Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's Sherlock or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes.
One Room Left in the Inn
Perhaps Birdy should have listened to Mycroft's ranting when she answered Sherlock's mobile. Maybe then she wouldn't have been so surprised when Sherlock pulled up to the little inn. She definitely wouldn't have been so confused when he handed her a ring and told her to put in on her left ring finger.
Instead, she sat down on the ground and placed the mobile next to her, and watched Sherlock interrogate Victoria. It was a testament to her state of mind when the florist didn't even attempt to flirt with him but answered his questions in a hollow sounding voice. Molly had disappeared with the police, providing her expertise to them. If Birdy focused enough, she could just make out the sound of Molly's conversation over Sherlock's questioning and Mycroft's ranting.
"…less than six hours… completely drained… few defensive wounds…"
"Now, how did you not notice the stench?"
"Miss Mason, are you even listening to me?"
Birdy sighed and picked up the mobile again. She wanted nothing more than to snap 'no!' and hang up on the elder Holmes, but as he was in charge of her salary, she held her tongue. "It's rather hectic here, sir."
Mycroft was silent for a moment. "You will meet me exactly at eight tomorrow evening in my private room at the Diogenes Club. Failure to appear will—"
"Result in my termination. Yes, Mr Holmes, I understand," Birdy finished. "Is it acceptable for me to arrive early?"
Mycroft seemed to ignore her sardonic tone. "I will send a car to you, Miss Mason. Do not make me wait." And with a click, he hung up.
"Your brother is such a charmer," Birdy called over to her flatmate.
"It runs in the family," Sherlock responded, not taking his eyes off Victoria. After a few more incredibly intrusive questions, he strode over to Birdy and held out his hand for his phone, as if he had somehow forgotten that he was interrogating Victoria in the first place (which was ridiculous, seeing as this was Sherlock Holmes).
Birdy grabbed hold of him and hauled herself up first, garnering an eye roll from Sherlock. "Well, since our camping trip was ruined, will we be going home?" She wanted to be upset that they were leaving, but Birdy had decided that this outdoor adventure thing wasn't the hobby for her. Victoria, bless her, had tried to make it a fun bonding experience, but a hot shower was sounding more attractive by the minute.
And if Victoria ever tried to make her go camping again, Birdy could just to remind her of the murder victim in the woods.
"No, we are staying at an inn not too far from here." He took off at a brisk pace, leaving Birdy to scramble after him. She paused briefly to collect her rucksack, and in that time, she nearly lost sight of the consulting detective, who had walked deeper into the forest.
"Really?"
"Do try to sound less thrilled, Bridget. A man was found dead on your holiday."
"We were doing fine until you showed up," Birdy replied. "Speaking of, what about Molly and Victoria? Aren't we going to wait for them?"
"No. Unfortunately, I was only able to get one room," Sherlock said in a voice that indicated that he wasn't very sorry about this arrangement at all. The two had reached the edge of the woods finally, where a sleek black car was waiting. It was difficult to decide if Sherlock had borrowed Mycroft's car, or if the elder Holmes had sent it for them, as neither sounded all that appealing. Birdy chose to keep silent as she slipped into the passenger side.
The drive to town was silent, punctuated only by Birdy's yawns and the purr of the Jaguar's engine. They pulled up to a charming, two storey stone house with a lovely front garden, and gas lamps lining the path. It had an ancient, yet homey, sort of feel to it, and had Birdy come here with anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, she might have actually enjoyed it. Instead, the moment the car was parked, her companion tossed a small object at her face.
"Put these on," Sherlock commanded, turning off the engine.
She opened the box, only to find a set of rings. "Sherlock, are these wedding rings?"
But her surly flatmate had already exited and was walking around the back of the car to the boot. Birdy rolled her eyes but did as he asked and followed after, silently helping him pull out two suitcases. Just before they reached the front door of the inn, Sherlock threaded her arm through his and gave her a withering look, as if he were silently ordering her to play along.
The front entrance was filled with an array of furniture and ornaments that didn't match but somehow gave the room an eccentric vibe that she wished her flat at Baker Street had, but would probably never be able to possess. The room was cluttered, without feeling claustrophobic, and smelled strongly of jasmine. She watched the hour hand of an ornate grandfather clock inch closer to eleven while Sherlock tapped the bell sat on the abandoned front desk. After a few moments, a door behind the desk opened and an elderly woman wearing a floral dressing gown shuffled out.
