Chapter Two: The Parrot of the Plains
2 January 2013, 221B Baker Street
It was three in the afternoon and the flat was unusually quiet. No chemistry experiments were bubbling away in the kitchen. No guns were being fired at the walls. Absolutely no violins could be heard.
Sherlock was away, attending a lecture at the Royal Institution. Which left John, peacefully typing his blog in the lovely silence.
Or perhaps not so peacefully...
Taking a break, Watson sipped from a mug of steaming coffee. Then he stretched his arms out above his head, allowing himself a big yawn. Then he checked his text messages. Briefly, he considered phoning his sister.
The doctor knew he was procrastinating; he'd been dreading writing this next bit all day.
If you'd been peeking over John's shoulder, you would have seen the title: A Scandal In Belgravia. You might also have noticed the doctor blushing, as he struggled to finish the paragraph before him:
'I stared at the woman in utter surprise.' John's blog read. 'Though Mycroft had informed us of the nature of her employment, I had not expected Miss Adler to meet us - '
Watson's blush deepened as he tried out different phrases:
'- in the nude.' No. '- without any clothing?' No. '- in her birthday suit?' No, no, no.
The doctor groaned, and rubbed his temples. Then he blushed again, his neck growing hot, as he remembered Mrs Hudson was an avid reader of his blog.
Outside the heated flat, a strong wind rattled the windowpanes. In the street below, office workers bundled up in thick coats scurried around piles of grey slush. The usual roar of London traffic was muted by the date - January 2nd - and the unusually harsh weather.
Shaking off his embarrassment, the sandy-haired doctor began again. He would report the facts of the case, and nothing more:
'Miss Adler made no attempt to hide her nudity, and, though she was undoubtedly pleasing to behold, I asked her to put on -'
'No!' Watson exclaimed out loud. That was even worse. Pulling at his hair, he deleted the last paragraph.
When the doorbell rang, it was a welcome distraction.
. . .
'So this is where the magic happens?' Kevin - Watson's Australian pet-detective internet friend - surveyed the inside of 221B Baker Street with undisguised curiosity.
'Er, yes.' John replied, following Kevin into the flat, and shutting the door behind them.
In his own blog, the Australian had mentioned something about visiting an aunty in Newcastle over Christmas.
Full of seasonal (brandy-fueled) goodwill, the doctor had invited Kevin to visit, should the pet-detective find himself in London.
Watson hadn't heard back from Kevin, and had completely forgotten about the invitation until that afternoon - when he'd found Kevin on his doorstep, backpack in tow, wiping slush from his shoes with a cheerful grin.
In the living room, the scruffy Australian threw himself down on the sofa, enthusiastically kicking off his wet trainers. The sodden socks beneath soon followed. Looking around, Kevin's face suddenly lit up: 'I recognise that! It's from The Speckled Blonde, right? The false teeth – I'm right mate, aren't I?' the pet-detective jumped up and ambled over to the mantlepiece, feet bare.
'Erm, yes. Shall I put the kettle on?' Watson seemed reluctant to leave the gangly man unsupervised in his living room.
'Whoops, almost dropped it.' The tall Australian fumbled with the dental prosthesis. 'Though it's not like the poor bloke will have any use from them now, is it?' He grinned up at the doctor, who gave a nervous smile in reply.
Kevin turned his attention back to the paint-splattered teeth, before absentmindedly calling out: 'Two sugars, mate! Ta.'
. . .
One day.
With Sherlock away, John had hoped for just one day of peace.
No mysterious glowing rabbits. No threats from ancient crime syndicates. No criminal masterminds strapping forty kilograms of dynamite to John's chest.
Just a quiet afternoon at the flat, and supper with Cassandra.
Watson had even made a sign to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed:
'The Detective is Out.
Apologies for any inconvenience.'
As the kettle began to whistle, John found himself wishing he'd anticipated this visit from Kevin.
If he had, he'd have worded his sign somewhat less politely.
. . .
'So how's the, er, pet-detecting going?' asked Watson, struggling with the full mugs as he made his way back across the living room.
