With no one to watch him, he abandons the rigid forms that he normally adheres to. He allows himself to lean against the stonework that lines the roof as he watches the last of the day bleed into the Thames. The roof is the only thing about this flat that he likes – his access to it, the view from it. It wasn't of his choosing; he was consigned here and seemingly abandoned.
His thoughts wander for a moment and his eyes close. He lets himself drift for a moment, listening to the sounds that are distinctly London. He notes the flutter of wings, ignores them as he takes a deep breath. A breath he almost strangles on when he feels the backwash of air as a bird lands on his shoulder, feels the slap of a wing against the back of his skull. His body goes rigid for a moment, his eyes snapping open as he turns slightly to gaze at the raven that is being very careful not to dig her talons into his body.
"Brigantia," he hums softly. It's a confirmation, not a question and the bird rubs her head against his dark curls. She laughs at him, mantles, hopping around until she is facing backwards and glides to the roof. He makes a point of not watching her as she shifts; the thought of it makes him shiver.
"You're looking better, boy," she croaks at him, stepping up to stare out at the city with him, "Your time in the gaol agreed with you this time."
His lips curve almost against his will; like her, he has no love of confinement. He's well aware of all the time lost in what he called 'the box'. He's surprised to see her if not surprised by her. Countless months spent in rehab where he told himself that Brigantia, this lady in black, was a figment of too much cocaine and other substances that his brother did not approve of. "It was tolerable," he says, being very careful not to look directly at her, "despite the fact that the counselors were idiots."
"No one likes their keepers, trust me on this," she says softly as her fingertips ghost along his curls. She has always seemed fascinated by his curls, the texture of them.
He's quiet for a moment before he murmurs, "I'd thought you an hallucination, a myth."
"And so I am," she agrees. "Soon I will be so hemmed in by tradition that I won't be able to move. Tradition and change will be my undoing and so I'm forced to be bold."
Sherlock turns to watch her as she begins to pace beside him. He's met her twice before and neither time did she stay for more than a few moments. It's not the first time that he's tried to deduce her and he hopes it won't be the last. Some people lie with their eyes, some with their words and others still, with their body language. Everything about her is a lie and yet everything about her is the truth. At first glance she seems to be scarcely twenty but her eyes are worried, tired and they seem alien in the body of a youth. "Tradition is a powerful motivator. People need their legends, their history; it gives them comfort, makes them feel safe. They protect you because they love the idea of you."
Hostility bursts from her; she shifts in and out of raven form, the only sign he's ever had that she's upset. "I'm here to protect you," she growls, "not the other way around!" She straightens, her fingers picking at the stonework as she visibly steels herself. "Still, I have freedom yet and I would use it." She steps up to him again, her fingers reaching up to ruffle his hair affectionately. "It's already started, there are cameras everywhere, people will dig through secrets best left buried and I can't go there, but you can."
"You have the wrong brother," he whispers.
"No," she says. "In this, I can never be wrong. Something is coming, boy, something new and it's very wrong. Be ready for it, it'll devour you if it can." She tilts her head to study him, "You never asked me."
"Asked you what?"
"Three thousand years I've held my watch," she places her hands on the stonework, "and it never occurred to you, any of you." She meets his gaze. "What's so special about England?"
He blinks. "What's so special about England, Brigantia? What is it about London?"
She smiles, her lips brushing his forehead, "When I am caged, no longer able to leave, come visit me." As she slips off the edge of the wall, he hears her whisper, "We all need a place to stand, Sherlock. And we all need to stand for something, even if we haven't figured out what yet." He hears the rustling sound of wings as they snap open and she drifts away.