Alternative Solutions (My first Steampunk)

"There's GOT to be a way around it," Sherlock raged softly from his corner of the flat, lifting his magnifying goggles away from his eyes to rest in a tangled black nest of curls. The tiny chart of the underground facility stared elusively back at him, its secrets no less divulged than they had been an hour ago. "But there's nothing for it," Sherlock sunk into a state of lamentation in his armchair, legs outstretched until his saddle-print boots nearly intruded on John's personal space.

"The bases are air-tight, not even Mycroft could sneak someone into one of them. They've got double and triple backups on everything, a checkpoint every three yards. There's no way in and no way out without being privy to the fifty-digit sequence of a puzzle that only their approved pilots have memorized."

John looked up over his bulky newspaper, one eyebrow quirked.

"Not that I couldn't easily memorize it, of course," Sherlock snapped hastily as he glanced at his fobwatch for a split second, "But the pilots are trained to self-destruct before they give it away to an enemy." He sighed and reviewed the flight paths he'd drawn over the maps strewn over the walls of the flat, one covering the substantial miniature cannonball hole which had been turned into the head of a Nemubian-charcoal stick figure some time ago.

After a long period of study and what seemed like an even longer sigh, Sherlock turned back to John with a devious glimmer in his eye that sent a shiver down the poor medic's spine. "There's nothing for it," the detective decreed again, "If we're to stow away on one of the OrbWeaver's airships, it'll have to be from the air."

John sipped his tea and chuckled. "Yes, good luck sneaking up on an airship in another airship."

Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. "One of these days you'll stop underestimating me." He ran to his desk and withdrew his drafting scroll and quill, making a quick sketch of a person. "Of course in order to pass undetected, I'll have to travel by a different means of flight. One which will be able to power just myself, without having a fifty foot slab of metal." After more scribbling, he brought the scroll over to show to John. The person had gained an intricate piece of cogsmithing attached to his back. "I'm going to need wings, John."

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Molly lifted her head wearily from the leg she was working on, wheeling dizzily for a moment before remembering to remove the magnifying goggles from her head. As useful as Sherlock's invention was for tinkerers and scientists such as herself, they could take some getting used to. Well worth the effort, if it meant freeing up both hands to work with, and no precious table space claimed by glass-holding stands. Molly had to admit to herself that she might have an easier time if she used the same magnification in both eyes, but this way saved that extra second of flipping between two commonly-used settings.

Speaking of her favourite tinkerer-turned-detective, Sherlock chose just that moment to burst through the doors of her workspace, all slick black leather and glinting silver chains. Impeccably dressed as always, the prosthetics artist had to keep herself from murmuring out loud. His recently-acquired partner in crime, one John Watson, MD, hustled in behind Sherlock in a perfectly cosy-looking sweatervest and corduroy spats. He still always looked around her shop in awe at the dozens of mechanical approximations of human limbs hanging from the walls in various states of completion, but at least this time the good doctor had managed to keep his jaw from falling slack again.

"Molly, my dear, I do hope you're not working on anything important," Sherlock purred as he removed his gloves and shoved them into a pocket of his oversized leather coat.

Molly took another look at the leg she'd been toiling over for the past seven hours. This customer wasn't expecting his repairs to be finished for three days; she had plenty of time and desperately needed a break. "Yeah, no, not especially so, not..." She trailed off as Sherlock had already reached into his coat and was withdrawing a large glass jar.

"Perfect. I've brought you a present and a challenge all wrapped in one, if you think you're up for it. With your specific skillset and knowledge, I couldn't think of anyone more qualified to help with such revolutionary work." He set the glass jar on the table for Molly to see. A small black object on the bottom of the jar spread its wings and made an awful squeaking hiss, baring its little fangs at her. Trying not to contort her face in revulsion, she looked back up to see Sherlock beaming proudly at her. "Mrs. Hudson let me into the attic, there's a whole little colony of them up there! You see, Molly, whenever humans try to replicate the wings of birds, they do so with giant, stiff planks of metal, soaring and slicing through the air as a great bird of prey might do."

