From the moment hatchlings came out of the eggs they were taught to stay away from the pathways in Yosemite. They told of stories of humans plucking the feathers from the tender wings that they were born with. It was always such gruesome stories that either ended with humans sawing off the beautiful angelic wings or them being taken away in those big metal moving things. For the most part the hatchlings stayed away from the paths until they were closed for the nights.
When they felt it was safe the flock would fly from the depths of the forest and eat the left overs that the humans wasted. Sherlock always enjoyed finding things and attempting to figure out what exactly it was. The only down side was that things other than food were not allowed to be brought back to the flocks home. Mycroft always assumed it would be their downfall if they even brought on item in. Father sky wouldn't stand for it and the food supply would most likely wither and die.
Mycroft spent their time as the government of the flock, the leader more or less. He made sure that his flock was cared for and kept safe. He was one of the eldest adults and Sherlock was by far the youngest of the flock members. But it was clear to see that Sherlock was the wisest of the two when it came to other flock members. He could sit down and it almost appeared that he knew the being better than they knew themselves. Sherlock was brilliant and it made it worse that he knew it.
Sherlock's wings were a beautiful black that the light hit off to give a beautiful shiny look. His wings had been given a lot of attention from the hatchling who groomed them whenever deep in thought. He always envied the dark light brown wings his own brother had. When he was only a few weeks old he clung to those wings, hiding within them whenever something new appeared before him and startled him. Mycroft always smiled and chirped at him, explaining what exactly it was in front of them before Sherlock would eventually calm down. Sherlock now squirmed away trying to act like he was more mature and didn't need his brothers comfort. He wasn't even close to an adult but he sure looked like it human standard.
Instead he spent time with other flock members such as Irene who was absolutely stunning. She was 2 years old and was given more attention than Sherlock liked. He wanted nothing more than to sit near her and have a war of wits. But instead he sometimes had to sit away from her and wait until the other males left her alone long enough for him to even get a word in. More or less it was a pain but she was worth it. She was the woman after all, the woman that actually spoke on the same intellectual level as he himself did.
So for the life of him Sherlock couldn't figure out why in the world she was asking him to go on the paths during the day to bring something back for her. She was intelligent and Sherlock knew the Irene was fully capable of realizing that this was not the time to be going on the pathways and possibly becoming exposed to a human. It wouldn't be a danger just to Sherlock but the flock as a whole themselves. But here Sherlock was, wrapped around the adult female's finger and flying a ways up so that the humans wouldn't make out what he was.
He needed to wait for the perfect opportunity to swoop down and grab the thing that had caught the woman's eye. Even from here he could see the sun shining off the little something that Irene wanted. It was instinct for him to want it himself and decorate his and Mycroft's nest with it but Irene wanted it so god damn it he was going to get it for her.