Title: Overrated
Summary: Sherlock Holmes hated his wings… then he met John Watson
Rating: G
Word Count: 838
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairings: None
Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Sherlock is a production of the BBC and is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I, the author, am making no profit or money from the posting of this fan-fiction.

Author's Note: I decided I needed to write Winglock because of reasons; it's just convenient that Alex and Devin announced the AU contest at the same time. Honest. As always, this hasn't been beta'd or Brit-picked, so let me know if you see something I missed.

Sherlock Holmes hated his wings. He hated their coloration, their size, and their weight. He hated the oily black of his feathers, how they caught the light and muddied it, making his wings shine dully, even in broad daylight. He hated how they were constantly in his way, flight feathers dragging on the ground or knocking over delicate equipment as he paced the flat, fragile bones pressed tightly to his back as he tried to squeeze through London foot-traffic. He hated how they slowed him down, their bulk creating drag whenever he tried to run, his back aching from the pull of gravity against his extra appendages. He hated the stares his wings earned him, the wary looks and the not so secret whispers when they thought he couldn't hear. Sherlock would have given up his wings in a instant… but then he met John.

John Watson loved Sherlock's wings. He loved the way they refracted light, rainbows caught in the barbs of each feather, if only one stopped to look closer. He loved the way they moved, flaring to fill the room just as Sherlock filled the room with his words. He loved their solidity, arching over the pair of them as they huddled in the rain after a particularly dangerous chase or whipping forward to stop a fleeing suspect. John loved that Sherlock's wings made him special, unique. Sherlock's wings were a thing of beauty, of grace and power and a fierceness that fit the detective like a glove. John learned to read Sherlock's mood in the shape of his wings, and Sherlock learned to love his wings through John's adoration.

"Sherlock?"

The detective grunted, wings fluttering minutely in acknowledgement.

"Sherlock, have you ever…" John trailed off and shook his head. "Sorry, I shouldn't ask; it's probably really personal –"

"Finish your question, John," Sherlock cut in, opening his eyes and sitting up straighter on the couch, wings flaring to counter-balance his movements. "I assure you, if I take offense to your question, you will know."

John snorted. "Right. Well. I was just wondering… Have you ever flown? I know your wings are large enough that theoretically they could support you, but…" He trailed off again, flushing slightly. "Sorry, I know you don't like talking about them."

Sherlock regarded John for a moment, icy eyes sharp, as if searching for some ulterior motive for the doctor's question. Apparently not finding one, he stood abruptly and opened his wings. Inky black feathers brushed the opposite walls and John had to fight to keep his awed gasp down. Sherlock's wingspan approached twenty feet, and it was rare for the detective to keep his wings open for more than a few seconds. Each feather refracted the light differently, making his wings glimmer in muted rainbows with every movement, every breath.

"You are correct in your assumption that my wings could support me if I chose to use them for flight," Sherlock stated, watching John's face as the doctor watched his wings, "however, I have never used them for such a task. I never developed the requisite muscles, so an attempt now would only result in failure."

John stared, unable to understand. Sherlock had been gifted with the chance to fly and he had never tried? Only one in every ten thousand people was born with wings, but for Sherlock to never use his for their intended purpose… John had only met one other person with wings in his life, and while Sergeant Williams was happy to share stories about flight, John had never seen her in action. "You never..? Not even as a boy?"

The look Sherlock sent him was sharp, but the detective's voice was soft as he spoke. "I did not want to give them another reason to fear me. My intellect set me apart; I did not want to be above them physically as well."

John's heart clenched. Of course Sherlock had been singled out as a child. No wonder his scowl would darken every time Donovan called him a freak, his wings shuddering slightly when an officer muttered something derogatory at a scene. From the very beginning, Sherlock had been told that his wings made him different, but it was that difference that drove others away, that kept him out of normal conversations or conventional friendships. Sherlock's wings were what made people wary of him, so he saw them with the same contempt the world did. His wings had betrayed him, marked him as different from a young age and kept others away as he grew; no wonder he never learned to use them.

"Sherlock…"

The detective shook his head sharply, wings spreading impossibly wider. "Don't, John. I don't want your pity. Besides," Sherlock folded his wings neatly, feathers flashing as they fell into place, "I do not need to fly; I have you."

Later that night, as he chased a serial rapist over steep rooftops and through dark alleys, Sherlock grinning madly several strides ahead, John realized he understood exactly what his best friend meant.