Sherlock pulled one glove back on, a thicker brown leather work glove, and reached carefully into the jar. The terrified bat bit viciously at his fingers, but found his efforts were useless. Giant fingers delicately curled around his body, pinning one wing to his side as the thumb guarded his head. His piteous squeaks had no appeal to the gentler nature of these giants, who pulled him out into the blinding light. Sherlock nudged a thumb under the bat's other wing and carefully pulled it out into an extended position for better inspection. "Fascinating, isn't it?" He crooned gently above the frightened creature, which seemed no more calm for it.

"Er... yeah, I mean, it's just like fingers, really..." Molly re-donned her goggles and bent in close for a look. "I don't see what's so difficult about it, now that you mention it. The hardest part will be finding the right fabric for the membrane." She gently ran a fingertip over the bat's stretched skin, marvelling at its elasticity. The bat screeched at her, but she'd already learned to ignore it. "See how it connects all the way down his body? That'll be important for air support."

Sherlock smiled and gently released the bat back into its jar. For its cooperation, the colony would be rewarded with a large pile of insectoid treats the next night. "So you'll do it, then." Sherlock was nearly vibrating with excited energy, and John couldn't help but grin at the sight of him worked up over something so constructive and not-murder.

Molly nodded and retrieved her measuring tape from her workbench. "Hold out your arms? I'll get some measurements to work off of." Sherlock cooperated beautifully as Molly meticulously collected the lengths and widths of each arm and finger, then around his chest and waist. She stored the tape and her notes back in the drawer of her bench, already distracted with ideas and calculations. "I'll be out to get materials the next few days, but then I'll be in touch. And er... Sherlock?" She wrung her hands as he loomed over her. "How much do you weigh?"

"Seventy two and a half kilos, but I can always decrease that if need be." John winced, already painfully aware of Sherlock's abysmal eating habits and the prominent ribs he'd glimpsed while patching up a scrape along the detective's chest. Before the medic could protest, however, the two of them were already sweeping out to leave Molly in peace. The buggy-ride back to the flat was perpetuated by Sherlock's speculations about how the new invention might work. John rolled his eyes and hoped that this whole idea wasn't nearly as dangerous as it sounded. But of course it was.

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The next four days were hell. Sherlock was constantly on the wire with Molly, discussing parameters and specifications while John tried hopelessly to concentrate on more mundane things, like jam and news and rent. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime waiting, Molly was ready. They met her at Bart's promptly- Sherlock with a gleaming grin of excitement, John with a frown of trepidation. The detective burst into the lab and Molly greeted him with the biggest smile John had ever seen on her. She sidestepped her workbench to reveal the fruits of her labour. A mechanical monstrosity lay across it, nearly reaching end to end even in its folded, collapsed state. She ran Sherlock through the specs, pointing out the rivets on each joint, the spring-loaded shoulder pack (they would have to calibrate it to his range of motion), and the slightly extendable tips to each copper finger. After a quick run-through, she bundled it up in the canvas it was lying on, and led them out of the lab.

"I had to get the fabric specially ordered from the seamstress down the street," Molly bragged softly, "She's been weaving day and night, says she might market the stuff to the circus coming to town next week." She led them through double doors and down a hallway that hadn't seen use in months.

"Erm, Molly," John called from the back of the line, "Where are we going?"

"The roof, of course."

John blanched. Never mind his own fear of heights, at the moment he was more concerned for Sherlock's safety. "Don't you think you should... I dunno, do a ground test or something before you go throwing your best customer off a bloody building?!?"

Molly turned and shot him a look over her shoulder as they entered a tiny, steep staircase. "John, there's no way to get him into the air from the ground. The wings are capable of producing lift, but not THAT much." They climbed to the final landing, and Molly pushed open the old door to the roof. Its hinges protested loudly from years of misuse. The three stepped out onto the gravel-covered flat roof. John shivered as Molly and Sherlock's hair blew about in the strong breeze coming in from the Northwest.

Molly spent the next ten minutes teaching Sherlock how to strap himself into the apparatus. Each arm was belted tightly into the spring-loaded support rods, one along the shoulder and one along the forearm, jointed with a firm pulley at the elbow. Each finger slipped into a motion-sensitive pad-tipped glove which tugged on sensitive little cables controlling the fingers of each wing. The resilient, iridescent material stretched between the tips of each elongated, copper finger, and halfway down each of Sherlock's thighs, snapped in along the length of his body. John hadn't noticed the modifications Sherlock had made to his clothing, as the innovator had hidden it beneath his coat. The two scientists struggled against the wind as it caught at the membrane, tugging the apparatus away from their grip as they clamped it down into place.

