates, John and I arrived at that crime scene. Of course I had ridden in my harness seat in the car; even Mycroft's drivers can have accidents, and I have no desire for closer acquaintanceship with windshields. But once out, I immediately returned to John's shoulder.
Donovan let us through the barrier; Anderson was waiting on the ground floor for us. "Sherlock, get down!" He then spoke to John. "You're Sherlock's new handler?"
John straightened. "No, I'm his new flatmate."
Anderson snorted, then appeared to realize that John was serious. "Have you ever had a bird before? No? Then the first lesson: don't let a large bird sit on your shoulder. He'll injure you if he startles, and he'll start thinking you're his mate and act possessive."
*I do not startle,* I replied to both of them.
"Don't believe him. We had one case last month where the victim's dog nearly made Sherlock fly into a window."
*I had an unfortunate experience with a terrier when I was a chick.*
"Of course you did. Get down, you mutant dinosaur, and come in here. Lestrade wants you to see the body. Your babysitter can wait over there."
*Dr. Watson is with me. He's coming up.*
"I don't actually have to...." John began.
For emphasis, I spoke. "You. With me. Up."
Anderson rolled his eyes. "Fine. Lestrade's waiting."
Lestrade had clearly already been contacted by Mycroft; when we arrived upstairs, he simply gestured to the scene-of-the-crime overalls and said, "You're Dr. Watson? Good. Maybe Anderson can do his actual job now. Sherlock, quit flapping and suit up."
The scene was fascinating, and not only for the conclusions I was able to draw about the crime. As I examined the body and surroundings, I listened to the back-and-forth between John and Anderson, John asking questions, Anderson answering curtly and actually snapping at John when John checked the amount of rigor himself.
I may have given the impression that I can always deduce swiftly. That is not actually true. Certainly some deductions are immediate—the victim was obviously left-handed, for example. However, often I must gather a large amount of data before the pieces snap into place and reveal an unknown person's machinations. And on occasion, the obvious answer appears so ludicrous that I cannot believe it is possible. I have learned, though, that even the most ridiculous solution may be correct. So after I had gathered my evidence, I texted all in the room:
*Anderson, you are exhibiting behaviours associated with jealousy. Is it because I brought John along?*
Anderson sputtered. John looked from him to me and said nothing. It belatedly occurred to me that humans experience embarrassment and that perhaps I should have only texted Anderson.
Lestrade covered his mouth and cleared his throat, though it was obviously done to conceal a snort of laughter. "Sherlock, have you found anything that's actually relevant to the case?"
*The victim: married, but marriage has been unhappy for at least the past five years. Left-handed. She worked in a well-paying job that involves a great deal of travel, probably in media or public relations. She was visiting from Cardiff, for personal reasons rather than professional; she only planned to spend a day here, as her wheeled suitcase was small. I want to see that, by the way. Wedding ring regularly removed; possibly so she would appear unmarried, possibly simply because it was uncomfortably snug. The condition of the body is consistent with that of the past corpses: signs of asphyxiation, but no visible sign of force. She was resourceful and determined; she started writing as soon as the murderer left. Most likely she intended to write 'Rachel' but died before she could finish. Does any data you've collected conflict with this interpretation?*
John looked astonished. "That's amazing."
"You'll get used to it soon enough," Lestrade said dryly. "Sherlock, you're sure it's murder, then?"
Anderson added, "You sure she's not German? Writing 'rache', revenge, in blood?"
*Yes, Lestrade, I'm sure it's murder. Suicides usually leave their notes using pen and paper. Anderson, German is about as likely as a misspelling of 'ratchet'.*
Anderson said to John, "Don't waste your time making jokes with him. He rarely gets them."
Yes, the word was indeed "Rachel" and turned out to be her phone account password. I am not yet to that part of the story. You are expecting me to wait patiently; please do me the same courtesy.
After my brief debate with Anderson, I asked again after the suitcase and learned that no suitcase had been found at the scene, nor even any evidence one had been there. The logical assumption was that the murderer had disposed of the case. The logical step to take, I admit, would have been to let the Yarders investigate. But that night, I was not completely ruled by logic.
I hopped out to the stairs, removed my suit, adjusted my flightpack, and sent a text to John alone: *Follow me.* Then I dropped down the stairwell and flew out the door into the night.
As I cleared the police tape and shot up, I could just hear Donovan yell, "You git, why didn't you warn him?"
I spend most of my time indoors. Mycroft's home is a respectable size for London, and 221B's stairs provide tolerable vertical distances. But neither is nearly sufficient size for me to fly properly. And I am not an aeroplane; my flight requires muscular strength and endurance, neither of which can easily be maintained indoors. So it has become a tradition: after I have finished with the Yard for the day, I attempt to fly away. I am always chased, which gives me practice at evasion. If I am cornered, then I know that a particular tactic does not work in a given scenario, but if I escape? A long flight. Bliss.
That night I climbed high enough to see the surrounding streets, a glowing map. I circled twice, picking out likely spots to investigate, then flew back to the building. John stood in front, leaning on his cane.
The slow deduction after achieving critical mass of accumulated data—that cane was an example. I had now watched John stand, walk, and climb stairs. The hypothesis formed as I soared; the experiment began as I swooped past, a half metre over his head; the conclusion was formed when his shout of "Sherlock!" was followed by the pounding of feet, first with the thunk of the cane and then without, and faster. When I looped around so I could look back at him, he was indeed running, the cane tucked under his arm.
