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John loved London. Even with its reeking river and its damp air, he felt drawn to the place. His basic incompatibility should have kept him away; at one time, it had driven him from England’s cold, moist shores into the dry furnace of Afghanistan. Perfect for a creature like him. However, though he found purpose in the war and an affinity between his element and his environment, it wasn’t to be. Fate returned him here, to a metropolis that chilled his bones and left his spark a little dim.
Alaman, fire spirits, sought out the hot, parched places of the world by instinct. Still, John had never really been one to follow the crowd. He found his home here amidst the Sylphid and Ondine, creatures of air and water who made England their sanctuary.
Not that he was the only one out of place, he thought with a smile as he trudged into the flat, setting down the shopping and drying his damp clothes with a flicker of automatic flame. Mrs Hudson was Telchine. Her affinity for metal and gems made her happy inhabiting the urban construct of the country’s capital. Astramor, like Lestrade, were indifferent to their location as long as they could see the sky and relish in the storm-clouds that sometimes gathered above their heads. There were Djinn and small gods, lesser sprites and greater spirits, all making their way within the city’s sprawl. An Alaman like John stood out in the crowd, but compared to his flatmate, he was positively ordinary.
‘Sherlock?’ He cocked his head, listening for a resonant reply before squinting out of the window and breathing a sigh. The rain shower that had drenched him had passed, pallid clouds giving way to a window of bright blue sky: the first glimpse of English summer. Really, there was only one place Sherlock would be, seeking out the warm kiss of the sun.
Padding through to Sherlock’s bedroom, he ducked his head out of the window, narrowing his eyes against the glare. The back of Baker Street was a heat-trap at this time of day. In an hour, if the weather held for that long, the bricks would be baking and the air heavy with humidity. For now, though, a breath of a fresh breeze lingered, stirring Sherlock’s dark curls.
He was perched on the flimsy rail at the edge of the fire escape, perfectly balanced. One hand rested lightly on the metal, his grip too loose to prevent a fall. The ethereal skin of his bare chest had a milky richness to its tone, and the pyjama trousers he wore trailed low on his hips, covering all but the tips of his toes. His face was tipped up to the sun, his eyes shut in worship. It aggravated John endlessly that his flatmate was gifted with such unconscious grace. However, it was part of the territory, just like the wings that curved from his shoulder-blades, half parted as he basked.
Of all the creatures his flatmate could have been, it turned out he was Fey. The word had lost some of its meaning over the years, and “fairy” held none of the gravity necessary when dealing with such beings. They were dangerous, so everyone said, lacking empathy and understanding. Like cats, they were proud and arrogant – predators with a liking for distressing forms of play. People naturally distrusted their kind and, over the centuries, they had made themselves scarce.
Now, looking at the exotic flare of those wings, fragile, like those of a butterfly, John struggled anew in the attempt to marry the cruel whispers of folklore and rumour with the man in front of him. Sherlock was far from perfect, but he wasn’t a monster.
Clumsily, he clambered over the windowsill, the fire escape chiming beneath his feet as he joined his flatmate and friend. He didn’t see him like this often. The wings were normally hidden, removed by a magic John couldn’t grasp. It was probably just as well. With the life they led, they’d be ripped to shreds in a day. They might be breath-taking, but they were far from practical.
Propping himself at Sherlock’s side, he took the time to examine the appendages. He’d seen them once before, but Sherlock had hidden them from view within seconds, raising an eyebrow in indifferent query as John stammered, feeling like he’d been caught peeking at Sherlock in the shower. Now, he was being given the chance to observe. Sherlock knew he was there and, as if in response to John’s curiosity, he spread them fully.
It made sense that they were big, but John had never grasped how large they would be. With Sherlock sitting like this, his back towards the precipitous drop to the alley below, their lower tips dipped well beyond the platform on which John stood. Their undersides were petrol black: a dark oil-slick of promise. Yet it was the open face of the wings, the one John craned his neck to see, that stole his breath away.
They were every shade of blue imaginable, from pearly silver to bottomless indigo, iridescent in the sun’s light. Thick, dark veins created patterns across their surface like the lead in an exquisite creation of stained glass. Yet when John reached out to touch, an action which made Sherlock twitch his wings closed a fraction before unfurling them again in implied permission, he realised they had little more substance than veils. They were desperately delicate. When he drew away his careful fingertip, it shone with tiny sapphire scales.
‘There’s not space for them in the city,’ Sherlock murmured, leaning back further in a way that made John’s heart jump in his throat. He reached out without thinking, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder and letting out an irritated huff at the resonant chuckle his action invoked. ‘Too big, too awkward, but it is good to stretch them now and then.’
‘Do they work?’ John asked. ‘Can you fly?’
‘If I must, but it’s exhausting and not as thrilling as everyone seems to believe. The effort required to remain airborne is idiotic.’ Sherlock cracked open one eye, then the other, regarding John with a thoughtful gaze. ‘Why do you think I’m so light, if it’s not to make flying possible?’
John nodded in acknowledgement of a point well made. The first time he’d had to carry Sherlock’s unconscious body, it had been like picking up a child. There was almost nothing to him. John had gone on a fretful rant about eating and muscle mass, only to be silenced by the logic that, even malnourished, Sherlock should not be so weightless. It was not until he explained about honeycomb bones and efficient musculature that he’d realised it was just the way Sherlock was built.
It was shocking, really, to realise how breakable this man was. More alarming was the knowledge that much of the world wanted to see him come to harm. That day, John had made it his mission in life to be Sherlock’s back up. Alaman were known for their strength, and if that failed him? Well, even London’s saturated atmosphere couldn’t stop him from incinerating those who would call themselves his enemy. Should even that ability prove beyond his reach, then he had a gun, mortal and mundane, but it did the job.
‘I can protect myself,’ Sherlock murmured as if reading John’s mind. Perhaps he was. John didn’t know much about Fey and their abilities. ‘You are aware of that, aren’t you?’
‘If you say so.’ He sighed, sensing his friend’s amused disgruntlement at John’s dismissive tone as he hopped up on the rail at Sherlock’s side, holding on tight. He’d really rather not smash his head open on the alley below if he could help it, but Sherlock had the right idea. There was something about the sunlight that filled the narrow space, perfect and beguiling, and John lifted his face in appreciation.
Behind him, he felt the stretch of Sherlock’s wings, braced in an unconscious shield. Normally, it would seem inconsequential, but John knew Sherlock better than that. The gesture was a mute assurance, a vow returned.
Come hell or high water, neither of them would allow the other to fall.