"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the old woman asked in a gravelly sort of voice that could only be acquired by smoking multiple packs of cigarettes a day.
Sherlock nodded and stepped up to the front desk, dragging Birdy along with him. When Birdy tried to pry her arm from his grip, Sherlock glared down at her and held on more tightly. Before Birdy could step on his foot, the woman was clearing her throat.
"And this is…" the woman asked, her voice trailing off as she focused on Birdy.
"My wife," was all Sherlock said.
Birdy did her best to not roll her eyes. Well, that explained the wedding rings.
The elderly woman behind it eyed the two of them suspiciously, paying close attention to their hands, before finally surrendering a set of room keys. She led them up to the second floor, pausing only to give them a distrustful look before pushing open the door to the moderately sized bedroom. There was a raspberry colour sofa pushed in between two picture windows that looked out on the front garden, an ornate mahogany armoire was tucked in the corner, which matched the large four-poster bed. Birdy reached out to touch the velvet curtains hanging from the bed while Sherlock dealt with the innkeeper. She tried not to jump in surprise when Sherlock placed a hand on her waist, though from the stern look she received, she had not succeeded.
"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Birdy hissed the moment the bedroom door was closed, jumping away from the dark-haired man.
"The establishment doesn't allow unmarried members of the opposite sex share a room," Sherlock said, in a tone that implied that he thought she was being purposefully dense. "And there are no other rooms available in the area."
"So we have to share a bed?"
"Do you ever pay attention? I said that all of the rooms were full," Sherlock snapped while he swung his suitcase up onto the bed and opened it. "Mycroft didn't want you to wonder the woods like a vagabond with a murderer on the loose and I wasn't about to sleep in a tent. This was the only option."
"Hold on," Birdy said, mimicking his actions with the other suitcase. She was annoyed, but not all that unsurprised, to see a few days' worth of clothes that were in her size but she didn't recognise inside, along with new toiletries. Anthea must have packed it then. Sherlock wouldn't have been bothered to bring her anything and Mrs Hudson would have packed Birdy's own clothes. "What does Mycroft have to do with this?"
Sherlock spun to face her, his face splitting into a grin. "Oh, good, I was worried that you actually were listening when he called." He began to loosen the buttons on his shirt sleeves and kicked off his shoes. "It's best to not listen when he speaks, Bridget. Doing so only affirms his belief of his importance."
Birdy wanted to defend her boss by reminding Sherlock that Mycroft actually was rather important, in the grand scheme of things, but was too tired to start another argument. "Which side of the bed is mine, then?"
Sherlock paused from his rummaging through his suitcase to look up at her in confusion. "Neither."
"Then where am I supposed to sleep?"
"Originally, I had planned for you to take the floor, but I'm sure you will find that sofa adequate for the night." And with that, Sherlock grabbed a bundle of clothes and swirled off to the bath. Birdy stared at the closed door in first shock, then great annoyance, before grabbing her own pyjamas and toothbrush and marching into the bath across the hall. Two could play this game.
If Sherlock was surprised to find a single blanket on the sofa and a sleeping Birdy in the middle of the bed, he really shouldn't have been.
Early Birdy Catches the Worm
Had Sherlock been less of an ass the night before, Birdy might have felt bad when she woke up to find her flatmate's long limbs folded into awkward looking angles on the small settee. She was surprised, more than anything, to find the dark-haired man resting, given her knowledge of Sherlock's abysmal sleeping habits, particularly when he was on a case. She considered briefly shaking him awake, to at least move him to the bed where he would be undeniably more comfortable, but decided against it— as much as she didn't mind Sherlock, he wasn't always the most enjoyable person to spend time with, which was what would definitely happen once he was roused from his slumber. Instead, she took the book he had obviously fallen asleep reading from his hands and placed it on a nearby table before covering him over with the blanket that had fallen to the floor.
When he didn't stir, Birdy grabbed her handbag and shoes and sneaked out of the room. After putting on her shoes and enduring a conversation with the elderly innkeeper from the night before ("My husband, bless him, is exhausted from last night, so he's having a bit of a lie in"), Birdy stepped out into the early morning sunlight. There was a heaviness in the air that was promising that the day would be a humid one, and Birdy found that she was sweating by the time she reached the little coffee shop in town. A bell above the door chimed as Birdy entered the building, catching the attention of Molly, who had claimed a table in the back corner.
"Anything interesting?" Birdy asked, pointing at the newspaper Molly had spread across the small table.