It was glorious. We both paid for it the next day, but it was glorious. The straight flight, the darting back and forth so that John could still follow, the close passes over the skips, the halts for me to hop around the rubbish and to pull the torch from my flightpack and peer under boards and boxes; the resumption of flight.
When we reached the fourth skip, John leaned against it, panting, and said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but couldn't someone from the Yard drive us?"
*I needed the exercise. So did you. And I think this is it. Come up here and take a look.*
"You must be joking." But he managed to climb up and in, and he pushed aside three boards to reveal the pink suitcase. "Now what?"
*It's too heavy for me, and I don't have gloves for you. I'll text Lestrade.*
"Right." He leaned against the edge of the skip, still breathing heavily but smiling. "I can't believe we just did this."
*I can. I had suspected that your leg injury was psychosomatic.*
He looked at the cane, only then realizing that he was not putting weight on it. I texted, *You will likely still need the cane for the foreseeable. You haven't used those muscles normally for some months.* Indeed, he did still need it for several weeks, and he still carries it to give an appearance of harmlessness.
At John's choked noises, I added, *Is something wrong?*
The noises resolved into laughter. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just running around London with a therapeutic parrot who's carrying devices straight out of James Bond."
*What does James Bond have to do with anything? He specialized in Caribbean birds, not South American.*
"You hear 'James Bond' and think 'ornithologist' instead of 'spy'? Okay, that actually makes sense. Christ, my life is officially mad." He was still chuckling.
*Is that good?*
He grinned. "Yeah. It's good."
I flew over and landed on his shoulder. His muscles tensed. "Er, what Anderson said earlier...."
*Anderson is used to ordinary birds. Would you allow a chimpanzee the same liberties that you would allow another human?*
"That depends on the human. So, you're not actually dangerous?"
*I am not a raptor. However, my beak is strong enough to break through a coconut shell, and because I am intelligent and have some knowledge of anatomy, I am capable of inflicting injuries that a wild macaw could not. If I wanted to harm you, I could. I do not want to harm you.*
A minute later, John said, "I noticed you didn't respond to his comment about mates."
*Give me some credit for intelligence. Bonding behaviours may increase my attachment to you, but I am not going to attempt the anatomically challenging and frankly uninteresting. Think of 'mate' in the sense of 'friend', not 'other parent of my chicks.'*
Odd. You are disgusted by the mere thought, yet you ask me the question anyway. Is it from an honest desire to understand me, or a prurient interest? In either case, let me be explicit. My physical desires, when I experience them, are for psittacids, not for primates. I have been in the company of a female of my species; I know I am not immune to the appeal of a W chromosome. If a female hyacinthus showed interest in me, I have no doubt that I would gladly mate, and we would see whether my intelligence would pass to the next generation.
But it would only be a physical satisfaction and bond; it would not, could not compare to the marriage of true minds. John is—
Please. Do you believe that anyone educated by Mycroft would not have been made to read Shakespeare? I have had a classical education—necessarily compressed, but thorough.
John is my friend. John is my companion. John is my partner, in all the ways that matter to me. And whoever just knocked on the door had better have news about him.
An explosion where?
What address?
That's Dr. Sawyer's flat. Has she been found?
She was out walking? Good. John likes her. I am unable to be objective about her, but she is certainly intelligent, and they would likely produce healthy offspring if they chose to mate productively. What time did it happen? And was anything found at the scene?
Of course I suspect Moriarty was behind it. Compare the time of the explosion with the time of that text he sent. I suppose we will have to wait for the reports.
I am tired of waiting.
Yes, I suppose that returning to the story will pass some time—
Session 6
When will that half-moulted snake let me post to the website? This is more data, but not enough! I need to respond!
MORIARTY HAS SEEN ME. Which means I have likely seen Moriarty. Which means that if I get more data, I may be able to identify Moriarty.
Yes, my memory really is that good. I would not quite describe it as eidetic, but I do retain large amounts of visual and aural information. You surely didn't think I was making up the conversations I have related to you, did you? But it has its cost. I have no fear of running out of space in the hard drive of my brain, but the more data I store, the more terms my search engine needs to locate the right information.
Fine. I will finish telling you about that first case with John, and then I want to talk to the pigeons.
The suitcase contained nothing of interest, which combined with the other contents of her handbag, was the curious aspect of the scene: no phone was found on the corpse or in the suitcase.
I pondered this the next day while sandwiching myself between heated wheat pillows; it had indeed been too long since I had made such an extended flight. John was in better shape, using the cane but moving about freely as he put away his possessions. He did seem glad of a heated pillow later, though, when he sat down to read one of my books.
Why would the phone be missing? A professional in her field forgetting it—unlikely. It could have been stolen, but why would a thief have taken her phone and not her credit cards or cash? If the murderer had taken it, why had they not taken the other victims' phones as well? Or had the victim herself left it, perhaps with the murderer?
I texted Lestrade to find out what her phone number had been; I could have hunted it down myself, but that would have required flying to the computer, which would have required moving my pectorals. While I waited for Lestrade's response, I asked John, *Whom do humans trust?*
He looked up. "What?"
*Reread what I typed.*
"Sorry, right. Well. Friends. Partners."
*Yes, that's obvious. But what strangers do humans trust?*
"They don't. You don't know a stranger; you don't know what they'll do."
*So if a new soldier had been assigned to your unit, you wouldn't have relied on them to protect you because they were a stranger?*
He blinked, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I see your point. I wouldn't expect Lestrade to spontaneously attack me, if that's the kind of thing you mean. Anderson might be another story."
