Author's Note: Wow, I didn't even realize- it's been four days since I updated this… oops. I thought I'd already updated. My bad… So here's a longish chapter. It's not extraordinarily action-filled, but it's got some… well, read on.
I've already got the next chapter set up and everything. I promise, the next two will be trés exciting. I confess- I'm a bit nervous that some of my plans for this story may upset people, or they won't like it. I almost went back and changed it, but then the whole plot would change. And I told myself to stop worrying about what people think. I write for the audience, sure, but I also write for me, and I can't make everyone happy. I'm bound to piss of some of you, one way or another, so why not go all out?
Anyways… I just hope that, as the story develops, you all will remain understanding and flame-free, and won't curl your noses and stop reading. Keep an open mind, yes?
Thanks to GoldenVine, The Arcticourt Spellwright, and madTARDIStraveller.
To The Arcticourt Spellwright: That's your work? That's pretty excellent- what exactly is it? It sounds pretty cool, if you've got an understanding of biology like this, as well as an understanding of the under-the-rug experimentation by governments, that's some really excellent work. Kind of all my favorite things in one- conspiracy, biology, and some pseudo-pathology. What a mix! In response to the stem cells and calories injected to help wing growth, like I said, we aren't at that level of bioengineering yet. And when we do, granted, it probably will be a lot more complicated than this. I doubt there will ever be such thing as wings-in-a-bottle (syringe) but what the hey, it's writing.
Chapter Seven
I found some space in a few of the drawers to put my things and finished unpacking.
I found him making French toast downstairs (it seemed he had a penchant for breakfast foods) in his pajamas and dressing gown. I felt uncomfortable in that way that one gets when they show up somewhere and is outclassed- like one girl at work who wore sweats and a band t-shirt to work every day, but still looked stunning, leaving me feeling fake and like I was obviously trying too hard.
"I do rather enjoy breakfast foods. Usually that's the only meal I eat in a day. Not anymore, though," he said grumpily, as if reading my thoughts (another familiar thing). "They're quick to prepare and easy to cook, as well as nutritional, if you do it right. You can start cutting up the strawberries."
I wordlessly went over to the fridge and found a carton of strawberries, washed them, and found a small knife. I hulled the tops into the trash, not using a cutting board but slicing against my thumb, the way my mother had taught me, pushing the knife through the strawberry until it was fully through and pressed harmlessly against my thumb. I knew that if I slid it forward or back I would hurt myself, but I knew better than that.
"It seems that your job from now on will be dicing things. You work well with knives," Sherlock observed absentmindedly.
I didn't say anything, still bristling slightly from the wardrobe issue.
"There's a small glade in the woods that will be a good place to begin learning to fly. We can take a ladder out- I believe it will be easier to fly if I'm already in the air, not trying to get up first. I'll figure out how to do that later. Now, I just need to figure out how to move them properly."
I nodded and continued cutting, then retrieved the syrup and forks. We went out to the verandah to eat.
"I've offended you," he said musingly.
"Yes."
"How?"
I almost choked on my French toast. God, was he oblivious. One would think I would be used to his Aspergers by then. "You… you insulted the way I dress and said I have a boyish figure!" By this point I was less angry (I couldn't hold grudges worth crap) and more hurt.
"Molly, you wear boxy slacks and cardigans that would be better suited for a six-year-old, and your hair is always up in a ponytail. I've only seen you wear it down once. You wonder why you can't find a boyfriend, but with such young dress that's so ill-suited for your shape, it should be obvious."
I could only stare wide-eyed. He rustled his wings and ate more French toast as he continued.
"I would never be able to guess your figure, with such shapeless clothes, except for that one Christmas party where you wore that dress that left little to the imagination. You have small breasts and hips, thin legs and arms and lips, prominent collarbones and very little adipose tissue to add to your shape, and even when you do try to gain weight, it all goes to your stomach. You could take pheromone pills that would help you gain a more womanly figure, but your tasteless clothes and repetitive hairstyle shows that you've all but given up anyways."
This time, there was no John to shout at him and make him apologize. I just stared at my French toast and willed the feelings away. I was getting quite good at it.
"You j-just offended me again," I said in a low voice. He furrowed his brow.
"I'm afraid I don't understand how honesty is at once admired and loathed," he said.
I picked up my plate and went to bed.
Morning came delightfully late. I didn't get up until about ten. Going through the motions, I went to the closet to fetch some clothes and saw the blue dress hanging where Sherlock had put it. I saw my reflection beside it- my bland face and dull brown hair and eyes, common features, nothing exotic, varying from plain on the best of days to unattractive on the worst.
