The Flight of John Watson - Chapter 3

[jessamygriffith]

The Flight of John Watson - Part 3

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 - The last piece of the case, and finally! Back to the Phoenix Palace and John and Sherlock on the edge of a momentous choice.

Please return your seat to its upright position and thank you for flying with us today, I hope you will enjoy the flight.

Chapter 3 - The Courtship of Sherlock Holmes

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

Sherlock sat on the wheeled stretcher cross-legged and wings dangling, careless of the scuff marks his shoes were leaving on the clean fabric. His brain buzzed with speculation. Jeff Hope had gasped out one name before he'd died under Sherlock's hands as he'd pressed on the man's wound: Moriarty. His sponsor, obviously, but who was Moriarty? And the mysterious shooter? Sherlock had seen nothing when he'd scrambled to the window. Wrapped in an orange blanket, his restless fingers twiddled with the edge.

Lestrade strode towards him, expression satisfied.

Pleased with the night's work, none of which he contributed to, Sherlock thought in irritation. He burst out, "Why do I have this blanket? I'm not in shock!"

"Yeah, but a few of the guys want to take pictures," Lestrade grinned. "So. The gunman?"

"Who says I have anything to give you?"

Lestrade only looked at him. Sherlock sniffed.

"Fine. So – the bullet dug from the wall is from a hand gun. The shot passed my wings very closely but caught Hope in his upper chest. A kill from that distance without grazing me – that's true marksmanship. Whoever the shooter was, he had a steady hand and qualms about hurting an innocent bystander, so a strong moral principle. But more than that, there's the trajectory." Sherlock swung his feet over the side of the stretcher and stood.

"What about it?" Lestrade asked. His pencil poised over a notepad.

"Judging from the hole in the window glass to the one in the wall, the shot must have come from the left, angling up slightly. If you look at the building opposite you'll see that the windows are..." Sherlock looked around the scene. He saw John standing behind the police tape watching him, his grey wings tucked meekly behind his back. "...inconveniently located for such a shot..."

John blinked at him and turned his head away. Oh. A queer feeling turned in Sherlock's stomach. He felt a sudden pressing need to go to John. Now.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was watching him.

Sherlock snapped his attention back. "But it's not impossible. Have your people check for fingerprints. I'm sure something will turn up." He bundled the blanket onto the stretcher and began to walk away.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade demanded. "I still have questions!"

"Oh, what now?" Sherlock turned in irritation, wings flicking. "Can't you see I... I'm in shock! Look!" He flung an arm at John. "Doctor Watson's come to take me home. He'll look after me."

Lestrade eyed him. "Shock. All right. We'll bring you in tomorrow." He waved Sherlock away with his notebook, something suspiciously like a smile on his face. "Off you go. Give my regards to the Doctor."

Sherlock nodded and turned to John, a migrating traveller finding its way home.

~o~

"Well," John said. "Dreadful business, I hear. Two pills? I'm glad you're okay." He looked into Sherlock's impassive face.

Sherlock bent his head close to John's. "Nice shot."

"Er, yeah. Must have been. Through the window and all."

"Well, you'd know." Sherlock's voice dropped low, eyes fixed on John's face. "Since you happened to be flying by at the time."

John cleared his throat and looked about. No one was near. "It was a controlled gliding descent actually."

"Impressive," murmured Sherlock. John's ears burned. "The gun?"

"Thames. Had a bit of time to...er. I had some time to wait for the police, so I took a quick detour."

"Are you all right? You have just killed a man," Sherlock pointed out. He was still scrutinising John's face.

"Well..." John didn't know what to say. You left me behind, but I followed you. You needed me. I was there. I shot a man tonight. Do you understand?

I'll protect you.

His instincts were rising, beating in time with his blood. Horus, he hoped Sherlock would accept him. Going by the faint flush on Sherlock's high cheekbones, there wasn't much time left. Sherlock's breeding season was ready to start.

John settled on, "He wasn't a very nice person."

Sherlock shrugged. "Extenuating circumstances."

"Doesn't excuse how he killed four people and nearly finished you." John’s wings twitched. He was still jittery at how close it had been. Horus, just five minutes later... He didn't want to think about it.

"Was never going to happen. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Sherlock's small quip warmed John's heart, but he shook his head.

"No, you didn't. You had no idea I would follow you. But you really should've." I'd follow you anywhere. John’s expression lightened into a smile. "You great idiot."