'Not bad, mate, not bad.' Kevin said, rearranging himself on the comfy sofa. 'Had an African Grey the other day. Beautiful birds. Haven't had time to write it up for the blog yet.' He took a tentative sip of his tea, and – finding it acceptable – followed through with an enthusiastic gulp.
'Up in the Emu Plains. Sister smuggled the parrot out with her home dialysis equipment,' the Australian continued, 'kept it in a locker at Sydney airport for six months. Easy case, really.'
Watson struggled to arrange these words in his brain in a way that made sense. 'I suppose there were ventilation slits? In the locker door?' the doctor glanced towards the mantlepiece, noticing his visitor had failed to replace the nail-clippers from the Green Baroness case. Ah, there they were - on the coffee table.
'What? Oh, no. They're pretty much airtight nowadays.' The Australian replied, shaking his tousled blonde hair out of his eyes.
John wrinkled his forehead in bewilderment. 'Your client must have been upset...' he said, trying to stop himself from wincing as Kevin rested his bare feet on the coffee table. On top of the latest British Journal of Trauma Surgery.
'Actually she gave me a bonus. Said it was great to have Beaky back. Has to use a stick to prop the bird up though – wing was broken in the police chase.' the Australian replied good-naturedly.
A flash of insight illuminated the inside of John's cranium.
'The parrot was stuffed? I mean it had, erm, been attended to by a taxidermist?' he asked.
Kevin looked up at Watson as if the doctor had lost his marbles. 'Well you couldn't keep a live bird at the airport, could you? It'd be unhygienic.'
For a while they sat without speaking, each man sipping tea in silence. The central heating clicked on, followed by the low hum of the boiler.
Then the scruffy Australian focused his attention on Watson, as if something of great importance had just entered his mind: 'I don't mean to be cheeky mate, but are there any biscuits?' he asked the doctor.
John blinked whilst deciding how to reply. This was the trouble with the internet, thought Watson. For the past year John and Kevin, Barangaroo's most famous (and possibly only) pet detective, had kept up a friendly on-line correspondence.
Watson had enjoyed reading about Hydrochoerus Hydrochaeris, and about paternity suits within Sydney's lizard-breeding community. For some reason it made a nice change from the more sinister cases John himself blogged about.
Kevin had seemed so different in his blog and messages. So, well… what's the word for 'not-a-complete-tosser'?
'Mrs Hudson usually has some. I could pop down if you...' Watson trailed off, waiting to be reassured that he needn't bother.
'Ta, that'd be great. Can't have a cuppa without biscuits,' said Kevin, with a friendly grin, 'custard creams if you've got 'em!'
. . .
'Maybe it's something about me.' thought John, as he descended the stairs to Mrs Hudson's. 'Tall, rude detectives with zero social skills are drawn to me from all corners of the globe.' The fifth stair from the bottom creaked loudly, interrupting his thoughts.
John shook his head, and tried to remember a better way of saying 'stark naked', than 'stark naked'. Before he knew it, he was standing outside 221A Baker Street.
As Watson lifted a hand to knock, the door swung open - revealing a surprised looking landlady.
'Oh, John! How's the writing going? I was just coming up to dust.' Mrs Hudson exclaimed, sounding pleased.
'Mrs Hudson,' said Watson, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek, 'got any of those biscuits left?
. . .
Two miles away, a security guard glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost time for his cigarette break. And while he was out, well, he might as well pop to the shop for a scratch card… or two. It would relax him - and God knows his luck was due for a change. He hummed happily to himself, remembering the envelope of cash that had landed through his front door last week. It would soon be joined by another, equally fat envelope.
A vibration against the guard's leg startled him from these pleasant thoughts; it was his second phone, the pay-as-you-go that had arrived with the cash last week. With a pounding heart, he shiftily glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.
No one had. Un-tensing his muscles, he tried to slow his breathing and bring his heart-rate back to normal. Then he opened the incoming text message.
Only two words were displayed on the screen. But they made the blood pound in his ears, and his palms begin to sweat.
Only two words: 'This evening.'