A/N: I AM SO SORRY I KNOW IT I'M A HORRIBLE PERSON AND MY UPDATES ARE AS FREQUENT AS A LACK ABOUT WEATHER COMPLAINTS IN THE MIGHIGANIAN WINTER. Life has gotten out of hand and inspiration hath abandoned me. Poor, overused excuses, I know, but that's the truth. Sorry a thousand times. Okay, I know I said the OC wouldn't be around too much, but she's pretty important plotwise, so she'll be here quite a bit for this chapter at least, probably the next… two or so? I've no clue. I'm doing my absolute best to not have her follow the typical OC trope, I would be overjoyed to hear how I'm doing on that. Also, I HAVE A DEFINITE PLOT NOW YAAAAYYY! Important note at the end.

~O~.~O~

When Sherlock got home, 221B was mercifully silent, meaning that John was still asleep. Sherlock sighed in relief, then hung up his coat and made his way to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, and his wings opened the rest of the way, stretching out so the tips brushed against the walls. He turned over the book and the feather in his hand, both of which he had retrieved from his coat before he hung it up. This new development was equal parts terrifying, relieving, and annoying. The fact that he wasn't the only person out there who had giant wings was an immense relief for some reason that he couldn't identify. However, that girl, Elise, had also ripped away Sherlock's layers, both literally and metaphorically, leaving him frightened and vulnerable. Which he despised.

But, the way she had melted into the shadows as if she weren't quite substantial was creepy, by anyone's standards. And her surgical precision with that knife was impressive, especially for someone so young. He grudgingly had to admit some little inkling of respect for her, but that did not at all cover for the fact that she had forced him to show his wings in a public park! What if someone had decided to take a late-night run? Then she would have been caught too. She showed you her wings, didn't she? A voice in his head asked. She had stretched her wings out to their fullest, putting her more at risk than Sherlock, who had desperately tried to hide his own feathered appendages.

Despite all this, she was a possible asset, and the only one he had right now. He glanced at the brown book, then opened it up a page marked with a yellow sticky note. On the page, she had written "If you need me, put the sticky note on the window."

Looking through the book, he saw not much writing, but lots of drawings, and lots of hastily drawn music staves, with lumpy notes drawn in, then erased, then drawn somewhere different. So she was a composer, of sorts. But it was the drawings that intrigued Sherlock. There were a bunch of what looked like aliens, and an old police box was drawn multiple times. There were also some instruments, a bowtie, and the solar system, as well as different blobs that may have been galaxies, but they were drawn in pen with little talent, so it was hard to tell.

He added all this to the girl's file in his mind palace, then lay back in bed, falling asleep instantly. He dreamt of flying that night, and of being strapped to medical tables. Panic and freedom swirled in his head in a complicated dance that felt a lot like chases through London with John.

~O~.~O~

A week later, he waited until John was asleep, then glared at the book for a good five minutes before he ripped out the sticky note and slammed it on the window. Two minutes later, he heard a knock on the door. Opening it, he saw Elise standing there.

"Roof?" She asked, and he nodded, leading the way to the roof of the building. Once they were up there, she sat down on the edge of the building, which was raised about half a meter, and looked up at Sherlock.

"What's up?" she asked, her voice not smug or condescending, but patient and open. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, thinking. Elise said nothing, but continued to sit silently as Sherlock tried to construct a decent sentence.

"How…" no.

"Why is it…" no, again.

"I…" definitely not.

Sherlock huffed, and gripped his hair with both hands, a moment away from tearing it out of his scalp. He was confused and upset, and just a little bit freaked out. He still couldn't get used to the giant wings, and he was just… frustrated with them.

"Overwhelmed?" Elise suggested. He nodded, glaring at her.

"Yeah, it'll do that to people. Can you just not get used to them, or…" Despite the fact that that was exactly his problem, Sherlock was feeling particularly testy, so he sneered, and said,

"No, of course I've gotten used to the giant wings attached to my back!"

"Well, you seem to be doing pretty okay, I mean, you haven't been found out yet, that I can tell." Sherlock glared at her full force.

"Okay, so you did get found out?" She guessed, unsure.

"My brother." He snarled, starting to pace the roof impatiently.