Sherlock's answering smile was quick before he smoothed his face and tilted his head at John. "Dinner? I know a great Chinese place. Open late."

"Sounds perfect," said John. His heart lifted. Feeding Sherlock - it was satisfying to his male instincts.They walked in step and each slight brush of their wings against each other had John's nerves lighting up. "I'm starving."¹

"Come on, then." Sherlock broke into a run, wings spreading to beat against the night breeze. John followed, the muscles in his chest pulling against the strain of lifting him up and over a shiny black car waiting outside the crime scene. The white-winged man standing beside it lifted a walking-stick in salute and John grinned.

"This way, John!" Sherlock called and John winged over in pursuit.

~o~

Phoenix Palace, January 31st, 2010

Fight or flight?

Sherlock was perspiring, his body temperature rising with the driving need to take to the cold night skies. His breeding season was upon him. John stood waiting, ready to test himself in courtship flight of the Tiercels. John wanted to impress him. John hoped to pair-mate. With me.

Sherlock jolted from his circling thoughts by movement and he stepped back a half-step, wings flaring defensively. But John was only toeing off his shoes and socks, not taking his eyes from Sherlock. Sherlock's lips tightened as John reached to unbutton the jumper plackets under his wings. He pulled the wool over his head and dropped it without ceremony.

Sherlock supposed that in a way he'd brought this on himself. Transport, he called his body. The habit of ignoring its needs was a life-time's work of repression and denial of his own sex. Despite the abuses he'd served it in the form of drugs or neglect, it had always been most regular in its seasonal demands and otherwise had never surprised him.

Till now. Damn his reproductive system, he thought. Damn nature. Damn John. Oh, how bitterly clear was it to him now, how the varying forces of action and coincidence had led him to this moment. Meeting an Alpha Tiercel. The eyrie at Baker Heights, a place to call his own at last. The case. Danger and feeding and now a potential mate. John. Sherlock had been all kinds of a fool and it had led to his going into breeding season almost three weeks early.

"Are you going to -?" John nodded at Sherlock's suit.

"Traditional, aren't we?" Sherlock sniped. "Didn't you say you were worried about being caught on camera?"

John pursed his lips at the thought. "Well. Bound to happen. No, I won't mind."

"Having the event recorded for posterity as proof you got a wing over on me?"

John's jaw clenched. "That's not how I was thinking about it. More like I've no problems about nudity after the Army." He eyed Sherlock. "And I resent you implying I need to show the world I'm your match. I'm not some moulting fledgling with no self-confidence."

Sherlock lowered his head minutely in acknowledgement.

John went on, "I suppose your brother will be watching. Will that bother you?"

"Mycroft? He'll be thrilled to think I might settle down," said Sherlock, bitter at the thought. "Not to mention the distant possibility of offspring."

John lifted a wing, working the buttons on his cuffs. "Dunno about that. Seems to me you're an adult. You know what you want. So settling down is up to you, isn't it?"

He shrugged out of his shirt and Sherlock sucked in a breath. John's upper body was admirable. Golden skin and broad, thick shoulders perfectly proportioned to his compact figure. That hideous jumper, thought Sherlock. It was the perfect disguise for what John truly was – an Apex Tiercel in his prime. The dark red of the puckered scar on his shoulder only offset his beauty. It was a flaw which drew the eye to the powerful muscles supporting his large wings and giving him the strength to fly. Sherlock's stomach coiled in desire and he set his teeth in denial of his body's urges.

"But if you'd rather I just ripped the clothes from your body, I can work with that," John said. His hands went to the fastening of his jeans and paused, watching Sherlock's eyes. "Would love it, in fact."

Needled, Sherlock looked down his nose. "Presuming you're able to catch me," he retorted, then his eyes closed. Stupid, stupid! His season was turning him into an irrational collection of urges. He'd managed to avoid saying the words until now.

John's lips thinned at the challenge but his eyes gleamed. His hands fell away to his sides and he bowed at the waist twice.²

Sherlock nodded twice in return.

Formal acknowledgement had been made. Sherlock had accepted the flight. He had committed himself. Like or not, Sherlock was having a courtship flight.

It could potentially end in mating. Pair-bonding.

This was most emphatically not what he'd wanted when he'd invited John to move in with him. Sherlock frowned at the source of his annoyance standing bare-chested and assured in front of him. He'd been out-manoeuvred, then ambushed by his damnable urgings.

