A/N - Warnings for attempted sexual assault. Also, the fic is hitting the end of the mating flight. That means congress, the joining of two into one, in detail. Mating, in a word. If you did not sign on for this, read the first part and when things get uncomfortable, scroll for the ending. Thank you!

Soho, January 31st, 2010

He'd lost Sherlock.

John was frantic, his head swivelling as he swooped and quartered. No good. He'd have to go high. John began the climb to get above the buildings when he caught the flickering of wings down a street. He turned, but his exhalation of relief strangled in his throat as his eyes took in the scene.

White wings and grey thrashed together as Sherlock and the interloper struggled mid-air. Oh, sweet Horus. He's not -? I'm too late.

John's heartsick jealousy changed to horror as he saw Sherlock's arm being clutched by the other man. Sherlock twisted and threw himself sideways, ripping at the man's clutch with his free hand as he moved the trapped arm in circular motion. The hold broke and Sherlock dropped away, pivoting hard, pinions almost bending with the force of his wing beats. The attacker shouted something and tucked his wings, darting with incredible nimbleness to cover Sherlock's large frame from behind. Their wings tangled and beat together in a terrible medley of dark and white feathers. An arm snaked around Sherlock's throat, forearm against his windpipe and squeezing, demanding submission as the man's head bent to exposed neck and bit. Sherlock shouted. The man's hand clawed at the elastic band of the black briefs Sherlock wore, pushing them down over his hips.

That was no mating flight. No suitor would ever court a Zenith in such a manner. Everything in John revolted at the obscenity – instead of coming as a supplicant to prove himself, the interloper was trying to seize that which should be given. Forcing a pair-mating. With Sherlock. It was anathema.

John's vision tunnelled as he tried to close the gap. His tiredness and fear for Sherlock dropped away, replaced by something much more volatile. No. Not going to touch him. His hands balled into fists.

Sherlock was not proving easy prey. He was kicking, trying to elbow his small attacker to no avail. The briefs were yanked to mid-thigh, tangling his legs. Sherlock's head ducked then snapped back, forcing the other to loosen his grip or have his nose broken. The gasp of a quickly-indrawn breath was loud before the arm began tightening again. Sherlock's hands came up, grasped the other's wrist and began twisting it, torquing it away from his neck. A powerful thrust of his wings and he broke away and dove. The man rolled to follow.

No.

John was there, blocking the way, wings spread in full offensive mode. He spared a quick glance to the side. Sherlock had landed on a ledge and was sagging against the bricks, coughing as he rubbed a spot of bright red on his neck. The briefs had fallen down completely and garlanded one ankle.

Safe, hurt but safe. Good. John let his anger roll up and through him and the battle was joined.

His rival feinted left, intent on getting to his prey. John batted at him with both wings, kicking out at the man's chest but missing. Close up he saw that his opponent was even smaller than himself, with small, sharply angled wings. Their manoeuvrability was superior to John's own broad spread, he knew. The man dropped away from the fierce buffeting and in a fast move that left John unprepared, circled up and over to deliver a heel-kick to John's face. John's head snapped back hard, a burst of pain whiting his vision. His mouth abruptly filled with blood as his lip split on his teeth.

The man snarled, dark eyes burning. "He's mine! Not yours!" John lunged and missed, the other deftly back-winging and rolling to come up with one hand holding a small pistol.

Horus. John had no breath to reply. He twisted, the bullet singing through his tertial vanes, white-hot pain a poker laid against his lower ribs. Grazed, surface damage only, thank Horus. Too close – a gun in a mating flight, was the man insane? He rushed him, hands automatically moving to deflect and disarm. The weapon fell away but John received stinging parallel scratches on his chest as the other tore at him. John hissed and shoved him off. The blood was a warm trickle on his chest and the graze burned with each wing beat. Dimly he heard windows and balcony doors opening, someone's scream.

The man's face was feral, smiling with lust and rage. He's too fast, John thought. Again his opponent darted and John felt a hand slip through his primaries before he jerked his wing away. Lost or broken remiges would cripple his flying ability. The courtship flight would be over.

He'd lose Sherlock.

A series of images flashed through John's head. Himself, wings broken and falling as the stranger laughed. Sherlock accepting the other. Impossible. The dark man's hands on Sherlock's white skin, bruising. Mounting Sherlock, seizing his prize by force.

Never. John's anger crystallised into relentless purpose.

He spun down and away, changing the angle of the man's attack. Muscle memory forged by years of training in the Army came to the fore. John let his surface thoughts drop away and used the tools he'd been given. He dived, leading the danger away from Sherlock. Then he snapped out his wings and jackknifed to reverse his flight, ascending in a tight spiral back to meet the man head on.

