"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." –Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Sherlock stared up at the sun, stretching out his wings to warm his feathers in the soft light. He spent most of his time in a heaven that was modern day London, cold and usually rainy, so every once in a while he would find the heaven of a warm summer day to warm his wings.
Things in heaven had quieted down quite a bit since the angel Castiel came and took down Raphael. Sherlock had always been indifferent to the apocalypse, and he had tried to stay neutral all the way through the wars. When he was forced to choose a side or die, he chose Castiel and he was glad for it. Soon after he was forced, Castiel gained the power of God and destroyed the arch angel and all of his followers. After that, the angel disappeared and heaven was left severed.
Sherlock took advantage of this, doing what he wanted to do. Even though typically angels did not understand free will, Sherlock did and he was a fan. Now he just spent his days avoiding the other angels, and relaxing in his choice heavens. He was very bored and he wished to go to earth, but with the state of things, he decided to choose life over boredom.
In a pleasant daze, Sherlock got his fill of the sun. He tucked his wings in and went for a walk. In this heaven, the sun was always shinning, warm and pleasant, and the grass was the color of emeralds. A light breeze ruffled his feathers and the dark curls that sat atop his head. As nice as things were, Sherlock suddenly felt something foreboding on the wind.
He set is eyes to alert and looked around. The ground beneath him began to shake. Sherlock, startled, opened his wings and jumped into the air. He glided over the grass casting a giant shadow. He felt something strike his left wing and he faltered. He tried to stay in the air but he could feel the fact that his wing had broken and that he was now plummeting to the ground. Except- the ground never came. He just kept falling.
Now in a panic, he flapped his wings trying to gain air, but it was pointless. Suddenly he could hear screaming. He looked around him and saw thousands of other angels plummeting. Some burnt up from the extreme heat, others had their wings ripped right off their shoulders. Not wanting his wings to rip off, he tucked them in close to his body and dived. He could feel the heat burning him, but he stayed together, desperate to survive the fall.
He wasn't sure what it was, but something flew at him and hit him square in the chest. He could feel the heavy pain the contact made as he flew of course and away from the other falling angles. Soon they were completely out of view and he was left falling alone. CRASH! Sherlock fell through a ceiling and landed on a couch, knocked unconscious.
When he finally came around, Sherlock opened his eyes, surprised to be alive. He quickly took mental notes of all the damage he had sustained. His left wing, two of his ribs, and his right wrist were broken. Every other part of his body was aching and covered in bruises. He looked around, surveying his surroundings. He was in a small room with two chairs, the couch he had landed on, and a television. He could see a hallway to a room and a staircase to another. It was a small, pleasant. He stood up slowly, body aching, and walked to a nearby window. He was surprised when he recognized the location.
"Baker Street, London." Sherlock said to himself. He heard a voice in the room and he quickly turned around. He had not noticed the television had been on when he woke up. He walked over and sat on the couch. He had never seen a real television before and he was curious. A crime drama marathon happened to be on and Sherlock watched the entire thing.
Once it was over, he turned off the TV and looked around the room some more. By now the sky had fallen dark and the sounds of the city seemed louder than ever. He saw some books on shelves and he randomly picked one up.
"The Science of Deduction" Sherlock read the title. He flipped though the book, reading the whole thing quickly and absorbing every bit of information. Earth was a strange place with strange ideas, but he now knew how he could fit in. He could be a detective. Humans were violent, killing each other just because they could. Sherlock found the very idea of killing without a reason to be appalling. Since it seemed he was stuck here, he might as well do something decent with his time.
Sherlock was lounging on the couch, reading some of the other books he had found, when a man and a woman walked into the flat, laughing. When they saw Sherlock they went quiet and the woman hid behind her husband. Sherlock froze, unsure of what to do as he saw anger and fear cover the man's face.
"What are you doing in our flat?" The man asked, slowing taking steps towards Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on the little energy he had left. He had been sitting under a blanket so the man had not noticed his wings. An idea came to him. He let the blanket slowly fall from his body, spreading out his wings as he stood. His broken wing only went so far, but his uninjured wing spread 15 feet in length.
"What the-!" The man cried out as he stumbled backwards into his wife. She screamed as they both crashed to the ground. Sherlock walked over slowly, body still stiff with pain.
"You will remember nothing." He said as he placed his hands on the frightened couple's heads. In a flash of light, they sat there blinking as Sherlock made his wings disappear.
"As I was saying before you fell-" Sherlock said, voice calm, smooth. "You must have the wrong flat. I live here, not your friend."
The couple looked at him, incredibly confused. "Uh- of course." The man said awkwardly as he slowly stood, helping his wife up. "Sorry for the intrusion. Come on dear, we have the wrong address." He said, pushing his wife out the door. Sherlock waited until he knew they were gone then he let his wings reappear. He stumbled over to the couch and collapsed from pain and exhaustion.
When Sherlock woke up, the sun was shining brightly through the window. He yawned and stretched, slowly opening his eyes. A few things hit him all at the same time. His right wrist, chest, and left wing were wrapped up in some sort of cloth. Had he done that before he fell asleep? I didn't think so. He was then aware of a sweet smell that was slowly filling the flat. He looked at the coffee table in front of him and saw a plate with biscuits and a cup of freshly brewed tea. He looked around, heart pounding in his ears as he heard someone walking around in the kitchen.
"Who's there?" Sherlock called out as he sat up stiffly. An older woman walked out of the kitchen, face alight and smiling.
"Oh, good morning dear. I made you some tea and biscuits." She said cheerily. Sherlock stared at her, completely flabbergasted. She laughed when she saw the confusion on his face. "Don't worry dear, I won't tell anyone." She walked over and sat down in a chair across from him. "How are you feeling? You are in pretty bad shape." She looked up at the hole in the ceiling. "Must have fallen a far way. Did you fall all the way from heaven? I mean, you are an angel right?"