John waited, wings arched. Sherlock's lip curled and he began to unbutton his jacket. John's hands moved as well, popping the button of his jeans free. Sherlock stilled, eyes widening. So did John.

Oh. "So this is how it's going to be then?" Sherlock asked. The last button loosened under his fingers and the jacket fell open, framing the pearl grey of his shirt. He reached behind to the fastenings under his wings. John flicked the tab of his zip before drawing it down slowly, pressing his palm over the bulge straining against denim. Sherlock's cheeks burned, blood singing a needy refrain in his veins. He bit his lip.

"Only following your lead. Like I have right from the start, Sherlock." John's voice was low, slightly hoarse. "Isn't that what you want?"

What he wanted? Sherlock considered. If John successfully flew him, there would be copulation. Multiple times, over the course of several weeks as they followed their biological imperatives. Sherlock drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Should John prove himself during the flight, Sherlock knew he would spread himself willingly, his long-suppressed primitive side taking over. John's hands would be on his body, stroking, pulling him close. His eyes fell half-closed at the mental image of the tan body covering his own pale form. John mounting him. Penetrating him.

The frequent sex would strengthen their pair-bond. There would be no others for either, barring terrible injury or death. It would be the end to his independence.

Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket with an angry motion. "I don't want children. I'm not ready, my career -"

"So don't," said John. "I'm not ready either. It's your body. I'm fine with that. You're the boss, you control your own fertilization.³" He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, skimmed them over his briefs and stepped free of them. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the erection clearly outlined behind cotton.

Sherlock sniffed his disdain and began to unbutton his shirt. John's mouth parted as more skin revealed itself. Sherlock felt the touch of his eyes like a caress over his skin and shivered.

If. If John could catch him. Sherlock was younger, stronger and motivated. Sherlock's thoughts wove an alternative scenario. He would out-fly John, call Mycroft from a secluded place and wait out the rest of his breeding season in over-heated solitude. John wouldn't leave Baker Heights immediately, he hoped. Next February, Sherlock would take himself off to his usual hermitage and the whole issue would be avoided.

Not a perfect plan. Sherlock's instincts clamoured to let nature take its course. But instinct was not what ruled Sherlock Holmes.

"Amazing," John said. "I can practically see the thoughts whirling in your head. You're going to do your damnedest to get away."

"It's my prerogative, should your performance be unsatisfactory," Sherlock bit out. Performance. The word twisted hot within his belly. "There's the little matter of your impressing me with your skills before you presume to mount me." Mount. The heat was moving, pooling in his groin, his pseudo-penis stirring. He caught John's gaze with his own and slipped out of the shirt.

John tilted his head, reading something in his face. "What is it?"

"What about Baker Heights?" Sherlock blurted and died inside at this inanity falling from his tongue.

John's head went back. "Oh, I see. You don't want me to catch you but you want me to stay. Bit magpie-ish, isn't it, trying to keep me?" John's own cheeks were flushed. His gaze ran over Sherlock's narrow waist, his pale nipples, the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. "Don't deny it."

"I won't, then. I resent the inconvenience and necessity of bowing to nature's demands."

"It's only transport," John said. Sherlock snarled as his own phrase was turned against him. John's mouth opened in silent amusement.

"I wasn't planning on leaving Baker Heights either way. Unless you tell me to go. Been wanting an eyrie for years. And didn't you say you wanted an assistant?"

"Why are you being so reasonable?" complained Sherlock. John was confusing him. John chuckled, blue eyes crinkling in genuine amusement.

"One of us has to be and I think that's going to be my job. If I manage this flight, that is. As you have so kindly pointed out." John lifted the elastic of his briefs and pushed them past his hips where they dropped to his ankles. He kicked them away and stood, shameless, erection curving up to his right hip.

John's cock was perfect, long, dusky pink, the deep colour of the glans shining. Sherlock swallowed. That membrum virile was meant to enter Sherlock. Already he felt the ghost of John's hands strong and sure on his hips as he thrust, piercing through the cloacal membrane into Sherlock's vaginal passage. Sherlock felt a twinge as something in his lower body loosened. His traitorous body was preparing itself.

No. Enough. Sherlock pulled his mind away from his body's aroused distraction. He set a foot on the overturned chair and bent to loosen the laces on his shoe. His lips pressed hard as the movement pulled his trousers tight against the swelling in front. This was becoming intolerable. How could one even think? He pulled the shoe and sock from his foot, dropped them. The roil of sexual tension would be prolonged for weeks if he didn't get away soon.