Intercept and trap.

The other back-winged frantically but John fell on him, hands clamping the man's upper arms to his sides. He used his the full force of his greater weight to bear his rival back until they hit the wall of a building. The man's head snapped back and smacked the bricks with a dull thud but his black eyes were blazing, teeth bared. Dark wings flailed, buffeting John's own as they began to slide down together.

"Fuck this," John spoke through the ice around his rage. "How dare you." How dare he intervene in John's courtship flight, how dare he lay hands on Sherlock. How dare he.

Disarm. Incapacitate.

He released his left hand. His rival immediately grasped at John's marginal coverts, fingers digging in and tangling with the intention to tear them away. John didn't hesitate. He punched the man hard, twice, in the solar plexus. The other choked, legs drawing up, wings flapping as he tried get his breath. His hand fell away. John let him go, dropped back and snapped a short kick to the man's side, aiming for the kidneys. The other's air hissed out of him, his eyes rolling up. The dark wings trembled, faltered, curled in. He began to lean out from the wall, no longer aware of his surroundings.

John had the momentary temptation to just let him drop to his death. No, not good. His fury still beat behind his eyes but was encased in the cold knowledge of necessity.

Render incapable of pursuit.

His right arm shot out and he shoved the man against the wall again, two fingers curling dangerously into his suprasternal notch, constricting the man's windpipe. With his left hand he grabbed, pulled and let a handful of greater coverts drift from his fingers. A fistful of secondaries came free with a hard yank. The man inhaled a pained noise, a leg feebly kicking. John kept tearing, fingers cramped with effort. The tenth and ninth primaries spun away. Long feathers had their spines snapped, bending out at crazy angles. John's breath hissed through gritted teeth. Enough. It had taken only a few moments.

"...kill you." The words were squeezed out. John looked at his rival in blank astonishment. He still wanted to fight? "Mine. He's mine. You... not a match for him."

John did not have time for this. Sherlock was out there alone. "You can't have him," he rasped. He looked around. There. Just below a large veranda-style balcony with tables protruded, probably a restaurant.

He grasped the man under his arms and spread his wings, muscles straining slightly under the dead weight. He glided until he was a few metres above and dropped his burden. The dark wings opened but with only one working, the man fell heavily to the marble. His wings sprawled gracelessly and he curled into a foetal ball. John heard shocked exclamations from watchers. Someone called out a question but John only swept away, head up, scanning for Sherlock. The wounds throbbed on his chest and his mouth hurt like the blazes. He turned his head and spat blood.

He spotted a patch of black on a grey ledge – yes, those were the briefs Sherlock had been wearing, now discarded. John swept past and scooped them up. The cloth was soft and cool and unlike their owner, within his grasp. His grip tightened.

A camera flashed below and he gave the voyeur a two-fingered salute. Sirens were wailing in the distance – someone must have reported the gunshot. But no one ever interfered in fights between rivals for a mating, only waiting for a winner to emerge and a loser to be taken to hospital. "Hey! Suitor!" John looked up. The blonde head of a Falcon looked over the edge of her balcony, wings peeping behind her. "That way." She pointed and gave him a thumbs-up.

John craned his neck and saw the dim shape in the night sky. "Thanks," John called. Sherlock was going high, wings treading a smooth rhythm as he spiralled skyward. Now it was a test of stamina, John thought – go to where the air was thin and outlast your pursuer. John had been flying or fighting the whole time, but Sherlock had had a brief respite on the ledge. He remembered Sherlock's ease in ascension earlier, the absurd spread of wing. If Sherlock repeated his trick and stooped from such a height, John would never match him. He needed to prove his fitness as a suitor another way.

John's hand tightened once more on the black fabric before letting it fall away. A laugh escaped him. Sherlock, you have no idea.

The game was still on.

~o~

Soho to parts unknown, January 31st, 2010

Sherlock was committed.

Committed to flying away. Fleeing, in point of fact.

His wings went through the motions economically, preserving his remaining strength for climbing above the city for his final escape.

There was little logic in his decision. With what small part of his mind not wound up with the command fly fly fly, he acknowledged the fact.

He'd waited until the last moment. He had been on the ledge, gasping for air, watching Jim attack John with amazing speed. Frozen, he'd been torn between the desire to flee and the fascinated need to watch the outcome of the battle. His primitive side longed to see which suitor would claim him.

Sherlock inhaled sharply when the man's kick struck home and blood began to run down John's chin. He crouched on the ledge, intent as the dark-winged man and the grey circled and feinted.

