jessamygriffith

The Flight of John Watson

Length - 26000 words
Rating - explicit.
Pairing - John/Sherlock
Categories - Wingfic, Omegaverse, First time, AU.
Warnings - Brief scene of attempted sexual assault. One scene of violence. Has Omegaverse elements - breeding season, soul mate, mixed sex/gender roles, natural lubricant, mentions of mpreg. Frottage.
Plus points - If you are weirded out by Omegaverse, this avian version cancels out the dub-con hormonal lack of choice and the forced pregnancy aspects. Mid-air coitus.

Summary:
Although Sherlock Holmes may be forced by circumstances to share his eyrie, he is determined to make best use of his new tenant. However, he has no intention of ever pair-mating. It's a pity his body has other ideas.
John Watson can't believe his luck when he meets Sherlock Holmes. But who would ever want a flightless Tiercel with PTSD who can't even manage a courtship flight?

Also available on AO3.

******

This fic is loosely connected with Fledgling, which I wrote some time ago. At the time, my beta alltoseek wanted to see the lead-up to that story. Her prompt was something along the lines of, "I want to see flying fucks!" This story is the answer, long delayed. She expected a sex scene. I built a world instead. Safe to say, it got out of control.

I hung the world-building of this AU on Study in Pink, so if that is uninteresting to people who long for complete originality, you can back-button, or read the first scene and skip later to Chapter 3 and 4, which will be original. As for myself, I'm a sucker for first-meetings, and there are enough new scenes and changes to keep it fresh. Plus - world-building, useful stuff.

If you are here for Omegaverse, I apologize - when I'd written Fledgling, which was meant as a mash-up of wing!fic and Omegaverse, I came to the conclusion that Omegaverse, with its scenting and fluids and general dubious consent doesn't mash very well with bird physiology. I have turned Omegaverse up-side down in many respects - it's not really Omegaverse anymore, but wingfic with possible mpreg. However, in this fic there are breeding seasons, life-long pair-mating and multiple gender/sex combinations and other things. I hope that's enough.

Alpha-beta is the incomparable alltoseek, brit-check by the patient red_adam, and thanks to fandom cohorts Mojoflower and feikoi for style suggestions and especially the preliminary read-through to tell me whether I was confusing people with the gender/sex designations.

*****

Glossary

Falcon- Male and female sexes, gender appearance generally matching. Capable of gliding. In Omegaverse, Betas.

Apex Tiercel- Male sex and masculine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, Alpha.

Apex Tiercel- Male sex and feminine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, female Alpha.

Zenith Tiercel- Female sex and masculine gender appearance. Capable of flight. In Omegaverse, Omega.

Chapter One - The Fallibility of Transport

Phoenix Palace, January 31st 2010

Sherlock watched John poke through the prawns and cashew nuts with his chopsticks. A smile touched Sherlock's lips and he slouched back in his chair. His great white wings barred with black rested on the padded slots in the back and sprawled on polished wood. He hadn't ordered anything to celebrate the end of a successful case, contenting himself with a glass of juice. His appetite was off – even though he was usually starving post-case his stomach felt unaccountably queasy.

An interesting case for once, resulting in an eventful evening. Sherlock's mind flicked over the memories, savouring the details. A Falcon woman in pink, her small wings sprawled on a filthy floor. The drugs bust by the righteous Lestrade, standing in 221B and mantling until his dark grey wings filled half the room as he faced down Sherlock. Murderous cabbies kidnapping consulting detectives into their taxi-vans right off the street.

Well, Sherlock admitted to himself, I'd been willing enough. He'd been furious at the invasion masquerading as a drugs bust in his eyrie and flustered by John's militant response. True, the puzzle presented by Jeff Hope had been of real interest until the moment Sherlock had realised there was no solution, no way to guess which bottle held the poison. It was a trick, sleight of hand. His obstinate need to know had made him lift the pill to his lips – one way or another he'd expose the answer.

And then, John had happened. Amazing.

"Aren't you going to have something?" John asked, breaking into Sherlock's reverie. Sherlock's wings lifted at the odd tone then settled again. John's head was tilted, dun hair and grey-brown wings gilded bronze by the light from a hanging red lantern. John gestured with his chopsticks. "It's excellent."

"I don't care for cashews," said Sherlock.

"Dumpling, then?" John lifted one as if to feed Sherlock directly. There was a twinge in the pit of Sherlock's stomach and he waved it away. "You ought to eat something." John's voice was compelling, warm. "You've barely touched anything since yesterday."

"Fine." Sherlock drew the basket towards him, fishing out a moist dumpling and popping it into his mouth. "But that's all I want. I'm not exactly hungry." He wiped his lips with a paper napkin.

