Chapter 3

28 May, 8:45, Central Africa Time Zone

Karisimbi Hotel, Kigali, Rwanda

Sherlock was awake and dressed in expensive dark brown slacks, a well-tailored, light blue dress shirt, and oxfords. He had woken up at 6:00 am, as was his habit, but without much to occupy his time, he had spent the majority of the morning pacing the hotel hallways, chewing his thumbnail, deep in thought. Several times the hotel staff had maneuvered room service and cleaning trolleys around him, squeezing by, without him even looking up.

He was anxious. Sherlock preferred it when he had a plan, with scenarios mapped out for all eventualities. He had been on enough excavations to know that in many cases only so much of the site and the dig itself could be planned. Some projects were in extremely remote areas, cut off from modern conveniences and amenities. Sherlock wasn't the least bit opposed to roughing it – he enjoyed his hot showers, designer clothes, and his large bed back in his flat, but these were all things he was more than willing to give up, and had done so on many occasions, for the sake of the research.

But this was how he operated. He would fret, plan, and overthink in the weeks leading up to the start of the project. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he would internalize all of his worries and adapt. He had a job to do, the future of his career depended on this project. Once the team left Kigali, there was little that could be done but adapt to whatever happened. He wasn't worried...much.

He glanced at his watch, 8:50. Time to head downstairs. Stopping by his room for his messenger bag, Sherlock took the lift down to the lobby where he was meeting Lestrade. After Sherlock rang him months ago and said he was interested in the project, he had requested Sherlock's CV and references, but hadn't been in touch much since then. Sherlock didn't know much about the project or who else was on the team. The lack of details was causing Sherlock further anxiety and the ball of nerves that had formed last night persisted, if not gotten larger. Exiting the lift, he spotted Lestrade across the lobby and strode in his direction.

"Good to see you again, Sherlock," he said as they shook hands.

"Likewise."

"Fancy some breakfast? The restaurant here at the Karisimbi makes a beautiful poached egg." Sherlock nodded and followed Lestrade into the dining room. They were seated and their orders placed before Lestrade seemed ready to get down to business.

"You ready to get to work?"

"Definitely. Is the team leaving tomorrow?" Sherlock's knee bounced under the table.

"We are. We'll head out tomorrow morning. There's a team meeting this evening where we'll go over all the details." Sherlock sighed and Lestrade laughed. "A bit eager, eh?" Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

"Well I applaud your enthusiasm. But don't go into this blindly. I've seen your resume and know this is far from your first project. That being said, this is a whole new kettle of fish from anything you've worked on before. There are politics, serious politics, at play here. These are some real atrocities we're getting involved in, so it's understandable if this brings up a lot of emotions."

"That won't be a problem," said Sherlock, barely suppressing an eye roll. "I never have trouble separating myself from the work. Emotions and sentiment cloud the mind and can have adverse effects on the research." Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, well. I'm just saying don't get too in your own head about this."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said confidently. At that moment, their breakfast arrived and they tucked in. They stuck to neutral topics of conversation - colleagues they both knew, their teaching experiences, and university politics. Sherlock picked at his toast, while Lestrade inhaled a full English with inhuman speed.

After their plates were cleared, Lestrade pulled a thick stack of papers from his bag at his feet, pushing them towards Sherlock across the table. "You'll need to take these down to the British Consulate and the UN office. They'll need to see your passport along with these papers confirming you'll be working with the team. The red tape is a headache, but there's no way around it." Sherlock downed the last swallow of his tea and stood, papers clutched in his hand.

"I'll see you at the meeting tonight then," he said.

"That you will. Ring me if you run into any trouble at the Consulate."

Sherlock spent the remainder of his morning waiting in interminable lines at the British Consulate's office to have his paperwork finalized. Even a phone call to Mycroft couldn't bypass through the bureaucratic roadblocks that had him being shuffled from window to window and desk to desk. Finally, two hours, four stamps on his papers, several phone calls to unknown entities of a higher clearance, and a slip of paper in his passport later, and he was free to leave. Another hour was spent at the United Nations Development Programme to finalize his contract employment position with their archaeological team. Finally, finally, Sherlock was free. He stepped onto the pavement outside the UNDP office and lifted his face to the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air. Around him, people went about their lives, some giving him a look as he basked in the sun. Catching sight of his reflection in a storefront window, Sherlock reached up and attempted to arrange his hair to look a little less deranged. The frustration of the last few hours had him almost literally pulling his hair out at the roots. He supposed a pale, gangly, and wild-haired Englishman was not a common sight in Kigali. Checking his watch, he saw there were still a few hours before he was due to meet the team for their debriefing and several things on his to do list.

The evening's meeting was held in one of the small conference rooms at the UNDP office - a non-descript, windowless room with a conference table and mismatched chairs. Sherlock took a seat next to a small, mousy haired young woman with large brown eyes, hoping that her unassuming appearance meant she wouldn't be too bothersome. He extracted his legal pad from his bag and settled in, watching the mouse-woman surreptitiously from the corner of his vision. Nails bitten short and chewed cuticles - nervous or under some amount of anxiety; copious amounts of cat hair - has probably...three cats; pen ink smudged on left hand, dark circles under her eyes - working late, on a deadline perhaps?

