John carefully moved Lestrade's shoulder back into the socket, surprised when he immediately curled his arm under his head. Dislocated then, not broken, he realised and quickly berated himself for getting it mixed up. That had never happened before and now he really needed to focus because oddly enough, he wasn't a vet and had never stitched up a wing joint before. Luckily, Lestrade seemed to have passed out, though in terms of blood loss that wasn't necessarily a good thing.
Sherlock watched the proceedings with sharp eyes, like he would jump in and stop John the moment it looked like Lestrade was in any form of discomfort. With the DI unconscious, Sherlock sat there and worried. John never seen Sherlock fidget before but out of the corner of his eye he could see the consulting detective playing 'here's the church and here's the steeple, open the door and here are the people' over and over again, speeding up until John was afraid he might dislocate all his fingers at some point.
The first bullet had dislocated Lestrade's shoulder, which made next to no sense: the bone should have been shattered but it hadn't. John just sighed, the shoulder bone was alright now but there was still a hole in the front and back of Lestrade's shoulder, which John very carefully disinfected and sewed up, applying a little cream to numb the pain. Even with the DI out, he didn't want to hurt the man any more than absolutely necessary.
A soft moan signalled to John, and to Sherlock because the man practically leapt out of his chair and knelt next to Lestrade's head without his feet touching the floor, that the DI was coming round. If his accelerated breathing was any indication, he was either in an astronomical amount of pain or he was bordering on a panic attack. However, even worried Sherlock could read everything John was thinking from his body language and mouthed 'pain' at him. To John, that was a relief: a panic attack on top of everything else would not have been helpful.
"Sh'lock?" Lestrade's voice was awfully slurred, like he's had about a dozen too many. That was strange for John, who'd probably seen more of a drunk Lestrade than Sherlock but he'd never seen Lestrade so drunk that he couldn't string two syllables together properly. It was odd with the DI's soft West Country accent as well.
"Es ist mich," he replied, speaking German for some odd reason. John had heard that Lestrade was fluent in that language, so maybe it was Sherlock's way of keeping Lestrade focused, by getting him to work through a conversation in his second language.
"Nicht nett, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, slowly but with less of a drunkenness to his voice this time. Very carefully, John began stitching up the cut that had followed the bullet after it went through Lestrade's wing (that was still weird to say and would probably stay weird for a while). "Mein Rücken tut weh," he murmured.
"Ich weiß, ich weiß," Sherlock whispered back, a comforting tone in his voice that again John had only ever heard directly at him before.
"Ist es schlecht?" asked Lestrade, obviously wanting to peer over his shoulder but not strong enough to at the moment.
"Ein bisschen. Es gibt Blut," he admitted. John had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. He could however still recognise his own name. "Aber John ist einen guten Arzt. Er wirt dich besser machen."
"Er ist ein gutes Freund auch." John wondered what Lestrade had just said about him but the weak affection meant it was probably good. "Kann ich schlafen?"
"Nicht jetzt," Sherlock said and for Sherlock, that was very apologetic. Schlafen, John was fairly sure meant sleep and no, Lestrade could not go back to sleep just yet, not until John had done some basic cognitive tests.
"Wo sind wir?" Lestrade asked instead, as though he had only just realised the need to ask that question.
"Mein Zimmer, zwei-zwei-eins-bay," Sherlock replied softly. Even John wasn't thick enough to not know what that meant. "Bist du fertig, John?" Finished? he mouthed at John, who gave him a thumbs-up that was almost straight.
"Ist er?" Lestrade asked weakly. Even in German, there was no mistaking how desperate the poor man sounded.
"Beinahe, beinahe," Sherlock assured him, very gently stroking the top parts of the feathers, which John's brain said were called the lesser coverts. It prompted a very sleepy sort of purr from Lestrade, a sound John could feel rumbling beneath his hands.
"Können wir setzen das Licht auf?"
"Wenn du willst."
"Bitte." Again that pleading desperate tone that should never come from Lestrade.
