Chapter Text
Watson had decided that Scotland Yard was to be our first stop. A solid idea, all in all. Even if the constabulary proved to be less than useful, we were sure to glean some information from the various files on hand.
There was, of course, one minute detail that, admittedly, both of us had overlooked.
“I can’t just shove you in my coat pocket, Holmes.” Watson exclaimed, glancing at the entrance to Scotland Yard as though the act of passing through them were a herculean task. “You’re not quite as tall as you used to be but you’re still rather large.”
I let out a sharp k-RAW ka-KRAW, drawing the attention of passers-by. One man in particular gave us a queer look. Fluffing out my feathers, I glared at him until he went about his business.
“Now, now, Holmes. Don’t be like that.” Watson tutted. “I know you want to go in, but how on Earth am I meant to explain — “ He paused then, his face scrunching as he searched for the word, “this — you!”
It was a fair question.
Traipsing about London was one thing, where abnormality was commonplace, but it was rather difficult to cart any animal, let alone a great big bird such as myself, around Scotland Yard.
I stood quietly for a while, perched on Watson’s shoulder, as I pondered our predicament.
As I was fond of reminding him, Watson was a terrible liar. Quite poor, really. It wasn’t his fault, of course, for Watson wore his heart on his sleeve for all to see — the man had not a deceitful bone in his body. It was why he was so dependable and I would hardly change that about him simply for my convenience.
That being said, I had still tried to coach Watson in the art of deception and had often told him this: the best lie is the truth.
Not the whole truth, of course, that would be counter-intuitive. It had to be dressed up. Omit something here, embellish something there. Simple, really.
Head cocked slightly to the side, I blinked purposefully at Watson, trying my best to convey my inner thoughts to him. The debacle of my limited speech had become rather tedious but, I admit, I found it rather fun to see how well Watson could read me in this form.
Evidently, he could do so rather well, as after the second pointed blink, his face twisted into the look he generally reserved for when I had a ‘foolish idea’.
His head swivelled back and forth, as if suddenly realising we had an entire city for an audience. With a most amusing put-upon sigh, Watson scurried us both off into a dingy little alleyway so that we could bicker unnoticed.
“Have sense Holmes,” he intoned, leaning his head closer towards me, “I can’t bloody well tell them you’re a bird. It’s a foolish idea – “ Ah, there it was. Predictable as clockwork, my Watson. “At best, I’d be laughed out the building and at worst, I’d be on a one way trip to Bedlam!”
Knocking at him reproachfully, I flicked my head from side to side.
Watson winced as my beak thunked against his temple. “Yes, yes, I see you object,” he muttered, swatting gently at me. “There’s no need to concuss me over it.”
He quickly lowered his voice as a pair of ragged boys darted past the mouth of the alley. When they had gone, he fixed me with that particular expression – a blend of long-suffering patience and reluctant fondness– that I had come to know so well. “I’m not doing it, Holmes. It’s foolish.”
I drew myself up to my full height upon his shoulder and gave him a look that, in my former shape, had reduced hardened criminals to confessions. Of course, that look never really worked on Watson, so I then cocked my head and blinked at him with exaggerated innocence.
Watson groaned, his eyes flicking towards the sky.
He began to pace the narrow stretch of cobblestones, boots splashing through some unidentifiable puddle. “You want me to tell them you’re – what? A witness to your disappearance?”
At this, I gave an enthusiastic caw and flapped my wings, nearly upsetting his hat.
“You cannot seriously expect Inspector Lestrade to entertain the notion that a bird can provide testimony.”
At the mention of Inspector Lestrade, I fixed him with a pointed stare.
Watson huffed. “Yes, yes, I know – you’ve impressed him before. But this is rather different from talking about cigar ash or bloody thumbprints, Holmes. This is – ” he halted, huffed dramatically and gestured at all of me.
I watched him, head cocked, black eyes unblinking. If speech had (mostly) abandoned me, observation had not. The world remained gloriously legible: the tremor in his fingers, the tightening of his jaw, the restless rhythm of his boots against the cobbles. My dear Watson, valiant as ever, and wholly unsuited to guile.
He exhaled sharply. “The best lie is the truth,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Ah! It was nice to know that my lessons had stuck.
His gaze flickered to me. “You – or, rather Holmes is missing. You have not been seen since last night and your rooms are empty. If I walk into the Yard and report that fact, no man there would question it.”
A low click stirred in my throat.
“And you are a bird Holmes had taken to keeping,” he paused then, eyes flicking towards me, and added, “Do let me know if this sounds outlandish.”