"Crystal Palace lost another match," Molly said, flipping the page casually.
"I said, interesting, Molly," Birdy replied with an easy grin. "Everyone knows Crystal Palace is having a dreadful season."
Molly quirked her lips into a smile. "How did you sleep last night?"
"I'm not the one who found a dead body," Birdy replied. "How are you?"
Molly shrugged as she folded up the paper. "I work with dead people all the time. I slept fine. I was more worried about Victoria, honestly. She's still asleep."
In the chaos of the previous night, Birdy had forgotten about her friends. "Where did you end up staying? Sherlock said that there was only one room left in the place we stayed at."
"Fabio's backseat," Molly sighed. "Which was about as comfortable as it sounds."
Birdy reached forward to pat her friend's hand in sympathy. "I'm sure Sherlock will be able to commiserate. I made him sleep on the sofa in our room."
"I'm sure he deserved it," Molly laughed.
Birdy gave her friend a wink in response but was stopped from answering further by the arrival of a tall, gangly man in his mid-twenties and curly blond hair. He pulled a notepad out of the pocket of the apron he had slung around his waist and began to take their orders, his full lips turned up with a flirtatious smile. He was a bit young for Birdy's usual preference, but he was rather cute in a puppyish sort of way, and Birdy had no reason not to reciprocate.
That was until the bell over the shop door rang again, and the sexual tension in the room increased by fifty percent. Had all of the longings not come solely from Molly, Birdy might have even been able to tolerate it. As it were, the moment Sherlock pulled up a chair from a neighbouring table and dropped into it, sitting far closer to Birdy than she thought was strictly necessary, Molly buried herself behind her newspaper, firmly ignoring the newest addition to the table. Sherlock ignored Molly as well, his light eyes surveying the waiter for a moment, and draping an arm across Birdy's shoulders.
"She'll have a Darjeeling, one sugar, no milk. Nothing for me, thank you," Sherlock said, waving off the stunned looking waiter. The moment the young man had stumbled away, Birdy pushed off her flatmate's arm, mentally noting that he had decided to forgo his usual suit jacket. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this but didn't move to replace it.
"Why would you do that?" Birdy whined, slouching down in her seat and glaring at her flatmate. "He was perfectly lovely, and he didn't deserve to be treated like—"
Sherlock pulled out his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans (Birdy's brain nearly short-circuited at this) and pretended to look like he was doing something important with it. "We're supposed to be married, Bridget. You flirting with the baristas undermines our charade."
"Oh, bloody hell, who cares? We'll be leaving today anyway," Bird snapped, guilt welling up in her chest when Molly let out a shuddering sigh.
Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "Besides, he's entirely the wrong sort for you, Bridget."
"I think I can decide the right sort for myself, thanks."
"He has an incest fetish," Sherlock interjected. Birdy opened her mouth, but no intelligible sounds came out. "And you look like his sister."
Molly snickered from behind her newspaper, and Birdy had to suppress the urge to kick the woman in the shins. Instead, Birdy took a few calming breaths and turned to face her flatmate, resting an elbow on the table in front of her. "What are you even doing here, Sherlock," she asked, feeling too tired for so early in the morning.
"Mycroft just called me and ruined my morning," Sherlock replied, dropping his mobile on the table and turning to glare down at her. "You know, Bridget, I don't really care what you do with your life, but don't bring me into it."
Birdy thought this was rather rich, coming from Sherlock. It was, after all, his fault that Birdy was in about ninety percent of the dangerous situations she had ever encountered. "You didn't have to come, you know. You aren't my keeper."
"And endure another phone call with my brother? I think not," he scoffed, turning his head away to glare at the waiter.
"And since when have you ever cared about answering his calls, Sherlock?" Birdy challenged. She knew that he never did because Mycroft always contacted her after his call to his younger brother when unanswered. "Did you miss me?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Bridget. I don't miss people." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were looking at a particularly odd crime scene. "When did my brother you order you back by?"
"Six this evening," she replied without missing a beat.
"I'll have you back by seven, then."
"That's better than nothing, I suppose," Birdy replied, pretending to sigh in annoyance.
"You could just not show up at all, you know. You need to learn to stand up for yourself, and not let other people dictate your life." Sherlock said. He handed the menu to the waiter, who had reappeared with her tea, and began speaking before the young man had a chance to open his mouth. "She'll have the fruit bowl. Nothing for me, thank you."
Birdy watched as the waiter made a hasty retreat before turning to give her flatmate an accusatory look. "Was that an example?"
