The worst day was when the parrot solved the case.

They had the evidence strewn everywhere across the sitting room. Sherlock was spinning in the middle of it in a dust-devil of intellectual effort, while Lestrade and John watched to one side. And then a raspy, inhuman little voice piped up, "Key?"

When they turned, there was Dupin, sitting on the table with a key in his beak. "Ohhhhhhh," Sherlock said. "Yes! Oh, obvious!"

It was the wrong blend of brass. They spent the next five minutes listening to Sherlock simultaneously unspool the case and praise his brilliant little pet.

"I should retire," Lestrade muttered.

"Give the parrot Anderson's job," John suggested. "You'll have a forensic scientist who can work with Sherlock and I'll have someone who can pay the bills."

"He's keeping it, isn't he," Lestrade said glumly, watching Sherlock petting the bird and muttering to it fondly. "God. How long do the damn things live?"

"About sixty years." John had looked it up. He felt like he was naming the hour of his death.

"Jesus. I'm not going to live that long! Sherlock's going to give me a heart attack by the time I'm 55."

"Or a stroke," John agreed. Then a thought struck, and sent him into a fit of what he liked to think was manly giggling.

Both men—and the parrot—turned to stare at him in surprise. "What?"

"Sorry, I." He gulped back a few breaths till he could get control of the amused wobble in his voice. "I just thought." He waved at the detective and the bird on his wrist. "Batman and Robin."

"Oh that's good," said Lestrade admiringly. "That's going on the office whiteboard."

John couldn't hold it in when Sherlock scowled. He started laughing again. Pleased by the sound, Dupin started cackling madly in response. Sherlock's face screwed up in disgust.

Maybe there was hope for this relationship after all.