Other Friends Have Flown Before

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The story title and the pet's name are excerpted and inspired, respectively, from/by Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven.

Story Prompt: Sherlock discovers Molly and he have a mutual love for odd animals when he finds out her rather peculiar pet dies. His new focus is to cheer her up.

Ornithology experts advised against owning them, saying they made terrible pets. She really wasn't trying to thumb her nose at their expertise. She hadn't set out to adopt one. In fact, she would argue that he had sort of adopted her, not the other way around.

Whatever the case, Molly Hooper had found herself the rather bemused owner of a pet raven.

The UK had laws against owning migratory birds. So when Molly's zoologist friend, Jeff, foisted the injured animal into her care, she'd tried playing the "I don't want to get arrested" card.

Unfortunately, her friend just had to remember that Molly was actually a licensed rehabilitator, thanks to her short rotation in veterinary sciences during medical school.

Damn it.

Then she bonded with the stupid bird.

Double damn it.

She tried not to, but he was sort of endearing, the way he hopped around, cocking his head to the side as he pondered shiny objects on the bookshelves in her flat. The fact that he then began to build a little treasure trove of said shiny objects behind her television was actually kind of cute.

And then she made the ultimate mistake: she named him.

Molly had thought herself pretty damn clever when, one bleary morning as she showered before work, it occurred to her that "Quoth the Raven" was clearly the best name ever for such a bird. She'd then cursed as some shampoo suds slipped into her eye and distracted her from her momentary brilliance.

But Quoth he remained, and Molly and he developed an unlikely affection for one another.

Well, she liked to think he held affection for her. He didn't tell her otherwise. And after a few tries, he seemed to realize it wasn't smart to try to steal whatever sparkly baubles happened to be hanging from her earlobes at any given time. She, in turn, fed him bits of her Cornish pasties at night as a special treat.

Jeff-the-Zoologist had explained that Quoth would never fly again, and thus could not be reintroduced to the wild. But he assured her that, as far as they could tell, he was an older bird, so Molly wouldn't be burdened by him for long.

Unfortunately, he was right. One morning, five months after he'd entered her care, she'd awoken to find that Quoth the Raven had died sometime in the night.

Molly was bereft.

She actually called in sick that day; something she hardly did even when she had a genuine, debilitating illness.

After she raised a toast to her departed friend (and possibly sang a wobbly, tear-filled rendition of "The Parting Glass"—'possibly' meaning there were no witnesses, so she could take that secret to the grave), Molly returned Quoth's feathery body to Jeff, in case it was needed for a necropsy.

Then she told herself that life must go on.

So, she trudged into work the next day, hoping that the calming routine of postmortems and paperwork would keep her mind occupied.

The day started out doing just that. It was quiet, the patients were the calm, stoic sorts, and the overall atmosphere was actually sort of peaceful.

But then the swinging doors flew open and a swishing, designer coat and its wearer brought that calm to a swift end.

"Molly, I am wanting to run an experiment on alpha hemolytic activity. Get me twelve sheep blood agar plates," Sherlock Holmes directed by way of greeting.

When she didn't respond immediately and remained hunkered over a counter covered in paperwork, he quickly reviewed his words in his head, then brightened as realized he'd forgotten one key word.

"Please."

He was rather impressed that he hadn't even had to be prompted with verbal cues.

But then his rather affable feelings deteriorated when he realized the Molly still wasn't responding to his request.

Skirting his way around the empty body slabs, Sherlock made his way over to Molly's side. He peered down at her profile, frowning as he took in her bloodshot, swollen eyes, and skin that still bore the splotchy traces of someone who'd was either fighting tears or had cried rather recently.

Sherlock didn't like it, one bit.

"Molly," he began, tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder, "What is wrong? Are you distressed by the thought of sheep being sacrificed for blood agar plates? Because I rather think that mutton is a sub-par meat, so it's nice that their last function is in the name of science."

The sad pathologist did not immediately brighten at his bolstering words. Instead, tears pooled in her eyes and began dripping down her face again, and she sniffled indelicately.

But then Molly remembered who was watching her. He wouldn't understand her grief. She quickly dashed the tears away and shot up from her stool.

"No, no, I'm fine, Sherlock. Twelve dishes, you said? We might not have that many ready, but I'll go check."

Before she could hurry away, Sherlock stopped her by returning his hand to her shoulder. He turned her to face him, but she refused to meet his eyes.

"Why are you crying, then? Don't tell me it's nothing. Something has upset you, and I find it wholly distracting. Especially because I can't figure out what it is."

Sherlock may have fibbed a little with that last bit. Surprisingly enough, for once he wasn't so concerned that he couldn't figure something out. He was more worried about… well, Molly, actually.

But perhaps he should have been a bit more honest with her, because her brow furrowed in annoyance.

"I'm so sorry that I'm just doing one more thing to make your life difficult. I'll be careful next time my pet dies to show my grief more clearly. Maybe I can add something to my wardrobe that is a clear indicator for you."

Sherlock's frown deepened, but not because he was offended by her outburst. Actually, he was pleased that she was being assertive.

So, Molly felt more than a little surprised by his reply.

