Magpie One Prologue

Prologue: T minus 2 and counting

After replacing the cap on the black magic marker pen, Sherlock stood quietly, his eyes roaming across the wall over the sofa. In the background, he could hear the CD recording of the Prince of Denmark's March, a piece written by Jeremiah Clarke in 1700. The music prompted a stray memory- of when as an eight year old he had learned that the piece commonly called "The Trumpet Voluntary" was in fact written for the organ, and not the brass instrument. "Why is the title wrong?" he had asked his brother.

He could still hear Mycroft's superior sniff: "It's not an actual trumpet, Sherlock. It refers to a particular organ stop, generally a single rank reed stop, with vertical full-length resonators flared to form a bell; in traditional organ building, the trumpet stop makes a firmer, more solid-pitched tone than the French Trompette, which emphasises overtones at the expense of fundamental note."

At some point in his childhood after that, Sherlock had come to loathe keyboard instruments, perhaps because Mycroft had always been such a know-all about them.

As the sun set outside, Sherlock felt the cold; late spring days might warm up, but the nights could still be frosty, so he slipped his camel dressing gown on over his shirt and trousers and then re-focused his attention back on the wall. The smiley face was obscured by various pieces of paper, photographs and lists, floorplans, invoices, print outs of emails- even a map of the United Kingdom in the centre- useful for calculating travel distances and therefore the times between each milestone that would need to be passed along the way on a particular day. He'd spent almost an hour today tracking down the latest road and rail construction areas that could interfere, mapping the traffic diversions in the designated target area and re-calculating travel times accordingly. Neatly typed and printed labels cordoned off different parts of the wall. He had made an effort to keep it neat and tidy, because this wall was for more than just his own use. His eidetic memory meant that he'd managed easily to do without a physical evidence board for most of his two years away, but Sherlock had to make an effort on this occasion to accommodate the less organised minds that were at work with him on this particular problem.

Various parts of the board were linked by strings of yarn, some in a tasteful shade of blue, others in a rather unfortunate pink to help those less able people draw the necessary connections through the data. The wool for both had been purloined from Mrs Hudson, after she abandoned the half-knitted scarf for her sister's godson, Peter, because the recipient had announced rather petulantly that there was no way on earth he'd wear something so girly. Sherlock had some sympathy with the ten year old- the pink was rather shocking and would have been a magnet for school yard bullying- if she'd ever managed to finish it by next autumn. He'd finally resorted to using the yarn strings to help the others learn chapter and verse exactly what was required of them. He certainly didn't need the visual reminder of who needed to do what, by when, even if the why still sometimes eluded him.

Behind him, Sherlock could feel the emptiness of the flat pressing against his back. The sensation still bothered him, and the fact that he was so aware of the absence of John tonight bothered him even more. He'd spent years alone; now and what was to come should be no different. But, no matter how often he told himself that, building this evidence wall was the hardest thing he'd ever done. It demanded things of him that he'd never believed he would willingly do. Sherlock shifted his weight and squared his shoulders a bit, drawing in a deep breath. Once more unto the breach...

The wall had come to serve as a canvass of his life for the past four months. He, Mary and John had stood or sat in front of it at least twice a week and talked. But, oddly, the more the three of them were drawn to this wall, the worse his anxiety had become. He could not help but feel each moment ticking down; it was worse than that digital counter on the underground bomb, because there was no off switch, no way to turn off the electricity current, no last minute intervention to stop the countdown, delay or defer the inevitable. He had submerged himself in the planning, losing himself in the minutiae as if paying enough attention to the details would help obscure the end result.

It was the end of 'T minus two and counting'. John and Mary were getting married the day after tomorrow, just as he had planned it in exact detail. The irony of using his case evidence techniques for wedding planning was not lost on him. I am guilty of planning and executing a crime against myself, against John and even Mary, too.

A twinge in his jaw reminded him that he'd been clenching his teeth rather too much lately.

Tomorrow was the rehearsal dinner. The guest list was neatly typed – lower middle wall, just above the sofa. He'd just drawn a line through one of the guest names- Janine Hawkins- she'd emailed Mary just an hour ago to cry off. Mary's forwarding e mail said that Janine's employer had demanded her presence at a business meeting in Paris tomorrow, which was to be followed by an evening dinner hosted for the Monsieur Harlem Desir, the Minister in charge of European Affairs. But, "not to worry; she promises she will be there on the day."

The wedding was the day after tomorrow, so in theory Miss Hawkins should be back in time, but just in case she did not show, Sherlock had already briefed one of the other bridesmaids, Sarah Chambers, a fellow nurse at the surgery. He'd prepared a typed sheet of instructions. "Think of it as being an understudy; one never hopes for misfortune, but it could be to your benefit, Miss Chambers. The maid of honour's present is considerably more valuable than the one chosen for ordinary bridesmaids. It might just compensate you for the fact that you are unlikely ever to wear again the bridesmaid's dress, given that lilac does not suit someone with ginger hair and your complexion. Have you thought of dying your hair blonde for the day? It will mean that you wouldn't clash with the bride in the wedding photos." The young woman had given him a rather insulted look, before saying "no."

Sherlock mentally re-organised the dinner table plan, in case Mary's worries proved accurate about Miss Hawkins. He grimaced slightly that he would now be forced to sit next to the Sarah Chambers. At least before the dinner he would be able to assess her ability to follow instructions. He was all in favour of the idea of a rehearsal- every activity on the wall had been carefully timed and the schedule was meticulously worked out in minute-by-minute detail, but even then proper contingency required a dry run. But why this had to also be an occasion for eating and drinking, Sherlock could not understand. There was so much of this process that he had found perplexing.

Sherlock idly wondered whether he might be able to bribe Lestrade to call him away from the restaurant tomorrow night with an urgent case. He could promise John to be back in time for the actual wedding; it was worth a try to avoid at least this part of the (shudder) socialising that came with the event. The next two days would be something out of his worst nightmares- people, noise, confusion, petty conversations, and then, to top it all, having to give a speech in front of an audience. The last time he'd done that, it was at Moriarty's trial and that had ended up with him being arrested for contempt of court.

He sighed.

Sherlock dropped down to his knees and used the blank sheet of paper on the coffee table to draw a thin rectangle and then inserted the names of the six people along one side, then climbed onto the sofa to post up the Plan B version of the Reception top table. Just in case Miss Hawkins is a no-show. In the process, his eye was drawn to the enlarged photograph of the wall-paper in the Orangery of the Arnsworth Castle hotel: a bright sunny yellow, with painted greenery and a series of large blue and white birds elegantly flying about. He'd used the photo to help with the choice of fabrics for the bridesmaids' dresses and for the flowers and table arrangements. Mary had adored the room, but there was something that annoyed him about the birds.

They were what might charitably be termed artistically drawn, rather than faithful to any particular species of bird. At first, he had thought of them as akin to Fairy Terns, a smallish all white sea-faring bird with an elegant forked swallow-like tail. He'd seen them off the South Indian sea coast. But the birds on the mural were too big for terns, and their colouring was all wrong. These soaring on the reception room walls reminded him a bit of magpies, with white on their body and heads. But the blue wasn't the right hue, there was no green or black as there should be for Pica pica, and a magpie's tail was not forked. He wondered why the idea had come into his head that they were magpies.

And then he remembered the rhyme: Two for joy.