John has no chance. John is older. Tired.

Sherlock was wrong.

In a sudden burst of movement John dispatched his enemy with brutal efficiency that shocked and thrilled Sherlock to the core. The golden shoulders flexed as he used his hands to drive the breath out of his opponent. He killed a man for me tonight, whispered a dark voice. See what he's willing to do for me? Strong. Mate. Don't you want all of him for yourself? Don't you want? It was terrible and satisfying to witness, his entire body clenching with a resounding YES.

But against the dark throb of instinct was another voice protesting, a part of him that shuddered in fury against the abhorrent touching he'd been subjected to. It had been possessiveness contorted into something hideous. This was why you always fly alone, why you never allow yourself to be attached. Primitive emotions – his attacker had been disfigured by them. The tooth-marks in his neck throbbed in reminder.

Look at John. The Apex Tiercel was nearly unrecognisable, his mouth drawn into a snarl as broken feathers drifted around him, blue eyes blazing. The still-rational part of Sherlock's mind rebelled.

- But John said he wouldn't – the arm cutting into Sherlock's windpipe, fingers insinuating on his hip – John's protecting me, he – won't be independent any more – proved himself, take him take him – teeth in his flesh, trying to claim -

Stop, stop stop stop. Sherlock couldn't stand this, the inner conflict was utterly destroying his equilibrium. His blood sang, body throbbing its siren's song for a mate. Stop it. He needed distance. He needed to think, why was he not able to think?

Down the street, John picked up his rival by the armpits. Sherlock didn't stay to watch any more. Icy fingers of panic trailed down his spine while hunger burned within. It was too much.

He fled.

~o~

Over the city of London, Embankment, January 31st, 2010

In through the nose, out through the mouth, over and over, deep sustained breaths. John's wings rose and fell in an accelerated flighted Army double-beat, designed for moving quickly without exhausting oneself. Below he could see the winding blackness of the Thames, bordered by the bright lights of the Embankment. Steadily he was closing the distance. Sherlock still moved in an ever-rising arc, but slower than the frantic winging he'd done to get away from Soho. Did he believe himself safely away, or was he tiring? We'll see.

Closer. Twenty lengths.

Ten. He could distinguish the black barring on the great white wings, the nacreous shine of white skin against the inky clouds. Sherlock's chest heaved.

John's hands trembled. So near. He put on a burst of speed and closed the gap. Sherlock turned at the sound of his wings but John shot up and past him, trailing a hand daringly through white feathers. Sherlock made an inarticulate noise and hovered, waiting as John lazily winged a wide circle back to face him. Sherlock's full mouth was red and parted as he panted.

"Persistent," Sherlock said.

"You said, 'Catch me if you can,'" John said.

"And here you are," Sherlock retorted.

John couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. "Here I am." An answering smile flickered over Sherlock's face before disappearing.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say..." John jackknifed, dove beneath, avoiding Sherlock's warning kick. "That you are still looking for a way out."

Sherlock turned, his chin lifted. "I'm... conflicted." He looked furious at the admission. John nodded, rolled upside-down and dove beneath again, his fingers passing over a slim calf and a foot sole. Sherlock yelped and kicked uselessly again.

John continued his slow glide around Sherlock, who turned to face him as he circled. "You could have told me to sod off. Back at the restaurant."

Sherlock huffed, his breath misting in the chill air. "I weighed the odds. I decided they were in my favour."

"What, because I'm older than you? Because I was injured?" Sherlock said nothing. "Yet you agreed. Whatever your reasons were -"

"I don't... John. There are reasons I prefer my single state."

"Reasons like the what happened down there?"

Sherlock was silent. John swallowed around the tightness in his throat. It felt as though he were flying through a storm – the wrong move, a word and he would be tumbling like Morning Star, cast down from Heaven. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock's voice was cautious.

"I'd never force you. That's not me." He drew a deep breath. "I meant what I said back at the restaurant. I'd stay."

There was a long pause. The only sound was their breath, the soughing of air though feathers.

"Even without – all this?" Sherlock voice was tight. He gestured at their bare bodies.

John's eyes pressed closed a moment. "Yes. I mean, it would hurt like hell. I think you're brilliant. I think we'd be amazing." His lungs were constricting.

"Hoping I'll change my mind?"

"Yes!" The shout hung in the air between them. John's hands ached with the need to touch. You can't, don't spook him. "But I'd wait. Until I proved myself."

Sherlock's head went back at this declaration. He barked a laugh. "Prove yourself?"