"Oh, well, that's good."

"No, it's not." He retorted, scoffing at the very idea.

"Ah, okay, some sort of sibling rivalry or something?" she asked. He rolled his eyes—John was so much better at this. But he couldn't talk to John about this, so he was stuck with the girl.

"You could say that."

"Well, is he going to report you?" she asked. "'cause I can help you get out of London real quick if you need to hide or whatever." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, he's not going to report me." He growled.

"Then what's so bad?"

"It's MYCROFT!" He exploded, shaking his hands in the air for emphasis. Elise blinked a few times, then held her hands up placatingly.

"Okay then, brother, Mycroft, not a good thing. Gotcha. …But you're in no immediate danger, right?"

"No."

"Well, you got that going for you. And hey, you're not on a table, or in a cage."

"But I could be."

"But you aren't. So you're okay there." Sherlock sighed, and plopped down on an overturned box, burying his head in his hands.

"Ugh, why did this have to happen to me?" He groaned to himself.

"It's not so bad…" Elise said quietly. Sherlock looked up at her and glared.

"How. Give me one reason as to how this is in any way not the most horrible thing to have ever happened to me."

"You can fly." She said simply, shrugging her shoulders. "It's pretty great, have you tried it yet?" Sherlock scowled.

"No."

"Still in denial then." A glare was her only answer. She sighed.

"Listen. I know it sucks. You had a life and stuff, and now you think you don't. But you still do, I mean, look at you! Aside from getting found out by your brother, you seem to be continuing your life as usual! That's better than what I got."

"What'd you get?" He asked venomously.

"Well, I was kidnapped, pronounced dead, and then experimented on for five years. Not exactly a picnic."

"But then they let you go." She laughed at this.

"Not really, no. They tried to kill me. Gave me one of those doses they use for the death sentence, then tossed me out back in the dumpster to be burned. Except they miscalculated the dosage or something, 'cause I woke up two hours later on fire. Put myself out, ran away, ended up here." She shrugged, staring at the ground.

"That sounds…interesting."

"Glad you think so."

Sherlock stared at the ground, and Elise seemed content to let the silence stretch on as long as it needed to. In truth, that sounded awful. Being nearly killed, then set on fire, then having to run away with nothing but the clothes on your back—if she had even had that. But he didn't say so. After a while, he managed to ask an actual question.

"Why does it hurt so much to bind them up? It doesn't hurt when I just fold them in, so why do the bandages make it so painful?"

"Probably because you're tightening them too much around the wing joints, or at the pressure points. See, your wings have pressure points, just like the rest of you. Do you mind… showing me, so I can point them out to you?" her face was open and honest, and Sherlock hadn't seen any indication that she meant him harm, but he was still hesitant as he took off his jacket, then undid the bindings and slipped the wings through the slits he had cut in the old T-shirt he was wearing. Up on the roof, safe from nosy eyes or surveillance cameras, he let his wings stretch out as much as they wanted, until he felt like they were almost scraping the stars off the sky, even though that was impossible.

Elise stared at his wings openly. They were easily twice her wingspan, and a dark midnight blue that shone eerily in the light of the stars and moon.

"Wow… they're beautiful." She breathed, awe written on her face like calligraphy. Sherlock frowned and glanced up at them, at the way the feathers blotted out the stars, then seemed to blend into the sky. He shrugged, not knowing how to respond to a compliment on the unwanted appendages. Suddenly, he wondered what John would think of them. Would he say they were beautiful? He shoved that thought away, locking it up in his mind palace. Of course he wouldn't, he'd think he was a freak, and rightfully so. Elise, however, was a freak herself, and seemed to insist that his wings were something special.

"No, c'mon, you have to appreciate that. They're gorgeous." She insisted, opening her own wings, which seemed small and weak besides his. He nodded reluctantly, and she folded her wings in.

"Anyways, here, I'll tap which spots you should avoid with a pencil." She pulled a Ticonderoga out of her jacket pocket, and wiggled it slightly.

"Turn around, please. And sit down while you're at it, you're like, twenty feet tall."

"No I'm not."

"Just shut up and sit." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down.

"Why don't you stretch out this wing," she pointed to his right wing, which he stretched out sideways.

