Title: Flight
Rating: M
Genre: Fantasy/Romance
Plot: Three years later, and neither John nor Sherlock can quite give up on the other. With Moriarty mobilizing once again, Sherlock is forced back into John's life, leading them both down a dangerous path as they race to solve a series of life-threatening puzzles left by the criminal. Part two in the Nesting!verse. I highly recommend to read part one, Clipped, for terms, concepts, and backstory to clear up confusion.
Warnings: High Fantasy AU. Winged!Sherlock. Violence and later sexual situations. Also, there will be after chapter notes for concepts or words that need clearing, (from what I found with the last story, notes clearly need to be put in the warnings section).
Author's Note: I couldn't last long without writing this, plus the overwhelming response from the first part was beautiful and unexpected. So here we are again!
Prologue
Where they were, he knew not. The gentle teasing fingers of a breeze and the vague outline of a background held little dominance over the two of them together, moving easily, desperately. The absence, the time spent being apart had never happened, didn't matter. All that was between them was just as it should be, close with hands touching skin and mouths seeking refuge with each other. Which was the real world and which the dream? Surely this was the former, a more peaceful setting than the whirlwind of the nightmare that came before.
A moment dragged into several as they held one another, closely, intimately. The background faded in favor of a fervor unknown before, climax approaching as a name called out into the dark of it all-
"Sherlock…" John woke with a strangled gasp, sweat cooling along his brow and neck as he searched frantically around the room to regain his setting. It was dark, not even sunsrise, the quiet cooing of a para could be heard through the open window of his bedroom. He was at home, in bed next to his wife, still panting as his body twitched from his sudden shock. Wiping a hand across his forehead, he sat up fully, putting his face in his palm while rubbing the bridge of his nose, body shaking.
What had caused that? Why now? His dreams had been free of the other man for over an annual, ever since getting knotted to Mary, and yet here, almost three after the sudden flight of Sherlock from Trias. The man was a realm away, so why had he so vividly been with him in his sleep. To what purpose did it serve other than drudging up confusing and rampant emotions he had since buried beneath his commitment to the woman at his side? John stared hard outside the window at the hard brick building as a small bird flew by, though neither of these things held any answers for him.
Unconsciously, he pressed a hand to Mary's abdomen, looking over as he felt the firm flesh of her rounded stomach. A fondness came over him, allowing John to push back the ache left from Sherlock's presence in his subconscious. He was going to be a father in less than two months times, he and Mary to raise a child finally. Nothing could've been more perfect with the beautiful woman slumbering next to him, carrying his offspring. With the boom in patients, and the officials finally pulling back from their looming watch, his life was turning into something he could be comfortable and successful with.
Yet Sherlock still held his grasp upon his heart, their time apart doing little to dull the want and need he felt for the man. His bitterness and sadness a washed him as he lay back down, curling into Mary's side, hand still placed upon her swollen middle. He loved her dearly and he could find comfort in her to fill the void from where Sherlock had left. Before drifting off again, he could quietly hope, in a moment of weakness, that the man dreamt of him, or even still cared for him at all.
One realm over, Sherlock awoke with a sudden shout, toppling a stack of precariously placed books onto the wooden floor with a series of dull thunks. He blinked rapidly in the dull early morning light, easily garnering his surroundings as his mind whirred from his dream. His home, the small flat placed just outside of Perishin, at the table was where he currently sat, regulating his breathing in order to bring his heart rate back to average. He must've dozed off, scouring over the books to find the key to his current predicament, as he had not slept a single minute within the last three dailies(1).
Closing the directory on indigenous tribes in the realm of Douich, Sherlock stood to his weak legs, wings pumping sleepily behind him as he stepped carefully to the balcony, grunting when one of his prosthetics clipped the doorframe. The solars had given his body time to adjust and seamlessly accept the metallic replacements, giving them flexibility, a few nerve endings, and even a scant amount of tiny down feathers had begun to poke out of the surfaces. Each molt changed their color to blend in with his real plumage, something that should brighten his outlook on the prosthetics, yet it only served to remind him of why they were there in the first place.
He could've done things differently. It would've been difficult to stay in Guier and find John a way through, but it was highly possible, if not illegal and most likely extremely expensive. He had been stupid though, spurred by the official letter to vacate the world for his own and leave John to recover from their bond enough to seek out a new life, a better life, one where his tyrannical government was not breathing down his neck for offspring to fuel their dying species. Sherlock regretted his rash decision every moment he could spare to think about it, yet the detective work kept his mind busy, though the times in-between cases were brutal. He had found ways to cope however, with the marks in the crook of his elbow a blaring testament to his new habit. His biology would normally heal them quickly and efficiently, but after so many uses even one's nature tends to give up on the task.
The sun was just rising over the port side city, illuminating the tree top flats embracing the stone buildings that made the core of his home. The smooth surfaces blinked mockingly at him, added to by the lazy waves of the ocean in the distance, and with a dismissive sound, Sherlock turned back into his meager flat, wings wrapping around him protectively as he padded along the cool floor back to his table. Now was not the time to reminisce over kerlaily lost. Today, he was to catch a thief in the basement of a small bakery on the west-side of town promptly at high-noon. After, he was expected at the local mortuary to determine the cause of death for a strange animal. John should be the farthest thing off his mind. The thought of him before had brought a calming sort of effect, but now only drudged up a remembrance of Sherlock's own failing.
Comfort came now in the adrenaline rush of the case and in the simplistic injection of an accelerant. As he settled back into his chair, he allowed himself to wonder briefly if John still dreamt of him, or if his new life had erased any subconscious want for Sherlock. He quickly dismissed the thought as a lost cause, throwing himself back into the old tomes.
A little review for terms. Knotting is the metal workers term for marriage. Kerlaily is the Exemian term for a long-lasting romantic, intimate bond.
1- Exemian time is broken down into three basic components: dailies(days), lunars(months) and solars(years).
This takes place a few days before Sherlock's letter to John, just to clear up any confusion. I'll be back in a week with the first chapter. If you have any questions, or would like to know more about anything, please ask either here, or on my tumblr,(the link given on my profile). Reviews are awesome, and thank you for reading!