It took a moment for Sherlock to even register speech. "Yes I am but how did you-"
"This isn't the first time one of you has come crashing into my life." She said, eyes sweet and smile caring. "When I was a little girl an angel fell into my life. Her name was Anna." She said, sighing slightly at the memory. "As I recall, she didn't want to be an angel. She wanted to be human like me. She stayed with my family for a while, learning the ways of humanity. One day though, she just vanished. I assumed she went back to heaven, but I never knew for certain." She looked over at Sherlock gently. "I'm Mrs. Hudson." She said, reaching out her hand. "And what might your name be?"
"Sherlock." He said, reaching out his hand to meet hers. "And I knew Anna." Sherlock told her how Anna chose to fell and was born as a baby to a human family. As she grew older however, she remembered she was an angel and was brought back into the war after she regained her grace. He told her about the recent wars in heaven and how Anna had died.
"Poor dear." Mrs. Hudson said sadly. "All she wanted was to live a normal, human life."
Sherlock continued his tale, telling this woman everything he could. When he got to the part which was happening, he stopped.
"Well that sounds like quite the adventure you have had Sherlock." She said, standing up. "And since you got rid of the couple who was living here, you may stay here if you like. Though-" She added, face becoming serious. "I do need a rent check."
"Fair enough." Sherlock said shrugging. He told her about his plans to be a detective in this world. She smiled at that and placed her hand on his leg gently.
"Good then." She said, standing up. "I will be just downstairs if you need me but remember- I am not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson said as she left Sherlock alone in the flat. He laughed lightly to himself as he started planning. He was determined to survive in this world. He was determined not to let Mrs. Hudson down.
Four Months Later
Sherlock was staring down into a microscope, on the brink of solving his newest case, when two men walked into the lab he was working in. He knew one of them, but the other one was unfamiliar to him. A new face.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked, lifting one eye away from his work.
"And what's wrong with a land line?" The man, Mike Stamford, asked.
"I prefer to text." Sherlock said coolly as if his reason was obvious. Even after a year humans seemed so stupid to him.
"Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike said, sounding annoyed. Sherlock didn't understand why Mike was annoyed when he was the annoying one.
"Uh, Here. Use mine." The man Sherlock didn't know said, pulling out his phone and walking toward Sherlock. Sherlock met him half way and took the phone from his hand. This man seemed different than the other people he had met so far.
"Thank you." Sherlock said as he began to type in numbers.
"This is my old friend John Watson." Sherlock heard Mike say in the background. He decided not to pay him any mind as he carried on with is business.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked John, not looking up from the phone.
"I'm sorry?" John asked, confused. Sherlock smiled to himself. He had gotten very good at the art of deduction and it was always fun to see people's reactions to his skill. He looked up from the phone to look at John.
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked again.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?" John asked but was cut off as a young woman entered the room.
"Ah, Molly… coffee, thank you." Sherlock said, reaching past John to grab it. He made a face as he looked Molly over. "What happened to the lipstick?" He asked. She had been wearing it earlier when they were in the morgue.
"It wasn't working for me." Molly said, voice small and timid.
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." Sherlock said as he walked back to his experiment, taking a sip of the coffee. He had never learned the art of not being too honest. He always just said what was on his mind and for some reason people didn't like him for it. Sherlock didn't understand why, but he accepted it as a part of his new life.
"Okay." Molly said sadly as she walked quickly from the room.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked John, getting the conversation back on track. He hated when things got off topic.
"Sorry, what?" John asked, shuffling slightly. Sherlock was beginning to feel annoyed. Wasn't it obvious? And why did John apologize so much? He kept his thoughts to himself so he wouldn't get off topic again. Besides, even though the denseness, John was far more interesting than most people.
"I play the violin when I am thinking." Sherlock said, continuing with his work. He had taken up the violin shortly after crash landing and he found that playing calmed him. "And sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He often found he had nothing to say to the humans. "Would that bother you?" He asked, looking at John again. "Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." Of course, John would never actually know the worst about Sherlock. There was no need for him to learn the truth, learn what he was. Sherlock wouldn't even risk someone other than Mrs. Hudson finding out if it had not been for the fact that he had been having trouble paying his rent lately. He couldn't let her down even if that meant risking his exposure.
"You told him about me?" John asked Mike.
"Not a word." Mike said, amused with the situation. He enjoyed people being surprised by Sherlock's talent almost as much as Sherlock did.
"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John asked, looking back at Sherlock.
"I did." Sherlock said as he finished up his work and slipped his coat on. "Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He said, putting on his scarf.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, clearly both confused and amazed.
"I live in a nice little place in Central London. I have been having trouble, but together we should be able to afford it. I will see you there tomorrow evening, 7 o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock said, giving John his phone back and walking to the door.
"Is that it?" John asked, turning to face the door Sherlock was walking though.
"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, not understanding what more there was to say. He walked away from the door however and gave John his full attention.
"We've only just met and you want me to move into your flat?" John asked, making sure he understood everything properly.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, not understanding John's confusion.
John looked over to Mike then back to Sherlock. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where I am going, I don't even know your name."
Sherlock smirked. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he is an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic- quite correctly, I'm afraid. That is enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, watching John become more and more uncomfortable. This was a normal reaction from people he deduced.
He walked back to the door and headed half way out before he remembered. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He said with a smile and wink. "Afternoon." Sherlock said as the door closed behind him.
He took a taxi back home, lied down on his couch, and let his wings out. He had enough power to hide them during the day, but sometimes he just needed them to be free. He wasn't sure how he would go about his day at home once John moved in, but he would worry about that later. For now, he was content.