A/N:: Without a shadow of a doubt, this is the LONGEST one-shot I've EVER written, and ever will write! (My sincerest apologies to those who DETEST long one-shots... ^^')
I decided that I wanted this to be a multiple point of view story, no longer tied to either John or Sherlock, and yes, this piece WILL confuse people, but I will tell you first and foremost that that's the way I want it to be. If you're going to read this (and I bestow my blessings upon you for it!) then please make sure you pay attention to every word.
Things happen in this that won't be explained, for instance the mention of an Eternal Being, and Beings. If anyone has ever read a fic where nothing is explained in detail, you'd understand. I want this to be vague, like something unexplained, a scientific word that makes no sense, and I want to leave it to you guys to wonder as to what these creatures are. (This is NOT me being lazy, this is me trying to get YOU to use your brains! XD)
I do hope you like it, in some way, shape or form. And thanks for reading the long footnote! XP
Plumes in White
"Please don't blow us to Heaven," Angels and Demons, Dan Brown
The devil met his demon on a street that blew smoke. They were evenly matched. The devil knew this demon had the strength to defeat any man alive, and the demon knew this devil had the brain of God himself. They were both strong, and each of them were equally capable of taking down anyone and anything.
"I believe you are the one who almost killed John Watson, faithful pet to Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty judged, hands in pockets.
"And I believe you are the one who almost killed Sherlock Holmes through John Watson himself," Sebastian Moran murmured in return, his dark eyes gleaming in childish delight.
"They once spoke prophecies of how man would fall," Moriarty noted, his words cryptic to anyone who would overhear. "Prophecies of doom and stories of suffering. I like that."
"So do I," Sebastian folded his arms, summing the criminal genius up with a casual glance of his eyes, his patterned hoodie dotted in the trademark greens of the army. "I like the sound of an angel falling." Morairty grinned wickedly.
"I like the sound of that too," he murmured, his mind patterning tricks, ideas that would take fruition soon. "I want to hear him scream as he is slain. Sherlock Holmes will die, and his faithful pet wont be too far behind."
On a far corner of London, further away from the devil and his demon, the saint regarded the angel with downturned eyes. He sat in the hospital, his hands perched under his nose, fingers pointing to the bloody God he often believed wasn't real, as the Birds of Paradise feathers danced around him in patterns of promise, and regret. John lay on the hospital bed, asleep and lost in dreams.
Sherlock wondered is those dreams were as peaceful as his were dark and distrusting.
He let out a shaky breath, and dropped his hands to his lap, fidgeting with the lapel of his coat. It was cold, he was freezing, and he felt so lonely. Why? John was safe, John was no longer in danger.
So why was Sherlock seeing John's wings still? Were they ever going to go away? The colourful dances of these broken feathers scattered around him, some of them as red as blood, others as pale as flesh. They disappeared as they touched the ground, fluttering out of existance and shivering through the dreams Sherlock once believed were real, and now not sure if they ever existed.
Sherlock's heart raced, and he felt his control slipping past it's usual command and icy stare. He felt his fingers twitch, just as the angel-soft caress of another feather passed his vision, and he closed his eyes, biting down on the inside of his mouth. Sherlock tasted blood, but he didn't care. Blood was more real than these feathers were.
Another hallucination, another frantic need to believe in something not ever there in the first place, he surmised.
Sighing deeply, he opened his eyes, and was surprised to see that they'd disappeared. He slumped in his chair, relived, then confused.
So they were never there in the first place? He cupped his hands around his face.
No, they were. He just wanted to wish they weren't, because he was afraid of believing in things that didn't exist. He was afraid to believe in what couldn't be seen with the eyes, what couldn't be touched with curious fingertips.
He was afraid to believe in fairytales.
John, the angel, fallen to Sherlock's side, and Sherlock, the reluctant saint, unwanted and ignored.
The pitiful monster he was.
"I heard you once," the demon said to his master. "I heard about you as you forced him to choose between himself and John Watson. It was brought down through the vine." He was perched on the edge of the building top, ready to jump if he could.
