A/N: Hokay, guys. Here's the deal. I've always loved Wing!Lock, and have kinda always wanted to write some, but I could never get it to work. But then it did. Ta-da! So this is an amalgamation of a bunch of little ideas that I've seen or come up with myself, all melded into one story. As of right now, I'm not sure where it's going. Any and all reviews or ideas are appreciated. Thanks for putting up with the weird shit my brain turns out. Adieu.

Note: This contains some dialog which denounces religious topics. Let it be known that I myself do not hate on religions. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, and I respect that entirely. Please do not take offense, it was written to advance the plot and characters only.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock the show, or Sherlock the character. I also do not own John Watson or Greg Lestrade or any other associated character. I do, however, own my imagination, and all the weird stuff it makes, like this.

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Sherlock walked down the street, hands tucked in the pockets of his giant, dramatic coat. It was freezing out, but since John was working at the clinic, and the crime scene was only two blocks away, Sherlock had decided to walk. He ducked his head and picked up his pace though, when the first few snowflakes began to whirl through the air, landing on his coat and skin and hair.

But when he was not twenty meters from Baker Street, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, a figure walking across the street at a pace that matched his precisely. He thought for a moment, then he picked up his pace even more, and the figure did also. He narrowed his eyes, and veered off into an unused alley where he knew there were CCTV cameras. Sure enough, he saw the man enter behind him.

"Mr. Holmes." The man intoned, in a rough voice that was quiet but rough, and very, very confident.

Sherlock stopped and turned around to face the stranger.

"What do you want?" He asked, and the man smiled at Sherlock, something that was not unusual for people who thought they could take on the great detective in person.

"To help you." The man replied smoothly. This made Sherlock pause momentarily. He had been cornered by people before, but they usually wanted information, or the contents of his head splattered across the wall. This was new. He looked the man up and down with renewed interest. He was about five foot ten, with thinning black hair and a rather pointed nose. His eyes were a sharp green color, with a glint of something dangerous sparkling in their depths.

"How could you help me?" He asked, allowing a bit of contempt to color his voice, to see if he would get angry. It was a tactic he used often- when people were angry they were more likely to make mistakes. But this man didn't rise to the bait. He kept his voice smooth and even as he spread his arms and replied as if he were speaking some vastly important and unknown truth.

"By welcoming you to the new world. By allowing you to pilot it, to be the first of the coming generation. I've seen your work, Mr. Holmes. Your mind is one of the few that has been deemed worthy of saving in the coming… Armageddon, shall we say."

"There is no Armageddon." Sherlock replied icily.

"Of course not," The man agreed with a bland smile. "-at least in the biblical sense. But the world as you know it will be ending quite soon. And whether you like it or not, you and the chosen others will survive to pull what is left humanity out of the rubble."

Sherlock decided that the man was clearly insane, although he didn't look it. It was a bit of a conundrum, actually. There was clear intelligence and calm rationality in his eyes, yet he was talking about the end of the world like one of those madmen on the streets.

"Well, I don't think that will be happening." Sherlock said as he started walking past the man and out of the alley, giving him a wide berth, already planning to do some research on him when he got home. But before he could take two steps, the man was in front of him again, faster than any human should have been able to move.

Sherlock stopped short in surprise, and then pushed past the man again, but he reacted much faster than Sherlock had anticipated, grabbing his arm and twisting it painfully behind his back.

"The end of the world is coming soon, Mr. Holmes. You. Must be. Prepared." He growled into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock fought to escape, but the man's grip was like iron, and he easily maneuvered him onto the ground, and then punched him in the face. Sherlock's head cracked against the pavement, and his vision darkened for the moment. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck, and the man stood up, looking down at him.

"You shall be reborn, Sherlock Holmes. And you shall do right."

Then Sherlock's vision darkened more, and the last thing he saw was the man walking away, down the alley and out onto the street as the snow continued to fall. The world disappeared after that.

