Anote: Warning, a little swearing in this chapter.
Chapter 7- The simple life
'Should we call security?' John muttered from the corner of his mouth, recognising the disconcerting stranger from the alley, even without his black umbrella.
Sherlock huffed loudly in exasperation, wishing that his life could be so simple. 'No. That's fine. John, you can have a chair. This may take awhile or if you want, do have a brisk walk.'
Leave?
It was a given that in a one on one encounter, a non winged person, like their unwelcome visitor, was no match for a winged adversary, but Sherlock's injuries put him at a distinct disadvantage.
John's eyes cut to the group of chairs, which were unfortunately grouped in a way that meant he would have to give up his position, in between Sherlock and the well dressed man.
Finally, he glanced over at Sherlock himself. He looked calm; his wings down and in, and the expression on his face was one more of constipated irritation than anxiety, but still...
'I am fine standing here, if that's alright?' John decided, as he spread his legs apart and folded his hands behind him; settling into a military stance without realizing it.
After a moment of profound astonishment, Sherlock's lips curled up in a slow smile at the belligerent look on John's face. It would appear that his good Samaritan was also willing to add 'body guarding' to his list of doctoring duties.
Sherlock was of course confused that John, whom he only knew for a handful of hours, had taken such an apparent liking to him so quickly.
It was bloody odd.
Stuff like this never happened him.
People talked to Sherlock and then usually walked off in the next direction, as quickly as they could. He found John's stubborn loyalty deeply endearing, in what he acknowledged was an appalling amount of sentiment on his part.
'Thank you,' Sherlock said softly to the back of John's head; judging that this was an appropriate thing to say.
'I find this hard to believe,' Mycroft however remarked, as he absently slapped the I-pad he was carrying against his leg, 'in that you appear to have gotten over your trust issues quite quickly, Dr. Watson.'
John started in surprise and colored a deep plum, as the man had unexpectedly repeated the exact words that he and his therapist had "discussed" just yesterday morning.
How could he know this?
'What the fuck?!' he shouted, feeling the strong desire to pelt the steaming cup of soup in the man's face, 'Who the hell are you?!'
For some reason, this obscene response made Sherlock snigger appreciatively in the background.
When he had deduced John earlier, he had gotten a gentle 'Do I know you, sir?' while Mycroft got a 'What the fuck?!'
It was enough to make Sherlock sing a happy tune.
'I find it amusing, that not only can you piss me off, Mycroft,' Sherlock chuckled sarcastically, 'but that you can royally rile up people who don't even know you. And you say you have no talent.'
The older man tilted his head with a sneering smile, 'But if I can "piss you off" as you so succinctly put it, doesn't that mean that despite all your protestations to the contrary, that I do have control over you? '
'Oh Lord,' John murmured under his breath, not even having to turn around to gauge Sherlock's reaction to that.
The small doctor winced when instruments suddenly overturned and broke, as Sherlock's powerful wings snapped open aggressively with a loud swat; generating a perfect tornado in the small room as they beat together. With an exasperated sigh, the ex-army captain turned around and timing Sherlock's rhythm, he quickly ducked under one giant black wing, as it swooped up in a graceful arc.
Later on he would consider how stupid that was. If had misjudged, Sherlock could have tossed him clear across the room and knocked him senseless.
'Sherlock, stop this!' John hissed in a commanding voice; pressing down hard on Sherlock's pectoral to get his attention, 'Your ribs are in no state to be using your wings like this. Don't let him take control. Sherlock, LOOK AT ME!'
His patient turned his eyes to him; dark, black, roiling with anger.
'Sherlock, don't let him get to you so,' he murmured again soothingly, 'I don't want you to get hurt. He's not worth that.'
It took some effort but John hung on grimly, determined not to let his patient re-injure himself. The only way Sherlock was getting out of this bed, was to take him too.
It had all seemed like a good idea at first, the only feasible one really; but then John began to feel the density of the air change around him in a familiar way. He swallowed hard, as a sudden panic welled up in him.
'Sherlock?' he murmured anxiously, as he felt himself being pulled on to his toes, 'now maybe is not a good time for this, my friend.'
It was true that winged people sometimes took others with them in flight, but it was a tricky sort of business; similar to trying to swim with someone who was drowning. As one of John's medical colleagues put it during their internship, the only way he was flying with someone, is if he knocked them unconscious first.
John didn't care about all this though, he just knew that he wasn't ready to be in the air again under any circumstance.
'Sherlock, please!' he begged in a muffled whisper as he clutched at the bed rail. Sherlock was much too strong for this to have any effect, but John's almost inaudible cry had penetrated his anger fogged mind, in a way that nothing so far had.
Gently, Sherlock put out one hand to anchor himself to John's side and with a deep shuddering breath, he struggled to pull himself together.
A sudden silence filled the room when Sherlock's wings stilled abruptly.
As John found his feet, Sherlock's eyes darted all around him, observing the destruction he had caused.
'Well that was ...unexpected,' John remarked lamely.
'Quite,' Sherlock agreed in an apologetic manner; feeling ashamed and embarrassed that once again, he had done something to upset his rescuer.
John had been decent to him in a way no one had been in a long time, and all he did was scare and intimidate the other man in return. It was if some part of him was trying to push John away; although he very much wanted the opposite.
'Are you calm?' John whispered, as he caught the man's gaze.
A quiet nod came from the bed. 'Yes.'
'Any sharp pains in your chest?'
'No.'
'Do you want me to punch Mycroft in the head now?'
'No, not at this exact moment.'
It was John who started giggling first and soon Sherlock joined in; holding his side as his abused body protested all this extra exercise.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, as these antics continued with so sign of stopping, 'should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'
'Christ,' John groaned softly, when he walked off to collect to a dustpan and broom. Couldn't two blokes enjoy each other's company, without having all this suspicion being excited?
As their visitor switched on his I-pad to finally explain the reason for his visit, John eavesdropped quite unabashedly; snickering to himself when Mycroft hopped out his way to avoid getting his highly polished shoes scuffed by John's vigorous sweeping.
Consulting detective?
John's ears perked up eagerly.
Wow, he solves crimes! How exciting!
He peeked across at Sherlock with new admiration.
Holy chocolate stars! Chinese smugglers, right here in London?!
Then, John almost dropped the pile of broken glass, when Sherlock unexpectedly called the man his brother.
With a rueful smile the small doctor shook his head, as he realized that the earlier conversation made sense now.
It was quite evident that the two men had perfected a delicate balance of moderation, and being complete dicks to each other, which John knew from unfortunate personal experience, was something that many siblings did.