"Ah yes, that was eventful. It made me realise how breakable Sherlock was," the devil grinned wickedly, his foot coming to stand on the edge of the roof. He leaned forward on bended knee, his eyes narrowed.
"I think he sees 'em too," Moran said, his voice learing against the cold of the night. His breath came away in patches of fog. "The wings."
"I believe he does. And I believe his pet made him see them," Moriarty added fondly. "I wonder what would happen if his sidekick was forced to choose. Would he pick himself, or Sherlock, his saint?" Moran grinned mischeviously, and he folded his arms.
"I want to make 'em both suffer, just like you," he agreed. "We see them in the exact same way, even though were different." Moriarty smiled, and this time there was no malice on his face. He regarded Moran with a glimmer in his eye.
"Of course were the same. I wonder who we'd choose, if we had to choose between each other for ourselves?"
"That's an easy answer," Moran answered softly, leaving his voice unspoken, and Moriarty's question almost unanswered. Moriarty blinked, allowing his whispers to be carried away by the slight breeze, feeling the dagger touch of his own feathers as they spiralled downward, earth bound.
Two weeks had slowly passed between intervals of grey.
Sherlock had come and gone as John rested, his hands lying sleepily on the bed sheets, his eyelashes caressing his face as he dreamed. It was in those moments, that Sherlock watched John, took in every feature on his face as he had done millions of times before, and he listened, to the steady breaths John took, each one bringing John closer to who he once was, back to the John Watson everyone wanted to see again.
He often stayed overnight, John's sleeping form just enough to keep his whirling thoughts at bay, and Lestrade's concerned voice out of his head whenever he heard him enquiring after John's health.
Whenever John had woken up, he badgered Sherlock into going home, and resting himself. Sherlock himself looked like he hadn't slept a wink whenever John's eyes opened, as his were about to close.
I'm fine, you git, now get back home and sleep, before I get out of this bed, and help you into it, he often said, his eyes ready to close, and his voice as tired as Sherlock's mind was.
He'll experience exhaustion from the pain of the wound. It was quite severe. How he didn't come back within two or three days with this is beyond me, the doctor had said. He didn't really understand the statement until he saw John lying lifeless on the bed in front of him. He slept on and off, troubling Sherlock to no end. Was John this tired when he worked with him?
"Are you alright, John?" SHerlock asked once, and John sleepily smiled.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. Really, there's no need to worry about me," he smiled, just as he always had, time and again.
By the time the two weeks were up, John was home. He was fine. Everything was back to the way it should've been, and Sherlock and John was ready to take on another case.
It didn't take long for one to find them.
"Feathers," Lestrade had said. "Tons of them, everywhere, and among them, we found a body." He soudned sickened, and Sherlock squinted down at the bloody mess in front of them, aware of John's body stiffening.
In front of them was indeed a bloody body, covered in red and not an inch of her skin pasted over in pale flesh. Her hair tumbled around her face in locks of dark brown, and her eyes stared lifelessly ahead of her. What caught John's eye was the fact that although the feathers weren't real, in his terms, the wings themselves were.
Behind her, arching around her back to fit her small form, were a pair of pearly white wings, small and frail on her dead body.
"She's just a child," John whispered. Sherlock looked to him, and saw how pale he went at the sight of her. John stepped back. "Who could do that to a child?"
"The kind of person we intend to catch," Sherlock replied, just as he caught sight of Anderson and Sally. "When did you discover her?"
"An hour ago. Fisherman found her," Sally replied, all pretenses and splattered jokes aside. She wanted to catch the criminal before he decided to take another child, if he hadn't gotten another already. There was a note of urgency in her voice, and Sally's voice automatically quietened in John's mind as he watched this child, transfixed by those wings.
No-one else could see them, and he felt his hands tighten against his palms.
Why could he see them? Why now? Was there something he was missing?
He remembered the first time he saw those wings, when his father passed away. He wasn't in any sort of trouble, but maybe because he was standing beside someone who recently passed away, maybe that had something small to do with it. It had to be. Otherwise, John Watson was going out of his freaking mind.
