Chapter 7

The Raven's Nest is the most luxurious of Welcoming Halls in London. Only the richest clans can afford to hold gatherings here, so of course this is where Sherlock's Naming Ceremony is being held.

John Watson is looking up at the old building in question holding Sherlock to his chest. The grey stone regal looking place is covered in angelic figures. If it was a human building the figures would be mistaken for angels, but they are without halos. These are winged-folk. The hand carved stone figures are looking down with awed expressions, arms open wide and spread wings. They were created by the masters of art at the time, you can see each feather on the wings. Truly beautiful. July's warm sun rays are warming them, raining light on this special day, making the whole place seem unreal and magical.

Sherlock whines snapping John from his musings. His little-one is tugging at his robes for the umpteenth time. He hates them with a passion. John is sure the battle of "Putting The Robes On" will be a nightmare he'll relive for a lifetime.

Grasping a tiny fist John carefully uncurls Sherlock's tiny fingers from golden satin.

"Sweetness you mustn't," John mumbles placing a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead, hoping to smooth his sad little-one.

"Yucky! Want off! Not girl! Am boy!"

Sherlock's lower lip trembles and tears start welling up in his ever-changing eyes.

"Oh, darling. I know. This isn't a dress. Remember what I told you," John says wiping a thumb under Sherlock's tearful eyes.

"Is to! Hate it! Off!"

Indeed the naming-robes mirror that of a dress, there's nothing John can do to comfort his little-one he must wear the robes until the naming ceremony is over.

At that moment the heavy wooden door to Raven's Nest opens and a winged-man looking very much like someone stepping out of the pages of a history book emerges. Seeming to be more in place from the 19th century than modern times. He appears to be in his late forties with salt and pepper hair sleeked back. His wings are shadowy-black back-lighting his slim tall frame.

"Dr Watson," the winged-man states. Uttering it as fact without a hint of doubt.

"Yes," John answers taking a small step forward.

Sherlock presses his face under John's chin. Hiding. His fluffy wings sagging. (He's not keen on strangers.) John holds his little-one tighter hoping to reassure his sweet little winged-boy.

"Follow me sir," the winged-man orders, turning to hold the door open. Clearly awaiting John to cross the threshold.

Sherlock trembles more so.

"It's us against the world Sherlock," John whispers in a tiny ear. The trembling stops, Sherlock holds onto John tighter. John walks forwards.

Raven's Nest is like something from times long gone. All fanciful and wealth at every which way you look. Shiney white marble flooring with grey vines flowing through the stone under foot, crystal chandeliers hanging from the super high ceilings, art from all decades line the walls. The Welcoming Hall is huge. The building is basically one room, hense the name 'Welcoming Hall' rows of wooden carved seating spirals round upwards along the walls, with no way anyone without wings could reach without the aid of climbing gear. All of which are empty for the time being.

John is certain the richer someone is the more crazy their taste becomes. Everything clashes. He has always been a beans on toast kind of guy, he sees no reason for all this richness oozing from every pole.

The winged-man leads John to a small raised stage in the centre of the hall. In the centre is a circular table made from white marble with golden satin pillows covering its surface.

"Place the child there and stand beside him Dr Watson. The others will be entering shortly," the winged-man informed John in clipped tones before turning on his heel and taking his leave.

John graviates to the tables and with the upmost care unwraps Sherlock from his hiding place. Once Sherlock is seated on the pillows he whimpers lifting his arms up and making grabby hands towards John.

"Shhh...sweet one. I'm not leaving you. Sit here and be the brave boy I know you are," John whispers pressing a kiss to Sherlock's dark curls.


John hushes some more and runs his fingers through his little-one's locks.

Sniffing, Sherlock promptly pops his right thumb into his month sucking fiercely. His eyes wide and fearful. John rests a hand on Sherlock's back hoping to comfort.

In no time the hall is next to bursting, winged-folk flying up to their seats, talking amongst themselves, greeting one another and whatnot. No one taking any real interest in Sherlock. John knows that winged-folk have no desire to coo over an infant of any child winged or human alike but still, John doesn't like it. He wants his little-one to be adored by all.

Somehow a winged-man appears before John as if from nowhere, no sound was heard, this shocks John. He was in the army, he knows when someone walks up to him it's second nature. So way hadn't he heard this winged-man's appearance? Shaking himself John rakes his eyes over this enigma. He's tall and slim with an air of importance rolling from him. A costly and most likely designer suit is draped over his slim frame. Deep chestnest hair is cut short to his skull, his wings are deep brown with a touch of red wherever the light shines across the silky feathers, deep brown eyes with great warmth shine with tenderness and intelligence. They dance across John, collecting all information from him. The winged-man's checkbones are sharp and high beneath oval eyes. What strikes John the most are his lips, they have a natural pout and cupid's bow. Identical to Sherlocks. A smile alights the winged-man's face and it mirrors Sherlock's.

"Greetings, I'm Siger Holmes. As you have correctly deduced I'm this one's father, Dr Watson."

