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Dimmock was the first recipient, and the fact that it took him two full weeks to register the eye-searingly yellow rubber chicken in his inbox suggested his observational failures were second only to his organizational failures.
He, in his turn, slipped the chicken into Donovan’s second desk drawer. He managed to wait all of three days before asking, in a manner far too obviously casual, if he might borrow her stapler. She slid open the drawer, withdrew the stapler from beside the faux poultry, and handed it to him without ever even glancing up from the crime scene photos she was studying.
The following afternoon, Anderson shrieked and dropped his mug upon discovering the gaping orange beak poking out of the electric kettle he had been about to fill and put on the boil. (One last shard of ceramic painted with dinosaurs would turn up months later.)
Behind the closed door of his office, Greg chortled at the recording Sally had sent him from her phone. John peered over his shoulder at the tiny screen and raised an eyebrow.
Greg attempted a serious expression, but he broke into laughter when Sherlock spoke up from the corner, eyes still on the text he was composing.
“Come now, John. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to give all of them the bird.”