Chapter 1

27 May, 19:15, Central Africa Time Zone

Kigali International Airport, Kigali, Rwanda

The landing was a brutal one, which seemed fitting as the entirety of the flight had been less than smooth. Stretching, Sherlock Holmes gathered up his computer bag and other carry on bag that held his reading material, water bottle, toothbrush and a change of clothes. The handful of Journal of Forensic Research issues that Sherlock had packed had remained unbreeched in his bag, and the latest Elly Griffiths' novel had been a last minute grab off the kitchen table on his way to the airport. A gift from someone (his mother, no doubt) that Sherlock couldn't be sure was a gag or sincere. "Brilliant." Sherlock had remarked with a touch of undisguised sarcasm when he peeled back the wrapping paper. Why do people assume that I want to read fictionalized tales of my career? It had always been this way – people were forever shocked when Sherlock said coldly that no, Indiana Jones was not his childhood hero, and that no, CSI was not his favorite show on telly.

Regardless, the Elly Griffith's book had been snatched up blindly and shoved into his carry on while the taxi waiting to take him to the airport honked again from the street below his flat. It wasn't until he was sitting at the airport gate, waiting to board his flight to Brussels that he sorted through his bag and took notice of the paperback book and heaved a sigh. Sherlock had thought for a minute about abandoning the book in the airport, leaving it for some soul desperate for reading material, but thought better of it when he remembered just how long his layover in Belgium would be.

Now having arrived at his final destination, Sherlock shouldered his computer and bag full of unread reading material, made his way off the plane, and out into the terminal of Kigali International Airport. The airport was quiet and clean, more modern than he had expected. He knew that his perception of the small central African country was based largely on the decade long atrocities that had dominated the media in the 1980s and 1990s. Colleagues had assured him that the country had come a long way since the conflict, and its capital, Kigali, was a quickly developing city. Still, he couldn't help but be surprised at the free wifi alert that appeared as he switched on his mobile. Caught up in the wave of his fellow passengers, Sherlock made his way down to baggage claim, where he retrieved his nondescript black suitcase and made his way out to the taxi stand.

"The Karisimbi Hotel, please," he said in French to the driver as he climbed into the backseat.

As they drove closer to the city center, Sherlock watched the scenery pass by and the sunlight fade from the sky. Supermarkets, shops, and busy streets flashed by, as people lived their lives in peaceful normalcy. Large, modern, multi story buildings peppered the skyline as the taxi continued into the city. Buses, taxis, vans, and sedans all zipped through intersections, horns blaring. By all appearances, Kigali looked like any modern city, bustling and full of life and he felt a twinge of guilt for his preconceived notions. He had expected to find a lackluster city, full of poverty and traces of conflict. He was suddenly even more impressed by the dynamic landscape he was passing through. On the horizon, small mountains rose up, encircling the city, while tropical trees and plants bordered the roadway.

Sherlock looked down to see his knee bouncing nervously. The whisper of nerves he had been feeling for the past couple of weeks had become a roar, and despite his eagerness to begin his trip, he felt a lump of anxiety forming in his throat. As the taxi arrived at the hotel, he tried in vain to swallow his nerves as he peeled away several Rwandan Francs for the driver. Collecting his bags, Sherlock gave a nod of appreciation to the taxi driver and watched the van rejoin the flow of traffic. For some reason, it was this that signaled to him the beginning of the vast unknown that lay ahead of him. Perhaps it was the familiarity of airports and a taxi ride that had prolonged his connection to London and his life there.

But the weeks that lay ahead of him were a mystery. He had plans, contacts, a job to do, and research to conduct, but the images in his head of his life for the next few months had been undone during that taxi ride. Everything that he had expected of this trip so far had been turned on its head, which made him even more unnerved. He frowned, scrambling to reconcile his thoughts and the new reality that was presenting itself. He was glad that Rwanda so far was the opposite of what he had imagined, but it was so different from what he had anticipated, he was feeling off kilter. Trying once more to force down the nerves that bubbled in the back of his throat, he turned and strode into the hotel lobby.

The first few days of his trip would be spent here in Kigali, the small country's capital, meeting his guide and contacts, getting his documents in order from the local United Nations Development Program office, and checking in with the British consulate. Despite the fact that Rwanda was now, for the most part, a peaceful and modern country, the British government liked to keep tabs on its citizens who found themselves travelling and working in the country. He knew that even without making contact at the embassy, his presence in Rwanda was already well on the radar of the highest reaches of Her Majesty's government. Mycroft hadn't been in touch yet, but Sherlock would bet the best trowel in his kit that he knew the second Sherlock had checked in to the hotel and collected his room key.