"Yes, of course an Apex would be the voice of reason at this moment." Sherlock's sarcasm nearly covered the tremor in his voice. His hands shook at their work. His wings snapped out like a white banner and dropped. He switched feet and began to untie his other shoe.

"I think you're amazing. Gorgeous, too," said John. "And you're an idiot. I want this."

Sherlock straightened. Both feet were bare, his shoe held as if half-forgotten in his hand.

"Why?"

John's expression was wry though his eyes were hot, fixed on Sherlock with raptorial intent. His wings lifted in a shrug. "You fixed my wing."

"More fool me."

"And at least I'll never be bored following you around. So if you think I'm not going to try my hardest to catch you, you're not half as smart as you think you are."

Sherlock's heart pounded a fast tempo, blood pulsing in every extremity. His fingers tightened on the shoe. "You? Catch me?" He lifted his chin. "If you can."

With a whip of his arm he flung his shoe at John's head. Distract. John's arm came up and he batted the shoe away hard. Sherlock leapt back as John jumped for him onto the table, dishes toppling and rolling away as he landed. Sherlock cursed inwardly. Military-trained reflexes. Best course of action: hasty retreat.

Sherlock turned and ran for the balcony, launching himself into cold night air just as he felt John's fingers brush his trouser leg. Amazingly, John's laugh rang out and he heard the snap of his wings as he followed Sherlock over the parapet.

Sherlock folded his wings and straightened his legs in a power-dive. His body felt electric. Despite himself he felt his mouth pull into an open-mouthed grin. The outcome was literally up in the air now.

This was going to be fun.

He plunged from the top-story restaurant's balcony, calculations racing through his head. He knew London better than John. It would be simple to use his knowledge of the streets and the best up-draughts to his advantage.

The ground was rising to meet him. He arched his wings with a quick movement, cupping them to brake and correct his dive to the horizontal just five metres from the pavement. The wind streamed his hair back from the speed. Behind he heard John's wings doing the same and knew the Apex was a few metres higher than he, the better to track Sherlock's movements.

He was fast approaching Marylebone Road, a main thoroughfare built to help channel wind for gliding Falcons heading east into the City on business. A left turn meant speed, right meant height. What would John anticipate? Sherlock dropped lower, skimming just over the roof of a taxi which honked as he flashed past. Going this low was a dangerous tactic; there might be a lorry or a night-bus at the intersection. Adrenaline sang in his veins, sharpening his vision.

Three...two...one... He arced his body like a fish, banking hard right. His wings spread wide, caught the draught full-on and he rocketed upwards into John's path as he echoed the same move. John cursed, back-winging to avoid a full-body collision as Sherlock shot past close enough that a single arms-length separated them. Sherlock felt John's fingers graze the tips of his remiges, trying for a grip and missing. He laughed. "You said I wasn't going to be easy!" he crowed, wings beating hard as he flew up Marylebone Road.

There was no answer and Sherlock risked a quick glance. John's expression was a mixture of both amusement at Sherlock's ploy and determination, his grey wings working as he tried to make up the distance. Sherlock hummed in enjoyment. At two in the morning there was little traffic at street-level and only a few Falcons in the air. Time for some fun.

He stooped again, aiming for a small group of late-night revellers lazily drifting with the current of the up-draught. They scattered as he flew through, their shouts following him. Avoiding them should slow John. Winging down a narrower street branching from the main road he looked back again. What he saw made him grit his teeth in annoyance.

John was still with him, not twenty lengths away. He wasn't gaining but he'd trimmed his altitude plane to match Sherlock's. Obviously he wanted to prove that any manoeuvre Sherlock was capable of, John could do as well.

Let's just see about that, thought Sherlock. He began a weaving flight, slaloming between lampposts just over the occasional pedestrian's heads, the speed of his passage whipping their hair and whirling litter into the air. He heard John shout something uncomplimentary and glanced back. John had lifted a hand to fend off a news page which had wrapped itself around his arm, but he ducked between the posts neatly and quickly.

There was a whoop from someone, a wolf whistle. "A flight! Great Roc, would you look at that! In London?" A phone's camera flashed and Sherlock blinked away the spots in his vision. Idiots. Best get away to a less-populated area. He recalled his mental maps. Hyde Park, then. He'd use a circuitous route that would test John's agility.

