The Flight of John Watson - Chapter 2

[jessamygriffith]

The Flight of John Watson - Part 2

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.

*******
A/N - Blazing through SiP quickly, as everyone will want to get the scene back to the Phoenix Palace and John and Sherlock's decision.

Chapter 2 - Abandoned, Flighted, Blackmailed

John's wings shifted against the sides of the narrow-backed taxi seat in pleasure as surprised gratification ran over Sherlock's face.

"That's not what people normally say. They usually tell me to piss off," Sherlock said and they both laughed. In the reflection of the taxi's side window John saw Sherlock's faint smile. Good, he was getting the hang of this courtship thing. He thought he'd botched it back at Baker Heights. Then, that impressive Apex Tiercel detective had barged in and stolen Sherlock's attention. A flicker of jealousy flared in John's chest. The detective hadn't been wearing a mating band. He was a potential rival for Sherlock. John knew he had to get it together – it would be a pretty poor courtship if he couldn't even fly. Other tactics were needed to impress Sherlock.

Horus, but the man was clever, deducing John's life from a mobile phone. Prickly-proud about it, too. Well, John understood his sensitivity on the matter. Scientific and medical evidence showed that man's evolution to a civilised species corresponded with a reduction in wing span and flight muscles. These days most of the population, the Falcons, were gliders and only if they were fit and not overweight. But when pseudo-scientists claimed that flighted people were evolutionary atavisms, practically Archaeopteryx in their intelligence – well, that rankled. There was no hard scientific proof. Still, the popular myth clung on and John had had his share of confrontations. When he told many people his profession, they were polite enough but he could see the faint surprise in their eyes. Worse, they would often congratulate him, as if it were noteworthy that a Tiercel was a medical man. It was one reason he'd entered the Army. They were eager to use the resources of flighted men and didn't question his capabilities as a doctor.

It's an odd world, John mused. He'd literally looked down on gliders when he'd flown, but common prejudice let them look down on the flighted. He felt a certain kinship with Sherlock – they had this in common. I'm glad I made him laugh. I can do this part of the courtship at least and preen his ego a little.

He pulled out another energy bar from his pocket, opened it and broke off a piece. He popped it in his mouth and nudged Sherlock.

"Hm?"

"Here." John tore off another piece and put it into Sherlock's hand before he could refuse. Sherlock eyed him but ate it, jaw working in the light from his phone as he continued tapping.

John's lips parted on a silent exhalation of relief. He'd eaten the food.

~o~

Lauriston Crest, Brixton, January 30th, 2010

John shuffled sideways, pressing his wings to the peeling wallpaper as another police officer brushed past him. Great Horus, what did Sherlock expect him to do here? He followed him to a small room where Lestrade was putting on blue crime scene overalls. Sherlock indicated with a finger that John should do the same.

Lestrade looked from him to Sherlock, a crease between his brows. "Who's this?"

"He's with me."

"Yeah, but who is he?" Lestrade pursued.

"I said – he's with me." Sherlock sighed. "Your powers of observation are withering, Lestrade. You saw him back in our eyrie."

Lestrade eyed John, astonishment writ plain on his face. "Our – I mean, your eyrie?"

John looked back steadily, wings partly spread. "Yes. Baker Heights. Doctor John Watson." He didn't offer to shake the other Tiercel's hand. Lestrade shrugged, his expression saying, Better you than me, mate. John relaxed.

Sherlock was watching Lestrade expectantly. The detective heaved a breath.

"Yes, fine, this time you can handle the body directly with gloves, but don't do anything stupid.”

“Don't be so old-fashioned, Inspector. There is no danger in a simple physical examination,” Sherlock said.

John's neck prickled at the idea of Sherlock in danger but he suppressed it. Sherlock was not his. Sherlock would doubtless be unpleasant if John protested and making Sherlock displeased was not part of John's plans for courting him.

“If there was, you'd find it,” muttered Lestrade. “C'mon. Upstairs.”

Lauriston Crest was at least fifty years older than Baker Heights, with high ceilings and longer stairways. It had seen better days and would doubtless have been torn down long ago were it not for the undesirable neighbourhood. On the third floor in an abandoned nursery was a Falcon woman face down on the floor. The bright pink coat of her coat was incongruous in the drab room. Her small grey wings had pink stencilling in attractive scrolls accentuating their shape, but they lay limp to either side, tips dirty. John grimaced.

Sherlock stepped into the room and began to examine her. His wings were held fastidiously high above the floor as he knelt, sniffed and touched.

John shivered as he watched, remembering the intense scrutiny of those eyes earlier. Sherlock leapt to his feet, lovely lips shaping around lengthy observations. John's mouth curved. A Zenith Tiercel, a gorgeous, clever flighted man. Horus, he wanted this chance.

"Doctor Watson." Sherlock turned to him, tone formal. "What do you think?"