John watched the motion. His tongue flicked out to lick dry lips. "All right. I'll take care of the bill."

Sherlock's eyes passed over John as he counted out a couple of notes. Satisfaction and a certain expectant tension radiated from him. John's dark grey-brown wings flexed, settled. Flexed and settled again.

Oh, damn, Sherlock thought. He thought he'd quashed John's tentative come-on at Angelo's. "John. Perhaps I wasn't clear enough –"

"Oh, you've been clear, Sherlock. No need to lay it out for me, I can deduce this part on my own, thanks." John stood. His wings flexed again, pinions spreading like fingers. Irrelevantly, Sherlock noted the patterning on the underside, how it changed from dark grey to browns to a cream near John's body. Yeung and his teenage daughter watched from next to the register, the girl's hand clapped over her mouth, her small glossy black wings quivering. Sherlock frowned. What was she seeing that Sherlock didn't? What was John doing?

"Pardon?" Sherlock hated himself for even voicing the question. His heart was quickening its pace. His fingers tingled. He stood abruptly, gripped by apprehension, wings tangling in the chair and knocking it over. The girl giggled.

John rolled his shoulders, wings shifting with a whisper of feathers. "Didn't expect this - an Apex like me and a Zenith like you. But thank you for the chance. I'm flattered. I hope I don't disappoint."

"Disappoint?" Sherlock's mind felt disjointed, thoughts flaring at random. One small part of him was appalled at how he was repeating everything. Like an idiot. His mouth worked. "What do you mean?"

"My shoulder. The courtship flight. You know." John glanced at Yeung, brows lifted. Yeung nodded and slid open a set of glass doors leading onto the balcony. He then pushed his gawping daughter into the kitchen, his small wings flaring out to block her view of their strange customers. A voluble out-pouring of high-pitched Mandarin was cut off by the firm click of the door. They were alone in the restaurant.

John spread his legs, arms hanging loose. A remote part of Sherlock's mind being subsumed by rising comprehension noted how John's jeans sported a growing bulge. John's lips curved at the high flush burning on Sherlock's face, the sweat dampening the curls at his temples, his reddened lips. "You look about ready. Horus, but you're gorgeous. If you're willing, I'll do my best."

"The flight," Sherlock whispered. "The flight. But it's not the end of February." His mind flew over details of the past two days. Oh Horus, Horus, it was too soon. "It's not February," he said again. Stupid, stupid, he should have seen the signs! "I'm not… John, I can't…"

"Give a flying fuck?" queried John. The crudeness of the phrase plucked a visceral note between them, a cord thrumming with promise. "You can. If you want. If I catch you."

Catch. The room swayed. Want. Sherlock's stomach contracted, desire twisting low in his torso.

John continued, "Though I have to say, it's a bit rough on me, doing it in London. Besides the paparazzi, I'll probably have to fight off anyone who sees you tonight." His hot blue eyes ran over Sherlock's body, the quivering white wings. "You're not easy at all, are you."

"No," said Sherlock. He shifted, bringing the table squarely between them, his back to the open doors.

John grinned and the expression was bright, shining with both threat and promise. "I see I'll have my hands full."

"You seem confident," snapped Sherlock.

John said nothing. Sherlock looked at him – the dun-brown hair, the large wings with their grey flight feathers edged in brown. Boring at first glance. Compact body, as befitted a masculine Apex Tiercel. Deceptive jumpers and jeans. But was John actually capable of a courtship flight? Fit - for mating?

The chill breeze from the open door teased at Sherlock's wings. Instead of cooling him, his blood seemed to race faster, threads of fire burning him up. His body was readying itself for the atmospheric cold experienced during a courtship flight. John was utterly still, but Sherlock saw the winding tension, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths as he gathered himself.

What was it to be? Sherlock considered the options. Himself. His over-sensitised body clamouring with need. The open air over London. John.

Fight or flight?

~o~

London, October 5th, 2009 - 119 days earlier

“Another twenty, John,” Ella said, standing by the bars in the high-ceilinged gymnasium. Her glossy brown wings were tucked neatly behind her as she took note of John’s progress. “Keep them wide.”

John was shirtless in the cool room, sweat running down his torso to soak into his loose grey shorts. He gripped the bar, leaning into it as he flexed, his great brown-grey wings moving forward, then stretching back and up. Again, and again, the breeze created doing nothing to evaporate the moisture in his short hair. Horus, it hurt, but in a good way. Repetitions complete, he let his wings sag and straightened up. Ella’s smile was professional but warm as she stepped forward. “May I?”

