"John, keep a look out."

"While you do what?"

"Pick the lock."

"Pick the-" John twists around to see Sherlock crouched in front of the third victim - Ollenburg's - flat door, the soft clink of metal against metal rattling underneath his words. "Sherlock, you could have just asked Lestrade for the keys. I saw them in an evidence bag, you know."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his work, but by the way his forehead momentarily creases John knows he didn't think of that. Of course. The wingless man is a genius, that's for sure, but in his fervor for answers, the simplest of solutions often pass him by. "And have Lestrade bumbling around every bit of my investigation? No, picking the lock is much easier in the long run," he says, straightening and pocketing his lock-picking kit in on fluid movement.

"Mmm, right," John says, not bothering to sound anything more than wholly unconvinced. He covertly stretches his wings a bit anyways, just in case someone really is paying a bit too much attention to the two men lurking outside the flat. "Or you just didn't think of that."

"Don't be ridiculous," he asserts a bit too quickly and one corner of John's mouth curls upwards in response. Sure, sure. Sherlock isn't looking at him as he opens the flat door, but he evidently can't resist retaliation. "Besides, picking the lock is more exciting. Like those ridiculous films you insist on watching."

"Hey, those ar-" John starts to say, only Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and he gets a face full of coat before he can finish. "Oof! Sherlock!"

He doesn't get much of a chance to protest before Sherlock's moving again, advancing further into the flat and reveal what caught him off guard in the first place.

The newest message is spray-painted across the far wall in thick black lines, the block letters slapdash and messy compared to the bloody lettering of the first one written across the corpse's back.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR PRESENT?

Oh.

Well isn't today just full of surprises?

"John…"

John's cheeks puff out as he exhales slowly, trying to wrap his mind around this new and more than a little alarming twist in the case. "Alright, another message. Chatty one, isn't he?"

"John."

"What?"

"The paint is fresh."

John's gun is out even before they hear the tinkling of broken glass.

Sherlock is off like a shot in the direction of the sound, literally vaulting over a frankly stupidly placed couch that spoke volumes about the fact that whoever put it there certainly hadn't been thinking about chasing criminals through the flat when they did. It doesn't slow John down much, but it provides Sherlock with enough time to get himself in trouble.

John has no doubt that Sherlock knows how to fight in fifteen different styles and can calculate an opponent's weak spots in the time it takes another man to blink, but it only takes a glance for him to realize that the sandy-haired man trying to strangle the consulting detective has gained the upper hand - and fully intends to keep it - through sheer experience and fierce brutality. Fortunately, however, the stranger isn't the only one with combat experience.

John can't shoot the assailant, not while he's still grappling with Sherlock, but he can sneak up behind him and break his wing.

It's a dirty trick and the snap of breaking bones makes his stomach turn, but the movement comes naturally and he doesn't hesitate in doing it. It was one of the first things they was taught about hand-to-hand combat in the army, targeting the weakest part of the body in addition to taking anything more than gliding out of the equation, and he's done well not to forget it.

The reaction isn't what he had hoped for. The assailant gives a strangled cry and releases Sherlock, but even as he does so he twists to shove the taller man into John. The impact and resulting tangling of limbs throws them both off enough to allow the man to make his escape out the broken window onto the fire escape outside, one wing hanging uselessly from his back.

Sherlock practically uses John as a springboard to launch himself in hot pursuit, coughing and hacking due to his abused throat though he is. They're already gone by the time John is able to gather himself and hop out of the window and onto the fire escape, heedless of the broken glass that litters the metal platform. It's only a flash of Sherlock's coat at the top of the rusted metal ladder that lets him know they've carried the chase onto the roof and he's got a foot on the first rung before he realizes what exactly he's doing.

Fuck this. He's not the one with a broken wing.

Despite the situation, the first powerful beat of his wings that throws him away from the side of the building and into open air inspires the same swooping sensation of unadulterated joy in his gut that it always has - a feeling that he sincerely hopes never goes away. Flying to commute is usually too much of a bother and as such there's never much reason for it in the city, aside from pleasure flying, and even that is something John has found himself with little time and patience for since moving into 221B, but it's now that he's reminded the ability to transcend the bounds of earth is not something to take for granted.

