FEATHERS

1

Sherlock gazed longingly out the window. The sun was glaring through the peak in the clouds, the cool breeze of April rolled about the city. He rested his head on his palm, leaned forward in his chair and his elbow on the window sill. He chewed his lip.

"I want to fly today," he said after a beat. John looked up from his paper.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"I want to fly today," he said again decisively. "Will you come watch?" John blinked slowly. He had lived with the winged detective for a little over a year now, he'd gotten used to hearing the expression. It wasn't a matter of whether or not John enjoyed watching Sherlock fly. It was simply a matter of how often.

And Sherlock flew often.

And John caught his feathers.

"I like it when you watch me," Sherlock said, turning back to the window. John cocked his head, watching as Sherlock's beautiful ebon plumage rustled in the breeze that crept through the window. John wanted so badly, so many times, just to reach out and run his hand down along Sherlock's wing, to stroke his down, to feel his beauty.

John loved Sherlock's wings, truly. Despite all jealousy and annoyance, John adored Sherlock's gift. Because it was truly a gift with Sherlock.

"Well, I like watching you," he said, standing. "It's a lovely day. Why not?" Sherlock looked back at him and beamed, then quickly stood and in a flurry of feathers he turned and strode out the door and up the steps.

"The roof John! Come on!" he called. John sighed through a smile.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he laughed, following his flat mate until they both stood on the roof of the building. Sherlock stood on the ledge, eyes closed as the wind swirled about him. He expanded his wings, letting the air seep through every crevice of them, ruffling his hair and his plumage. He looked back at John with a grin.

"It's so perfect today, John," he said as his wings stretched out. "Absolutely perfect." John gazed up at the winged detective and nodded.

"You said it," he said with a smile. He watched as Sherlock took a deep breath in, his feathers fluttering in the wind, the turquoise sheen making them glisten in the sunlight.

Sherlock was gorgeous. His lean physique paired with his massive, stunning wingspan made him look surreal, other-worldly, nearly angelic. John sat on the ledge, gazing on, and he felt a tug in his chest. He was nothing compared to this glorious creature. He was normal. He was boring. He was ordinary.

Suddenly, Sherlock pounced off the ledge and swooped down, barreling towards the concrete before he pushed up with his wings and shot heavenward, far above John's head. John looked up.

All he could see was Sherlock's silhouette in front of the sun, wings spread and arms out, gliding above him. John sighed.

A feather trickled down then, floating through the air and carried on the wind. John reached up and grasped it. He looked down at the navy-black object in his hand, so fragile and soft and delicate. He twirled it, brushed it with his fingers, ran it across his lips.

A heavy longing sat hard on his chest as he looked up again. Sherlock was gliding on the wind, flying in circles above him. The sun shone warmly on his frame, and John watched, captivated.

To be able to experience such a thing as flight, to feel the wind and the sun so close, all around, engulfing one's entire being with light and freedom and peace...

Envy quickly dissipated as another feather fluttered towards him. He reached up, gingerly plucking it from the air. He cradled it in his hands. These were part of Sherlock, part of his being, pieces of him in John's hands. John swallowed.

He cherished Sherlock so dearly, he truly did. Even if John so longed to be like him, to be different, special. Even if the man was impossible, preening himself at crime scenes, getting his down in John's toothbrush, playing his violin at three in the morning, leaving body parts and experiments in the fridge. But that was Sherlock, and that was the man he'd come to know.

The man he'd come to love.

John looked back up as Sherlock's form circled a few more times before swooping down. The detective's face was flushed, his hair windswept and his chest heaving. He looked positively exquisite, and the wild look in his silver eyes made John nearly shiver.

"You're beautiful, you know," he said without thinking. Sherlock cocked a brow and drew closer to John, smirking.

"Thank you," he said, panting lightly. He looked down at John's hands. "Caught a few then?"

John looked down at the feathers he had clasped in his hands.

"Oh, yeah," he said. He held them up, twirling them. Sherlock grinned and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"Keep them if you want," he said. "I know you like them." John coloured.

"Oh..well...yeah...I mean they're nice..." he stammered, breaking eye contact. Of course Sherlock would have noticed his staring, his longing, his distant adoration. John dropped his hand, hanging his head.

"Sorry, I know that's a little weird," he admitted. Sherlock shook his head. The tenderness in his eyes was a bit foreign, a little alarming, and when John looked up, he felt a bit uncomfortable, shifting where he stood. The wind swept around them, the sun beat down lovingly, Sherlock's feathers rustled and he brought his hand up to John's face, stroking his cheek with a thumb. The gentle touch sent shivers down the doctor's spine; this was...odd.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked softly. John swallowed, the silvery eyes drawing him in, closer, subconsciously capturing him.

"Yes..." he breathed. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

Sherlock smiled, leaned in, and pressed his lips to John's forehead, then pulled away and gave John's good shoulder a loving squeeze before turning to go back inside.

"Let's get some lunch," he said without turning. "Come on."

He descended the stairs. And John stood, still grasping the feathers, face flushed a deep crimson.

And though John Watson was no winged individual, no incredible anthrohuman, he swore, in that one moment, just for that one brief moment, he had wings. Beautiful wings. And he soared.