John nodded and braced for the cool hands that ran from his upper wing joint to the juncture at his shoulder, probing. “Supracoracoidius muscles in excellent condition,” she murmured. “Lift and hold.” Obediently John brought his wings up and out, stretching them until the tendons were taut. Her hands felt along the ventral side, passing over hidden bone and sinew to the thick muscles banding John’s chest. He felt nothing as her fingers pressed the bullet scar in his left shoulder. The nerves were still insensate, though Ella assured him that some time in the future the connections might regrow. He was lucky, he knew. He'd regained the full range of motion in his wing.

“Pectoralis muscles couldn’t be fitter. Your strength and stamina is as good as I can make it. You're in better shape than most Tiercels your age,” Ella remarked. “John, you know there’s no reason you can’t -“

“No,” John interrupted. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you said I can glide now. And I have.”

“Five metres is more like a long jump,” Ella said. “That is not what you were made to do. You’re an Apex Tiercel, John. You should be flying.”

Easy for you to say, John thought. Ella was a Falcon, small-winged like the bulk of the human population, and could only glide. Evolution had led humans down from the skies and to the earth. Humans born with the requisite muscle mass and bone structure capable of flight were rare. Some said they belonged to the past, evolutionary throwbacks of primitive instinct and lesser intelligence. John shook off the thought. Ella was the consummate physiotherapist – she only wanted the best for him, and in her opinion that meant flight. He sighed and met her eyes.

"Fine." His shoulder twinged with phantom pain as he climbed. Jaw firm, he tried to put it out of his head, focussing instead on flying. You're fine. It's healed. It's all in your head. Psychosomatic. The platform was a mere five metres high over crash-pads extending the length of the gymnasium. He stood at the edge, drawing in deep breaths and shoving his apprehension down. Dimly he heard Ella's instructions to extend, flap and take off. He bent his legs, gathered himself and leapt.

No, Horus, it's going wrong already! His launch was crooked, his damned left wing not extending enough. He flapped, trying to straighten out but was already going down. His vision shrank, panic taking hold. Not again. Again his wings beat but the left flailed at the air, then folded.

He fell, right wing cupping air and spiralling him around. He hit the pads with his legs bent but the impact was enough to send him to his hands and knees hard enough to bruise. Dizzy, he closed his eyes against the abject shame that burned through him and ignored Ella's concerned voice.

"John? John, are you all right?"

Oh, I'm all right, he thought. There's not a thing wrong with me except what's in my head. Gunfire and pain and the void beneath snatching at his legs until he couldn't breath, couldn't move a feather. Couldn't fly. He throttled back an inappropriate urge to giggle, knowing it would come out sounded demented and broken.

"I'm fine," he said. He refused her helping hand and got to his feet. He spread his wings to demonstrate, flapped them harder than required in frustration. "Nothing sprained."

Ella’s nodded but he felt her disappointment nonetheless. “All right, if you say so. Go and get the green bands and sit on the bench.” She helped him loop the bands over the scapular joint and criss-crossed them, passing the ends over his shoulders. John held the knots and began flexing. Ella stood behind to help spot should his wings move from the best position, but John’s wings were steady, smoothly moving as they pulled the resistance band. “You must understand, though, John,” she said. “If you don’t start to fly again, the muscles will atrophy. You’ll be coming to therapy a long time. Perhaps the rest of your life.”

John bowed his head, a drop of sweat falling from his matted hair to plash on the blue matting. His hand trembled and he tightened his grip. “I know.”

~o~

October 12th, 2009

Lestrade stood back as the crime scene team bagged the body for transport, his dark grey wings flexing uneasily. His Apex Tiercel sergeant, slender and small, stood at his shoulder. Sally Donovan shook her head. "Makes no sense."

Lestrade nodded. On the surface, Sir Jeffrey Patterson, Falcon and successful businessman, had no reason in the world to commit suicide. "Did you get anything on the last call he made?"

"Yes." Donovan turned, her voice dropping. "Made to his secretary, Halen Sandberg. I had Peters look her up. There's something worth pursuing there. She’s an Apex Tiercel. Un-mated."

"Oh, Roc's teats," Lestrade groaned. He rubbed his face. "Keep it quiet, then. I don't want the press getting hold of this." The tabloids would salivate if they found this out, even it was the trite old story of a well-known Falcon having an affair with his secretary. Especially an Apex that was one of the rare female-gendered ones like Sally. The glider and the flier - low-brow and racy gossip. "Is it better or worse Halen isn't a simple female Falcon?" he said.