"Okay, I'm being careful not to touch with my hands, alright? I'm just using the pencil."

"Why are you making such a big fuss about that?" He asked. From behind him, he could hear Elise pause, thinking.

"Because your wings, if they're the least bit like mine, are super sensitive. Skin to feather contact is a big no for me, but I don't know about you, so…" she shrugged.

"I don't care." He said nonchalantly. With all the vulnerability he had been showing recently, he was more than eager to regain some of his "sociopath" persona.

"Well, I really don't think…" She sounded nervous.

"Are you afraid of me or something?" He turned around and asked, and she frowned.

"Of course not."

"Well you're acting like a coward. Just…" He glared at her, and grabbed her hand, dragging her forwards despite her worried protests, and placed it on his wing to show his point.

The reaction was immediate—unpleasant shivers roared down his spine like freight trains, and he twitched violently, jerking his wings away from her touch as fast as he could. His breath caught in his throat and little painful jolts of electricity fizzled through every vein, pulsing to the ends of his feathers, making him shudder. He felt like the spot she had touched had been dipped in ice water, so cold it burned him, and his mind kept spitting out a litany of wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong!

He fell to the floor, pulling his wings close in around him and putting his own hand on the spot where he had put hers, trying to make the horrible sensation go away. His breath came in pained gasps, and he was shivering violently.

"Sherlock, are you okay?!" He faintly recognized Elise calling his name, but he didn't reply.

"Sherlock, look at me. Focus. Open your wings, come on." That was the last thing he wanted to do. With his wings wrapped around him, he felt oddly safe, protected in the dark. Usually he would abhor the idea of hiding behind those monstrous appendages, but now he was so shell-shocked that he took whatever comfort he could get. Elise growled.

"Sherlock, you have to open your wings! Listen to me, goddamnit! Look at me right now, I am not going to let you go into shock!" She reached through the gap in his wings, and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back so he was looking at the sky. The electricity in his veins seemed to swirl together with the stars in an odd bout of synesthesia, until he was falling into the sky, wings and veins and stars and darkness... She pulled his head back farther so he fell over backwards, landing on the rough pavement of the roof.

"Look, pavement, okay? Focus on that. That's solid rock or concrete or whatever, beneath your hands. Sherlock, focus on the surface of the roof." Brain spinning from sensory overload, Sherlock obeyed without thinking, digging his fingers into the concrete, feeling the dust and dirt that lay on it.

After a while, his head cleared, and the electricity fizzled away, leaving his wings numb and tingling with exhaustion. It took a little longer for his heart rate and breathing to come back down to normal, but eventually they did, and he propped himself up, blinking a few times.

"What… What was that?" He asked weakly, once he regained the ability to speak. Elise let out a sigh of relief when he seemed to be okay.

"I told you, you idiot, your wings are sensitive. Just one touch, and you get sensory overload and go into a sort of shock." She took a deep, rattling breath. "Don't do that again, you nearly gave me a heart attack." He glanced at her, and saw that she looked worried, for whatever reason. But he didn't feel like thinking too much about it, so he just nodded, then leaned against the raised edge of the roof. After a few minutes of silence, he managed to muster up the strength to say,

"I'd still like you to show me those pressure points." She laughed slightly, then stood up again.

"Seriously? After that, you still want me to?" he nodded at her, lacking the strength to glare. She raised her eyebrows, impressed. "…Alright. Stretch out the wing, then." She instructed, obviously surprised that he didn't want to stop for now. He complied, resting it on the ground so the trembling was less visible. Less, being the key word there. Elise sighed.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." She said quietly. Then before he could reply, she held up the dropped Ticonderoga, and waved it about a bit.

"Pencil, see?" He nodded gratefully, not wanting to go through that ever again, if he could help it.

"Here, sit so I can get to your wing." She asked, and he shifted so he was leaning sideways on the wall, and Elise was facing his back.

"Okay, when I tap the pencil, it'll feel like this." She tapped the pencil lightly on the top of his wing, and Sherlock was relieved to find it didn't send him into a fit again.

"It's just other people's skin that makes you feel like that, I found." Elise said conversationally as she looked over Sherlock's wing for pressure points. "Inanimate objects, clothing, your own skin, those aren't bad at all." He nodded, filing the information away.