As much as he would wish to keep to himself, Sherlock knew that sooner or later he would have to talk to the people on the team. These sorts of remote digs meant spending a great deal of time with this small group of people. It wasn't that he didn't want to get along with people, it's just that it was always so much bloody work. Reading their social cues, interpreting their body language, reading the unsaid words. It was exhausting and frankly, he'd rather not have to do it. But this group of people would be some of his only human interactions for the next eight weeks. He's better get over his frustration if he wanted to not be left in the African jungle for dead by his angry coworkers.

"Dr. Sherlock Holmes," he said turning to the woman and offering her his hand to shake.

"Oh! Molly Hooper!" she replied, grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly. "Dr. Holmes, it's so wonderful to meet you!"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock extracted his hand from her grasp carefully. "So, you're here for research as well?" he pointed at her ink smudged left hand.

"How did you know?" she rubbed at the ink.

"You just look like someone who's up against a deadline. And why else would you be here under that kind of pressure if it weren't related to your work? It was fairly obvious, really." Molly gave a nervous little laugh.

"Well yes, you're very perceptive, Dr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock, then. I'm an epidemiologist from Bart's. I suppose I am on a deadline. Working on a paper on contagious diseases and the disposal of human remains in emergency situations. Grim stuff, huh?"

"No grimmer than my interests, I assure you." Before he could elaborate, Lestrade stood up from his chair and brought the meeting to order.

"Thanks to everyone for joining us today. We have a lot to cover, so let us go ahead and begin with some introductions." Returning to his seat, he gestured to the ruddy-faced man sitting to his right.

"Hiya, I'm Lincoln Hapsworth. I work at Oxford in our Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology and study African anthropology, but I suppose that's fairly obvious?" Nervous laughter. "Let's see, I have been conducting research on the history of inter-tribal conflict in the central African region. Thought this would be a good opportunity to come and see some more modern studies firsthand."

Next was a grey-haired woman in her early forties. "Serena Layton, Cambridge. I teach in the department of Archaeology. Been there about twelve years. I'm on sabbatical this year and was looking for a unique dig to work on. Greg has graciously offered to let me join in."

Hawk-nosed young woman with dark, curly hair: "Hi all, I'm Karyna Elwes. I am a PhD student of Dr. Lestrade's at Leicester. My thesis research is in Carnac and Neolithic sites in France, but I'm here assisting Greg in his own research. Excited to work with all of you!"

"Hello, uh, hi! Molly Hooper. I'm an epidemiologist at Bart's and The London School of Medicine. I am working on an article about infectious diseases found at sites of mass casualties for the British Medical Journal. And, uh. Thanks!"

Sherlock gave a cough. "Yes – Sherlock Holmes, forensic archaeologist. Associate Lecturer at University College London and consulting archaeologist for Scotland Yard." Another cough and a nod. "Good to meet you all."

The rest of the introductions proceeded around the table. "Nate Emerson, University of York, archaeology."

"Laney Priestly, Cambridge, archaeology."

"Sarah Haden, University of York, cultural archaeology."

"Phil Hughes, Uni of Leicester, recceology."

"Chas Alberts, King's College, osteology."

"And I'm Greg Lestrade, of course, your fearless leader! University of Leicester, ethnoarchaeology and chair of the archaeology department."

Sherlock looked around the assembled group. Emerson, Priestly, and Alberts all seemed to fit the Ivory Tower academic type, whereas everyone else seemed relaxed and approachable. For the most part, everyone seemed eager to be here and to get to work. He was glad, as he had no desire to spend the next eight weeks working with the exact type of people he had left back at UCL.

"So. To business." said Lestrade, bringing everyone back to attention. "We are heading out tomorrow morning at 7. Our convoy will leave at exactly that time, so I would advise you all meet in the lobby of the Karisimbi Hotel at 6:30 with all of your luggage and gear. We have a van for the lot of us and another for the bags and gear. The trek to Gafunso is about three and a half hours so we'll arrive mid-morning and can set up camp before it should get too terribly hot.

"Our local contacts will be meeting us on our way to camp. Their purpose is to act as translators and go betweens with any locals we interact with. We aren't expecting any trouble, but it's always better to play it safe in these sorts of situations." He paused and seemed to be searching for words. A few people around the table shifted nervously in their seats. It was clear that most of the group had not worked on a project fraught with such difficulties and sensitivities. Sherlock wondered if the reality of their situation was starting to sink in for everyone else, as it was him.

"This isn't anyone's first dig project. You are all professionals. But this is a special situation. The conflict, the genocide here in Rwanda ended over a decade ago, but for many people, it is still a fresh horror. Many people lost family members in the conflict. The mass grave sites we will be working with may contain the remains of people in the nearby villages. Now, our contacts and I have visited these villages and spoken with the people there. They are aware of us and what we are coming to do, but it may still be a tense situation when we begin.

