His heart is perfunctory.
His heart is empty.
Blood still runs through it. Its muscles still move of their own volition. He never cared enough to try and control it. But it is an alien to him. A foreign thing trapped in the dark underground, lurching through high waves and soundless wind in a blur of days, never knowing when it might have light shine upon it, never knowing if it will feel fresh air pass over it so it lies in stale dormancy. Heknows how it works, knows what nerves and thousands of years of biology and hardwired evolution have layered upon each other to create.
But he does not understand.
It is pointless. It has a function, which it performs perfectly. It keeps him alive.
Yet it makes him hurt. A deep pain shudders through him at night, somewhere in his body that is not moulded of sinewy muscle or thick blood. Somewhere hollow and cold and it hurts, it hurts so much. A cold splinter digging its way into him with every breath, sharp ends slicing off and spreading. One night he'd lie there and it would hurt in every inch of his body, it would consume him, it would crystallise him like ice.
If he was any form of religious, he would say it hurt in his soul.
His soul. Little bits of morality and humanity that build together to create something that makes him unique. A special little snowflake.
He wondered how many things he could delete before striking out his soul entirely. First patience, then sympathy, then politeness, then kindness… (Fa1 then Fa2 then Fa3, etc. until the conditional is negated)
Math; so practical. He'd never delete that. It was organisation at its finest.
It was not enough, though. Formulas, equations, paradoxes…nothing could fill the silent stillness of his flat. His home, his cave, his palace. So empty. So unloved.
He tried not to be there too often.
Tonight was no exception.
Art thieves were the more careless breed of robbers. They figure no one ever misses an old piece of Grecian pottery or a lesser painting. How pedantic.
There is a storm over London, just as there is seemingly every night lately. Rain is no stranger here.
His heels catch the edge of a puddle as he bolts through an alleyway almost a block from where he suspects the thieves are hiding. Lestrade had asked him to wait until they got a warrant but that was the beauty of vigilantes; they could circumvent the law. Not that Sherlock was looking into trading his coat for tights.
Lightning cracks through the sky but it seems closer, almost as if it's coursing through the streets and veins of London like electricity through wires.
The world seems to burst into the brightest white, as if it's split open.
There's a high pitched screech, like car brakes, like a child crying, like something falling through the air at a high velocity.
Something heavy lands in front of him, splashing in the puddled water, and Sherlock is thrown off his feet, his face roughly smacking the rain slick street.
He raises his head off the wet pavement. His hair is matted to his temple where he fell, but he can't tell if it's from blood or rainwater.
He must have hit it harder than he presumed.
Because now there is an angel in front of him.
He says his name is John.
He doesn't look like an angel, or at least not from what Sherlock can see from his position, but everything in him, around him, about him, screams at Sherlock that this being in front of him must be one.
His feet are feathered and scaly in soft places like the skin of his ankles or the flat plains of his metatarsals, yet his toes are inertly human, albeit slightly pointed like talons. Just behind his Achille's tendon Sherlock can see the soft, fine edges of folded wings brushing his calves. They look to be coloured a warm sienna brown with veins of ochre flowing through them and the illusion is not dissimilar to the tree bark of redwoods.
He looks human. Cropped hair the colour of desert sand, blue eyes, a face cut from gentleness.
"My name is John." The angel repeats, his head cocking curiously to one side as if Sherlock is a question he doesn't understand.
"Yes, you said that already." Sherlock says in spite of himself.
"And I'm going to repeat it until you tell me yours. My name is John."
"Sherlock. " He says, eyes fixated on the talons that rise and tick against the wet asphalt almost unconsciously. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."
John offers his hand, wholly human and warm, and Sherlock takes it.
"Sherlock Holmes." John repeats. "I think we need to go somewhere less wet and well lit."
They are in the first place Sherlock can find, which isn't a coincidence. Angelo owed him a favour.
Sherlock stares at the angel—John—as he consumes tagliatelle like its manna from heaven. Angelo's food exceeds the average palette, but this is…over-excessive enjoyment. He's never seen anything like this. Anything like John.
So many questions.
Who are you, what are you, can you fly, are you often mistaken by a butcher for a runaway chicken and if so what is the outcome, am I the only one who can see you, why are you here, where did you come from and does it change with different faiths or nonbelievers—
John looks up at him and sets his fork down as his face scrunches in mild bemusement.
"That's an awful lot of questions." He says, smiling before he takes a sip of water (he politely refused a glass of the wine Angelo brought out; if angels had anything going for them in Sherlock's opinion, at least they had some semblance of manners).
Sherlock stares at him. He feels a sudden panic at the prospect of nothing in his mind ever being his and his alone ever again.
"Can you hear me?" He asks, his voice too hoarse for his liking. "My thoughts?"
