Chapter Text
If you’ll pardon the pun, I have decided to take a leaf out of Watson’s book and write out the curious circumstances I found myself in on the morning of the 1st of December, 1895.
I had awoken that fateful day with the cold clarity that I was not entirely human.
The observation arrived fully formed, as such things were wont to do, without preamble or panic. A dim, unfamiliar ache threaded through my bones — bones which felt strangely light, as if there was nothing holding me together at all. The bed beneath me felt vast, the pale linen an expanse that reached out beyond my sight, like a calm and peaceful winter meadow that heralded naught but misery. It seemed to me that either the world had grown or that I had shrunk.
As I drew breath, the air rushed in a mite too quickly, sharp and cold, slicing down into a chest that was no longer shaped to contain such deep inhales as I was accustomed to. It burned, bracing and thin, and left me momentarily dazed.
I tried to sit up. The command scattered uselessly through my synapses, splintering into instincts I did not recognise.
Black feathers shuddered where my hands, and in fact, most of the rest of me, should have been.
It would be tempting to describe the sensation as an out-of-body experience, were I not so emphatically in a body that was not my own. There was no comforting dissociation, no distance. Every sensation arrived with ruthless immediacy.
I had, somehow, inexplicably turned into a raven.
Corvus corax.
Though blurry, I could make out a rather large and imposing beak. Not unlike my flesh and bone nose, if Watson’s exaggerated description of myself was anything to go by. I was sure he’d be amused were the situation not so bizarre.
I glanced, then, at my plumage. It was glossy to the point of iridescence and caught the light in a way that unsettled me. What I now understood to be my wings lay sprawled across the sheets, quivering slightly. I willed them to move but they were like strangers to me — silent, distant and vaguely offended at being told to move. For a moment I wasn’t sure they were mine at all. I felt rather like a puppet dropped mid-performance, strings cut and joints still bent in some forgotten pose. Something inside me had cracked open and the pieces no longer meshed together.
It was infuriating, to say the least.
I catalogued my new body as I would any other curiosity: my weight was drastically reduced and my center of gravity altered, leaving me rather disoriented. My vision sharpened and fractured with a thousand glints of light and colour that I had never seen before, nor could I accurately describe. Objects bled into one another, surfaces shimmered with information I had never previously possessed the equipment to perceive. The morning light that slanted through the window was no longer a simple wash of grey London smog but a riot of until-now unnoticed colours, ultraviolet halos crowning the mundane; the starch in the linen blazed; dust motes burned like tiny constellations and the very air seemed to sparkle, overlaid with signals and reflections that defied everything I had ever known. I saw almost too much and I knew then that if I had anything in my stomach it would have been promptly expelled.
Panic arrived a scant few seconds later, belated and rather impolite in its suddenness, when I attempted to speak and instead loosed a sound that scraped against the air — a harsh crAAWK that echoed off the walls of Baker Street.
Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, I heard the harsh clink of dropped china.
Watson.
If anyone was able to help me out of this…predicament, it was my dear Watson.
I clung to that certainty as my diminished heart began to beat faster, faster and faster still, drumming out a staccato, until I feared (somewhat unnecessarily) that it was fit to beat right out of my now feathered chest.
Base instincts urged me toward the window, toward height and open air, toward flight — a solution as elegant as it was profoundly unhelpful. If only because I would find myself falling rather than flying.
This was a problem. Therefore, it must have a solution. Logic, I reminded myself fiercely, had yet to fail me. It would not begin today.
Heavy footsteps, familiar in their weight and tentative in their rhythm, headed towards my door, shuffling against the carpet. A pause, and a tap-tap against the wood of the door.
“Holmes?” Came Watson’s voice, his apprehension and confusion clear in the elongation of the vowels. It seemed different, his voice. It was certainly the same cadence and inflection that I had come to associate with my doctor but the lower tones seemed to have been amplified. If I focused enough, I fancied that I might be able to hear the thrum of his vocal cords.
“Holmes?” Watson repeated after I had failed to respond and I could hear his knuckles brushing against the wood. There it was again, that rich undertone, a vibration I felt as much as I heard, shuddering pleasantly and alarmingly through my now-hollow bones. I opened my beak to reply and produced instead a low, disgruntled croak.
Another pause, contemplative this time, and then the door swung inward.
Watson filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and solid as ever, his outline haloed by the dim light from the hall. His eyes went first to the bed and slid straight past me. To his eye, it would appear empty. I followed their movement with an irrational flash of irritation, as though I had been snubbed by a passer-by. Only when he took a step closer did he stop short, breath catching audibly as his gaze snapped back.
For a long moment we regarded one another: he, frozen between befuddlement and concern; I, sprawled inelegantly amid rumpled sheets, black feathers splayed across them in a most undignified manner.
“Well,” Watson said at last, very softly, “this is… new. Does Holmes know you’re here?”
My pride rankled at the idea a common bird could infiltrate my rooms without my knowledge and a guttural knocking sound emitted from my chest in reprimand at Watson’s remark.
“Oh, my apologies!” Watson said with an air of exaggerated contrition, his eyes widening playfully and a hand going up to rest against his heart.