*I don't understand why he was acting like that. It isn't as if you're replacing him. Anyway, I don't want specific individuals; I want generalizations. Whom do you trust not to harm you?* When he didn't answer, I added, *Which people would you accompany if they asked you to go with them?*
"Mr. Holmes, but I don't trust him."
*I'm still alive, and I have given Mycroft far more reason to harm me. You let Mr. Wiggins drive you to and from the crime scene last night; that may have been because I knew him, but you nonetheless assumed that he would take us where I said he would.*
"Don't think I wasn't tempted to take a cab; I'm getting very tired of that car."
The solution slotted into place at that moment. I struggled up, took a chew stick from the box on the shelf, and sat on my perch to review my conclusion against the facts. John looked expectantly at me for a moment, then returned to his reading.
Lestrade finally texted back with the phone number, and I convinced my wings to carry me to the computer. Some further research and GPS tracking cemented my conclusion.
*Are you up for catching a serial killer tonight?*
The text alert startled John; I have since learned that he finds fiction engrossing, certainly far more so than I do. "Remind me to switch to an unlimited text plan. Have you seriously figured it out?"
*The individual's name, no. Their profession and current general location, yes. Are you up for it?*
"What exactly do you have in mind? If you're planning another chase, neither of us is exactly in top form right now."
*No running required. We merely need to send a text and see whether someone shows up at the address we specify.*
I explained my reasoning—that the movements of Ms. Wilson's phone were consistent with that of a vehicle, that the circumstances surrounding all four deaths made the involvement of a taxi plausible, that a cab driver was certainly a person who people would trust, at least until the moment when the cabbie made some show of force. All we needed to do was identify the cab or the driver; the Yard could handle the rest.
By the time I finished, John was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "That's amazing."
*Mere logical inference.*
"No, really. That's brilliant. When do we leave?"
I genuinely intended for it to be that simple: identify the driver or at least the cab, send all to Lestrade with my compliments, and return home for a quiet evening. Matters, however, did not fall out as I had planned. It began well; I had John send a text to Ms. Wilson's phone. Then, using the excuse that John needed to buy some items for the flat, we took the car to a street with several stores and a coffee shop with outdoor benches. I found an out-of-the-way ledge and waited while John shopped, amusing myself by deducing the lives of the passersby; we then waited outside the coffee shop, John on the bench with tea and I on the awning with avocado wedges.
When the GPS showed Ms. Wilson's phone nearing, I texted John, *Cab should round the corner in less than a minute. If it stops and it's free, flag it and ride back to Baker Street. I'll follow.*
John looked up, obviously wanting to speak, but texted instead. *are you out of your mind???*
*I'll follow and get the licence number; you get the driver's name. Text me and I'll text Lestrade.*
John rolled his eyes and shook his head, but stepped forward and held his arm out as the cab approached.
And then there was no text.
There was no time to berate myself for poor planning or to dread how my muscles would feel after two days of extensive flying; my only hope was to keep up with the cab, which did not go to Baker Street. Instead, it finally stopped at a vocational college, closed and empty, and by the time I arrived, the two figures had already entered the building, and the doors were shut.
Doors are one of my greatest physical challenges in navigating a human world. I can turn a round doorknob, though I prefer lever handles, but some doors are too heavy for me to move. This building was an example; there was no possibility of my entering by the doors. Which left entry via window.
A well-maintained window can be surprisingly easy to pry open; it is simply a matter of a thin enough wedge and sufficient leverage. A poorly-maintained one or one designed for light rather than ventillation, unfortunately, can only be breached by breaking a pane. And glass is harder to break than most people would think. How often do you find a dead or unconscious bird on the ground below a large plate-glass window, and in what percentage of those occasions did their unfortunate crash actually crack the glass? Throwing a heavy object is a theoretical possibility, but most of London's litter is sadly lightweight. If, however, one can steal someone's lighter and find someone's unfinished bottle of water, then with some patience, heating and suddenly cooling the glass can create a crack that can then be further shattered with minimal force.
So when I finally located John, he and the cabbie, whose name I later learned was Mr. Hope, were sitting in a classroom, at opposite ends of a table, two bottles of pills by John and a gun by Mr. Hope. Mr. Hope's back was to the door, so I was able to cling to the moulding above the door and watch through the window; it was apparently difficult to see me anyway, as the hallway was dark.
Do you know what John's greatest ability is? His listening. I believe all humans want a interested audience; you of course know this, given your profession. Here was a multiple murderer who presumably intended John as his next victim, and yet John was able to sit quietly, to draw out his words, to listen to him spill out his history and his actions.
I was in time to hear most of the conversation, and John later filled in what I had missed. Mr. Hope had indeed poisoned the other victims, giving them a choice of two vials of pills. He suffered from a brain aneurysm—likely the reason both for his taking beta blockers and his giving up smoking. He was a divorced father, estranged from his former family but still attached to his children. When John pointed out that murder might satisfy him but would hardly benefit the children, Mr. Hope revealed that he was being paid for each murder he committed, that someone else unknown to him was sponsoring his work.
"There's someone working with Scotland Yard," Mr. Hope finally said, "some consultant that my sponsor wants to identify. My job is to draw him out, give him a case he can't resist, get his name. When you texted, my sponsor said to pick you up; I'm getting an extra bonus for you. But you're not who I'm looking for, are you?"
"Afraid not," John said, perfectly evenly. "I've been called in on one crime scene, and that's the extent of my involvement with the Yard. You're looking for someone else."
"And you don't know who?"
"I couldn't even tell you whether they're a man or a woman."
