untitled fill 1/2ish
anonymous
May 11 2011, 00:55:21 UTC
Second part should be up later today or tomorrow.
-----
“Found a couple feathers in the bathroom this morning. Think a bird got in?”
-----
It’s impossible to measure the wings by himself, but there’s no one to help him. Sherlock does the best he can with measuring tape and a mirror. He’s certain they’re two centimetres longer than they were yesterday.
-----
“You haven’t started torturing birds in the name of science, have you?”
“Of course not.”
-----
They’re the same colour as Sherlock’s hair and hardly larger than his hands. They’ve never shown up on any x-rays. They fold neatly up against his scapulae and don’t ruin the line of his suits.
-----
“Is something the matter? You look tense.”
“No.”
“Something wrong with your back?”
“No.”
“Want me to--”
“No. Just. Leave it alone.”
-----
“People don’t have wings, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Don’t be absurd.”
“But I do.”
“Then why can’t I see them?” Mycroft retorted. “You’re five. Five-year-olds make things up.”
“But I don’t,” protested Sherlock.
-----
“I’ve hardly seen you around these last few days. Everything all right?”
-----
They’re nearly a foot long now, and it would be impossible for people not to see them bulging under his shirts if they actually existed. They itch, but if he tries to scratch or stretch them out, they shed feathers everywhere.
untitled fill 2a/2 END
anonymous
May 11 2011, 06:26:01 UTC
John’s lips tighten, and he grabs Sherlock by the collar. Sherlock hisses. It was too much to hope for that John the doctor, John the busybody, John the friend, would let go pale, shivering Sherlock with blood all down his sleeve. John sits Sherlock in one of the kitchen chairs and starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock turns his head to the side as John spreads his shirt open, pulls it off. John sucks in a breath, and Sherlock gives one slow, measured blink.
“Oh my God.” John reaches out one hand, then stops. “Can I--can I touch them?”
Sherlock inclines his head, and he can feel John tracing the edges of where they merge with skin, and then the edges of the medical tape. “Sherlock, what have you done?” he demands, and then, “Okay. Okay, let’s get you stitched up, and then we can talk about this--this other thing.”
He cleans and stitches the shallow knife cut on Sherlock’s upper arm without saying a word. Sherlock looks at the floor, the cabinets, the way the shadows fall under the kitchen table. John ties off the last suture, drops the needle in the pan, then says, “Okay, now I’m going to do something about this,” he gestures vaguely at Sherlock’s upper back, “because that can’t be healthy.”
Sherlock holds his breath against a reply as John digs his nail underneath the tape. He hesitates after peeling away a bare few centimetres. Sherlock can feel it tugging against his feathers and shivers. “Just do it.”
“It’ll rip--”
“Get it over with,” says Sherlock, and as with everything else, John obeys.
Sherlock sees feathers shower to the floor through a white haze of pain. John lets out a sound closely related to a sob and repeats the motion on the other side, before Sherlock has time to recover. His forehead comes in forceful contact against the table as he claws against the wood, teeth clenched.
The pain recedes to a point where he can see John sitting next to him, one hand over his mouth and eyes rimmed red. He can see the downturned corners of John’s mouth around his fingers. John isn’t looking at him, but a little behind Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock cranes his head and extends one ragged wing. It’s a longer than his forearm and missing handfuls of feathers, primaries all askew. Two strips of medical tape lie curled on the table, feathers still stuck to the adhesive.
“What the fuck,” John says. “I can’t even--I don’t--” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. “Tell me everything.”
Sherlock opens his mouth and the words fall out. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. No one else was ever able to see them. Except you. You found a feather.”
“In the bathroom.” John’s face lightens with recollection.
“All my life they’ve been small,” says Sherlock. “Nothing I ever had to worry about. Then you--they started to grow. I was--I didn’t--I didn’t know. What you would think. But they were getting increasingly difficult to hide.”
“So you taped them down.”
Sherlock nodded.
“You daft bugger.” John’s fingertips just barely graze Sherlock’s tattered primaries, but Sherlock can feel the pressure against the shafts, like fingers brushing through hair.
“Go ahead,” he says.
John strokes along what remains of Sherlock’s secondaries. His hand is warm and broad and heavy; he can nearly span the width of Sherlock’s wing. Sherlock never felt it in his wings when Mummy pressed a hand against his back to urge him forward, or when Lestrade gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder.
John looks up at him. “Are they going to keep growing?”
untitled fill 2b/2 END
anonymous
May 11 2011, 06:26:58 UTC
John’s face closes up, but he doesn’t retreat. He looks at Sherlock with quiet determination, until Sherlock says, “It’s not as if there’s any precedent.”
“I guess not. Sorry.” John strokes his thumb across the upper edge of Sherlock’s wing one last time and lets it go. Sherlock shakes a few more feathers out of his wings and folds them up again. “Why--nobody else has ever been able to see them?”