I tried once more to speak. I had an excellent opening prepared, something reassuring and undoubtedly witty. What emerged was a sharper kRAH-kRAH, edged with frustration, and I beat one wing against the mattress in what I hoped conveyed urgency rather than hysteria.
I knew, of course, through my brief foray into ornithology that corvidae - especially those raised in captivity - could mimic human speech. It had, in fact, come in handy on a case, once. So you can imagine, my dear reader, that it was exceedingly vexing to know that I could talk in the manner I was accustomed to but had virtually no idea how to. I had a tongue, yes, but it was neither soft nor flexible (at least, not to the extent a human tongue was) and I had no lips in which to manipulate the air into words.
“Are you alright, old chap?” Watson asked and if I could I would have grinned at the endearment. Watson always was the more sociable one, even, it seemed, towards wayward birds, “If it’s medical aid you want I’m afraid I’m not that kind of doctor.” He chuckled to himself at his own joke and crossed the room to gently set himself down on the bed, looking at me in confusion. And, oh, his face looked deliciously square as it always did when he was faced with something that perplexed him. It was always my greatest amusement to see him so and I felt my heart lift a little at the sight.
In my usual stubborn manner, I tried to lift myself into a standing position. It was a sufficiently clumsy attempt and I loathe to capture the exact details of it on paper, for if I was in my human body I would’ve looked akin to a newborn foal or a particularly soaked drunkard. Far from my normal grace. After a few more attempts, I had managed to right myself and stood precariously on thin, knobbly legs.
My wings felt like a heavy lodestone across my neck, pulling me down as opposed to lifting me up as they were built to do. They felt heavy and more than a little odd. They lay half-unfurled at my side, the long black feathers dragging against the sheets whenever I shifted, catching and bending in ways that made an unpleasant, crawling sensation skitter up through my spine. I attempted, with mounting irritation, to draw them in closer, to fold them neatly as instinct insisted they ought to fold. The muscles responded sluggishly. One wing tucked partway, the other slid uselessly back down, leaving me lopsided and exposed. The asymmetry was intolerable.
Watson had approached quietly, mindful in the way of a man accustomed to nervous patients and skittish suspects. I felt him before I saw him: the faint displacement of air, the warmth, the low, steady sound of breathing that resonated in his chest. I froze, wings stiffening in a mortifying display.
“Well now,” Watson murmured, not unkindly. “That looks uncomfortable.”
I bristled slightly at that, which did nothing to improve the situation. My feathers only slipped further, splaying awkwardly at my side. I gave an indignant croak and attempted a dignified rearrangement that resulted in one wing knocking against the headboard.
Watson chuckled under his breath. “Easy, there. You’re all elbows. Or, feathers rather.”
Before I could protest, warm hands slid carefully beneath the edge of one wing. The contact sent a shock clean through me. Painful and startlingly intimate. I found I rather liked it.
Watson adjusted the wing with infinite care, guiding it inward, folding it along my side in a motion that felt correct. The pressure was firm but kind, the sort one used to reassure rather than restrain. I felt the wing settle, the tension easing from the unfamiliar muscles.
“There we are,” Watson murmured with a kind smile. “That’s better.”
He repeated the motion on the other side, slower this time, attentive to my reactions. The second wing folded in, feathers overlapping neatly, my silhouette finally compact and contained. The exposed vulnerability I felt receded, replaced by a fragile, surprising sense of safety.
Watson withdrew his hands at once, as though aware that he had crossed some invisible threshold. He studied me for a moment, eyes thoughtful but gentle.
I lowered my head and a softer knocking this time loosed itself from my throat, rather like the purring of a cat. Somewhat embarrassing, I thought, but I knew Watson would never mock me for it. In fact, he’d probably be delighted.
I caw-d once again at him, bobbing my head up and down in an insistent manner. Watson’s head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out what it was I desired. Indignant, I cried: ka-kRAW-kRAW.
I hobbled over to him and pecked gently at his hands. Understanding washed over Watson’s face and he gently cupped his hands underneath me, thumb brushing over my sleek feathers as an awed smile pulled at his lips.
“You are rather bossy, aren’t you?” Oh, if only he knew.
With a few bobs of my head and a couple directing squawks, I had led Watson to the section of my vast book collection that I knew housed a text on birds and their anatomy. And Watson said hoarding such things had no use. Tch.
“Whatever do you want these for?” Watson queried. Honestly, did none of my lessons in deduction get through to him? Here he was, with a bird in hand who had shown up in my bed, with no sign of its human occupant to be found, despite clear signs, such as the coat that still hung upon the back of my chair, that I had not left our rooms, and who was insistent on being shown to my bookcase, despite the glaring fact that birds cannot read and he had yet to put two and two together. But, as always, I thought fondly, Watson saw but did not observe. Though I supposed I could forgive him this oversight as people didn’t often turn into birds overnight. Harsh a teacher though I was, I did not expect miracles.
I scanned the books in front of me until I found the desired one and then pecked at it with my beak as though I were a woodpecker instead.
“Alright, alright!” Exclaimed Watson as he grabbed the book from the shelf. Pleased, I directed him once more, this time towards the table, where he gently placed both myself and the book.