~O~.~O~

John arrived home to Baker Street, and walked up the stairs, wondering whether the odd quiet was due to Sherlock being in his Mind Palace, or to Sherlock not being here at all. Not that there was much of a difference. However, when he got upstairs, he saw that it was the latter. He sighed, and dragged his hand down his face. It had been a long day, and he was too tired to give a lot of thought as to what his mad flatmate might have gotten up to this time. He went and brewed himself a cup of tea and turned on the telly, putting his phone in front of him on the coffee table so he would see it when Sherlock texted him.

It was probably a case that drew him out, John thought idly as rubbish shows flicked past, one after the other. He picked up the phone and sent a text to Lestrade.

Tough case then? JW

It had been a few hours since Sherlock should have been back. Probably enjoying himself immensely, out finding criminals, John thought only somewhat bitterly. He liked being a doctor, and was grateful for his job at the clinic, but going on cases with Sherlock was definitely more interesting than overprotective mothers who thought their child's every sneeze was the flu. His phone buzzed.

Not really, he figured it out in just under an hour. "simple" he said, but we'd been working on this one for weeks. GL

John stared at the text for a few minutes, confused.

Shouldn't he be back by now then? JW

He isn't? GL

No… JW

Well, it's Sherlock. I'm sure he can take care of himself. Don't worry about it. You're not his nanny, you know. GL

John grinned slightly. No, he wasn't Sherlock's nanny. He turned his attention back to the telly, resolving to have just one quiet night in. Sherlock was probably fine, he knew how to take care of himself.

But when John went to bed at midnight, Sherlock still hadn't come back.

~O~.~O~

John woke up in the morning at 10 o'clock, seeing as it was a Saturday. It had taken him a long time to get out of the army routine of waking up extraordinarily early, but long sleepless nights on cases with Sherlock had taught him to get some sleep in whenever he could.

He went downstairs and brewed himself some coffee, then sat down in his chair. Sleep-addled as he was, it took him ten minutes to figure out what was wrong. Sherlock wasn't here. He frowned, and wondered if the detective had come home after John went to bed and gone to sleep himself. He walked down to Sherlock's room, and knocked softly on the door. When there was no answer, he cracked the door open, but the room was empty.

John frowned, growing slightly concerned. He texted Sherlock.

Where are you? JW

Ten minutes passed.

Sherlock? Where are you, you alright? JW

Another fifteen minutes passed.

SHERLOCK. I'm getting worried now. JW

Twenty minutes after that, Sherlock still hadn't replied, and John was just debating whether or not he should go out and look for him when he heard the front door opening and closing. He breathed a sigh of relief, but grew concerned again when the steps coming up the stairs took much longer than they usually did. He went out onto the landing.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was climbing the stairs, gripping the railing like a lifeline and dragging his feet up each step. From just one glance, John could tell something was very wrong. His normally pale skin was now yellowish in pallor, and his hair was matted together with what looked suspiciously like blood. He was also covered in snow. Remembering the white flakes that had been whirling past the window last night, John thought worriedly, was he out in that all night? He hurried down the stairs and wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders, helping him up to the flat.

"M'fine…" Sherlock mumbled, his words slurring slightly.

"Right." John said, continuing to support eighty percent of Sherlock's weight up the stairs. When they got into the flat, John set Sherlock down on the sofa, and poured him a cup of tea to help him warm up. Sherlock sat up and drank it, but John noticed that he swayed slightly as he did so, as if he was off balance or disoriented.

"All right, what happened?" John asked as he checked Sherlock's vitals. "How worried should I be?"

"Man cornered me in an alley…" Sherlock said groggily. "Stabbed me with somthin…" he gestured vaguely to his neck. John frowned, and looked closer. It took him three seconds to identify the small bruise that was forming where the needle pierced Sherlock's skin. He frowned.

"Shit… Sherlock, look here please." He said as he took out a small torch, shining it in Sherlock's eyes, which reacted slower than they should have.

"Hit my head… concussed…" Sherlock slurred, shaking his head slightly as if that would help clear his obviously muddled brain.

"Okay, Sherlock, we're taking you to the hospital."

