A/N I would like to dedicate this chapter to TweetyCanary, for encouraging me to work my nerve up and post this story, considering i started writing this in Early February. There is going to be some stuff from Maximum Ride in here but it is mainly just the same universe without the characters. So if you have read those you will get a head start in understanding some of it. Enjoy the twisted creation of my weird brain. (I hope...)

Disclaimer: I may not own Sherlock, but I am pretty sure one day I will be able to kidnap Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. Mwuhahaha! I also don't own the Maximum Ride books or anything from them. Sigh...

Prologue: Feathers?

Sherlock was bored. Again. It seemed the criminal populace had decided to take a break from their illegal activities. Bad news if you're the worlds only consulting detective. So, since there was nothing more interesting to do in this boring world, full of boring people, he decided to contemplate the enigma that was his flatmate. Shockingly enough, the one person in the world a little less boring than all the rest.

There were many things that Sherlock didn't question about John, because he thought he knew the answer or simply didn't care, as he had other more interesting things to deal with at the time. They weren't very noticeable anomalies, just small enough to be shrugged off but enough to make someone think if they had enough brains. Which they don't. But, Sherlock does. And since there was nothing better to do, (and he was too lazy to get off the couch), Sherlock decided that there were some things about John, that simply didn't make sense.

For one thing, John Watson is extremely light.

It had been a stakeout that went wrong as the criminals managed to find out that they were police and not their contacts. The resulting chase had ended up with John hanging precariously from an old warehouse roof after being rammed into. Sherlock had found pulling him up to be unexpectedly easy and found himself staggering backwards with the excess force he had used. Really, he would have thought that a man like John would weigh more than the average fifteen year old.

Sherlock frowned slightly as he remembered it.

Odd


John Watson could deduce.

It had only happened once, but it had left Sherlock puzzling for weeks. He had been just about to launch into his fully prepared speech, on how the uncle had obviously killed the step-son because he was the one with the leather gloves that still held the trace of poison that had been used to kill the victim. When he had been beaten to it.

"The uncle, Sherlock."

It had been such a quiet murmur that no one else in the room would have been able to hear it, even if there were no sounds whatsoever. But, Sherlock was not 'no one else' and was quite shocked to find out that someone had figured it out. He quickly spun around the room, trying to find the guilty party. Wait, he knew that voice anywhere...

No...

No!

No?

John had been dragged from his bed at 3 am in the morning and was currently slumped against the wall looking tiredly at the victims general direction. He seemed to be slightly miffed. Well, quite a fair bit actually.

"Really! Would you like to tell us why, John?"

There was mocking in his voice, as usual, but even Anderson could have picked up the threat there as well. The question seemed to shake whatever thoughts were swirling around in John's head and bring him back to reality with a start.

"Wh...what? I didn't..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I believe you said that the uncle was the murderer. Would you care to explain?

Sherlock's face was surprisingly blank. But John knew that was not a good thing. It meant he was concentrating twice as much as he normally did on solving a particularly hard puzzle. Which was in this case; how John Watson, normal, everyday, boring, dull John Watson could possibly figure something out like this. Especially when it had taken even the Detective himself some time to think it through. Not that he would ever admit that though.

"Would you care to explain how you came to that conclusion, John?" He raised his voice ever so slightly.

Each word was blanketed thinly with the semblance of detachment, but the undercurrents of danger in the sentence sent the hairs up on peoples arms. Everyone that wasn't already looking at the pair now turned their heads at the sentence Time seemed to slow, then stop altogether.

"Well, uhh...um..."

Fate decided to lend Doctor Watson a hand. John's mobile went off and he answered it quickly, relieved that he didn't have to explain how he suddenly rose in IQ.

"Hello?...yes...uh huh...yeah, okay, I'll be there in about 20 minutes."

John started walking quickly out the room, glad to be out of the suffocating tension.

"They need me to cover someone's shift at Barts. I'll see you all later" He closed the door of the small apartment without care.

Sherlock merely scowled.

How convenient for him.

The frustrated voice of Lestrade cut interrupted Sherlock's thoughts.

"So, who was it Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused until he was sure he had as many people's attention as possible.

"The uncle, of course."


John Watson was never hurt for very long.

It was a freak accident. A car had run a red light and T-boned the cab that John had been in when he was returning from work one day. The doctors said that it would take about 4 weeks for the broken ribs and hairline fractures along his spine to heal completely. So naturally everyone was quite shocked when only 12 days later he had fully recovered. Everyone said that they had never seen anything like it before, that such a thing was impossible. When they asked the Doctor himself about how he had healed so quickly, he would often just pretend he hadn't heard the question or talk about something else.

If Sherlock hadn't been overseas on a case he would have grilled John mercilessly. As it was, he rang him up and questioned him. But, mysterious, the call seemed to drop out. Either that or John hung up. Sherlock was going to go with the former. John wouldn't dare.

But the latest, most confusing, development in this strange situation, was uncovered when Sherlock had decided to once again 'borrow' John's laptop for information for a case they were currently working on. The laptop was on John's bed, which had been made very neatly, a testament to his days in Afghanistan. As Sherlock went to get the laptop, he couldn't help but notice the three huge brown and white mottled feathers that lay on the floor near the window.

Feathers?

Reviews are highly appreciated, whether you hated it, loved it, think it's weird or you just don't care, review!