One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Shadows

I didn't consider the idea until about half way through. So I'm gonna dedicate this to MaxMyrene tarame10 and RixsiWolflover who it's now been a year! 

They aren't mentioned. He knows John knows and yet they stay unmentioned and don't get talked about. He knows John saw them that one time, saw how they created shadows in the room he'd been in at the time, their presence bold but unbelieving and yet now it's something as simple as Moriarty pushing him to his knees, grabbing a hand full of black feathers and ripping them from the velvety skin for John to watch with the threat that John won't make it out alive if he tries to fight back so he grins and bears it.

Well I say grin, his mouth Is a tight line to hide the whimpers that escape his lips and his body trembled with undisguised agony, black feathers cakes in dry blood littering the tiles floor around them.

Okay I admit definitely not grinning.

And John has to watch, had to suffer through the second hand  pain of his friend before somehow the sniper was killed with a headshot and moriarty fell forward in a pool of his own crimson horror.

And it was then that John truly saw how much Sherlock's shoulders were truly shaking, how pale his skin was and how those magnificent wings curled in pain trying to tighten against his body and protect him at the same time, like lifting your arm when faced with a blade wielding maniac and gaining more slashes to your forearm than originally intended but at least it's better than your face if you get my gist.

The doctor sank down to his knees in front of him, hands on thin, delicate fragile shoulders trying to gain the attention of the hanging head and dark mop of curls, the eyes that were squeezes shut and the ragged breaths of someone who had tried to retreat to their mind but the pain had ripped them out.

"Come on" John had said so quietly and so gently it was almost misheard, "let's get you home"

And that was the turning point. 'Home' such a simple word, a word hated by some and loved by others. Some use it to describe the house but others thought of it as the people in that area at the time and that wherever they are is where home is and for Sherlock it was John.

But John, John calling it home. Did that mean he thought Sherlock as home, as his safe place despite the danger like a trench on the front line?

And it was later that day that John found himself sat on the couch with Sherlock slouched between his knees, the white blood stained shirt now removed and sat on several pillows and blankets that had been strewn across the living room and a bowl of warm water as he cleaned the bloodied wings and the caked in dirt.

They remain unspoken even though their presence is known and yet johns touch is diligent and also meticulous and kind and never for a second does be press too hard or too little and the water runs off brown from the blood before he catches it and squeezes it out.

The process continues until the wings are clean and make a soft squeaking noise when rubbed over, the owner shaking faintly now from the cold before a blanket is draped over those delicate shoulders and wings and wrapping warmly around him.

They stay unmentioned and the doctor gets up finally and heads to the kitchen, his steps sure but with that underlying hint of hesitance. The uncertainty of what's around the corner and whether it will be something that kills or surprises. Whether it's something he can fight or put his guard down or perhaps maybe it's nothing at all and maybe that's scarier than being prepared. When you prepare for every possible outcome only to be faced with silence. That's definitely worse.

And tea is made, slowly, one sugar in the cup on the left and two on the right, a teabag in each and hot water poured over both, the soft water running in the cup almost comforting after any event. And I mean any event, house on fire to being strapped to a bomb. It really covers quite a clearance and John never grows bored of it.

And then just as it reaches that beautiful mahogany colour he'll add just a splash of milk, maybe not even a tablespoon and check the colour is just right before removing the tea bag and into the tea bin. One final stir, a tap in the rim and then held between steady hands as the mugs are carried to the living room, cold hands meeting warm as they wrap around uncertainly, the heat slowly running up his arms and removing the goosebumps.

Yes they remain unspoken and they don't talk about it.

Perhaps the wings are a metaphor for something else, just an idea. Perhaps they really are just wings...