John's head jerked in a nod. Sherlock's eyes ran over him, his wings, the scar, the heavy muscles before returning to his face. John's flesh felt heated from the touch of his eyes. Oh, sweet Horus, he couldn't take much more of this. "Whatever it takes. Feed you. Watch out for you. Protect you – even from yourself. Well, aside from your idiot notions about your work, Great Roc!" He waited a beat, and then said it. "Out-fly you."

The challenge was out. Sherlock's face loosened in astonishment that shifted to disbelieving amusement. "You still think you're able to out-fly me?"

John hovered and faced him directly. He let the smile spread. "Catch me. If you can."

And he went straight up. He kept his beats even and measured, an easy pace. Sherlock flew with him. "John. This is pointless."

John said nothing. They rose higher, higher and higher still, the upper winds beginning to buffet them. Below the lights of London were pinpricks shining though a dark cloth of night. "John." Sherlock's voice sounded somewhat strained. His chest was heaving. "What are you... trying to accomplish?"

John's chest and back were being to burn with the sustained effort but he yawned theatrically. "Oh, you still here? Nothing, really. Just have a fancy to touch the clouds." He gave Sherlock a sideways glance full of provocation. "Still think you can keep up?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened. John went on, "Never got to touch clouds much while I was abroad, you know. Too dry, not many clouds." He waited, let the penny drop. "In Afghanistan."

Sherlock grimaced. "Of course." He was gasping between words. "London. Nearly sea-level. Camp Bastion -"

"Is about a thousand two hundred metres. Patrols near the Chalap Dalam range sometimes took us up to around two thousand five hundred in Helmand province." John let himself drift closer to the struggling Sherlock. Horus, the man was stubborn. Damned if it didn't make John want him all the more. "So if you were worried about my endurance..."

"Oh, shut up," hissed Sherlock. "Fine. Your lung capacity. Superior."

"Ex-smoker," John chided, but gently. "Good thing you quit. Come on." He extended a hand. "Nearly there. I'll help." He held his breath.

The grey eyes flicked from his hand to his face and back. John could see the gears clicking in that marvellous brain. He saw the moment Sherlock made his decision.

~o~

Sherlock's breathing was laboured, to his annoyance. He watched John as they climbed, the puffy lip and bloody scratches, the strong beat of his wings. John had to be as tired as Sherlock, but the effort was carefully concealed. His chest rose and fell steadily in the thin air.

John still held his hand outstretched. It didn't shake, though his eyes were dark with emotion. His throat worked as he swallowed, waiting. As if he would wait forever, as if he had nothing to lose. Utterly foolhardy, maddeningly brave, John offered everything to Sherlock to accept or refuse.

Steady. That was John, Sherlock realised.

The balance of supplication and strength, patience and humour, and challenge cloaked by impudence. Pair-mating with John - there was an edge of danger to it, the lure of the yet-unknown. John would not roll over and idly let Sherlock pick out his liver. He was... the perfect suitor. Ridiculous that he, Sherlock Holmes, had only wanted an Apex Tiercel as a convenience. The universe and Mike Stamford had done him a favour, delivering one ex-Army doctor into the lab at Bart's.

John was Sherlock's, for the choosing. Slowly his arm lifted.

He took John's hand.

John's smile was a complex revelation lighting his face. Sherlock's long fingers slid over the small, warm ones and they clasped each other's wrists. John's pulse beat powerful and steady under his fingertips. John tugged and Sherlock let himself be pulled higher, John's strength bearing him up to the clouds. How odd, he reflected. Decision made, Sherlock flew yet was falling, a curious inner lassitude overcoming him, body warming as apprehension melted. The flight was reaching its conclusion.

Their wings were beating out of time. Sherlock frowned. Inefficient. He couldn't let John drag him like a wind-sock. He squeezed John's wrist. John, who had never taken his eyes from Sherlock's face as he pulled, opened his mouth on a question. Sherlock surged upwards, wrapping his arms around John's torso, hands splayed on the muscled back beneath the grey wings. Strong hands closed on the heated skin of his waist. Better, the dark voice purred within.

"Horus, Sherlock!" John's voice sounded strained. Sherlock leaned away and looked down his nose.

"Touch the clouds, you said. Well?"

John groaned and laughed, head dropped forward. "Do you ever stop wanting everything? No, don't answer that. Hang on, flap when I do." Sherlock's arms tightened, bringing his naked body flush against John's. Oh. Interesting. John's eyes were half-closed in sensation, his growing erection pressing into Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock's insides were liquefying even as he began to harden without volition. Every tandem beat of their wings slid them together, rubbing until Sherlock's skin felt electric.