She grimaced. "Better. Patterson would have no need or incentive to leave his mate, not that she'd let him – no chance of children with a male Falcon and an Apex, after all. All the fun and none of the complications of breaking a pair-bond." Her eyes strayed to Anderson in his blue overalls. Lestrade looked away and cleared his throat.

"Right, then. You go and talk to the secretary." As Sally was a feminine Apex and flighted herself, she might be able to play the sympathy card. Lestrade sighed. "I have to pay a visit to his wife."

~o~

John jolted upright on his wide bed, wings flapping in panic, the sensation of plummeting flooding his veins with adrenalin. A glass of water on the bedside table went flying with a smash. His breath stuttered. Not flying, there's no blood, you're not falling -

His stomach lurched and he scrambled off the bed. The sheets twisted around his legs and he sprawled, hands slipping on the wet carpet. Frantic, he crawled to the desk and grabbed the waste-paper bin. He curled around it, dry-heaving a few times. His breathing slowed from gasps to long watery breaths.

A sob bubbled up and he turned his face into his shoulder. His wings dragged through the spilled water and glass to wrap him in a cocoon of feathers, shutting out the world.

~o~

New Scotland Yard, November 27th 2009

“Sir.” Sally’s voice was odd. Lestrade looked up from his paperwork. “We just got the report back on the victim, James Phillimore.”

“So?” Lestrade leaned back. The Zenith Tiercel had been found with his spine and wings broken, having apparently fallen from a window of a sports centre. Why a young flighted lad in good shape would crash, though - strange. “Was he drunk? Or doing drugs?”

“Drugs, yes.” Sally’s voice was grim. She passed him the paper. “Tests came back positive – for the same drug found in Patterson.”

Lestrade took the report, scanned it and placed it on his desk as he would a live bomb. “Shit.” Another suicide. It looked like kid had blacked out, and if the drug didn’t finish him, the fall would have. He shook his head at this fail-safe planning and looked up at Sally. “Right. I’ll leave you in charge of chasing down any other connection between Phillimore and Patterson. I need to talk to the Superintendent.”

“One other thing, sir.” Sally looked pale. She looked down at the last paper she held, not meeting his eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”

~o~

“He… he was pregnant?” Gary’s red-rimmed eyes were stunned. “Are you sure?”

Lestrade nodded, throat tight. It was abhorrent that a life-bearer had died this way. He rubbed the smooth skin on his wrist where a gold band had rested for so long. His mate may have found someone who provided for her needs more than he'd had time for, but Lestrade would always keep an eye out for his family. It was how male mating instincts went. In spite of the slow changes for equality for female Falcons and Zenith Tiercels in the more dangerous professions, Lestrade knew deep down he was old-fashioned.

Gary’s boyish face crumpled. “He never told me. I mean, we're young, I thought Jimmy would want to wait. I haven’t even told my parents we were… We had to keep it secret. But... Why would he kill himself?” He swiped at his face. “They’ll be happy. They never liked him.” His voice was hoarse. “My dad doesn't like flighted people. It’s stupid, he honestly thinks gliders are better than fliers. But I always knew I was lucky.” His voice hitched and trailed to a thread of sound squeezed from a tight throat. “A good-looking Zenith like Jimmy with a boring Falcon like me? I was lucky,” he repeated and buried his face in his hands.

Lestrade didn’t have the heart for it but he needed to ask more questions. In the meantime, he let the boy cry for his lost mate and their child. He pushed a cup of water closer to the shaking Falcon and waited in silence.

~o~

Baker Heights, January 25th, 2010

Sherlock stalked through the spacious rooms of 221B. Perfect. Room to spread his wings at last, away from the smothering influence of his brother.

Baker Heights was an old, narrow house. It had been built as a retirement home in the late thirties by a rich older Falcon couple. Many people who were past the age of gliding needed low buildings, hence Baker Heights only had three storeys. Now cut into three eyries, it belonged to Mrs. Hudson as the legacy of her unlamented late husband.

Mrs. Hudson trailed after her imposing guest. "It's so good to hear from you after all this time, Sherlock. After all that trouble with... well." She went quiet but brightened again, smiling at him. Sherlock returned the smile. It was Mrs. Hudson's innate optimism even after the horror of her pair-mating that had kept her in Sherlock’s memory. That, and her generous offer of a centrally-located eyrie.

Mrs. Hudson's tip-dyed wings twitched. "I hate to be a nuisance and mention this, but the rent...?"

Ah. The rent. Sherlock's wings slumped a little. His own disposable income was sparse and his trust funds tied up by Mycroft.

Reading the look on his face correctly, Mrs. Hudson offered, "There's a second room upstairs." The implication hung in the air. "If you need it."