Five floors up from the lobby, he abandoned his bags just inside the door to his room, going immediately to the window. He wrenched the curtains open and looked out across the city. Dusk had fallen in earnest now, but lights sparkled on the streets, and people continued to move about on the sidewalks below. A low rumble of thunder could be heard above the noise of the traffic and a light rain rolled down the mountain, moving towards the city. Rwanda's rainy season was wrapping up, but from what Sherlock had read, intermittent rainstorms were to be expected for the next couple of weeks before the summer's dry season began. As the last hints of orange and red receded from the sky, he let his thoughts race ahead of him to the next few months of his life.

Back in London, he held the esteemed, yet lowly, position of Associate Lecturer in the Forensics Department at the University College London. As a junior faculty member, he was embarking on the long slog of tenure track. This meant drawing the short straw on course appointments, lousy committee positions, and the beast of all academia: research. Surprise to no one, he loved the world of academia – the thrum of activity, experimentation, and innovation filled the halls of the university. It was a feeling that powered him. He loved conducting his own research and reaching new, groundbreaking conclusions, making a name for himself within his field. What he didn't love was the politics of university system. Playing nice, glad-handing the right people, and fawning over doddering old relics of faculty members was trying to most people, and downright excruciating to someone like him, who preferred his solitude and privacy. Invitations to department socials and parties rarely came anymore after all his refusals, even the better since he detested the events. The apparent cold shoulder he turned to the department heads didn't win him any friends – he knew that he was perceived as being snobbish and socially superior.

The reality was that he never knew how to act in these sorts of situations. That personality trait went to Mycroft in the division of DNA from his parents. While he found the social interactions and game-playing of department politics tedious and frustrating, Sherlock knew it was important for the future of his career in academia. This knowledge, however, did not help him for the most part. He knew that very few of his fellow faculty at the university liked him, and this largely contributed to the fact that he had drawn the short straw in which courses he was assigned to teach – always the first year, introductory courses; and his appointment to the worst faculty committees – Faculty Grievance Panel and the Fraud and Research Misconduct Advisory Committee.

The students in his courses largely respected him, but he had a suspicion that was all down to their fear of him. While the interactions with his students were usually cordial and distant, it was always the anonymous course evals that revealed their true impression of Professor Holmes. Without fail, terms like "hard-arsed," "uptight," and "total wanker" always appeared on the end of course evaluations. He tried not to take it to heart – you couldn't have your students running roughshod over you. And if they feared you, at least they still respected you. Sherlock didn't understand them or what drove their motivations. Empirically, he knew that he had been a young adult at one time or another, but that still didn't help him relate to them any better. He had always understood facts and data – it felt much safer to let these concrete rationales drive his actions, not the unpredictable and nebulous realm of emotions and hormones.

It all came down to his research, in the end. He wasn't about to win a tenured position in the department through making friends and playing the game, and his relationship with his students wasn't going to redeem him in the eyes of the department either. No, he needed to prove that he was worth his salt through some really dynamic research. For the last year he had been on the hunt for an inspiring and groundbreaking project. Sherlock's background was in forensic archaeology and for him, the bones were the thing. There was little more beautiful than the length of a femur, or the rounded curve of the parietal bone as it was slowly uncovered by the gentle touch of brush and trowel. Mysteries were solved and cold cases were suddenly red hot with possibility when bones were dug up from the earth. Bones didn't lie – as structures of calcium woven together, it wasn't in their nature to deceive. They didn't talk, and they didn't expect Sherlock to talk. The skeleton was a beautiful thing and he understood it. The search for that impressive research proposal had been ongoing for almost half a year when something finally presented itself at a particularly dreadful faculty committee meeting one Wednesday afternoon in January.

Five months earlier

Every January, the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists held their annual meeting. It was a time to catch up with colleagues, swap field stories, and congratulate each other on the latest research breakthroughs. Sherlock sat in the darkened auditorium, idly shading in the detailed sketch of a human ribcage he had drawn in the margins of his committee minutes. The man at the front of the room had been droning on for some time about new professional standards in the archaeology field. Sherlock knew he should be taking notes or at the very least paying attention, but frankly he couldn't be bothered. He glanced at his watch, 20 more minutes and he would be free.

