Author's note: Thanks for the support I'm already getting for this story, everyone! Writing a fanfic is a very new thing to me and I'm glad it seems to be turning out well. Also, PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW and tell me what you think because your constructive criticism can help me make this story better. Thanks, and have fun!

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CHAPTER TWO: CONTACTS

Saving someone's life, John thinks, certainly seems to have a strange emotional aftershock.

He looks down at his hand, and back up at the mirror. Back down again, and he frowns. He's done this every morning, every day of his adult life and even some of his younger years; it's become so much of a habit that he really had to think this morning to stop himself. His hand was already halfway to his face when the thought occurred to him – and it was strange, and uncomfortable, and now he's really in a fix.

His first thought was back to last week. He didn't really even think before he'd drawn the gun and fired and hit – of course – which was what was really bothering him now. John's killed people before – not many, of course, he was just a doctor after all – but he's used a gun in his lifetime to put out someone's life like a light switch, although maybe a bit more messy, and it's never been like this.

Because there hadn't even been a question in his mind before he pulled the trigger through that window, through that dark and into the light and into Jefferson Hope's aorta. All he had seen was Sherlock in danger, and that was enough. Bang.

But that's not really all, he reminds himself, lowering his hand and the contacts case with it. He knew, but he kept it a secret. He trusts me. He doesn't seem like the kind of man to trust people, but it's only been a week and he already trusts me.

Do I… do I trust him?

Before the thought is finished, he realizes that he's put the contacts back in the case and put the case back on the shelf. He finds himself looking back up, at his reflection before him, startled for a moment to see his eyes their natural color. The change is subtle, but so drastic that he almost doesn't recognize himself.

With a satisfied nod, he turns and heads out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and bathrobe. He decides he's going to make some bangers and hash for breakfast, and try to force some of it down Sherlock's esophagus.

I guess the answer is yes.

•••

Sherlock trudges into the kitchen, drawn as if by an invisible string tied round his waist, and half-stumbles on one of the piles of case files and unorganized bits of science equipment he's got lying around. The smell of frying sausages, an aroma that would be tantalizing to any other human being, stagnates in the air around his nose. Instead, it's the sight of John that perks his head up.

Over the past week – has it really only been a week? – mornings have settled into a threadbare routine. Sherlock wakes up – or doesn't wake up, depending on whether or not he actually slept at all – at some ungodly hour, either far too early or far too late, and John is at the ready whenever he happens to stumble into the kitchen with some breakfast going. It confused him at first, but he could tell by John's demeanor and the looks he was getting that he must have picked up on the dire state of Sherlock's eating habits. He was a doctor after all, Sherlock concluded – it wouldn't do to have his flatmate starve to death. Still, Sherlock didn't see why John wouldn't just let him do what he pleased and decide for himself when he was going to eat (if at all.) It was irritating to the utmost.

But something's different this morning – Sherlock can tell by the way John's holding himself, and from some other, less noticeable details. Robe meticulously tied; concerned about image, even though Sherlock's the only other person in the flat. Wings held perpendicular to the ground; Sherlock was beginning to note a sort of pattern in John's body language where his wings were concerned. When he was in a neutral state, they would be inclined downward at a gentle forty-degree angle to the ground. When he was happy, more of a carefree and relaxed state of mind, his wings were higher up, reaching a one-hundred-twenty degree angle. When he was exited, they would raise up even higher, almost stretching. Lastly, when he was nervous or exceedingly self-conscious – more specifically, when he was trying to calm himself – his wings would point directly downward, sometimes almost entirely folding into his back, depending on the severity of his state.

Extremely uncomfortable. Very conscious of my presence in the room, guarded stance suggesting nervousness and fear, possibly regret. Conclusion: he's hiding something from me.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and watches silently. The sight of John cooking breakfast in their shared kitchen with the full intent of forcing some of it down Sherlock's throat – two plates set out, extra sausages used, no clean Tupperware for storage of extra food, second chair cleared off, far too much pepper used for his tastes but precisely suitable to mine – pulls at something in his brain. He can't remember the last time someone tried to mother him like this. It's halfway between utterly irritating and… possibly touching, if he were capable of finding things touching. Annoyed, he shoves the thought away and steps forward. I suppose I might like just one sausage.

"You slept in," John remarks, without turning around.

"Mm."

"Sleep well at all?"

"Dreadfully, not that it's at all important," Sherlock responds bluntly. "I will never understand the human obsession with sleep. I find it neither necessary nor enjoyable."

"Yet you yourself told me that you tend to do a lot of it when you're not on a case," John continues. Purposefully avoiding turning around, Sherlock observes.

"And you managed to remember me mentioning that over a week ago," he responds, walking over quietly and coming to stand just beside his flatmate. "Are you sure you aren't in need of something more important to occupy your brain space?"

"If we're going to be living together, I do think it's important," John says, turning to reach for something and jerking back with surprise when he find himself face to face with a tall, dark haired figure.

Sherlock jerks back in surprise as well.

For a moment, they both stare at each other, one in shock and one in apprehension, and nothing is said. The moment grows and grows, until Sherlock finally opens his mouth and breaks the silence.

"I understand why you find it necessary to wear those contacts on a daily basis," he remarks, his voice cautious but steady; "but I must admit, I much prefer this… natural color."

"Wh- really?" John didn't seem to be expecting that. "That's… Okay, then."

He doesn't show it, but Sherlock's pieced enough together about him to know that at least some part of him is pleased. "I hope you don't feel the need to wear those around the flat anymore," he says, walking away to go shuffle through some papers Lestrade dropped off the other day. "I find the very idea that you think it's important to hide yourself from me ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous, it's practical," John says, remembering the sausages and tending to them.

"Not at all. I already know about your… species, and have already made it clear that I do not care." Sherlock continues to leaf through the papers even though he's not paying attention. "In any case, it's not a secret anymore. Why should you attempt to hide your biological differences?"

John doesn't turn around, but pauses. "Most people don't have this reaction."

"Mm, and what reaction do most people have?"

"Er… something along the lines of, 'Holy mother of god, his eyes are bloody purple. Get away, you freak, don't touch me.'"

Sherlock wonders if John can feel him tensing from across the room – most likely, not. "The color of one's irises is hardly reason at all for hysteria. It's a wonder people get by in this world at all without panicking at every change in the weather."

"I'm assuming that by 'people,' what you mean is, 'everyone except me,'" John remarks with a smirk that carries across the room in his tone.

And you, Sherlock adds in his head, immediately shocked that the thought crossed his mind. He shoves into the darkest recesses of his mind palace, keeping it in case it's important but reluctant to actually delete it. What do I mean by that?

In the next moment, the burner is turned off and the sausages are placed on two plates, and Sherlock makes his way over to the table. He might as well have a bite, he decides. And those sausages do look tasty.

John eats across from him, reading the paper. Sherlock can still see his eyes – completely normal except for the irises, a beautiful, deep violet – and his wings behind him, sixty degrees to the ground. Yes, how do they all get by, his head repeats as he chews. Everyone except you and me?