Chapter 5: John Has Another Trick
Sherlock sits next to John on the sofa back in Baker Street. He is fondling John's hands. John is leaning his head against the back of the sofa, his eyes half closed, looking quite relaxed. John doesn't know of any reason why he should not be savoring this, so he is. Sherlock is a pleasant, comforting warmth beside him. He turns his head so that his nose brushes against Sherlock's shoulder, and he inhales. Sherlock's odor is warm, and heavy and makes John feel safe and relaxed. He nuzzles his nose closer to Sherlock's collarbones, and whuffles again. The smell is stronger. Better. John will follow this smell anywhere.
Sherlock smirks, thinking that imprinting is continuing apace. John's warm nose in his neck is fine, actually. Sherlock finds that beyond simply tolerating it, for the sake of science, he is actively enjoying it. Humid breath ghosts across his sternum, and he shivers slightly, making himself refocus on John's hands.
At Bart's the x-rays showed nothing more than a typical human skeleton. 206 bones (Sherlock counted them all). No steel knife silhouettes. He was afraid to put John in the MRI, just to be on the safe side. He doesn't want 10 inch knives ripped out of the flesh of John's forearms.
Sherlock did ultrasounds. Nothing unusual. Organs all in the right places, and as typical as can be. He'd carefully examined every inch of John's body. John didn't have any qualms about that, which delighted Sherlock. But everything seemed in place and functional.
Sherlock liked the smooth warm skin under his hands during his examination of John at Bart's, and the trust that was given him. It was very different from exploring a corpse, the flesh hotter and more resilient, but also very different from the sexual encounters he'd scheduled/endured/researched in the past. He still felt that John was some kind of pet, and stroking him was calming and enjoyable. Seemingly, for both of them. Nothing to get hung up on here. However, it was time for research, and so he hadn't lingered on the sensation, both emotional and physical.
After a more thorough explanation, and a demonstration on himself, Sherlock was permitted to extract a couple vials of John's blood. The DNA analysis will take time, of course, but he'd done a basic metabolic analysis, and blood type, and looked at it under a microscope to determine ratios of red and white blood cells. John seemed human in every way. He had type O-negative blood. Found in 7% of the population. Universal donor. Given Sherlock's lifestyle, that could be convenient, so he filed that fact carefully away. Actually, all facts about John are carefully filed away. John has an entire bookcase in the Mind Palace at this point.
The next morning Sherlock wakes up in his bed. This is atypical. It's only been since brooding the egg that he's slept in his bed more than one night in a row. He doesn't try to analyze that, though. His id figures that it's none of his brain's business why he likes to sleep wrapped around John. The dip of the mattress and rustle of bed clothes have awakened him.
John is sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hair is spiky and asymmetrical from sleep, and Sherlock can see pillow-lines along his check. He is looking left, out the window. Sherlock can smell him: sleep-hot and musky. He is blurred at the edges, because Sherlock hasn't bothered opening his eyes all the way, and sees him filtered through lashes. A giant yawn pops John's jaw, and he arches back, pulling taut his muscles, and then spreads his arms wide in a stretch.
There is a moment of confusion, in which Sherlock suddenly questions whether or not he is actually awake.
Two immense, long, dun-feathered wings snap suddenly out across John's back, blocking most of John from Sherlock's view. They arch over his head, and extend more than three meters from tip to tip. The lamp and notebooks are swept from the night table with a crash, a poster of the molecular structure of arsenic and other poisons is ripped off the wall, leaving behind a lonely tack, and the primary feathers of the left hand wing are jammed crookedly into the cracked door of the wardrobe.
John startles, and pulls the wings close against his back, springing to his feet and whirling around. The knives are in his hands, and his wings are hunched protectively near his ears, feathers fluffed and outstanding. They quiver.
Sherlock is frozen on the bed. His eyes are now fully open, and he draws in a long, slow lungful of air. He feels dizzy with elation. "John," he whispers.
John's fists tighten around the leather-wrapped handles of his knives and then relax marginally. The mottled gray-brown feathers ripple in agitation. His face looks arrested more than afraid. Dark eyes lock onto Sherlock.