"Wha? No, no no nonono." Sherlock pushed John's hands away. "No hospital." He seemed to be trying to sound more articulate, but John crossed his arms. He obviously knew about Sherlock's vehement aversion to hospitals, and what happened to the poor nurses and doctors that were forced to treat him when he did go, but that didn't mean he approved of it.

"Sherlock, a strange man cornered you in an alley, then injected you with something. We are going to the hospital, because you may be poisoned right now." John said, using the 'captain voice' that always seemed to work on Sherlock. But apparently Concussed Sherlock didn't give a shit.

"No. He said he wanted to help me… new generation…"

John frowned. That didn't make any sense at all. He looked Sherlock over one more time. His pulse was alright, if the smallest bit faster than normal, and John knew that fighting and dragging Sherlock to the hospital may well serve to worsen his condition, so he gave in with a lengthy sigh.

"Okay, but as soon as that concussion clears up, you're going to check your bloodstream for toxins, and if you start acting in the least bit strange, we are going to the hospital." John said, not liking it one bit, but the concussion was very light, and Sherlock should be better soon. Plus, if he had been attacked last night, any poison introduced into his bloodstream would have probably killed him by now.

Sherlock nodded groggily, then lay down on the sofa, curling up into a ball and shivering slightly. John looked at him for a second—Jesus, he had been outside all night, hadn't he? He sighed, and took Sherlock's coat off of him as best he could without disturbing him, which was pretty tough considering Sherlock had curled himself up into a tight ball of freezing detective.

John brought Sherlock another cup of tea and draped a blanket over him, staring worriedly at the madman. Why, and how, did he keep managing to get himself into these situations? He was lucky he didn't get hypothermia, or pneumonia. He sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, and drank his own tea in silence.

~O~.~O~

A few hours later, Sherlock seemed to be recovering. He sat at his microscope, looking down at his blood sample, as per John's suggestion and his own curiosity.

"Nothing's there." He complained.

"What?" John asked, confused. If the stranger had injected him with something, it should have shown up in his blood stream.

"There's no sign of any foreign substances in my bloodstream whatsoever." Sherlock continued, sitting up from the microscope and glaring at it.

"Well, there should be something, because he definitely jabbed you with a needle." John said, crossing his arms. Then he frowned, thinking. "Unless there was nothing in it…" John continued contemplatively. Sherlock scoffed.

"Of course there was. Why else would you jab someone with a syringe?"

"To scare them?" John looked over to Sherlock. "Certainly gave me a fright." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, he was talking about the end of the world, and a new generation…" He grimaced, and rubbed his temples.

"I can't quite remember…" he said, closing his eyes. John frowned at this. There was almost nothing Sherlock couldn't remember if he didn't want to.

"You didn't delete it, did you?"

"No, John, of course I deleted my only conversation with a man who injected me with a substance that has mysteriously disappeared from my bloodstream!" Sherlock drawled, sarcasm dripping from every word. John huffed.

"Well, that's probably a side effect from whatever he injected you with… can you remember anything else? What were you doing beforehand?"

"I was at a crime scene at 1401 Bruxton st. with Lestrade and Anderson, though Donovan was mercifully absent. The victim had been stabbed twice in the throat, once through the eye socket, and three times in the stomach. Obviously a first time murderer, wanted to make absolutely sure she was dead. He also took her purse and jewelry, luckily her phone was in her purse, Lestrade tracked it, and he was apprehended in thirty minutes. He was, oddly enough, at the library, trying to cancel her library card. All in all, a complete imbicile." Sherlock rattled everything off at his usual speed, describing the whole deal in slightly disturbingly vivid detail. When he was done, he frowned.

"Interesting… whatever it was seems to have been able to blur my memory from only the 7 and a half minutes in which I interacted with him… Very, very well done." He mused appreciatively. John frowned at him.

"Sherlock, if whatever it is was that sophisticated, don't you think it's a good idea to go to the hospital and make sure there's nothing else wrong? I'm sure there are going to be other side effects, and we still don't know what the main effect is supposed to be!"

