A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed, and even those who just put it on story alert. It's encouraging to know that people are reading :D I'll probably try to keep to updating every two days from here, but I figured today's Reichenbach and most of us will probably die today anyways, so what the hell.
Though time passes with its usual agonizing slowness, John remains in an oddly buoyant mood after the chance meeting. Somehow the dull gray walls of his cramped little bedsit don't seem quite as confining and the gun in the desk drawer quiets from a intense, pulsing presence just behind the wood into a soft murmur in the back of his mind. He even updates his blog in an effort to appease his therapist, hoping that will get her off his back.
The next day he goes for a walk to pass the time and runs into Mike Stamford, an old friend from Bart's. He has gotten fat since he's last seen him and John doubts his already small, rusty orange wings can lift him off the ground anymore, but he still likes Mike well enough. He catches up with him over coffee and in conjunction with yesterday's events he's beginning to think maybe things do happen to him on occasion after all.
As seven o'clock and Baker Street creep closer John lets a bit of mild trepidation color his curiosity. He is meeting a man he'd just met yesterday under the most unusual of circumstances, after all, a little wariness wasn't amiss. Though if he's being honest with himself, as he so rarely is, it's that electric sense of the unknown that is so alluring.
"Hello." The easily recognizable voice sounds behind him, accompanied by the closing of a cab door, even as John raps the knocker against the door under the gleaming metal 221B.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Hello." John says, resting his weight against his cane as he briefly clasps the proffered hand in greeting. He tilts his head to squint up at the building admiringly, his eyes scanning its front. "This is…nice. Very nice."
"Sherlock." The man in question corrects him, looking amused. "You sound surprised."
"Just must be expensive is all."
"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, gave me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out."
"You stopped her husband from being executed?"
"Oh no," Sherlock says with a tight, matter-of-fact little smile. "I ensured it."
Before John has any time to process that bit of information, the door opens to reveal an older woman who, oddly enough, looks positively delighted to see them. She's care-worn and soft-spoken, her wings a soft cream color that for some reason don't sit quite right on her back. A doctor's concern nags at the back of his mind, but neither Mrs. Hudson nor Sherlock mention it as she ushers them inside after a quick introduction and politeness keeps him from asking.
"Now, Sherlock, I won't be making it to group today, but you tell Samantha-" She pauses on the threshold as the phone rings down the hall, tutting softly to herself. "Oh dear, that's probably her now. I'd better get that - such a fragile thing, she is." She pats John on the arm with motherly familiarity. "Sherlock will show you up, dear. There's another bedroom on the second floor, of course, if you'll be needing two. I won't be a moment!"
John's eyebrows furrow. "Of course we'll be needing two-" But Mrs. Hudson is bustling away and Sherlock is already halfway up the stairs, so he lets it go and sets his sights on awkwardly managing the narrow staircase with his cane instead.
By the time he reaches the landing Sherlock is looking impatient, but the near-manic gleam is back in his eye and he throws open the door in a flair of dramatics as soon as John comes into sight.
What lies inside is, like everything else about Sherlock Holmes, unexpected.
The interior décor, underneath the bohemian clutter and downright mess, is like something out of an outdated crime novel. Stacks of books teeter haphazardly on surfaces that aren't covered in sheaves of paper and even some that are, bearing titles that range from medical texts to true crime. The reoccurring theme, however, appears to be skulls, from the bull skull on the wall artfully displaying a pair of headphones to what he has no doubt is an authentic human skull settled on the mantle.
"Already moved in then?" He asks wryly, before he can stop himself.
Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly. "Yes. Well, maybe it could use a bit of tidying up." And apparently his version of 'tidying up' includes shuffling some paper into something resembling a lopsided pile and firmly stabbing a stray knife into the mantle. Alright then.
Now it's John's turn to be awkward. He licks his lips and reaffirms his grip on his cane, words that he doesn't particularly want to say sticking obstinately in his throat. "Mrs. Hudson. She said something about group. Does that mean…?"
The unfinished question hangs heavily in the space between them and Sherlock flashes him a look of contempt that clearly says don't ask questions you already know the answer to, though surprisingly enough he has the courtesy not to say it out loud.
Just about the response he'd been expecting then. "Right. So…you weren't born without wings." Technically group therapy could mean anything, from alcoholism to drug abuse, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him playing dumb over making the assumption.
To be flightless - grounded - in a feathered world is a curse, but it happens. Some are born with bare backs, but more than that lose them or injure them beyond repair, often resulting in deep bouts of depression that lead to prescriptions for medication and group therapy. That explains what had seemed so off about Mrs. Hudson's wings at least. Healed now, but broken beyond the capability of flight - probably something to do with that husband executed in Florida. Sherlock, however, he can't imagine sitting in a circle and sharing his feelings.
Sherlock's back is turned toward him as he rearranges something on the table and John wonders for a moment where he finds clothes without slits in the back. There are probably shops that cater to that sort of thing, but he hasn't seen them, and judging by Sherlock's sharp suits and designer shirts, they're probably tailor made anyways. It's no wonder he needs a flatshare, special deal or not. John can't see his face when he responds, but his tone is even and seemingly unflappable. "If you're wondering, my insufferable brother makes me go." Sherlock says, as if reading his mind. "But no, I wasn't."
John sucks in a deep breath. "Alright. Okay then. That's fine."
Sherlock turns his head to give him a sharp, calculating look out of the corner of his eye. "I know it's fine."
Shit. This isn't going as planned. "I'm just saying…it's all fine."
John tries not to squirm under his stare but finds it incredibly difficult, as his wings choose the most inopportune moment to itch and fidget, as if sensing that they're the last things he wants to draw attention to right now. He's known people who were wingless or otherwise could fly before - he's an army doctor, of course he has - but it's nevertheless not a topic he likes to dwell on.
A chime from Sherlock's mobile saves him, and whatever he reads there makes his eyes light up like Christmas has come early. "Oh." He breathes, grin twitching unconsciously at one corner of his mouth. "Another victim." He murmurs to himself with indecent relish. "On our way to becoming a serial killer, are we? Lovely." And with that he's practically bounding out the door and leaving a very confused John in his wake.
John, for his part, resists the urge to stare stupidly after him and instead glances awkwardly about the flat, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. Read the paper and see if he could bother Mrs. Hudson for a cup of tea? Oh yes, that was much more exciting than watching crap telly back at his bedsit and pretending to type diligently in his blog simply for some sense of accomplishment. The exciting life of Dr. John Watson at its best.
"Well? Are you coming?"
John's head snaps up at the impatient voice, surprised to see an equally impatient Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Wha- where?"
"Crime scene. Didn't you hear?"
Was this a joke? John watched him suspiciously, hesitant. "Why would I go with you to a crime scene?"
"Because you're an army doctor." He answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. A few steps later and once again he's too close, invading John's space in what he's beginning to think is simply a habit of his, leaning his head in until he's practically whispering in John's ear. "And you're bored."
He's gone again with a swirl of his long coat.
To his credit, John lasts approximately three heartbeats before he mutters "damn it." and hurries after him, cane thumping against the ground in time with his footsteps.