His Wings (johnlock)

His Wings

John stretches his wings, his arms and his neck. His neck makes a cracking sound. He's been in this chair for way too long. Writing a blog is fun, but also a lot of work. He puts his laptop away on the table next to him and looks around the apartment. Sherlock isn't there. He's always on his way and never stops to take a break. John is a little more 'relaxed' as he likes to call it, most people just say he is lazy.

John stands up from his chair and walks to the kitchen. It is a mess in there, as always. In a mirror John can see his wings. They are white and grey and have messy feathers. He hates his wings. John thinks they look ugly. If you would ask John what he thinks the most beautiful thing in the world is, he would say: Sherlock's wings. Because Sherlock's wings are big, black and majestic. John loves to sometimes just sit in his chair and look at Sherlock's wings, but Sherlock doesn't like that. He doesn't like to be stared at.

Mrs. Hudson walks in.

"John, dear, Sherlock texted me. He said that he needs you to come pick him up", she says.

John sighs. "Sure. Where is he?"

"Scotland Yard", Mrs. Hudson answers. "Are you all right, dear?" She looks concerned.

"Yes, I am. Thank you for asking", John says.

He walks out of the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" John asks. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing special. I got into a small fight on my way home is all. Lestrade helped me", Sherlock explains. He is sitting in a chair. His clothes and face are covered in blood. There are bald, bloody spots on his wings.

"Your face. Your wings... oh Sherlock. Let me take you home. I'll take care of you".

"I don't need care", Sherlock says harshly, but stands up from his chair anyways. It looks like his leg is hurting. John puts his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock doesn't react to the touch at all. It worries John how little Sherlock cares about being hurt.

John takes Sherlock to the bathroom in Scotland Yard. There is no one else there.

"So", John says. Having no idea how to go on he looks at Sherlock.

"So', Sherlock says he looks down at John.

John stacks some paper towels and makes them wet under the tap. He then carefully goes to wipe Sherlock's face. He starts with his nose. The dried up red liquid is hard to remove. The paper towels keep breaking.

"This is not going to work", John sighs.

"I noticed", the brown haired detective groans. He looks annoyed.

"We'll have to get you in a cab looking like this", the shorter man says. He looks at Sherlock's wings. "Why, Sherlock? Why can't you just walk away from people? Do you ever think about me? When you're about to get hurt badly, do you think about who's going to have to take care of you? Does it ever cross your mind that you might be hurting me? Why don't you care?" A single tear escapes John's eye.

Sherlock looks down. He looks defeated, something that doesn't happen often. He is always so proud, but at this moment he looks down at his shoes in shame.

"I'm sorry" is the only thing that comes from his lips. Sherlock sounds sad. He turns around to the door. "Let's go. We can't stay here forever. We should go back to Bakerstreet. I need to finish this case and you need a cup of tea." Sherlock sounds a bit more like himself now, but still not the same. He leaves through the door and leaves John standing there.

What just happened?

Sherlock appears again. "Aren't you coming?"

"So that's it", John says relieved. He had taken care of Sherlock's wounds, all of them. They had been busy for over an hour and Sherlock has gotten bored. He had been poking John's body for the past twenty minutes.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John, surprising him. He puts his arms around the taller man, he strokes the big, black wings. The smell of blood, rubbing alcohol and sweat fill his nose. "You smell like shit", John whispers in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock smirks. "You are touching my wings", Sherlock answers. John looks up to his eyes.

"Yes, I am. Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock strokes John's wings. "No".