Chapter Text
Crows were not uncommon in London, John reminded himself as he peered out through the window beside his desk at the seven soot-black birds clustered on a telephone pole directly across from him. They'd been there all morning. Certainly, that wasn't ominous. Neither was the fact that they'd been increasing in number. Nor did he find it unnerving that they all seemed to be staring back at him with single-minded focus.
He was a medical man, and a military man, practical and skeptical. He barely held an agnostic approach to religious faith. He had not a superstitious bone in his body.
So why was there a tense knot forming between his shoulderblades?
John glanced over his shoulder for distraction. Sherlock sprawled across the couch in his dressing gown and sulked like every disconsolate teenager in the universe, one arm cast over his eyes in a dramatic spill of blue silk. His t-shirt had rucked up a bit around his midriff, baring a stark white strip of skin above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. John swallowed once and (perhaps not-so-)quickly looked down at his desk again.
That had been a little too distracting, for reasons he refused to examine.
His blog was open and blank on his laptop screen, and not much distraction from his distraction. In lieu of a recent case or a new girlfriend, he didn't know what to say that wasn't a whole lot of complaining about his flatmate's noisome day-to-day habits. Knowing his blog had such a wide readership these days made him think twice about using it for everyday whinging. Plus it would only leave him open to more 'old married couple' comments from the peanut gallery.
At the same time, he really wanted to vent. Sherlock had been unbearable of late. There had been no call from Lestrade in two weeks. He had been complaining of terminal boredom for half that time, and rejecting every case John's blog attracted as too hatefully dull to even listen to. The trouble was, a bored Sherlock meant a Sherlock with projects.
It almost reminded John of stereotypical spinster aunts who always have something to keep busy, only instead of baking and cross-stitch there was the question of what happens to various sorts of materials when exposed to a blowtorch, and instead of knitting and crochet beside the fireplace there were pathology and toxicology experiments on the kitchen table.
It should have been less conducive to a domestic atmosphere, but after months of this from Sherlock, John was more or less immune to the weirdness. (But not the strains of salmonella incubating on the kitchen table under a desk lamp.) If anything, Sherlock's spates of violent curiosity and meticulous research let John know that no one was dying too interestingly and all was more or less fine with the world. John would only worry if Sherlock ever stopped putting cadaverous remains in inappropriate storage places.
A connection pinged in his head. With a scowl he stood, stepped to the window, and craned his gaze downwards until his nose nearly mashed against the glass. The outer window ledge held no carcasses or organs or limbs, nor were any bloody parts left dangling from the wrought-iron grille – at least, none that he could see.
Wings fluttered on the edge of his vision, and he looked out across the street again. Now nine pairs of beady, black eyes blinked intently at him. John glared back, not about to let himself be intimidated.
“You won't find it,” Sherlock said, making John half-turn to look at him. He'd dropped his arm and now gave him an assessing look.
“Find what?” John asked cautiously. Whenever Sherlock began conversations with non-sequiturs, it always paid to be cautious.
“The camera. Mycoft's camera. I know my nosy brother's surveillance is irritating, but there's no avoiding it, unfortunately,” Sherlock said. His lip curled as he added petulantly, “I've tried.”
“Oh, for the love of –” John stopped, whirling back around and scanning the building opposite with renewed paranoia. He sighed, knowing it was futile. Meanwhile another crow had landed. They were certainly coming in fast all of a sudden. “It figures. Though you calling anyone nosy is a bit of pot and kettle, if you ask me.”
“I didn't,” Sherlock pointed out calmly. “What are you looking at, then? I haven't seen you this bent on gawking since that flash-mob of ginger nudists marched by.”
“You can't hold that against me. I'd never seen such excellent decorating in my life.”
“Decorating.”
“Oh, yeah. That Red-Headed League was all about authenticity. The carpet had to match the drapes.” John would have grinned at his own joke had not two more crows chosen that moment to alight on the increasingly crowded telephone pole.
Sherlock made an undignified sound that was somewhere between a choked bark of laughter and a disgusted grunt, but he offered no rejoinder.
Watson, 1; Holmes, 0.
Smirking now, John once again turned his attention back to the flock outside.
It really was odd the way they all seemed to be staring right at him. Maybe they were Mycroft's cameras? Trained birds with implants, or robotic drones camouflaged as birds? He stopped and scrubbed at his forehead with his fingers. That was ridiculous. Still, what with Baskerville and some other things Mycroft alluded to accidentally-on-purpose, John almost wouldn't put it past the man.
Maybe the birds weren't staring at him, but at something on the glass? A reflection, perhaps?
John crossed to the other sitting room window. The birds migrated – very birdlike, not at all robotic – along the wires until they all sat directly across from his new position, eyes still fixed on him. Only him. And there was... something in their eyes. Not hunger. Something worse; a terrible, sure kind of waiting...
A chill spread cold fingers at the base of his neck and trailed down his spine. Patience, he realized. The patience of a carrion-eater.
“Hell, what is it, John?” Sherlock snapped, his patience vanished.
Rattled, John stepped away from the window – close to the wall and out of the line of sight – and gestured. He retreated into humor, replying with a deadpan, “A murder in progress.”
Sherlock was at the window in a heartbeat and a gangly flash of bathrobe. John was glad he had the foresight to step aside; his flatmate would have trampled him in his rush. Sherlock then proceeded to perform what John thought of privately as the observation dance. (In its mildest form, it involved a lot of quick, flickering eye motions and minute, bobbing wiggles of his head. It wasn't as bad as that mind palace nonsense Sherlock had started practicing last time a dry spell of this duration had struck, but it was entertaining.)
(And definitely distracting in a mildly not-good way, but he did like watching Sherlock think.)
