Chapter One

John H. Watson's wings were not unusual. His wingspan is slightly longer than his height. The feathers are slightly sun-bleached, with darker brown streaks. The right wing is held several centimeters lower than the left. This gives Dr. Watson a rather lopsided appearance. The cause is a gunshot wound to the right supracoracoideus. Small downy feathers cover the large, formerly-featherless area.

The last time John Watson flew was a quiet morning in June 2009. There had been some sort of Islamic holiday that gave everyone a chance to breathe.

He remembered the delighted whoops and shouts of his mates as they rode the hot air columns. It was the first time any of them had gotten the chance to stretch in weeks.

He remembered the comfortable pull and the welcome burn of unused muscles. The wind combed through his feathers and chased away weeks of sand, mud, and heat.

He remembered seeing the soldier in front of him drop like a stone.

He remembered being shot out of the sky.

The boys from his squad shouted, "Captain!"

The Major screamed orders at the others. "DIVE! GET ON THE GROUND!"

John watched it all with a detached mind. His body was numb – no; weightless.

He remembered falling, tumbling through the still air, seeing his wings waving limply, plunging toward the hot sand and –

- waking up on the floor tangled in his bed sheets.

Bullocks.

John angrily kicked his way out of the sheet and struggled to his feet. The entire right side of his body was hurting. Of course, there was hardly a time when that side of his body didn't hurt. He groaned rather pathetically as he hobbled the short distance from the bed to the kitchenette.

He started the tea and stretched while he waited. He'd have to wait to soothe his cramped wing; the temporary flat was simply too damned small. One would think that a room would have enough to stretch one's wings, but for some reason the military denied its grounded soldiers that convenience.

John limped back to his desk, tea now in hand. With a thud and a few choice words, he maneuvered himself into the chair. His wing gave a sharp twinge. He was going to get hell from his therapist about that today, he could already tell.

"John." He remembered the way she had said it, almost pitying but not quite. "John. I have reason to believe that you... handicaps … are psychosomatic."

"The pain isn't real. You injuries have healed."

"Phantom pain, that's all it is, John. Phantom pain."

Every session was the same. And no, dammit, the pain he felt was not his imagination. His wing, his leg, they fucking hurt.

John really wanted to fire his therapist.

Too bad he has two months of required appointments remaining. In the meantime, he blogged. Well, he pretended to blog. The therapist said it would help him to write about his time in the war. Bullshit. He didn't need help with the war. He needed help with his leg and wing.

As he drank his tea, he stared at his computer. His mind wandered. Then, he had an idea.

Today, John decided, he would go out.

He hated the cane. It drew more attention to his injuries than John wanted. The scar tissue on his wing was obvious enough, not to mention the limp.

What's the bright side, John?

The bright side was that at least he didn't have to use the crutches anymore. "Crutch Month" was the first time he saw the therapist, back when his wing still dragged behind him on the ground because it hurt to furl it close to his body. Crutch Month was a time best forgotten.

John limped along the path through the small park. It felt good to be outside. The slight breeze ruffled a few of his feathers and curled through his primaries.

He could feel the stares, though. It wasn't paranoia; people really were looking at the downy feathers that had just started to grow over the scar. Either that or at the way he was unable to lift his injured wing as high as the other. John didn't hate them for it, not anymore. They simply couldn't help it.

One bloke in particular, however, was blatantly staring at John without attempting to restrain himself at all. He was a beefy man, wore thick glasses, and had scruffy feathers.

John avoided the man's gaze as he limped by, his wings automatically trying to furl closer to his body. Only one wing actually succeeded.

"John?" the man suddenly asked, leaping from his seat on a park bench.

"I'm sorry," John began, "you must have me confused-"

"John Watson!" The man's wing's twitched excitedly. John noticed that they were ridiculously too small for a man of that size.

The man continued, "Stamford. Mike Stamford! We were at Bart's together?"

Oh, Mike. Of course. How had he not recognized Mike? …well. Mike had certainly put on some weight. He hadn't always wore glasses, had he? Mike was looking at him expectantly.

"Right, yes, Mike! Sorry I…"

"No, it's all right. I got fat, is all!" Mike laughed as John stuttered over his denial of Mike's obvious weight-gain. They shook hands, and Mike's eyes locked onto the cane. For a moment, nothing happened. Mike looked back up at John's face before speaking.

"I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" he asked. John could hear the struggle in Mike's voice, the internal argument was written all over the larger man's face. Should he joke? Should he be serious? John had seen it all before. At least it wasn't pity this time.

"I got shot," he deadpanned.

Mike's expression crumpled for a moment before he could recover.

"Of course, sorry. Would you – here, sit."

They sat on the bench Mike had just vacated, John making a face when his wing knocked against the wood. A very still, very awkward silence settled in.

"…You still at Bart's then?" John asked finally. Mike grinned, his wings jumping up and out before snapping back to his body.

"You'll never believe this, but I'm teaching now."

John made the appropriate noises of disbelief as Mike laughed and nodded.

"Yeah, teaching. Bright young things, you know, like we used to be. God's body, I hate the little bastards," he laughed again, louder this time. John chuckled. He remembered those days. He had been quite the terror.

"What about you, then? Where do they have you playing sawbones?" Mike asked eagerly. God, that man's wings were ridiculously expressive.

John took a deep breath… and another, forcing the tremors in his hand to cease before he opened his mouth.

"Nowhere, actually. I'm trying to find a decent flat, and I can't afford anything in London. Not on my Army pension."

Mike nodded sympathetically, his wings drooping.

The scraggly feathers jumped suddenly and Mike turned his body toward John. "What about a flatshare?"

John snorted. "Yeah? And who would want to share a flat with a cri-" he stopped himself, swallowed, "with me?" His leg began to twitch painfully.

Mike's eyes gleamed. He grinned and raised his eyebrows.

"Funny," he said, his wings shuffling. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John froze, blinked rapidly. His good wing stretched upwards a few inches.

"Who was the first?"