THE GREAT GAME.
Excerpt from Chapter One of No Bird.
Stepping out of the cab, Abigail handed the driver the money and watched as he drove away. She ran a hand through her dark hair before surveying the street. A fire truck, several police cars, and an ambulance stood behind the barrier blocking off the public to the rest of the road. The bottom two floors of one of the buildings across from Speedy’s were completely blown out, and dust, glass, and other debris covered the barricaded area. A quick glance over at the other side of Baker Street showed the explosion hadn’t done as much damage to the sandwich shop or the flats owned by Mrs. Hudson, but the windows of both Speedy’s and 221 were boarded up with planks of wood.
Abigail pushed her way through the crowd, making her way over to where a police officer stood next to Speedy’s. Before she could say anything, a young blond man in a black jacket ran across the street, heading in the direction of 221.
“Sir, you can’t go in there!” the officer yelled. He made to intercept the man, but the blond shook his head and pointed at the building.
“I live over there.”
Sighing, the officer nodded and let him through. Abigail watched man walk over to the entrance to 221 and unlock the door, letting it close behind him. She stared at the door, head tilted as her eyes narrowed in thought. It took a minute before she realized the police officer was addressing her.
“Ma’am, can I help you? You really can’t be back here.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She pointed over to 221, voice slipping into an English accent resembling that of her uncle’s. “But I—I live in that building.” Lie. Be more convincing, Abigail. “That was my flatmate, John Watson, you just let through. Can I get by please?”
Another sigh but he nodded again. Smiling, she mumbled out a small thank you before running to the building. Luckily, the door was still unlocked. The man must had been in too much of a rush to bother locking it back up. Stepping into the foray, Abigail glanced around, taking a second to notice Mrs. Hudson had changed the paintings hanging in the hallway. There was a loud bang from upstairs, and she rushed up, practically toppling the blond standing in the doorway to 221B over as she made her way into the living room.
“Of fucking course.”
Shaking her head at the sight of Sherlock fiddling around with his violin and Mycroft lounging in the chair in front of him, Abigail rolled her eyes. She should have known better than to have been worried. It had been an overreaction on her part to rush over to Baker Street, forgoing the rest of her morning routine to check on Sherlock. If something had been seriously wrong, she would have heard from the elder Holmes brother earlier, but since both the Holmes were sitting there, unamused and looking rather bored, in fact, she walked away over to the kitchen. She didn’t notice the blond glancing back and forth between her and the Holmes brothers as she searched for where Sherlock had hidden her coffee. She knew he had to be the reason there was none in her apartment when she came back. He had probably stolen it, knowing she’d be craving a cup as soon as she woke up and would finally come over.
“Came in on a late flight last night then?” came his baritone voice from the living room.
She nodded, opening up the top right cabinet and pushing some boxes around until she finally found her favorite coffee beans. She grabbed the bag and began the process of turning on the coffee maker, filling it with the beans, and adding hot water. “Yes, of course. Otherwise, you would have heard from me yesterday, Sherlock.” Her American accent had returned.
“Of course.” He watched as she walked back into the living room and leaned against the wall between the front door and the kitchen. “You slept in as well.”
This time Mycroft interceded, sitting up and taking his own glance at Abigail. “Must have taken her sleeping medication then, hmm?”
Abigail opened her mouth to confirm his deduction but was cut off by the younger Holmes. “Otherwise, she’d be preparing a cup of tea and not the coffee she figured I’d hidden in the top right cabinet————are you sure those aren’t stale? I stole them from your flat two months ago.”
Abigail walked back into the kitchen as he talked, taking the pot of finished coffee and pouring it into a mug. Taking a sip, she shrugged and returned to her place leaning against the wall. “Tastes fine to me.”
“Coffee always tastes fine to you.”
Mycroft sighed, inspecting the top of his umbrella. “I don’t know why she doesn't————”
Letting out a sigh, Abigail folded her arms. Although she was quite used to the men’s behavior, she didn’t appreciate being talked over. “Are you boys quite done yet? Because you’re being incredible rude to your friend there.” She tilted her head in the direction of the blond still gaping at the three of them. “M’sure he would like a proper introduction given the confused look on his face.”
John, at least, had the decency to look properly offended as she smiled at him. “I————”
Mycroft nodded, twirling his umbrella in a circle against the floor. “Yes, of course, Dr. Watson, this is Abigail Stewart, Sherlock’s wife. Abigail, this is———”
“Dr. John Watson, Sherlock’s roommate and blogger.” Her smile widened as she extended her hand in greeting. “I must say, Dr. Watson, I did like your blog entry from the other day. It did a good job of capturing Sherlock’s personality.”
“Um…thank you.” John looked flustered, head tilted and eyes scrunching every few seconds in what Abigail could only conclude to be a visual representation of him trying to process the scene before him. He shook her hand. “…Yeah, sorry, did you say wife? You’re Sherlock’s wife?” He stepped back and crossed his arms, turning back to the detective. “———She’s your wife?”
“Yes.” The curly hair man simply nodded, exasperation slowly beginning to seep into his tone.
John was obviously not satisfied with such a blasé answer, however, and Abigail found herself biting back a laugh. The two men had been living together for almost three months now, and Sherlock hadn’t bothered to inform the doctor he was married? That was her husband, through and through. “Wife…like dearly beloved, do you take this man, I do, wife?”
“Yes,” Sherlock answered again.
“Like rings and a church, that type of wife?”
“Well,” Abigail interjected, “it was more like rings and a courthouse, but yes, basically the same thing.”
John shook his head, staring at the detective in confusion. “You’re married?”
Sighing, Sherlock’s fingers fiddled with his violin, yanking at a string until a godawful screech could be heard. “Yes, what part of this are you not grasping, John?”
Mycroft smirked, eyes twinkling in what could almost be called amusement. “Don’t worry, Dr. Watson. It’s been a year and three months, and the rest of us are still struggling to grasp the concept as well.”