"That's it," John said in rough voice. "Come on. You great beauty." His fingers dimpled the flesh of Sherlock's waist as he pulled him against his body, encouraging. He began kissing Sherlock's neck, hot presses that bloomed sensation under Sherlock's skin. Their cocks brushed and rubbed, trapped between their bodies. Sherlock's throat contracted, a small noise escaping him. "Yes, that's it, keep going," John murmured, and Sherlock felt the touch of tongue against his jaw.

Sherlock's pulse beat in his ears, insistent. He needed more friction. Hungry, he shifted one arm to grasp John's buttocks and wrapped one leg around his waist. With this leverage he could rub harder, using the rhythm of their wing beats to push himself against John. Oh, yes. John's voice was a heated urging in his ear as Sherlock rocked against him. Something was winding tighter and tighter inside. His breathing quickened until he was panting, head swimming in the thin air. Urgent, he clutched harder and ground himself against John, muscles trembling as they swept higher and higher. John's fingers combed through Sherlock's scapulars where his wings joined his body, cool fingertips against heated skin. Sherlock writhed against him, seeking his climax. "Oh, Horus, Sherlock, that's it, come on!" John said, voice hoarse and the tension snapped. Sherlock's mouth opened and he stiffened, crushing John against him. Oh. Lights sparked against the blackness of his closed lids. His wordless shout hung, oddly muffled in the heavy air.

His lashes lifted and Sherlock blinked, trying to refocus his vision. John was tense and trembling against him, hands roaming over Sherlock's back. Wherever Sherlock's skin didn't rest against John's he was clammy with moisture, beads of water forming and running over his over-heated flesh. Rain?

Sherlock looked around, light-headed. His laugh sounded relaxed, syrupy and drunk with endorphins. A dark pocket of night enclosed them – there was nothing to be seen in any direction. "Clouds."

John's head nodded against him. "Yes. Made it." His voice was tight. "Horus, can I please - " His breath came in harsh bursts of warmth against Sherlock's sensitised skin between frantic presses of his lips wherever he could reach. They were descending in a spiral out of the clouds, both pairs of wings out-flung. "Need you, oh, Horus, I need you. But we've got to get lower, don't want you getting hypoxic – Sherlock, let me, can I?"

Sherlock unwound his leg and slid down, hands trailing over slick flesh until his head was level with John's groin. He hmm'ed in interest at his objective – thick, dusky pink, heavy with arousal. A fine specimen. His to explore. He nuzzled into it, scenting musky sweat and enjoying John's bit-off groan. He essayed a further investigation with long swipe of tongue, followed a swirl at the glans. Satisfactory. He enclosed the tip with his mouth, teasing the small slit. There was a small spurt of salty warmth on his tongue. John's hips twitched and his fingers twined into Sherlock's hair in warning. "Eros save me, enough, Sherlock!" But Sherlock took the blood-warm length once more into his mouth, tongue flattening around the underside. He took a moment to memorise the texture of silky skin over hardness before he drew off, breathing deeply. He cast a wicked look upwards, fingers flexing against John's skin.

"Fly with me?"

"You crack-brained Zenith, flying doesn't come into it. Because you're going to kill me." Fine tremors of arousal were running through John's frame but he was smiling. Sherlock let go and they began to descend. Wings spread, tight muscles relaxing after their strenuous flight, they glided and pirouetted, circling in easy spirals as the lights of London rose to meet them. John dove and flew on his back beneath Sherlock, hands sliding over his torso until his thumbs brushed nipples and flicked them. Sherlock bit his lip at the jolt of sensation. That was nice. He rolled, clasped John's wrist and drew it up to mouth and nip at the thin skin. John's breath shuddered out in a sigh. The embers of desire were kindling in Sherlock's belly once more, his erectile tissue stiffening. Stimulated by his orgasm, there was a gathering wetness in his rear entrance.

John's hand found his growing erection and smoothed up and down it, squeezing gently. Oh, that. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, but he forced them open again. He had no idea what his own expression showed, but John. John looked wrecked, lips red, eyes dark with hunger. The sight twisted Sherlock's desire into a painful knot. He felt a tiny spark of apprehension. It's John, a voice whispered, who promised he would never force you. Your choice. Sherlock took a deep breath, mentally dipped into the dark waters of his seething instinct and drank deeply. He let the fear go.

Sherlock tugged John's wrist, placed a last kiss on the palm. He spoke, the formal words he thought never to speak coming easily. "In flight you have caught me, Tiercel." His anticipation was growing, his lower body loosening. Mate.

