Anote: Why are there not more hours in the day to spend with my favourite boys?
Flashback: From my personal experience over the last few weeks,' Sherlock said quietly as he straightened up, 'I believe that some of the mythological aspect of the histories between white and blacked humans are true.'
Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled. He had begun to suspect this for some time too.
Chapter 29- Sixth sense
Only a small sliver of Sherlock's mind was truly focusing on his older brother as the other man stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and filled his small cheery red kettle with water from the tap.
Soon the appliance was bubbling genially over the Bunsen burner that was designated for that particular use.
Mycroft then resumed his seat near to the armchair that Sherlock had folded his long limbs into. The consulting detective had used the interim time to recover himself and he had a pensive stoic expression on his face, as he stared at his laced fingers.
It said something to Mycroft about Sherlock's attachment to his new friend that he would willingly risk future blackmail into disagreeable boring government assignments, rather than take a course where John might find out about the secret.
Sherlock's eyes flicked up to collide with his.
'Can you tell me about it?' Mycroft asked bluntly.
The detective was taken aback by such a direct approach. However he didn't comment on it further as he concentrated, trying to put the sensation into words, 'Sometimes a person would say that they were thinking of someone who they have not seen in years and suddenly the telephone rings. That is what it feels like that, but a hundred times stronger.'
Mycroft scowled anxiously not liking the sound of this at all.
'What are you saying?' he asked quickly, 'you hear John in your head?'
Sherlock gifted him with a look of scorn, 'of course not. That would be crazy.'
Again the young man struggled trying to find the right way to explain. 'I just feel where John is.'
'And where is he now?'
Sherlock extended his arm and pointed to the left wall so quickly that Mycroft turned his head, half expecting to see the doctor standing there.
The government agent scrambled for his mobile, hitting the speed dial for the Inspector, wanting to check the relative location of the missing duo to Baker Street.
'Jesus,' the older man swore softly in amazement as he finally hung up the phone.
Sherlock stared at him and shrugged. The truth had been tapping on his mind for awhile now and after the first staggering moment when he fully comprehended what was going on, Sherlock had grown accustom to his new sixth sense.
'The information doesn't intrude into my mind,' the young man informed him,'I have to focus if I want to localise him.'
'Can you pinpoint the street they are on now?'
'It's not like a digital readout,' Sherlock replied testily, his mouth puckering in annoyance at these questions.
'Is there more?' Mycroft asked quickly sensing that his brother's temper was starting to fray. 'Can you sense anyone else?'
Sherlock shook his head, 'No, just John'
'Not Aya?'
Again Sherlock shook his head. 'I even constructed a few experiments on board the ship, and they were all negative. I could not find her.'
'Perhaps she is too young,' Mycroft reasoned. 'We need to ask someone else, if they can "sense" John. Didn't John have a friend among the black winged? Harold, I think?'
Sherlock raised a hand to stop him, 'I agree with your systematic search for information but I don't want John alerted to what we are doing. This must be carried out discreetly.'
Even as the young man said the words out loud, a niggling fear began to emerge that it might be better to tell John this before he found out from someone else. Sherlock ruthlessly squashed this idea into oblivion. John was not going to find out, ergo there was no need to tell him anything.
'I will leave it to you then,' Mycroft agreed breaking into his thoughts, 'on the provision that you inform me what you find out. You have enemies Sherlock, who would not hesitate to exploit a potential weak area. Don't become complacent.'
'John is not a weak area,' Sherlock snarled at him in an ugly fashion, hands curling into fists.
'I never said that,' Mycroft said mildly in a placating tone, while he eyed the way that Sherlock's wings came alive suddenly as they flexed powerfully on either side of his brother's slim frame, 'if I could poach him from you, and add him to my staff I would.'
Sherlock snorted loudly, 'You must be delusional. John is loyal to me and only me.'