It rather did a bit (Honestly. Me? Keeping creatures? Pah.) but it was certainly more believable than the unvarnished truth.
“You are forever pursuing the improbable,” he said, fondness warming his tone. “Why not a raven trained for detective work?”
At that, I let out an approving croak, bumping my beak affectionately against his cheek. Watson responded with a huff of laughter.
“I shall tell them this: that Sherlock Holmes has gone missing whilst engaged upon a delicate matter, at which point I shall show them the letter. And, when they, inevitably, ask about you I will tell them that in recent months he – you – had been training a raven– ” he hesitated, glancing at me, “—to assist him in cases requiring watchful eyes and an unremarkable presence.”
Unremarkable. I ruffled my feathers indignantly.
“You know what I mean,” he amended. “No one looks twice at a bird. Not even one as imposing as you, old man.”
Watson drew himself upright, resolve settling upon him like a well-cut coat. “You shall perch there upon my shoulder and do as you always do: observe.”
For a fleeting moment, something gentler crossed his face. “You have always trusted me to follow where you lead,” he said quietly. “It seems I must now do the leading. Do you trust me in that, dear fellow?”
The question settled into me with surprising force. Oh, how little he understood the shape of things.
I shifted upon his shoulder, talons tightening in the wool of his coat, angling myself so that I could properly meet his eyes – one equal regarding another. From that nearness I could see the faint silver beginning at his temples, the crease between his brows that had deepened over the years, the steadfast warmth that had never once faltered, no matter how insufferable I had been.
Trust him?
It was he who had remained when others recoiled; he who had chosen me again and again, not for brilliance nor for spectacle, but for myself — the difficult, restless, exasperating person that I was. If I had led, it was only because he had walked beside me without hesitation, because he had steadied the path when my own steps strayed too close to the precipice.
There are deductions one arrives at through logic; this was not – and never had been – one of them.
This was much simpler.
“ALWAYS.”
—
The façade of Scotland Yard rose before us as we stepped out from the alleyway, grave and impenetrable. The constable at the entrance straightened at the sight of Watson.
“Ah, Doctor Watson! Mr. Holmes not with you today?”
“I am afraid not,” he replied, voice steady as his surgeon’s hand. “That is precisely the difficulty. Mr. Holmes has gone missing.”
The constable blinked. “Missing, sir!?”
“He was engaged upon a case of some sensitivity,” Watson continued. “Of late, he had been conducting an experiment of sorts.” He inclined his head toward me. “Training this raven to assist him in matters of observation. He believes its memory to be rather exceptional and, of course, it is able to get to places he cannot.”
I fixed the man with my most penetrating stare and felt a thrill rush down my spine when he shifted uneasily.
“A–a trained bird, sir?”
“Holmes never does anything by halves,” Watson said.
A slow, satisfied croon vibrated in my chest. Indeed.
Watson’s hand rose, almost absently, to steady me upon his shoulder. “It returned this morning,” he added. “Without him. There was a note left behind and I – Well, I thought I might find help here.”
The constable stepped aside at once. “Of course! You’d best come in, Doctor.”
Watson inclined his head and crossed the threshold. Scotland Yard was as bustling and full of mayhem as ever – an ironically lawless land, if ever I’d seen one. Officers bustled to and fro, bumping into each other with nary a look in their direction, their voices raised and stacked on top of one another in a maddening cacophony. It was more distracting than usual, playing havoc with my new sensitivities. I felt Watson’s concerned gaze on me and gave him a reassuring chirp.
We soon found ourselves at the reception desk and I set about re-orienting myself as Watson asked to see Lestrade. The officer nodded and waved his hand in the general direction of Lestrade’s office. His eyes rested upon me the whole time, clearly wanting to say something but restraining out of professionalism.
Watson gave him a polite nod and we set off towards our quarry.
The door to Lestrade’s office swung open with a faint groan, and Watson stepped inside, hat in hand, followed closely by myself, perched upon his shoulder with the impeccable poise that I had always cultivated, even in this most inconvenient form.
Lestrade rose from behind his desk, surprise flickering across his weathered features as his eyes fell upon my glossy black feathers. “Good heavens…” he muttered, half to himself. “Is that a – ?”
Watson cleared his throat. “Inspector, may I present my…companion,” he said carefully, “a creature Holmes has been training to assist him in his investigations.”
“HOLMES!!” I squawked, delighting in the way Lestrade’s mouth fell open just that little bit more.
The inspector blinked, running a hand through his hair as if trying to reconcile what he saw with everything he had ever known. ”Right. Of course.”