John swallowed. "Skyward, you snared me, Zenith. I'm yours." He stroked a hand down Sherlock cheek, over the livid bite mark and into his scapular feathers. "Thank you." His voice was quiet. Then in a quick movement he lifted a wing and rolled to fly over Sherlock. His hands caressed marginal coverts in a warm sweep before settling on Sherlock's shoulders. His wings angled up and back, pressing his the length of his body against Sherlock's. They both groaned at the contact, John's body heat bleeding into Sherlock. "Straighten out a bit," John instructed, voice rough and tight. "Oh, Horus, you've no idea."

Sherlock spread his wings and took them into a shallow gliding dive, the black spread of the Thames sliding away below. His skin was tingling, his body dissolving in need. One of John's arms curved around his waist as he slid a hand between Sherlock's buttock to press a finger to his cloacal opening. "Sweet Eros, you're so wet, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock's mouth opened at the touch, wings fluttering a little as John's finger circled, testing the moisture leaking from him. Oh, this is new. His body instinctively relaxed to the invasion, loosening as the finger pressed within. Oh, Horus, he hadn't realised. It wasn't enough – the drive was taking over. He wanted more. "John, you have to – don't wait, John." His voice was a stranger to him. He spread his legs, offering, demanding.

John pressed his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Great Horus, do you know what you are doing to me?" Sherlock made an annoyed noise deep within his throat. John's erection was sliding in the cleft between his buttocks, utterly maddening. He flapped once, forcing himself upward into it.

"Now," he demanded. "Need you in me. Do it. Mate me."

John's breath huffed a laugh against his skin. "Demanding Zenith." There was a blunt pressure and Sherlock felt himself opening, his body welcoming as the broad head of John's cock slowly pressed him wide. His mouth opened in an oh of relief. Yes, this is what I need. There was a sharp pinch as John forced his way through the initial resistance of his vaginal opening. Sherlock gasped.

John's voice was shaking. "Sherlock. Horus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sensed his lower body relaxing and moistening further to accommodate the intrusion. It was exquisite, the feeling of John's weight upon him, John's erection inside him, anchoring them together. But it was not enough. Sherlock breathed out, "More." John's arms wrapped beneath his wings and across his chest as his hips thrust in tiny shallow movements, easing his way further into Sherlock's body. The multiplicity of sensory signals were driving him mad - the brush of their wings, the caress of cool air and the demanding heat of his mate against his back as he filled Sherlock. He wanted still more, wanted John to ride him until he lost himself. "John!" He flapped again, pushing himself against the pressure and gasping as John sank still further within. The undercurrent of instinct was dragging him under.

"I've got you. Oh, you feel so good, wanted this, want you so much." John's hips twitched against Sherlock's buttocks and stilled. "Ready for more?"

"Yes! Horus's teeth, do I have to do all the work?" Sherlock would end John if he didn't do more.

John choked a snort of laughter. His erection twitched and Sherlock bit back a moan at the tiny shift. "You are such a romantic. Right. Here we go." John's clasp tightened and he angled them both into a deeper dive. The air streamed by, the Thames rising to meet them. Sherlock opened his mouth to shout – protest? exhilaration? he couldn't tell. His heart thrummed in a near-panicked tempo, his pupils dilating. The danger was intoxicating as the surface of the water grew closer, closer yet. John's voice, strained, chanted in his ear, nose buried in whipping black strands. "Now, now, now!"

Sherlock pulled up at the same moment John flared his wings wide, burying himself to the hilt. Sherlock couldn't hold back his shriek at the white-hot sensation, only to cry out again as John beat his wings. Each lift thrust him deep within over and over, rubbing the hidden bundles of nerves. John's hand grasped Sherlock's length as they flew, working him in time with every wing beat, each push of his hips. Pleasure was washing over him, spiralling up as they ascended. John was panting, a stream of invectives and endearments as he forced them faster. "Horus, damn it, I'm close, you beauty, gorgeous, oh please, fly for me!"

The clouds were spinning as they climbed, harder, higher. John, John. His body began tightening, the pleasure stooping for the final strike, a predator finding its victim. He began to shake, wings trembling. "Oh. There, John, there." The touch of John's hand on him, John's cock moving in and out was overwhelming, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. John's arm around his chest tightened and his voice broke on a hoarse shout. There was a burst of warmth as John spilled inside him. It was enough. Sherlock's vaginal muscles tightened one final time and the pleasure crashed into him and ignited his nerve endings. The night air swept his shout from his lips.

John's heart thundered against his back, hot breath panting against his back as he shuddered in reaction. Sherlock gulped air convulsively, internal muscles twitching around John's length in diminishing aftershocks. Their flight steadied into a glide. It was all Sherlock was capable of at the moment. Their infrequent wing beats stabilised and matched. They flew as one. Instinctual synchronicity, Sherlock thought through the haze clouding his mind. The pair-bond was coming into effect. In future, whenever John flew Sherlock this instinct would come into play to facilitate their joining.