"To be reborn…" Sherlock murmured to himself, wondering why of all things, those three ominous words were what he remembered.

"Sorry, what?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him for a second, and then waved his hand vaguely.

"Nothing, John." John was already on the brink of forcing him to the hospital, no need to push the matter. Nice try, but we both know you just don't want to worry John. You don't like it when he's unhappy. A voice in his head teased. Sherlock scowled at it.

Neither of them said anything for a while, and finally, John sighed, then got up and went to sit in his chair, grabbing his laptop.

"You better not be putting this in your blog." Sherlock warned.

"No, just checking it." John replied. Sherlock nodded. He didn't know exactly what was going on, and that disturbed him immensely. He sat quietly in the chair, trying desperately to remember whatever he could about the conversation, or the man he had had it with.

"First… coming generation…"

"Armageddon…"

"will be reborn…"

Sherlock frowned, and wrote it all down, not realizing how ridiculous it all sounded until it was staring at him in black and white. Reborn? Armageddon? The man was clearly delirious. But there had been something about him… no, he couldn't quite remember. The man was nothing more than a vague suggestion in his head. He knew there had been a man, but that was all. Sherlock groaned, massaging his temples again. He had a monstrous headache, and he hadn't even been high or drunk or sleep-deprived to have earned it!

He glanced briefly at the wall where he usually hung up all his case information, then stuck the paper with the scraps of conversation into his pocket. For some reason, he didn't want this particular case (because case it was- complete with a victim and an attacker and a frustrating and beautifully challenging lack of data) up where anyone could see it. Finally, he stood up and grabbed his coat, still damp from last night. He started for the door but stopped when John asked,

"Where are you going?"

"To the alley where I was attacked."

"Great. I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not." Sherlock said, hoping there was enough finality in his voice to dissuade John.

"Right, yeah, you're just going to go back to where you were attacked and injected with… god-knows-what, without me." Of course not. John stood up and grabbed his coat.

"John…"

"Sherlock. I am coming, and that's final. Why would I not come, anyways?"

I don't want you to get hurt. Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again quickly. Was he really about to say that? No, he couldn't have. Yet the phrase was right there on the tip of his tongue, and annoyingly, still seemed to be waiting for him to say it. He frowned, and shook his head slightly, and then locked it away in a remote room in his mind palace, marking the door with yellow spray paint. Surveying his work briefly, he blatantly ignored the countless other doors marked the same way. Sherlock didn't care. End of story.

"Fine, come along. I don't care." He growled, ignoring the voice behind the door that was insisting that this was a really bad idea, then whisked out of the room and flew down the stairs, without looking back to make sure John was following. But of course he was.

~O~.~O~

Sherlock looked down the alley, and cursed. Whatever evidence there might have been was, of course, covered completely in half a foot of snow. Of course, one of the few times London ever got some heavy, lasting snow, and it had to be right now. He glared at the alley, scanning it for any evidence at all that might remain uncovered, but there was nothing. Then he remembered the CCTV cameras. He sent a quick text to Mycroft, hating himself as he did so.

Need footage from camera 35 in the alley off of Baker Street from the past two days. SH

May I inquire as to why? MH

No, not your business. SH

Of course not. It will be emailed to you. Be careful, brother. MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then turned around and started walking back to the flat, John following close behind. As they walked, Sherlock felt a strange twinge of pain in his chest and back, but, with his mind otherwise occupied with trying to piece together the scant clues and information he did have and growling over the information he didn't, it hardly seemed important. However, that combined with the cold and the growing headache made for a seriously disgruntled detective when they got home.