"Alright, so, your joints are right here," tap. "And here and here." Tap tap. "You wanna avoid those, if at all possible, and then you have pressure points right around here," tap. "And here…" taptaptap. "And then this whole strip from this joint to right here is pretty sensitive." The pencil lighted down next to the second joint, then dragged quickly down the feathers in a diagonal line.

"Think you got it?" she asked, and Sherlock nodded. "Show me."

She sat in front of Sherlock, and took off her jacket, spreading out one wing and holding the pencil behind her head for Sherlock to take. He grabbed the pencil, and was amazed at how much she seemed to believe he wouldn't hurt her. If he could do to her what he had just experienced, then she was taking a huge risk putting herself in the position she had.

"Well, go on. Pressure points and stuff." She said. "Night's a-wasting."

Sherlock quickly pointed out all the joints and pressure points, then handed her back the pencil.

"Yep, that's about it. Just try to not bind those spots too tightly, and with the joints, try not to put any bandages on them at all, if you can avoid it. That should make it a bit more bearable." Sherlock nodded, and handed her back the pencil. She smiled softly.

"Man, you look bushed. Go to bed." She said, laughing quietly.

"But I have more questions."

"Yeah, and I'll answer them, but the sun will be coming up soon. I gotta get back home, and you need to get back down there before your flatmate wakes up, right?"

Sherlock's eyes opened wide as he remembered that John was still back in 221B. He folded in his wings, grabbed the bindings, and put on his coat again. Elise grabbed her own coat, and Sherlock started for the door to the stairwell, pausing when he noticed the girl wasn't following him. She was stepping up to the edge of the roof, then stepping off…

He ran to the edge of the roof just in time to see her open her wings and land softly on the ground, grinning back up at him. She gave a little half-wave, then walked out of the alley. Sherlock watched her go, then went back to his flat, looking forwards to some rest. He was exhausted.

~O~.~O~

The next morning, he woke up to the sound of John making tea in the kitchen. He sat up, stretched his wings, and then bound them, carefully avoiding the joints and pressure spots Elise had showed him. Once he had finished, he noted with satisfaction that it was much more comfortable. Maybe the girl was useful after all…

He got dressed and went to the kitchen, where John was pouring the now-made tea.

"Morning, Sherlock." John said sleepily. Sherlock grunted something that sounded slightly like a greeting, and sat down at the table, going back over his notes from a previous experiment. Just then, Sherlock's phone went off. He glanced at it, and saw it was a text from Graham.

1457 Holland St. Get here now. GL

He frowned, unused to that tone from Lestrade. He glanced up at John, who sighed, and set down his tea.

"That's Greg, isn't it?"

"Greg?"

"Lestrade. Come on, I refuse to believe that you still don't know his name."

"Not important. What is important, is the case. I'd say, based on the text, that this is at least an 8." John's eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

"Really?" he asked. When Sherlock nodded, he stared forlornly at the cup of tea for a moment, then drained it, and put on his coat. Sherlock was already standing by the door at this point, and once John got ready, he dashed down the stairs. Is there anything that man doesn't do in a hurry? John wondered as he followed him.

Once in the cab, Sherlock texted Lestrade.

On our way. What is it? SH

Suicide. But it's the strangest damn suicide I've ever seen. GL

That's what you always say it is. SH

No, we're pretty sure this is an actual suicide. But that doesn't matter, we really need you over here to prove how idiotic we are again. GL

Is that sarcasm, Graham? SH

It's Greg, you bloody idiot. And no, it wasn't. GL

Sherlock reread the texts a few times, trying to figure out what Lestrade was talking about without any real information. His wording suggested that it wasn't the suicide itself that was strange, but maybe something about the victim? And the way he actually wanted Sherlock to prove them wrong was odd in and of itself—usually he didn't like it when Sherlock complained about their idiocy. That indicated that there was something about the case that they didn't quite want to believe, something that was obvious…

His train of thought was interrupted when the cab stopped moving. Sherlock got out of the cab, and immediately entered the building. John got out a moment later, sighed, paid the cabbie, and then followed him in. The apartment wasn't big or extravagant, but it was elegantly decorated, with streamlined furniture and chrome and glass everything. Sherlock deduced that it was a woman, mid-30's, single, and dedicated to her work, which was civil engineering, all before they passed through the sitting room. Lestrade was waiting for them just on the other side of the sitting room, and his face changed from haggard to relieved when he saw them.