"Hang on!" Lestrade protested. "We've a load of medical people outside -"

"Who won't work with me because as you put it so aptly, I 'stick in their craw.' You need me and I need an assistant. Doctor Watson?"

John felt a surge of satisfaction as Lestrade gave way before Sherlock, wings twitching in irritation as he left. He knelt by the woman's body with a grunt, left wing dragging on the floor. "What do you want me to do?"

What Sherlock wanted was to make a point to Lestrade. John shrugged inwardly. Well, if that meant showing the Inspector that Sherlock preferred John's help to his, that was fine by John. A little territorial claiming was all to the good. But Great Roc, John wasn't a criminal pathologist.

Feeling self-conscious, he gave his opinion. Sherlock leaned close and watched his face as he spoke, eyes flicking between his mouth and eyes. Lestrade returned and Sherlock started upright, firing off deductions. John got to his feet, shivering his wings to rid them of dust.

Horus, thought John. Just listen to him. "That's brilliant." Sherlock looked round him at, arrested. "Sorry. Carry on," John said, gesturing.

Sherlock continued. "Oh, come on!" Lestrade exclaimed at one point. Sherlock rolled his eyes but the angle of his body turned away from the Apex. A small possessive heat bloomed in John's chest. Lestrade's scepticism was irritating Sherlock. Good.

"That's fantastic!" he said. Sherlock turned to him, brows drawn together.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry." John ducked his head. "I'll shut up."

The back-lighting obscured John's view, but was that a flush on Sherlock's cheekbones?

"No, it's fine," Sherlock murmured. John breathed a satisfied sigh. Sherlock spoke in a torrent, turning as he gestured, the flare of his wings causing dust motes to whirl in the crime scene lights.

It's like – like a courtship display for me, John thought. Trying to impress me? No trouble there, I'm all yours.

Sherlock came a halt. "Oh. Oh!" His face lit with realisation.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock's wings flexed in echo of his hands. "A serial killer. And he's just made a mistake."

Lestrade pushed himself away from the door frame. "What mistake?"

"Look at her! Find Jennifer Wilson's family and friends. To err is to be human, and hello! We have an error." Lestrade sputtered as Sherlock pushed past him to the stairwell. John and Lestrade both followed. Sherlock wrestled the ancient latch on the French doors open, flakes of paint pattering to the worn boards. "Find Rachel!" he directed.

He was on the exterior balcony and launching himself skyward before either Lestrade or John could move. They both rushed outside, faces upturned as the great white wings beat against the air. Lestrade shouted, "What mistake?"

Faintly the deep voice came back to them. "Pink!"

Lestrade looked at John, open-mouthed in baffled fury. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Bloody typical.”

“Typical?” John asked. He felt bereft as he watched the white wings disappear into the night.

“Sodding Sherlock Holmes, showing off to everyone and letting us know what idiots we all are, that's what. Consulting prima donna Zenith.”

“Oh.” John paused as something occurred to him. “He ever, you know… deduce a pile of facts about you?”

Lestrade snorted. “First time we met. My wings were itching to slap him silly, let me tell you. If I didn't need him…” Lestrade shook his head. “Coming in?”

John leaned sideways to look over the low parapet at the flashing lights and people moving in and out of the building. His shoulder ached. He gave Lestrade a weak smile. “Yeah.”

He might have known Sherlock wasn't trying to impress him. Sherlock had flown off without a thought. Too right, John thought. Taking a taxi or walking was fine but John couldn't bloody well fly with him. Horus knew what he'd been dreaming, thinking of courting Sherlock. He was useless.

He didn't even protest when a police officer bumped against him as he descended. John's jaw tightened. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go to his ugly coop-sit, preen his useless wings and try to forget this evening's events. He collected his jacket and made his way out to the street.

The slim Apex sergeant – Donovan, he reminded himself, tilted her head at him. Her wings were an attractive rufus colour, feathers fluffed against the night's chill. "Flown off, has he?"

"Yeah," John muttered. She glanced at his left wing, which insisted on slumping no matter how often he hitched it, but John said nothing more.

"You're not his friend. So what are you?" she said.

"Nobody," John said. The word was a bitter pill dissolving on his tongue, chasing away the sweet longing that still tried to rise within him.

"He doesn't have friends. So here's my advice for you: fly away from him, as far as you can."

The accumulation of his disappointment and frustrated mating instincts abruptly kindled in a jealous flare, burning rational thought away. Leave Sherlock?  "Why? Because you think he's a freak? Because he thinks?" Her mouth opened but he leaned closer to this rival. "Or is there another reason you're warning me off Sherlock Holmes?"

To her credit, Donovan didn't step back. Her gaze went up and behind before returning to John's face. "No, Doctor. Nothing you want to hear, apparently. Now back down before someone notices." Her tone was level.

