a short response to a prompt: Sherlock eats, he just doesn’t eat where anyone can see him. This is because he’s noticed …peculiar reactions from people who watch him eating. Or hear him eating.
He truly doesn’t understand why. Is it his fault he enjoys food that much, or is everyone except him a slave to rampant hormonal impulse?
(And then there was the night John made the risotto.)
Just think about the initials there…
John was the most beautiful bird Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock wondered why this was, exactly. John was a sparrow, and as such should have been completely ordinary in every respect. Nothing anyone would look at twice. His plumage was not particularly showy, but it suited him well.
Nor was John a perfect specimen of the species Passer domesticus. He canted ever so slightly to the left when he flew, and sometimes when he extended his wings fully after he’d been flying for an uninterrupted period of time there was a slight trembling in his small frame which no-one but Sherlock would have noticed. It wasn’t very difficult for John to keep up with Sherlock, for all he tired easily in his new body (though he never would have admitted it) and Sherlock insisted they land once on the way back to Baker Street. Although this was mostly so Sherlock could test his hunting abilities (excellent: two finches and a starling, and all without exerting himself unduly) he didn’t doubt John appreciated the chance to rest.
laughed so hard when i first read that excerpt, but it’s a surprisingly wonderful and enjoyable read. the only thing that disappointed me in the fic was Anderson being a seagull without a tendency to shout “MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE”. i hope she writes a sequel.
also, i am now convinced that the Sherlock fandom subsists entirely on crack and cocaine. or just daily intravenous shots of tumblr.