Sherlock mantled, wings drawing up. Share his eyrie, share his territory with a stranger? Intolerable. It was extremely rare for un-mated people to share living quarters and the whole point of this exercise was to escape interference in his life. Mrs. Hudson shrank back and Sherlock forced himself to settle and give her his warmest smile. "Yes. That's a good thought, Mrs. Hudson."

She fluttered, pink-cheeked at the praise. "I'll make us a cup of tea, shall I? You can look about some more." Sherlock watched her go, his wings drawing tightly to his back. Mrs. Hudson was small for a feminine Falcon and not very strong – it had been easy for her husband to manipulate and keep her under his pinions. An utter perversion of how a mated Falcon should treat his partner. Sherlock did not consider himself any kind of avenging angel, but it had been a pleasure to ensure her husband's execution.

Protection. That was the problem. In this so-called enlightened age, there were still those who felt female Falcons and Zenith Tiercels needed a protector. He clenched his jaw. Being a breeder was such an inconvenience. Not for the first time, Sherlock cursed being born a Zenith. He was more than just any broody flighted simpleton longing for chicks. His wings lifted and flapped hard, raising dust motes to whirl in the sun streaming in the large French doors leading to the balcony. He sat cross-legged, wings sliding behind on the wooden floor, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

His computations provided a sum he didn't care for. Either he applied to Mycroft for financial assistance, or he learned to share his eyrie. It would have to be someone who would be uninterested in Sherlock as a mate – too much trouble there to contemplate. He considered Falcons and promptly discarded them. Gliders wouldn't like Baker Heights – three stories were not high enough. An Apex or a Zenith like himself? Tiercels would enjoy the cheap rents afforded by low dwellings.

Sherlock sniffed and idly reached to smooth a moulting covert feather. This was difficult, particularly as regards his own sexuality. Apexes would try to press their interest, when Sherlock had no intention of ever mating. On the other hand, with an Apex in his eyrie at Baker Heights, Sherlock would be under the aegis of their protection. By allowing the police to believe this harmless social fiction, he would be able to broaden the scope of his investigations.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. The field of potentials was narrow. And considering his personal habits, who would to share an eyrie with him anyway?

There was nothing for it. He wanted Baker Heights. He must find someone to share the rent. When his usual breeding season began in early spring¹, he would remove to Holmes Tower, a far-flung estate on one of the smaller Shetland islands. Once the two week season finished, he would return to London and carry on his life in the fashion he desired.

"Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn't be sitting on the floor!" Mrs. Hudson had reappeared. "Come down, I've some proper chairs. The tea is ready."

Sherlock felt a curl of amusement at her civilised dismay but suppressed it. He stood , brushing off his suit and shivering his wings back into place. He inclined his head and followed her down the stairs. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Are there any biscuits?"

~o~

New Scotland Yard, January 28th, 2010

“You’ve got to stop him doing that,” Sally groused as they left the press conference. “He’s making us look like idiots.”

Lestrade flipped his wings rudely. “Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.”

“Freak,” Sally muttered. “I swear he’s –“

“Shut it,” growled Lestrade. “We may need him on this one.”

"Sir, you can't let that Zenith get involved in this! The press will have a field day," Sally protested.

"The press won't find out from us. And after this last one, do you really think any one is safe?" He whirled, wings up. "If we get one more 'suicide', I'll use him. I'd use him if he were pregnant and dragging a broken wing! Because whoever this killer is, he has no scruples and we can't afford any either! All right?"

Sally crossed the tips of her red-brown wings behind her back, shifting away. "All right."

Lestrade smoothed his wings back. "Sorry about that." He paused and offered, "I don't like it either." They both turned and kept walking to his office. Lestrade motioned to a chair but Sally only stood, a crease between her brows.

“You said there was no link between the three victims except the pills,” Sally said.

“I know what I said.”

“You don’t believe it. What are you thinking?”

Lestrade blew out a breath and crossed his arms. "It's not thinking, more like a gut feeling. Might be just a reaction on my part." The death of the last victim, Beth Davenport, was troubling him. She was a happily mated Falcon with two fledglings and had been about the same age as his own ex-mate. "We have four victims."

Sally shook her head. "You can't assume the killer knew Phillimore was pregnant."

"Can't leave it out either. So – Beth Davenport, a Falcon. Mated and mother. James Phillimore, the Zenith Tiercel – secretly mated, and expecting. And then there's Sir Patterson – a Falcon. Also a father, also mated, though not above stretching his bond by taking a lover."

"So, the killer has something against mated pairs?" Sally was sceptical. "A grudge against bonding?"

