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Neither Holmes nor Watson made friends easily, and upon first acquaintance, both had been rather awkward about the whole matter. After often having rather uncomfortable experiences with other people, it seemed unlikely to Watson that a chance meeting would lead to a long friendship.
Each day when Watson awakened here in Baker Street, in his own comfortable bed, and heard the sound of Holmes’ violin drifting upstairs, he delighted in the fact that had had been quite wrong.
Once he shaved, dressed, and otherwise prepared for his day—aside from grooming his wings, an activity which fell later in his daily routine—he proceeded down to the sitting room. He found Holmes standing and reading the newspaper while idly flapping his wings, which was quite a common occurrence. Holmes found such repetitive motions both stimulating and soothing, depending on which he needed at any given time.
“Good morning, old man,” Watson said, automatically flapping his own wings too. It was quite impossible to see Holmes enjoying himself so without experiencing the urge to mirror his motions. “How did you sleep?”
Holmes flashed a smile in response, not looking up from his newspaper. “I did not. I fear the world of chemicals seduced me away from my bed.”
“Well, did you have fun?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, that’s restful at least, I suppose.” Watson beamed at his friend. Despite all his worries about Holmes’ general lack of care for his health, Watson very much understood the allure of one’s favorite subjects. “Let me have my first cup of coffee, and then we shall proceed.”
Holmes hummed agreement and flung that newspaper over his shoulder, apparently finished with it. He snatched up the next and continued to read, wings idly drifting up and down.
Watson drank his coffee, by which time Holmes had finished scanning that newspaper, too. Without needing to discuss matters, as they did the same thing every morning at this time unless something interfered, they moved a chair to the center of the sitting room. Watson sat, stretching his wings out behind him.
As always, Holmes began with the lightest brushes of his fingertips across Watson’s wings. On his own wings, Holmes preferred a firmer touch, one which did not tickle. However, he delighted in the feeling of soft feathers under his fingertips, and Watson very much enjoyed the gentle contact.
While both of them were generally capable of grooming their own wings, and indeed had expected to continue doing so for the rest of their lives, to share such intimacy was very much preferred. Neither of them had previously trusted others to help with such a task, for others found them odd. Their repetitive soothing motions alarmed people, as did their mutual tendency to ramble about favorite subjects.
But as the two of them were quite similar in such respects, trust soon sprang up between them, and it had only grown stronger over their decades of friendship. Now, every morning, they shared in this routine of grooming one another’s wings. Watson first, and then Holmes.
As Holmes put Watson’s feathers in order, he relayed what he had learned in the newspaper. Watson listened to this report, more than content. Their chance meeting had led to a long friendship indeed, and there was no better way to spend each morning than in tenderly caring for one another.