"Sherlock, John. Thank god you're here."

"What is it, why is this so different?" Sherlock asked immediately. Greg glanced up at the taller man, then shook his head.

"You really have to see it for yourself. You're going to love this one." He said with dry humor. He led the way to what Sherlock assumed would be the woman's bedroom. As they went, Greg gave them the brief details on the woman.

"Leslie Cale, age 37, was found dead this morning when her boyfriend stopped by. No history of depression or anything, completely healthy, except for the obvious."

"And what's that?" John asked quietly. But they had arrived at the door to the woman's bedroom, and Greg just angled his head towards the room, inviting them to go see for themselves. Sherlock frowned, wondering what was so bad about this case, and stepped inside the room. He had planned to look at the room first before going to the victim, but his attention was drawn to her immediately. Leslie Cale was hanging from the ceiling by a rope noose, her face pale, and her lips blue. But that wasn't what made Sherlock go cold for a minute.

It was the large pair of soft grey wings that hung from her back, as lifeless as the rest of her.

"Oh my god." John whispered softly. He moved closer, carefully examining the body without touching it.

"Are they…"

"Real? We think so. They're not glued on or anything, anyways. That's where we were hoping he'd flounce in, and tell us what was really going on here." Greg gestured to Sherlock, who was still staring, mouth parted slightly in shock. He couldn't believe it. Another Chosen one, apparently took her own life.

"Sherlock?" John asked, when he didn't say anything. Sherlock finally tore his gaze away from the woman, but knew that the image would be haunting his thoughts for a while. He blinked once, then moved forwards, examining the body as he usually did, although his mind wasn't completely on task. He looked over the woman, brain making deductions on auto-pilot. Another Chosen One? So soon? Mr. Park was certainly moving fast. He wondered how many others were Chosen, and who.

"Well, for once you were right Lestrade, it is a suicide." He let out a little disappointed sigh, and the DI rolled his eyes slightly.

"Okay, great, but what about the wings?"

Indeed, what about the wings? It would seem incredibly suspicious if he admitted to any knowledge about them, however, he was loathe to say he didn't know anything…

"Well, they do seem to be…real. John?" He stepped back, gesturing quickly for John to take a look, before stuffing his trembling hand into his coat pocket. He really wanted to run, get out of here, get away from that lifeless freak of a corpse…it made him think too much about himself. An image flashed through his mind, of him hanging from that noose, his own raven-black wings puddling on the floor beneath him. He shuddered and locked the image away in a cell in his Mind Palace. Now was definitely not the time to get distracted by such a base instinct as fear. So he just stood there silently as John looked over the body, fighting to stay calm and collected. And he was doing a pretty decent job of it, too, until John reached out and gently brushed one of the woman's wings with a tentative finger, and his heart leapt up into his throat. He had to focus immensely to keep his wings from trembling, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. The memory of the horrible shock of Elise's hand on his own wing last night rattled in his head, and he winced in sympathy even though the woman was dead.

"…I really don't know what to tell you, Greg." John finally said, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. "She seems perfectly normal, except for the obvious…" He huffed as he realized he had just mirrored Lestrade's overly vague words before they had entered the room. "They seem to be… well, part of her, I suppose. Like they were supposed to be there." It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that John didn't look disgusted, just confused. He felt a small flutter of hope in his chest, and promptly squashed it. This was no time to be considering pipe dreams and delusions.

"Yeah, but they're not. People don't just have wings, right?" Lestrade insisted, turning to Sherlock. "Right?" His entire face was practically screaming his confusion and disbelief, and Sherlock was reminded once again of why he hid what had happened to him. This was how people were supposed to react. Confusion, fear, eventually hatred. That's what people felt about things that were different. He should know.

"Of course not." He managed to scoff, pulling out every last bit of acting that he could manage, blinking more rapidly than normal to show subtle confusion. He frowned, then turned, leaving the room.