"A little." John admits. "But it's more similar to intuition. I have an idea of what you're thinking, not the actual thought itself. It's like a blind man dreaming of colours; he knows them, but has no names to call them by. It's not quite unlike empathy, in a way."
"Can you do that too?"
John doesn't answer him.
"Is London always like this?" He asks serenely, as if he's just entered a wonderful dream. London is nobody's wonderful dream. Sherlock needs to pop that bubble as soon as he can.
"Dreary and dark? Unfortunately."
"But there's nowhere else like it. It's the only city on Earth that's all its own." John smiles. "I like Earth. Earth is big and alive and green."
"Where…where are you from?"
John stares at him. His eyes are blue, the colour of the high-salinity Italian seas that Sherlock's only seen in pictures but harbours a childhood envy of.
"The desert." He answers solemnly. In the dim light, the blackness in his veins is muted, less noticeable.
"Why did you leave?"
"I didn't have a choice, really." John shrugs nonchalantly, but Sherlock can tell he's lying. Too many questions though. He'll ask again later.
"What are you?" Sherlock breathes and John smiles, the true, kind smile which Sherlock's only seen in his dreams, flashes of soft light that pass over him like lights shining on a car driving down the highway at night. It makes him feel warm, safe, untouchable.
"What culturally designated name do you want to call me?" John asks as he takes another bite of food. "Because they have a habit of changing."
"An angel." Sherlock answers immediately. "But…that doesn't seem right. It feels wrong to call you that. You have wings, yes, but that's no guarantee that you are what you appear to be. And furthermore since I don't believe in angels—or any religion—there's no way that you can be what I think you are. You could be an experiment in genetics—and I wouldn't put that one past the government to try—but you seem to know a lot about me that I haven't told you, so you're either very good at guessing…" Sherlock stares at him. "Or something else entirely."
John grins and chews his pasta carefully before replying.
"You're correct, in a way." He says, gathering the condensation from his water onto his fingers. "And I'm sure that's something you hear constantly, so that's just falling on deaf ears I suppose—"
"Ah, wrong." Sherlock says, almost in reflex.
"Sorry?"
"Hardly anyone ever tells me I'm right. Usually their pride gets in the way."
"Or your ego beats them to it and they're too humiliated to praise you."
Sherlock smiles.
"Sometimes. Once again you demonstrate your habit of knowing things about me that no one else has the privilege to."
"We used to be called Nephilim." John says, leaving Sherlock's pseudo-accusation unacknowledged. "Sons of fallen angels and children of women. By-products of not-quite-holy unions that began when lesser angels were sent to Earth to teach humans the ways of the righteous, although no one seemed to take into account just how beautiful human beings are, how warm and…" John swallows. "Alluring. The women called to them like water on a hot day, and their offspring suffered for it. Those born from the unions were known for their great strength and greater cruelty."
"You said 'used to be'." Sherlock says. "What changed?"
"After the Earth had paid its price with our hunger, we were banished to the desert." John answers. "The ultimate and primordial punishment. Bloated bellies shrivelled, throats wrung themselves out, brother turned on brother, all of that lovely canonical wrath. The newer Nephilim like myself, the ones too young to know the word cruelty much less the idea, were tossed into the sand and raised in the shadow."
"The shadow of what?"
John stares through the rain-flecked window into the wet streets for a moment.
"Glory." He says solemnly.
"What are you called now?"
John smiles a little half-smile, one of childlike fondness.
"I like the Arabic word the best; it has the most colour." He looks at Sherlock. "Zamzama; 'to thunder' or 'to murmur'. A paradox. One word that means its opposite."
"Yes, there was certainly lots of thunder when you arrived here." Sherlock says dryly and John laughs.
"Tell me Sherlock Holmes," John says after a moment, his eyes bright. "How can you justify my existence when you don't believe in the forces that brought me here?"
Sherlock stares at him for a beat.
"I haven't figured that part out yet." He admits quietly. "What force are you referring to?"
"A higher one, in generalised terms." John smiles. "It likes to appear as what the individual perceives it to be. It's called Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shintoism, the solar system, science." John wants to bottle the surprise on Sherlock's face. "You call it epiphanies. I call it outside help."
Sherlock is looking at him like he's answered something of vital importance.
"When we get back to my flat," He says monotonously. "We're going to have a very long talk."
"Why not here? And what makes you think I'm going back to your flat with you?"
"Because the couple two tables over are suffering from a bad habit of eavesdropping and do you really have anywhere else to go?"
A slow grin comes to John's face.
"Lead the way."
When they exit the restaurant, the storm has slowed to a wet dampness that pervades every exposed pore in a way that only London rain can accomplish.
Sherlock looks over to John as he pulls on his gloves.