I thrust my beak under the heavy cover and pried it open, grabbing the pages with my beak and turning them as best I could until I arrived at the right page, all the while feeling Watson’s confused gaze on me.
The passage read as follows:
The syrinx, deriving its name from the Ancient Greek σῦριγξ (súrinx), meaning a pipe or reed instrument, constitutes the vocal organ of birds. It is situated at the inferior termination of the trachea and serves as the source of avian vocalisation, performing this function without the presence of vocal folds such as are found in we humans.
The production of sound depends upon the vibration of one or more portions of the membrana tympaniformis, which form the walls of the syrinx, together with the pessulus. These vibrations are induced by the passage of air through the organ and give rise to a self-oscillating mechanism that modulates the airstream and generates sound. The character of the resulting tones is further regulated by muscular action, which alters both the tension of the membranes and the dimensions of the bronchial apertures. By means of this apparatus, certain species of birds, including parrots, corvids, and mynas, are capable of imitating human speech.
Hmm.
Digging deep, I forced my throat to do my bidding. It sputtered awkwardly at first, unwilling to co-operate, until at last:
w-ARK-SAWN !
The man in question snapped his head towards me, having drifted to the side as I read.
A reaction but not the desired one. Perhaps I had to be more clear? I dipped my body up and down in a strange, latent, instinctual effort to motivate myself and cried out once more.
“WATSON.”
“What the Devil…?” Watson muttered, his brows almost touching with how deeply he’d begun to furrow them. Excited, I hopped up and down, circling around the table. Once I’d started saying his name, I found it rather difficult to stop.
“WATSON! WATSON! WATSON!”
“Yes…” He said bemusedly, his voice slow and deep, “I’m Watson. Has Holmes been talking to you about me then?”
Oh, bless the man, but this was painful. I krawed at him to express my annoyance and nipped at the finger that lay closest to me. He yelped and drew his hand close to his chest, glaring at me without any real heat.
“HOLMES.” I cried, flapping my wings.
“Yes, Holmes! My, you’re a clever thing!” Despite the situation, I couldn’t help but preen at the praise as I often did and I felt my feathers ruffle pleasurably. Watson had the most infuriating ability to distract me.
“HOLMES. ME! ME-HOLMES!” I continued, banging my talons against the table as a toddler might its foot when it did not get its way.
A-ha!
I spotted a flicker of recognition in Watson’s eyes.
“Holmes…?” He asked haltingly, unsure as to whether he was currently losing his mind, no doubt.
“YES. HOLMES! “
With a dawning look of horror on his face, Watson tore from the room and poked his head across the landing to call for our landlady. I heard her approach the bottom of the stairs, her steps lighter and quicker than Watson’s.
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Do you know if Holmes has gone out at all?” Watson asked, voice edging towards hysteria.
A pause followed as Mrs. Hudson contemplated her answer, “Not that I know of, Doctor. But you know how he is,” She said with an exasperatedly fond chuckle, “Slinks out with nary a word most days.”
Watson laughed back distantly, his eyes flickering back and forth between me and Mrs. Hudson. He quickly thanked and dismissed her before walking back towards the sitting room with the air of a man walking towards the gallows.
Watson closed the door with meticulous care, as though a careless click of the latch might shatter what remained of his composure. He stood with his back to it for a long moment, breathing through his nose, shoulders rigid.
Then, he turned.
I fixed him with what I intended to be my most comforting stare. Unfortunately, ravens possess eyes built for menace but not, it turns out, for reassurance.
“Well,” Watson said faintly, echoing himself from a few minutes previous “this is… new.”
I croaked in reply.
“No,” he told himself, raising a finger as if addressing a skittish patient. “No, people do not just turn into birds. That is not a thing that happens. This is shock. Or sleep deprivation. You — he keeps me up often enough.”
I hopped closer.
“SORRY.”
Watson went very still at that.
“My God,” he whispered.
Encouraged, I launched into what I hoped was a riveting monologue. What emerged was instead a torrent of croaks, clicks and knocks.
Watson stared at me. I stared back, chest heaving.
After a long, stunned silence, he rubbed his face with both hands.
“Right,” he said at last, voice eerily calm. “You are Holmes. And a bird.”
He seemed to be taking it well, I thought. At the very least, he hadn’t fainted again.
Watson exhaled sharply, then gave a short, hysterical laugh. “You know,” he said, glancing at the ceiling, “of all the things I imagined I might wake to this morning - murder, blackmail, the threat to the Empire - this did not feature. You do keep life interesting, old man.”
Raising my head, I crooned proudly. Never let it be said that the great Sherlock Holmes was boring.
“Yes,” Watson added, meeting my gaze with reluctant affection. “Quite. Let us discover who did this to you and, more importantly, how to reverse it.”
He paused, eyeing my new form.
“…after breakfast,” he amended. “I assume your appetite has stayed the same?”
I bobbed my body up and down in agreement and hopped onto his shoulder. I nipped his ear, as gently as my beak would allow.
“WATSON!”
“Good morning to you too, Holmes,” he muttered.