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Dupin had found John’s shoes.
John had been so careful to keep them out of the bird’s line of sight. He didn’t know what had clued the little feather duster in. That bird was almost as observant as its owner. And now John’s best Oxfords were…well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be wearing these on any more dates.
Maybe the leather finish was toxic to birds. Could he be that lucky? He dropped them back to the floor with a sigh—might as well leave them for bird toys now—and sat down to stare at Dupin, who was sitting on the back of Sherlock’s chair, nibbling at the different colours of yarn in the afghan. It was Sherlock’s afghan, and the bird wasn’t damaging it. If it were John’s afghan, the thing would be tat by now.
“We should make you sign the lease. If you’re going to be as big a menace as your master, then at least you should be responsible for rent.” Dupin qrrred at him, in a good mood, undoubtedly, since his nefarious plan re: shoes had gone so swimmingly.
Hell, the thing could probably read. Sherlock had taught it to count, and fetch things by name. He claimed it was smarter than most humans he knew—it was admittedly 3 for 3 so far on debates with Anderson—and after a few hours of “pen, Dupin,” “key, Dupin,” “tweezers, Dupin,” John was beginning to wonder if he’d been replaced.
If it learned how to operate the kettle, he might have to find new living arrangements.
“John, tea!” Dupin screeched gleefully in imitation of his owner’s shout. John sighed.
***
Dupin was watching John again.
He'd tried to explain why this was disturbing, but no one understood. They thought he was joking when he said the bird was plotting against him, like how you'd say it about a cat or a horse, but he meant every word. He could see it in the eyes. See it thinking. Calculating.
It flapped excitedly when Sherlock strode in, smelling faintly of chemicals. One bright spot: he never did chemistry in the kitchen anymore. Said it was bad for Dupin's lungs. John suspected that nothing short of holy water and crosses could harm the thing, but at least he had clean countertops.
Sherlock dropped a kiss on the parrot's happy, rapidly-fluffing little head—it would’ve been cute if it weren't secretly Satan—and scooped it up. It made a clicking kissy-noise back at him and climbed up to his shoulder, where it set about preening his hair and glowering smugly at John.
"I don't want to preen his bloody hair," he snapped at it.
Sherlock turned towards him, confused. "What?"
He sighed. "I was talking to the bird. It was giving me the evil eye again."
Sherlock collected his tea from John, ignoring the hissing, puffed-up threat display happening on his shoulder, and clicked his tongue, sounding uncannily like his pet had a moment ago. "Honestly, John, he’s just a bird. He’s not malicious. Just talk to him more often. Eventually he’ll adopt you as a member of the flock, and you’ll be fine."
Which proved once and for all that Sherlock could be wholly, absolutely, spectacularly wrong. Or that he was a sarky bastard, not that it was news. Because John had tried befriending Dupin. The bird didn’t just reject him. It acted sweet till it’d lured John into its clutches and then it turned into a vampire.
"And don't mock him. He can tell when you're mocking him, and he doesn't like it." Oh, right. Gosh. Because who else could it have learned the skill of deception from, if not from John?
John dropped into his chair and stared gloomily at the pile of confetti that’d used to be the medical journal he was reading.
***
For god’s sake, couldn’t he even have lunch in peace?
John’s bacon sarnie was under assault. He’d brought it home, anticipating a quiet lunch in his own home, and managed all of four bites before Dupin decided John’s food belonged to him. Sidling up from the right, John noticed the little bugger just in time to jerk back from Dupin’s bite. “Leave off already!”
Dupin nipped at him again. John grabbed the wrapping paper and dragged it to his other side. Dupin chased it, hissing and squeaking.
“No! It’s mine!” John menaced the bird with the tea mug to keep him away—not especially threatening, but at least Dupin couldn’t take a finger off if he caught it. John had seen him shatter walnuts in the shell with a single bite. He thought he had a right to be wary. “Buy your own if you want one so badly!”
Dupin drew up to his full foot of height in front of him, beak gaping angrily, and let out an ear-splitting squeal of rage.
“Right. Enough of this. I am not lowering myself to a battle of wills with a bird.” John stood up with his food and tea. “Count yourself lucky I don’t let you have it!” God knew, humans had no business eating bacon. It’d probably kill a parrot.
Dupin glowered at him as he settled into the sofa with his meal, fluffing up huffily and shoving his beak as far down into his neck feathers as he could. John rolled his eyes and finally had another bite of his sandwich.
He managed another two bites of his sarnie before Dupin perked up, a door closed upstairs, and bare feet came thumping down the staircase.
“I’m starving,” Sherlock announced in lieu of civilized greetings. He flopped down onto the sofa next to John. “Is that a bacon sarnie? Give me half.”
“Oh my god!” John roared, hurling himself and his sandwich away from his flatmate’s grabby hands. “No! Go get your own bloody sandwich!”
It could, admittedly, be seen as an over-reaction. John fell into his armchair, glaring. Sherlock blinked at him a couple of times. When no sandwich materialized, he flung himself lengthwise down onto the sofa and shoved his chin down as far as he could into his chest.
John rolled his eyes and took another bite of his delicious, delicious sarnie.
***
The worst day was when the parrot solved the case.
They had the evidence strewn everywhere across the sitting room. Sherlock was spinning in the middle of it in a dust-devil of intellectual effort, while Lestrade and John watched to one side. And then a raspy, inhuman little voice piped up, “Key?”
When they turned, there was Dupin, sitting on the table with a key in his beak. “Ohhhhhhh,” Sherlock said. “Yes! Oh, obvious!”
It was the wrong blend of brass. They spent the next five minutes listening to Sherlock simultaneously unspool the case and praise his brilliant little pet.
“I should retire,” Lestrade muttered.
“Give the parrot Anderson’s job,” John suggested. “You’ll have a forensic scientist who can work with Sherlock and I’ll have someone who can pay the bills.”
“He’s keeping it, isn’t he,” Lestrade said glumly, watching Sherlock petting the bird and muttering to it fondly. “God. How long do the damn things live?”
“About sixty years.” John had looked it up. He felt like he was naming the hour of his death.
“Jesus. I’m not going to live that long! Sherlock’s going to give me a heart attack by the time I’m 55.”
“Or a stroke,” John agreed. Then a thought struck, and sent him into a fit of what he liked to think was manly giggling.
Both men—and the parrot—turned to stare at him in surprise. “What?”
“Sorry, I.” He gulped back a few breaths till he could get control of the amused wobble in his voice. “I just thought.” He waved at the detective and the bird on his wrist. “Batman and Robin.”
“Oh that’s good,” said Lestrade admiringly. “That’s going on the office whiteboard.”
John couldn’t hold it in when Sherlock scowled. He started laughing again. Pleased by the sound, Dupin started cackling madly in response. Sherlock’s face screwed up in disgust.
Maybe there was hope for this relationship after all.