Chapter Text
John bit back a laugh as he chased Sherlock through the streets of London. He'd never imagined his life like this, especially not since being wounded. But my God, did the man make him feel alive. They were chasing a suspect across rooftops and damn if jumping from one to another didn't feel a bit like flying all over again; something he missed but was no longer capable of doing. But even if he could never fly again, he had Sherlock, he had London, and he was once again doing good in the world, chasing this mad detective. He landed with a grunt on a broad roof and saw Sherlock and the suspect dart around a corner.
The man they were chasing was a butcher Sherlock suspected to be the doer of the recent rash of horror movie-style killing, if only he could get a look at his shoelaces! But being a butcher, the man seemed to have armed himself with nearly all of the knives he had in his store, strapping them to the inside panels of his long coat. 'Like a Bond villain,' John had said, not that he'd gotten the reference. The man had already lobbed several smaller steak knives towards the detective and his flatmate, and Sherlock had subtly increased his speed, keeping John away from the projectiles as best as he could. The man was a soldier, a strong man, but he was only human.
John cursed as the two vanished from sight. Well without Sherlock to see... he unfurled his wings. The left one was lame and he'd never be able to fly properly again, but he could use them for a burst of speed. They stroked back, and he corrected for the weaker wing, landing several feet further than he had been and reaching the corner just in time to see the butcher, back against the wall ready to hurl another knife. Without thinking John threw himself past Sherlock and at the man, crashing as his lame wing gave out but knocking him down with his good wing. Hastily he hid his wings again, ignoring the screaming pain as he bodily pinned the butcher, hoping Sherlock was too surprised to have seen.
Sherlock blinked, mind working furiously on the image of golden wings sprouting from John's back that was burned into his retinas. The right wing had looked strong and powerful, but the left was small, a bit withered, like a limb after months spent in a cast, and had a bald scar in exact approximation to where John's bullet scar was on his shoulder. And even though the wings disappeared as soon as Sherlock had righted himself from John's abrupt tackle on the suspect, he had seen them. And he had never felt happier at the sight.
John got the man’s arms behind his back, sitting on him. "If this is the right crazy butcher you should call Lestrade." He took a breath and looked up at Sherlock. The man had a look of wonder. Shit. He'd seen.
All the signs were there and he'd become so complacent in his own rare existence that he didn't think to see. The quick, unwavering loyalty. The steadfast bravery. The contemporarily skewed moral compass. The drive to protect. A soldier and a healer. A Guardian. His flatmate. His John.
John bit his lip. Damn. "Sherlock. You're staring into space for no bloody good reason." He shifted a bit to get his mobile, trying to keep the man pinned and away from his knives.
"You know it's for a good reason, John." He knew his voice had deepened, not just from the chase, but the realisation. All this dancing they had been doing around one another, words unsaid and yet shouted loud in each long look and each lingering touch. It all accumulated now, in this mome-- John’s right hand had been holding the criminal’s wrists down as his weak, injured left arm turned carefully to pull his mobile from his pocket when suddenly, the man he was restraining bucked violently and the doctor gave a pained cry as his bad arm was wrenched sharply. Sherlock moved without a second thought.
John found himself flat on his back a few moments later, looking up at Sherlock. He was arched over John, glorious dark wings against the starlight. "Oh my God," he muttered. A groan to his right made him glance over. The suspect was cuffed and apparently semi-conscious. He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "You're a Guardian," he breathed, feeling lighter in his heart.
John sounded as stunned as he felt and Sherlock smiled down at him. "Obvious," he scoffed, voice teasing despite the scathing word. He'd never thought he'd have the man underneath him like this, and he mourned John's wound all over again, realising that if John would allow him to take him as Mate, that they would never be able to partake in the traditional mating dance in the sky.
John licked his lips. He resisted the urge to offer himself right then and there. Self consciously he rubbed his aching shoulder. "We need to get this suspect in."
Sherlock most decidedly did not want to move. He wanted to explore this new avenue, a city’s worth of streets and side streets. But John’s expression was pained and he seemed to be trying to keep pressure off his shoulder, and the suspect was attempting to wriggle away from them on his stomach, like an earth worm. It may have been amusing had he not been the one who’d just hurt his John.