"What—um—what about your wings?"
John looks over his shoulder.
"Do they bother you?"
"No," Sherlock admits, "But it might the rest of London. We don't get angels much here."
"Yes, you do." John says, "And no one else can see these except for you. I appear to you as I want to, and to everyone else as they want to see me."
"What if they want to see you with your wings?"
"Then let them. But humans don't often go out of their way to see realities they don't believe in."
"Why can I see them then?"
John looks at him a moment and grins.
"Maybe you're just a madman, Sherlock Holmes."
John sits in the fat ugly chair that Sherlock's never liked, an opinion that is rapidly reversing as he see John sigh and settle against it, his wings fluttering against the cushions.
"What do you want to know then?" John asks, bringing his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them.
Sherlock leaned forward, his fingers steepled.
"The desert. Tell me about it."
John shuts his eyes.
"There are many names for it. Hades. Xibalbá. Kalichi. Hell." His eyes open dart to Sherlock's. "We call it Sheol. Hebrew for 'pit of the dead'. The accuracy is stunning—considering no human has been there—since it really is a pit." He says, trying to smile but it looks strained.
"What is it like?" Sherlock asks a little breathless from curiosity, from the temptation of learning things that no human aside from himself knows about.
"It's dark, but there is no night. No dawn either, just…sun." John says, his eyes unfocused as he recalls the memories. His wings twitch. "Sheol is a place where you forget the lightness of being, where happiness evaporates into the air like water. The bones of your family rot around you, bleached from the sun. As soon as you forget how hot it is, you remember again and there's no shade anywhere…" His voice is empty, hollow and blank from thinking of a life once lived and Sherlock doesn't want to hear it anymore.
"How did you really get here?"
"Honestly?" John grins, but it fades as he looks into the fire. "I was summoned."
"Summoned?"
John nods. "But I don't know on whose orders."
"Do you know why?"
"I have an idea." John says, but he doesn't elaborate.
The hours pass in easy conversation. Sherlock doesn't want to spoil this new mystery just yet. His questions are careful, prodding and poking, but not digging, not the desperate clawing that he wants.
John yawns and Sherlock ushers him to his room. He doesn't complain. A good sign.
They lie on Sherlock's bed, John clothed in his old pyjamas, facing each other.
Sherlock manages to voice nearly every question that had come into his mind since seeing John. His name is John—just John—, he is not human but not entirely inhuman either (he's not sure where the heap becomes a heap exactly), John can fly, but his fall injured his left wing so he doesn't want to try for fear of worsening it, he's here (and isn't that all that matters), he comes from the desert (the faith doesn't change the setting, John says), and Sherlock is the only one who can see his wings that he knows of.
The light in Sherlock's room is muted and dim, shadows rising and peaking around them like mountains.
"Who sent you, John, really?" Sherlock asks softly.
"No," John laughs gently, "I don't answer to anyone, if that's what you're wondering. No God's will and all that. That's another department, I guess." He drops his gaze.
"You want to say something." Sherlock says, his eyes darting over John's face. "Say it."
"I think—" John sighs then brings his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "I think I was meant to look over you. Watch you."
"Someone must have hated you, then." Sherlock mutters dryly and John smiles. "Still doesn't explain what you are though. Have you considered that you're a fallen angel? The punishment seems fitting enough; being my handler. Only a vengeful god would have that kind of humour."
John lets his smile simmer before it fades.
"Have you heard of intelligent design?" He asks softly.
Sherlock nods. "An excuse used by religious intolerants to explain magical things like sunrises or fetal development or a rainbow when they don't want to explain it or learn the knowledge themselves."
"Something too beautiful and intricate to trace the origins of." John murmurs. "I think that's what I am. What I'm from. Something beautiful. A fractal existence with no beginning or end, born from itself…like a Mobius strip. Not that it explains everything, of course."
"It explains nothing." Sherlock replies curtly, his fingers brushing John's cheek. "How will I ever know what you are?"
John chuckles. "Like you want all your questions to be answered? Where would that leave you, Sherlock? Bored, jaded, full but not fulfilled. Empty." He rolls onto his back and shuts his eyes. "Let's leave this one a mystery, for your sake."
"I don't want to always wonder what sent you to me."
"Or you can enjoy me while I'm here."
"Won't you always be?" Sherlock asks quietly.
John is asleep.
A week passes. Sherlock stays at the flat as much as he can, something he's never done before. But John is there. He likes that, but it scares him that he doesn't know how long that smile will be there for him to enjoy.
John laughs at his dry jokes. John watches movies with an infectious interest (Sherlock watches as he develops an interest in Bond movies, but he tends to watch John more than the actual movies). John makes him tea. John stands behind him and hugs him with arms that bespeak of quiet strength (he learns not to hold the tea when he does this after the first time). John lets Sherlock touch his wings, lets him ask his questions, lets him measure the wingspan and each feather's length and his reflexes when he senses danger behind him.
