Stupid Habit
Of late, Sherlock had come into an irritating habit, one which John could not seem to break.
While it was true that, as a demon, the detective was invulnerable to many things which would outright kill the average human, that was not an adequate excuse to throw himself from great heights while on a case. Escaping a psychotic arsonist intent on burning Sherlock alive? Possibly a good enough reason for a drop from 15 feet or less. Because he did not want to take the stairs, and elevator rides were "boring"? Never would that make it okay for the idiotic genius to casually stroll off the uppermost balcony of a 30-level complex of flats-for-rent.
Yes, as Sherlock liked to point out, it was also true that having an angel for a blogger and tag-a-long meant there was a literal winged guardian able to swoop in and catch him out of said falls. None of this excused how thoroughly the detective had taken to this reckless, apparent sport. John simply couldn't fathom the reasoning, which annoyed him further.
The latest case involved a series of possessed shapeshifters, their bodies controlled by a furious spirit. Sherlock was, by John's calculations, perhaps an hour out from whatever clue or deduction would allow him to discover the ghosts identity. The day had gone well, they had even taken the opportunity to stop in at an Indian place for lunch.
Unfortunately, just now they had split up, with Sherlock on a roof across the street, perhaps 500 feet above ground level and facing the killer, currently housed int he body of a bear 'shifter. John, meanwhile, was stuck trying to console the wife of the most recent victim, stuck inside the opposite building, where all the windows were covered by security bars, and there was no easy ways out in case Sherlock decided to be Sherlock.
Then the doctor felt it - his sense of his friend expanding in a dizzying rush, the sense of air shooting past and immutable gravity dragging downward.
A half moment of pause, while the phrase, You bloody great arse! ran through his thoughts, then there was a minor explosion of blinding light and John hovered in midair, halo and wings and golden aura glowing out around him, catching the plummeting Sherlock from his downward trip.
"Dammit, Sherlock, you complete loon! Just because I can catch you doesn't mean I'll always get there in time! And now I'll have to spend the next hour checking through the memories of this entire street's buggering inhabitants in case I have to suppress their memories. You can't keep doing this! What will happen when I'm not there?"
Sherlock glanced up, eyes flashing black and smirking confidently. "Come now, John. I have faith that you always will be."