Lestrade shrugged, wings slumping. "It's a stretch. Just a hunch, nothing tangible." He met her dark eyes. "It's not like we have anything else to work with at the moment."

~o~

Barts, January 29th, 2010

"Sorry, left my phone in my coat," Mike lied. Sherlock gave him a cool look before turning back to his slides.

"Here. Use mine." John Watson held out his own phone.

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. He felt a peculiar prickle on the back of his neck. His wings stirred. "Thank you." He waited. John didn't move. Irritated, Sherlock stalked to him, looming over the smaller Apex. John didn't flinch away at the aggressive move but only placed the phone in his hand. Unbidden, Sherlock's wings stretched and flicked, and a long-suppressed instinct began to stir.

John looked drab in the labs at Barts, the grey-browns of his flight feathers dull under fluorescents. Boring, Sherlock thought, but for three things. John was an unemployed doctor. He was flight-capable, or had been before he'd returned to England – curious. But most importantly for Sherlock's purposes, he was an Apex Tiercel who needed a place to live.

His thoughts flew. 221B was too expensive on his own. Having this particular Apex as a flat-mate would accomplish several other things as well, the bulk of which fell under the umbrella of 'getting interfering people off his back.' Once John understood there would be none of that stupidity about mating, Sherlock would appear to others to be under John's 'protection'. And John was a doctor - potentially useful.

Just like that, Sherlock made his decision. "I play violin, conduct experiments in the kitchen and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you if we shared an eyrie?"

John wrinkled his brow. "Who said anything about sharing an eyrie?"

Happily, John seemed easy-going for an Apex. Sherlock was pleased at how John neither commented on Sherlock's sex nor suggested Sherlock needed his protection. Or other 'favours'. Excellent. John even took Sherlock's dissection of his history with no more than a tightening of his face where others would have been infuriated. Instead of a show of challenge, John's grey wings drew into his back, rigidly controlled.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B, Baker Heights," Sherlock said, filled with a pleasurable sense of accomplishment. He winked. John only shook his head, looking at Mike with a crease between his brows. Sherlock ducked out and walked away, wings tucked high against his back in anticipation and skin prickling.

Odd. John didn't follow him out demanding explanations. Sherlock felt a pang of irritation at this absence of attention, then put it out of his mind.

~o~

John's shoulders were tight with the effort of keeping his feathers smoothed. The door clicked closed behind the Zenith. What had that been? The strange man – Sherlock, John reminded himself – had spent the half-minute gleefully stripping John's past bare. All that business about Afghanistan and his inability to fly due to psychosomatic symptoms - how could he possibly know that? It was frightening and a little humiliating to be exposed in front of Mike. John was a private man and this Sherlock Holmes had tested his Army-trained control. In the RAMC when so many had to share territory, displays of dominance were discouraged in officers, especially flighted officers. The voice of reason told John he was not allowed to bat the Zenith Tiercel 'round the head for that show of challenge, no matter how he longed to.

John breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Calm. It's nothing. Mike thought John could move in with that? John looked at him, aggrieved. But before he could voice his indignation Mike spoke.

“That was odd. Not much like him.”

John gaped. “What?” He gestured with his free hand. “Mike, did you hear him? The things he said – is he looking for help with the rent or a fight?”

Mike shrugged, dove-grey wings lifting and falling. “That? No, he's always saying stuff like that. Not afraid to push buttons, is Sherlock Holmes.” He cocked his head. "Or show off." His tone said John was missing the point.

John's forehead creased. “I mean, granted, everything he said was true. But Horus's teeth, Mike! Just – what was that?”

Mike's mouth lifted at one corner. “No, I meant the little wing flutter he did. It was different. Like he was trying to scoop you in.”

“Huh?”

“When you offered your phone. He wanted you to come closer.”

“He did not,” John said.

“He did. But you just stood there and held it out.”

“Yeah, and then he tore into that poor Falcon until she practically moulted confidence. And he had a go at me!”

Mike grinned. “So he did. She ran away. You stood your ground. Must have sent the right signals². Great Roc, John, if I'd been on the end of the wink he gave you – well. All I'm saying is, it's not Sherlock's usual style at all.”

John paused. An image of the tall, angular Zenith Tiercel rose before him. Out of John's class. Gorgeous colouring with those white wings barred with black, the hair and eyes setting off the whole. Gyr ancestry, if John was any judge. A tad thin for his sex but altogether attractive – until he opened his mouth and spoke.