"Pity, that. Well, no reason to waste more time. Pick a bottle."
John looked at the bottles. "You know, I've seen The Princess Bride. And not having built up an immunity to iocane.... I'll take my chances with that gun."
In retrospect, I believe that both of us realized the gun was fake, and for the same reason: the way Mr. Hope held it indicated that it was too light to be a real gun. Had John thought it was real, I am certain that he would have taken a different action. Had I thought it was real.... Well. When Mr. Hope aimed the gun at John, my increased heartrate and other symptoms of an adrenaline surge suggest that some part of my brain did consider it real, and I cannot honestly say whether the intelligent or the instinctive part hurled me up. Given that I do not consciously remember verifying that the door indeed opened inwards and was unlatched before I slammed against it, I am sadly inclined to suspect instinct.
The maximum speed of a macaw is around 24 kilometers per hour. I have never seen a number for the maximum acceleration or deceleration of a macaw, but I am certain that I achieved both as I flew across the room and plummeted in front of Mr. Hope. My wingspan is a little over a metre, and when I flap my wings at close range and shriek, the effect can be startling.
Mr. Hope jumped, and swung at me with the gun; I dodged. He started to swing again, gasped, grabbed his head, doubled over, and collapsed.
I landed on the table and looked down at him and back at John. *I believe the shock may have ruptured his aneurysm.*
John is a doctor; on verifying that Mr. Hope still lived, he called 999. Mr. Hope died in hospital three hours later, some time before all our statements were finished. Lestrade finally gave us permission to leave, saying that he doubted he'd ever see a suspect frightened to death again.
Mycroft's car waited for us outside; Mycroft himself sat in the back, looking at us with an expression I recognized. But he did not speak until we arrived at 221B. "Dr. Watson, if I had hired you as Sherlock's caretaker, I would seriously consider terminating your employment."
John sounded amused. "Then it's just as well I didn't take the job, isn't it?"
*John came with me when I asked him to,* I pointed out. *John followed my instructions.*
Mycroft shook his head. "My dear bird, that is precisely why he is a poor caretaker."
*Are you cross because we interrupted an intense financial negotiation with a foreign minister? Or were you occupied in writing an ode of courtly love to a Leonidas praline?*
John simply said, "A caretaker isn't the same thing as a nanny. Good night, Mr. Holmes."
Inside, I said to John, *That did not fall out precisely as I had planned.*
"I would hope not."
*I am sorry we lost whatever information he could have given us. But while I did not intend his death, I cannot find it in me to regret it.*
John sighed, then opened the nut jar and handed me a brazilnut. "Well, he wasn't a very nice man. Did you hear what he said about the consultant?"
*Someone was looking for me. Obviously they don't know what they're looking for.*
I believe, now, that Moriarty is "they", and that they still do not know. I have finished this part of the story; are there pigeons outside, and if so, might I talk to them?
That is actually rather brave of you to let them in this room.
These two? 27,456 and 723,231.
Tell Lestrade and Mycroft. One sock, empty, matching the one John's phone was found in, in a tree on Dr. Sawyer's street. Another sock, of similar fabric but black and blue skulls rather than black and red fleur-de-lis, containing a wallet, found at the gate of a house near Crawford and Molyneux Streets. However is Molyneux pronounced, anyway? Ah, thank you; the disadvantage of learning much of my vocabulary from reading is—
That. Is. Quite. Enough.
Is Mycroft reading my texts right now, or are they being saved for later?
Of course you won't answer that. But I am certain you are able to contact him, or at least contact Papagena.
Oh, come on. That's his assistant. Yes, yes, you probably know her by another name. Please send her or Mycroft this message:
Mycroft, you have two choices. Option 1: set me up to post securely in response to the texts. Option 2: 17 April 2005. Including sound effects.
Posted to the website of Richard S. Adler, Consulting Detective
To my anonymous contact:
You have not specified your preferred method of response, so forgive me for posting publicly.
In answer to your questions: I do not require respect, merely competence; I have never found him incompetent in what I have asked of him. I am sure that if left to his own devices, he will be able to find his way home. I do indeed live with what one might politely call impairments, and sadly, a macaw cannot move the mass that my assistant can. So you see that you have only yourself to blame for my delayed response.
If you wish to discuss this further, or if you have an actual problem and wish to consult me, you are welcome to send me an email address or a phone number. If you have cold feet, perhaps you should take better care of your socks.
—Richard S. Adler
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
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Session 5
What am I thinking? Three things.
First, I realize that therapeutic sessions traditionally fill the better part of an hour uninterrupted. However, if your goal is truly my well-being, then interrupt when there is news! My brain is an engine that needs the lubrication of data in order to function.
Second, I must admit that I do not yet understand the data I have received. The pigeon network has given me John's afternoon movements, but pigeons generally roost after sundown, and I cannot find where he went after visiting his usual pub.
But his phone! That is interesting. Found near the Fire Brigade Museum, wrapped in a sock—small man's or large woman's, but the fabric thickness suggests man's; black and red, patterned with a textured fleur-de-lis. I understand that the phone could not be brought here for fear of tracking, but I am glad to have seen the sock, especially since the pigeons were still here.
Isn't it obvious? Socks come in pairs. If the sock is meant as a message, which seems likely, then perhaps the other sock will turn up as another message. It is not guaranteed, certainly, but I consider it a strong enough possibility that it is worth setting the pigeons on it. I try not to give too many projects to the pigeons, as it is much easier to start them than to stop them; I still receive reports about graffiti using a particular shade of yellow paint, even though we solved that case months ago.