John felt the pull in his shoulders and looked back, surprised. His wings had extended in a full dominance display he hadn't even noticed. He dropped and folded them, shamed. He hadn't lost control like that in years. And here he was, threatening a police officer, all rationality fled. Horus. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's been... well, never mind."

She snorted. "Taxis are out by the main road."

John nodded and walked where she pointed.

"Doctor Watson. You're wrong."

John looked back.

"That's not why I think he's a freak. Mostly. And Sherlock? Not my type." She flashed him a bright smile with no humour in it. "Good luck." With that she turned her back to him.

~o~

Warehouse, 30th of January, 2010

John approached the silhouetted figure leaning on a walking stick in the warehouse, his heart-beat loud in his ears. Kidnapped. Now what? A stool sat empty and incongruous.

"You could've used my phone, if you wanted to talk. I have a phone, you know." John halted a few paces away. The back-lighting from a car's head lamps haloed white wings. John squinted at the shadowed face.

"Won't you take a seat?" a posh voice asked.

"I don't accept things from faceless strangers."

"Ah. The bravado of the soldier. Very well. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sherlock?" John felt off-balanced. "Almost non-existent? I met him yesterday."

"Yes, just yesterday. And since then you've taken an eyrie with him and now you're solving crimes together."

John lifted his chin. "What's it to you?"

"You're an Apex Tiercel who happens to have taken up with an un-mated Zenith Tiercel. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?"

The tall figure moved, circling until the light of car lamps fell on the side of his face. Sharp nose, familiar grey eyes, white wings... barred with black. John groaned. "Oh, hell."

"Indeed. His brother. Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson."

John scrubbed his face with his hand, blew out a breath. "Think I will take that seat, thanks." He sat with a thump, wings pulled in defensively. Family. He looked at Mycroft. "Is this where you warn me off your brother or I disappear forever?"

Mycroft tapped his ebony walking stick. "Not precisely. May I ask your intentions towards my brother?"

"My intentions." John barked a laugh. "There are no intentions."

"Let us say, your hopes, then."

The words fell like a blow. He dropped his gaze.

"I see." Mycroft's voice was not unkind. "From my own experience of my brother, you must be handling him the right way, or he would never have tolerated your proximity in his eyrie or his work."

"And what of it?"

Mycroft sighed, wings shifting. "I have... an interest in the matter."

"An interest?" John looked at Mycroft's serious face, incredulous. "You - you're not seriously telling me you want me to court your brother?"

"Sherlock has been in denial of his sexuality his entire life. He is volatile and prone to..." Mycroft pursed his lips. "Unwise decisions. His life style is unorthodox. And it is unbalanced."

"And you think I'm going to steady him? Mr. Holmes. You are seriously mistaken about... well, everything."

"He won't accept my help."

"Can't see why," John retorted, looking around for an exit. His wings clamped tight in distress, muscles beginning to quiver.

"I worry about him, and would consider -"

"I can't fly." John's voice was harsh. He stood, the stool tipping over with a clatter.

Mycroft tilted his head in a movement so reminiscent of Sherlock's that John looked away.

"I can't fly," he repeated. "So you've wasted your time."

Mycroft reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a note book. He flipped it open. "You received a rifle shot to your left shoulder under the clavicle. It exited behind the shoulder, above the scapula and missing your wing. You managed to land, but nearly died from blood loss from a nicked sub-clavian artery. Infection set in, and you were medically discharged."

"How do you know that." John's voice was dead.

"Six months later, physical mobility restored, you will do no more than glide short distances from low heights. Your physiotherapist's notes say you have 'issues'." Mycroft's brow lifted.

"That's none of your business."

"But if you are to take up with Sherlock Holmes, I'm afraid I must disagree."

John said nothing. Mycroft tucked the note book back into his jacket. "Interesting." He turned and began walking away.

John had to ask. "What's interesting?"

Mycroft turned back. "You say you cannot fly. But patently you can."

"I can't."

Mycroft clucked in reproof and walked back. He hooked his walking stick over his arm. He held up his hands. "May I examine you?"

John swallowed. He nodded. His wings flared when Mycroft reached for his right shoulder. "Not the wings." He hated having his wings touched by strangers.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him. He grasped John's right shoulder, holding him still. His hand passed over John's chest, his left shoulder, prodding and pressing the thick muscles. "Very good. Now spread your wings?" John did so, feeling a bit of a fool under Mycroft's detachment. "Yes. I thought so." Mycroft stepped back.

"What?"

Mycroft unhooked his stick and held it in his right hand. Without warning he slashed it at John's head.

John found himself five metres away in a half-crouch, wings cupped and trembling in reaction, heart thundering in his ears. "You bastard. What are you about?" he spat.

"A reverse back-winged launch in a confined space without hitting your head. Remarkable. Excellent spatial awareness. I begin to see what Sherlock sees in you." Mycroft planted his stick and rested both hands upon it. "Your therapy notes say your muscular condition and mobility has been fully restored. Your physiotherapist believes your inability to fly is a result of post-traumatic stress disorder and purely psychosomatic. She's right."