He looked again at the child, and sighed. She was pretty, and he could tell she had a lovely laugh, the kind filled with innocence and mocking fun. Now, she wouldn't be able to laugh anymore, not in this world anyway.
"-ohn? John, can you hear us? John?"
John shuddered out of his reverie, and looked to Sherlock, smiling. "Sorry, couldn't help- She's just so young, barely seven, and she's-"
Sherlock's hand touched John's shoulder, comforting him. "Were going to find Moriarty," he murmured, and John jolted, his eyes wide.
"What?!"
Lestrade looked to the two of them, and Sally turned her head, her mouth slightly open, as if she was saying something. John waved his hand to them, and turned back to Sherlock.
"How can you be so sure it was him?"
Sherlock shrugged. "A guess?" John rolled his eyes.
"You don't guess, Sherlock."
"Well, I am now. It's a notion to go on anyway. The way she was laid out, he was hoping to be caught. No-one leaves a body out in the open in a used building unless they want to be chased. Moriarty all over again. He wants someone to notice him. The only thing that-" he stopped, and chewed his lip.
John looked to him. "What? What is it?"
"I believe Moriarty isn't by himself anymore. He's got a pet."
John had to supress the urge to kick Sherlock to the high heavens. "So you think I'm a pet too?"
"No, I think you're a friend. There's a difference, if you care to see."
Lestrade saw that face on John Watson. He narrowed his eyes, recalling what Sherlock had said weeks ago.
"How can John be seeing wings, Lestrade?"
While he spoke to Sally, he kept an eye on the boys. Even though they were around his age, he couldn't help but feel like a father to them, and whenever he could, he always tried his best to be there for them, since he couldn't seem to be around for anyone else. God knew why. Something nagged him at the back of his mind, a feeling that this wasn't usual. Something was out of sorts.
"-and you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?" Sally asked, her voice not quite accusing, not quite soft either. Lestrade looked back to her, his mouth open, no words coming out. She huffed, biting her lip, before she said something entirely different to what he thought she would say. "It's those two isn't it? You're worried about them."
The scene around them was frantic. People were moving about, trying to get something sorted out of the mess they were in. Guards were rushing around, giving orders, asking questions, and in this hopeless fray, Lestrade was carefully watching two grown men who were very much alive, while there was a child, on the ground, very much dead. Sally waited for him to say something.
"Yeah," he whispered finally, turning back to her just as the two boys went off-talking about pets?! At a time like this?!- hands in pockets, mischief and allsorts about to be handled. He sighed. "Sherlock said something to me a few weeks ago, and it's been on my mind ever since. That's all."
"The freak got to you, Sir?" she jokingly asked, and Lestrade watched her, trying to portray the fact, that yes, the freak did get to him. She stopped smiling. "Oh. Is everything-"
"It's nothing to do with me, and frankly, I don't think it has anything to do with you. Look, I think we should call in backup. We need as many people on this as possible. Were not going to let this killer continue to run loose," he began to bark out orders, and Sally stood to attention. She turned and walked away, ignoring the troubled look in Lestrade's eyes.
What if , Lestrade wondered, What if Sherlock was right? If John can see them-
"I want a search, around twenty miles around this building. Water, land, everywhere, even houses," Lestrade continued, poitning to a selection of officiers at his command. They began running off in groups, to their cars, to a station, radioing in patrol boats, everything. Anything to catch this masked stranger.
... what if John knew something about the feathers? What if everything Sherlock said-
"Sally, Anderson, you'll take the information we've gathered back to forensics in London. Get this girl a name. Now," he barked out, pointing to a free car. Sally nodded, and Anderson followed suit.
-what if everything Sherlock said, was true?
What if, somehow, John could see wings?
It wasn't, Lestrade mused, that he didn't believe Sherlock. He did. He just thought that more than anything, that was the shock talking. Not the Sherlock he knew so well. But, maybe after all this time, he was speaking truth.
Moriarty grinned from where he stood, his hands stuck resolutely in his pockets as the sun shone above him, and his counterpart. The field gave them the brilliant advantage of being able to see everything that happened, who went in and out of the building, and who was who. Moran felt the scarf around his neck tighten in foreshadow as he stood, arms folded against the brilliance of the sun above them.
