I might be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a second that I am one.
-
Sherlock eyed the back of John's head, his eyes narrowing when he avoided his eye.
Something was wrong.
"Tea?" Sherlock asked, glancing down at John's mug.
"No, it's rum."
Sherlock groaned inwardly. Something was definitely wrong.
/*/
John's wings twitched as he sensed Sherlock was putting the puzzle together. But to many pieces were missing, and John preferred it that way. He avoided his sharp eyes, feeling the man's eyes as they rested on the back of his head. John drained his glass and set it in the sink.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's tail swat the air in annoyance.
"John."
"Go away and take your deductions over to that plant over there," John warned. Sherlock didn't even glance at the dying potted plant John had just jerked his head at.
"John," Sherlock said stubbornly again.
John's wings drew into his back and tensed in anger. "What did I just say, or have you forgotten the meaning of 'go away'?"
"You didn't say 'leave me alone,'" Sherlock pointed out.
John's eyes flicked to the reflective glass on the cabinets and caught Sherlock's reflection.
He had moved a few paces back.
Go away.
"You and you're damn loopholes," John growled, not in the mood. He swung around and stalked out of the kitchen and stomped up to his room.
He slammed his door as hard as he could and unfurled his wings, causing the paper on his desk and a few small things to flip up and settle in random places around the room. He knocked down his lamp post and didn't even bother to glance down to inspect the damage done to it when he heard it crash.
John. John, you didn't say 'leave me alone.'
John sank down to his knees, folding his wings back and in.
He should have said it was tea.
/*/
Sherlock was surprised at John's temper. He knew he was quite ragged, and he was sharp at the edges. Prickly.
Such anger stored up in such a little angel.
Sherlock shook his wing absentmindedly as he glanced at the remote of the telly resting on the couch's armrests.
He reached over and flicked on the telly.
"Three murders in the same house were conducted by three different people."
Boring. Next channel.
"A demon was found dead along with two angels and a human. It has been ruled out as a murder-suicide."
"Idiots. Can't they see it's a large-number hit?" he growled out, taking out his anger out on the news reporter on the telly.
He heard a crash and looked up at John's door. When John didn't come out, he looked back at the telly and wrapped and unwrapped his tail around his leg. Anger, worry, annoyance, exasperation, curiosity, fondness.
All things Sherlock had to endure.
All things that Sherlock wished he didn't feel.
What had John said?
You and you're damn loopholes.
If only emotions had loopholes.