“Precisely,” Watson said. “It has been rather indispensable in Mr. Holmes’ recent inquiries. You may not see it now, but its usefulness is quite remarkable.”
Lestrade leaned back against the edge of his desk, rubbing his chin. “Remarkable, yes… but extraordinary would be a more fitting term. I’ve seen some of your methods, Watson, and I know Holmes is capable of the impossible, but I – well, I did not expect this.”
I hopped once from Watson’s shoulder to the edge of the desk, claws clicking softly against the wood, and fixed Lestrade with an unblinking stare.
“Speaking of our intrepid detective, where is he?” Lestrade asked, finally cutting to the chase.
“Inspector,” Watson began, his voice pitched low and steady, “I regret to inform you that Mr. Holmes has… gone missing.”
Lestrade blinked, startled. “Missing? Holmes?”
Watson’s hand trembled very slightly as he smoothed it over his coat, the subtle quiver betraying a hint of something more than mere performance. “He had been investigating a matter of great delicacy, and now he is unaccounted for. I know this isn’t an uncommon event for him but I found a letter. A rather concerning one. I…fear he might be in grave danger.”
I watched him carefully. At first, it seemed an act. Yet beneath it, something genuine shone through: the tightness around his eyes, the quick swallow, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw. Real fear. For me.
Lestrade leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his face grave.
Watson met his gaze steadily, though the flicker of worry remained. “It seemed my duty to inform you directly rather than wait until matters worsened.”
I shifted upon the desk, angling myself so that I could meet his eyes more fully, silently acknowledging the tremor of concern he could not hide. The low clicking that escaped me was soft, almost comforting — an affirmation: I am here, and I am well enough, for now.
Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “You are concerned for him, are you not?”
“Yes,” he admitted softly. “More than I care to admit, perhaps. Holmes has a way of… entangling himself in danger, despite every intention otherwise.”
Lestrade’s expression softened slightly. “Then we must act swiftly. If there is even a chance to find him, we cannot hesitate.”
Watson nodded, jaw firming as his earlier tremor subsided. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the letter left for me.
“This,” he said, handing it to Lestrade, “was left for Holmes. It links a series of disappearances and worse. A meeting at this address was requested.”
Lestrade’s eyes widened as he scanned the elegant, looping handwriting. “Good heavens. I know exactly which cases these are but, I admit, I hadn’t thought anything of them.”
Evidently, else I would not be in this situation.
Watson nodded. “Yes. We – I’ve read it. And though the letter is alarming, it provides a possible trail to follow,” He tapped the paper. “Holmes intended to pursue this himself. I am acting in his stead for now.”
Lestrade leaned back, brow furrowed, incredulous. “And the bird?” He glanced at me, then back at Watson.
I tilted my head, giving a calm, measured croak, my wings folded neatly against my sides.
Watson met Lestrade’s gaze firmly. “As I said, Holmes trained it. Its vantage point is… unique. Exceptional memory, sharp eyes. Much like Holmes himself. It sees what many might overlook. Besides, I feel like I owe it to Holmes to at least keep an eye on the poor thing.”
Lestrade exhaled, shaking his head, still processing. “Extraordinary. And yet… I’ve seen your methods, Watson. I’ve seen Holmes at work. I suppose I must accept the absurd once more. It does seem to follow you around.”
“Yes,” Watson said softly, “that it does.”
Lestrade muttered, leaning forward again. “What is it you want, exactly?”
“I should like to have a look at the case files for the persons mentioned. It might help me piece together what our mysterious sender was hinting at.”
“Very well,” Lestrade said, “I’m sure you know your way by now, Doctor.” He added by way of dismissal. Helping me back onto his shoulder, Watson nodded politely and made for the door. As he turned the doorknob, Lestrade’s voice cut through the silence.
“Godspeed, Doctor. I hope you find him. We’ll be here if you need us.”
Watson paused, a faint flicker of gratitude crossing his face, then inclined his head and left.
The office felt quieter once they were gone, though the echo of Lestrade’s unspoken concern lingered in the air. I had no doubt he would have refrained from showing such emotion had he known I was in the room.
“Shall we, Holmes?” Watson asked, interrupting my reverie. He nodded his head at the corridor I knew led towards the archives. Squawking in agreement, we meandered our way down towards the aforementioned room.
The archive room breathed out a dry, papery scent as we entered: dust, ink and the faint ghost of pipe smoke long absorbed into the walls. Shelves climbed nearly to the ceiling, crammed with ledgers, folders, and bundles of tied correspondence. Somewhere in the distance, a clerk coughed, then fell silent again.
