This came to me in the early hours of the morning after I had been doing a bit of thinking about Philip Pullman's daemons, ravens and Norse mythology. I know this is a pretty random idea but I hope you enjoy it. Constructive feedback would be greatly appreciated, as though not the first fanfiction I've written, this is the first to find its way to a public platform.

1: Birds of a Feather

The raven soared over the streets of London, black as the sky above him. Below him lights glinted and flickered like the flaming torches of old, each one representative of a life, a person, completely unaware of the bird passing overhead who had seen so much. Of course, who would believe they were right if they inadvertently correctly guessed this bird's identity, and he certainly wasn't going to inform them.

Banking into the wind, the raven sailed above the Thames, following the course of its inky waters to Tower Hill and the ancient structure that gave it its name. Although it wasn't yet as ancient as him. The White Tower was dark now, it's usual population of swarming tourists gone for the night. The raven alighted on the battlements in a flurry of feathers and then stood tall as a young, dark haired man.

Sherlock Holmes stood still and watchful, curls and coat dancing slightly in the wind, eyes tracking the progress of a small speck nearly invisible in the gloom growing steadily larger. A second, larger raven landed next to him.

"You're getting slow, Muninn." Sherlock said, turning to face the man now standing next to him. "Getting too heavy to fly?" The man, Mycroft, delicately brushed down his suit and gave him a long look. "Charming as ever."

They started to walk along the deserted battlements. "Is it not a bit cliché, meeting here all the time?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the famous white tower and the green where he had seen many a disgraced court official breathe their last.

"I would say traditional, appropriate."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. They stopped and looked out at Tower Bridge, shining brighter during the night than it ever did during the day, and still thronged with traffic.

"Why are we here Mycroft?" Sherlock said finally. "We haven't met like this in months."

"Is it a crime to want to see my brother?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock snorted.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock looked surprised.

"It's more of a question of whether you wantto do it."

Sherlock, curiosity roused despite himself, waited.

"I was wondering if you are going to tell John about us."

Sherlock laughed harshly, a raven's caw seeming to underlie it.

"That's what you asked me here for?" He turned as if to fly into the night.

"Huginn."

The name was softly spoken, yet Sherlock paused. Mycroft went on. "You're closer to him than you have been with any other human,"

"It's not what you think." Sherlock interrupted, turning to face his brother.

"I know that." Mycroft went on patiently. "But do you not think that he would want to know? That he would prefer if you told him rather than he find out accidently?"

"How on Earth would he possibly figure it out?"

"He may not be as observant as you, but he will notice when you don't show any signs of ageing, for a start."

"I don't have to think about that now." Sherlock said quietly.

"But you will, unless you want to drive him away before you do." Mycroft said firmly, then went more gently "You're happier than I've seen you in a long time, and it would be a shame if you squandered that because you couldn't bear to tell that when you disappear without warning it's because the wind is singing to you, and not for other, more dubious, reasons."

Sherlock said nothing, still facing away from Mycroft.

"We used to fly together all the time," Mycroft said somewhat regretfully, breaking the silence. Sherlock was surprised, Mycroft was hardly ever nostalgic about anything. "Do you remember?"

Sherlock nodded. "I do."

Mycroft looked his little brother up and down, as if he wanted to commit Sherlock's appearance to memory. "Goodnight Sherlock." With that, Mycroft took to the air again, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts and hundreds of years of history.