John sat, wings slumping. "No. You're wrong. Why would he be interested?" He gestured his meaning in a sweep of his hand – greying hair, his slumping left wing, the creases around his eyes. An ex-Army doctor without steady means of support and a parcel of PTSD from the war. A flighted man who could hardly bear gliding now. The nightmares came nearly every night – the searing pain of the bullet punching through his flight-bearing muscles, the endless fall as the desert whirled up to slap him. He'd only just been able to stop himself breaking every bone in his body, his uninjured wing-side straining as he'd spun down like a broken child's toy. His hand lifted and rubbed his shoulder.

Mike looked like he wanted to offer sympathy, but instead he only said, "John, you've been abroad too long."

"Out of touch, you mean?" John laughed. "Yeah, well. It's not like the Army allows female Falcons or Zenith Tiercels – the official line is that they are too disruptive to troops come breeding time. So I'm out of practice." He thought the encounter through. "Okay, so you say he wing-fluttered at me. But... I offered my phone. He wanted me... to hand it to him directly? To provide. Provide a phone, sure, but still." And he came to me when I wouldn't move. "And he winked." John still couldn't believe that bit.

"Now you're getting it," Mike said. "Not to mention how he pecked at you with all that 'Afghanistan of Iraq?' business but you didn't fly at him over it.³"

John's breath caught, resumed. He scarcely dared believe what Mike was telling him. Traitorous hope flickered in his chest.

"He's probably cranky because you didn't chase after him just now." Mike chuckled. "Those instincts, eh?'

"Horus," breathed John. "Maybe I have been away too long. Can't believe I missed that cue." He didn't know what Sherlock saw in him, but John was willing to play along and see where this went. Zenith Tiercels could be fickle if a suitor didn't step up his game and John wasn't about to lose this chance. A pair-mate, after all this time. He felt dizzy at the thought, then his heart sank. Flying. Could he seriously court a Zenith without a flight to prove himself?

John drew in a deep breath. His left wing trembled and drew up even with the right. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and they said ambition was good for a Tiercel, didn't they?

"So, you'll meet him tomorrow? See his eyrie?" Mike waggled his eyebrows and John laughed.

"Yeah. We'll see what's what. How about getting a sandwich? Tell me they modernised the cafeteria here too."

"No, but they do a decent ham and cheese." John led the way out the door, wings tucked at a rakish angle. Behind him Mike smiled in satisfaction at the sight.

~o~

Baker Heights, 30th of January, 6:50 pm.

Sherlock's wings spread wide as he glided on the slight up-draught over the lake of Regent's Park. His fitted Belstaff coat was buttoned tightly in the winter air, the knotted blue scarf a blue banner trailing behind. Sherlock would never admit it but he was glad of the coat's warmth. To maintain optimal flying weight he had to stay slim. He wouldn't have taken Mycroft's gift, burdened as it was with an acerbic gift card saying how it would 'suit your penchant for the dramatic'. But it was warm and in spite of the little barb, Mycroft did have an eye for a classic style.

Sherlock turned down Baker street, angling his wings back to lessen his his speed and altitude. His keen eyes swept the street below and saw a taxi with familiar grey-brown wings filling one window. Ah, there he was. He back-swept and dropped, landing with a practised flex of knees and walking to greet John as the doctor slid open the door of the taxi and got out.

John shook hands with Mrs. Hudson whose violet dyed feathers were all aflutter over her new tenants. He looked at the façade of Baker Heights with appreciation.

Good, thought Sherlock. John seemed not to have the stupid prejudice of most against lower dwellings. It was a glider failing, the self-preening need to have a high dwelling. Ostensibly it was to have a height to launch from, when Sherlock knew most just wanted to look down on others.

Sherlock led the way into the eyrie, wings twitching. He noted the slump of John's left wing, pinions dragging on the floor.

John stood looking about in the middle of the room, a spot of calm browns and greys against clashing wallpaper and clutter. "Well, this could be very nice," he commented.

Sherlock relaxed. Good. John's Saker heritage was proving useful, as they tended not to mind old dwellings.

"As soon as we scrape up this mess," John finished. Sherlock ruffled up in embarrassed anger. His own Gyr family enjoyed a cluttered home but if he looked at it through John's eyes, Baker Heights was crammed with oddments that looked like rubbish. No. Settle. He forced himself to smooth his feathers. An Apex to split the rent was what he needed, and territorial instincts be damned.

"Er, I'll just -" Sherlock muttered and scooped files into a box. Oddly, John joined him, kneeling with a grunt to stack loose papers together and handing them to him. Their fingers brushed. Sherlock jerked the papers away, flushing at the shock of contact.

A small smile touched John's face before he levered himself to his feet. He picked up a couple of cushions and brushed them off, dropping them into the low-backed armchair⁴. He sat with a sigh, arranging his wings to rest on the padded back. "Saw your website last night. The Science of Deduction?"