Watson crossed to the central table and laid his hat aside, freeing both hands. I hopped off his shoulder and onto the desk, waiting patiently as Watson went about gathering the necessary files.
He moved methodically, fingertips trailing along the spines of folders until he found the correct shelf. After a moment’s pause, he drew out various stacks of thin, slightly battered files tied together with faded ribbon.
“Here we are,” he said.
He carried them to the table with surprising care, as though they might crumble if handled too roughly, and untied the ribbon. The papers loosened with a soft sigh, edges yellowed, corners softened by too many hands and too little attention.
The paper crackled softly in the stillness, and the room seemed to hold its breath as Watson bent over the reports, the gaslight pooling between us while London carried on, unaware that somewhere in these brittle pages lay the first thread of a design neither of us yet fully understood. I had taken up a position beside the lamp, where the light pooled warm against my feathers, and watched as he adjusted his spectacles and drew the first sheet toward him.
“These are the reports from the recovered bodies,” Watson said quietly. “Your anonymous sender was not exaggerating when he called them troubling.”
Clearing his throat, he began to read:
“The first is Dr. Leonard Hargrove. Found in an alley off Whitechapel High Street. No sign of a struggle. No weapon.” Watson’s voice took on the distant cadence of a man reciting clinical facts he would rather not picture. “The attending surgeon notes that the spine was twisted far beyond its natural tolerance, yet somehow not fractured. The shoulders were rotated unnaturally. Limbs dislocated without the expected tearing.”
He paused, frowning faintly.
“There is also mention of the lungs. Over-expanded. The report says they were ‘unusually capacious, almost sac-like in their structure.’ The surgeon remarks he had never seen the like before.”
I stilled, a sense of unease coiling in my gut as Watson turned the page.
“There is an additional note.” His brow knit more deeply. “Fine tufts of down-like growth along the upper back and shoulders. The physician suggests a dermatological anomaly…”
I gave a low, thoughtful croak. I was decidedly unconvinced.
“Yes,” Watson murmured. “Quite.”
He reached for the next report, his fingers lingering a moment before lifting it.
“Edgar Vale,” he continued. “Recovered near Commercial Road. The examining doctor records elongation of the fingers, with the nails sharpened and curved.”
I leaned forward, eyes fixed on the page.
“The sternum is described as ‘remarkably rigid,’” Watson read on, “and the chest cavity broadened. The surgeon speculates that the musculature had been under unusual strain prior to death. There is also—”
He stopped. Cautiously, I bumped my beak against his hand and gave him a questioning tilt of my head.
Watson lowered the paper slightly. “He writes that the jaw was found parted and drawn forward, as though the muscles had been held in prolonged tension. He then adds that – that the posture of the body reminded him of something attempting to take flight.”
Silence settled between us, thick and attentive. Our eyes locked – I could see the same suspicions and deductions running rampant in my mind reflected in his gaze.
Watson reached for the final recovered case, slower now. Apprehensive.
“James Eldridge,” he said. “Discovered in an abandoned warehouse. The report notes the body was found in a crouched position, legs folded beneath him, shoulders raised and arms bent inward.” He glanced at me briefly before continuing. “The skeletal alignment suggested the posture had been assumed before death.”
He read on.
“The vertebrae of the neck allowed for an extraordinary degree of rotation. The ribs and lungs again show unusual expansion. Musculature along the back was pronounced and unevenly developed. The skin at the shoulder blades was unusually thin. The examining surgeon writes that the overall impression was not of a man broken by violence, but of one reshaped by forces acting from within.”
He set the paper down slowly. For a long moment neither of us spoke.
At last Watson removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Holmes,” he said quietly, “I have performed post-mortems myself. I have seen bodies crushed by machinery, twisted by falls, mangled by men.” He looked at me then, eyes shadowed with unease. “These are not that.”
I gave a low, deliberate croak. “NO.”
Watson’s gaze drifted back to the papers. “Hair-like growths. Altered joints. Unusual contortions. It’s almost as though – as though they were being made into something else.” At that, he looked pointedly at me, his gaze roving over my feathers as his mind whirred.
The conclusion was rather obvious. Terrifying and absurd, yes, but no less obvious for it.
“You don’t think…?” Watson trailed off, his skin gone sheet-white.
I thought that whoever was responsible for my transformation had – like any scientist testing their hypothesis – something of a trial run.
These were our culprit’s discarded failures – the dregs left behind as he teethed and honed his craft – and I was his magnum opus.