A/N- Well, here it is. The final portion of Children of the Sun and Moon. Or, at least, the final portion of episode One of Sherlock. I may continue with this, but divorcing from the canon storyline, or this may be it. I suppose it depends on what you all :gestures: my Lovely Readers want. So drop me a review with your thoughts, comments, desires, and requests!

Chapter Seven: Sherlock and John's POV

Sherlock's shoulders itched with the heady excitement. The CABBIE, of course. Who else on earth can be as faceless and unassuming as a bloody taxi cab driver? Every day people, himself included, climbed into a taxi and gave them their home address, the address of their lovers, family, place of work, and not a single person thought twice. What an incredibly… genius plan.

The cab driver looked askance at Sherlock, "Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes,"

"I didn't order a taxi," This was the man who'd almost outsmarted him? He looked like a caricature of a cabbie. The hat, the glasses, the snivel in the man's voice.

The Cabbie shrugged, "Doesn't mean you don't need one,"

Recognition flashed in Sherlock's mind, accompanied by a dull ache in his back. Perhaps lying prone on the sofa all day had been a bad idea, "You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger,"

"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer," Oh good, at least this one had a personality.

"Is this a confession?" For some reason all Sherlock can think about is John upstairs in his flat. John asking him with the annoying expression of concern if he was alright. Why would John have thought he wasn't fine? …Why would John care? The case was on! Sherlock only had to play the game with this man for a little while longer then he would understand, understand how and why and what. Then he would return home to John. John?

"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise," There was more. There had to be. Where was Sherlock's fun if the man just came quietly?

"Why?"

"'Cause you're not gonna do that,"

"Am I not?" Why do I wish John had come with me?

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing: I will never tell you what I said,"

What would Jo-Lestrade want him to do? "No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result,"

"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

It was better than a dare, better than a gun to his head, "If I wanted to understand, what would I do?"

The cabby turned and looked at him with rheumy eyes and a poor excuse for a smile, "Let me take you for a ride,"

That shouldn't be exciting, shouldn't cause his body to jolt, but it is, and does, "So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer ... and then you're gonna kill yourself,"

For a second, Sherlock cannot hear over the rush of blood in his ears. That'd be fine, he thinks. His shoulders ache again and he disentangles himself from that train of thought. No, that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of figuring out a case… he didn't want to die. Sherlock gets into the cab, twitching when he thinks he's bumped his back against the door jam, but looking he sees his coat has escaped any smudging.

John feels nauseas, staring out the window as Sherlock climbs a little awkwardly into the cab. He can feel the wrongness in the big elbow joints of his wings, and for some reason it tastes like salt in his mouth. The phone in his hand is forgotten as the first wash of fear creeps up his neck. It doesn't make sense, surely Sherlock knows what he's doing, and surely Sherlock can take care of himself. The man wouldn't do something so stupid as to-

Chop off his own wings-

get into a cab with a serial killer.

"He just got in a cab," His voice is shaky, but he doesn't think the others have noticed. They don't even turn, "Its Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab,"

Donovan turned with a disgusted look on her face and it just served to ignite anger beneath John's fear, "I told you, he does that,"

John growled under his breath. Don't these idiots see the man they use to save their jobs? Do they just think of him as a convenient means to an end, and a punching bag they don't need to feel guilty for attacking?

As Donovan stalks away, carelessly moving through Sherlock's-their-home, John redials, "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out,"

Lestrade sees the importance of that, "If it's ringing, it's not here,"

John can feel the knot forming deep in his throat, he's grasping at straws, "I'll try the search again,"

"Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time,"

Lestrade levels her with a withering look so John doesn't have to, but he can feel his entire body reacting violently to her words. Feathers spread and puff out, his teeth are set on edge and grind ever so slightly and he can hear his mother scolding him in the back of his mind,

'I paid a fortune for those teeth in braces, stop that!'