“Sherlock.” John put a little more force in his voice. What he wouldn’t give to fly with this man. This Guardian. But that was never going to happen, though perhaps they could enjoy some more ground-based pursuits. But not with a suspect to turn over and the way his body screamed in pain. HIs wing hurt from use, echoed and magnified by the wrenching his shoulder had received. He forced himself to a seat with a wince and grabbed the suspect’s ankle. “Right shoelaces?”
Repressing the desire to grumble with annoyance, Sherlock mumbled “Tedious” under his breath, even as he popped up to his feet before reaching a hand down to help his flatmate up. The expressions on the other Guardian’s face spoke volumes about the level of discomfort and pain the doctor was in, even as he remained absolutely silent. In quick motions, the detective strode over to the handcuffed man and crouched, pulling both shoelaces free and ‘humph’ing in success. Seconds later, a text was shot to Lestrade as he rose, looking over his shoulder at the small man leaning against the rough brick that made up the building’s chimney.
“Lestrade’s on his way?” asked John, pushing away from the chimney and standing on his own two feet. He was very carefully not moving his arm. It had been stupid to try and use his wings and he was going to be paying for that for a while. “You’re going to want to put your wings up before they get here.”
“No,” Sherlock said shortly, prowling towards the man and slowly backing him right back up against the chimney. His wings rose high in a display of dominance and curled around them, closing them in the dark in a display of protection. He didn’t want to put his wings away now that he’d discovered John had them too. He wanted to enfold his flatmate in them. He wanted to feel the golden wings lain out submissively under his own dark ones. He wanted to marvel at the contrast of their feathers at the same time that he marveled at how John felt under him and around him. He wanted John. He’d wanted since the beginning but now that he knew they were of the same ilk, the only thing that could stop him from getting was his potential mate’s heart-felt rejection.
John shivered. He released his wings, biting his lip to keep in the cry of pain as his left hung uselessly. Damaged. He’d thought no one would ever want him like this. But Sherlock clearly did. And by all the Gods he wanted him just as much. He’d wanted him before he’d known his kind, even more so now. “Sherlock,” he panted, then swallowed. “I want this. I do. But I’m in pain. And Lestrade is on his way. I promise you, I do want this. Just not now.” He touched Sherlock’s cheek with his good wing, the golden feathers shining faintly in the darkness.
Sherlock was mesmerised by the sight of John’s wing emerging in the bubble created by his own wings, hypnotised by the stark difference in colours. And then those feathers whispered against his cheek and he closed his eyes. “I know. I know,” he murmured. “But first, I just want... Please...?” Without waiting for a reply to an ill-formed question, Sherlock ducked his head and pressed his lips to John’s, greedily inhaling the startled gasp.
John moaned softly into that kiss. Oh how much did he want. Sherlock’s lips were soft and insistent, everything he’d ever wanted. He parted his lips and felt the warm tongue sliding into his mouth. But then Sherlock was pressing him back and his wing was jostled and his knees nearly buckled as he groaned with pain. He’d landed all wrong when it had given out.
John’s pained sound had him jerking back, able to do nothing else other than stand there and flutter nervously. “I’m so sorry, John. I just... I’m sorry.” With a near-silent rustling, he finally slipped his wings away, hating the restricting feeling that came with the action, and now that he knew John was also a Guardian, he didn’t want to ever put them away. But then, he wanted to spend all his time with his flatmate wrapped up in his feathers too, and that was hardly practical. John out his wings away and straightened to his fullest height, the pain mostly cleared from his face, but it was obvious he was still feeling it in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and that his left shoulder wouldn’t fully push back to military bearing like his right. Guilt swept over him at the knowledge that he was in part responsible for this pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Hey,” John reached up and touched his cheek. “It’s okay. Really. We’ll take care of this and go home and get me some paracetamol and I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile as the police sirens wailed somewhere below them. “Come on, Lestrade will be up here in a minute.”
Sherlock turned to look at the butcher who had fallen either asleep or unconscious while they’d been occupied and then turned back to look at John who was slowly walking (limping) towards the roof access door. “John,” he called as he let his wings back out, spreading them their full span, resisting the urge to preen when the other Guardian turned and his eyes widened as he traced the lines of his feathers. “When was the last time you flew?” John’s head cocked in that adorable way it tended to when he was confused and his brow furrowed as his lips parted to answer, or to snark why didn’t Sherlock already know (he did, the question was obviously rhetorical), but Sherlock was already rushing at him, sweeping him into his arms right before they went over the roof’s edge together.