"You've got quite a talent there," said a voice over his shoulder.

Sherlock leaned back in shock and turned his head in the direction of the speaker. The voice belonged to a middle aged man with thick grey hair and sharp eyes.

"Uh," Sherlock stammered, flipping his paper over to cover the fact that he had decidedly not been paying attention to the meeting's proceedings. "It's just a doodle."

"Well it's quite good. A friend of yours?"

"Uh no, no."

"Ah," said the man, nodding in comprehension. He stared at Sherlock.

"Oh, right." He stuck his hand out to the man without turning around. "Sherlock Holmes," he said uncomfortably.

"Greg Lestrade, University of Leicester," he said and shook the proffered hand.

"Shhhh!" A woman down Sherlock's row squinted at them angrily. Lestrade shook his head, but leaned back in his seat, while Sherlock looked back down to his legal pad, feigning a sudden interest in the meeting. Twenty-three minutes later, the meeting had adjourned and the lights overhead were coming back on. Sherlock stuffed his legal pad and papers into his leather messenger bag and collected his coat from the seat next to him.

"So, what's your field then, Dr. Holmes?" Lestrade had also stood and collected his things. Sherlock looked the man over: sophisticated dress, expensive briefcase, Blackberry phone, seems out of place among the crowd of academics. Ah, private sector work but decided to go into teaching in the last couple of years. A favor for a friend, perhaps?

"Forensic archaeology," Sherlock said, pulling his winter coat on. "Crime scenes," he said simply, by way of further explanation. Remembering that he was attempting to be polite, he asked "And you?"

"Ethnoarchaeology. I've only recently gotten back into the fieldwork though. I worked for a time in Pretoria, South Africa with the Department for International Development coordinating projects of research groups working in central and southern Africa." Greg pulled his coat on and the two of them headed towards the door at the back of the auditorium. "Got this gig when I came back from overseas and an old mate of mine from D-FID said Leicester was looking for someone to cover their ethno courses. I was getting bloody tired of the bureaucracy anyway," he laughed and gestured back at the auditorium. "Not sure if I've escaped it though."

Sherlock nodded, offering a tight smile. They stood on the street now, outside the auditorium. It was overcast, windy, and cold enough to snow. Before he could say goodbye, Greg rubbed his gloved hands together. "Cor, it's cold. Fancy a pint? There's a pub down the road that I go to after these meetings. I always need a drink after that lot."

Glancing down at his watch, Sherlock tried to come up with a reasonable excuse to beg off. He was supposed to meet Mycroft for their annual weavoidedseeingeachotheratChristmas dinner, but he was really not looking forward to it. This Lestrade fellow seemed tolerable, and would likely be less wearisome than the average university lackey. Plus, one drink would make Sherlock late for his dinner engagement, something that would drive Mycroft to annoyance.

"All right. But just one, my brother is expecting me for dinner."

"So, have you been teaching archaeology studies at UCL very long?" Lestrade asked after they had settled in a table at the back of The Exmouth Arms. Sherlock sipped from his drink.

"I'm with the forensics department, actually. Only been there a few years. I spent a couple years in the Shetlands conducting research on Mesolithic settlements and some time in Siberia on the Baikal Archaeology Project."

"Don't much like warm weather then, eh?"

"I go where the research takes me," he said simply.

"How did you end up in forensics?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He abhorred talking about himself. He had hoped that the pub would be crowded enough that they wouldn't have to talk and he could just sip his beer in companionable silence. He blew out a breath. "I also do consulting work for Scotland Yard occasionally. It helps to pay the bills."

"So when they find a dead body buried in Greenwich Park, they call you to help them dig it up?" his voice took on an excited note.

"I'm only interested when they've been dead for some time," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I deal in bones. Occasionally I can offer help with the recently deceased, but there are professionals for that sort of work."

"So like cold case serial killers who bury the bodies and such?"

"Sometimes."

"Gruesome," he said, but his tone hinted that he was more than a little interested. They were quiet for a beat, sipping their beers. Then, Lestrade's head snapped up, regarding him shrewdly.

"I'm actually headed down to Rwanda for a dig this summer. My department has been given permission to excavate a mass grave in the western region." He pointed at Sherlock. "I'm coordinating the team and don't yet have a forensics expert. Fancy a go?"

Sherlock set down his beer and rubbed a finger over his bottom lip, thinking.

"You ever do work on anything like that? Mass graves?"