Finally Lestrade turns away from her, "Okay, everybody. Done 'ere,"

Inside the cab, Sherlock and Jeff ride in silence. Sherlock tried to think, to figure out how the man had done it, but his mind kept spiraling back to his flat, and John inside it. It was annoying, his mind should be on the case, not a psychologically crippled ex-army doctor no doubt still trying in vain to piece together this mystery. It was illogical that Sherlock, after a lifetime of being alone, should crave the presence of another human being-and one that he'd just met, to boot!

'I don't have to,' His mind kept coming back to that. He'd known the man had been invalided home… but he'd almost died? His wounds were the serious? He'd stared down Death with that level headed, blue-eyed gaze? What were the circumstances? Had the idiot walked into a trap? Was he ambushed?

Had he been alone and frightened as he was about to die?

Sherlock's gut, and oddly his back, twisted in pain at the thought of John laying alone, watching his blood race for freedom. Didn't normal people think about their families and loved ones in their brushes with death?

Why had John just begged to live?

Why hadn't he called for his mother, his sister, his lover?

Was… Was John alo—

"How did you find me?" Sherlock wrenched his gaze away from the window and focused it on the reflection of Jeff's eyes in the rearview.

"Oh, I recognized yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'Olmes! I was warned about you," it was sly, told in confidence. They were sharing a secret now, "I've been on your website too, brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

'At least someone appreciates tobacco ash… too bad it had to be a serial killer,'

"Who… warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you…" Coy…

"Who?" The man's veins throb oddly under his skin. Grandchildren smile from the dashboard. Sherlock felt an aberrant spike of sorrow. This man may be a serial killer, may be a murderer, may be a 'bad man', but he had a family that loved him and his death was coming too fast for him to accept it.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat again and shed the sympathetic thoughts, annoyed to have even had them. Those were something Mrs. Hudson would have thought, or Lestrade. Or John, perhaps,

"Who would notice me?"

They meet eyes briefly, and Sherlock marvels at how… dull the little man before him seems. There's no spark in those eyes, no keep cunning intellect. Sure, he was clever… but Sherlock wants more. He wanted this to be an exemplary case, one for the books, one that he would remember in his old age.

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes,"

Sherlock holds in his scoff, but there's a glimmer of light that erupts in the corner of his eyes at the thought,

"I'm really not,"

"Well, you've got yourself a fan,"

It shouldn't please Sherlock to hear that, but some part of him, deep down, buried beneath all the layers of attitude and cold indifference wants so badly to…

Sherlock shrugs away from that train of thought. He doesn't need outside validation. He pursues these cases to please himself. He's married to his work. He doesn't need a fan club.

'Then why was I so pleased when John said I was amazing?' Sherlock shifts and frowns a bit, sitting back in his seat, "Tell me more,"

"That's all you're gonna know… in this lifetime," All of Sherlock's hopes were being dashed to pieces. He'd come with this man alone in hopes of a challenge, of entertainment. Not to be… teased by a melodramatic cabbie.

Sherlock wished he were back in the flat with…

Lestrade broke the silence first, "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

Echoing the concerns spiraling in John's head, the DI startles him, causing his wings to flare open and him to jump a bit. But Lestrade doesn't acknowledge the flood of light into the room, nor the brilliant purple trail of smoke it illuminated.

John shrugged, distracted by the smoke as it hung in the air, bending and twirling, reaching out to twine around his hands and wings like an insistent cat.

"You know him better than I do…" 'How could you not see how he's tried to destroy himself though?' There's a feeling of anger lurking beneath John's amazement. He's disappointed in the people surrounding the dark angel that was Sherlock, disappointed that they choose to turn their venomous words on a man who's done nothing other than be different and brilliant.

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't,"

"So why do you put up with him?" At least Lestrade seemed to care, seemed to realize that Sherlock wasn't some dangerous curiosity to poke and prod.

Real emotion now, "Because I'm desperate, that's why,"

Lestrade turns to leave, striding through the thick purple smoke, one hand trailing through it and fingers flexing like he sensed something was there, "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one,"

His words hang in the air, turning, glittering. They swivel and catch the sunlight filtering through John's feathers, looming in the air until it's all John can do to breathe.

He has to find Sherlock-NOW.

