Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's Sherlock or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes.
A Dozen Yellow Roses
Birdy pushed open the door to the kitchen with her hip, wincing when the door made contact with one of the nastier bruises that she had earned in what was now referred to as the 'First Mycroft Mishap.' Birdy didn't particularly like the name, as it implied that more misadventures involving the elder Holmes brother would soon follow, but Dr. Watson had already written a blog post on it. Apparently, it was almost as popular as the 'Case of the Aluminium Crutch' or whatever the doctor had named it. Birdy had yet to read the blog written by Sherlock's former roommate, though, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to— the anxiety she felt reading fictitious mystery novels was sure to pale in comparison knowing that Dr. Watson's stories were actually true. Birdy pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind and focused on placing the grocery bags she was carrying on the kitchen table.
That had been one of the hopefully many improvements that Birdy had brought to 221B Baker Street. Birdy had convinced Sherlock to put away his chemicals and plates full of bacteria cultures at the end of the evening. And by convincing, she really just hid his secret stash of cigarettes and refused to return them until he agreed. The scorched and stained wooden table was now hidden under a light blue tablecloth, scrubbed heavily after each use. Birdy thought Dr. Watson was going to faint when he first came over.
Birdy hummed to herself as she began to put away the food, her left foot beating out frappés on its own accord. She did a pirouette, grabbed the milk, and executed a small jeté towards the refrigerator, mentally crossing her fingers that there wouldn't be any body parts in it. There weren't, and with the crisis adverted, she placed the milk on a shelf and pirouetted once more to grab the lettuce she had purchased.
"Oh, that was lovely, dear!" The voice of her landlady said, causing Birdy to jump in surprise. "You know, I used to be a dancer too, back in the day."
Birdy took a deep breath to fight the panic that had begun to spread through her veins. It was just Mrs. Hudson, not some serial kidnapper. "Really?" Birdy asked, trying to keep her voice politely interested. "What kind of dancing did you do?"
Mrs. Hudson grinned, as if she had a naughty secret. "Oh, this and that. Mostly exotic dancing," she explain.
Birdy blinked, wondering if she had heard that correctly. "I hear pole dancing is great exercise," Birdy said finally. "Maybe you could give me some pointers?"
Mrs. Hudson winked then let out a giggle. "I've got something for you," Mrs. Hudson said, indicating to the large vase of a dozen yellow roses in her hands. "They were delivered this afternoon while you were at work."
"Oh, how beautiful!" Birdy exclaimed, relieving the landlady of the vase. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson." Birdy placed the flowers on the table, not particularly caring if Sherlock would hate them. She felt that they really helped brighten up the room.
"It's no problem, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Who are they from?"
"They're not from you?"
Mrs. Hudson drew nearer, her face eager, most likely hoping to receive the newest piece of gossip. "Oh, no. I don't like flowers. They make me sneeze," she explained.
Birdy pushed around the flowers, hoping to find a note of some sort, but came up empty handed.
"It's seems you've got yourself a secret admirer!" Mrs. Hudson squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement.
Birdy couldn't help but smile at her sweet landlady. She shook her head, turning to look back at the yellow roses. "I doubt it, Mrs. Hudson. They're probably from Mycroft. He's probably trying to apologise. I'll have to send him a thank you note."
"Yes, I would imagine he would need to, after what he did the other day." Upon seeing Birdy's confused face, Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I read about it on John's blog dear. Well, if you need anything, I'll be downstairs, alright?"
Birdy nodded at the woman and watched her disappear back down the staircase. Birdy wondered if her landlady was really a former exotic dancer. She would have to ask Sherlock, he would know.
The thought of her flatmate returned her thoughts back to the food on the kitchen table, wondering if he would like it if she made dinner for him as well. Birdy wasn't sure if she had even seen the man eat the whole time she had lived in 221B. That couldn't be healthy. Maybe she should make some food for him? Birdy looked down at the box of whole wheat pasta that she had in her hands and decided that it would be simple to make him a portion as well. What did Sherlock Holmes even like to eat?
She was saved the trouble of guessing when the hurricane she called her flatmate burst through the living room door, tossing his scarf and coat onto the sofa as he passed. He had his eyes glued to his mobile, his fingers flying across the screen as he danced around the furniture. Birdy watched from her position in the kitchen as Sherlock pulled out the chair at his desk, and sit down, opening up his laptop while he tossed his phone on the desk next to him. He began typing furiously, and Birdy hesitated, not sure if she should disrupt him.
He really won't like being disrupted.
But it's just a simple question. How much could asking him if he wanted any dinner hurt?
I could be kicked out of the flat! Nobody wants to live with an annoying person.
Yes, because Sherlock is the posterchild for the perfect flatmate.
Birdy sighed quietly, and walked over to where Sherlock had flung his coat and scarf, hanging it up on the coat rack. She heard the door to 221 open and slam shut. There was only one person Birdy knew who could slam a door like that.
"Sherlock," Dr. Watson's voice called from below. "If you could stop running off like that, that would be fantastic." Birdy heard the doctor start up the stairs, and she scurried back into the kitchen. Whilst the doctor had said that he harboured no ill feelings towards her despite their less than savoury first meeting, Birdy always felt a bit nervous around the shorter man. She reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a pot to make her dinner in. Sherlock was, what, in his thirties? He didn't need her mother-henning him.
Birdy listened to Dr. Watson shout at Sherlock, who seemed to be ignoring him. Apparently, Sherlock had run off whilst the doctor had gone to buy something for his daughter and Dr. Watson has spent the better part of an hour tracking down the consulting detective. Birdy filtered the doctor out, his loud voice causing her heart rate to accelerate.