Sherlock gained a touch more altitude and began his run, ducking down narrow streets, timing his turns at the last possible second to throw John off his path. His pectoralis and gluteal muscles burned as he concentrated on making precise movements, wings and body stretching and curving. His great primaries and secondary feathers spread and cupped the sharp night air with each swoop. He drew in deep breaths, intent on reaching his goal. There.

He burst into open air just over the Marble Arch entry to Hyde Park. Wings opening into a glide, he looked back over his shoulder for his pursuer.

John was still with him. Worse, John had gained a few body lengths in the chase. The lights of the Arch painted his nude body and the underside of his wings a pale gold as he glided over and angled to follow Sherlock. Sherlock's stomach tightened, his body reacting both to the sight and the dawning understanding of John's skills. His teeth worried at his lip. Focus. Time for another test.

He shifted his gaze forward, drew his arms in to his sides and beat hard. The acceleration took him over grass and trees at a rate that had them blurring.

The black waters of the Serpentine were just ahead when he felt a tug at his trouser leg. With a cry he kicked out, freeing himself, tumbling until his wings caught the rhythm again, twisting up and away.

John was laughing as he climbed next to him. "You should have taken those off," he called. He ducked close and Sherlock slapped at him with a wing, fending him away. They both hovered, circling. John's eyes were bright, cheeks flushed from the thrill of the chase. "How am I doing?"

"You managed to keep up," Sherlock allowed. In fact, John had done better than that – he'd beaten Sherlock at horizontal pursuit.⁴ New information. Useful.

John shook his head. "You never let up, do you? Well, I'll give you the chance now to get your kit off. I wouldn't want you to be at a disadvantage."

"You mean, give you a minute to catch your breath," Sherlock retorted. His hands went to his trouser fastenings and he slipped them off over his briefs, winging hard to maintain position.

"Don't chuck them at me," John said. He looked disappointed that Sherlock hadn't relinquished the last piece of clothing protecting his modesty. Or immodesty – Sherlock was achingly hard.

"Wouldn't dream of it." The trousers fluttered away into darkness.

John's grey-brown wings stroked the air in even beats as he watched Sherlock. "Are you satisfied yet?"

Sherlock had underestimated him. But the game wasn't over yet and there were ploys Sherlock still had not used. He would escape. Or John would prove himself. It still remained to be seen.

Sherlock gave him a bright grin, fierce and unbowed. "Not yet, John."

And he began to climb, pushing himself into the night sky.

~o~

Over Westminster Borough – Hyde Park to Soho, 31st of January

John threw all his strength into powerful thrusts of wings against air to propel him after Sherlock fast as possible, trying to gain on him. Sweat dampened his hair and chilled against his over-heated skin. Sweet Horus, but the Zenith was fast! John had never seen a wingspan like Sherlock's before. No, no, got to keep up! But in spite of all his efforts Sherlock was staying ahead.

With no warning Sherlock rolled, primaries folding together to points and wings bending back. His arms flattened to his sides and he stooped in a plummeting dive. John flapped and dived after, but his wings weren't built for this. He had to control his descent, there was no way he would be able to pull out of a stoop that fast without wrenching something. Or crashing. Don't think about that now. He groaned and let his wings spread just enough to slow his plunge into something less suicidal.

Down they plunged, the distance between them growing. John's heart squeezed. All Sherlock had to do was repeat this a few more times, dolphining in and out of London's airspace and he'd have enough headway to escape. John had got too cocky after catching Sherlock in the park.

The lights of the thin spires of Soho were rising to meet them. Surely he wasn't going to -? But Sherlock was. He fell between the buildings like a stone before cupping his wings to brake and begin rising again, white body and wings illuminated by lights. John threw his wings wide, hoping to cut across and shorten the distance. He had fallen well behind now, at least fifty lengths. "Oh Horus damn it," John breathed between his teeth. "Damn you, you great beauty." The extraordinary white wings moved with easy strength, pulling Sherlock away from him.

His focus on Sherlock was so narrow that John almost missed the small dark figure detach itself from a balcony ahead, dark wings spreading with a crack. It moved unbelievably fast, darting between John and Sherlock with a nimble roll.

John's eyes dilated, heart in his throat. Rival. Horus, no. "Sherlock!" His voice cracked with the force of his shout. Sinews straining, he flew faster.