"Where are we?" Sherlock doesn't understand the sudden gravitation he feels in the direction of his home, but the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach leaves him feeling uneasy.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are,"

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" It's infuriating. He should be reveling in the closing of this case, he should be concentrating on the how, not thinking about John.

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out,"

"And you just walk your victims in? How?"

It takes every ounce of Sherlock's willpower to not burst out laughing. The gun is a dull slag of plastic. A lighter? It's ridiculous but close enough to have scared Jeff's other victims. But not Sherlock; he can see the cracks in the paint around the muzzle from where the fire has dried the plastic out. Though he pretends to believe it's a real gun, after all, he does have to play along to see if this is worth it.

"Oh, dull," Well, not play along but you know.

"Don't worry, it gets better,"

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint,"

"I don't. It's much better than that!" Sherlock watches him lower the 'gun', and feels disgusted, knowing that he's going to follow without a thought. It infuriates him. This Cabbie knows that his only weakness is in the knowing and if he doesn't follow… he'll never understand.

Exiting the cab, Sherlock rolls his shoulders and straightens his jacket.

'Damn this leg,' John paces the apartment, furious that his gate is even and measured. Furious that he can walk without that embarrassing cane currently placed haphazardly atop boxes of papers. Ever since he was released from the vet hospital, he's needed that cane to walk steadily. Now, he can run across London chasing cabs in tow of a lunatic in a greatcoat. The same lunatic he's currently out of his mind with worry over.

The ping of the computer makes every feather in John's wings and every hair on his body stand straight up. His breath catches and he practically flings himself atop the laptop, grabbing it even as he memorizes the address. He lurches out the door, following the thin trail of purple smoke as much as he's heading toward the address on the computer.

Sherlock accepts Jeff's courtesy and enters the dreary room first, flinching as the deplorable little man walks into his personal space at his back. Jeff's presence almost physically pains him; a disappointment, and now a tedious chore with the tantalizing promise of 'why' at the end, but made all the more disgusting because-

'John isn't here,'

No, because Sherlock isn't even sure it's worth his time anymore. A Cabbie murdering people because of a heart condition and grandchildren, not even bothering to use a real gun… it all seemed rather pathetic. Why would John's absence be like missing a torch on a camping trip?

"Well, what do you think?" Jeff is proud of this… squalor, and it makes Sherlock even more apathetic, itching idly at his left shoulder. The room is dark, dank, the plastic chairs leeching all the romance out of the setting.

"It's up to you, you're the one who's gonna die 'here,"

And people called Sherlock melodramatic.

"No, I'm not,"

"That's what they all say," Sherlock wants to turn and call Lestrade after all, but turning back now would be giving up. And Sherlock was damned if he was going to let this toadish little man win.

Talk. Talk him to death. Well, so far so good, because Sherlock was bored. He had witnesses, Mrs. Hudson would no doubt be able to remember the slightest detail of the strange and insistent cabbie; as older women were oft wont to do. And an entire department of police officers, not to mention John, would surely be able to figure out that he'd not gone off on a whim.

Sherlock's entire world narrowed down to the two small glass vials Jeff pulled from his pockets. They were identical. No distinguishing marks that a normal person would be able to pick up on. The pills inside too were for all intents and purposes identical.

It was a bloody game. There was no clever plot, not a single ounce of skill. A GAME had dragged him across London and away from the first friend he'd made in years. Sherlock was livid. He could barely contain himself, every ounce of self-control he could muster went into schooling his face and voice into the correct level of apathy he hoped would infuriate Jeff as well.

And listen to him talk! He thought he was the king of clever, "weren't expecting that, were yer? Ooh, you're going to love this,"

"Love, what?"

"Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it," Sherlock itched to slap that look off the man's face. His back ached with disappointment and a desire to go home.

"My fan?"

"You're brilliant, you are. A proper Genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now, that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think,"

Sherlock wants to scoff, he really does. This man thinks his heavy handed, sledge hammer approach to murder made him a genius. Made him on level with Sherlock. Jeff wasn't even on level with Anderson.