Third, I am considering the location of the human jugular vein and carotid artery, and imagining strategies for rupturing these portions of Moriarty's anatomy.
Why are you surprised? You humans have dull teeth, no claws, and weak muscles when compared to other primates, yet even without tools you can inflict debilitating injuries. I am a herbivore, and like most birds have far less mass than my size would suggest. But I have anatomical knowledge, the ability to plan, and tools designed for me. Even a normal parrot can seriously injure a human; how much more could I do?
Which may be why Anderson threw a fit when, on our first night as flatmates, John and I arrived at that crime scene. Of course I had ridden in my harness seat in the car; even Mycroft's drivers can have accidents, and I have no desire for closer acquaintanceship with windshields. But once out, I immediately returned to John's shoulder.
Donovan let us through the barrier; Anderson was waiting on the ground floor for us. "Sherlock, get down!" He then spoke to John. "You're Sherlock's new handler?"
John straightened. "No, I'm his new flatmate."
Anderson snorted, then appeared to realize that John was serious. "Have you ever had a bird before? No? Then the first lesson: don't let a large bird sit on your shoulder. He'll injure you if he startles, and he'll start thinking you're his mate and act possessive."
*I do not startle,* I replied to both of them.
"Don't believe him. We had one case last month where the victim's dog nearly made Sherlock fly into a window."
*I had an unfortunate experience with a terrier when I was a chick.*
"Of course you did. Get down, you mutant dinosaur, and come in here. Lestrade wants you to see the body. Your babysitter can wait over there."
*Dr. Watson is with me. He's coming up.*
"I don't actually have to...." John began.
For emphasis, I spoke. "You. With me. Up."
Anderson rolled his eyes. "Fine. Lestrade's waiting."
Lestrade had clearly already been contacted by Mycroft; when we arrived upstairs, he simply gestured to the scene-of-the-crime overalls and said, "You're Dr. Watson? Good. Maybe Anderson can do his actual job now. Sherlock, quit flapping and suit up."
The scene was fascinating, and not only for the conclusions I was able to draw about the crime. As I examined the body and surroundings, I listened to the back-and-forth between John and Anderson, John asking questions, Anderson answering curtly and actually snapping at John when John checked the amount of rigor himself.
I may have given the impression that I can always deduce swiftly. That is not actually true. Certainly some deductions are immediate—the victim was obviously left-handed, for example. However, often I must gather a large amount of data before the pieces snap into place and reveal an unknown person's machinations. And on occasion, the obvious answer appears so ludicrous that I cannot believe it is possible. I have learned, though, that even the most ridiculous solution may be correct. So after I had gathered my evidence, I texted all in the room:
*Anderson, you are exhibiting behaviours associated with jealousy. Is it because I brought John along?*
Anderson sputtered. John looked from him to me and said nothing. It belatedly occurred to me that humans experience embarrassment and that perhaps I should have only texted Anderson.
Lestrade covered his mouth and cleared his throat, though it was obviously done to conceal a snort of laughter. "Sherlock, have you found anything that's actually relevant to the case?"
*The victim: married, but marriage has been unhappy for at least the past five years. Left-handed. She worked in a well-paying job that involves a great deal of travel, probably in media or public relations. She was visiting from Cardiff, for personal reasons rather than professional; she only planned to spend a day here, as her wheeled suitcase was small. I want to see that, by the way. Wedding ring regularly removed; possibly so she would appear unmarried, possibly simply because it was uncomfortably snug. The condition of the body is consistent with that of the past corpses: signs of asphyxiation, but no visible sign of force. She was resourceful and determined; she started writing as soon as the murderer left. Most likely she intended to write 'Rachel' but died before she could finish. Does any data you've collected conflict with this interpretation?*
John looked astonished. "That's amazing."
"You'll get used to it soon enough," Lestrade said dryly. "Sherlock, you're sure it's murder, then?"
Anderson added, "You sure she's not German? Writing 'rache', revenge, in blood?"
*Yes, Lestrade, I'm sure it's murder. Suicides usually leave their notes using pen and paper. Anderson, German is about as likely as a misspelling of 'ratchet'.*
Anderson said to John, "Don't waste your time making jokes with him. He rarely gets them."
Yes, the word was indeed "Rachel" and turned out to be her phone account password. I am not yet to that part of the story. You are expecting me to wait patiently; please do me the same courtesy.
After my brief debate with Anderson, I asked again after the suitcase and learned that no suitcase had been found at the scene, nor even any evidence one had been there. The logical assumption was that the murderer had disposed of the case. The logical step to take, I admit, would have been to let the Yarders investigate. But that night, I was not completely ruled by logic.
I hopped out to the stairs, removed my suit, adjusted my flightpack, and sent a text to John alone: *Follow me.* Then I dropped down the stairwell and flew out the door into the night.
As I cleared the police tape and shot up, I could just hear Donovan yell, "You git, why didn't you warn him?"
I spend most of my time indoors. Mycroft's home is a respectable size for London, and 221B's stairs provide tolerable vertical distances. But neither is nearly sufficient size for me to fly properly. And I am not an aeroplane; my flight requires muscular strength and endurance, neither of which can easily be maintained indoors. So it has become a tradition: after I have finished with the Yard for the day, I attempt to fly away. I am always chased, which gives me practice at evasion. If I am cornered, then I know that a particular tactic does not work in a given scenario, but if I escape? A long flight. Bliss.