"Remember that while for you lot this is a chance to gain some experience or do some research, these are possibly the relatives and family members of the remains we'll be excavating. This is, quite literally, digging up unpleasant memories and horrors for these folks. Be sensitive to that. We will try to keep this as closed a site as possible, but I've discussed it with our local contacts, and we agreed that we can't keep people shut out. It would be bad relations. After we excavate the remains and collect the necessary data, there will be burial services as per the local customs.

"This may be a difficult project for some of you who haven't worked with this sort before. Do what you need to do to get through it. We have a unique opportunity here to not only do some good work for ourselves and for our institutions, but also for the people of this country. Remember that." He paused to let his words settle a moment. "Now then, any questions?" Sarah raised her hand.

"You said that we shouldn't expect any trouble on site. Were you referring to trouble with the local population? Or rebel militias? I think we've all seen the news. Rural central Africa isn't exactly a peaceful place right now."

Lestrade nodded. "I have been assured by our consulate as well as our local contacts that our location has not seen any militia or terrorist activity in several years," said Ben. "That being said, you do raise a point. Gafunso is only thirty kilometers from the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo, which is a politically unstable country. Several of our contacts who will be with us are with the Rwandan Defense Forces. They will be armed, but not in full uniform. We don't want it to appear as though we're occupying the site by force. The personnel will be there to both protect us, should the need arise, but also to act as liaisons with the locals. Any more questions?"

A few more people asked questions, but Sherlock let his mind wander. He was, all of a sudden, exponentially more excited about this project. It suddenly felt very real and he couldn't wait to begin. The research that would come out of it would be innovative and would surely impress the tenure committee. Despite the warnings, he was still unconcerned about the emotional toll of the dig. Sherlock wasn't prone to strong emotion, especially when he was working. He was easily able to disconnect and bury himself in his work. However, Lestrade was right, this was unlike any project he had been involved with before. Like this project, all of his previous work had involved communities afflicted by conflict and violence, it was his area of interest. But never before had relatives of the deceased been present for the excavation, and certainly not immediate relatives. When he worked with Scotland Yard on their crime scenes, they were always closed scenes and family members of the victims were never present. He saw no reason this should affect his mind space.

By this time the meeting was wrapping up. People were standing and gathering their belongings. Nate, sitting to Sherlock's left, raised his voice above the din.

"Oi! Drinks anyone? Let's meet in the bar at the hotel in twenty-five minutes."

Sherlock passed the short walk back to the hotel in polite conversation with Molly Hooper, chatting about London, their favorite pubs, and other inconsequential things. When they had arrived at the hotel bar, Nate was already there, ordering a round of beers for the group. When everyone had arrived, Karyna, the young PhD student, raised her glass and offered a toast. They all drank to the project.

As he made small talk, Sherlock took the opportunity to study his cohort members more closely. The deductions, reading people, was something the he was quite good at. It was a game that he and Mycroft had played as children - competing to see which one of them could deduce the most information about a person. Now, decades later, he found it to be a good way of staving off the boredom of social situations. Furthermore, if faced with actually having to converse with someone, he usually felt better about it if he were armed with a few choice details about their life, habits, and secrets.

He trained his attention on Phil Hughes, one of Lestrade's coworkers from Leicester. Late fifties, married twice with one child from each union. He took in the cheap cut of the man's suit and the shoes that had been polished severely to cover the scuff marks. Paying a good amount of alimony to the second one. Does online gambling to bring in some extra quid and is fairly successful at it. Plays mostly poker and some baccarat. Lives alone with his pet African Grey parrot...bored!

Lincoln Hapsworth was his next target. Married. Three male children – two in primary school, one still in nappies at home. Amateur numismatic. Will likely end up cheating on his wife before this trip is over...bored!

He caught sight of Karyna across the room, talking to Molly. Karyna Elwes. Fancies her advisor, Lestrade, but is in a long-term relationship with another graduate student. Correction...tenuous long-term relationship. Close with her father, but is estranged from her alcoholic mother. Writes Twin Peaks fan fiction and recently returned from the Twin Peaks Festival in Sydney. Worried about being the only student on the trip and that she'll prove inadequate to the task...

Two beers and an hour of small talk later, Sherlock made his escape upstairs to his room. As he prepared for bed, Sherlock wrestled with another thought that was bothering him. He was eager to see the shape the research took over the course of the project. He was excited for the dig and for what they would discover as they worked. A small amount of guilt was niggling at his brain though. So many people had died in the Rwandan genocide, and he, Sherlock, would be profiting from their deaths. It was something he had thought about before, given the nature of his academic interests. But this felt closer to the surface, more uncomfortable, for him to be face to face with the violence and its results. Here, again, was the trouble with mixing emotion with work. He knew that there was nothing that he could do to change the situation, the best that he could do would be to learn all he could from the project, and separate his emotions from it.

After ringing down to the front desk and arranging for a 5:45 am wake up call, Sherlock settled into bed, hoping sleep would come soon. He always had trouble sleeping the night before the beginning of a project. His mind wandered, thinking about the next eight weeks, fretting over the unknown details. With only a moderate amount of tossing and turning, he was asleep within the hour.