NOTE: So. Winglock. On my list of All Things Good in this Horribly Boring World. Right up there with Benedict's cheekbones and dark chocolate Digestives. Enjoy it.
I'll be working on this along side of Carry Me Home and there will be multiple chapters. Updates will be slow. Probably.
PS: I made a song on GarageBand, which I have posted on my soundcloud to go along with this story, because I'm a dork like that. Check it out.
http:/ soundcloud. com /sparklymustaches/feathers
PPS: I KNOW "anthro" and "anthrohuman" are misnomers, but I don't care. And neither should you. Because...well Christ, guys, it's WINGLOCK. Freaking WINGLOCK.
So yeah.
-NH
FEATHERS
Prelude
John was never fond of anthrohumans. He hadn't been around them much as a child, since by then they were only beginning to pop up in Britain, but eventually, they were everywhere, immigrating and emigrating all over the world, and eventually there was no choice but to accept them.
It wasn't that they were any different from regular humans - well, aside from the animal appendages and what not - but it's just that John was honestly jealous. Really, what genetic mutation had he missed out on? Why couldn't his parents have carried the gene? Why did his friend get to have cat eyes but his were just boring and blue? Or why did his commanding officer get to have gills as well as lungs and John was stuck with sucking in air and air only?
Why didn't he get to be special?
As he'd grown older, of course, he'd learned to accept it. Even still, whenever he saw a tail or a paw or a set of hooves, he felt a small sting of jealousy and longing, and he came to accept that he was not only normal, but that he'd never get the chance to be anything else.
John had to learn so many new things because of the anthros in medical school. New medicinal procedures, new questions to ask, new techniques and care instructions that he had to make sure he was aware of. Gills were prone to rashes, reptilian skin needed special moisturizers, avians' bones were easily broken: the list was miles long. But he'd caught on quickly. He'd memorized the facts. He could fix a leg and he could fix a wing. He could stitch fur and flesh. He could birth a leper and a lizard. He could handle it.
That's not to say that he wanted to.
When John returned from the war, he had had the misfortune of running into Mike Stamford again. Mike, who was boring and normal like him. Mike, who had introduced him to civilian life again, making his hand shake. Mike, who knew many anthros and many interesting people.
People like Sherlock Holmes.
The first time John laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, the detective was bent over a microscope in Bart's lab, peering through and toying with the slide beneath with gentle precision. He had wild, ebon curls, pale complexion, and when he'd looked up, John bore witness to his sharp, steely gaze.
But what John held above all else was Sherlock's wings.
Sherlock had a rare wing type, John knew. The span had to have been somewhere around twelve to fourteen feet - on the larger side for his height, John thought. They were immense, with several layers of sleek, dark feathers that had a navy and turquoise sheen, glistening in the dim light. His feathers were long, thick and firm, and when he stood, his wings flexed a bit, perking the feathers and rustling lightly. Mike smiled as John was stirred from his reverie.
"Sorry? What?" he'd stammered, blinking a few times to regain focus from his captivation.
"I said, how do you feel about the violin?"
And John sighed. Because he was going to live with this man. This amazing, spectacular, avian man.
And John was still boring. And Sherlock had beautiful, beautiful wings.
A/N: So I'm putting this here, and chapter 1 as well. More to come at a later date.