Based on a prompt - AU mashup: Mix two AUs of your choice and write a fic with the result, see where it goes. Like wing!AU + Omegaverse. Or HDM!AU + prison!AU. Whatever you like. Show us if this kind of thing is worth exploring.

Author's Note: What came into my head was, yes, wings and Omegaverse, because I wanted to write about bonding and flying and sex. Instead I decided to experiment first on how the world might work, Omegaverse with winged men. Obviously a lot fewer doggy elements. No knotting.

So, yes, working a bit on the idea of Wings!Omegaverse and biology and society, and this is just a taste of that world building. An experiment.

Warnings - consequences of male pregnancy, i.e. a baby. Wings. Omegaverse bonding. Also schmoop and fluff.

John fell into the seat by the white-draped hospital bed and grasped the railing as if were the only thing anchoring him. He leaned in and rested his forehead against Sherlock's bicep, shuddering with relief.

"You prat. I love you, but... not again. You can't scare me that way. Just...don't. God, Sherlock. I... I'm not sure I can take this again." His voice came out raspy, lungs constricted.

Sherlock was awake, and more importantly, alive. The weight of John's relief was such that his wings slumped, slate grey flight feathers curling against the shining linoleum of the private hospital room Mycroft had arranged for them. The arm he leaned against flexed and bent, and a hand rested on his head, fingers combing the grey-blond strands, trembling slightly.

"Hardly my fault, John. Definitely not yours. In spite of all precautions, having an eyas-child is always a tricky business, especially at my age. No one could have predicted the hemorrhage. I had the best care."

"Should have gone the caesarean route," mumbled John against the hospital sheets. A laugh more felt then seen shook his mate's frame. John couldn't laugh, not just yet. How could the man laugh? How had it ended up that Sherlock was comforting John? It wasn't right. Because he knew. He knew, as a doctor, just how close it had been. He'd been firmly pushed from the room when the alarms had gone off and the bleeding hadn't stopped. Outside he had waited with Mycroft and his dark-haired assistant for news, blind and deaf with terror.

"John. John." The baritone was insistent, plucking at him. He lifted his head. Sherlock was ivory, glassy pale and exhausted after the long labour. His white wings with their beautiful scattering of black bars spread extravagantly across the wide hospital bed. Everything look whitewashed, barring the red infusion of the IV still taped to his left arm and the inky darkness of curls against the pillow. "I'm fine. Be reasonable, John. My dear doctor, all is well now, and the next fledgling will be much easier."

John reached up to stroke a thumb over a small tattoo on Sherlock's shoulder, just where his neck and shoulder connected. JW, within a grey feather, incredibly detailed and lifelike, covering a faded scar. Sherlock's hand covered his and the weight of his hand, combined with the relief of touching the living proof of his mate-claim upon his brilliant lover soothed a little of John's agitation. "I know. If you want to. Have another fledgling, that is. I could go elsewhere during your breeding season. Visit Harry, or something. You... you don't have to." The very thought made his Alpha instincts howl in denial, but he forced his mind to override it. Shut up. He almost died.

Sherlock huffed. "And risk losing the mate-bond and the territory we've made? Our eyrie at Baker Street? Don't be ridiculous. You are not going anywhere, John. Face it. You are my tercel. My chosen mate, and I refuse to mislay my blogger."

John smiled and bowed his head to the inevitable. "And you are my Omega, detective-mate. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock squeezed his hand, and John leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the pale lips. A voice cleared its throat. "Mr. Holmes-Watson? Doctor Watson? Your son is ready to see you, if you are ready."

John sat up, wings spreading with eagerness. He held a hand against Sherlock's shoulder to prevent his sitting up but Sherlock touched his arm. "Not quite yet, Nurse. John. Come up. We'll do this part together."

The nurse looked shocked and Sherlock scowled at her. John was surprised but better at concealing it. "Sherlock. Are you sure?" For answer, Sherlock tugged gently and John carefully joined him on the bed, curling against his side, head on Sherlock's shoulder, careful not to jar him. His grey wings folded tightly against his back. John tugged the blanket down from Sherlock's narrow chest and unbuttoned his own shirt. The nurse carefully unwrapped the loose blanket and placed the baby on Sherlock's chest.

So small, thought John. So perfect. Their son. "He has your colouring. His skin, I mean."

"Yes. Your nose, though. I'm glad. I'm rather fond of the original." Sherlock rested a hand on the tiny back, fingers parting around the delicate wings, white and fluffy. His tired eyes were soft, lips curving in at the corners as his looked at his firstborn. Sherlock inhaled a soft breath that shook only slightly and swallowed. John's genetics combined with his own - the actual proof of it curled against him was overwhelming. And making him unaccustomedly sentimental, but he supposed it was a natural condition for Omegas. Such a thing altered one forever, but he couldn't regret it. Regret this. The baby's eyes were closed and he snuffled against Sherlock's skin, diminutive hand flexing. "I thought he'd have more hair." A vague thread of disappointment ran through his voice.

John choked a quiet laugh. "My mum told me my hair was so fine when I was born that I looked bald. Peach fuzz, she called it." He ran a finger down the tiny arm. My child. There was a bone deep pride in him, and happiness. He felt as if he'd been cracked open, filled up with love for this tiny creature, this miracle that Sherlock had given him after all these years. He swallowed hard.

"Come on." Sherlock curved a wing up over John, pushing him closer. "I want him to imprint on us both. Move him closer to you." John curled around around his mate and their son, breathing in the sweet infant scent as Sherlock's wing settled over the three of them in a cloud of white warmth.

"Thank you," John breathed. Few Alphas were allowed to imprint on their children, depending upon their mates to take care of that side of a mate-bond. It was not part of an Alpha's function. To protect and provide - well, he would always do that, in exchange for what Sherlock had given him. Not just a family, but a new life together. Purpose. Love.

"Idiot." The voice was fond. "He's the confluence of both our lives. I want you to share in all parts of his, just as you've always done for me."

"Love you too," said John, turning his face up for a kiss. Sherlock smiled against his lips.

"I know, John."

Other notes: Tercel is the name of a male falcon, from the French, and they are one third smaller than the females. So, YES, Sherlock is the Omega, because he is the larger. I have biology and righteousness on my side for this, folks.

Eyas - baby falcon.

Yes, John and Sherlock have different style falcon wings.

Imprinting - like geese and ducks, baby falcons imprint on their parent - usually it will be the female as the male is away from the nest more often, collecting food for the brood.

It is quite interesting, the social dynamics and the lives of falcons. I'd done a little research before for MtC story, but now I'm all over it.

IF ANYONE HAS QUESTIONS, please shoot them to me, as I could use the mental prod to help shape the world. I can't quite figure out the role of women for example.