Woo, another chapter! :)
Disclaimer: Sherlock's still not mine, but I'll get him one day.
Enjoy!
The sound of John's footsteps on the stairs startled Sherlock out of his reverie. Quickly, he folded in his wings, pulled on his dressing gown, and flung himself down on the sofa in a position of easy nonchalance.
John clomped up the stairs slowly, obviously weighed down with shopping. He reached the landing and hobbled into the kitchen, dumping the carrier bags on the table with a sigh of relief.
"Tea," Sherlock demanded, just as John clicked on the kettle.
"On its way," John said, with a yawn.
"You're tired," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question, but John treated it as such.
"Yes I am… All this bloody…" He stifled another yawn. "Running for miles through London at three in the morning trying to find some errant investment banker, or insurance broker… whatever he was… It takes it out of you."
"Hm," Sherlock said. His mind wandered, unbidden, and he had the sudden urge to wrench back his dressing gown and show John what was hidden beneath, beg him to accept him, even if he was a freak. His heart began hammering in his chest, and his wings switched nervously. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers, hoping to pass off his anxious exhalation of breath as a contemplative sigh.
John had disappeared into the kitchen again, and thankfully, the reckless impulse faded somewhat. That was, until John returned carrying two mugs of tea, one of which he set down gently next to Sherlock's arm, shifting aside a beaker full of mould to make room on the coffee table. Sherlock didn't need to look at it to know that it contained exactly the right amount of milk.
"Sherlock? What's this?" John had picked up something from the floor – when Sherlock saw what it was his stomach did a backflip. He fought to keep his face impassive.
John. Holding. My. Feather.
"Surely it's blatantly obvious that it's a feather, John."
It must have fallen out, damn it, damn it, damn it.
"I know," John said placidly. "But it's unusual."
Oh no, please no, just put it down, forget it, throw it out of the window, just stop being interested.
"Seriously, Sherlock, look at this!" John sounded ridiculously keen on the stupid feather in his hand, turning it over and over with enthusiasm. Every time he brushed it with his fingers Sherlock felt a peculiar little chill shoot down his spine, as if it were still attached to him.
"John, I have absolutely no interest in some absurd feather you have discovered," he said quickly, in his most bored voice. "I really have better things with which to occupy my time."
"You haven't had a bird in here, then? I've never seen a feather like this before." He ran his fingers over it again, and Sherlock's breath hitched slightly.
"No, John, I think I would know if there had been a bird wandering the flat, spontaneously moulting irritating feathers," he snapped. John, shrugged, as usual unperturbed by his rudeness, and set the feather on the table tenderly.
"It's got nice colours to it. I was just wondering…"
In the days that followed, Sherlock was unfortunately without cases, and this left him both dangerously, recklessly, experimentally bored, and also (worryingly) spending a great deal of time contemplating John and the wing situation.
Then again, maybe "theorising situations involving John and the wing situation" would be more appropriate.
Or perhaps, "imagining potential sets of circumstances that might necessitate informing John of the wing situation".
Or possibly, "daydreaming about how one might happen to accidentally disclose the fact that one possesses wings to one's flatmate".
Oh, sod it all.
Fantasising about showing his wings to John.
Maybe John would walk in on him one morning just as he was waking up (he usually began the day with a long wing-stretch, if he could, as if to compensate for the uncomfortable sensation of being lain on that they had to endure for the majority of the night) and catch sight of them then.
Maybe there would be a case that would somehow involve investigating the outside of a tall building, and so it would be purely a matter of business, and he could announce to John: "I happen to be perfectly equipped for this case, in a rather unusual way", and then obviously have to reveal his wings in order to go and observe the outside of the building.
Maybe if (heaven forbid) John was to fall off a building, for example (they spent enough time running over rooftops for this to be perfectly possible), then Sherlock would simply wrench off his shirt and fly down to catch him. He quite liked the idea of saving John's life, not that he hadn't done it before.
Of course, the easiest way would just be to sit down beside John after they'd solved a case and announce that he had something to tell him, and then show him the wings. But somehow the idea sent butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach, because if he was afraid (all right, petrified) at what John would say.
He tried to analyse all the options.
Worst-case scenario: John would call him a freak and hand him to the scientists to be poked and prodded for the rest of his life. Sherlock knew that prior evidence of John's personality made this distinctly unlikely, but the fear was still there. And somehow, bizarrely, he thought he could live with the "being handed over to scientists", but the thought of losing John's friendship, the thought of losing John, sent quivers of cold up his spine.
He didn't really dare to think too much about the reaction he did want from John.
He supposed he wanted acceptance, just someone to tell. Someone he could moan to when his wings were aching, or someone he could share the amazing joy of flying with. He wanted to be able to stretch out his wings in the living room instead of having them scrunched up against his back all day long. He wanted John to be interested, impressed – he wanted him to ask questions and care, like only John could. Somehow, he didn't like lying to John (even though he'd never felt bad about lying to anyone, before, ever).
And somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind (and he'd never admit it to himself, ever), he wanted something else, though he wasn't quite sure what that something else was.