~o~

Sherlock looked back at the faint shout, anticipating seeing John some distance behind. Instead, his view was blocked by a small dark man wearing a white dress shirt and black trousers. The colours complemented dark grey wings speckled with white. Two suitors. Two pursuers. His primitive side was darkly gratified; another part was calculating his diminished chances of complete escape.

Sherlock threw himself into a turn between buildings. The interloper banked easily, cutting the corner and bringing himself beside Sherlock. He rolled and came up beneath, flying upside down and grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock gritted his teeth. His chest muscles were beginning to ache, his breath coming hard. The new suitor was fresh, his reserves barely tapped and had all the nimbleness of his size. Show-off, said his conscious mind. Agile, murmured his seething instinct. Fast. The man twisted, dipped and twisted up. The wind pressed the shirt against his chest, revealing the bindings under the white cotton. A feminine Apex, presenting as masculine. Unusual. Mate?

“Hope you don't mind my joining you,” the other called. His voice was as high as a boy's. "I've been watching you for some time. And then, oh! My Twitter feed just exploded right now with the reports! Didn't want to miss this dance."

Sherlock thrust away his body's conflicting demands and replied as well as he could between pants. "And you... don't mind... stacking the odds."

The man barrel-rolled, cutting in front of Sherlock's flight path and causing him to lose the rhythm of his wing beats. The man grinned again, white teeth bright in a pointed face. "Only want us to be together. Like fate, meeting you at a time like this. Just when you needed me most."

Where was John? A quick glance showed empty air. Sherlock felt uneasy. John was at least a known quantity. This Apex was an unknown variable, a complete stranger. A needle-thin alarm pierced the haze of his body's demands. Something was not right, this was too great a coincidence. Sherlock slowed, letting himself drop in altitude as if tired. He drifted towards the old concrete of a wide window ledge, wings barely moving.

The man oohed. "Here? Gracious! What if we wake the neighbours?" He mimed shocked surprise but his eyes were bright and hot.

Sherlock let his head drop in seeming exhausted capitulation. "I... don't even... know you."

The interloper glided closer, wings cupping to land lightly, hands reaching for Sherlock's. "Call me Jim, sweet thing."

"I think not," said Sherlock. His wings cupped, his feet touched the ledge, and his legs bent to take his weight. Sherlock sprang and drove himself back and away, his body a projectile returning in the direction it had come. Back, back. Get away.

Jim shouted and exploded from the ledge, his wings a flurry of movement. Sherlock winged hard sideways but his pursuer was too quick. In a few heartbeats he had cut in front of Sherlock again, wings spread to block his way. Sherlock snarled and swung a fist but found his punch deflected, his wrist caught in a grip which dug nails into his flesh. Jim yanked. Their wings beat and flailed together. His face was close enough to Sherlock's that he should see himself reflected in black eyes. Jim grinned.

"Got you."

---

Footnotes:

1A reason a female falcon needs a mate is as a provider during nesting. A female that hunts risks cracking developing eggs within. Any tackling, colliding with or crashing into prey may damage eggs or the tissues of the ovaries. Also, defensive manoeuvres by prey may do the same.

2One of the parts of the courtship behaviour of falcons is bowing, head low. Using it as a formal understanding here that the flight would take place seemed a natural progression in a civilised culture.

3Raptor females have an aspect of control over their own fertility. Certain circumstances need to be met before they will ovulate. They need to have had sufficient food, be in good health and have a mate that has impressed them with their fitness. They need a territorial place to nest - the male may help carve this out as a way to impress and drive away rivals. When mating, sperm can be collected into sperm host glands near the vagina and shell gland. There, the sperm can be stored from 10 days up to two weeks and remains viable. The sperm can be squeezed from the glands to travel up the oviduct and fertilise an ovum. In the case of a sub-dominant male mounting a female, the sperm can be ejaculated. Incidentally, while most avian females have only one functioning ovi-duct, the falco species have two working sets, though it is usually only the left side that works. This is partly due to the need for less ballast in a flying machine, and also because when alighting with a jolt, two eggs developing side by side may jostle and crack.

4The Saker falcons are hunters of open grasslands and cliffs and are skilful at horizontal pursuit.

*****

Yes, I KNOW. How can it be Omegaverse when there's no forced pregnancy, oh gosh. But I did say it was only loosely O-verse, that I would turn it on its head.

There will be one more climactic chapter after this.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you are enjoying your flight!
*****

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