“Not a one,” says Sherlock. “Until you.”
“Ah,” says John. “Well. They’re beautiful.”
Something warm and terrible explodes in Sherlock’s chest. He curls his hands on the table into loose fists and looks at John until it hurts.
“Please don’t tape them down again,” says John.
“I won’t,” says Sherlock, and this time he feels his wings expanding.
-----
“Found a couple feathers in the bathroom this morning. Think a bird got in?”
-----
It’s impossible to measure the wings by himself, but there’s no one to help him. Sherlock does the best he can with measuring tape and a mirror. He’s certain they’re two centimetres longer than they were yesterday.
-----
“You haven’t started torturing birds in the name of science, have you?”
“Of course not.”
-----
They’re the same colour as Sherlock’s hair and hardly larger than his hands. They’ve never shown up on any x-rays. They fold neatly up against his scapulae and don’t ruin the line of his suits.
-----
“Is something the matter? You look tense.”
“No.”
“Something wrong with your back?”
“No.”
“Want me to--”
“No. Just. Leave it alone.”
-----
“People don’t have wings, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Don’t be absurd.”
“But I do.”
“Then why can’t I see them?” Mycroft retorted. “You’re five. Five-year-olds make things up.”
“But I don’t,” protested Sherlock.
-----
“I’ve hardly seen you around these last few days. Everything all right?”
-----
They’re nearly a foot long now, and it would be impossible for people not to see them bulging under his shirts if they actually existed. They itch, but if he tries to scratch or stretch them out, they shed feathers everywhere.
-----
“Sherlock, what happened, you’re bleed--”
“Don’t touch me!”
-----
Reply
“Oh my God.” John reaches out one hand, then stops. “Can I--can I touch them?”
Sherlock inclines his head, and he can feel John tracing the edges of where they merge with skin, and then the edges of the medical tape. “Sherlock, what have you done?” he demands, and then, “Okay. Okay, let’s get you stitched up, and then we can talk about this--this other thing.”
He cleans and stitches the shallow knife cut on Sherlock’s upper arm without saying a word. Sherlock looks at the floor, the cabinets, the way the shadows fall under the kitchen table. John ties off the last suture, drops the needle in the pan, then says, “Okay, now I’m going to do something about this,” he gestures vaguely at Sherlock’s upper back, “because that can’t be healthy.”
Sherlock holds his breath against a reply as John digs his nail underneath the tape. He hesitates after peeling away a bare few centimetres. Sherlock can feel it tugging against his feathers and shivers. “Just do it.”
“It’ll rip--”
“Get it over with,” says Sherlock, and as with everything else, John obeys.
Sherlock sees feathers shower to the floor through a white haze of pain. John lets out a sound closely related to a sob and repeats the motion on the other side, before Sherlock has time to recover. His forehead comes in forceful contact against the table as he claws against the wood, teeth clenched.
The pain recedes to a point where he can see John sitting next to him, one hand over his mouth and eyes rimmed red. He can see the downturned corners of John’s mouth around his fingers. John isn’t looking at him, but a little behind Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock cranes his head and extends one ragged wing. It’s a longer than his forearm and missing handfuls of feathers, primaries all askew. Two strips of medical tape lie curled on the table, feathers still stuck to the adhesive.
“What the fuck,” John says. “I can’t even--I don’t--” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. “Tell me everything.”
Sherlock opens his mouth and the words fall out. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. No one else was ever able to see them. Except you. You found a feather.”
“In the bathroom.” John’s face lightens with recollection.
“All my life they’ve been small,” says Sherlock. “Nothing I ever had to worry about. Then you--they started to grow. I was--I didn’t--I didn’t know. What you would think. But they were getting increasingly difficult to hide.”
“So you taped them down.”
Sherlock nodded.
“You daft bugger.” John’s fingertips just barely graze Sherlock’s tattered primaries, but Sherlock can feel the pressure against the shafts, like fingers brushing through hair.
“Go ahead,” he says.
John strokes along what remains of Sherlock’s secondaries. His hand is warm and broad and heavy; he can nearly span the width of Sherlock’s wing. Sherlock never felt it in his wings when Mummy pressed a hand against his back to urge him forward, or when Lestrade gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder.
John looks up at him. “Are they going to keep growing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you--”
“I don’t know!”
Reply
“I guess not. Sorry.” John strokes his thumb across the upper edge of Sherlock’s wing one last time and lets it go. Sherlock shakes a few more feathers out of his wings and folds them up again. “Why--nobody else has ever been able to see them?”
“Not a one,” says Sherlock. “Until you.”
“Ah,” says John. “Well. They’re beautiful.”
Something warm and terrible explodes in Sherlock’s chest. He curls his hands on the table into loose fists and looks at John until it hurts.
“Please don’t tape them down again,” says John.
“I won’t,” says Sherlock, and this time he feels his wings expanding.
---end---
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