He's yelling at Sherlock, stupid. Not me.
Birdy focused her attention on the pot of water in front of her. She added a pinch of salt and turned on the cooker. She grabbed a wooden spoon and began to count out beats, her feet tapping to music only she could hear.
"Are you even listening to me?" Dr. Watson shouted. Birdy jumped and spun around, her trance broken.
"Um, no?" Birdy responded, not sure if he was speaking to her or Sherlock.
Dr. Watson startled and turned to face her, evidently surprised that she was there. He must have been speaking to Sherlock. "Chr- Birdy what are- when did you get here?"
Birdy bit her lip and shuffled closer to the cooker. "Dunno, not too long ago."
Dr. Watson gave her a tight smile and entered into the kitchen. He glanced at the dozen of yellow roses on the table and chuckled a bit. "Ah, the feminine touch. Sherlock will love it."
Birdy shrugged her shoulders. "I think Mycroft sent them— but don't put that in your blog, or anything," Birdy added quickly. "Do you happen to have his address, Dr. Watson? I would love to send him a thank you card."
The doctor looked at her, confused. "Mycroft, as in Sherlock's brother Mycroft?"
"No, Mycroft Jones," Birdy deadpanned. How many other Mycroft's did the two of them know?
The light haired man smirked. "He's pretty popular with the ladies, I hear."
"He's ever so charming," Birdy replied, leaning over the boiling pot to stir in the pasta. "He doesn't even kidnap his brother's flatmates."
Dr. Watson chuckled. "I'm not sure, but I don't think Mycroft would even send his mother a bouquet of flowers."
Birdy shrugged. "I don't know, but they're pretty. Has he eaten today, Doctor?" Birdy asked, pointing her wooden spoon in the direction of the younger Holmes brother.
"You can call me, John, you know," Dr. Watson said. "And, I don't think so. He's been at St. Bart's all day, before Molly threw him out. Have you met Molly yet?"
"Er, no," Birdy replied. "I don't make it a habit of visiting the hospital. Can you get some plates down for me? Feel free to get one for yourself."
John complied, and got down three plates and began to set the table. "I think you would like her. I should introduce you sometime— outside of the hospital, of course."
Birdy silently agreed that that did sound like a lot of fun. She never really had much friends, and hadn't made many since she had moved to London. Besides talking to her friend Walter before and after dance rehearsal, Birdy didn't speak to many people outside of what was strictly necessary. While little human interaction was one of the perks of computer programming, it did get rather lonely sometimes. And a female friend could be very nice indeed, seeing as she was almost always surrounded by men.
"I would like that," Birdy replied finally.
John grinned. "I'll talk to her tomorrow, then. Now, what else can I help you with?"
Between the two of them, dinner was quickly served. Birdy called for Sherlock, though he continued to click away on his laptop. She wasn't sure if he was ignoring her, or simply didn't hear her, both of which John explained were very possible, so it was just the doctor and her who sat down for a simple meal of pasta and salad. Birdy apologised profusely for not planning for a bigger dinner, seeing as she wasn't planning making extra, and she didn't eat large amounts of food before dance rehearsal anyway, but John waved away her apologies with a grin and a joke about needing to eat healthier.
As it turned out, when Birdy wasn't accidentally punching the doctor in the nose and he wasn't shouting at Sherlock, John Watson was a very pleasant person to talk to. He spoke mostly of his family, something Birdy could tell he was rather content with, and some of his more mild adventures with the world's only consulting detective. Birdy mostly listened, happy to have some human contact that seemed just as content as her to lapse into comfortable silence from time to time. Birdy could easily see why the rambunctious Sherlock was drawn to the quiet presence of Dr. John Watson.
John and Birdy were just nearly finished with the washing up when they heard someone pound on the door to 221 Baker Street and after a moment, burst into the flat, calling for Sherlock.
A tall man with greying hair and wearing a dark overcoat burst into the living room. Birdy watched the man shake Sherlock on the shoulder after waving to John and her, continuing to call his name. Sherlock jumped and faced the newcomer as if he had not heard him come in.
"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock snapped, jumping up so that he could face the man better.
"I called you, why didn't you pick up?" The man asked. "Never mind, I've got something for you: a man was found dead, about an hour ago. Car crash."
"You know I don't concern myself with trivial matters, Lestrade," Sherlock told the man, brushing past him and walking to his violin case.
"Foul play expected, the breaks were cut–"
"Dull."
"A single yellow rose was left on the wind screen," the man called Lestrade finished.
Sherlock paused, bow in hand. He looked over his shoulder at Lestrade, an excited glint in his light eyes. He dropped his bow and spun around to face Lestrade once more, stepping a little too close for most people to be comfortable with in his excitement. "Go on."
As Lestrade told the consulting detective about the details of the case, Sherlock grabbed his jacket and scarf from the coat rack and waved for John to follow him. John shot Birdy an apologetic smile, thanked her for dinner, and took off after the two other men out of the flat.
It wasn't until the door downstairs slammed shut that Birdy unfroze from her spot next to the sink. Her eyes shot towards the vase of yellow roses sitting on the kitchen table and walked towards it on shaky feet. Slowly, she pulled the roses out, one by one.
There were only eleven.
Birdy got the distinct impression that Mycroft didn't send her the flowers.
(A/N: Hi there! Thanks for reading my story. If you liked the chapter, tell me in the comments. If you thought something could be improved, also leave me a comment. Basically, leave me a comment! –CheckAlexa)