"I know!" John snarled. "But it isn't just something you... " The words trailed off.

Mycroft's mouth curled at one corner. "Forget? It is. You are afraid you can't fly, ergo you can't. Your conscious mind is deluding you. Your subconscious knows better. When the time is right, if properly motivated you will take to the air. Just as if you had never fallen."

John shuddered at the reminder of falling, wings dropping until the tips dragged on the concrete. "Damn you."

Something chimed. John fished out his mobile and clicked. A new message.

Baker Heights. Come immediately, if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH

John huffed a laugh, tension draining away. Mycroft's brow lifted.

"My brother, I presume."

John felt lighter. Sherlock was waiting for him. "You really think I should try."

"Forget the war," Mycroft advised. "I think you'll find Sherlock will make up for all the adrenaline you ever missed."

"Just to be clear here." John shifted, a bit embarrassed. "Is this you giving your approval?"

Mycroft's little smile was brief. "Sherlock can be... difficult. Be careful how you proceed."

"All right." John nodded.

Mycroft inclined his head in return and again the gesture reminded John of Sherlock. "Good night, Doctor Watson."

The handshake was formal. Mycroft walked to his waiting car, twirling his walking stick. Bastard doesn't even need it, John thought. His phone beeped. Sherlock again.

Could be dangerous.

"Could be," John said. "Could very well be."

He couldn't wait.

~o~

Angelo's, January 30th, 2010

As Angelo shook his hand, Sherlock smiled reflexively at the effusive greetings. John looked at the restaurant owner whose brown wings were dwarfed by his bulk, mouth falling open a little before he smiled.

“This Tiercel, he got me off a murder charge!” Angelo boomed at John.

“It was nothing,” disclaimed Sherlock, though he was pleased at John's reaction. “Any idiot would have seen how the eyrie's locks had been forced from the outside, and therefore there was no possible way you could have done it.”

Angelo patted his belly. “Always have been too fat to glide. But I serve the best Italian food inside the Circle line. Anything for you and your suitor, no charge!”

John smiled a little but said nothing at Angelo's assumption of courting. Sherlock frowned at him before turning to scan the street. Angelo's restaurant was at ground-level due to the owner's lack of flight, and perfect for street-level surveillance. Sherlock pressed a knuckle to his mouth and thought as he watched through the window for signs of the killer.

At Lauriston Crest, in the thrill of perfect comprehension, he'd flown off and forgotten that John wasn't able to follow. That had to change. One crime scene with John and Sherlock had been able to interact with the body hands-on rather than observe from a distance as Lestrade normally forced him to do. He'd also endured less rudeness from the police and been granted access more quickly to the site.

Angelo brought a steaming plate and John drew in an appreciative breath at the scent. Sherlock briefly enjoyed the look of pleasure on John's face before returning his attention to the street. Yes, John was working out quite well. No one was quite sure what to make of him. They'd assumed Sherlock was under his protection rather than provoke a confrontation with a territorial male. Sherlock was certain that should John continue to be biddable, he'd train up into a passable assistant over time. It would mean more and better crime scenes. But first he had to dispose of John's ridiculous flight inhibition.

John thought he was brilliant. Sherlock's face warmed at the unbidden thought and he took a hasty sip of water. His attention returned to his companion. John was enjoying his baccala, cutting it into dainty bites before lifting a piece to his mouth. Sherlock's stomach knotted as John chewed and swallowed, the muscles of his throat working.

"This is wonderful. You should try it," John said.

"I don't eat on cases."

John rested his fork on his plate and look at Sherlock. "I'm a doctor."

"Is this where you tell me I should eat? I won't. It slows my thinking."

"No. A clever man like you would know that as a flighted man, a diet with carbs, lean proteins and vegetables are best suited to the demands of your physiology. You should fuel your 'transport'." John nudged the bread basket closer. "Have something – you've just spent the last few hours flying and bin diving. You're alarmingly thin, even for a Zenith."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well. That's a pity. You might've needed the energy if we were to actually to exert ourselves on this stake-out. I suppose I'll just have catch this killer myself when you run out of wind." John smiled.

Sherlock was irked by the suggestion. "Fine." He snatched John's fork and stole the largest piece of fish from John's dish, chewing and swallowing quickly. At John's lifted brow he curled his lip and took a piece of bread. "Don't try to treat me like some helpless Zenith." He bit into crusty bread.

"I won’t," said John.

"I like my independence."

"So do I."

Sherlock brushed a stray crumb from his shirt front. John's tongue wet his lips.

Oh, no. That would never do. Sherlock swallowed, the bread unaccountably thick in his throat. "As point of fact, John, I consider myself mated to my work. It is my ambition to be the best consulting detective in London. I have no time for distractions."