"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" The man wants something from Sherlock, some type of reaction. He's loathe to give it to him, but if it'll make this terrible night go any faster…

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too,"

Jeff missed the sarcasm completely.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know,"

All the while Jeff was explaining his 'game', Sherlock studied the bottles. They were home filled, generic little capsules the homeopathic believers purchased at the whole foods stores. Nothing was distinguishing about either capsule, which meant that Jeff had to keep track by which pocket they were stored in. Risky. Stupid. Sherlock's shoulders itched, and he started to grin when Jeff told him he'd be taking whichever pill Sherlock didn't choose.

But one thing still bothered him, "It's not a game. It's chance,"

Jeff leveled him with a completely undeserved condescending stare, "I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, its chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move,"

That opening move left a trail of sparks in Sherlock's vision, making his breath catch in his throat. There it was, there was the excitement. It was a move taken straight from a movie, and was simply recursive 'if, then' guesses into infinity. But it was interesting.

John watched that trail of elusive purple smoke through the front window of the cab like a hawk, watching it weave through buildings that he had to travel around. He wished the wings in his imagination were real, because then he could fly straight to Sherlock and the murderer and lay a taste of good old England's Hell on the scoundrel. He might even punch the criminal too.

"Everyone's stupid. Even you," Sherlock wanted to box the man's ears, talking like a savant when he was just some puppet with his strings pulled by Sherlock's 'fan'. Jeff wasn't a genius. He had a play book, a script, and he was following it so well even he had started to believe in the farce. It was a waste of Sherlock's time but…

The colors of those pill bottles had changed. They were bright and new, sparkling in the dull room they were in. A siren's song, that's what it was, a siren's song to his bored brain. He was so bored that even a fifty-fifty chance was tantalizing.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," Jeff laughed, but Sherlock just wanted to see him choke.

John jumped out of the cab at the Roland-Kerr College, hurriedly tossing money at the cabbie with no small shiver of worry. Sherlock's smoke has diffused in the air until he cannot tell which building it's coming from. Even as he charged into the one on the left, his wings told him he was cutting his time close.

"So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play,"

"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts," Sherlock feels triumph when a flash of pain ripples through Jeff's face, "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?"

He's got Jeff now, "Told me what?"

In brilliant shimmering lights above the man's head, like a word written in the night air by a child with a sparkler, in a shower of celestial ribbons the word 'Dying' appears.

"That you're a dead man walking,"

"So are you,"

"You don't have long though. Am I right?"

It's like twisting a knife into his subject, and Sherlock smiles.

"Aneurism," Jeff taps his head, "Right here. Any breath could be my last,"

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people,"

"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism,"

There's a shimmer of a lie across Jeff's face, "No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,"

The light in the room is gathering around a single bottle. But is it the right bottle?

John runs like he hasn't since deployment, "SHERLOCK?"

Door after door opens to empty rooms, "SHERLOCK!"

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here,"

He's tired of this farce, and begins to force Jeff's hand. The gun is a fake, time for the man to come clean about that at least.

"I know a real gun when I see one,"

Almost like he's pouting, Jeff puts the gun away, "None of the others did,"

"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case," Sherlock is up, striding to the door. He's not stupid enough to risk his life on pure chance. If there had been some way other than to guess, he would have chewed through his pill an hour ago. But to waste his life on a madman and his keeper?

"Just before you go, did you figure it out ... which one's the good bottle?"

Sherlock froze at the door, bristling, "Of course. Child's play,"

"Well, which one, then?"

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on. Play the game,"

It's a challenge, a dare, and an insult all in one. And Sherlock isn't strong enough to ignore any part of it. He sweeps back to the table, gripping the bottle that's glowing the brightest in his mind and continues to the other end of the table.

"Oh. Interesting," Jeff plucks the other bottle up as Sherlock studies his.

The purple smoke John is chasing has begun to scream with a high pitched sound, so like the emergency air raid sirens that had stolen his sleep during the war. Like the sound of a bomb falling through the air. The sound of a mine as the pressure pad was tripped. A steady pulse of white flooded through it, wrapping around John and fairly dragging him into an empty room. The light flowed against the outer wall, and filled a room in the opposite building.

