#winglock

Second Halloween idea for Driftwing!

🗡️🧚🏻‍♀️Wing!! Wanna draw some short story comic for this AU, hopefully i could finish that in this this year!!

Deadlock and Megatron could work. Exploring how he got sucked into the decepticons and really working out his earlier motivations. Leaning on Megatron singling him out and using all of Deadlock’s anger to really turn him to the cause. Could also be them on the Lost Light instead, after everything is over and they try to become better together despite everything.

Could also do him and Perceptor, since Drift is the reason he starts turning his frame into something more combat oriented, alongside believing he owes a debt to Drift. Being in the first group of autobots he meets after leaving the decepticons, there could definitely be an exploration of guilt and changing yourself and interacting with people you’ve hurt before there.

Cat Hybrid

Sherlock sighed happily as he released his tail and ears from their bindings. He normally had to keep them hidden, not wanting anyone else to know he was a hybrid. But right now, John was on a date and Mrs. Hudson was visiting her family. He had the flat to himself for a few hours and he wanted to enjoy it. He took out his contacts that hid his cat like eyes and went back to the sitting room. He sighed contentedly and purred softly as he laid down in a warm patch of sun and closed his eyes, not paying attention as the door opened and closed.

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John, I have ears! SH

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Shapeshifter

John had brought home another girlfriend. Sherlock hated this. The shapeshifter normally just glared at the women and then ignored John for the rest of the night, refusing to talk to him. But tonight was different. Tonight, John had brought home a woman who was determined to make Sherlock like her. He currently hid under John's chair in cat form while the woman tried to coax him out. Finally, he darted out and plopped himself onto John's lap, which the woman took as encouragement and tried to pet him. He'd finally had enough and swatted at her with his paw.

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Wings

phoenix27884 shared a post: Angels. John can’t fly anymore but it’s okay. He’s got his Sherlock.

Hi my lovely Steph, how are you doing? I hope you're well 😘. I'm searching for a fic and I can't remember the title. Maybe you could help me find it? John and Sherlock have wings but John lost one because of his war wound. Sherlock's mother and Mycroft don't want him as a boyfriend for Sherlock because he can't protect him while flying. Sherlock and John are at a party at Holmes when a couple of rude guests are attacking Sherlock and John rushing to help him. They give Sherlock a surge so that his wings unfold and when John wants to help him he gets one too. When that happens, not only one wing unfolds but two. The wing has grown back with special feathers without John noticing. I'd love to read this fic again, but I can't find it anymore. Do you have any idea which one it is? Thank you so much for your help and all your amazing fic recs!

Hey Lovely!!

AHHH As I mentioned, I wish I knew which fic this is, because I LOVE winglock fics and I need to know which one this is too!!

A JohnLock ficlet by Ineffableuser

Read this on AO3

The first time was fast, way too fast. John had only had a few instants to gawk at the two enchanting works of art that were Sherlock’s wings before everything had gone on.

They had started chasing the taxi on foot, quickly leaving Angelo’s restaurant behind and diving into the labyrinth of Sherlock’s beloved London. They had sprinted through the streets and the alleys, doing their best to keep up to the vehicle, but soon it had become quite clear that it wasn’t going to be enough.

“We’re losing him!” Sherlock had cried out, and in less than a moment he was leaping on a nearby dumpster as his wings appeared from beneath his coat.

It had been a mere second. John would be lying if he said that he remembered every detail of that quick, messy, marvellous second, but he definitely remembered his impression of it: long, thin and disheveled feathers pointing everywhere, oh so dark. So much that, paired with his black coat, trousers and hair and the nearby street light halo that hovered over him, Sherlock looked as if he were a fallen angel attempting to reach the heights of Heaven once again.

What was he compared to that? He had found himself wondering later that night. A pigeon, he had thought at first, half joking. A pigeon with a bloody clipped wing. But no, he had corrected himself: even if he wasn’t an angel, he was still devoted to his cause and willing to fight by his side. He was a soldier.

After a few small, barely visible feathers had scattered through the air as Sherlock soared fast above him, his adrenaline had overcome whatever had been going on in that blasted brain of his. He had followed his motions, even though while gripping the edge of the garbage can; wings or not, he was not that agile. Golden-ish brown wings had made their way from below his jacket, fully spreading for the first time in several months. His wings were quite different from Sherlock’s: less long and classy, with thicker and shorter feathers, not even groomed. A mess, just like he was.

Before he could process what was happening he had found himself following Sherlock in the air, the evening breeze bringing goosebumps on his skin as a contrast to the blood pumping at an ungodly speed through his veins. Oh, he had missed that.

He only saw them a few times after that, mostly while they were chasing criminals and such. Sherlock did most of the flying, honestly: even after that night, John had found it hard to spread his wings even to simply groom them, let alone to fly. They only seemed to work in situations of great danger or necessity.

