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Wings, Sherlock ponders as he lets his eyes trace over the golden threads on the wings in front of him.
Most people use them as decoration, dyeing and plucking them to maintain a certain aesthetic. Like peacocks, their designs are often used for seduction, if not expression. He usually would ignore wings in a case like this, especially ones that are as unkempt as these. Sherlock shifts, aware that Molly is watching him from the window, and his own wings flex behind him into a similar position.
The golden threads in his wings are the only things that make this case interesting. As much as Sherlock likes to dismiss notions of fairytales, the fact that soulmates cause a measureable shift in wings is fact. The wings turn golden, either by thread or feather, and –the reason this case is interesting –then you can fly.
“How then,” Sherlock muses, “did you fall?”
No one has studied the rate of threading as the body decomposes, so Sherlock has no way of knowing if the wings were gold before he died. He leaves Molly there with instructions to watch the gold growth, if there is any.
He thinks of Mycroft, of the smug look on his brother’s face when he took flight in front of him. Proudly displaying that he has the benefit without the drawback of a soulmate. He thinks of Lestrade and how his wife used the excuse of his wings turning gold to cheat on and then leave him.
Still, there is one logical conclusion, and he should tell Lestrade.
“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” He says, minutes later, as he comes to his conclusion. Mike laughs but doesn’t have his phone.
“Er, here, use mine.” The shorter man holds out his phone. The haircut and the way he holds himself say military, and the dull tan they’ve dyed his wings is further proof. Sherlock replays their conversation from earlier in his head. Army Doctor. The contradiction is interesting, but he knows poverty can be a good of a calling as any, and this man doesn’t seem to be in possession of wealth. Which is odd for someone just returning from deployment – obvious from the still tan wings and the tan that doesn’t go above his wrists. Ah, so he’s also looking for a flat share.
“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.” So not the Harry engraved on his phone. Also interesting. He turns it over in his hands, learning about the brother, and turns.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asks, and he hears a sharp intake of breath.
“Afghanistan, how did you know?” Molly appears for a moment, but Sherlock is surprised at the warm look John sends him. Sherlock sends a wink over his shoulder as he leaves the room, giddy for the first time in a while. He flexes his wings behind him, and frowns as he pulls a golden thread off the edge. He must’ve been careless and caught one from the victim.
…
“Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”
“I don’t have one.” John lies, “I barely know him. I met him... yesterday.”
“Mm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? Is that why you’ve hidden your wings in your coat?”
John feels them twitch feebly behind him, but doesn’t rise to the bait. He’s hidden them because they’ve been restless, eager to flex, and he’s already broken a window. He’s remarkably calm until the stranger brings up his hand.
“Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”
“Who the hell are you? How do you know that?”
“Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it. Welcome back.” John’s phone chirps, and the stranger tils his head.
“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.” He says, and he spreads his wings behind him. With one powerful thrust, he’s flown away. John’s wings burn, and he gets the feeling he could follow Mycroft up there.
“I’m to take you home.”
“No, I think I’ve got it.” John says, staring at his hands and feeling his heartbeat in his wings. The tan its dyed is designed to hide gold, and he saw the glint of golden thread in Sherlock’s black. He thought it beautiful, but he hadn’t realized the gold could be his.
…
John tries to tell him over dinner, but he’s more of a person of actions, and this is certainly not the time. His wings turn gold in their entirety when he leaves his cane behind, and he’s glad he hid them under his coat.
…
“I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you... so clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?
Sherlock takes out the pill and holds it between his thumb and finger, raising it to the light to examine it more closely.
“Still the addict. But this... this is what you’re really addicted to, innit?” Sherlock holds the pill in his fingers and stares at it, and his whole world is reduced to it. “You’d do anything... anything at all...” Sherlock’s fingers begin to tremble with excitement and anticipation. “to stop being bored.”
“You’re not bored now, are you?”
Sherlock drops his pill in surprise as a gunshot rings out. Sherlock turns, slides over the desk behind him and hurries to the window, bending down to stare through the bullet hole in the glass as the cabbie groans on the floor. None of the windows are open and there is nobody in sight. A flicker of gold, and Sherlock catches the sight of golden wings as the shooter flies into the sky. He cant help the small smile on his face as he stares into the night sky.
…
“So, the shooter. No sign?”
“Cleared off before we got ’ere. Swear he never even disturbed anything. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but...” he shrugs “... got nothing to go on.” Sherlock looks at him pointedly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Lestrade rolls his eyes, but pauses at a flicker of light beneath Sherlock’s wings.
“Okay, gimme.”
“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. Not only that, but to be in flight while he shot – we’ve narrowed the pool down considerably. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service ...” As Sherlock pauses, Lestrade absently lifts one of the golden threads off the ambulance and Sherlock realizes it’s his. He sees John standing some distance away behind the police tape – his wings hidden in his coat, as they’ve been since the lab. “... and nerves of steel ...”
Sherlock trails off as John looks back at him innocently and then turns his head away. Sherlock feels his whole body warm, and his wings flex behind him. Lestrade turns to follow Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock turns back to him before he can start to ask questions.
“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.” Sherlock says. If he-if John-. His thoughts stumble upon each other, words vomit from his brain to surround John and lie at his feet.
“Sorry?”
“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.” He starts to walk towards John. His world focuses on the man in front of him, and he couldn’t be pressed to recall the rest of the conversation with Lestrade.
“Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.” John says. His wings are under his coat. Sherlock looks at him for a moment, words fluttering. Could they take flight now?
“Good shot.” Is what he says instead.
“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”
“Well, you’d know.” John’s lip twitches, and its all but a confession.
“Do you?” John says. He shifts his head, and with a few subtle motions, he’s told Sherlock everything. Sherlock is lost over all the things he wants to say.
You mean… me?
You have just killed a man
Won’t be needing a second bedroom after all
Instead, Sherlock flexes and extends his wings outward to show John the golden threads mixed in between them.
“Dinner?”
“Starving.”
Transcript taken from https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/42853.html