I found a towel and went to shower in my bathroom, hardly noticing the beautiful tile patterns of dark blue and white on the floor and walls. Under the water, I was tempted to cry, but I knew that after crying once, I was weak-willed and susceptible to more crying for days after. Anyways, today was going to be a new day. I would throw myself into this work, like Sherlock always did- maybe that was how he was so unemotional? I hoped it was, because I really didn't want to feel anything.
Today was a day for the anatomy of wings, the physics of flying, the chemistry of energy. Science and experimentation.
When I returned to my closet, clad in just a towel, I faced a problem. Sherlock was right- the dress would look excellent on me. I didn't want to put it on and be his lapdog doll, dressing the way he wanted, but I felt that if I didn't wear it, I would seem juvenile and rebellious.
Contrary to popular belief, I did have a bit of a fighting side, or at least, stubbornness. I wasn't just a mouse all the time- I had a very stubborn habit. So I didn't wear the dress, and instead settled for a sort of a compromise, wearing the clothes that Mrs. Holmes had gotten for me, but not wearing the dress.
I pulled on a pair of 'skinny jeans' (as the label said, but they were the ones on top of the pile so I decided they would work) and a dark blue collared button-up shirt with rolled sleeves. It looked like it could've belonged to a boy, but when I looked in the mirror, I realized that Mrs. Holmes, as tactless as she was, had done a good job matching the wardrobe to my figure.
And just to prove Sherlock wrong from yesterday, I left my hair down. It was a little frizzy and bone-straight, but it seemed acceptable with the outfit. Very little makeup, per usual. Sandals- I wanted to feel grass on my feet, and the rest of my clothes were warm enough.
Right. Presentable, I went downstairs. Sherlock was laying languidly on the couch in the sitting room (another amazing room- it was spacious and open and he had the verandah doors open to let in the warm breeze) with his laptop on his lap. It was open to videos of birds flying in slow motion.
"Different birds fly different ways. I suggest we pick a few to start with," I said, looking over his shoulder. He glanced at me once, then turned around in a double-take.
"You aren't wearing the dress," he commented.
"No. But I'm wearing the clothes your mum got, so it's a compromise. I almost didn't even do that," I retorted quickly.
"Hmm," he hummed, looking me over and making me feel self-conscious. I cleared my throat and took the laptop from him.
"We're going to want to try ones that will match you best. I think we'll want to look at eagles- you're large and have a massive wingspan, or at least, larger than a finch or sparrow. We'll look at owls, and maybe hawks. Things that have big wings and more mass to lift," I said decisively, typing in searches and finding the appropriate videos.
"We can bring the laptop with us to the glade," he said, getting up. We went outside and I breathed the air deeply, savoring the fresh earthiness of it, so different from the tainted London air. I waited in the courtyard with the backpack as he went to the shed to find a ladder. He came back with a tall orange one tucked under his arm, and I couldn't suppress a giggle as I recalled that he would be soon flinging himself off the top of it, trying to fly. He noticed my laughter and frowned with confusion.
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "Just- you're going to jump off that and try to fly."
"I don't see the humor," he deadpanned. I laughed again.
"Never mind. My brother jumped off the roof once with a blanket because he thought he could fly. He landed on the wheelbarrow and broke his fibula." I thought for a second. "I guess that wasn't very funny."
"It wasn't. You shouldn't continue to try to make jokes when they so often fall flat."
"Yeah," I sighed. "You aren't going to break your leg, are you? I brought plenty of medical supplies, but I left them back at the cottage."
"I won't. What did you bring for supplies?"
"The usual first aid kit stuff, like antibacterial cream and gauze and bandages, plus moleskin, burn ointment, splints, tourniquets, a finger monitor, butterfly stitches, morphine, collapsible crutches, antibiotics, and a few other things," I listed.
He raised an eyebrow- maybe he thought I'd over packed, and thought he was clumsy. Or maybe he was thinking about the morphine. I decided to keep an eye on it, to make sure none went missing, though I was fairly certain his drug days were behind him. Well… somewhat hopeful. Okay, I had no clue. I was staying at a posh cottage in the middle of nowhere with a possible druggie sociopath with wings.
"Good," he replied.
We walked in silence down the cobblestone path. I looked around, drinking in the fresh outside and reveling in being in the countryside. I did so love it out here, but I loved my job as well, and there was very little need for morgues and autopsies out there. As much as the outside called to me, I knew that I was almost as happy when I was dissecting a body.
"Look," I said, pointing to a tree. A pair of porcupines lumbered beneath it, one of them digging in the ground for grubs, the other sitting contentedly. They looked up at us and froze, and Sherlock froze as well.
"It's okay," I reassured him, walking around them and smiling. I'd grown up in a fairly rural area, so it wasn't a big deal for me. He followed carefully, watching them distrustfully, making a much larger circle around them. They stared at us for another moment before returning to digging.
"I don't like being out of London," Sherlock grumbled. "It's so chaotic and damnably peaceful out here."
