Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

John was with him through all the best-forgotten period that will later be dubbed 'Hiatus'. Not physically, of course. He was in London, safe from the danger and mayhem that was Sherlock's life (and maybe bored, but that was definitely better than John being – God forbid – captured if – when – Sherlock made a mistake, too).

But John never left the detective's mind palace. He was steadily there. Ready to comfort, prod, conduct unexpected light or offer sensible suggestions. Of all the people wandering in the halls – Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, Irene and so on – it was John that the sleuth summoned most often. John who made himself indispensable. But that was only to be expected. John was, after all, special.

And Sherlock had no other company. Not that Mycroft hadn't suggested it, bringing along some MI6 operative to share the legwork with; backup, as it were. But this wasn't work. This was a mission (make sure John ...and his makeshift family, of course, were safe), and as much as the detective knew that he'd make mistakes (inevitable) and pay for them (right, even) he couldn't risk other people with different priorities – their own survival; his, maybe...not John's – making mistakes too and perhaps jeopardizing his objective.

Which brought the sleuth here in Belgium, in the residence of Baron Maupertuis, associate of late Jim Moriarty, dealing mostly in human trafficking, searching for incriminating documents...and captured by the Baron's men red-handed.

They could have shot him down, but he'd pleaded to meet the Baron, promising that their boss would have liked that, and they'd agreed. It was a risky gamble, but one he had to take. The Baron was known to like exotic pets – he received them with a live tiger lazily draped at his feet.

"What do we have here?" the crime boss drawled.

Sherlock interrupted the goon's explanation...by undressing and proudly spreading his wings. "Only one in the world. Wouldn't it be a pity to have me killed?" he said, teasing, concealing his fear.

"Ooooh..." Maupertuis breathed, "so it's a little thieving magpie who wandered in."

(He wasn't. His quills were all black, not black and white. But still Sherlock had enough sense not to talk back now.)

"A pity, indeed. But you do realize you'll now be part of my collection. No flying away, my pretty little bird. Or..." The baron ended that sentence with a threatening gesture.

"Of course," the sleuth agreed, shrugging. "Then again, my life might get easier now." Let him think that he'd simply been searching for something to steal. That a pet's life would be welcomed, even. It would serve his purpose.

So Sherlock found himself in a cage, naked, and fed corn because the Baron found that humorous. But at least he wasn't dead. And he didn't have to share the cage with any other pets. He didn't like how the tiger looked at him. It seemed to wonder if Sherlock could be classified as food.

And he had a lot of time to think. Plan his next move. The Baron was a busy man, and as enthralled with his new toy as he was – which was quite enough – business came first. And for all that he was kept naked, the Baron hadn't made a move to abuse him sexually. (He was as firmly not gay as John – and Sherlock really didn't want to be reminded of John by this disgusting man). He'd forbidden to his men to use him, too.

All in all Sherlock's situation was quite better than it could have been. Without his wings, he wouldn't have had his bargaining chip and would in all probability be dead. He should be grateful to the scientists that created him, not mildly resentful as he used to be since his childhood (that had just started to change with John) for being 'ruined' by them.

It took him ten days to escape (bringing the documents with him, of course – the Baron would see how he liked being behind bars himself soon) and it was absolutely shameful. Mycroft would scold him to no end for having revealed his secret, he was sure. But Sherlock Holmes was already dead, and the nameless pretty bird who fled from his cage would soon be nothing more than a legend among Belgian criminals. And anybody who hadn't actually seen him would think people talking about Sherlock were drunk or taking the piss anyway.

Now it was time to once again fold his wings and go onward. Only if he kept going forward he could possibly be allowed to make his way back to John and Baker Street and happiness someday. Until then, Sherlock soldiered on, and mind palace John smiled encouragingly. He could do this.