That night I climbed high enough to see the surrounding streets, a glowing map. I circled twice, picking out likely spots to investigate, then flew back to the building. John stood in front, leaning on his cane.
The slow deduction after achieving critical mass of accumulated data—that cane was an example. I had now watched John stand, walk, and climb stairs. The hypothesis formed as I soared; the experiment began as I swooped past, a half metre over his head; the conclusion was formed when his shout of "Sherlock!" was followed by the pounding of feet, first with the thunk of the cane and then without, and faster. When I looped around so I could look back at him, he was indeed running, the cane tucked under his arm.
It was glorious. We both paid for it the next day, but it was glorious. The straight flight, the darting back and forth so that John could still follow, the close passes over the skips, the halts for me to hop around the rubbish and to pull the torch from my flightpack and peer under boards and boxes; the resumption of flight.
When we reached the fourth skip, John leaned against it, panting, and said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but couldn't someone from the Yard drive us?"
*I needed the exercise. So did you. And I think this is it. Come up here and take a look.*
"You must be joking." But he managed to climb up and in, and he pushed aside three boards to reveal the pink suitcase. "Now what?"
*It's too heavy for me, and I don't have gloves for you. I'll text Lestrade.*
"Right." He leaned against the edge of the skip, still breathing heavily but smiling. "I can't believe we just did this."
*I can. I had suspected that your leg injury was psychosomatic.*
He looked at the cane, only then realizing that he was not putting weight on it. I texted, *You will likely still need the cane for the foreseeable. You haven't used those muscles normally for some months.* Indeed, he did still need it for several weeks, and he still carries it to give an appearance of harmlessness.
At John's choked noises, I added, *Is something wrong?*
The noises resolved into laughter. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just running around London with a therapeutic parrot who's carrying devices straight out of James Bond."
*What does James Bond have to do with anything? He specialized in Caribbean birds, not South American.*
"You hear 'James Bond' and think 'ornithologist' instead of 'spy'? Okay, that actually makes sense. Christ, my life is officially mad." He was still chuckling.
*Is that good?*
He grinned. "Yeah. It's good."
I flew over and landed on his shoulder. His muscles tensed. "Er, what Anderson said earlier...."
*Anderson is used to ordinary birds. Would you allow a chimpanzee the same liberties that you would allow another human?*
"That depends on the human. So, you're not actually dangerous?"
*I am not a raptor. However, my beak is strong enough to break through a coconut shell, and because I am intelligent and have some knowledge of anatomy, I am capable of inflicting injuries that a wild macaw could not. If I wanted to harm you, I could. I do not want to harm you.*
A minute later, John said, "I noticed you didn't respond to his comment about mates."
*Give me some credit for intelligence. Bonding behaviours may increase my attachment to you, but I am not going to attempt the anatomically challenging and frankly uninteresting. Think of 'mate' in the sense of 'friend', not 'other parent of my chicks.'*
Odd. You are disgusted by the mere thought, yet you ask me the question anyway. Is it from an honest desire to understand me, or a prurient interest? In either case, let me be explicit. My physical desires, when I experience them, are for psittacids, not for primates. I have been in the company of a female of my species; I know I am not immune to the appeal of a W chromosome. If a female hyacinthus showed interest in me, I have no doubt that I would gladly mate, and we would see whether my intelligence would pass to the next generation.
But it would only be a physical satisfaction and bond; it would not, could not compare to the marriage of true minds. John is—
Please. Do you believe that anyone educated by Mycroft would not have been made to read Shakespeare? I have had a classical education—necessarily compressed, but thorough.
John is my friend. John is my companion. John is my partner, in all the ways that matter to me. And whoever just knocked on the door had better have news about him.
An explosion where?
What address?
That's Dr. Sawyer's flat. Has she been found?
She was out walking? Good. John likes her. I am unable to be objective about her, but she is certainly intelligent, and they would likely produce healthy offspring if they chose to mate productively. What time did it happen? And was anything found at the scene?
Of course I suspect Moriarty was behind it. Compare the time of the explosion with the time of that text he sent. I suppose we will have to wait for the reports.
I am tired of waiting.
Yes, I suppose that returning to the story will pass some time—
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
richard, i'm so disappointed. you still haven't gotten in touch. johnny says you have "mobility impairments"—this from the man with a cane.
haven't you trained your parrot to be yr assistance bird? it can grab yr phone for you. i know; i've seen it. haha! xoxoxo
Session 6
When will that half-moulted snake let me post to the website? This is more data, but not enough! I need to respond!
MORIARTY HAS SEEN ME. Which means I have likely seen Moriarty. Which means that if I get more data, I may be able to identify Moriarty.
Yes, my memory really is that good. I would not quite describe it as eidetic, but I do retain large amounts of visual and aural information. You surely didn't think I was making up the conversations I have related to you, did you? But it has its cost. I have no fear of running out of space in the hard drive of my brain, but the more data I store, the more terms my search engine needs to locate the right information.
Fine. I will finish telling you about that first case with John, and then I want to talk to the pigeons.
The suitcase contained nothing of interest, which combined with the other contents of her handbag, was the curious aspect of the scene: no phone was found on the corpse or in the suitcase.
I pondered this the next day while sandwiching myself between heated wheat pillows; it had indeed been too long since I had made such an extended flight. John was in better shape, using the cane but moving about freely as he put away his possessions. He did seem glad of a heated pillow later, though, when he sat down to read one of my books.
Why would the phone be missing? A professional in her field forgetting it—unlikely. It could have been stolen, but why would a thief have taken her phone and not her credit cards or cash? If the murderer had taken it, why had they not taken the other victims' phones as well? Or had the victim herself left it, perhaps with the murderer?
