CHAPTER FOUR: THE OTHER COAT

"Can you fly?"

John looks up, startled for only a second, until he recollects himself with a resigned sigh. It's been almost a month-ish since the "Study in Pink," as John calls it, and also a month-ish since he stopped calling Sherlock "The Madman." He stopped right after the case was over, actually. The name no longer seems appropriate.

Because he's not mad at all, John realized a few days earlier, in a quiet sort of mini-revelation. I don't know what he is. But he's not mad.

I suppose he's his own branch of neuroscience. Let's not get too deep into it.

The question came solidly from across the room, where Sherlock was perched on his chair in his "posh thinking pose," as John likes to call it – legs crossed, and fingertips splayed and together, just under his chin. He looks over now, and sees Sherlock staring very intently at him, waiting for an answer.

John opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He's been waiting for this question to pop up – it hasn't been posed until now, which is a surprise – and even though he's had plenty of time to think about it, he realizes that he's not ready yet to give the full answer.

So he just says, "No," and goes back to cleaning the table.

That's the end of that, he thinks hopefully, but immediately comes the baritone response – "Why not?"

"I don't want to get into it. Because I just can't, alright?"

Sherlock doesn't seem happy with the answer, but doesn't say anything else. The question is not brought up again. John wishes desperately that it could stay that way, but he knows he's going to have to give an answer someday, and he does not look forward to it. Until then, it feels rewarding to have at least one part of his life remain a mystery.

•••

It's a double-homicide, and Sherlock should be a lot more excited than he is right now. John's becoming far too aware of Sherlock's behavioral patterns to let this go as a well-maybe-it's-just-a-bad-day sort of thing. Something is definitely up.

"Right, then," he says warily, trying not to let his tone show that he's got his eye on his flatmate. "Did you leave that… thing sitting in your bedroom? The last time you did, remember, it stunk up your room for weeks. I am not having you sleep on the sofa again. That was a nightmare."

"I'll clean it up later," says Sherlock flatly, his mind otherwise preoccupied.

"No, you won't," says John.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock wanders off down the hallway, and John stands in the living room, sighing.

After half a minute and a text from Lestrade, Sherlock makes his way back from wherever it is that he was. He's got a grocery bag clutched in his hand, which John eyes suspiciously. He puts the bag down in order to don his coat and scarf as John waits by the door. After a moment or two of watching without realizing it, John turns away and begins to put on his own coat.

However, it's not half a second before he feels two frail but surprisingly strong hands grip the back of the jacket and begin to yank it off him.

"Hey!" He can feel Sherlock towering over him, which isn't really helping the situation at all. "What… Sherlock, stop–"

"You are absolutely not wearing this old thing out," Sherlock calmly remarks. "It's ragged and far too light. The weather is supposed to be below freezing today. I can't have you getting ill while we're on a case."

"Sherlock." John struggles to keep the coat on him, but eventually relents. The man slips the thin fabric off of him and tosses it into the corner. "Sherlock. What is this about? Really?"

"Are you accusing me of having some sinister motive, John? I am wounded by your accusation. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I care for your well-being?"

"No, actually," John says flatly, although yes, that had occurred to him. He spins around to face his flatmate, and as he does so his exposed wings whip around and whack into Sherlock's wiry frame. Immediately he pulls them closer to him, trying to make them smaller, invisible, to make them disappear altogether – that age old terror again, refusing to leave him.

He collects himself and looks Sherlock square in the face. "Well, I don't have another jacket," he says coolly. "I'll be needing that one back."

"Won't be necessary." Without another word, Sherlock hands him the grocery bag.

John takes it, reaches inside, and pulls out something black and made of rough fabric. With a sideways what-are-you-up-to look at the taller man, he holds the thing up and finds himself staring at a black coat.

"What…" he begins, but can't finish, because he realizes in an instant that this isn't just a coat, this is a nice coat. A cotton Haversack with a corduroy collar and leather shoulder guards; it probably cost a fortune. He slowly realizes that not only is this one of the nicest coats he's ever held (beside's Sherlock's posh Belstaff number) it is exactly the sort of coat he'd pick out for himself if he had any real money, and it looks as if it would fit him perfectly.

He stops staring for a moment, and looks over at Sherlock, who is looking just a bit too smug – but smiling. Something in John relaxes, as it always does when he sees Sherlock smile, which is something he has never attempted to explain. Despite himself, he smiles just a bit too, but more in confusion than happiness, and asks, "Alright, Sherlock, what is this all about?"

"Present," Sherlock answers immediately. "For you. From me. I got you a present. Problem?"

"Er, yeah, a bit." John eyes the coat suspiciously, and begins digging his hands through the fabric, searching for… he wasn't exactly sure exactly. A hidden bomb, a dagger in the pocket, anything. "Not sure what it is, though. Get back to you in a mo."

"I didn't booby trap it, if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock is watching him, perhaps eagerly, perhaps anxiously. "I was tired of seeing you shivering in that awful nylon rag. It didn't make you much more useful, going blue when I needed your help on a case."

John gives him a withering glance, and continues searching through the pockets. He's about to give up when he feels something wrong.

"Hold on."

He turns around the coat to reveal two long, vertical slits in the back.

His heart plummets into his stomach and everything becomes painfully clear and unclear all at once. "Sherlock…" He can't manage anything more than that. Without another word, he shoves the coat back and walks away, arching his back so that he can pull his wings in better, flatten them alongside him, anything to make them disappear.

"John, wait–" Sherlock calls after him, but John spins around and cuts him off.

"I trusted you, okay?" he snaps, with a rage and pain he didn't know he had lying in him all this time. "I don't… I thought, I really thought, that you were my friend, my god, after everything I've done for you. I guess I was just thick, wasn't I?"

"John–"

"No, you listen. You listen because I don't want to hear anything else you have to say, I don't want to have anything to do with you." John's leg spasms – he clenches his hand into a fist. "You… god, Sherlock. You were the first person in the world who didn't want to turn me into a freak show. Now you give me this, so you can walk me around like your own little fairy pet? So you could fucking show me off? God, I… Look, I'm sorry you went to all this trouble. I'm… I don't know. I just thought you were different."

As he turns again to walk to who knows where, anywhere as long as it's not right here, he feels that bony hand on his arm. He tries to jerk away, even though he doesn't want to. The hand holds firm.

"John…" That low voice comes slithering through the air, so gentle, soft in a way that he's never heard it before. John closes his eyes – he's come to love that voice, even though he shouldn't. Especially not now.

"Let go of me," he says, not as sharp as he's trying to be.

"Please. John, I… I didn't mean…" Sherlock struggles for words, something John's never seen him do before. "I don't think you're a 'freak show,' as you put it. I don't want to show you off. Please believe me, that was very far from my intent."

John jerks his arm away, and Sherlock lets go, and John says nothing.

"It isn't right," Sherlock says. He looks at his flatmate and in his eyes is the slightest hint at a vulnerability that John's never known was there. "You are the most incredible person I have ever met and you shouldn't have to hide any part of you. People shouldn't be afraid of you and you shouldn't be afraid of people knowing who or what you are. None of this is right."

They stare at each other, the silence hanging in the air between them growing heavier by the second. John opens his mouth, closes it, tries again, and succeeds.

"Sherlock…" he begins, looking away for a second and swallowing back something in his throat. "I didn't know… I'm sorry."

Sherlock nods and says nothing.

John looks up at him, and gestures to the coat in Sherlock's hand. "It's a… lovely present, I suppose, then," he says. "What I mean is… it's a nice coat. You must have gone to a lot of trouble."

"It wasn't all that much, really."

"But I can't wear it." He sees the disappointment in Sherlock's face, and adds after a moment, "Not now, at least."

Sherlock pauses for a moment, but nods.

"I'm… sorry I misinterpreted it. I didn't really think… well, actually, I did think that. I was upset that you would… Sherlock." He looks at the ground because he can't look at him just now, not yet. "No one's ever lasted this long with me. I've tried to have flatmates before, or, I dunno, friends, but no one's ever known for this long that I'm a freak and still stayed with me. I was afraid you'd. You know." He looks at him now, without moving his head. "Run away, just like everyone else."

"Don't call yourself that," Sherlock snaps with surprising force. "A freak. You're anything but that. And don't be stupid – why would I leave you, John?"

John looks up, startled at the innocence of that question. Sherlock looks at him with a patronizing why-would-you-even-say-something-so-idiotic expression, one John's very used to seeing by now, but in this context it takes on a completely different meaning. The fact that Sherlock can ask that question and really mean it is almost too much to bear.

It's time to tell him the truth, he decides.

"Sit down, will you?" he asks, quietly.

"John, Lestrade–" Sherlock begins, but John gives him a Look, and he reluctantly takes his place in his usual chair.

John sits down opposite him, and takes a deep breath. "You asked me a while ago," he begins, "if I can fly."

Sherlock says nothing.

"I lied, sort of," he continues. "I can fly."

"I know," says Sherlock, receiving another Look for his comment.

John takes a very long pause.

"Sherlock…" he goes on, his voice breathy and almost a whisper, "I haven't flown in over a year."

Sherlock nods. "That would be, since you were discharged."

"Since I was shot, actually."

"Close enough."

"Will you please stop being so… so Sherlocky for just one moment and listen?"

Sherlock says nothing.

John looks at him. "I don't intend to ever fly again."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "John…?"

"I can't. I just can't." He closes his eyes and tries to block out the memories that are flooding back, just like his nightmares, more brutal now that he's awake. "I almost died when I was shot. I was about five minutes from death but I pulled through. I really thought I was going to die." He squeezes his eyes harder. He's not going to cry – not even close – but the light in the room is suddenly painfully bright. "I wasn't just shot in regular combat. I was shot by one of our own soldiers. A British soldier, Sherlock. I knew him. I was shot because… he shot me because of what I am. He was ordered to by one of the generals. They thought I was dangerous. They wanted to kill me – like I was vermin. A pest. Or some wild animal. The entire troop wanted me dead."

Sherlock is completely silent, but John can see something building up behind his eyes. Is it… anger?

"It was right after I saved all of their lives," he goes on, having fought back whatever was rising in his throat and now talking calmly. "I stopped a bloody missile in bloody midair. I literally chased a heat-seeking missile several thousand feet above the ground and drove it into a mountain. It was the most dangerous, fucked-up thing I have ever done and I'm pretty sure I did it on pure adrenaline. And so the troop takes advantage of the whole mess and the confusion to try to murder me."

Sherlock looks away – John suspects it's because he doesn't want him to see whatever's on his face.

"I used to think," John goes on, "that maybe I wasn't so different. And if I was different, that's okay. There are other people in the world like me. I could be part of human society and still be a fairy at the same time. I used to think that people would come to their senses after a while and see that I'm just like them. But I'm not." He sighs. "Getting shot was a wake-up call. It was hitting rock bottom. I've always been afraid of people knowing what I am, and now I know why. It's because no matter how much I act like a human on the outside, I can never be a fairy on the inside, because people will see through me and they'll hate me and want me dead. It's a nice thought, Sherlock, that I could go out in public like… this." He gestures to himself – all of himself. "But I can't. I can't fly again, ever, because the only way to have people treat you like a human is to become human, and that's just the way it is and there's nothing you can do about it."

In the following silence, John's phone chirps. He picks it up; it's a text from Lestrade. You two coming?

He texts back, In a few minutes.

When he looks up, Sherlock's standing by the door. He's holding John's new coat in one hand and his gloves in the other. He offers the coat to John. "Please."

John sighs, and shakes his head. "I'm not ready. I'll never be ready."

Sherlock doesn't move. "Promise me," he says, his voice not betraying anything. "Promise me that someday you'll wear it."

John doesn't like making promises. Especially not promises he doesn't know he'll be able to keep.

However, the one thing he's come to understand over the past couple of months is that Sherlock seems to be the exception to everything.

John promises.

•••

•••

A/N: I made a little cover art for this fic, which you can view on my profile. Please check it out!