Jeff is fiddling with his own pill, "So what d'you think? Shall we? Really, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

Across the way, John watches in mute horror as Sherlock opens the pill bottle.

"SHERLOCK!"

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you ... so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this ... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything ... anything at... to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you? Innit good?"

Just as the pill capsule touches Sherlock's lower lip a shot rings out, tracing a searing arc through Sherlock's vision as it buries itself in Jeff's chest. He can see the sharp indigo of his surprise, and the green after image of the trail the bullet took through the air. The pill tumbles from Sherlock's stiff fingers and clatters away into the gloom, no longer glowing nor interesting to him.

The room across from theirs is empty, the window open, but it's still filled with a brilliant golden light. Sherlock wants to leap across right now, rush into that glow, find who caused it; who saved his life, because he knows know that he was….

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" When Jeff just gurgles on his own blood Sherlock chucks the pill into the shadows. His eyes are still filled with the brilliance of the light from across the way, and he hates this shadowy little cockroach bleeding out on the ground.

"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name,"

"No,"

Sherlock sees red, but its rage filling his mind. Rage at being toyed with and now cheated of his prize, "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name,"

Sherlock grinds his heel into Jeff's shoulder, feeling a rush of cruel pleasure as the blood wells faster, "A name. Now,"

Still Jeff bites his tongue, until Sherlock leans his full weight on him, "The NAME!"

"MORIARTY!" And just like that, the stupid little cabby with grand puppet strings is dead.

Later Sherlock is hunched on the back step of an ambulance, growling at a poor paramedic who's just trying to give him an orange shock blanket.

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me!"

Lestrade smiles at him and shrugs, "Yeah, it's for shock,"

"I'm not in shock," If anything Sherlock feels the best he's felt in ages. He feels like a weight is draped across his back, under the blanket, much like his scarves had felt at graduation. Almost like a protective heat was attached at his shoulder blades just below the skin. It was irritating, but he found he… liked the feeling.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade grins at Sherlock's mock-pained expression.

"So, the shooter? No sign?"

"Cleared out before we got 'ere, but a guy like that would have had enemies I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…," Lestrade shrugged again, obviously not concerned, "Got nothing to go on,"

It's an invitation and Sherlock knows it, "Oh, I wouldn't say that,"

Lestrade pulls out his notebook, "Okay, gimme,"

Standing up, Sherlock begins to talk, each word making the heat along his shoulder blades grow and pulse, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ...,"

Sherlock turns his head, scoping the crowd that had gathered to watch and he spots John standing at easy parade rest behind the police tape, "…and… nerves of… of steel…"

Fireworks explode behind his eyes. The night is blooming into colors he hasn't ever seen before. As people pass, Sherlock can see the waves in the air they cause, see the hairs fall from their clothing, hear their laughter. The moon is suddenly ten feet away and insistently tugging at his heart, his lungs, he can even feel his liver shift as the ground under his feet jerks to the left.

Great, huge, immense feathered wings unfurl behind him and Sherlock is left gasping, staggering on the inside, feeling the muscles that weren't there a minute ago flex. A blue door in his mind palace has been burst open, has been blown off the bloody hinges. The mad dash across the city floods back into his mind. The feeling of gravity and orbit fills his inner ears. Sherlock can smell the fire and plasma coming from John Watson, and more-so, he can see the gigantic golden wings arching around the little Ex-Army Doctor too.

John standing there, unassuming and innocent, but anyone who could see those wings would be able to see it, see what John had done. There are scars on them, like a splash of quicksilver across the inside of the flight feathers. They arch up into the night sky, shedding light around John, feathers splayed like a territorial display of power, and John looks terrifying. A glorious, fiery angel of justice.

Sherlock's mind spiraled back into him and he turned with a lurch as the wings on his back flexed, "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,"

Lestrade chokes, "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," Sherlock begins to walk toward John, his feathers combing the air behind him.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the-," the fact we have wings, "the rent,"

"But I've still got questions for you!"

