Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Incredible as it was, Sherlock found someone who enjoyed his company. While sober. And who thought his deductions were amazing, and not hateful. John Watson was a definite keeper. Sherlock wanted him by his side at all times.
Having John as a flatmate – one who cared for him, without having to – was definitely worth hiding his wings 24/7. Or at least until John went to sleep. Even if they were sore being trapped all the time some days. Sherlock really thought he could go on like this indefinitely.
Until the day he couldn't anymore. A murderer had stabbed him in the flank. "I'm okay," he hurried to assure.
"Of course you'll be," John had replied. He clearly meant to take care of the detective. But to get to it properly, Sherlock would have needed to undress, and then his secret would be out, and then...
Panic welled within him during all the trip back home. "Really, John, I've got this," he tried desperately one last time, even if he was still bleeding.
"I'm a doctor, and you need one. So you let me work. Unless you fancy a trip to A&E," John stated firmly.
No way out, then. Sherlock started stripping and tried to steel himself for what was to come. Freak, of course. Monster, probably. And then? John had a considerable talent for synonyms when it suited him. Once unveiled, his wings fluttered once in deep uneasiness, spreading involuntarily.
As always, John surprised him with his behaviour. "Sherlock...are you an angel?" he wondered reverently. The detective could only shake his head mutely.
"Right...healing first. Everything else later. I'm afraid you'll need stitches," the doctor said, scolding himself into action. His hands were sure and caring at the same time. He didn't look spooked or disgusted. Not yet, at least. Sherlock wasn't sure how to react to that, so he didn't. At all.
When John was done, he uttered, "So...not an angel. If you're sure. I mean, I guess you'd know. I know that you're not a demon, because you'd be committing crimes then. Would it be rude of me to ask what you are?"
"Nothing so fancy. Really, John, try to be rational for a moment. I'm only a failure. A botched experiment. Nothing else," the sleuth replied, with a self-deprecating grimace.
"You don't look like a failure to me," his friend protested.
"Oh, but I am. The homo volans is still a pipe dream, despite all the care that they'd put into engineering me," Sherlock explained evenly.
"Maybe so, but I still don't like you talking about yourself like that," the doctor huffed.
John was defending him. Why was he? It made no sense. Sherlock only stated facts. Still, there was no fighting him. "Fine. I won't refer to myself that way," the sleuth agreed, with a sigh that said how stupid he found it. (And yet, this warmed his unacknowledged heart. But the thing needed to be beaten into submission.)
"Can I..." John whispered, with an aborted movement and his voice still full of wonder, "can I touch them?"
"Yes, but be gentle." They looked strong and sturdy, but were surprisingly delicate and sensitive, how the detective had learned as a child at his own expense.
"Yes, of course." It was the whisper of a touch, brushing against his outer quills with reverence, and Sherlock's wings unconsciously leaned into the caress. How long was it since the sleuth had his feathers playfully ruffled? Since before Mycroft and he drifted apart. Too long, it seemed, as he suddenly yearned for the touch to continue. All too soon, the doctor stopped. "Don't stop," Sherlock almost pleaded, but caught himself in time. He didn't want John to misunderstand, and it'd come out too breathy for him not to.
"I get why you hid them, but I was thinking...at least at home, would you consider freeing them sometimes? It can't be easy having them folded all the time. Doesn't it hurt your back?" the doctor queried.
"That's not all of your reasons, John," the sleuth countered. He could see as much. But what else could there be beyond John's compulsive caring?
"Oh fine. They're magnificent. I like them. Hiding them is a pity," John huffed.
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He had never seen his wings like that. They were a defect. A malformation. Something to hide. Something he hadn't asked for, and would have done without if he could. "Really?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Now you're fishing for compliments. Yes, really. Of course. Don't you see them?" the doctor replied with a kind, teasing smile.
"Not like you," the sleuth countered truthfully. "But I'll be happy to leave them out in the open sometimes."
And he did. When they were alone, Sherlock loved to shed his clothes and stretch his wings all too often. John always looked at them with admiration, and it was almost as good as his praise of Sherlock's skills.
He never asked to touch them anymore, though. Pity. If sometimes Sherlock, stretching them carelessly, let his wings brush against his friend – it was an accident. Not a longing. At least, not in John's mind. And the doctor never seemed to mind that.
With time, Sherlock had stopped considering his wings like bothersome, useless appendages. John thought that they made him beautiful. Made him special. And he'd made certainly no move to have him captured and subjected to further experimentations since knowing about them. Not even after all the experiments Sherlock had run on him. Maybe John was right. He often saw what Sherlock missed. Not that the sleuth would ever admit it to him.