A/N: Based off a prompt in the XXII Sherlock kink meme.
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The problem with being shot in the wing is that everyone can see it. During the winter John at least had the excuse of harsh weather to cover himself in public, but during spring and summer he had no reason. People stared at his damaged wing, mentally realizing that he cannot fly and thus, not worth associating with.
Not worth mating with.
While most people knew judging others based on wing span and dexterity was of olden days, the stigma still held.
If that was the case, then John would've never become friends with Mike Stanford. His wings were small compared to his body mass and looked as if they were in a constant state of molting.
Or Molly, whose mousy, pale brown wings appeared as if she never grew out of puberty.
If that was the case, then Sherlock would've never bothered with John.
It was a wet, cold morning, and it seemed the only person who wasn't affected by it was Sherlock. The only indication he gave that he was just as miserable was from the way his wings were folded so tightly close to his own body.
Despite this, he gleefully kneeled over the fallen body, his little magnifying glass flashing each time it caught the light. John knew the moment Sherlock solved the case from the way his wings fluttered upwards, before curling back in on themselves.
"It was the father," Sherlock murmured triumphantly, putting away his magnifying glass.
"How the hell could you know that?" Lestrade demanded. Even with his wings hunched, they were incredibly massive. John knew automatically they must give him constant back problems. "All you did was look at his shoes."
Sherlock stared him blandly, then kicked the victim's shoe lightly. The bottom opened up and a bag of cocaine tumbled out.
It took a second or two for the clues to come together in Lestrade's brain. "Crap," he hissed as soon as he understood. "It's the father."
With a grin, Sherlock twisted on his foot, and gave his wings one large shudder, throwing off large droplets of water everywhere.
Everyone was already soaked to the bone but they flinched away from the spray, cursing.
"Come, John," Sherlock declared, walking off dramatically.
John followed, glad to finally get out of the rain. Once out of range of the police, he tried to shake his wings as Sherlock had to dispel the gathered water. His right wing was able to shake properly, but his left barely moved, and it sagged, heavy with liquid.
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Sherlock's wings, there was no other word for it, were beautiful.
They were as black as his hair, with the tiniest hint of green hidden in the tips. When they caught the sunlight- and it did, often- his wings glowed like a million diamonds.
Sherlock hated it. He hated the attention he constantly got each time he walked outside. People gawked at his wings, some with such opened lust John was afraid they were only a step away from forcing Sherlock to the ground and having their way with him.
The closes it ever got to that point was when one zealous woman reached out and plucked a feather. She considered it flirting, the way she waved the feather coyly before running her tongue over it.
Sherlock gave her one glance over before taking her apart with his tongue. Within thirty seconds of talking, the woman walked away, crying.
Sherlock tries not to fly. He'll glide, use his wings to jump great distances, but John never once saw him actually fly. Sherlock was in his prime, young, and after an insistent check-up by John, his wings were in perfect shape. There was no reason why Sherlock never flew.
He wasn't afraid of heights, that was for damn sure.
Maybe he found it too boring. That made sense.
"Why don't you fly?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John knew asking such questions were quite rude, but they've been flatmates for nearly a year now and John shot and killed a man on for Sherlock on the very first day they met. Such social niceties went out the window long ago.
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know how."
Out of the million answers that could've come out of Sherlock's mouth, John wasn't expecting that one. He nearly snorted. "What, seriously?"
The angry look Sherlock threw at him made him glad he didn't snort. "The estate I lived on when I was a child had too many trees. There was barely enough room to learn how to glide."
"Surely you could've gone somewhere. There are gyms-"
"Do not talk down to me, John," Sherlock snapped. "You do not believe I would have not taken the opportunities given to me?" He paused, allowing the anger to melt out of his voice. "If you think living with me is difficult, imagine how I was when I was a boy. My flying teachers did not have the same patience you have."
John was suddenly struck with the mental image of little Sherlock, deducing an adult to the point of tears. John would pay money to have seen that. "You didn't learn while at Uni?"
"No time. Also, I got several of the flying instructors fired."
"Fired! Why?"
"I'm sure you heard it on the news. They were sexually harassing their female students."
A little memory blip from years past bubbled to the surface. John did remember a huge scandal involving several teachers and their students, but he was too busy with his own studies to bother with the details.
The good doctor bit his lip, suddenly realizing what Sherlock meant.
While Sherlock was perfectly capable of gliding or flapping, without actual flying, the muscles needed to stay aloft have long since atrophied. Sherlock was in his mid-thirties. It was too late to develop those muscles now.
John, for the love of God, tried not to feel sorry for his friend. Sherlock didn't need it, and would not appreciate it, but being unable to fly! Having those giant, beautiful black wings and never once taking flight?
Maybe that's the reason why Sherlock never took a mate. Once revealed he cannot fly, the potential mate might be scared off, afraid there would be something in his genes that might prevent future off-spring the ability to fly.
Reduce them all to becoming fuckin' penguins.
Something must've been shown on John's face because Sherlock suddenly sneered and said, "Don't you dare feel sorry for me, John. If you want to feel pity, feel it for yourself. I can't fly, but I've never let that stop me. And I, for one, am sick and tired of watching you hug your wings in as if they're something to be ashamed of."
How the hell did one question suddenly turn into this?
It didn't matter, the jib stung. John tried not to be ashamed of his wing. It was a wound that he obtained while fighting for Queen and Country and nobody would look down upon him for that.
But every time John saw the scar, ha hated it. Hated the constant reminder that he'll never fly again, never glide properly, or to even flap his damn wing hard enough to dispel it of water. He hated the way it was constantly on display for all the world to see.
Sherlock might as well called him impotent.
"Fuck you," John hissed. "You and your excuses."
Sherlock rounded on him. "Excuses?"
"I could buy not learning when you were a child, but not learning while at Uni? Or after? Tell me Sherlock, was it because of the drugs or your inability to bite back your pride and just ask someone for help?"
Sherlock's wings snapped out like a massive black wall, giving himself the illusion of being bigger. He towered over John, blocking out the light, nearly encasing the smaller man with his wings.
John was in the army for nearly fifteen years. Damn it to hell if he was going to let a rudimentary aggression technique make him stand down.
His muscles have yet to atrophy and despite the pain from the scar, John stretched his wings upwards, over Sherlock's, the tips of his brown feathers brushing over black ones.
They stood there like that, staring each other down, demanding submission.
Then something happened.
John wasn't sure at what point it started, but when it did, he couldn't stop it.
It must've been the touching, the way their feathers kept brushing against each other slowly. Every breath they took brought their wings into closer contact, mixing in their colors and scent. John gently flinched when he felt Sherlock's wing brush against his back, the primaries ticking the area where wing connected to shoulder.
Holy shit, John realized. This was the start of a mating ritual.
John slowly lowered his own wings, allowing the secondary feathers to stroke Sherlock's shoulder blades. John then bent them in, forcing them both to move closer.
When a twinge of pain began radiating outwards, John hissed and said, "I can't keep this up."
"That's fine," Sherlock sighed, leaning closer to John's face. "I can."