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Sherlock's world crashed all around him. He couldn't breath, or reason, or do anything but hurt. And pray that it was all an horrible nightmare and soon he'd wake up and find John kindly offering his perfect tea so they could laugh together about how twisted Sherlock's unconscious could be, of course. But at the moment the cabbie's words, "Your fan," had short-circuited with John's, "Amazing," and "Brilliant," and his flatmate's presence at the pool had left him in an uncomprehending agony.
Had John really toyed with him from the start? Pulled the wool over his eyes? Laughed secretly at his expense? Was his name even John Watson to begin with? Or Moriarty? Or something else entirely?
He'd trusted John with his deepest secrets. The sleuth had revelled in the other man's easy acceptance of him (and wasn't this the the biggest hint that something was wrong with the unassuming army doctor?).
Overtaken by shock (he might welcome a blanket, right now) he'd forgotten everything. That a pip was still missing. The borrowed voices. The rules of their game.
When John was revealed as a victim, Sherlock's relief was so strong he almost swooned with it, adrenaline at the bomb's presence the only thing keeping him upright.
They could die any second – and that was fine. As long as he got to take down the goddamn criminal puppeeter with them. Two less monsters in the world. And John – brave John, kind John – as collateral damage of these two opposite forces of nature colliding. The doctor should have really known better when picking the company he kept.
Then again, John's behaviour rarely made any sense from a logical standpoint. Like when he tried to sacrifice his life for Sherlock's. It was evident that John was better than him, way more worthy than the detective. So why would he do so? It wasn't possible that John didn't realize his superiority in everything but cleverness. It shouldn't be possible for him to care about Sherlock that much, too, only this happened.
And by the end of it all, somehow, everyone was still alive. Sherlock, John, Moriarty (sadly). The bomb lay forgotten. The criminal consultant was gone (really, definitely) and the snipers would have followed him.
Sherlock gave into what he was literally itching to do since the start. He got rid of his clothes, and let his wings curl up against John in a protective, feathery embrace.
John was for a moment too startled to properly react, then he mumbled hesitantly, "Sher...lock?"
"Not good?" the sleuth queried, resignation in his voice...but still not moving his wings away.
"No, it's good...fine, all fine. Just – it tickles, a bit. Your feathers...are they trembling? Are you okay?" the doctor replied, all kind concern, a small frown of worry on his features.
"I'm all right. Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be? I'll settle in a moment. My feathers, I mean. Sorry about the tickling. I don't think they were meant to do this," Sherlock rambled. Whether he meant his quills weren't meant to vibrate with stress or to be used to hug was anyone's guess.
"Don't apologize," John said, a tad huskily. This wasn't bad at all. It felt a bit strange, to be hugged without exactly being touched, Sherlock's arms still lax at his sides, but definitely pleasant. Something to repeat. Maybe without the whole being almost blown to smithereens first part.
After a few short-but-felt-eternal moments, Sherlock finally folded his wings and redressed. He fought down the urge to apologize anew for his behaviour – John had said not to, after all – and they went back home.
"Thank God you waited a bit for your impromptu strip tease at the pool," John remarked, bringing him a cup of tea. "I don't want to imagine what Moriarty would have done with the knowledge of your wings."
"He'd probably have decided that the proper place for me was a cage. In his living room. Then again, barring the living room bit, that's what most people would think should they know," Sherlock replied offhandedly.
"That'd still be good. I'd storm in and break you free," John countered confidently. "I was more worried that he'd kill you after all and pin you to a wall."
"Pin me? I'm not a butterfly, you know," the sleuth bit back, grimacing at the idea of being half insect.
" 'Course not. You're an angel," John quipped, fondness warm in his voice.
"You really should abandon such silly misconceptions, John." Still, Sherlock blushed.