Trying to sort out his racing mind John has one question blinking behind his eyelids. Will Sherlock grow-up to look anything like the winged-man before him? Sherlock's hair is darker and his eyes are a most unqiue colour which changes with his moods that are so unlike Siger Holmes. As John's mind is on that line of thought a winged-woman floats down.

"Hello Dr Watson. I'm Violet Holmes, Siger's mate and mother to this child," the winged-woman says with a hearty smile.

She to is slim, tall but not as much as Siger, reaching his shoulders. Her long hair is jet black hanging freely with a gentle wave in it's locks, she has a natural beauty, jet black graceful wings hug her back, blue-green-grey eyes shine into John's matching Sherlock's own, hardly any make-up dusting her features, a royal blue dress hugs her curves just so.

Clearing his throat John finds his voice "Nice to meet you both."

The Naming Ceremony is so unlike anything a human ceremony would entale for a child. So formal and unattached. Most of those who've come to witness Sherlock's entry to the Holmes Clan are blood relations. Most are Holmes, others not, those who don't share blood are tied to the clan in one form or another. They're here more to state they were there than any emotional reasons. Winged-folk are unlike humans in this regrad. So cold to their children until they reach adulthood. So strange in a human viewpoint.

"What's this one's name Dr Watson?" asks Siger.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

That's about it. After a speech from Siger with Violet standing beside her mate eyes scanning the crowd. Sherlock is a member of the Holmes Clan. An applause echoing the hall rings through John's eardrums.

Siger turns to face John.

"Those are fitting names for this one, you have done well as a Chosen Dr Watson I knew Major Sholto was right about you."

John is shocked to his core. Major J. Sholto had taught John all he knew to be a solider and so much more. He wasn't just he superior but a fast friend. A winged-man who had seen to place John under his wing.

"We have a joint friend doctor. He told me all about your warm heart and moral compass. You have a strong moral code that will do the Holmes Clan well. As this one is my offspring he'll become a future leader as one of the inner circle and pass on any knowledge to the next generation."

John blinks in stunned silence.

"Come now Dr Watson, we take great pains to pick our Chosen. I knew once I heard about you if you ever returned to England that an egg was in order. My mate fastly agreed."

Violet nods in agreement.

"You mean. You planned another child because you wanted me to raise them?"

"Yes doctor."

John could be knocked over with a feather.

Returning to 221B with an extremely fussy Sherlock John is delighted in seeing Mrs Hudson's handywork. Streamers of gold and cream are hanging from the ceilings, a gold banner with Sherlock's full name on is pinned above the fireplace hanging over the mirror, on the kicthen table is a white cake with golden bees directing the treat and a pile of gifts in varying wrappings are before the fireplace awaiting Sherlock.

She had insisted on throwing together a party for Sherlock's special day. She loves to spoil Sherlock just as much as John himself. Although John had his doubts if Sherlock would enjoy a party. His shy nature means he has always shown displeasure of any form of crowds. As John looks round 221B at the small gathering of friends with a highly strung Sherlock in his arms John's fears are awakened. Sherlock opens his wee mouth and screams bloody murder. Fat tears running down his beautiful face. The poor lad has had a stressful day.

"I'm so sorry," John mumbles, jogging to Sherlock's room, not sure who he is apologising to.

Changing Sherlock into a pair of deep blue jeans and t-shirt with a red dragon sitting square centre of the boy's chest, has calmed him some. He's lying on his back on his nest with John rolling on some socks with a doughnut pattern, Bumble has found it's way into Sherlock's arms who's sucking on one of the bee's white wings.

"How you feeling sweet one?" John asks worry choking him.

Sherlock's stormy eyes meet John's navy blues.

"Awww...come on sweetness, don't be sad. Can you give me a smile?"

Sherlock shakes his head still somehow managing to keep Bumble's wing firmly in place.

Placing his lttle-one's foot on his nest John ponders on what can cheer his lad. An idea pings a light like a lightning bolt bathing light within John's mind.

"Not even a little one?"

Popping Bumble's wing free Sherlock snaps a fast "No!" at John then latching on the wing once more.

"Not even if I...tickle you?!" John sings as he reaches his hands towards Sherlock.

Sherlock squims and wiggles as John's fingers find his little-one's ribs, merciless on his mission.

"Jawn! Stop. Tickles," giggles Sherlock, his breathless laughter dancing on the air.

After a moment of endless tickling which never fails to lighten Sherlock's moods John lefts Sherlock into his arms hugging his winged-toddler.

"Want to open some presents little-one?"

Sherlock looks at his closed bedroom door with disgust and once again he's sucking Bumble's wing.

"I know there's a good number of people here today Sherlock and I know you've had enough of a hard day already. I promise it'll only last a little longer, then it'll just be us. Okay?"

" 'omise?"

"I promise," John answers with a soft kiss to his curls.

Sherlock is clearing thinking then queries "What are prezentz?"

A warm smile dances on John's face.

"Why don't we find out?"

Sherlock nods.

John heads to the door, with a hand on the handle John asks his boy "Into battle?"


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