Sherlock stretched out on the couch, and opened his laptop. Sure enough, there was a new email from an untraceable address, with a video. Sherlock opened it, and, fast forwarding to yesterday night, watched the grainy footage. And then he watched it again. And again. But there wasn't much helpful data to be gleaned—the man had managed to hide his face from the camera the entire time, and the scant lighting in the alley meant that his posture was unreadable as well. So Sherlock watched the events playing out with a frown, but it wasn't just because of the near uselessness of the video. Something wasn't sitting quite right with him, watching something that had happened to him without being able to match a memory to it. He had no recollection of any of it- him entering the alley, the man entering behind him, the exchanged words that he couldn't hear on the film, and then, the only part of the video that was worth the time it took to watch it. Sherlock tried to push past him, and the man went from standing in one spot to moving and standing in front of Sherlock at an almost inhuman speed. And then the man somehow managed to get him in an armlock, and inject him with the syringe, then walk away. Sherlock watched this part again and again, trying to figure out how the man moved that fast, but there seemed to be no explanation, at least not from the horrible, grainy footage. He eventually gave up, rubbing his temples in an attempt to dispel the persistent headache. But it was no use.

Sighing, he put the laptop on the table, then lay back on the couch. He slipped immediately into his mind palace, trying to figure out what he could from the foggy memory. Meanwhile, John was still reading his book, something about a Hobbit.

When Sherlock came out of his mind palace, the flat was dark and John wasn't in his chair. Must've gone to bed then. Sherlock went to sit up, but then lay back down, hissing slightly in pain. His shoulders were as sore as if he had tried to lift a building, his spine felt red-hot, and his head seemed as heavy as a bag of bricks. He groaned slightly, then sat up slower, bringing a hand to his forehead, which was screaming hot. He thought about calling John, but then thought better of it. John was asleep, no use waking him. He decided to go to bed himself, and stood up, swaying slightly as the room seemed to wobble around him. He blinked a few times, then winced at the harsh light of the headlights that scraped across the ceiling of the room as a car drove past on the street.

He wandered to his bedroom, closed the door behind him, and collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. He was out, dead asleep within a minute.

~O~.~O~

When Sherlock awoke, it was in the early hours of the morning, 2 or 3 am. As he opened his eyes, he was immediately aware of one thing—pain. He thought he had been in pain the night before, but this was much, much worse. His head pounded and his chest felt like it had been slashed with razor blades on the inside. It was difficult to breathe, let alone speak or call for John, which he was regretting not doing at this point. But worst of all was his back. He felt like someone was trying to cut through the skin of his back with red-hot spoons, and he couldn't bear it.

But he couldn't move, as even the slightest motion sent a wave of agony through him, leaving him gasping for air. So he lay there, skin hotter than the sun, muscles screaming, bones splintering, brain straining to break free from his skull. Said brain was currently racing to try and come up with some explanation, but every time he got near to a possible answer, another searing wave of pain would crash over him, leaving him incapable of any coherent thought.

So instead he focused on continuing to breathe, in and out, in shallow rasps that seemed to stab his lungs with tiny daggers, and further agitate the pain in his back. Finally, he decided to at least try and get some sleeping drugs, to ease him of this nightmare. He lay perfectly still, gathering his strength. Then he took a deep breath and sat up.

But the searing pain that wrenched its way through his core, all the way out to his fingers and head was so volatile, so sharp, that all he could do was fall back on the bed, a strangled scream wrenching itself from his throat. And when his back hit the bed, he felt like a searing white light flashed behind his eyes, blinding him, until he saw no more.

~O~.~O~

Sherlock woke up, and upon realizing that the pain was mostly gone, he carefully stood, stretching his stiff shoulder muscles. Then he paused, feeling something… strange, on his back. It was as if someone had put two pieces of tape right between his shoulder blades, making the skin pull uncomfortably. He reached around to feel the spot where the odd sensation was coming from, but instead of feeling flat skin through the shirt, he felt two…bumps on his back. He frowned, and quickly took off his shirt, moving towards to mirror to get a better look. He stood in front of it, and twisted around, trying to see. And when he did, his mouth dropped open.

He stared at the mirror, unable to comprehend what he saw. There were little nubs sticking out of his back, covered in soft, black down. Feathers.

Wings. Albeit tiny ones.

What?

They itched slightly, and he moved his trembling hand to try and scratch them, in much the same way that one would reach out to pet a tiger. He put his hand on the soft feathers, and was terrified to see that they were real. He wasn't hallucinating, he wasn't dreaming. What he was, was growing wings.

