A/N: Once again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! :D I'm surprised so many of you have never read wingfic before. It's one of my favorite types of AU.
It takes a week for the next victim to appear and in that time John learns two things about his new life at 221B.
One, that Sherlock plays the violin when he thinks, but if John produces a regular offering of tea, he can be persuaded to at least play well, rather than the harsh sawing of bow against strings he's prone to when he gets frustrated. And frustration, unfortunately, is a common sentiment when there are two - three, Sherlock insists - victims and still no killer in his crosshairs. They go through tea awfully quickly and it feels a bit like a blood sacrifice to a wrathful god of music, but it's one John's willing to make for the sake of his eardrums - and the neighbors'.
He is incidentally out buying more tea when he returns to the flat to discover the second thing. He's been gone for maybe twenty minutes - it would've been less if Sherlock didn't insist on only drinking the most obscure brand he can think of - but it's enough. And so he learns one of the most terrifying things he will ever come home to.
Sherlock Holmes is stationed in one corner of the room and Harry Watson in the other.
They're both seated, but the tension in the room is palpable and he can almost imagine them circling each other like a pair of wary predators. Only where Sherlock is a jaguar, Harry is an alley cat. She hasn't changed much since he last saw her, but compared to the girl he knew growing up, the contrast in startling. She looks older than she ought to, as if the alcohol's washed away years she hasn't lived yet and stained her skin ruddy. Her hair is a washed-out red-brown that hangs lifelessly around her face and her wings are much the same color, only in a worse state. Her feathers are haphazard and dull as if they hadn't been preened properly in ages and even appear to be starting to fall out in patches. Despite this, however, there's a spark in her eyes and a firm set of her jaw that John knows doesn't bode well.
"Ah, John, you're back." If Harry's expression is fiery, then Sherlock's is carved from stone. "Harriet and I were just getting to know each other."
Harry glares at him - presumably for the use of her full name - but tilts her chin up defiantly all the same and leans back into the couch, arms crossed. "Yeah, your penguin boyfriend's been telling me all about your little crime scene adventures. Can't stay away from it, eh Johnny?"
That certainly snaps John out of his stunned silence. "Harry," he hisses, dropping the Tesco's bag by the door. "Don't call him that."
"What? A penguin or your boyfriend?"
"It's quite alright, John," Sherlock interrupts. "It's an improvement on- what was the other one? 'Wingless Willy'?"
"Wingless Wally," Harry corrects with a smirk.
John pinches the bridge of his nose and suppresses the urge to hit something - an urge Harry is especially talented at bringing out in him. "What do you want, Harry?" He sighs.
"What? I can't visit my little brother without wanting something?"
No. Neither of the Watson siblings have 'just stopped by' for a social call in years, even before John left for Afghanistan. Ever since Harry's drinking…well, their relationship was never been the best from start, but the drunken arguments hardly helped. "I gave you the address for emergencies, Harry. Not so you can stop by and insult my flatmate."
"He started it!"
Judging by Sherlock's look of exaggerated innocence - and simply the fact that he was Sherlock - that's probably true, but John isn't in the mood to hear about it. "I don't care who started it!" Christ, and now he sounds like their mother. "Just- go home, Harry. I'll call you later if you want to talk so badly."
Harry purses her lips obstinately but nevertheless obliges, pausing only in the doorway to lob a parting shot. "Honestly, Johnny, I never thought you'd be into tall, dark, an-"
"Out!"
John waits until he clearly hears the front door close before allowing himself to collapse in Harry's vacated seat. He scrubs his face with his hands and lets loose a deep sigh. If it ever were to be possible to make oneself disappear, now would be the time…
Finally, Sherlock's voice breaks the silence. "John…"
No luck on the disappearing front then. Figures.
"I am…so, so sorry."
"John, it's alright."
"No, it's not!" He snaps, instantly regretting it. Sherlock's not the one he's mad at, after all. "Sorry. It's just…I'm tired of her bullshit. She had no right to say those things to you."
"I…thank you."
John just nods. When he looks up he finds Sherlock deeply thoughtful, his hands pressed together as if in prayer, his chin perched atop their tips. "So," he says, if only to change the subject. "What have you been working on then?"
"Hmm?" He blinks back into reality, his train of thought obviously broken, but it must not have been important, because he doesn't appear annoyed. "Oh. Just checking Lestrade's suspects against people Carl Powers has come into contact with. No luck, but it was worth ruling them out."
"You still think Carl has something to do with this?"
Sherlock flashes him the don't ask stupid questions look and the corner of John's mouth quirks in an unbidden smile. If Harry's words had gotten to him, they obviously didn't have too much of an effect. "I'm positive. The killer doesn't have a connection to the other two victims. They were killed and posed. Very deliberate. Carl, meanwhile, was found in a back alley, maimed but very much alive. He's different."
"So if the killer hates Carl that much, why didn't he just kill him?"
Sherlock makes a low, thoughtful sound. "Sadism, most likely. He could have tortured and killed him, yes, but then it'd be over. You saw Carl - this is a much worse punishment that death."
Is it that bad for you, being wingless? The question dances on the tip of his tongue but he swallows the words before they dare slip out. No. Now is definitely not the time, if there ever was to be one. "You think it'd be easier, finding whoever hated him that much."
"You'd think," Sherlock muses, but he's already slipping back into the whirring gears of his mind. His hands reach for his violin and John has a feeling they're going to go through a lot of tea before this case is through.