John gasped and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s neck. But the wind was in hair and the city was below them and John laughed. His shoulder still ached and he longed to unfurl his own wings, but this was brilliant and beautiful. Sherlock was warm above him, sure arms holding him close. It wasn’t quite the mating dance, but John was grateful. He leaned into his ear. “This is wonderful, but we really should go home.”
John was beautiful like this: cheeks flushed with delight, smiling so brightly, the wind ruffling his hair. Once again, regret that he couldn’t have met John before the bullet that ruined him washed over him and his arms tightened. “You’ve never seen the roof of Baker Street, John.” It wasn’t a question. If the man had, they would’ve have found one another out much sooner.
John's eyes went wide. "What's on the roof?" His heart beat a little faster in anticipation.
“You’ll see,” he replied cryptically, with a just-as-cryptic smile. Flying took significantly less time than even taking a cab did, and soon he could see the familiar roof. He knew John assumed that he was out doing Work-related things when he left the flat without a word, or perhaps going to Bart’s, and he did do those things, but he just as often simply went up to the roof, to the shed that had been converted into a nest filled with old blankets and several jumpers he’d nicked from John’s closet. His landing was silent and he put the other Guardian down before walking over to his makeshift nest and ducking inside.
John stared in wonder as he followed. He let loose his wings with another wince. The nest smelled like Sherlock and himself and it felt right. He smiled at the other Guardian, flexing his good wing. "Guess we both should have said something sooner." His heart ached. He could give Sherlock his body of course, but there was so much more his damaged body couldn't do.
Sherlock just hummed in response as he sat as far back into the corner as he could. “Come here,” he said softly. Slowly, John approached and moved to kneel in front of him. Sherlock snorted, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s waist and turning him away before pulling him down, nearly into his lap. As soon as the other Guardian was seated, Sherlock spread his wings, filling the small space with his feathers as he gently extended John’s injured wing, and began to preen it.
John moaned softly. It had been so long since anyone had taken time like this. The wing still ached badly, but Sherlock's long fingers were deft and gentle and he didn't shy away from the bad spot. John shivered and blushed, covering his face with his good wing.
His wings had never been injured like John’s had but when he had been young and still learning to use them, before Mycroft went away to uni, his older brother would do this for him, massage away the aches of use. Sherlock had never had anyone else that he wanted to do this for, not even in his own family, and doing it for someone other than a younger family member was considered terribly intimate. But John didn’t flinch away from his touch, didn’t curl his hands into fists, though he did cover his face with the edge of one wing, the sweet scent of his arousal just beginning to bloom in the air.
"Sherlock," John whispered his name. He didn't know much about other Guardians, but he did know that he was odd in that no one else in his family displayed the gift. When he'd first displayed the wings he'd panicked and ran, but an old man in the park had seen and understood and told him some things and at least taught him how to hide himself in plain sight. There had been lovers, all of them human. But he'd never wanted them as much as he needed Sherlock now. He shifted his hips, trying to relax into his touch, feeling Sherlock's own arousal behind him.
There was just enough room in the small building to mate and Sherlock planned on taking full advantage of all of it. John’s left wing was fully relaxed and pliant in his grasp, and his right was draped as if there was no energy left in the limb to keep it up. Slowly, he shifted the man in front of him forward, encouraging with pokes and prods to lay his head on his folded arms, before he began to tug at fleshy hips to get the man to his knees as he rose to his own, pressing firmly against John from behind.
John moaned softly. "Yes, Sherlock." His wings hung slightly forward, a golden curtain in front of his face. The cool night air touched his skin as Sherlock got his trousers down. He hoped the man had lube somewhere up here; he needed to be taken. His hips undulated in anticipation, seeking friction against his leaking cock
Slowly, gently, Sherlock draped his own wings over John’s, covering them entirely as he freed his own cock. From an inner coat pocket, he withdrew a packet of lube, something he’d been keeping in there in the 1-in-a-3,719,642,805th chances that he would finally receive a signal from John that opened up an opportunity like this one; apparently this one chance. His teeth ripped open the packet before drizzling some of the liquid on his other hand’s fingers, wasting no time before he pressed one inside his soon-to-be mate.
It felt amazing. John rocked back against his finger. Opening his eyes, he saw the black feathers covering his own. It was beautiful, a perfect contrast of light and dark. "More," he panted.