Sherlock comes home from Bart's one day to find an empty flat.
He knows exactly where John is, and opens the door to his room.
John sits in the sunshine in the middle of Sherlock's duvet, eyes shut and wings folded. He stands in the doorway, peering down at the psuedo-angel and he already knows he wants to see nothing else when he comes home.
"The sun is different here." John murmurs. "It's dimmer, muted, but it gives you life, not burns it out of you like mine does. And you're hovering." John says without opening his eyes. "Come here. I know you want to." His wings flutter softly, kicking up dust into the dying sunlight.
"Do you?" Sherlock asks, trying to keep his voice calm, unaffected.
"Yes, I do." John answers calmly. "Come on."
Sherlock slinks off the doorframe and over to John. Wordlessly, he climbs into his lap, wrapping his long arms around John's bare shoulders, resting his wrists on the velvety coracoids of the beginning of John's wings. John's hands come across each other to lay over Sherlock's ribcage as miles of leg close over his waist. Soundlessly, John's wings come up and close around them, ensconcing them both in a cocoon of quiet stillness.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" John asks with a soft smile as Sherlock lays his forehead against his own.
"The Sorites Paradox." Sherlock says quietly. "A grain of sand does not constitute a heap of sand, nor does five or ten or a hundred, yet when you have a heap of sand you cannot determine at which grain it became a heap."
John does not respond, but his warm hands over Sherlock's lean sides make him continue.
"I've never loved anyone." He says softly. "And I don't know when I started loving you, or if I do. But I know that I—I don't want to live a life that you're not in."
"I can't promise you that I'll stay." John admits.
"Why? What are you so sure is out there that will take you from me?"
"I want some tea." John mutters, untangling himself from Sherlock and standing, stretching his arms over his head so the skin of his ribs are pulled taunt and his wings elongate.
Sherlock follows him into the kitchen.
"John—"
"Do you remember," John asks, tapping the electric kettle. "When I first heard this as it boiled?"
Sherlock nearly smiles. "You tried to smite it with a kitchen knife."
"Yes." John replies, his eyes shutting as steam whistles from the kettle. "I thought it was something else. Something I didn't want to come anywhere near you."
"What did you think it was?"
"Nachash." John hisses.
"What?"
"The snake." He whispers. "In the Garden of Eden, the snake spoke to Eve and made her eat the apple and banish humanity from the garden forever."
"The relevance here has gone right over my head, John—"
"The snake wasn't a snake." John murmurs. "It was a man. Nachash, Hebrew for 'shining enchanter'. Created by Elohim before Adam to be above the race of man and destined to be the enemy of the children of Eve, the enemy of you, of humanity. If you take into account the angels breeding with human women like rabbits, then that makes him my enemy as well."
Sherlock draws his knees to his chest as he watches John steep their tea then sit it in front of him as he walks into the sitting room and takes the opposite chair.
"Who is he?"
"What would be a better term." John says, taking a sip from his cup. "He's not much of anything, and certainly not human. He'd destroy himself if he had any traces of humanity in him."
"What is he, then?"
"He is an ancient evil." John says quietly. "Cunning, smart, and just bored enough to put them to use. He talked his way out of Sheol, if that tells you anything."
"You knew him there?"
"No, but no one leaves without evoking the envy of the others, and if there's one thing that binds the Nephilim together, it's their collective fury. Like a mob or football hooligans."
"What will happen to you if you go back?"
John doesn't answer for a moment.
"Nothing good." He says finally.
"On a scale of sacrificial lamb to Lucifer, how evil is he…it?"
"So evil that he single-handedly took Paradise away from you, from humanity, because he thought it would be fun."
Sherlock stares at him silently, his eyes darting over John's face.
"No, he didn't. Not from me."
John glances at him and Sherlock does not miss the smile that ghosts over his face.
"I don't want to go back there; to Sheol." John says, tracing the rim of his cup. "I like what I have here."
"I'm…I'm quite fond of sharing a flat. And that's the only time those words will ever be in that particular order."
"Sherlock." John says softly. "I know."
Sherlock stares at him. "This...is not the usual protocol I take in normal relationships."
"Well that's good, considering neither of us are normal or follow protocol."
Sherlock lays his head on John's collarbone.
"I'm not sure what to do."
John reaches up a hand to stroke his hair.
"It's alright." He murmurs. "It's alright. I'm here for you."
Sherlock does not voice his fears.
But for how long?
John is his small kindness, his candlelight in the undulating darkness.
He doesn't want to be left to the night again.
His heart is perfunctory.
His heart is filling.