He felt a kiss against his spine. "Sherlock. Love. I can't fly much more," John said. Neither could he – as the exhilaration faded. Sherlock was becoming aware of various aches throughout his body.

"All right," he said, unsurprised at the husky tone of his voice.

They both groaned as John withdrew. Sherlock felt liquid warmth between his buttocks, his own natural lubrication and John's ejaculate trickling from his loosened passage. His cloacal opening felt overly sensitised, the ring of muscles twitching as though to draw John back within to fill the emptiness he'd left. Sherlock experienced an irrational pang of loss, a need to demand John mount him again, impregnate him, but he thrust it away. They'd both said they weren't ready for children. Any sperm inside would collect in the host glands near his oviducts, to be released should he wish to fertilise an egg. But that wasn't going to happen. The potential for new life would be allowed to wither within him for the time being. Some instincts could be over-ridden.

John's muscled warmth lifted away from Sherlock's back. He bit back a groan at the loss. A last caress of fingers ran over his buttocks before John dropped to glide beside him. There were smears of blood across his chest from the scratches left by the fight, but John seemed insensible to any pain they must have caused. "Where to, love? I'm serious. You've done me in." His smile was tired but so happy, Sherlock's throat tightened.

"Come on. I know a good roost a fairly easy glide from here," he said, trailing one finger along a grey quill covert. He angled his weary wings.

"This way, John."

~o~

Palace of Westminster, January 31st, 2010

The roost wasn't that comfortable, John thought, but the view was amazing. He sat crowded next to Sherlock, arm around his mate's waist on a limestone balustrade between two decorative ornaments. Sherlock's body against his was still sweat-damp, his temperature running higher than normal as it would throughout his breeding season. John shivered, his own body cooling after its exertions. A white wing lifted to wrap around his shoulders, enclosing him in silky warmth. John sighed in pleasure at the contact. Beyond, the city's lights picked out Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Pinnace and the dark patch of St. James' Park.

"You'd have thought they'd build a better roost for Queen Victoria," John remarked. "Hardly any place to land. Should we be up here, by the way?"

Beside him Sherlock snorted. His bare legs swung like a child's as he looked out over the city. "She was a traditionalist, despite being an Apex Tiercel, and the architects knew her preferences. Flying was not encouraged for the royal feminine gender – decorativeness was. Hence all the Gothic Revival excrescences. Typical glider chauvinism in action." His lips flattened.

"Hey." John rubbed the smooth skin, soothing. "Better times now."

"Somewhat," Sherlock agreed. "But I've always refused to bow down to idiotic social bias, either against my sex or my capabilities."

"Yeah," John replied. He understood what it was like when people wanted to believe he was less intelligent, less able to be a doctor because 'evolution' had supposedly left him behind the Falcons. For Sherlock, the old-fashioned ideas concerning the sex that bore children was yet another set-back. "It must be twice as hard for you, being a certifiable genius. For what it's worth, I think you handle it brilliantly."

Sherlock looked sideways at him. John shifted, settling his bare bottom into a more comfortable position on the stone. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking I was right. Choosing you."

John felt a burst of warmth in his chest but chuckled, squeezing Sherlock's waist. "Smug bastard. But I'm glad you did. You gave me a few bad moments."

Sherlock's head tilted. "A few?"

John's forehead wrinkled. "Yeah. Like, every time you flew off on me? At Baker Heights? Lauriston Crest?" He sighed gustily. "But at least you always came looking for me again."

Sherlock's expression was a picture. John leaned away to look at him more fully. "You mean, you didn't know? You never noticed?

Sherlock shook his head, irritated with himself. "I should have seen it."

John was unable to stop the grin that spread over his face."You're joking. How could you possibly have missed all that? The feeding? The wing flutters you gave me? I mean, I was in Afghanistan for so long I'd nearly forgotten the nuances. What was your excuse?"

John was delighted with the flush climbing from Sherlock's chest up his neck, his high cheek bones flaming. "Oh, shut up. I deleted it."

"Deleted it!" John sniggered. "Deleted courtship! Oh, Horus. Only you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed but softened. "Well, my personality is such that most suitors were deflected even before they ever tried. I never expected..." Sherlock gestured. "This. You."

John grinned. "Thanks. Less competition is fine by me. If anyone bothers you, they'll deal with me. If that's what you want."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Sherlock mused. "Do what I want." He hummed in covetous pleasure at the possibilities.