"Fertig," John announced quietly, fairly sure he was using the right word. He must have been because Sherlock smirked at him like he was impressed but trying not to show it and Lestrade sighed in relief. "Light?" Sherlock just nodded and turned back to Lestrade, murmuring quietly in German, no longer expecting a reply.
John very carefully turned up the light, grateful Sherlock had insisted he needed a light that he could vary in intensity. It had more to do with what few experiments he actually conducted in his bedroom (it was a place to sleep, not work, and any experiments would probably distract him) but it still meant they could put the light on without hurting Lestrade's rather-senstive-at-the-moment eyes.
It also meant that John could get a good look at Lestrade's wings for the first time.
They were huge, probably about three metres across, maybe four at the most. The longest feathers, the primaries, reached from his shoulders to his feet, about 1.6 metres. The feathers were like the feathers of a golden eagle in colour but the structure was closer to small birds like sparrows or larks. There were thousands of shades of brown in there, as well as some grey, black and even a tiny bit of blue.
They were stunningly beautiful.
At the moment though, they looked a mess. Most of them were slightly ragged and out of place, some were cropped slightly and there was blood on a large fraction of them, dried and crusting the feathers together. Sherlock had apparently already begun straightening and tidying them, as Greg lay there unable to even move, he was so weak from blood loss and peace.
"How do you feel, Greg?" John asked, coming to crouch just behind Sherlock, directly in the DI's line of sight. Half-lidded deep brown eyes rolled up to where John was and the tiniest of apologetic smiles flicked onto his dry lips.
"Not Greg," he confessed. "Gabe. No-one ever uses my first name anyway, so when they asked I just said it was Greg."
"What's Gabe short for?" John asked, running through a few basic checks as well as possible names as well.
"Gabriel," Lestrade admitted. "Just feels wrong, me having wings and all. 'm not 'n angel." Sherlock's eyebrows were obviously about to contradict that statement but Lestrade managed to lift one arm far enough that he could put a finger tenderly to Sherlock's lips. "Thanks for not saying anything to John before. Means a lot."
As if Sherlock's unfazed reaction wasn't enough evidence that he already knew, Lestrade had just confirmed it in a more roundabout fashion. John wanted to know, everything, but unlike Sherlock he had enough tact to decide that any waiting would be rewarded later.
"You're tense," Sherlock observed, taking the tone that he only used when he was using empirical evidence to try and convince someone to let him do something. "They were hurting before and this hasn't helped. You haven't taken very good care of them, Lestrade."
"Hypocrite," said DI got out around a soft yawn.
"Let me tidy them up," Sherlock ordered but his tone suggested it was actually an offer and that he would completely understand if Lestrade told him to fuck off.
There was silence for a minute as Lestrade weighed up the pros and cons of giving Sherlock free reign with his hands over his wings (still weird). Eventually he just sighed. "'k," he murmured, settling down into the bed more, arms wrapped around his head. "John can help too, if he wants." Sherlock immediately looked up at his flatmate with expectant eyes: of course he knew that John's curiosity would eventually outweigh his worry over hurting his friend.
"I'll get some water," he offered. "For the blood," he added when Lestrade frowned up at him. "Don't go anywhere," he joked and Lestrade just about managed to crack an amused smile, no matter how small.
In the kitchen, John had to take a moment to orientate himself. His friend had purposely mislead him with names and how many appendages he had. Of course, he understood perfectly, if he had wings, he wouldn't have told anyone either, for fear of rejection or something much worse but it didn't stop him feeling hurt. Oddly though, he still found this entire thing weird in the same way that meeting Sherlock for the first time had been weird and coming to live in a flat with a landlady who did everything she could for them and yet insisted she wasn't their housekeeper and a sociopath with body parts in every kitchen appliance they owned (though never the kettle, probably because John might blow a fuse in that eventuality). It was a weird he could get used to.
Sherlock had been busy while John had been out. A good third of Lestrade's right wing was looking much neater, with the feathers tidier and glossier as well. Apparently just by running his hands over them, Sherlock could make them look healthier.