John looked at his plate. "Of course. I wouldn't... So, no Apex waiting with folded wings?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Falcon?"

"No."

John chuckled, the sound warm and sympathetic. "So, no one. It's fine." He picked up a piece of fish with thumb and forefinger and ate it, licking sauce from his thumb. Goosebumps raced up Sherlock's forearms. But John's eyes were clear and guileless when he looked back to Sherlock. "Really, Sherlock. I'm fine with that."

Sherlock hesitated. Fine with what exactly? He opened his mouth but movement caught his eye. Turning his hunting gaze out the window, he saw a black-winged Falcon man close the door of twenty-two Northumberland Street.

"There. He's taking a taxi." He stood and threw on his coat, knotting his scarf and buttoning the wing plackets with quick movements. "John. Come on, it's moving!"

He ran out the door and into the street, hearing John's muffled curse. A van braked hard as he appeared in front of it. Sherlock hopped, planted a foot on the bonnet and vaulted up and over, wings flaring to carry him to a safe landing beyond. Horns blared but Sherlock ignored them, whirling to see John hurrying up, coat flapping and unbuttoned. Both of John's wings were up and flexing with no signs of weakness or trembling. Good.

"Horus, Sherlock, what were you thinking?" John's face was slack with shock.

"Never mind that now. No time. Come on!" The taxi turned the corner onto the main road.

Sherlock ran, half-his mind on the probable course of the taxi, the other half focused on the sound of John's footsteps. He slowed, grabbed John's wrist and pulled him into a faster pace. "Keep up, John!"

John lengthened his strides, their wings brushing as they raced.

~o~

The lorry driver nearly had a cardiac infarction when he looked up from fiddling with the radio. Two figures dashed around a corner right into his path. Oh, Roc's teats, he thought, hand dancing over the gear-shift and braking hard. Too fast. Too late.

He had a glimpse of two faces turned up to his, white in the head-lamps before there was an explosion of wings and feathers. The scream strangled in his throat.

But there was no impact.

Tyres squealing, he brought his vehicle to a stop, wrenching at the seat belt in his lap. He threw open the door and jumped out. Legs shaky, he looked at the front of his lorry. No blood, no dents. He hadn't hit them. His wings trembled humming-bird fast in reaction. He heard a faint shout.

"No, this way, John!"

Disbelieving, the lorry driver looked skyward. Two pairs of wings beat hard, taking the two men up and away. His fright turned to fury at the sight. He looked around to see other passers-by looking either at him in shock or at the soaring Tiercels. One young Falcon female had a wide grin on her face as she held up a mobile phone to take pictures. The lorry driver's temper snapped. He shook his fist at the disappearing pair.

"Horus damn you, you... you fly boys! Get an eyrie!"

~o~

Baker Heights, January 30th, 2010

John's heart was pounding with exhilaration as they touched down on the pavement outside Baker Heights. They were both breathing heavily as they tumbled across the threshold. Sherlock made quick work of getting rid of his Belstaff but John found himself stuck. The loose tails of his coat had tangled up under themselves during the head-long flight. He twisted his arms awkwardly and yanked. The coat refused to yield.

Sherlock lifted a brow, half-smiling at John's predicament. "Turn around."

John turned, hitching his wings to give Sherlock a better view. A few tugs and the tails hung free. He lifted his hands to his lapels when he felt Sherlock's hands pluck at the shoulders, lifting the fabric. He shrugged out of the garment, letting Sherlock pull it away and hang it up for him. To his surprise, Sherlock stroked a hand over his coverts[1], smoothing a few that had got disarranged when the coat dragged over them. John suppressed a shudder of reaction. "That... that was ridiculous," he got out. He fell back against the wall. "The most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

Sherlock leaned against the bannister. "And you invaded Afghanistan."

John can't help it – the relief, the thrill, the sheer ludicrousness of what they've just done bubbled up in a giggle. Horus, he'd flown. And how he'd flown! He briefly savoured the memory – the heavy beating of wings to get over buildings. The quick darting turns, his sinews straining. The way he'd angled to skim sideways between eyries built too close together, his pinions brushing old bricks and concrete ledges. And just ahead of him Sherlock flew, the white and black wings a beacon leading him on.

And John had kept pace.

And Sherlock had just helped him with his coat. He'd preened John.[2]

John's laugh was so infectious that Sherlock joined in, a wide smile creasing his face.

John wiped at his eyes. "Wasn't just me doing the invading." Sherlock chuckled again. "So, not the killer. Shouldn't we be back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, not important. It was a long shot. I was only trying to troubleshoot something."

"Troubleshoot?"

"You." Sherlock turned his head and bellowed at 221A's door. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will be moving in!"

"Says who?" John asked, but he was smiling.

"I do," Sherlock said. "The upstairs bedroom is all yours - I imagine you'll find the balcony entrance useful. Since you can apparently fly, after all."

