Like a Fairy

An original, but unbelievably crappy, BBC Sherlock fan fiction

By CowMow

For Sanne. Because she asked for it.

John was not gay.

Despite what seemed popular opinion of the papers, ardent wishes of fans (who energetically spammed his blog to vent their wishes of 'please kiss already!') and despite claims and insinuations of his friends and sister, John Hamish Watson, MD, formerly of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, rugby player at secondary school and the best clarinet player of his music class, was most definitely not gay.

His mates in the army called him 'Three Continents Watson'. It was a name John Watson very secretly very much liked, but when asked what it meant he would just give you his most charming, disarming smile and the answer was no longer important. It just left you to drool over the blueness of his bottomless eyes and the whiteness of his straight, strong teeth.

However, ever since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, people who saw them together naturally assumed they were together, meaning they thought John was gay because who the hell knew about Sherlock Holmes? This did include Mrs. Hudson, The British Government and various clients John had never met before the various cases, and who he would never meet again after the various cases had been solved.

John Hamish Watson, MD, ex-soldier, ex-rugby player and ex-clarinetist, and consulting assistant to a consulting detective was many things, but gay, that he was most certainly not.

Is not.

In the early years, John cared about what people thought. He cringed when people called him gay, queer or sissy. He tried to defend himself, found girlfriends on every corner of the street, had epic dates which epically failed, was a great boyfriend which apparently meant Sherlock Holmes was a very lucky man, and John wore, of course, very manly, very hideous and very un-gay jumpers.

After a year of living together with Sherlock Holmes, the comments about being gay or not were not as harmful to this brave soldier any more. He merely smiled and winked at Sherlock, decided he didn't care what people thought, or at least, cared less about what people thought.

But then Moriarty showed up again, telling everyone Sherlock was a fake, making the man jump of a very high building and die in John's manly, jumper-covered arms while the detective's clever brains dribbled over the unforgiving pavement.

John stopped caring about what people thought, because they were all wrong.

Three years later, Sherlock returned to the land of the living, paler and thinner than normal, but wonderfully alive. John punched him (avoiding his nose and teeth as usual) and then wrapped his jumper-covered arms around a trembling detective. People began calling him names again, because he couldn't stand losing Sherlock from his sight for more than two minutes.

John didn't mind the names, and Sherlock, of course, noted the difference in his best friend's behaviour. He observed and filed everything away in the cosy room in his mind palace.

"You don't care what people think any more," Sherlock remarked one day. It was beautifully warm weather outside, a seldom occurrence in famously rainy, foggy London. "It's good, but why? Why don't you care?"

John lowered his newspaper filled with mundane news about banks and politics and celebrities, and looked at his friend. "I simply don't care anymore. At least not when they're wrong."

Sherlock nodded. He didn't care for people's opinions either. Except John's. And Mrs. Hudson's. And Lestrade's, perhaps. And sometimes Molly's. But they were his friends.

"Why?" he simply asked, not fully understanding because John was moralistic, loyal. John was kind. John always cared.

"They were wrong about you, and about Moriarty. They are wrong about other things, too." John smiled his charming smile and picked up his tea again.

Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as silence returned to the flat. What other things?

Queen. Sissy. Bender. Fag. Poofter. Those were just words that would slip smoothly down John's well-muscled back, and the soldier elegantly shrugged them off.

Butt Pirate. Anal Astronaut. Upstairs Gardener. Bumhole Engineer. Those were just hilarious, John thought, and sometimes he wondered how people came up with names like those. Was there an Award for inventing new names?

Fairy.

Ah, yes, about that...

Sherlock was there when some woman was arrested for murder on her husband and his male lover. She was so angry that she called John just that. Fairy.

The detective was amused, and grinned at his friend, knowing how John could smirk at how wrong people could be. But John's face was pale and his lips pressed shut tightly, and Sherlock's smile slid off his handsome, angular face. "John?" he asked, worry lacing his deep, velvety voice.

John swallowed visibly and shook his head. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

"John…"

"Shut up!" John snapped at him, and turned his blazing blue gaze on his best friend. "I'm going home. You take the next cab, I wanna be alone." He got into the taxi and left Sherlock standing on the kerb.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock cautiously climbed the stairs to 221B, not sure if John were angry or sad, irritated or absent, drinking tea or smashing cups. He opened the door and peered inside, finding John standing near the window, hands clasped behind his back.

Slowly, Sherlock peeled the leather gloves off his long, slender hands, sliding the Belstaff off his shoulders. He said nothing. John didn't move.

"She said fairy," John said suddenly, turning around to look at his best friend. "Of all things she could have said, she chose fairy."

The detective shrugged and sat down on his chair, crossing his legs. "Yes?"

John hummed and looked down.

"Why is it worse than poofter?" Sherlock inquired. "It means the same, it's still untrue."

John scoffed and looked up. "Untrue?"

"Yes, untrue," Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes. He hated repeating himself, but for John, brilliant John, he made an exception. "False. Wrong."

John looked around, his gaze landing anywhere but on Sherlock. "What if I am something else than you thought I was?"

Sherlock blinked. What did that mean? Was John gay? It was fine. All fine. It made no difference to Sherlock. Well, except the obvious, of course. Because if John fell for men, he could also fall for Sherlock. Perhaps. One day. Yes? "What are you, then?" Sherlock asked with an unusual amount of tact.

"A fairy, that's what I am."

Sherlock winced. "Homosexual, John. Name it properly."

"No, a Fairy, Sherlock." He grabbed the hem of his oatmeal-coloured jumper and tore it in to, from neck to hem. Sherlock had just enough time to admire his strong chest before the other man turned around.

Gasping, Sherlock jumped up from his chair, and he took three steps closer. "John."

John closed his eyes and spread his wings, spreading them after having hid them under his clothes for the whole long day. He waited for the slamming of the door behind the billowing coat of his leaving flatmate, but nothing happened.

"It's beautiful," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. It was. John had no idea how beautiful he looked with a halo of late afternoon sunlight, with small, fragile, translucent, fluorescent, fluttery dragonfly wings spreading forth from his strong back. He looked otherworldly, breathtakingly handsome.

John turned around, and Sherlock noticed that his blue eyes had changed to a deep purple, and his hair was pure gold.

"Oh, John…." Sherlock's eyes were filled with admiration and he reached out to touch John. "Why are you here, Fairy?"

Purple eyes met grey, and the being laughed. "The mirror was open."

Sherlock nodded breathlessly. Even though it wasn't an answer he understood, yet he accepted it as one, simply wishing he could push John down on the bed and examine those beautiful wings for ever.

The wings fluttered when John moved them as if he was about to fly away. A fountain of sparkles rained down on them, and Sherlock swooned from the sheer beauty of it. His human brain, though massive, was overwhelmed with John's fairyness.

When he came to, John was hovering over him, his purple eyes filled with never-ending, all-consuming, undying love.

Sherlock grinned, and reached up to pull him close when he realised that he needed John so much that he could no longer wait. His desire to touch and hold was simply too overwhelming.

And when their lips finally met in a toe-curling kiss, and when John made a soft sound, his wings flapped and glitters formed, creating a beautiful, sparkly world of their own.

The End