But that was impossible! People didn't just grow wings out of the blue—in fact, people weren't supposed to grow wings at all!

Suddenly his arms felt heavy, and he felt a cloud of sleep settle around his head like a blanket. No, no! I can't sleep now! What's going on?! I have to stay awake, have to figure out…

But his body refused to obey him, and he fell on his back on the bed, out like a light.

~O~.~O~

When Sherlock woke up again, he was still tired. How the hell was he still tired? From the light streaming in from the window, he deduced he had been out for at least half a day. But it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, and his body felt like lead. He reeeeallly didn't want to move. And he had had the strangest dream… Just then, he heard a knock on his door.

"Sherlock, you alright?" John asked, his voice muffled by the thick wood. Sherlock couldn't muster up the energy to reply.

"Sherlock?"

After a few seconds, Sherlock heard the doorknob twist, and the door started to open. He shut his eyes, thinking that if John thought he was asleep, maybe he would leave him alone and he could go back to sleep. That's all he wanted really, to sleep more.

Apparently, his ploy worked, because a few minutes later, the door closed again, and Sherlock heard John's footsteps going away, towards the kitchen. Thank god. He drowsily wondered why he was sleeping so much; he rarely slept at all, usually.

Maybe growing wings takes a lot of energy… His groggy, sleepy brain suggested.

Wait… what?!

But it was too little, too late. He was asleep again.

~O~.~O~

When Sherlock woke up the third time, he was feeling much better. The pain had all but subsided, and he wasn't quite so tired. He sat up, and immediately fell forwards, as a strange weight pushed him over. His chest was now pressed against his knees, and he was staring at the ground, confused. In his peripheral vision, he saw two dark masses falling past his ears.

Oh. Oh, no.

The memories, even the sleepy, loopy ones, came rushing back to him. With some effort, he stood up, and made a beeline for the mirror. And when he got there, he stood mute for a good ten minutes. He had never been in shock before. Apparently this was what it felt like. His breath caught in his throat, and he probably would have laughed at the comical look of surprise and horror and shock he was wearing. But he didn't, because he was far too busy looking at something else.

That something else was the giant, jet-black pair of wings arcing gracefully from his back.

They were full grown now, probably about 6 meters in wingspan, and looked positively enormous compared to his own thin frame. But how was that possible?! He turned around slowly, looking at them from every possible angle. He reached out to pull one around to look at it better, and nearly dropped it in shock, because he had felt it. When he put his hand on the wing, he had felt it, exactly as if he had put his hand on his head or arm or leg. It was connected to his nervous system, then. Part of him.

Not knowing how much longer his legs could keep him standing, Sherlock sat down on the bed, and the wings shuffled themselves so that he wasn't sitting on the long primary feathers. He stiffened as he felt the foreign sensation of the new muscles moving, new bones shifting. This wasn't possible. It just couldn't happen! Humans weren't designed to do this!

And yet it had happened. Sherlock buried his face in his hands, wondering what he should do. He couldn't go out in public like this! He was…

What was he? Suddenly, the word Freak echoed around his mind palace, knocking things over and spilling the carefully arranged files. It sounded suspiciously like Sally Donovan, and he couldn't catch it, couldn't lock it away. He was a freak, now. Despair settled around him like a fog, and his head began to unhelpfully supply him with what would happen next. It showed him John's kind face twisted into horror and disgust, Mycroft looking disappointed as always, him being strapped down to medical tables, being poked and prodded by government agents… NO! Thinking like that would get him nowhere; he shook his head vigorously, banishing the thoughts, and awakening a mild headache.

Suddenly, everything seemed to fall into place. The headaches, the pain, the hunger—all of a sudden, Sherlock realized he was ravenously hungry— it was because his body was sprouting two new appendages, his DNA was becoming warped and twisted, something not human, something…new.

The man in the alley. This was his fault. He had injected Sherlock with whatever was in that syringe, and it had made him…this. I suppose this is what he mean when he said I would be "reborn", Sherlock thought bitterly. How dare he do this to him?! Anger boiled in his veins, and he vowed, right then and there, to a) figure out what was going on, as well as what the man's motive was, b) find out if anyone had met the same fate as him, and c) to find and stop the man at any cost.