"Send me the results of the autopsy." He called over his shoulder as he left the room.

"What? Sherlock—wait! I'm not sending this to Molly!" Lestrade shouted, dashing after him. Sherlock stopped and turned around.

"No?"

"No! Jesus, if this gets in the papers, can you imagine the mass pandemonium?! I have half a mind to send this straight to your brother, actually. This is not my division. A freak of nature committing suicide…"

Sherlock didn't reply. Lestrade's words should not have bothered him. They really shouldn't have. He respected Lestrade as a vaguely intelligent police worker, but he didn't care about him any further than that. So why did freak of nature keep echoing in his head? Why was this cloud of despair and betrayal, of all things, suddenly falling over his mind, paralyzing him? He shouldn't care. He didn't care.

Freak of nature…

Sherlock turned on his heel and left without another word. Lestrade could send the body to Mycroft, it didn't matter. He'd get the results somehow. He didn't care.

He didn't care.

~O~.~O~

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock immediately sat down on the couch and forced his trembling fingers to sit still in that steepled position under his chin, while John made tea. His mind was a whirling mess, and he needed to organize it into understandable data, and weed out those pesky emotions that had somehow managed to force their way in. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace, while John silently poured tea, setting down a mug next to Sherlock that they both knew would go cold.

John knew that once Sherlock went into his Mind Palace he would be dead to the world for some indeterminate amount of time. So he sat quietly in his chair, staring at the wall. He still hadn't finished his book, so he could read that, but he didn't think that he would be able to focus on it much. He could still see the image of that woman, hanging from the ceiling, her silhouette strange and alien due to the wings.

God, wings.

If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. He had no idea how in the world that was even possible, but apparently it was. He was as eager to see the autopsy as Sherlock, but if Lestrade sent it to Mycroft, then he knew he wouldn't get to. He frowned.

"How is that even possible?" He asked himself. "I mean, wings, really?"

Sherlock, lost in his mind palace, was in the middle of organizing data, when John's voice drifted down. "how…even possible…wings...?" He snapped himself out of it, looking up at John, trying to suppress the rush of panic. Why did John say wings? Were his wings showing? Did John know?

"oh, you're awake." John said.

"what did you say?" Sherlock asked, proud when his voice didn't shake.

"Oh, I was just thinking out loud."

"Yes, about what, what did you say?" Sherlock asked more insistently.

"I said 'how is that even possible? I mean, wings'…" John trailed off, considering his own question. "How did she have wings?"

A tidal wave of relief washed over Sherlock, and he let his head fall back. John was talking about the victim, not Sherlock. He was still safe. For now. But he still didn't have any information. Dammnit, his brain was refusing to work correctly, why?! Every time he tried to focus on the victim to look for information, all he could see were the wings, hanging lifelessly, unnaturally still. How wrong that had seemed, and it scared him. He couldn't focus. He had no idea what was going on, and it had seemed like a normal suicide, but something about it had been…off, in a way that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on, or trace back to a piece of data. It was infuriating. He kept turning it over and over in his mind, completely forgetting that John had asked him a question and losing himself in the puzzle.

John didn't seem to mind.

~O~.~O~

That night, Sherlock stuck another sticky note on the window. And sure enough, a few soft knocks echoed on the door minutes later. Sherlock grabbed the case file, opened the door, and wordlessly grabbed Elise's arm, dragging her up to the roof before she could say anything.

"Jeez, pushy." She muttered to herself, but didn't struggle. When they got up to the roof, he could see the moonlight highlighting her worried features.

"What's wrong, what's happened?" She asked.

"Leslie Cale committed suicide yesterday." He said shortly, handing her the manila folder.

"Oh, friend of yours? I'm sorry…"

"What? No, actually, I was hoping you would know her."

"Me?" Elise asked distractedly as she opened the case file. Then she froze, staring at the picture that Sherlock had made sure was on top.

"This…oh god. Oh, shit. How… how did he…" She floundered for a moment, then took a deep breath and sat down on the ground where she was, looking through the rest of the file.

"This is really not good, not fucking good…" She muttered to herself as she leafed through papers and reports.

"You think?!" Sherlock hissed. She glanced up.

