untitled fill 1/2ish
anonymous
May 11 2011, 00:55:21 UTC
Second part should be up later today or tomorrow.
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“Found a couple feathers in the bathroom this morning. Think a bird got in?”
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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.
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“You haven’t started torturing birds in the name of science, have you?”
“Of course not.”
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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.
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
( ... )
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.
FILL #2 - I Have Been Searching For My Wings Sometime - 1/2
anonymous
May 19 2011, 22:27:16 UTC
Sherlock’s wings are grey. This is a matter of fact as much as that there are one hundred and seventeen elements on the periodic table, that there are seven colours in the rainbow, that there are sixty seconds in a minute. They are grey and he has had them since he was three years old, or at least, that’s the first time he can remember being conscious of them.
--
He couldn’t say for certain that he knows what love is.
His best guess: Dopamine: addiction, endorphins, euphoria. Phenylethylamine: mood, attachment. Oxytocin: touch, sensitivity.
What he knows is this:
John smiles and really looks at him one morning over tea and toast the newspapers and Sherlock feels a great rush of something in his chest, his heart races, his hands clam up, and he feels his back stretchHe doesn’t know
( ... )
But when he falls in love with John, they start to grow.
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Do want, BTW.
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I love this fic also - It would be brilliant in Sherlock verse.
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NTHED
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-----
“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 ( ... )
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 ( ... )
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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--
He couldn’t say for certain that he knows what love is.
His best guess: Dopamine: addiction, endorphins, euphoria. Phenylethylamine: mood, attachment. Oxytocin: touch, sensitivity.
What he knows is this:
John smiles and really looks at him one morning over tea and toast the newspapers and Sherlock feels a great rush of something in his chest, his heart races, his hands clam up, and he feels his back stretchHe doesn’t know ( ... )
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