He'd had a dream once about kissing John. It had been after a case that had kept him awake for nearly eighty hours straight, and when sleep had come for him, it had taken no prisoners. The strange thing was that in the dream, the kiss hadn't even seemed important. A light brush of John's heated lips on his, as if it were perfectly normal and natural, but so good that it had taken his breath away.
He'd woken breathless and confused, and somehow no matter how hard he tried to erase that imagined memory from his head, he couldn't.
Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, attempting to focus.
"Come on, Sherlock!" Lestrade urged. "We'll lose him!"
"Willoughby Street, then the alley off Lincoln Way," Sherlock announced.
He and Lestrade shared a single glance, and then each raced off in opposite directions.
"Donovan, Tomlins, Mellson, with me!" Lestrade barked. "We'lll head him off round the corner. Move it!"
Sherlock and John, of course, were left to chase after the miscreant (a petty thief who'd recently turned to drug dealing) to make sure he was driven straight into the arms of Lestrade and co. Sprinting down brightly-lit streets, dodging the rowdy drunks falling out of bars and clubs, then along a dark alleyway, then…
It was the sharp, metallic click of the safety catch that alerted John, and he was immediately acutely aware of the danger. His army training kicked in, the rush of adrenaline hitting him like a train. "Sherlock!" he yelled, and careered into the consulting detective, knocking him backwards on to the tarmac just as the pistol barked and the bullet skimmed over their heads. A second later, the sound of running feet as their quarry beat a hasty retreat down the alley, and then the shouting of obscenities as he ran into the four policeman at the end of it.
Sherlock and John lay, panting, on the ground, hearts thundering. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his wings painfully crushed beneath him. "Thank you, John," he murmured. "I believe you have saved my life. Again."
"No problem, Sherlock," John said evenly, clambering off him, dusting himself down, and reaching down a hand to help him up. "God knows what you'd do without me, eh?"
Sherlock attempted a chuckle, but his damaged wings were hurting badly. Of course, John the doctor (as opposed to John the soldier, or John the tea-dispenser) noticed at once.
"Are you OK, Sherlock? Sorry, I must have given you a nasty old whack when you went down."
"It was certainly preferable to being shot," Sherlock replied curtly, and clambered awkwardly to his feet.
John still looked worried even as they bid goodnight to Lestrade and his new, scowling prisoner – he kept shooting Sherlock small, concerned glances, and insisted they get a taxi instead of walking. By the time they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock felt exhausted, his strength nibbled away by the furious concentration that had been required by the case and the agonising spasms of pain in his wings. His legs felt like jelly, and he barely made it up the seventeen steps, immediately collapsing gingerly on the sofa, cautious of damaging his wings still more.
"Are you all right?" John said urgently, clearly worried by Sherlock's unusual silence.
"Quite fine, John, if only you would stop pestering me," Sherlock snapped. John gave him a sharp look that quite plainly read, I know you're only being obnoxious to try and put me off, and left the living room, returning a few seconds later with a first aid box, which he set down decisively on the coffee table. Sherlock stared at it blankly.
"Come on," John said encouragingly. "Let me have a look at your back – you must have scraped it when I threw you to the floor back then."
Sherlock's heart leapt into his mouth and began to beat at what felt like three times its normal speed.
"That's quite unnecessary," he said coolly, refusing to meet John's eyes.
"It'll only take a moment," John insisted. Why, oh why, did the man have to be so bloody persistent? "Come on, take your shirt off."
No, no, no, no, no… He can't see them, he can't…
Sherlock shuffled along the sofa, trying to get further away from John, who frowned in perplexity.
"Sherlock, what's wrong? Look, calm down, I'm not trying to make a pass at you, or anything…"
For one insane moment, Sherlock thought, I would prefer it if you were.
"Please, just let me have a look. I'm a doctor, remember? I know what you're like – you'll leave it, neglect it, and it'll be infected before you can say 'idiotic'. Just pull up your shirt and I'll check it out."
Sherlock heart was pounding in panic. Somehow the fact that he'd been daydreaming about a moment like this only days before seemed incredible. The reality was terrifying – what if John was horrified and repulsed? He could just see the shocked expression in his mind's eye, that step backwards, that flash of fear…
"I can't," Sherlock mumbled, and instantly regretted it. John's eyes blinked in apparent understanding.
"Look Sherlock, if there's… scars, or anything there, it doesn't matter, OK? I'm a doctor, and I'm your friend – I'm not going to judge you, am I?"
But you won't be able to help it – oh God…
"I'm just trying to help – trust me," John said gently, and his face was the mirror image of when he'd said, "It's all fine", that time in the café, when they'd only just met. The soft brown eyes burned into Sherlock's, and he felt his hands begin to shake.
"John, don't…"
A thousand thoughts flashed through his head at once.
Don't be disgusted, don't hate me, don't call the scientists, don't laugh, don't run away, don't think it's some kind of joke, don't be afraid, don't think I'm a freak, don't walk out, don't leave me, don't…
"Don't what, Sherlock?" John asked quietly, and for an answer, Sherlock pulled off his shirt.
Just a quick thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, put on alerts, etc, last time – you all made my day, honestly! Thanks for all your encouragement, and please please please tell me what you think – favourite bit? looking forward to part 3? :)
PS. Really sorry if people got loads of multiple alerts, the website was being stupid when I was trying to put it up! :)