John's breath caught as Sherlock's words shaped the unimaginable into truth. He stretched, his grey-brown wings spreading until feathers brushed walls, lifting them to stroke the pinion tips against textured wallpaper. There was no tremble of over-exertion, no pain stabbing in his shoulder.

He relaxed his wings again, enjoying the sensation of the muscles releasing the weight until they tucked against his sides. His cheeks were beginning to ache from the wide smile, echoed by Sherlock's. "Bloody hell. So I can."

Sherlock. He'd found just the right lever, the one Mycroft said John needed. Sherlock pushed John, squawking, from the ugly broken nest of fear and doubt in his mind and into the freedom of the skies. Well, he’d done it by dragging him into traffic, but still. You madman, he thought wonderingly, and his heart squeezed. You brilliant, amazing lunatic. John knew he was utterly lost.

If only he could return the favour. But it was too huge, impossible to repay. He longed to re-order Sherlock's wind-tossed curls, tweak the primaries and secondaries of those gorgeous bright wings into perfect order. He wanted to feel the springy flex of snowy vanes under his fingers. Sherlock looked softened, face bright with pleasure at his own cleverness. Maybe now was the time. John straightened.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson appeared, wings drooping, a tissue twisting in her hands. "I tried to stop them..."

Sherlock stiffened, head turning sharply. He turned and ran upstairs. John followed, ducking his head to avoid being flicked by Sherlock's remiges.

Sherlock stormed into 221B to loom over Lestrade who sat relaxed in the old armchair, wings sprawling. My chair, John thought irrationally. When had it become his chair?

"What are doing? You can't just break into my eyrie." Sherlock's body was tense, wings arching like some avenging angel. John ranged himself in a defensive position beside Sherlock, wings cupped and ready to cover and protect Sherlock from this threat. His skin crawled at the number of strangers in the eyrie. Their eyrie.

"You can't withhold evidence. I'm not stupid," Lestrade said.

"This is my eyrie." Sherlock's voice was furious. John felt the same, his wings twitching with the instinctive need to flare. Eyries were sacrosanct. People had to be invited in – territorial instinct demanded it.

"And this is a drugs bust." Lestrade "Got a warrant and everything. Amazing thing really – we've found Jennifer Wilson's case here while we were searching."

John ruffled up. "Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

Sherlock turned. He was biting his lip. "John."

John tried to lean around Sherlock's wing to look at Lestrade, temper rising. How dare this Apex talk like that. Was he trying to put John off? All his instincts were clamouring for a confrontation. Rival. "You can search all day! You won't find anything!"

Sherlock's wing cupped to block John's view, forcing him to look into his face. "John. You might want to shut up now."

"Oh, come on!" John looked into Sherlock's tense face. Oh. "Sherlock. You...?"

"What?" Sherlock's voice was defensive. Guilty. John's stomach dropped. Sherlock – drugs? His emotions revolved, then firmed into steely resolve.

"No," he said, looking into the grey eyes. "No, you don't."

No drugs, not while John was here. John would not let Sherlock endanger himself in that way, not ever again. It would not happen.

Sherlock's gaze flickered, his mouth parting a little. Colour touched his cheeks. He took a step back. John watched, his stance unbending.

"I'm clean," Sherlock said. He spoke to Lestrade but his eyes never left John's. "I don't even smoke any more."

John dropped his head in a nod, almost a bow. Understood.

"Help us properly, and I'll stand them down," Lestrade offered.

Sherlock snarled, turning away from John. "So all this is was meant to bully me into cooperating?"

"A bit unscrupulous," John chimed in. He wanted these people out of their eyrie, wanted Sherlock to himself. John didn't like the miserable, angry hunch of Sherlock's wings. He  throttled back the urge to stroke the tense shoulders, soothe the tightness from those incredible wings.

"Fine," said Sherlock, voice sullen. "You found Rachel? Did you bring her in? I need to question her."

"We found her, but there's no way to question her. She's dead. Has been for fifteen years. Jennifer Wilson's unborn child."

Sherlock froze. His wings began to lift from their tight folds. "Dead...?" he breathed. "Oh."

Here we go, thought John. This ought to be good. Heart lifting, he drank in the sight of his magnificent Zenith as Sherlock began to speak.

~o~

Lestrade looked away from Sally's irate face. The eyrie was too quiet. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's just left." Doctor Watson turned from the window, face creased with concern. "Just got into a taxi and drove off."

Lestrade blew out a gusty sigh. Sally's mouth flattened out. "I knew it. We're wasting our time here."

"Enough," Lestrade said. Sally shrugged a wing and stalked into the kitchen. He turned to Doctor Watson who looked lost. Lestrade shook out his wings, irritated. "Why did he have to do that?" he asked.