Then John really looked, observed, and realised the healthiness of the feathers extended to all of them. But Sherlock was methodical and would never have run his hands over all of them in such a broad unfocused way.
"Turn the light down, John," Sherlock ordered quietly without looking at him. When Sherlock returned to customary silence and John obeyed, he instantly noticed two things about Lestrade. The first was that he was 'purring' again, a deep continuous sound that was a simple summing up of pleasure, in any context. The second was that, now that the room was completely dark (half four in the morning, remember) the source of the new glow to Lestrade's feathers was revealed: they really were glowing.
From the space between the two layers of feathers, there was a very pale light shining, the same golden colour as the base colour of the feathers themselves but like it had been watered down slightly. The light highlighted Lestrade's brown eyes as well and the soft cheekbones and the parting of his lips and the fluttering of his eyelashes against his cheeks as he tried to stay awake. It was a sweet beautiful scene.
It didn't long for sleep to overwhelm Lestrade: John had been gently sponging the long feathers brushing the floor (his wings weren't folded, that would have been too painful, so they were at the moment lying limply on the floor for the most part) for less than ten minutes when the bedsprings creaked slightly as Lestrade fell asleep. The strange pale light intensified for just a moment before it returned to its original brightness and by then Lestrade was fast asleep, eyes softly closed and lips turned up ever so slightly in a smile that betrayed his dreams.
Sherlock didn't speak for a few minutes after Lestrade finally drifted off and John waited for him to, knowing if he spoke the detective wouldn't reply until he wanted to speak. So he continued neatening up Lestrade's feathers (not weird anymore), watching Sherlock almost reverently doing the same. His large hands and long fingers were surprisingly delicate, taking the utmost care when he touched the feathers, as though they were fragile and snapping one off could result in pain similar to getting shot.
Of course, John imagined it might be like having your finger or toe twisted off. He must still have nerves in his wings or he wouldn't be able to move them.
"He trusts you." When Sherlock spoke so suddenly and so softly, John took his hands away from the feathers automatically when he jumped.
"What makes you say that?" John asked quietly, fighting not to sound like he was accusing Lestrade of anything. "He didn't tell me anything."
"You found out he has wings today. When I found out, he didn't let me touch them for eight days but he let you touch them less than an hour and a half after. Him letting you touch them is like him saying that he trusts you with his life and soul." Sherlock didn't once raise his voice or put any inflection on any of the words but somehow they still rang with conviction and a little bit of jealousy at how quick Lestrade had been to trust John with this fragile part of him. "Gabe suits him," he added, so quietly it was almost an afterthought.
Yes, it does. He's an angel to so many people, yet he doesn't see it in himself. And John thought that was such a shame.
omg two chapters in two days, I am on a roll! that said, blame YukinaKid, that review is what encouraged me to write this. (also fluff is easy for me)
for those of you who would otherwise miss out a whole chuck of the chapter, here are the translations.
Es ist mich. - It is me.
Nicht nett, Sherlock. Mein Rücken tut weh. - Not nice, Sherlock. My back hurts.
Ich weiß, ich weiß. - I know, I know.
Ist es schlecht? - Is it bad?
Ein bisschen. Es gibt Blut. Aber John ist ein gutes Arzt. Er wirt dich besser machen. - A bit. There is blood. But John is a good doctor. He will make you better.
Er ist ein gutes Freund auch. Kann ich schlafen? - He is a good friend also. Can I sleep?
Nicht jetzt. - Not now.
Wo sind wir? - Where are we?
Mein Zimmer, zwei-zwei-eins bay. Bist du fertig, John? - My bedroom, 221B. Are you finished, John?
Ist er? - Is he?
Beinahe, beinahe - Nearly, nearly.
Können wir setzen das Licht aus? - Can we turn the light on?
Wenn du willst. - If you want.
Fertig. -Finished.
all my bird knowledge came from this website here: .
read and review lovely people and enjoy!
jack-damian