"Hey, I don't know his fucking plans any more than you, okay? This is news to me, too." She said shortly, glaring at him. Then she sighed.

"Jesus fuck…"

"Are you usually this verbose?"

"I curse when I'm stressed."

"You curse a lot."

"I'm stressed a lot." She said in a tight voice, then picked up the picture again, staring at it. "how old do you think…"

"She was 37." Sherlock replied immediately, pacing the length of the roof.

"No, no I mean how long do you think she had the wings?" Sherlock paused, thinking.

"I… don't know."

"Can you get me access to the body? I can probably figure it out, then we can get a better idea of the motive." He nodded, pulling out his cellphone. If the woman had committed suicide immediately after she had grown the wings, then it could have been shock, plain and simple. But if she had had them for a few days, then it could be a lot more complicated.

What did you do with the body? SH

Leslie Cale? GL

Yes, did you send her to my insufferable brother? SH

Yeah. Didn't know what else to do. GL

Sherlock groaned and briefly pressed the glowing phone to his forehead.

"What?"

"He gave the body to Mycroft." Sherlock muttered angrily.

"Oh. Well… you know, if it's really that big a deal, I can just sneak in there and take a peek. Just tell me where she'd be." Sherlock paused.

"No, Mycroft would have her under the highest security."

"Not a problem."

"I think it would be, actually."

"hmmm…underestimating me could get you killed, you know." She said tonelessly, her lips twitching in what might have been interpreted in a smirk.

"I don't think you understand—"

"And I don't think you understand. I know my limits, and you do not. If I tell you I can do something, I can. And I will. So, either call your brother, or get me coordinates." Sherlock paused, and looked at Elise. Her posture was comepletely relaxed, her tone bland, head tilted ever so slightly. Yet there was something in the depths of her eyes that made him think of lions at the zoo. Lazily rolling in the sun, looking for all the world like overly lethargic, useless lumps of fur. Then someone would throw a piece of meat in the cage, and they became deadly predators made of pure muscle and speed, neither incapable nor unwilling to rip and tear and kill. He was reminded, quite suddenly, of how little he knew about this girl. He sighed, though it was mostly for show.

"Fine, I'll ask him." He looked down at his phone and tapped out a brief text.

I need to see the body of Leslie Cale. SH

St. Jakobsens hospital, on 3rd st. I will meet you there. I'd like to discuss this…predicament, in person. MH

Sherlock groaned again dramatically. This night was just getting better and better. First he had to ask Mycroft for a favor. Then he had to actually talk to him?! This was just great, wasn't it?

"So where we headed?" Elise asked, ignoring his obvious annoyance.

"St. Jakobsens, on 3rd street."

"Great, let's go." She stood up, handed him the case file, and then started walking to the edge of the roof.

"Where are you going?" he asked, and she turned around, confused, then groaned.

"Right, you don't fly." Sherlock scowled at her.

"You know, you're going to have to eventually."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will. It's the strongest instinct we have, it's literally impossible to just ignore it indefinitely. I've tried." Sherlock frowned at this.

"We were made for flight, Sherlock. If we stay on the ground too long, it will start to slowly kill you. Flying is as important to us as food or water or oxygen. You can't deny it."

"Watch me." He growled. She watched him go, a resigned scowl on her face. Then she huffed, rolled her eyes up to the skies in a silent prayer for strength, and followed him down off the roof. By the stairs.

Lord, if this man wasn't as stubborn as he was intelligent.

~O~.~O~

A/N: right, another chapter for my fabulous readers. If any of you are still out there, I cannot say enough how amazing you are and how impressed and amazed I am.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Okay, generally I am REALLY against OC's in fics, and while Elise is a pretty cool character, I think, it is possible for me to edit this plot to not need her. HOWEVER, that would mean that I would need to completely rewrite pretty much the entire past two chapters. Which I obviously really don't wanna do *hangs neon sign that says "lazy" above my head and sits shamefully beneath it* however, if you all REALLY hate her, well, the will of the readers be done. So PLEASE let me know if she should stay or go—It would help a lot. Also, I have decided that I will not put any explicit or even obvious Johnlock in here—you'll have to use your special shipper goggles, sorry.

Thanks everyone!