Doctor Watson's blue eyes flashed. "Oh, because you barged into his eyrie just to strong-arm him?" His face expression set. "Even if you had the paperwork to do it."

Lestrade eyed him. "I've known him five years. Sherlock has always been a law unto himself. Playing love-bird and flattering him never works to make him sweeter." A thought occurred to him. Unlike with Doctor Watson. Sherlock had practically preened under the Apex's praise at Lauriston Crest. Lestrade's eyes narrowed, trying to see what might attract a difficult Zenith like Sherlock to this doctor. Small but solid. A lifetime's experience was worn into the skin around the doctor's eyes, but laughter as well. Obviously he must have the patience of a saint. Attractive enough in his own right.

So that's the way the wind blows, Lestrade thought. He was torn between sympathy and amusement, with a touch of jealousy. Sherlock was a looker, but - no. Lestrade had known him too long. You poor bastard.

It occurred to Lestrade that he'd done the doctor no favours this night, what with barging in on a courtship in process. The Apex probably thought Sherlock had left because of his own failure to defend the nest. Instincts were treacherous bastards.

Lestrade turned and shouted, "All right, people, that's it for tonight." He was rewarded by seeing some of the tension leave Doctor Watson's shoulders. He spoke conversationally. "You know, I put up with him because I'm desperate. He's brilliant and impossible. But one day, if we're all very lucky, he may be tolerable."

The eyrie was emptying. Lestrade buttoned his coat, nodded at the stairs to the second floor. "May I? Got to fly back to the Yard, do reports."

Doctor Watson looked at the computer with its empty map on-screen and back to Lestrade. He circled his arm in a be-my-guest gesture.

"He'll be back," Lestrade said. He bowed. "Sorry to have spoiled your evening, Doctor Watson." He gave a half-wink and bounded up the stairs before the doctor could say anything.

~o~

Roland-Kerr Further Education College. January 30th, 2010

"You're moulting," Sherlock said.

He faced the Falcon taxi driver, Jeff Hope, across the polished table. Between them rested two small bottles, each with a capsule.

"And?" asked Jeff. "Everyone moults."

"Yes, but you're wearing a mating band. A mate would never let her partner's wings get into such condition - she'd preen you, straighten you out. Obviously you live on your own and there's no one to help you."

Jeff's hand moved to cover the worn gold band on his wrist. Sherlock rested his fingertips together and tapped them against his lips. "More interesting is the photo on the dashboard of your taxi. It's torn, showing two children. If the mother was dead, she'd still be there."

Jeff's mottled brown wings stirred but he said nothing. Sherlock went on, "The photo is old but the frame is new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father."

Jeff looked away, his thin lips compressed in pain.

Sherlock rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. "The old story," he said. "She found a new mate. She took the fledglings but you love them and it hurts. But there's more to this story, isn't there?"

Jeff glared. Sherlock waited, shrugged his wings. "Your shirt - recently laundered, of excellent quality, but you've lost a good deal of weight recently. Your pallor suggests illness. And a genius like you, driving a taxi? What is up with that? No, you had a high-paying job, likely a trader in the Stock Exchange, quite a coup for an East End lad."  Sherlock's eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. "Is that why she left you?"

"Because I drive a taxi now?"

"No, because you are dying."

"We're all dying, Mr. Holmes. Some of us sooner than others," Jeff said pointedly.

"Your mate is a traditionalist, isn't she," murmured Sherlock. "The female bears, the male provides. That was your role and when you told her the news, she immediately found another mate. Someone stronger who would provide for her and the children. Someone who wasn't a dead man gliding."

Jeff bared his teeth in a grin. "The way of the world, innit? It's cancer. Riddled with it, only a few months to live." His wings flexed in an angry movement. "So she left."

"Yet you still wear the band. But this isn't about her, at all, is it, this little killing spree. The victims - all mated, all of them with children..." Sherlock's eyes sharpened at the self-loathing that crossed Jeff's face. "Yes, even the Zenith Tiercel, young Jimmy. Did he tell you he was bearing a child? Ah. I see he did. All of them had families and yet you forced them to their deaths."

Jeff drummed his fingers on the table. "I had my reasons."

"Your reasons," said Sherlock. "The police are of the opinion that it's a hate-crime. They're wrong. I know it's not. Revenge is hot and irresponsible and you've conducted yourself with a cool prudence." He tilted his head at the Falcon.

"I didn't hate them, no." Jeff swallowed, throat clicking. "It was bad luck, them being all family people."

Sherlock nodded. "Which brings us to your motives. It's love that spurs you on. Your children. You are protecting them, providing for them even now."

"As you say, Mr. Holmes," Jeff said, head lifting. "It was my role. Even if my mate chucked me out."

"Why do your children need protection? They have their mother, her new mate," Sherlock asked, then answered himself. "Blackmail. You are a convenient target."