Sherlock looked back down at his mobile instead of answering, giving Birdy no indication of his intentions. With Sherlock present, Molly was hesitant to speak as freely as before, and Sherlock, being himself, was disinclined to make meaningless small talk, leaving the party of three in what Birdy considered to be a very awkward silence. Birdy tried to smile pleasantly at the waiter when he brought Birdy her breakfast but couldn't meet the man's eyes, Sherlock's deduction still ringing in her ears. Damn Sherlock.
At least he was considerate enough to allow her to finish her meal, Birdy thought after he yanked her out of the chair, claiming that he needed to see the dumpsite. She had just enough time to drop a few quid onto the table and bid Molly farewell before she was dragged out of the café. Birdy managed to wrench her arm from her flatmate's grasp and reluctantly trudged after him to where he had parked the car. After a short ride, Sherlock hopped out and started off into the forest, a rucksack on his back looking very out of place against his crisply pressed white shirt.
Before Birdy had been forced to join Sherlock at various crime scenes, she had thought that his work would look more impressive. In reality, it involved him spinning around and looking at things. If a copper was present, Sherlock might even speak out loud, even if only to insult the poor sod for missing vital pieces of evidence. At least this time, Sherlock had shed his ridiculous coat.
Birdy sat on a log as she watched Sherlock squat next to where, presumably, the body had been found, his jaw locked in concentration. She pulled out her mobile and texted John, asking why he wasn't present. He was, after all, Sherlock's favourite accessory.
"What do you think, Bridget?" He asked suddenly, standing up turning to face her.
She resisted the urge to ask him what he was talking about, knowing that it would only receive a scoff of annoyance. "Based on context, you want to know what I think about the crime scene?"
"Dumpsite," Sherlock snapped. "The murder didn't take place here. This was merely where our killer left the body."
"Dumpsite," Birdy amended. "Well, the body was found in the woods, in a place not easily accessible to hikers, so the killer didn't want the victim to be found."
"Anderson could have told me as much. What else?"
Birdy took a deep breath, trying to ignore how his words stung and focused on the ground. "It hasn't rained in a few weeks, so the ground is dry," she said slowly. "I think I heard last night that the victim had been dead for less than 24 hours?" When Sherlock nodded, she continued. "We wouldn't be able to see footprints with the ground so dry, but if the suspect dragged the victim, there should have been at least drag marks on the ground." Birdy said.
"There would also be more disturbance in the vegetation," Sherlock added. "Note the stones in the area are also unturned."
"So the murderer would have had to carry the victim here."
Sherlock nodded sharply. "And what does that tell us about our suspect?"
"That they are physically fit?"
"Probability favours that the suspect is a male," Sherlock replied. "The victim was nearly six feet tall and weighed approximately fourteen stone. If we take into account that the average woman in England is fifteen centimetres shorter than the average man, it is more statistically more likely that a male carried our victim. Furthermore, the victim appeared to be placed, not dropped. You can tell by the vegetation: if our victim was dropped, there would be more disturbance. A woman would most likely have difficulty wielding such control over a dead body."
"And how do you know that the suspect didn't have help?"
Sherlock stared at her, his expression flat.
"The vegetation would have been disturbed more if there was a second suspect?" Birdy guessed.
Sherlock spun around and started off into the woods, following an invisible path. Birdy stood and followed after him, watching as the dark haired man dodged trees, vaulted over logs, and occasionally stopping to sniff various moss-covered surfaces. Their trek led them to a stretch of paved road. "This is where the suspect parked," Sherlock said after a moment of pacing. "From here, he carried the victim to the dumpsite, returned, and drove back the way he came."
Birdy surveyed the ground and noticed that there were a set of car tracks that left a faint dusty imprint on the road, which indeed appeared to turn around. She glanced back up at her flatmate, who was typing furiously on his mobile. "What do we do?" She asked. Sherlock rarely ever invited her to crime scenes, and when he did, she almost always declined, so she was unsure how they were to proceed.
"I've contacted the inspector of this case. I'll need impressions of these tracks before they've been compromised further. You'll be tracing the last known movements of our victim."
"What, right now?"
"Obviously."
"I don't have my laptop," Birdy stated.
Sherlock shrugged the rucksack off of his shoulders and handed it to her. She opened it, only to find her silver, government-issued computer inside.
A/N: Did you miss me? Let me know what you think. The good and the constructive. Reviews give me the motivation to write. -CheckAlexa