"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Sherlock brandishes the blanket at Lestrade emphatically, feeling his own wings arch up over his head and seeing the purple shadow cover Lestrade's face.

"Sherlock!"

"And I did just catch you a serial killer! …More or less!"

Lestrade stops, eyes boring into him for a moment, and Sherlock sees him decide to ignore this fit of pique.

"Okay, we'll bring you in tomorrow sometime. Off you go,"

Sherlock walks, almost runs, to John, pitching that ghastly blanket into Donovan's squad car and then ducks under the tap, cringing as it grazes his feathers.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything. The two pills. Been a dreadful business hasn't it? Dreadful," John is looking not at him, but behind him, tracing the curve of Sherlock's wings with a look of… relief on his face?

The realization douses over Sherlock like ice water. 'John knew from the beginning,'

"Good shot,"

John's flight feathers spread wider as he tries and just fails at looking innocent, "Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window,"

"Well, you'd know," 'We have wings,' "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," John clears his throat and blushes a bit, "Are you alright?"

'You can see them,"

"Yes, of course I'm all right,"

'Yes, I can,'

"Well, you have just killed a man,"

'We have wings,'

"Yes, I ..." John trails off, "That's true, innit?"

This little man seems to be taking the knowledge that he and another man have just sprouted massive wings in stride like it's nothing.

"But he wasn't a very nice man,"

'We have wings,'

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,"

'Is this okay?'

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here,"

They both start to giggle, and John gasps out, "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me,"

"Keep your voice down!" John slaps at his arm, but when his hand is stopped by dark feathers and the electricity runs up his arm he stumbles, recovering when he saw Donovan looking at them darkly.

"Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think,"

Sherlock curved one of his wings protectively around John, keeping it between them and Donovan, "Sorry,"

John watches it curl around them and clears his throat, "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up,"

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever,"

"Why would I do that?" 'Is this okay?'

John smiled and pressed his wingtip to Sherlock's in a peaceful, pleasant… loyal motion, "Because you're an idiot," 'Yeah, it's okay,'

Sherlock works hard to school his smile back to something acceptable. He's found someone who… understands him. The sun to his moon.

"Dinner?"

"Starving,"

Epilogue

As they're walking away John slaps Sherlock's arm again, "Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about,"

There's a halo of yellow around the man's head as he exits his expensive car.

"I know exactly who that is,"

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock's entire manner has changed into something akin to childish annoyance.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you,"

Sherlock motioned toward John, "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

The man tuts, "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

Now John is entirely confused. There are millions of connections from Sherlock to this suited man with his fleshy face. The ones from the man to Sherlock were indeed warm, but mid-way the colors changed to something more bitter.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy,"

Sherlock squawked, feathers ruffling, "I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!"

John pushed forward No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, "Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft," as John's brain restarted, Sherlock spat another quip at his brother, "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," came the stiff reply.

"He's your brother?!" Wings John could handle, but not older brothers who kidnapped the potential roommates of their family members, it seemed.

"Of course he's my brother,"

"So he's not ..." John felt his wings wilt.

"Not what?" Sherlock and Mycroft both look at John.

"I dunno-criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock chuckles.

"For goodness sake!" Mycroft huffed, "I occupy a minor position in the British government,"

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Mycroft sighed but Sherlock forged ahead, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic,"

John moves to follow Sherlock, but pauses, turning back to Mycroft, "So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course,"

"I mean… it actually is a childish feud?"

Mycroft is watching his brother with a barely concealed look of fondness, "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners,"

"Yeah…no, GOD no!" John turns to follow Sherlock again, "I-I'd better um..." Anthea is standing next to the car, "Hello again,"

She blinks owlishly at him, "Hello,"

"Yes, we-we met earlier on this evening,"

"Oh..?"

"Okay, good night," This girl doesn't have the same halo of light around her as Sherlock. Neither did Lestrade, or the killer, or even Mycroft. None of them have wings.

It's just him… and Sherlock.