I texted Lestrade to find out what her phone number had been; I could have hunted it down myself, but that would have required flying to the computer, which would have required moving my pectorals. While I waited for Lestrade's response, I asked John, *Whom do humans trust?*
He looked up. "What?"
*Reread what I typed.*
"Sorry, right. Well. Friends. Partners."
*Yes, that's obvious. But what strangers do humans trust?*
"They don't. You don't know a stranger; you don't know what they'll do."
*So if a new soldier had been assigned to your unit, you wouldn't have relied on them to protect you because they were a stranger?*
He blinked, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I see your point. I wouldn't expect Lestrade to spontaneously attack me, if that's the kind of thing you mean. Anderson might be another story."
*I don't understand why he was acting like that. It isn't as if you're replacing him. Anyway, I don't want specific individuals; I want generalizations. Whom do you trust not to harm you?* When he didn't answer, I added, *Which people would you accompany if they asked you to go with them?*
"Mr. Holmes, but I don't trust him."
*I'm still alive, and I have given Mycroft far more reason to harm me. You let Mr. Wiggins drive you to and from the crime scene last night; that may have been because I knew him, but you nonetheless assumed that he would take us where I said he would.*
"Don't think I wasn't tempted to take a cab; I'm getting very tired of that car."
The solution slotted into place at that moment. I struggled up, took a chew stick from the box on the shelf, and sat on my perch to review my conclusion against the facts. John looked expectantly at me for a moment, then returned to his reading.
Lestrade finally texted back with the phone number, and I convinced my wings to carry me to the computer. Some further research and GPS tracking cemented my conclusion.
*Are you up for catching a serial killer tonight?*
The text alert startled John; I have since learned that he finds fiction engrossing, certainly far more so than I do. "Remind me to switch to an unlimited text plan. Have you seriously figured it out?"
*The individual's name, no. Their profession and current general location, yes. Are you up for it?*
"What exactly do you have in mind? If you're planning another chase, neither of us is exactly in top form right now."
*No running required. We merely need to send a text and see whether someone shows up at the address we specify.*
I explained my reasoning—that the movements of Ms. Wilson's phone were consistent with that of a vehicle, that the circumstances surrounding all four deaths made the involvement of a taxi plausible, that a cab driver was certainly a person who people would trust, at least until the moment when the cabbie made some show of force. All we needed to do was identify the cab or the driver; the Yard could handle the rest.
By the time I finished, John was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "That's amazing."
*Mere logical inference.*
"No, really. That's brilliant. When do we leave?"
I genuinely intended for it to be that simple: identify the driver or at least the cab, send all to Lestrade with my compliments, and return home for a quiet evening. Matters, however, did not fall out as I had planned. It began well; I had John send a text to Ms. Wilson's phone. Then, using the excuse that John needed to buy some items for the flat, we took the car to a street with several stores and a coffee shop with outdoor benches. I found an out-of-the-way ledge and waited while John shopped, amusing myself by deducing the lives of the passersby; we then waited outside the coffee shop, John on the bench with tea and I on the awning with avocado wedges.
When the GPS showed Ms. Wilson's phone nearing, I texted John, *Cab should round the corner in less than a minute. If it stops and it's free, flag it and ride back to Baker Street. I'll follow.*
John looked up, obviously wanting to speak, but texted instead. *are you out of your mind???*
*I'll follow and get the licence number; you get the driver's name. Text me and I'll text Lestrade.*
John rolled his eyes and shook his head, but stepped forward and held his arm out as the cab approached.
And then there was no text.
There was no time to berate myself for poor planning or to dread how my muscles would feel after two days of extensive flying; my only hope was to keep up with the cab, which did not go to Baker Street. Instead, it finally stopped at a vocational college, closed and empty, and by the time I arrived, the two figures had already entered the building, and the doors were shut.
Doors are one of my greatest physical challenges in navigating a human world. I can turn a round doorknob, though I prefer lever handles, but some doors are too heavy for me to move. This building was an example; there was no possibility of my entering by the doors. Which left entry via window.
A well-maintained window can be surprisingly easy to pry open; it is simply a matter of a thin enough wedge and sufficient leverage. A poorly-maintained one or one designed for light rather than ventillation, unfortunately, can only be breached by breaking a pane. And glass is harder to break than most people would think. How often do you find a dead or unconscious bird on the ground below a large plate-glass window, and in what percentage of those occasions did their unfortunate crash actually crack the glass? Throwing a heavy object is a theoretical possibility, but most of London's litter is sadly lightweight. If, however, one can steal someone's lighter and find someone's unfinished bottle of water, then with some patience, heating and suddenly cooling the glass can create a crack that can then be further shattered with minimal force.
So when I finally located John, he and the cabbie, whose name I later learned was Mr. Hope, were sitting in a classroom, at opposite ends of a table, two bottles of pills by John and a gun by Mr. Hope. Mr. Hope's back was to the door, so I was able to cling to the moulding above the door and watch through the window; it was apparently difficult to see me anyway, as the hallway was dark.
Do you know what John's greatest ability is? His listening. I believe all humans want a interested audience; you of course know this, given your profession. Here was a multiple murderer who presumably intended John as his next victim, and yet John was able to sit quietly, to draw out his words, to listen to him spill out his history and his actions.
