Short pre-romance Johnlock drabble, with wings. Because reasons. Read and enjoy.
You can always distinguish a true psychopath by the condition of their wings. They will be perfectly groomed- too perfectly, since they are always done in impersonal salons, the feathers conditioned with artificial creams, lacking the personal oils that partners and friends spread when they preen.
Sherlock's wings look nothing of the sort.
Oh, they're kept clean and well-groomed, of course- it is Sherlock we're talking about- but it was obvious even to non-genius John that he preened his wings on his own. His feathers were dark and smooth but grew messier as they got closer to his back, and eventually there was one strip directly against his skin that he couldn't reach where the feathers always stood up at weird, ruffled angles.
After a few months of living together that rough patch starts to make John's fingers itch with the urge to preen, to smooth the feathers and waterproof them with the oil glands between his fingers. It makes him a little uncomfortable. Oh, he's preened other men before- it can be a platonic gesture as easily as it can be romantic- but that was usually in the army, when they were too tired and stressed to do anything more than relish that slight human contact and it was well understood that, well… nothing would happen. Nobody minded there- but he had no idea how Sherlock would react.
So he contained his urges, until that one faithful night- the night at the pool.
When Moriarty stalked into the room, his mottled black-and-white feathers were perfectly, obsessively groomed; even that one little patch closest to his skin. It makes every feather on John's tan wings rise and fluff up in a vain attempt to intimidate.
After the whole debacle with Moriarty stalking away, whistling a merry tune, and after the police debriefing, they finally have the chance to go home.
John just wants to sleep, but Sherlock is pacing back and forth incessantly and muttering to himself, keeping John awake where he sits on the couch. Eventually the doctor decides he's had enough.
"Sherlock, sit down." He grabs his flatmate the next time he stalks past the couch, pulling the lanky man down next to him while determinedly ignoring his protests.
Sherlock freezes when John runs his hands over his wings. "Wh-what are you doing?" He stutters, thrown completely off-balance by the action.
"You're way too wound up to be healthy, even for you. You need to sit down and relax before you give yourself a migraine. And you have dirt in your feathers. So hush." With that he begins to preen his friend, smoothing his fingers over the dark feathers and settling them into place.
Sherlock is at first stiff as a board, nearly trembling with tension, but after a few minutes his tense muscles begin to relax until he is nearly limp under John's hands.
There's the temptation to push farther, to see what he can get away with, but he resists shattering the fragile peace that comes over him with Sherlock's sleek black feathers between his fingers. There will be time, later. For now they savor the peace.