But first, he needed to eat. A whole cow, preferably. Except, he obviously couldn't go out to the fridge like he was, wings all higgledy-piggledy behind him, as obvious as the nose on his face. The image of John's horrified face popped unbidden into his head again, but he pushed it away. One problem at a time. He stood up again, a bit easier now that he was getting used to the weight of the wings on his back, and he noticed that they didn't hang completely limp behind him, they stayed slightly lifted, as if ready for flight.

Pushing the instantaneous and confusing questions about possible flight that accompanied that observation away from his head, Sherlock took a deep breath, and tried to relax the wings completely. They obeyed immediately, falling to the floor and pulling on his shoulder muscles uncomfortably. In a knee-jerk reaction, he lifted them again, and then stopped, marveling at how simple it was to move them. They obeyed like his arms or legs, except they weren't. They were… wrong. Not human.

Annoyed, he pushed the worried thoughts out of his head, focusing on the task at hand, and his growling stomach. Finally, he lifted them slightly higher, and then, after some experimentation, managed to fold them in towards his torso. They folded rather compactly against his back, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this was a workable situation after all. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that they were still visible from the side, however. Thinking briefly, he decided to wrap them using some ace bandages from the medical kit.

Except the medical kit was in the bathroom. Outside his bedroom. Sherlock frowned, and put on an old, loose-fitting T-shirt and his dressing gown over it to try and hide the alien appendages, then looked in the mirror, and guessed that it would have to do. The bathroom was just on the other side of the hallway, after all. All he had to do was open the door, move across the hall, and lock himself in the bathroom. It shouldn't take more than five point two seconds, according to his estimation. And yet it felt like a marathon.

He stood in front of his door, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. He pressed his hear against the wall, which was thinner than the door, and listened carefully. He heard a slight tap-tap-tap, and after a few seconds, realized it was the sound of John typing on his laptop. How could he hear that? He supposed that along with the wings, he was also given enhanced hearing, and he scowled. He had been just fine as he was, thank you very much.

Except you were lonely…

Sherlock growled at the latest in a long line of annoying thoughts he didn't want to have. To shut it up, he pushed open the door, leapt across the hallway and quickly pulled open the bathroom door, stepped in, and pulled it closed behind him, being careful not to catch any of the long, thin feathers in the doorjamb. He locked the door with trembling fingers, then let out a deep breath.

He turned around, and started searching for the first aid kit. Locating it, he opened it up, grabbed the bandages, and started wrapping them around his torso, tight enough that it would somewhat flatten the wings, but not so tight that he couldn't breathe. The end result was uncomfortable, to say the least, but at least the wings weren't so visible anymore. He glared at them in the mirror over the sink. Why did this have to happen to him? He hadn't wanted this, and his life would never be the same again, that much was obvious. He started rattling off things that he couldn't do anymore in his head. Swimming was out, not that he did much of that anyways. Comfort as a whole was out, if these bandages were anything to judge by. Lying down on his back was out. Going to the doctor's or the hospital was out…

Oh. That was going to pose a problem.

The longest stretch of time Sherlock could remember going without getting injured was three weeks. Three weeks, that was it. He couldn't get injured on cases anymore, because John would want to help him fix it. And then John would want to see the wound, which would mean Sherlock would have to take his shirt off, and then the wings would be on full display. And that could not happen.

Sherlock took a deep breath. One problem at a time. His stomach loudly reminded him that the problem he should be focusing on right now, was food. Food sounded good. Food sounded glorious, in fact. Never before had Sherlock wanted to eat so badly. Not even after a long case, when he wouldn't eat at all for a week or more. Taking one last glance in the mirror to make sure that he definitely, positively, one hundred percent could not see his wings, (his stomach still did a weird flop when he thought of his wings) he stepped out of the bathroom, and made his way to the kitchen. He took deep breaths, trying to calm down his heart, which seemed quite insistent on beating at a million miles an hour.