"Your cat died?"

She was a bit taken aback that Sherlock even remembered that she owned a cat, let alone that he wasn't jumping on the defensive at her words.

"No… it was actually a bird. A raven. The cat's fine. In fact, he's doing a bit of a grave dance now. Quoth sort of terrorized him…."

Too much information, Hooper, she thought to herself. Prepare for Sherlock Mockery… Shermockery. She squelched down an hysterical giggle. She really was losing it.

But again, Sherlock surprised her. He didn't give a biting retort. Instead, he looked confused.

"When did you get a raven? And why didn't I know about it?"

Molly might have imagined it, but Sherlock almost looked… hurt. Hurt that she hadn't filled him in on her life-changing raven arrival.

"I got him in October. I didn't say anything to anyone. At first, because I was not too thrilled about him. I was volunteered to provide his hospice care by a friend. And then I got used to him and it wasn't noteworthy anymore, I guess."

Sherlock looked down on her impassively for a moment, before he spoke again.

"My father tried to pique my interest in falconry when I was a boy, so I had a hawk for a few years."

Molly was so surprised that he was voluntarily sharing something like this, she only managed a weak nod of encouragement for him to continue.

"I never really gained much of a penchant for the falconry, but I was rather fond of Mystery. She actually aided me in my early attempts at spying and the like. My brother and I sent a lot of coded messages to each other. We tied them to her leg, and she seemed all too happy to act as a homing pigeon."

"Mystery?" Molly didn't quite laugh, but it was close.

"I was six," he explained, a slight color tinting his cheeks.

Molly bit her lip to keep from smiling, and offered him a sober nod.

He continued, a far off look in his eye, "Then one day she flew off, and I never saw her again. I was rather distraught, but Mycroft convinced me that it was better that she was free, where she belonged. He explained that wild animals do not make good pets, as much as we'd like to somehow own some of their wildness. But… I did miss her."

Molly thought sadly of poor Quoth, who hadn't had to option of living out the rest of his days with his raven cohorts. But then she remembered that she had certainly done her best to make him happy in his last few months.

That, and Sherlock's story, made her feel far better than she had in the past twenty-four hours. Somehow, it helped to know that the man she so admired could empathize with her grief over a lost friend, however small.

She smiled softly at Sherlock, and, amazingly, he returned it.

Two months later

Molly was doing a bit of housekeeping around her flat late one Thursday night, when a knock sounded on her door, surprising her from her rather spirited KT Tunstall sing-along.

Moving slowly to the door, Molly wondered if her singing had bothered a neighbor. It was the only thing she could think of that would explain a visitor so late at night.

She was amazed, when she peered through her peephole, to see Sherlock Holmes standing on the other side of the door.

She quickly released the safety chain and deadbolt and opened the door. Her invitation dying on her lips when she saw what he was holding.

Seeing that she was otherwise occupied, Sherlock took it upon himself to enter the flat, shutting the door behind him.

He followed Molly's gaze to the simple, wire cage he was carrying in his gloved hand.

Inside, huddled on the floor of the cage, was a black ball of downy fluff, with two glittering eyes and a black beak just visible.

"She's from the Tower of London," he explained in a rush. He actually looked a bit nervous.

Molly blinked at him for a moment before replying.

"You… stole a Tower raven?"

"No! Not at all! I know the Ravenmaster. Embezzling case several years ago. Anyway, he was in a bind. This one is only a few weeks old and already a troublemaker. Tower ravens have to be docile or they're dismissed for unsatisfactory behavior. She was one such dismissal. She's to go to a zoo in Wales, but she needs some rehabilitation before that—she got a bit banged up in a fight with another bird.

"I convinced him to let me see to her rehab. Not sure if he's actually allowed, but he sent her on her way with me. We just need to see to it that she's ready for transfer in a three weeks' time."

Molly was nearly speechless. But only nearly.

"So… you thought of me?"

Sherlock again looked astoundingly bashful.

"I was thinking we could both look after her. Joint custody… or we could just leave her here. But I could help with her care. If you wanted."

She crouched down to get a better look at the bird.

"What's her name?"

Sherlock edged closer, so that he too could look into the cage.

"I'm not sure what her official name is… but I was thinking she looks like a 'Lenore.'"

Molly straightened back up and smiled mistily at Sherlock.

"Quoth the raven…" she intoned, softly.

"Nevermore," he finished for her.

He was only a little surprised when she gripped the lapels of his coat to pull his face closer to hers, at the same time that she rose up onto her tiptoes.

His hands found her hips to steady her.

Her lips brushed against his.

So softly, like the fluttering of a bird's wings.

Note: I had a huge latte at 11:00 tonight. Then, MorbidbyDefault/MorbidMegz requested this over on Tumblr.

I'm like Jack Kerouac on his 14-day Benzedrine high. This horribly-written fic is my On the Road.

Quick thing: I don't actually think med students are required to do veterinary rotations, but pharmacy students are, or at least were, back when my mom earned her Rx. So, to quote Eric Cartman: whatever, whatever, I do what I [and my necessary plot devices] want!

Hope you enjoyed it!