Sherlock had met other Guardians in the past, seen the different traits that seemed to manifest based on location and bloodline. He’d seen the personality traits that evolved from the animalistic qualities of the Guardians, the adapted primal instincts. As possessiveness swept over him, he had the thought that he should further investigate avian mating habits because it didn’t seem likely that they would feel an emotion this strong, this binding. He hadn’t stopped pumping his finger and as soon as John was loose enough, he pressed another finger inside, scissoring them gently to encourage the loosening. He began to shuffle his wings in minute shifts, watching as his feathers began slipping between John’s with every motion. It looked as innocent as holding hands, but the trust that this level of proximity implied was just as intimate as his fingers being inside the other Guardian, if not more so.
John was losing himself to the lust. He felt enveloped in Sherlock. Safe. Protected. His addled mind tried to remember the last time he'd felt this utterly secure and came up blank. He'd grown up inside a war, long before he'd ever set foot in Afghanistan. The bald spot in his wounded wing was full of Sherlock's feathers and it made him feel whole despite the lingering ache. John groaned as Sherlock withdrew his fingers and pressed his blunt cock against him. "Please," he mumbled.
As Sherlock slowly pressed inside, John... well, he didn’t tense so much as curl in on himself, as if he was trying to make himself even more submissive in the taller Guardian’s eyes. His back arched, his head dropped down exposing the back of his neck above the collar of the shirt and jacket he still wore, his wings seemed to stretch out just a little more, and he gave a little sigh as Sherlock’s stretched to accomodate. Slowly, Sherlock draped his chest across John’s back, careful of the wing joints but wanting to surround the man in every way he could. Only once he settled did his hips begin to move, pulling out slowly only to push back in at the same pace. There would be times for a quick, rough fuck, but not this first time, not with John’s arm and wing sore and strained and with the elation of their discoveries filling them.
This was perfect. John moaned at the sensations over and around and in him. He wanted to meet his thrusts, but the position didn't allow it. So instead he submitted, willingly, glad to be here, so very glad for what Sherlock was. He took his own cock in hand , breathing in Sherlock's scent, so close already.
As Sherlock stroked his own cock with the tight, damp heat of John, John’s arm shifted underneath him to begin paying attention to his own lonesome cock. Pressing his lips to the tan skin of his soldier’s neck, the detective settled more comfortably over his mate, bracing himself with one hand so the other could wrap around John’s waist, so he could add his hand to the one on his mate’s cock. Gently, he pressed his fingers between John’s, lacing the digits together and taking over the pace, forcing the other man to slow just enough to match his own smooth thrusts. He lips would twitch each time he would hit John's prostate because the smaller hand would stutter, only able to continue without losing rhythm because his own was helping it along.
John was getting close, so close. He felt his balls tighten and he gasped as Sherlock hit his prostate again. "I'm going to cum," he panted, feathers going a bit frizzy as he curled around himself more, eyes squeezing shut.
Orgasms, when his body demanded them of him in the past, had always been a quick affair, a sudden rise and fall of chemicals before biology allowed him to continue his Work. This was different, so far from typical he could only wonder what he’d been doing in the past. It approached in slow waves, like the tide coming in, the ebb and flow of pleasure lapping up his spine and whiting out his vision. With it, the bond did the same, reaching out for John and connecting immediately, the thin strand thickening with each beat of their hearts. As John curled under him, his own body followed the line of his mate’s as he thrust one more time, coming deep inside while the cock in their hands pulsed in time with his own as ejaculate spilled over their fingers.
Blearily, John slowly opened his eyes. Sherlock's weight was comfortable over him. Cautiously, he reached out a hand and carded through the wall of feathers before him. He sighed happily, content. His heart sang inside of him, knowing he needed no one else.
The bond was still shaky, still needed time to solidify, but it was there. Carefully, Sherlock wrapped both arms around John’s waist and lifted him backwards, his cock sliding out wetly as he settled with his back in the corner and his mate against his chest. The man was malleable in his tight grasp as he shifted his own black wings with the golden ones beneath them, so that they draped around the two of them like a warm, living cloak. John slipped quietly into unconsciousness as it began to rain, filling the air around them with a warm, damp humidity. Dropping his face to nuzzle the trusting curve of a solid neck, Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled.
FIN