I was in time to hear most of the conversation, and John later filled in what I had missed. Mr. Hope had indeed poisoned the other victims, giving them a choice of two vials of pills. He suffered from a brain aneurysm—likely the reason both for his taking beta blockers and his giving up smoking. He was a divorced father, estranged from his former family but still attached to his children. When John pointed out that murder might satisfy him but would hardly benefit the children, Mr. Hope revealed that he was being paid for each murder he committed, that someone else unknown to him was sponsoring his work.
"There's someone working with Scotland Yard," Mr. Hope finally said, "some consultant that my sponsor wants to identify. My job is to draw him out, give him a case he can't resist, get his name. When you texted, my sponsor said to pick you up; I'm getting an extra bonus for you. But you're not who I'm looking for, are you?"
"Afraid not," John said, perfectly evenly. "I've been called in on one crime scene, and that's the extent of my involvement with the Yard. You're looking for someone else."
"And you don't know who?"
"I couldn't even tell you whether they're a man or a woman."
"Pity, that. Well, no reason to waste more time. Pick a bottle."
John looked at the bottles. "You know, I've seen The Princess Bride. And not having built up an immunity to iocane.... I'll take my chances with that gun."
In retrospect, I believe that both of us realized the gun was fake, and for the same reason: the way Mr. Hope held it indicated that it was too light to be a real gun. Had John thought it was real, I am certain that he would have taken a different action. Had I thought it was real.... Well. When Mr. Hope aimed the gun at John, my increased heartrate and other symptoms of an adrenaline surge suggest that some part of my brain did consider it real, and I cannot honestly say whether the intelligent or the instinctive part hurled me up. Given that I do not consciously remember verifying that the door indeed opened inwards and was unlatched before I slammed against it, I am sadly inclined to suspect instinct.
The maximum speed of a macaw is around 24 kilometers per hour. I have never seen a number for the maximum acceleration or deceleration of a macaw, but I am certain that I achieved both as I flew across the room and plummeted in front of Mr. Hope. My wingspan is a little over a metre, and when I flap my wings at close range and shriek, the effect can be startling.
Mr. Hope jumped, and swung at me with the gun; I dodged. He started to swing again, gasped, grabbed his head, doubled over, and collapsed.
I landed on the table and looked down at him and back at John. *I believe the shock may have ruptured his aneurysm.*
John is a doctor; on verifying that Mr. Hope still lived, he called 999. Mr. Hope died in hospital three hours later, some time before all our statements were finished. Lestrade finally gave us permission to leave, saying that he doubted he'd ever see a suspect frightened to death again.
Mycroft's car waited for us outside; Mycroft himself sat in the back, looking at us with an expression I recognized. But he did not speak until we arrived at 221B. "Dr. Watson, if I had hired you as Sherlock's caretaker, I would seriously consider terminating your employment."
John sounded amused. "Then it's just as well I didn't take the job, isn't it?"
*John came with me when I asked him to,* I pointed out. *John followed my instructions.*
Mycroft shook his head. "My dear bird, that is precisely why he is a poor caretaker."
*Are you cross because we interrupted an intense financial negotiation with a foreign minister? Or were you occupied in writing an ode of courtly love to a Leonidas praline?*
John simply said, "A caretaker isn't the same thing as a nanny. Good night, Mr. Holmes."
Inside, I said to John, *That did not fall out precisely as I had planned.*
"I would hope not."
*I am sorry we lost whatever information he could have given us. But while I did not intend his death, I cannot find it in me to regret it.*
John sighed, then opened the nut jar and handed me a brazilnut. "Well, he wasn't a very nice man. Did you hear what he said about the consultant?"
*Someone was looking for me. Obviously they don't know what they're looking for.*
I believe, now, that Moriarty is "they", and that they still do not know. I have finished this part of the story; are there pigeons outside, and if so, might I talk to them?
That is actually rather brave of you to let them in this room.
These two? 27,456 and 723,231.
Tell Lestrade and Mycroft. One sock, empty, matching the one John's phone was found in, in a tree on Dr. Sawyer's street. Another sock, of similar fabric but black and blue skulls rather than black and red fleur-de-lis, containing a wallet, found at the gate of a house near Crawford and Molyneux Streets. However is Molyneux pronounced, anyway? Ah, thank you; the disadvantage of learning much of my vocabulary from reading is—
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
johnny still says you haven't answered because yre impaired. except when he says you don't really exist—isn't that sweet? but johnny's no fun. can't solve puzzles, doesn't scream when fingers twisted, just clenches jaw and gets quiet. boring!
come out and play, dickie-bird! xoxoxo
That. Is. Quite. Enough.
Is Mycroft reading my texts right now, or are they being saved for later?
Of course you won't answer that. But I am certain you are able to contact him, or at least contact Papagena.
Oh, come on. That's his assistant. Yes, yes, you probably know her by another name. Please send her or Mycroft this message:
Mycroft, you have two choices. Option 1: set me up to post securely in response to the texts. Option 2: 17 April 2005. Including sound effects.
Posted to the website of Richard S. Adler, Consulting Detective
To my anonymous contact:
You have not specified your preferred method of response, so forgive me for posting publicly.
In answer to your questions: I do not require respect, merely competence; I have never found him incompetent in what I have asked of him. I am sure that if left to his own devices, he will be able to find his way home. I do indeed live with what one might politely call impairments, and sadly, a macaw cannot move the mass that my assistant can. So you see that you have only yourself to blame for my delayed response.
If you wish to discuss this further, or if you have an actual problem and wish to consult me, you are welcome to send me an email address or a phone number. If you have cold feet, perhaps you should take better care of your socks.
—Richard S. Adler
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW