Author's Note: Sorry for the lateness, but I blame sickness and college starting again. IMPORTANT NOTE- In reference to a question asked in the reviews about people leaving Trias in search of more hospitable societies, the issue lies in realm travel. Due to all permanent portals, a.k.a. rifts, being government controlled, getting out of Trias if it is your home realm is an affair that takes 10-15 years if they believe you are legally eligible to do so. If not, your not leaving unless you use less conventional methods, but those are either A) next to impossible, B) extremely expensive, or C) are left to very slim chance. Sherlock would've been lucky due to running into Shades who create rips, non-permanent portals (lasting close to 24 hours), and getting away fast enough to access these. Most people don't get away so fast.
Anyways, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 5: Of Notes and Strange Happenstance

The sound of a gunshot resounded through the flat, waking John abruptly from a rather deep slumber. Groaning in near physical pain, he wiped a hand over his face, taking a glance outside the window just as another bang reverberated through the rooms.

"At least the suns' up." He said under his breath, grabbing a robe and finding his way into the sitting room where he found his guest, wide-awake for what could've been hours, with John's old military revolver in his hand pointed directly at a rather hideous vase once owned by his mother that John just hadn't felt the need to rid himself of. It didn't take a genius to realize what the winged man's next move was. "Wait-!"

There was another crack, punctuated by a shattered of cheap porcelain all over the small table upon which it was perched. The projectile then lodged itself directly into the wall behind the now beyond repair mediocre piece of pottery, alongside two other such holes, marking Sherlock's progress thus far with the weapon. John might've praised him on actually hitting the vase if they were in more appropriate location for such device to be practiced with and not in the flat.

"What in Oruik's name are you doing?" John shouted, coming over to wrestle the object from Sherlock, who gave it over remarkably easy. It had been two weeks since the man had fallen through his window, and he had been in a steady decline into the madness Mycroft has hinted towards.

"I don't know any Oruik." Sherlock snapped, going over to John's chair, surprisingly, and collapsing upon in a dramatic display, his wings and arms coming to wrap around his knees which were drawn to his chest. The bandages had been thus far removed from two of them, leaving only the stump still needing regular cleaning. John had been surprised by the quick pace of healing, even still after Sherlock had scoffed and complained at the subdued progress. "Your 'gods' have no sway in my actions. Please stop assuming their nonexistence does." He was in some kind of mood this morning, John observed as the man rested his chin upon his knees.

"Fine. That still doesn't explain why you were deliberately shooting at my wall! How did you even find this anyway?"

"Second drawer in your desk. Not exactly a master lock. It only took me a moment to pick." John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, fighting back the urge to shout angrily at the man before him, well, shout at him more.

"Great, but why shoot in the flat?"

"Might as well. I have nothing else to do."

"You were just learning how to write metal-speak yesterday!"

"Yes, and I've already mastered that to an acceptable point." John let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Of course you have."

This had only been the beginning. In the following weeks, Sherlock had taken apart all of John's mechanical devices, breaking a good fourth of them, a half of which were beyond conceivable repair. His natural sleeping cycle seemed to have evened out, meaning the man was averaging four to five hours a day, where he would take short naps in order to fuel his minimal sleep requirements. This led to loud violin concertos in the middle of the night and odd experiments on John's foodstuff. He wandered into the kitchen one morning only to find several pieces of fruit, all different colors, ranging from normal to downright disturbing. When questioned about the the rather macabre array of vegetation, Sherlock had stated innocently he was observing different effects caused by several of John's medicines, minerals, and chemicals he kept stored around the flat.

"On fruit?"

"Testing them on myself would be counter-productive, seeing how my immune and digestive system(1) differs from the usual Trias human, and might hinder my healing. If I did not have to worry about my wings, they would've been applied directly to me, saving you a few berries." John gave up on that matter, letting it rest for the moment. Sherlock continued to happily test the different chemicals and herbs however, no matter how much John protested, resulting in the flat needing several smoke clearings, a few permanent stains, and one frightening yet hilariously melted pot that Sherlock had not allowed John to throw out. It now stood proudly upon the kitchen counter, despite John's best efforts to put it in Sherlock's room.

It was three weeks into their tentative relationship that Sherlock began disappearing altogether, for hours on end. John had come home early one afternoon to find the winged man completely missing. He had checked everywhere, even going so far as to asking Mrs. Hudson about the misplaced Sherlock. Two hours later, however, he had come sauntering in, seemingly all too pleased with himself, feathers puffed up and a pink flush in his cheek from the bitter wind of the day.

When John had questioned him about the sudden want to leave the flat, the man had merely shrugged, seemingly affronted by John's anxiety by his little outing. "I was merely familiarizing myself with the city. As much as I loathe leaving here for the barbarity of the metal-worker's domain, I do need to know my way around this mindless maze." Sherlock had stated simply, making his way over to the icebox. John had to agree with that, coming down from the blatant worry that had been fogging up his mind earlier.

"At least leave some form of note so I don't think you've been stolen and murdered by some psychopath." John pleaded, remembering the paper that morning. Another man, a journalist this time, had been found dead that morning. The papers claimed that the two deaths were being treated as murders. It was odd that the maniac who was responsible hadn't been caught yet, seeing how the bluecoat's(2) track record was something to be admired. No one escaped them, and this was the first serial killer in centuries to have actually succeed in earning that title.

Sherlock agreed to his demand, and began leaving short notes on scraps of paper whenever he left un-accompanied. At first, they went simplistically:

John,

Left around mid-morning. Be back before mid-meal.

Sherlock

But as the days went by, they become more detailed and often amusing, especially when John came home from the ward or his appointments:

John,

Decided to watch the dock workers. The machinery is fascinating in an almost disturbing manner. Do all ships run off of the reddish fuel I've seen them shoveling into them? All the ones back in Exemia are powered by the workers themselves. Birds seem to enjoy me, which is only mildly irritating. Mostly it's the golden ones. Are they always so friendly? Be back before nightfall, though you could join if you felt so inclined.

Sherlock

They brought a smile to John's face as he read them, Sherlock's bored drawl echoing through the words. He stowed them away in a drawer where he didn't have the desire to throw them away. Most of the letters detailed his plans for the day, which were generally observing the citizens of Guier, asking rather innocent questions and always ending with a rather carefully worded request for John to join him on his escapades. He never met up with the man, though he would write notes back if Sherlock didn't come back before he retired for the evening or left for the day:

Sherlock,

Can't join you. I have to work on a write-up for a rather odd bout of the flu that's spreading around the ward. No, the para birds generally avoid humans. Do those people you watch ever notice you? It must scare some of them seeing a tall strange winged man staring at them from across the street. Please be mindful of who you talk to.

John

John,

I keep myself to roofs when I do this. Children look at me, though the parents don't ever notice. It seems all young person's act the same in our realms. I can't imagine growing up in this stifling city. It's at least three times the size of my childhood home. At the marketplace today. The birds follow me around everywhere now, so I assume that means they must find some sort of kinship in me. They perch near me on the roofs. I took some bread to feed them, hope you don't mind. The birds and children act a like. Won't be back until late. Just look up and you might see me, if you wanted to find me.

Sherlock

They all went along those lines, and yet they never discussed them outside of the notes. It was almost as if some sort of secret they could share and enjoy, even beyond what went between them in the flat. When they were alone together, they both held back from whatever connection they may have made. It frustrated John for he wanted to, but didn't allow himself to understand the way Sherlock watched him from across the sitting room, or the why his stomach fluttered whenever their eyes met. He ignored the twang of arousal that hit him whenever Sherlock moved about the flat in little clothing, or how the man shuffled near him in public, keeping their sides close even on an empty sidewalk, their shoulders brushing and Sherlock's wings lightly touching his back.

It was an odd dangerous sort of dance they did as the days faded into weeks, subsequently turning into months. John refused to acknowledge any other possibilities than their borderline symbiotic friendship. Sherlock was steadily growing into the extraordinary in midst of all the mundane that John hadn't realized he craved until the Exemian had fallen through his window. Coming home to the random experiments, broken machines, and feathers lodged in his furniture, brightened up his mood considerably every evening. He slowly began to forget what life had been like without Sherlock living with him in this flat.

The moments spent in Stamford's office were tense at best. Sherlock had no love for the prosthetics 'dangling about', as he put it, and Stamford had an endless amount of curiosity for Sherlock's wings. Thankfully, the latter was more than helpful, though it tended to add the winged man's discomfort. John would chuckle silently as they seemed to circle each other, Stamford trying his hardest to actually study the wings from a distant less than two feet and Sherlock wholeheartedly not allowing such an action to take place.

"He's too touchy." Sherlock complained one evening, the messenger machine taken apart before him on the sitting room table as he studied its design for what must've been the third time. John was past trying to stop him at this point, knowing the man could actually put it back together in some semblance of normal.

"He's a man of science. It's not often something like you comes walking through his door." John halfheartedly defended, eyes riveted to the newspaper, though nothing in Guier ever really changed. Taxes fluctuating, Nazzers being spotted close to the city limits, and some poor bastard intended for the rope or the 'machine' was so perfect in their frequency, John might've had a heart attack if he didn't see one of the three in the paper every other day.

"It's a matter of respect and personal space. You don't go around patting each other on the groin just out of 'scientific curiosity'." John had no real response to that, snickering behind his paper as they fell into a comfortable silence, muddied only by the flipping of a page or the chink of metal accompanied by a fascinated sigh. These evenings when neither had nothing to do save for spend the hours sitting in the same room, even if silently, were John's favorites. It was calm and companionable. They passed in a lethargic sense, and generally ended with John going to bed with the sound of Sherlock's violin following him.

Rain was inevitable in Guier, being a port side city(3) and the fact that the rain seemed to have no better place to be on a perfectly fine three-day when John had decided to venture out to the shrines for the first time in weeks. Sherlock had already left by the time John had awoken that morning, his note informing John he'd be out near the factory district, where the machines were crafted. This gave the perfect opportunity to head out without the man scoffing at him with disdain.

Few people wandered the Temple that morning, choosing instead to wait until a less miserable day for worship. John preferred this, not usually being keen on people watching him from the corner of their eyes, judging his habits in parallel to their own. The nosiness of a stranger could make or break a person's reputation, even at the sacred grounds. Bluecoats enjoyed milling about there, ready for anyone to whisper a tidbit in their ear for their next arrest. Thankfully, no officials seemed to bother with the Temple today, leaving John and the few other citizens to their rituals in peace.

The Temple was more of a series of four halls interconnecting into a square, surrounding a courtyard comprised of grass, bushes, and flowers. At each of the four corners stood a single shrine dedicated to one of the five gods, yet the center of the field lay a smaller temple all its own that housed the shrine for Oruik, the god of the metal-workers. John made his way for the central shrine. He had no real need to visit the gods, yet customs and laws mandated he did at least once a week and his negligence was soon to provoke officials into doling out fines.

"Odd, seeing you here." The familiar deep voice startled John as he crossed the grass, causing him to turn on his heel and he nearly came face-to-face with Sherlock himself. The rain fell lightly, and in the grey light of the cloudy morning, the man had never appeared so out of place. He stood, hands in his pockets, with his wings making for a cover over his head, gazing with interest at John. Water ran lightly off his gleaming feathers, making them glisten in a fantastic sort of way that not only John seemed to notice. The few passing patrons gave Sherlock suspicion glances before continuing with their tasks.

"I thought you'd be downtown." John said, slightly shocked at his companion's sudden appearance. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I was yet they wouldn't let me in the factories. I milled around the city limits, but a bluecoat sent me away for straying too close to the outskirts."

"So you came here for…what?" He was slightly miffed at the man for being here. He had picked a time specifically so that he could be as far away from his opinions as possible.

"What better way to understand a group of people than by observing their religious practices. I expected you to be here. I knew you hadn't visited these shrines since I arrived."

"So you deliberately led me on so I would go to them just so you could show up and watch me?" John pursed his lips, anger coursing through him. He began to walk away, the chill in the rain starting to annoy him. Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, turning him round to face him, his wings extending slightly to cover John too. "I'm not going to stick around so you can mock me."

"John, please." He caught his eye, fingers trailing to grasp his wrist. "I want to learn, but you're the only one who can teach me." His expression seemed sincere, and John huffed in defeat after a moment before looking away, still not satisfied with this change in plan.

"Alright. Fine. But," he prodded a finger sharply into Sherlock's chest. "You are going to behave like a respectable person." Sherlock nodded, his fingers tightening slightly as John went to pull away, yet eventually letting him loose.

John began the quick jaunt towards Oruik's shrine, Sherlock following close behind so his wings provided some cover from the rain. Stepping under the pavilion and allowing the harsh smell of iron and oils to break over his nose, John shifted smoothly from citizen to worshiper, back straightening and eyes lowered in reverence, the routine so set from the aroma and visual cues that it took little mental effort to reach that stage. There, in the middle of the candle lit shrine was the statue of Oruik, built the size of a tall metal-worker in the dense bronze art-iron. A thick muscled figure, with a rugged face covered in a dense beard, he held a large silver hammer in the midst of being brought down over an anvil. His garb was that of an olden blacksmith, reminiscent of the times before the Great Divide, depicted as rough cut leather that fit loosely over the body. The feet were molded to the pavilion floor, as though Oruik himself had taken form from the very earth beneath him.

John approached the sculpture humbly, very aware of Sherlock's eyes on the back of his head, though he paid him little mind. He pulled out a small amount of money, depositing it at the small bowl at the feet of Oruik and kneeling. Hands placed on his lower thigh, he murmured the few words of prayer, his mouth ushering the words that his mind long stopped having to provide. Quietly, he stood, touching his forehead briefly in reverence, before turning back to a contemplative Sherlock.

"This is Oruik." He stated, stepping forward to stand beside John while taking in the statue.

"Yes."

"What do you come to him for?" It was a simple question, one that John could easily and comfortably answer.

"He's the god of metal. He's supposed to be the first one to discover how to shape the ore that was found eons ago. He's the one who led the metal-workers in the Divide, and helped build Guier. You come to him when you don't have the strength to continue on, or when you need guidance." John explained, looking into Oruik's steel gaze. "He's supposed to offer structure."

"The Divide... That was in a few of your texts, mostly in passing. That was when the three tribes split apart, yes?" John nodded, pleasing Sherlock's ever present need to be correct. "Interesting. Can we see the other's?" He appeared too excited for John to say no, so they left Oruik behind. Crossing the courtyard again, John took them to the halls. They walked silently on the way to the next god, arms brushing with every other step.

Coming to the end of the walk, they came upon the next statue, this one in a golden art-iron and in the form of a woman, depicted laying on her back and naked save for a cloth draped over her lower abdomen, groin, and upper thighs. Her soft features and alluring face gave the viewer a come hither look, her left hand outstretched and beckoning the worshiper while the right arm covered her breasts.

"Haldan, goddess of love and intimacy." John informed Sherlock as soon as they made it to her. Sherlock gave her an once-over before scoffing at the statue.

"I know several woman in Exemia would have a glorious time ruining this piece."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"Of course, lonely people must pray to her for companionship. I can only imagine the type to stop before this one." He scoffed, and John felt his face heat up slightly, remembering the last time he had visited Haldan was not three days before Sherlock had tumbled into his sitting room. "Who's next?"

Next was John's personal favorite. The god was built not out of metal, but made of a smooth light-brown hard stone, and fantastically realistic. Ruiesh sat upon a large metal slab, his slim-tentacle appendages spilling over the floor, curling and unfurling as though they were actually moving. His upper torso was like any over human's, smooth and un-clothed. His hands lay in his 'lap', holding a mortar and pestle as he crushed herbs, though his boyish face peered up at the worshipper, a coy smile adorning his lips as though he would break into a laugh.

"A sea-farer." Sherlock said in some surprise, moving closer to the statue.

"Yes. Ruiesh, god of healing and knowledge. Supposedly the one who led the others into the ocean to the Middle Islands."

"Your god then?" He questioned offhandedly. "Being a doctor and all, he must play some sort of role in your religious experience, or do you allow your patients to come to pray before him?" John rolled his eyes.

"It works both ways sometimes."

Next was Indrid, whom Sherlock found rather interesting. "Why is she holding one of those birds?" He scrutinized the small para bird, wings folding a little around himself as he glared at it.

"The para birds are to symbolize humanity, I think. They're not found anywhere other than the cities. Plus, it's a little weird for her to hold small people in her hand."

"I wouldn't put it past the sculptors." They moved on shortly after.

"Nells, god of strength, war, and the sky. Protection." The marble statue had always intimidated John, the flying god standing so proud with a serrated sword outstretched towards the worshipers. He was tall, taller than the other gods, clad in a robe, four wings haloing his body. His handsome clean-shaven face was set in a permanent expression of disapproval as he looked beyond to the courtyard, unburdened hand gesturing towards the temple's ceiling. "You go to him in time of unrest in life, when you don't feel safe." John glanced to Sherlock, who was gazing upon the statue with some form of approval, his own feathered limbs twitching in curiosity.

"Four wings, to set him apart from the other flying men." The man murmured to himself. "Is he always depicted scowling, or is that just a form of metal-worker caricature?" John laughed at this, shaking his head.

"Usually, he looks angrier." Sherlock stepped forward, lightly touching the end of Nells sword. "Even when he's painted in the company of Haldan."

"I'd be rather miffed if I had to be forever set in place with her." He hummed to himself, moving ever closer to the god, fingers trailing lightly along toothed edge of the weapon. They made a pair, Nells and Sherlock. "I rather like him."

"He's said to be the first winged flying man, leading them to the mountains when the Divide happened(4)." Sherlock nodded to this, stepping away from the marble. "You look a little like him." John commented with a teasing smile after a short moment. Sherlock scoffed, glaring back him, clearly not appreciating the comment. "Oh, now you two are definitely cut from the same stone(5)." Glancing outside, he noted the amount of time they had managed to consume with a jolt. "We should get going. It's getting late." Sherlock agreed, and it wasn't long till they were out of the temple, headed home. The streets were clear for the rainy afternoon, which was both a blessing, for Sherlock seemed it an appropriate time crowd next to him as they walked, yet a curse for no carriages were available for them to hail. It mattered not though, for Sherlock's wings provided enough cover overhead.

"Do you always do that when it rains? Must be a rather silly sight in Exemia with all the Anhelans covering their heads with their feathers." John smiled at the thought, picturing it in his head.

"The oil on my feathers repels water naturally. It'd be a shame to waste a perfectly good use for them." He caught John's smirk, before grinning slightly himself. "And yes, it does look rather odd."

"It's nice though, not having to hold my own 'cover." John commented, shuffling minutely closer. There was no reply, and their slow gate continued in quiet peace. Of course, not all peaceful things were to last.