Sherlock paused in his tidying. "What did you think?"

"Bit far-fetched, isn't it? Saying you can tell an architect by the webbing on his thumb and an ambulance driver by his left hand? How can you possibly know?" John's smile faded as he took in Sherlock's expression. "I mean..."

"Being flighted doesn't mean idiot, as you well know, Doctor. No matter what the Daily Star likes to spout about evolution," retorted Sherlock. "It's easy enough to deduce these things if you know how to look."

John was dismayed but before he could say anything, Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs. "Yoo hoo! Sherlock! You've a visitor, an Inspector Lestrade? Can he trespass?"

Sherlock's face lit. "Yes, send him up, Mrs. Hudson!" He turned to the door as Lestrade came in, twitching blue-grey remiges back into order after his hasty entrance. "Where?"

"Brixton. Lauriston Crest," said Lestrade. His short grey hair was wind-ruffled, Sherlock noted. He must have flown hard and fast to get here. "This one's left a note. Will you come?"

"Is Anderson on forensics?" Sherlock asked and grimaced at Lestrade's nod. "I need an assistant. He won't work with me."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Surprising. You stick in his craw. Now, will you come?"

Sherlock gestured to the stairs. "Second floor balcony. I'll be right behind you."

Lestrade's eyes passed over John, who looked nonplussed at this strange Apex Tiercel invading his – their – eyrie⁵. He gave them both a general bow. "Thank you."

Sherlock waited until the sound of the exterior door opening on the upper balcony upstairs reached his ears before giving an excited hop, wings half-spreading in glee. "Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Gryphem Solis!" He snatched his coat and scarf from the door, fingers flying as he buttoned. "Five miles, take a bit of wing-work to get to the Thames up-draught," he muttered.

"Here," John said. Sherlock tilted his head. John held out a foil-wrapped bar. "For energy. You might need it if you decide to fly back.⁶"

"Oh." Sherlock took it, a strange warmth lighting his belly for a moment. He flicked his wings to chase the sensation away and tucked the bar into a pocket.

"Mind you eat it," John said. Sherlock nodded, distracted as he scooped up his crime scene kit and raced upstairs.

He threw himself headlong from the balcony, wings beating against the air. He'd reached the main road when a nagging feeling asserted itself. John. Why wasn't John following – Oh. The case of his flightless Apex.

Perhaps John hadn't understood Sherlock's meaning regarding the need for an assistant? Really, there was no point in having a doctor eyrie-share with him if he wasn't going to be useful. Sherlock frowned. There was no way John would be able to glide even as far as Buckingham Pinnace, but the crime scene wasn't going anywhere.

Sherlock angled his wings, wheeled in a tight circle and dropped back to the street, waving an arm at a passing taxi. Turning his face up to the windows of 221B, he
cupped his hands around his mouth.

“John! John Watson!”

A moment later the second floor window was pushed open. John leaned over the ledge to peer down. His face was grave. Unhappy? Well, this would cheer him up. Sherlock gestured, wings half-opening in impatience.

“Come on. The taxi's waiting.”

“Pardon?” John looked confused.

“Brixton! Crime scene! You're a doctor, aren't you? Come down, the game is on!”

John's mouth opened and closed a few times before a delighted smile lit his face. “Let me get my coat,” he said. Sherlock's lips curved in satisfaction.

Footnotes - Behaviour

1 Breeding season for raptor species vary, but most start at the end of February or March depending on the latitudes, when the increase of daylight triggers an important hormone production cycle. In cases of distress or lack of food and other issues the female may forgo a breeding season with a partner entirely.

^{2 Wing hitching and shuffling is a type of courtship behaviour displayed by male}

3 Females in the raptor species such as peregrine falcons or Sakers tend to be larger and fiercer. They can do serious damage to any would-be mate. Any raptor wishing to win a mate must curb his natural aggression.

4 ^{Nesting behaviour – depending on the species of falcon}ⁱ^{n our world, the male and female will work, sometimes together, to build the 'scrape' or nest. They literally lie on their breasts and use their feet to scrape a depression in the earth or gravel of a ledge,}^{or push together some sticks}^{. Other species will use old abandoned nests of large birds in trees or cliffs. They also tend to return to the same nesting area year after year.}

5 Territorial squabbles for hunting or nesting can get quite serious in the falcon world. Any interloper into a pair's territory is a threat and a potential rival to be driven off.

6Courtship behaviour - to prove he is a fit mate and good provider, the male falcon woos the female with food.

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Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / DVD extras