Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. (If I did wing!lock would probably be canon)
Psychopath, mental, delusional, robot. Sherlock Holmes had been called all these things and more, but the one insult that had always struck the hardest on the self-claimed unfeeling man was a single five letter word.
Freak
He preferred to pretend it didn't bother him or even touch the emotional barrier he constantly claimed not to possess, but the ever expanding palace of his mind knew better. He knew better that most what it was like to be a freak. The inner workings of his brain and the muffled operations of his heart supplied a steady flow of the forsaken word, but the first time it had ever been used to describe him didn't apply to his brain or heart. It applied to a set of unnecessary appendages set on making him the outsider, whose constant source of annoyance stretched back all the way to his childhood.
It had all started on his seventh birthday. Sherlock had been complaining for quite a while about minor back pain, but it had all been dismissed as growing pains or hunching over to much during school by his mother every time it was brought up. In a way they were growing pains, just not the ordinary kind. You could dare to call them the extraordinary kind.
His birthday had actually gone quite well. Mycroft had taken Sherlock to the cinema, though he complained through the entire thing, and returned home to birthday cake.
As the day ended, the family departed to their rooms to sleep off all of the excitement of the day. Sherlock had taken a dose of pain medication before bed and was just starting to feel the effects when everything went wrong. He wasn't really sure what had happened, but there was a sudden immense pain and a terrible tearing sound. That was enough to get him screaming for his parents.
When his parents reached the end of the hall, they were greeted by blood spattered sheets and a scarlet trail of droplets leading up the walls. More screaming and crying ensued as they both realized what had been the source of the bloody room.
Needless to say, Sherlock was rushed to the nearest emergency room, wrapped up in the darkest colored sheet he owned in a head spinning daze. The doctors and nurses were all shocked, horrified, and amazed when the sheet was removed in the privacy of a locked operation room. The hospital staff eventually moved in to carefully scrub the blood from his body as delicately and quietly as possible, all trying not to stare for too long at the freakish sight. When he was clean, long period of silence passed as everyone in the room, including Sherlock, examined what had been the cause for all the commotion. Stretching from just beneath his pale shoulder blades were a pair of meter wide trembling, feathered, wings. Though the feathers were just fuzzy down at the time, they were obviously a mesmerizing blue, so dark it was almost black.
No one really knew what to say, but there was a small whisper of, "Oh God," from his father and almost inaudible murmurs from the doctors. The tone of their voices, however quiet they were, all screamed, "Freak."
His mother swore everyone in the operation room to silence after a nurse offered to call a research facility. She refused to have her youngest son shipped off to some experimental lab and treated like an animal because he was different. The way she spoke of Sherlock made him put his head down in shame for some reason. He didn't want to be different, but even at his age, Sherlock knew that he was an impossible, improbably defect from the rest of the human race.
When they returned to their small London home, plans were made to move out to the countryside away from prying eyes and familiar faces. It would be much easier that way according to his mother, and she wouldn't take any protest on the matter. Late that night when the fear set in that he was no longer loved, his mother let down her tough exterior and drew soft circles with her fingertips on the tender flesh between Sherlock's wings and told him that she would always love him no matter what.
"You're not a freak, my dear," she whispered, "You're special and we have to keep you safe from those meaning to treat you like a freak."
For the next nine years, doctors were paid off, any thought of making friends was forgotten, and many doors were closed in an effort to keep the wings secret and safe. Sherlock was barely ever allowed to leave the house, with the exception of trips to shops and family excursions. When he did go out, his wings were bound by a tight, skin colored, elasticated fabric and a jacket or coat of some sort was placed over the top. His wardrobe consisted of outfits that had slits in the back for his wings and the others that didn't. The ones with slits were worn at home, while the ones without holes were worn in public. A private tutor was hired so he never had to go to school and risk something happening. His only real company was that of his older brother, and while it was not a lot, it was all he had.
On his twelfth birthday, Mycroft announced he was leaving for university. His parents had not protested and wished him well, but Sherlock had fled to his room and locked the door, unwilling to open it for anyone. Sherlock was sure he knew betrayal when he saw it, and this was its very definition. How could he leave him alone again?
"Sherlock, I know you're in there," his brother's voice had called through the wooden barricade.
"Go away, My!" he had shouted in response, "You don't care anyways." Mycroft left the next day without saying goodbye.
Mycroft was almost never home after he left for university and while his parents did love him, Sherlock suspected they simply didn't know exactly what to do with him. With nothing much else to do, Sherlock spent most of his time either learning everything he could get his hands on. He constantly absorbed what information he could and worked with different memory techniques in an effort to fit in to a world he knew nothing about. He quickly picked up the violin to expel the ever growing sense of boredom he felt and found that he was a natural. The other portion of his time was given to watching a variety of birds from his bedroom window.
He was constantly entranced by their delicate wings and what they were able to do with them. The birds had wings like he did, yet he never flew. He had already ruled out that his wings were the kind belonging to a chicken, penguin, or other flightless avian species, but he wasn't sure if the other parts of his body, particularly his bone structure, were built for flight. He had always wanted to try, but he doubted his parents, or Mycroft, would approve. It probably wouldn't be safe either, but he often found himself examining his own wings and comparing them to those of other birds in hopes of one day being able to see what it was like to feel the wind rushing at his face. How did it feel without the support of the ground beneath your feet and nothing to hold you back from going wherever you wanted to.
By the time Sherlock was seventeen, he was a master of concealing his wings and incredibly eager to leave the nest. His dark feathered appendages were now a good three meters wide, almost twice his size but he took the precaution of small bindings and a good coat. He managed to complete secondary school a year early with exemplary grades all from the confinement of his home.
He was quickly accepted to one of London's most prestigious universities when they saw his near perfect exam scores and musical skill, but nothing he had ever learned from his many books or birds could ever have prepared him for the horrors of the world outside his home.
A/N: this was my first attempt at writing anything to do with Sherlock so sorry if it's not that great. It would really be nice to get some feedback and/or constructive criticism on this so I can improve my writing. :)