"No…" he said slowly. "No I haven't."

"Well, think about it. I'm trying to firm up the project team in the next couple of weeks..."

Greg continued to talk and Sherlock let him, grateful for the reprieve of making conversation. It's something to think about, isn't it? he pondered. It would certainly be innovative. Most of the published material on African archaeology wasn't any younger than the Iron Age. Plus the criminal perspective of it would spark the interest of his colleagues.

"And I said, 'does this look "inanimate" to you, punk? If I can move, and I can talk, who's to say I can't do anything I want?!'" Greg set his glass down hard and let out a loud laugh, startling Sherlock out of his musings. He had obviously missed the work up to a terrible joke. Looking at his watch, he realised he was now well over twenty minutes late to his dinner. Downing the dregs of his beer, he grabbed his coat and stood.

"I must be going," he announced.

"Oh, right," Greg said, obviously caught off guard at the abrupt end to the conversation. "I'll walk out with you." He finished his beer, got to his feet and followed Sherlock outside.

"Call me Monday and we can discuss more details of the project," he handed Sherlock a business card from his wallet.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, pocketing the card. "Well, thanks for the beer. I'll, uh, see you around I suppose?"

"I'm sure you will. London is a small city, you know," Greg winked at him and stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "I'll see you around, mate."

A seven-minute cab ride later and Sherlock was sitting in a upscale bistro, Mycroft's annoyed gaze boring into him.

"So good of you to join me, dear brother. Lose track of time?" Mycroft had a way of sounding both bored and furious at the same time.

"Not at all. I was perfectly aware of the time," Sherlock said, opening his menu. "What's good here?" He wasn't hungry, but the nonchalance would further push his brother's buttons.

They were halfway through their mains when he decided to bring it up. "I'm thinking about going to Africa this summer," he said.

"That does seem like the perfect time of year for it," Mycroft said sarcastically.

"Its proximity to the equator actually makes it quite a temperate place as long as you stay out of the Sahara."

"And what will you be doing on the Dark Continent?" Mycroft said, choosing not to concede the point.

Sherlock chewed his osso bucco for a moment before replying. "Research."

"Naturally."

"It's a big continent, Mycroft, with many places one could find things to dig up."

"Well let us hope you can make your way home without contracting a nasty infection or being shot up by rebel militias, hmm?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I may need your help with a visa and the like." The last thing he wanted to do was ask for his brother's help, but in this case it probably couldn't be avoided.

Mycroft grinned slyly. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You heard me. The department won't grant me funding for a research trip until I have the proper documentation. I only have five months until the end of term and summer holiday begins." Mycroft watched him, apparently waiting for something. Sherlock aimed a swift kick at him under the table, missing by a hair.

"I'm still not sure how I fit into your little 'Heart of Darkness' expedition," he said.

"Will you assist me?" Sherlock ground his teeth. "Please," he spat the last word out.

"It would be my pleasure," he said, grinning smugly. And that was that.

The last five months had been busy, to say the least. Preliminary research had to be done, proposals written, and contacts made, not to mention the packing and trips to the doctor for immunizations. Sherlock also had his teaching and departmental duties to attend to. He had to play nice in order to receive the funding he needed for his trip. But all too quickly it was May and he was throwing last minute items into his suitcase and searching his flat for his spare set of calipers. And then he was on a plane gliding up, up into the sky.

Sherlock turned away from the window overlooking Kigali and dug his mobile out of the front pocket of his trousers. He had two missed texts from Mycroft (of course), which he promptly ignored. Scrolling through his contacts, Sherlock jotted off a message to Greg.

Arrived in Kigali. Meet you in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning? SH

Sherlock pocketed his phone and went to his luggage. No point in unpacking, since he would be departing for the dig site in Gafunso the day after tomorrow, but he retrieved his wash bag from the suitcase and took it into the ensuite. His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out.

Sure. 9am all right?

See you then. SH

Sherlock made quick work of brushing his teeth, swiped a hotel flannel over his face, and shut off the bathroom light. Back in the room, undressed down to his pants and t-shirt and pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms from his bag. It was only 9:35 PM local time, but the exhaustion from a full day of international travel was creeping up on him. Laptop in hand, he slid under the crisp hotel sheets and sat back against his pillow. The rainstorm had passed as quickly as it had begun and the last rumbles of thunder were fading. Only ten minutes of email later, Sherlock felt his eyelids begin to droop, and before long, he was dead asleep.