The two men fell silent as they sat there and stared suspiciously at each other, the same thought seemingly in both their minds. Over the last month their normal paradigm was suspended, and there was surprise at being in a new uncharted country where there was a measure of trust between them.
To cope with this uncomfortable scenario, Mycroft prepared himself a tea using his brother's purchase while Sherlock stood up and began to pace.
They was really only one path in the living room that Sherlock could take without crashing into anything and the edges of his wings harmlessly skimmed centimeters over the tops of chairs, narrowly missing one of Mrs. Hudson's vases.
Mycroft tried to restart the conversation they were having but Sherlock had locked him out. Undaunted, the government agent leisurely sipped his tea and stared meditatively at the wall, as he planned out his week. For sure at the top of the list, he was assigning one of the University historians to do a through report on the interaction between white and black winged humans.
Abruptly Sherlock stopped in the middle of his walk, and looked down at the floorboards.
'What's wrong?' Mycroft asked in concern as his brother remained disconcertingly motionless.
In the quiet that followed they could now hear a commotion below stairs.
'John?'
Sherlock nodded his head briefly, and stood with his back to the door staring out the window. Confirmation was immediately forthcoming as Lestrade's powerful voice boomed up the stairs.
A perfunctory knock later and their guests entered. Lestrade of course came to a sudden halt, as he gawked at the clean surfaces and floral decorations. Comically, he backpedaled to double check the number on the door.
John however, walked in further with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and looked around in interest. 'Well...this is lovely, quite lovely. Honestly Sherlock I was expecting a dump, knowing your habits. Oh hey, there's the skull you told me all about!'
Sherlock turned just as John was staring hesitantly at one of the flower vases, understandably perplexed as to why there were so many colorful bouquets scattered around. The small doctor looked drawn. Hardly surprising given the interview he had just come from.
Lestrade had just sat down next to Mycroft on the settee and fixed himself a cup of tea, when Sherlock walked over and rudely snatched it from his fingers.
'You look like you need this,' Sherlock said softly as he came up behind his friend, offering the hot beverage. John smiled as he looked over his shoulder.
The smile however morphed into a frown and with his free hand, John unexpectedly grabbed Sherlock's chin and tilted it towards the light.
Too late the detective backed away, but not before the doctor noticed the slight tinge of red in his eyes. John was perhaps a little too observant for comfort, considering Sherlock had a secret to conceal.
'She just wanted to meet and offer me employment,' the doctor reassured his new flatmate, incorrectly deducing why Sherlock has been upset, 'Her majesty sends her best wishes. I can't believe you know her. She actually knows your name. I like William.'
The man squinted at John's mischievous look. 'I prefer to be called Sherlock.'
John sipped his stolen tea to mask his grin.
'Did you see the gallery?'
The doctor nodded his head as he sat on the window ledge. In the course of the evening, the Queen had taken him away to see her private gallery of family portraits. John of course knew his history well enough to know some of the royal family in the distant past were white winged, as they were a very powerful group in their day. But he was no relation of course, as his white mutation was not transmitted genetically unlike Sherlock's and everyone else. It still had been beyond cool to see the pictures though.
'And what did you think of her majesty, herself?'
'Short but intimidating,' John blurted out without thinking.
Sherlock sat in the window too, and curled in his large wing effectively screening them from the rest of the room.
The detective wouldn't say he was particular skilled at navigating social interactions not the way he saw other people doing. He however felt as though the way they were just silently staring at each was supposed to be odd, but it wasn't; not to him.
He left it up to John to say something or break their eye contact, but the good doctor just yawned up at him. It warmed a place deep inside Sherlock that the other man always seemed so comfortable around him. This whole notion of having friends suddenly didn't seem to be such a bad idea at all.
No wonder people collect them.
'I feel as though I could sleep for a week,' John murmured as his head connected with the cold window pane with soft tap. Hesitant at first, Sherlock brought in his wing closer to draw the other man to him, causing John to slump into his chest as he drifted off into the soothing blankness of sleep.