A woman came careening between them, shoving John out into the street onto his side, his head hitting the cobblestone as she streaked past them. It happened so suddenly, John didn't have time to right himself from the flashing behind his eyes and the pain in his skull before three bluecoats, riding black yusuei galloped around him, chasing after her, followed by a large carriage, heading straight for him. His mind, fogged with dizziness and agony, seized as the vehicle gained on his prone figure, before two hands grasped him, hauling him out of harm's way and into the arms of Sherlock. Panting, John watched as the carriage charged by, the rickety wheels and clacking of hooves echoing loudly in his ear.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said in a worried tone, one arm firmly holding John to him, while the other hand tilting his chin side to side as the man examined his head. Pain bloomed in his neck and the right side of his skull as Sherlock moved him.

"Yeah…" John hissed as Sherlock's fingers gently touched the growing lump on the side of his head. "By Oruik's beard, what was that?"

"Thief, judging by the sack she held tightly to her chest. Most likely stole some form of money or valuable jewel, if the amount of bluecoats is anything to go by." He murmured, though John didn't catch most of it, his head and neck beginning to throb. They stood there, as John blinked the lights behind his eyes, trying to gain focus back through the sharp pain. Sherlock held him close, the hand on his lower back stroking in soothing circles as his wings, injured or otherwise enfolded around them.

As the initial shock began to ebb, John noticed the warmth that Sherlock seemed to exude from his being. Even in the cold wetness of the weather and the chill from the breezy evening, the man was fantastically comforting. In a moment of weakness, John found himself pressing closer, head still pounding and heart still racing. With his arms pressed into the man's chest, he let his cheek rest against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tightened his hold on John, sighing at the contact.

The embrace lasted only as long as it took John to remember where they were standing and he pulled away a little too quickly, head spinning at the movement. Sherlock seemed reluctant to let go, crowding close again when John let out a groan of pain, clutching his head for emphasis.

"I'm fine, we just need..." His ears began to ring as his tongue slurred over the letters, and he grunted as he almost doubled over, but Sherlock was near for him to balance on. With a hand on the taller man's shoulder and an arm around his waist, he was guided to a nearby bench, which he gratefully sat down on. "I think... I can't..."

"You... stay here...-etch a carriage." Sherlock murmured, his words worming in through the haze and noise in John's mind. He nodded, bringing another wave of sharp pressure while black edges began to dark his vision. He heard rather than saw Sherlock leave, though he tried to call him back, but nothing made much sense at the moment. The last thing he remembered was the numbing rain hitting him and the whistle of a self-propelling carriage.

1- Seeing how he's from a different evolutionary line than John, Sherlock would have to be mindful of what medicines he would ingest. He was thus far lucky with the painkillers and salves John has been using for his wings, but that is due to the plant in which they extracted from.

2- Bluecoats are the general term for all police-like persons in Trias for their, as you guessed it, signature blue outfits. As to why they have a good track record, this is because of the fact the government keeps a very close eye on its citizens, which the bluecoats have access too, and the fact that many metal-workers make for very bad criminals.

3- Just to give terms of geography, Trias is a planet with two large land masses that wrap around the globe, split into five continents, three of which are in the South, while two are in the North with a very large body of water in between. Gueir lies on the Northern land mass on the very tip of a peninsula.

4- Trias religion is based solely off of the legend of the Divide, and is shared between the three peoples. Oruik (Ore-rook) and Ruiesh(Rue-ish) are static in their appearance. Nells is female in the sea-farers depictions, and Haldan is female only in the metal-workers. Indrid and Haldan's species changes depending on which people you are with. An interesting factoid: Ruiesh actually has no gender, since sea-farers are all (sexually) hermaphrodites. Metal-workers usually refer to Ruiesh as a 'he' because he has the chest of a man, and the sea-farer's sexual ambiguity is not a common known fact.

5- Being a society centered around mining and ores, their favorite metaphors are plays on rocks and metals. 'Cut from the same stone' or any variation is used to say that either two or more persons look or act alike.

Most of the notes down here aren't strictly necessary but I provide them to bring the reader more knowledge of the world. Thank you for reading, and please review!