"Oh, hang on now," John said. "Within reason. There's no need to run off to meet serial killers just because you want to prove to the world you're a strong, independent Zenith."

Sherlock had turned his head and was watching John's lips. "But you'd follow."

John swallowed. "Yes. Always." He wet his lips as Sherlock tilted, head bending towards his. His mouth twitched. "Unless I out-fly you again."

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said, with the weight of a promise, "You can try." Their lips met, a gentle brush that quickly deepened as Sherlock angled his mouth over John's. Long moments passed as John let himself drown in the new sensation of his pair-mate kissing him. It was all open-mouthed explorations, a tongue tracing his wounded bottom lip, small nips and sweet presses. Sherlock's hand was a warm weight cupping his jaw, his wing tightening against John's back to pull him closer. Through half-closed eyes John saw the serious, flushed expression of his mate as he investigated this novel activity as if to see what responses he could wring from John. Brilliant bastard – he learns fast. John felt himself begin to harden again and he groaned into Sherlock's mouth.

A jarring electronic screech made them both start and pull apart. John looked down as Sherlock's mouth widened into a wicked grin. "Busted," said Sherlock. "I wonder if my brother sent them." A police van had stopped on St. George Street and two officers looking at them with wings twitching irritably. One of them held a bullhorn.

"Attention! You two, on the Tower! You are trespassing on governmental property! Please vacate the premises immediately before charges are pressed!"

John's face burned with embarrassment even as he began to giggle. Caught snogging like teenagers on Big Ben – oh, Horus, he hoped this didn't show up on any news feeds. "Shit, we'd better go. Your brother won't thank us for getting off on Parliament."

"Only because he deplores territorial mate claiming outside of one's place of residence and likes to imagine that government is entirely his own area." John shouted with laughter and Sherlock grimaced. "Never mind, I don't want to think of my brother shagging on the House of Commons."

"Delete it," suggested John. "Really? Having sex all over the place to claiming the city as territory? Good one. It'd never hold up in court, though." He shook out his wings, trying to suppress another bubble of mirth. "Still, I've always been fond of London."

Sherlock gathered his legs beneath him, crouching atop the balustrade. "I, as well." He smirked at John. "How about 30 St Mary Axe tomorrow night?"

"The Egg?" John knew the building – a modern ovoid show-piece of architecture in the financial district. A thought occurred to him. "How long is your breeding season?"

"Usually a couple of weeks. With a mate?" Sherlock shrugged his wings. His eyes gleamed. "Lots of time and territory to cover this time round, I'd imagine."

John's grin equalled Sherlock's. "All right. You're on.

"Sirs! This is your second warning!" bellowed the bullhorn.

Sherlock laughed and leapt out, wings spread fully for an extended glide. "Come on, John! The best up-draughts are this way! Past time we went home.

John pushed away, dropped and spread his tired wings joyfully. Home. Baker Heights. Sherlock. All he'd wanted, more than he'd dreamed.

A few strokes and he was even with Sherlock, the tips of their pinions touching as they flew side by side back to their eyrie.

Footnotes:

One of the more playful and aerobatic courtship displays between raptors is when one flies upside-down beneath the other, touching feet. On occasion they will pass food to the other in this fashion.

Beaking or billing - a preening activity where falcons nibble and touch beaks. Courtship behaviour.

Raptors have frequent copulation or shows of copulation all over their territories. There are several reasons - first is a territorial claim, showing any potential encroachers what is theirs. The second reason is for the male to show any rivals that the female is his mate. Lastly is biological imperative.

Main raptor types referenced for this fic:

Sherlock - Gyrfalcon, the largest of the falco family. Snow white with black barring, though rare variants include blacks and browns.

John - Saker falcon. One of the largest of the falcons, grey flight feathers edged with browns, though the balance of colouring may vary.

Lestrade - Merlin. Medium size, nimble, and slate grey in colour.

Jim - Eurasian Hobby. Small, agile, dark slate grey with white specks or bars.

Sally - Eurasian Kestrel. Unusual colouring of reddish-browns with black bars.

A/N - And thus we discover that where John is concerned, Sherlock does indeed give a flying fuck. From such crude wit was this fic born. Thanks, alltoseek!

I actually built two figures with wings from paper and glue and tape and stuck them together to figure the best sex positions. Conclusions: Face to face and clasping each other, they spiralled down like maple seed keys when thrown in the air. For actual sex, one had to lie on the other in a gliding position, wings out, rather like a paper airplane or a Star Wars X-wing fighter. Yes. I did that.

Thank you for reading, and any and all comments are appreciated!