When he got to the kitchen, he went straight for the refrigerator. He pulled it open, and, to his dismay, found it full of experiments, not food. Damn.

"John, you need to go to Tesco." He said. John looked up from his laptop.

"And a very good morning to you too, Sherlock." John responded dryly.

"John, you need to go shopping." He repeated. He hated repeating himself, but hey, whatever it took to get food.

"Why?"

"Because there's nothing to eat!"

"Wait… you, Sherlock Holmes, want to eat."

"Yes, John, are you completely daft? Go to Tesco!"

"Why don't you go, if you're so hungry?" John asked, looking back at his laptop.

Because I've got wings, John! I can't go out in public! He wanted to scream, but instead, he sat down at his microscope, and schooled his face into a bored look.

"Too dull." He replied carefully. He heard John sigh, and after a moment of deliberation, John stood up. Sherlock almost smiled, he knew that John's natural worrying about him getting enough to eat would trump his annoyance.

"Fine, what do you want?" John asked tiredly.

"Two fried chickens, a loaf of bread, three packages of biscuits. And…milk." He finished lamely, tacking on the milk just for good measure, as if it would make the rest of his request seem normal. It didn't work; John looked at him like he had sprouted an extra head.

"Big experiment, then?" he asked. Sherlock turned around, and looked John dead in the eye.

"I'm. Hungry." He said seriously, with just a hint of a threat in his voice. John must have heard it, because he shook his head slightly, then left the room.

"Be quick, John!" Sherlock shouted after him as John's footsteps pounded down the stairs.

~O~.~O~

Far too long after that, Sherlock heard the key in the front door, then the door opening, and John cursing quietly under his breath. Very good hearing, then… He sighed in relief—even the experiments in the fridge were starting to look good at this point. He started tapping his foot impatiently as John ascended towards 221B. Did it really take that long to climb one set of stairs?!

Eventually, John opened the door to the flat. Sherlock stood up, and rushed over, grabbing the bags out of his hands and setting them on the table. He ripped open the first fried chicken and started to dig in.

John stared incredulously as his flatmate, who rarely ate at all, ingested more food than he should have been able to fit in his stomach, with all the zeal of a man who had never tasted food before in his life. Two fried Chickens, half a loaf of bread, three quarters of the milk, and two packages of biscuits later, Sherlock sat back in the chair, finally satisfied. John was still gaping at him, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"Jesus, I guess you were hungry." John said eventually, as he started to throw away the empty cartons and packages.

"Yes, John, I said that." Sherlock drawled.

"Well, yeah, but… I've never seen you eat like that before!"

Sherlock merely grunted in reply. Then he sat forwards, and stood up.

"I'll be in my room." He supplied, walking back towards his bedroom.

"Wait, Sherlock…" John said hesitantly. Sherlock stopped and turned around, slight panic flaring up in his chest. Had John seen his wings somehow?

"Are… are you okay? I mean, I know that guy stabbed you with a needle that we still don't know what it was filled with, and then you slept for two days and then ate enough to satisfy an army." John's kind blue eyes were filled with concern, and Sherlock was sorely tempted to tell him everything. He was sure John could help him, but there was also the chance that John would simply walk out of the flat and never return. And Sherlock couldn't risk that. Finally, he mustered up a weak smile.

"Yes, John, I'm fine. Just… sleeping off whatever it was, I suppose."

And with that he continued towards his room, shutting the door behind him and burying his face in the pillow. He was mortified to feel the telltale stinging behind his eyes that foreshadowed tears; Sherlock Holmes didn't care. This was just another obstacle, and he would figure out a way around it.

But, if he had decided to be honest with himself, he would see that that was bullshit. He wouldn't admit it, not to John, or Mycroft, or even himself, but he was terrified. This was so outside the realm of anything "normal" which was already a pretty big realm, for him. He had no idea what to do, and he couldn't think of anyone to turn to. Not if he didn't want to end up alone again, or on a dissection table. No, Sherlock would have to figure it out by himself.