Jeff's wings drooped, his voice hoarse. "My... sponsor. Do his business for him, or my fledglings get it. He's got me boxed in until I die."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over the two bottles with their deadly contents. "Hence the game. You want to die. A fifty-fifty chance of death each time you play. Amazing you've made it this far."

"What can I say, Mr. Holmes." Jeff pressed fingers to his eyes then looked at Sherlock, bleakness stamped into the lines of his face. "Horus hates me."

"Tell me the name of your sponsor," pressed Sherlock. "I can help."

Jeff shook his head. "No, Mr. Holmes. You can't. You can only play the game. Don't try to talk me 'round."

Sherlock saw the resolution in Hope's shoulders. It was clear the man was more afraid for his children's sake then he was afraid of dying. Sherlock sat back.

"Well, driving a taxi is an excellent cover for a serial killer. Even though it's a criminal waste of a mind like yours."

~o~

John rubbed his face. He was leaden with fatigue and disappointment. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone. He obviously didn't want John. John had misread the signals, fucked it up somehow. Maybe it was time to cut his losses.

The computer bleated. A red dot was blinking as it moved on the map. Sherlock. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Sherlock had found the killer, was with him this moment. The realisation was a fist in John's stomach. His shoulders were pinching, his wings rising for battle. Where?

The dot stopped moving and pulsed. Oh, Horus. John fumbled, dragged the cursor over it. Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He clicked satellite view, zoomed in to look at the building's shape. Clicking again, he zoomed out until Baker Street was shown on the map. His eyes skipped between Baker Heights and the college, measuring and memorising as he'd been trained to do in the Army. One more thing. He dug out his phone and took a picture of the screen. The dot was still stationary.

That was good. It was also very bad.

John touched the shape of his gun, concealed at the small of his back under the long jumper before he turned and ran.

~o~

Jeff Hope pointed the gun at Sherlock Holmes' head. The Zenith Tiercel rolled his eyes and Jeff felt a flicker of satisfaction. No, this Sherlock Holmes was no idiot.

"You could at least threaten me with a real gun. That's a novelty lighter."

Jeff lowered the gun. "Worked on the others."

"Clearly I am not on their level." Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Well, it has been interesting. I look forward to the court case."

"Why?" asked Jeff. "The police aren't coming. You never called them. And by the time they find me, I'll be gone - one way or another."

"Is this where you plead for my sympathy on behalf of your children?" Sherlock looked down his nose at him.

"Oh, I don't expect mercy from you, Mr. Holmes. I know better. Because we both know I can't stop killing. There's no mercy. We're killers. Our type don't deserve mercy." Jeff wasn't giving up yet. He had to hook this clever Zenith back into the game, or his sponsor would take his children.

"I'm not a killer."

"You're killing me just by walking out the door."

"You're a dead man regardless. How does this make any difference to me?"

"It doesn't, except for one thing: you'll never know."

Sherlock stopped, his hand on the door knob. Jeff went on, "Which bottle was the right one? Which would you have picked? Come on. Play the game."

Sherlock turned and swiped one bottle up from the table. Jeff smiled. He stood, opening his own bottle, still talking, his voice dropping to a hypnotic drone. "I bet you get bored, don't you? Life gets so boring, nothing new, nothing interesting, no puzzles."

There was a flicker of movement beyond their reflections in the window. Jeff blinked but it was gone.

"Such a clever Tiercel. What's the point of being so clever if you can't prove it? No one takes you seriously. No matter what you do, the world sees just another dim-witted flier."

Jeff saw the Zenith Tiercel begin to tremble. He lifted his capsule, encouraging. Those were the rules. They'd do it together. Jeff Hope played a fair game. "And this is what you're really need, isn't it? To prove yourself. So show me. Did you pick the good bottle?"

Sherlock lifted the capsule to his mouth. Jeff followed suit. His small brown wings tightened against his back. Almost there. Almost. Surely this would be the end.

"Show me you're a proper genius," Jeff whispered. The capsule was nearly touching his lips. He thought of small faces in a fading photo. Jeff was more than ready if tonight his time was up. He'd killed to protect them, would do it again and not regret his choice. Jeff opened his mouth, then his jaw slackened. His eyes widened at the sight of a man drifting down past the window. The man's hair was wind-ruffled, his expression ferocious. He held a gun, muzzle tracking his target as he dropped in slow motion.

Mercy, Jeff thought. Finally.

There was a flash and a sudden terrible pain bloomed in Jeff Hope's chest.

---

Footnotes

[1]Feathers - Main feathers referenced in this story are: Remiges, the long feathers at the bottom of the wing. Of remiges, or flight feathers, there are primaries, the ones at the outermost tips. They are the longest feathers. There are also secondaries, shorter in length than primaries. Coverts are the short, smooth feathers that cover the top underside and outside of the wing.

[2]Preening - the reordering and smoothing of feathers with a beak. Typical courtship and mated pair activity for raptors.

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