"You've got wings, John." Sherlock doesn't often state the obvious, but this seems like a special occasion. He slowly sits up. John, realizing there's no immediate threat, twists his knives back into the Elsewhere in which they are stored. "No. Not the wings. Keep them out. Please," Sherlock says hurriedly.
John looks over his shoulders, and flexes the wings behind his back. A few bottles and papers are knocked off the dresser, even though he doesn't near extend them to their full length. "Sorry," he says, not really focused. "I. Mmmmm. This is unusual, isn't it?" he asks. Sherlock notes distractedly that his speech is much more fluid this morning, but he doesn't want to pursue that thought right now.
Sherlock snorts. "Rather. Well. For a human. I'm still not too sure about you. Did you know you could do it?"
John shakes his head, and walks over to the wardrobe, to see himself in the mirror there. However, it doesn't offer a very comprehensive view. Sherlock clambers off the bed and goes straight to John, fingers twitching with eagerness. He strokes his hand from the soft, darker brown scapular feathers alongside his spine out, curving his fingers around the humerus bone, John's got a whole extra set of bones, for god's sake! And they certainly didn't show up on the x-rays!, flexing the joint between it and the bones of the forearm.
"Amazing," Sherlock breathes. John stands still under his examination, and hums softly as Sherlock cards his fingers through the feathers. He watches Sherlock's movements in the mirror. The covert feathers, nearer the leading edge of the wing, are downy soft and short. They are darker brown and speckled with black and gray. Sherlock forgets to ask permission, and stretches the wing out, spreading the primary and secondary flight feathers. These are large, the longest perhaps 30 inches, stiff, and banded distinctly in shades of brown and gray.
Sherlock fingers through the primaries, straightening the jumble created by being jammed into the door crack. He tugs John into the living room. "Come here, John. I want to see your full span." John smiles and allows himself to be pulled, wings dragging the floor, through the kitchen. Sherlock positions him in the middle of the room and says, "Now."
John extends his wings, and fully opened they are impressive indeed. Sherlock steps back, trips over the coffee table, and flings himself cat-like (as if he intended it all along) atop the sofa. He perches on the back of it. John is facing the fireplace, and his wingtips brush the window on one side and extend to the kitchen on the other.
"Amazing," Sherlock breathes, eyes bright and wide. "Can you fly? Do you think you can fly? We'll have to head out to the estate, for space and privacy. You look like you can fly. But your bones certainly aren't hollow. Oh. God. I can't wait to get started on experiments!" Sherlock leaps to his feet, bounds across the coffee table, and enthusiastically hugs John from behind, one arm over, and the other under his wings. He rubs his cheek against the feathers nearest him, and John sighs and smiles, relaxing.
Sherlock bounces on his toes, intending to get a measuring tape and magnifying glass, when the door downstairs is flung open, and Lestrade's distinctive tread is heard rushing up the stairs.
"John!" Sherlock snaps. "Put away your wings."
With an audible flutter, John promptly folds his wings in. They knock Sherlock in the face as they close. Feathers drag the floor and a couple of books are knocked awry in his haste, but as they pull close to his body, they whisk out of sight. Lestrade pokes his head in through the door.
John begins to sink into a crouch, and Sherlock can see his arms twitch, preparing for the knife trick. He thrusts his hands forward, and grabs tightly on John's biceps. "Don't," he murmurs under his breath. John stops, but steps back a bit, until he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. He tilts his head up, checking Sherlock's face for signals.
"Lestrade," Sherlock greets, exaggeratedly relaxed, part of his brain shouting that John's imprinted on him, and he has to teach him about the world. Lestrade is 'safe'. That is the lesson here. His thumbs stroke small circles behind John's shoulders although he's not planning to do that.
Lestrade's eyebrows rise in shock, and he comes to a dead halt in the doorway. "Er," he says elegantly. There is silence. "Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't knock-"
"Don't tell me things I already know, Lestrade." Sherlock releases John (reluctantly, part of his brain reports to him, but he files that away under To Be Examined Later) and steps forward, around John. "What have you got for me?"