"Ha! London is chaotic, if anywhere, and the peace is nice." He scowled, but I ignored it. "I had a dog once that bit a porcupine. That was the first time I ever did anything medical- my dad sat on her and held her mouth open and I cut the tips off the barbs and pulled them out. Poor thing."
"Your pity was limiting to your career- you could've been a doctor or a veterinarian," Sherlock deduced.
"Yeah, but… yeah, okay. I like what I do now, though. I don't like pain, and the way I work, there's none," I said.
"You were bullied as a child, yes?"
"A little, yeah. Well, no. A lot. I got teased a lot, and then started to get beat up. And I hadn't said anything about the teasing, so I figured that telling about the fights shouldn't be told on, anyways. And once a snitch, always a snitch, everyone would remember that I tattled and I wouldn't have any friends at all. Not that I had much for friends, up until fifth year, at least."
"Hmm."
"Were you bullied? I bet you were," I said smartly, trying to be deductive like him. Then I realized what I'd said and blushed. "I mean… I didn't mean…" I huffed and tried again. "You're just that type… smart and quiet, and pale- you were an indoors kid, and rich so everyone was jealous, I bet."
"Thank you for bringing that to light," he said scathingly. I shook my head, frustrated with my inability to say acceptable things.
"I mean… What I mean, is… is people are awful. Not just kids. They want everything, and if someone has something they want or don't have, then they hate you. You had brains and money, so they wanted to compensate, bring you down to their level, so they beat you up. It's okay, I got beat up too, but it wasn't because they were jealous."
"Molly, I'm very comfortable with silence. You don't have to fill every quiet moment with 'chit-chat', especially when your 'chatting' skills are so underdeveloped."
I stared at the path in front of me, forcing myself to enjoy the beauty of the woods, deciding to stop talking. I was supposed to lose myself in science and work. Right.
We got to the glade. It was lovely, as promised. A clear pond that Sherlock promised was perfect for swimming, if I 'took joy in such lunacy'. A little garden, a central courtyard, benches, the works. It wasn't extremely large- if you didn't include the pond, it was only about forty meters diameter. I set the laptop down on a bench, after brushing a few stray leaves off.
"Right, so we'll try the eagle first. See how it keeps its wings flat, like a kite, and most of the movement is in the shoulders and tips of the feathers?" I said, opening up the video. He leaned over to look, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves while extending his wings through the slits.
"Got it. I'll do a few practice flaps on the ground," he decided, moving a little ways away so I could watch and not get hit. He beat his wings a few times, first clumsily with his lips pressed tightly together in frustration, then more fluid. I chewed on my lip, observing.
"Tilt your wings down a bit, you're- yes, like that. Can you do it any faster?"
"Give me a second," he said through gritted teeth. I watched and nodded as he accelerated his wing beats. "I do feel a bit of upward lift. Maybe enough to try the ladder." He'd set it up while I'd found the videos, and I looked at it untrustingly.
"I don't know…" But he was already headed up, stopping about three quarters of the way up.
"Ready?" he called. "You need to watch carefully and tell me what I need to correct."
"Yes, ready!"
He beat his wings five times, hard, reaching the fastest he could move them, and pushed himself into the air with his legs.
Only to land back on the ground, stumbling slightly but not face-planting.
"Damn!" he shouted, shaking out his wings.
"You weren't going to get it on your first try, anyways. Maybe we should focus on just getting you to stay off the ground before we do any real flight," I suggested tentatively. He nodded and climbed back up the ladder. "Wait!"
"What?" he said irritably.
"How did it… was it natural-feeling to you? It was introduced to your genes, so maybe you have some, I don't know, bird instincts, or something like that?"
"It felt… I don't know. Not natural, exactly. It felt a bit normal, ordinary to me, but I had to think about it."
"Hmm," I said, looking back at the computer, then at his wings. "Try again, then."
He did, with the same success, mostly. This time, he seemed to fall slower, and I noticed his feathers at the bottom fanning out and catching the wind.
"Yes! Like that, only more!" I said excitedly. He went up the ladder again and tried as I said. This time, he managed to tilt himself forward, and really did face-plant. I put my hands over my mouth as he sat up and wiped the dirt off his chin.
"I'm fine, don't look at me like that," he scoffed. Then he realized I wasn't in shock or worried. I was laughing. "Your schadenfreude is showing."
"My what?" I asked around giggles.
"Your enjoyment of the misery of others," he grumbled, brushing the dirt off himself. "This isn't working."
"No," I agreed, surveying the dust on him and smirking.
Author's Note: Schadenfreude is a wonderful word, is it not? I don't speak German (sad face) but I've got a close friend who does. Cool guy. Anyways, I'm VERY eager to post the next few chapters… so eager, in fact, that enough reviews may encourage me to post sooner rather than later, hint hint hint.