After mere seconds of scanning the pedestrians on the pavement below, Sherlock's gaze cast upon the crows. There was an utterly priceless blank pause as Sherlock caught on and his brain abruptly switched tracks. His expression knotted into a sour scowl and he turned to glare at John, who commenced giggling.
“A murder,” Sherlock repeated, voice dripping contempt, “in progress.”
“Murder, most fowl,” John crowed. He laughed harder, a bit giddy and eager to focus on lighter topics.
“In future, please keep your dreadful wordplays confined to your blog,” Sherlock sneered.
“No, don't reckon I will,” John replied through his mirth. He tried to get a grip. “That was the most animated I've seen you in days.”
Sherlock huffed and stared out the window again. “Taking up a new hobby, then?”
“What?”
“Birdwatching. Though I fail to see what is so riveting about them.”
“I'm more interested in what has them so riveted,” John said, his grin fading. Then he told himself he was being ridiculous – they were just birds. Nothing to get spooked over. He stepped up beside his flatmate at the window, peeking at the ledge from this new vantage. “They've been hovering over there all morning. You haven't baited the ledge again, have you?”
“No, I learned all I needed from the first round of experiments,” Sherlock denied easily. He looked from the birds to John.
Across the room, Sherlock's mobile chimed a new text.
“Are you going to get that?” John asked, once more jumping at the chance to ignore the tension spreading from his shoulders and down into his gut.
“Why bother? It's probably just Mycroft whinging about the low quality of insurgents these days,” Sherlock said.
“You never know. Maybe it's a case.” Glad for the distraction, John went over to the couch and picked the phone up off the coffee table. “It's from Lestrade.”
“If it's not at least a five, I'm not interested,” Sherlock muttered, staring back out the window.
Rolling his eyes, John opened the message with an attached photo. The picture was of a woman's torso, from just below the breasts to the lower abdomen. From the splatters of blood and the vague suggestion of leaf-covered ground around the body, it was rather apparent this was a crimescene photo, but there was no overt cause of death visible. Instead, the eye was drawn to the wide swath of squiggles etched into the pale, flabby flesh above the victim's bellybuton.
Ok, smart guy, Lestrade texted, is this a language or what?
“Murder and also a possible mystery language,” John explained shortly. He squinted at he alleged writing, but the lines of it weren't in good focus. There was inflammation around the marks, though, harsh black on raw red and milk white. “It looks like it was branded onto the victim before she died.”
Sherlock hummed, thrusting his his hand out expectantly without turning his head from his view of the street. John hesitated, then set the phone down on the coffee table again. “Well, that's dull, isn't it? I suppose I'll just make some tea to keep me entertained on this boringest of days.”
With that, he strode into the kitchen, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed “John!” Still, he didn't actually start making tea, just mucked about with the kettle as he counted internally – Five, four, three, two –
Sherlock swooped through the doorway, ridiculous dressing gown flapping about his storkish legs. “No time for tea, John, there's a case. We need to visit the scene before they have to move the body.”
“So is it a language then?” John asked, completely unsurprised. And very glad to have something to occupy him besides conspiracy theories about birds. People would start to think he'd gone strange.
In the albeit unlikely event that they didn't think so now.
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he made his way around the cluttered table towards his bedroom. “Inconclusive from the photo. Lestrade has a pathetic excuse for a camera on his mobile.”
“Where's the scene, then?” John moved quickly, throwing sandwich fixings out of the fridge and onto the countertop. Since there was a case, he would grab a bite while he had time. It was that or pay restaurant prices for meals he never got to finish, and that was money he might need for all the cab rides.
“Dunno. Lestrade would, though, so ask him. I have to get dressed.” Sherlock closed his bedroom door.
John made his sandwich first, cold roast beef and swiss on wheat. Then, one-handed while he ate, he texted Lestrade for the address. By the time Sherlock emerged, tugging his enormous coat on and looking sleek and dapper as ever – in part because earlier John had badgered him to shower after three days of listless lounging – John was taking a sip of milk from the carton. Sherlock gave him a look that said Really, John? John responded with furrowed brows and a tilt of his head towards the table. The latest experiment somehow had amassed cultures in every drinking glass in the flat.
Sherlock sniffed and raised his chin defiantly. “And you wonder why the papers call you a confirmed bachelor.”
“Shut it, boffin,” John retorted without heat and put the milk away.
John's phone chimed with Lestrade's response, the detective always prompt when dealing with Sherlock for fear the man would get bored waiting for details and faff off on some other more interesting tangent.
“'Caledonian Park, in one of the woodsy bits to the south,'” John read aloud.
“I'll get us a cab. Shoes, John,” Sherlock huffed, crossing the kitchen in three strides, and gave the door with a cheerful slam on his way out.
Unable to keep the fond chuckle inside, John hurried to the sitting room to get his shoes. He was tying the last laces when out of the corner of his eye, he saw shadows flutter in the waning, watery afternoon sunlight on the floor next to him. Naked instinct snapped his eyes upward.
A dozen crows clustered in the windows, six on each sill, gleaming eyes peering at him.
John stood slowly, as if there was a gun trained on him. No sudden movements. The still air of the flat grew pregnant, foreboding. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then one of the birds tapped at the glass with its beak, sharp taptap tap tap to shatter the silence.
He glowered and stood at attention. He refused to flinch. Just birds.
Another one began pecking, followed by another, then another, tap tap taptap taptaptaptaptap –
He turned on his heel and took his coat off the hook in the entryway, unwilling to let the truly unnerving cadence rush him along.
The whole flock was pecking the glass, and now throwing their bodies against it, beating it with their wings.
He thrust his arms into his coat. Even as his hand steadied, his heart raced. Drawing deep breaths through his nose, he left the flat and closed the door on the growing cacophony.
TBC