Especially when there's a criminal to catch.

His golden-brown wings make short work of lifting him above the roofline and though he can feel the muscles tug uncomfortably at the scar on his shoulder, he's too focused to spare it much attention. There they are! They've gained surprising ground during his absence, but they're on foot and he's airborne, so he isn't worried about being able to catch up. Besides, they're closing in on a sizeable gap between buildings that should stop them in their tracks.

Or not.

Either John didn't break his wing as badly as he thought, or their quarry has a higher threshold for pain than he anticipated, because the man is able to spread his tawny wings as he launches himself across the gap and glide safely to the opposite roof.

John's wings beat harder against the air, driving him forward. He can still catch him if he hurries. Sherlock won't be happy at having lost the opportunity, but at least he isn't stupid enough to attempt to jump the gap himself.

…is he?

Shit.

John can certainly hold his own in the air speed-wise, but all the same he barely makes it in time to reach his friend at the apex of his leap. Close, by not far enough. He isn't going to make it to the other rooftop. John's fingers catch him around the wrist and for a split second they're suspended in space, before Sherlock's weight jerks him painfully downwards and his wings are forced to labor in order to keep them both aloft. Human wings were never meant to keep two grown men in the air, especially when their owner has a none too old bullet wound in his shoulder that throbs painfully under the sudden strain.

Sherlock, for his part, seems to have realized his miscalculation and is clinging to John's jacket sleeve with one hand like it's a lifeline - which, seeing as though it's the only thing between him and the merciless pavement three stories below, it more or less is. "John!" He gasps, his fingernails digging into his skin even through the fabric. "John, don't let me fall. Do not let me fall!"

"Sherlock, shut up!" John snarls, because it's his fault they're in the predicament in the first place and it's hard to concentrate on simply staying aloft with him yelling down there. With a frankly heroic effort, he pulls them upward with a series of particularly forceful down strokes just far enough to dump Sherlock on the opposite rooftop. He rolls rather painfully to a stop nearby not a moment after, but compared to the soreness in his wings a couple of abrasions on his knuckles are nothing.

Despite wanting nothing more than to lay there and rest a while, John hauls himself to his feet and staggers over to where Sherlock is doing the same. You can take the army doctor out of the war, but old habits die hard, and John Watson does what he has to do. "Are you okay?" He asks, straight to the point.

Sherlock's pale eyes have a glazed look as if his mind isn't entirely in the here and now, similar to the look they get when he's lost in thought, but not quite the same. Nevertheless, he mutely offers John his wrist. It's the one he previously held in a death grip, though it appears he must have also landed on it awkwardly, as the normally pale skin is swollen and angry looking.

"You've probably just sprained it," John says after a moment of deft inspection. He doesn't look up when he adds, "you fucking idiot."

There's nothing but silence for one beat, then two. Finally Sherlock says in a quiet voice, "I thought I could make it."

"Yeah. Yeah, I got that part." He releases the consulting detective's wrist and allows himself a steadying exhale. "I'll wrap it when we get back. You'll be fine." With that he stalks off a couple paces and turns his back to Sherlock, as if putting distance between them will soothe the anger bubbling just beneath his skin. It doesn't, but it's at least less tempting to punch him.

"You're angry with me."

"Yeah, good deduction, that."

"Why?"

"Why?" John whirls around at this, torn between being furious and incredulous. "Wh- Sherlock, you nearly got yourself killed just now, in case you didn't notice!"

"It was for a case," Sherlock points out, though there's no real fire in his defense. "People have died."

"Yeah, and so will you if you don't stop taking such fucking stupid risks." He clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders. "You may be brilliant and mad and God knows what else, but you're not invincible, Sherlock. Someday you're going to fall and I might not be there to catch you again." As much as they don't want to come out, the words have to be said, and he refuses to apologize for them.

Sherlock's face is unreadable, but he doesn't break eye contact in the long moment before he says, as casually as ever, "My wrist hurts."

John releases the breath he doesn't remember ever holding in a tired sigh. "Come on. The sooner we find a way down, the sooner we can get a cab home."