Every time he looked at his partner’s wings, though, he would notice something new. For example, at a certain point he found out that they weren’t black as he had thought at first: they were ebony at the roots, yes, but the first time he saw them in daylight he perfectly noticed the lighter brown shades in the tips.

He had also been delighted to notice that, as the months passed since they had moved in together, his feathers had grown thicker and healthier, even shinier. He allowed himself to think that it might have been at least partially because of his presence.

As time passed, he admitted to himself that he had grown to love those wings. Come on, who wouldn’t? Even when seen from far away they looked so enticing, all dark and mysterious, then, once you get a closer look, you can see all the beauty that remains hidden when they aren’t spread for the world to see. They were special. Somehow, being allowed to see them as clearly as he did made him feel a bit special too. Who else had the privilege to see them as they truly were?

He indulged in that question more than he should have.

“Stay exactly were you are.”

No. That couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

He was probably still in a coma after he had got shot. None of that was happening. It couldn’t be.

“Please, can you do this for me?

Sherlock’s voice was shaking, not only because of John’s shaky grip on the mobile. Oh, that was not happening.

“No, now you do this for me!” He heard himself shout. His voice was firm, but his nose stung and his eyes were burning.

Sherlock flinched slightly- he thinks. It was hard to say from that distance.

“No, you- you listen to me, Sherlock. Where you’re standing, that’s not a dangerous place. You fly better than a lot of people I know, you could easily land safely on the ground, so please. Please. Just spread your wings, Sherlock, let’s get this over with. Just come down.”

For a few atrocious seconds, the only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat, somehow louder than the rest of the street. Then it all happened.

“Goodbye, John.”

The sound of the phone hitting the ground resonated in his ears. Sherlock opened his arms, not a trace of the wings, not a single feather to be seen. Then he unbalanced himself.

Everything went on so fast. Sherlock was falling. John’s body filled with a sharp pain, starting from his chest like a stab wound, then quickly spreading from head to toe to the tip of his wings, that quickly sprung out of his back. It was atrocious. And he wasn’t going to stand it any longer.

Sherlock fell. John took off.

His wings were stiff and messier than ever. A trail of small detached feathers accumulated on the road as he made his way up to meet the detective midair. He didn’t notice any of these things, though: the flight was short and his priorities sorted.

They met in the middle. John almost crashed into him, but he managed to stop himself a bit before reaching Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him as hard as he could and flapping his wings towards the ground to keep them in the air. The thing about wings, though, is that they aren’t made for two.

In the few seconds before the impact, they looked at each other. A stream of tears hit his face, mixing with his own, then flowing into the air above. Struggling to hold his partner close and not letting go, the time was too little for him to notice the blue stain below them, growing bigger and bigger until the moment of impact.

“What the…”

John only had a moment to process things before they started moving. They had landed on a bloody airbag. Oh, the massive…

A dozen of people ran towards them as Sherlock swiftly got up and told them: “Lovers of Modena is go, come on.”

Lovers of what now? Oh, the man had some serious explaining to do.

The environment was still spinning a bit, but he managed to raise to his feet as some of the people carried the airbag away.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” He asked, starting to fold his wings back in.

“Don’t,” he stopped him, “you’re going to need them.”

“What do you me- hey! Back off!” He exclaimed to some bloke who had started spraying some kind of red paint on his wings.

“Let him,” Sherlock advised as a woman started to put some of what he figured out was fake blood on his forehead.

He did as he was told, but he could feel the crippling confusion start to boil in his chest, slowly becoming something more aggressive. Was that what he had been planning to do? Fake it all? Was he not going to tell him? No, it couldn’t be.

“Hug me,” he thought he heard at a certain point.

“I’m sorry?”

“Hold me like you did while we were falling.” That sentence brought a strange sensation in his chest, something that shouldn’t have been there. Something soft and sweet that were forming both in his chest and behind his eyes, but it only lasted for a moment.

“We’ll lay on the ground long enough for people to see us,” Sherlock hesitated, his arms already extending towards him.

“They have to see me dead, John. Now, they’ll have to see you too.”

He was starting to understand. Not everything, but he knew better than not to listen to Sherlock in such a situation.

He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him, holding him as if he were still falling, still about to die, but he wasn’t. He was safe. He was all right. They started to lay down.

“Wait, I have an idea,” he said, wrapping one of his wings around him then letting themselves gently fall on it.

The, uhm, assistants poured some other fake blood on the ground around them, then surrounded them and started acting as they had probably rehearsed, faking shock and panic, quickly attracting the attention of others, but John didn’t pay attention to any of that.

He kept trying to focus on staying as still as he could and not getting distracted by Sherlock’s heartbeat right below his hear-which, by the way, was bloody racing, much like his own.

Minutes passed, and he couldn’t stop himself from whispering: “Moriarty?”

“Dead.” It was barely audible, but that single word managed to release an incredible amount of tension. It was over. Finally.

He let himself relax on Sherlock’s body, who clearly became less tense as well, and maybe, just maybe, his heartbeat slowed down a bit.

Wahoo! I did it-

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