Molly stepped back to admire her work as Sherlock raised his arms, fingers spread effortlessly with the aid of the tension-tripped springs and pulleys. The membrane stretched and billowed in the wind, nearly pulling the detective backwards a step or two. John caught and steadied him before he could get any nearer to the ledge. Molly stood behind him, shielded from the wind, as she adjusted the range of motion on the up-beat spring apparatus. Sherlock reached as far back as was comfortable to provide a reference. When she was done, he indulged himself in a firm, rapid closure of the new wings, just barely grazing John's head as the old medic ducked for his life.

A few more test-flaps brought Sherlock's anticipation to a boiling point, and he took a few steps up to the ledge. For just a moment more, he stood and savoured the elevated view of the city, with its charming little steam-stacks popping up here and there, and the huge airship positioned over the palace. Then, with only an excited glance back at his colleagues, he took a leap of faith.

With a soft cry, John turned and ran to the staircase, sprinting his way down to the ground floor. He nearly stumbled on the curb during his mad dash out into the streets, the buggies (both horsed and horseless) surrounding him on either side. Head thrown back to watch the sky, John tried to keep himself both positioned below the dark shadow gliding along Gitspur street and out from beneath the wheels of oncoming traffic. "Sherlock!" The frantic medic backpedalled as he tried to catch his friend's attention, pointing down a side alley where there would be enough empty space to make a safe landing.

With the slightest tilt of his wings, Sherlock turned down Cock lane and made a swift descent, finally attempting a few flaps as he neared the ground. The stroke-assistance assembly worked beautifully, and the motion appeared effortless. Without the practice required to manoeuvre such a landing, the aerial lift went horribly wrong and only worked to propel Sherlock toward the ground a little faster. John tried to catch his breath as it was knocked out of him by a huge, gangly fledgling barrelling into him at full speed. The two remained tangled on the sidewalk for a minute, laughing and gasping and recovering from the burst of adrenaline and endorphins.

John carefully extricated himself from beneath the mess of gears, rods, and detective, pulling himself to his feet with the help of a street sign. Sherlock flailed against the ground for a bit, but with his hands impeded by the apparatus, he needed John's assistance to make it to a standing position. He stretched the wings out to either side, inspecting for damage, and retracted the tips for easier mobility upon satisfaction of their durability. John turned and waved up at Molly on the rooftop, who jumped with glee and hurried to the staircase. The two met her back in her lab, and spent the rest of the day doing more practice jumps.

By the time the sun was sinking below the huge mechanisms of the Big Ben tower, Sherlock had mastered his aerial manoeuvrability and could gain several hundred feet of altitude nearly straight up without tiring himself. After a graceful landing back on the roof, Sherlock sighed happily as John helped him unstrap himself from the support rods. "I'm ready," he told him softly as the last winds of the day died down, "Tomorrow I'll scout out the area surrounding the OrbWeaver base for a good jumping site."
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Sherlock and John crouched behind the large steam vent on the rooftop of the canvas factory neighbouring the airship base. The slow-moving vehicle laboured its way into the sky, burdened with cargo that Sherlock was determined to uncover, and if possible, collect samples of. Sherlock kept fidgeting with the finger extensions, clicking and clacking softly as John kept watch on the base with the telescopic setting of Sherlock's goggles. The two waited patiently until the last of the airbase operatives had returned inside, and Sherlock took to the air. He'd trimmed down his attire to something more aerodynamic, a sleek leather bodysuit fitted with only the snaps for the wings and a close-fitting shoulder belt covered in small pockets.

John watched him with a pang of jealousy as Sherlock quickly caught up to the airship, the great black beast in the sky dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the OrbWeaver's cargo blimp. He landed on the top of the inflated infrastructure, making quick work of storing the folded wings in a strap along his back. John could just barely make out as the lithe form prised open an access panel and slid his way in. The weary veteran slid his way down the emergency ladder on the side of the factory and began making his way to their pre-arranged landing site. He only hoped that all this effort would be worth whatever results Sherlock may find.