"You think they know it's us, don't you?"
Moriarty nodded, still devilishly smiling. "Of course. Even the pet himself would know who it was. Doesn't take an idiot to see what's really going on here." He let his smile fade into the light, just as they both turned away from the chaos that billowed around them like war.
"Were waiting? Why in God's bloody name are we waiting?!"
"Because that is exactly what he wants us to do, John."
"I thought he wanted to be chased-"
"No, he wants us to think he wants to be chased. When he sees we aren't looking for him, he'll change tactics, and come out into the open then. Honestly, John, is there nothing going on up in your head? I thought we played this game before," Sherlock added distastefully. He had opened his phone just as they entered the taxi driving them back into the city, and John was giving him a look that said You're nuts, I swear you're nuts, even if we've been through this a thousand times before, I'll still say it every single time.
"John, if you keep staring at me like that, people will get ideas," Sherlock added, his voice verging on a smile, and John blushed, turning away.
"It's just, I thought with the way you were speaking, that you knew where he was," he filled in, his voice slightly faraway, and Sherlock looked up, his eyebrows furrowed.
"Well of course I know where he is, John," he supplied, like as if John really was getting the wrong ideas, and he was the crazy one. "It doesn't take a genius to know he was there, watching us the whole time."
John stared vacantly at the back of the front seat of the taxi as it swerved around a sharp bend in the country road. He didn't say anything. He didn't even blink. Not for a whole minute. Soldier's skill.
"You mean to tell me the entire time we were in that building, Moriarty was watching us, rubbing his hands together, and imagining the next child, the next stranger, he would kill in order to get us to run after him? Again?" John's voice was low, dark, evil. Shrlock turned his head to see John's face marked with menacing intentions. John was now turning to Sherlock, and staring right at him. Sherlock tried to ignore the single shiver that spread down his spine.
He almost reminded him of Mycroft with that face.
"You. Bloody. Idiot."
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Do you understand what it means, Sherlock?"
"What what means, John?" he asked impatiently, and he saw John's face become sober, worried. Afraid.
"What it means to lose someone you care the most about?"
Sherlock didn't speak for a loose second. They both knew the answer. He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to look at John, whose eyes were shining. John sighed.
"That little girl had a family, people who loved her... If that girl was me, wouldn't you want to find my killer quicker than this?"
Sherlock didn't say anything. He placed a hand on his chin as he looked out the window, trying ever so hard not to look back to his partner, his best friend, his brother, his... everything. How could he? He should've saw things the way John saw them. It would indeed cause him less pain.
He cursed himself. Then he started to think.
"Sir, forensics have a name," Sally interupted Lestrade's thoughts, and he looked over his shoulder as he placed a hand over the receiver of his phone. He looked at her seriously.
"Look, I have to go," he returned to the person he was speaking to. "I'll talk later." He shut his phone down and turned to Sally. She regarded him seriously.
"You don't want to believe this, trust me," she said as she handed him a file. "While the body was being taken in, the report went out, and this was the name we were given."
Lestrade opened the file and read the name. He looked up to Sally, then back down to the sheet with all the personal details. "You're serious?"
"Yup, that's her name," she said simply. "Angelus Custos. It's Latin, Sir. For Guardian Angel. She isn't from London. She's from Rome."
Lestrade simply stared. He couldn't believe it.
The papers nearly fell from his hands.
"I think they know now," Moran whispered. "You'd nearly think they'd be faster, wouldn't you?"
"Sherlock thinks I'm going to go out into the open. He'll want me to, that's his plan."
"Are you?" the experienced killer played with the gun in his hands, smiling when he saw a drifting feather pass his watchful gaze. Moriarty's feathers. Black as night, smoking and singed with sin.
"No. I'm going to make it harder for him. I want him to keep guessing," Moriarty answered, just as he caught sight of the second makeshift body bag. "Who do we have this time? Another girl?"
Moran grinned, just as he sat up and lugged the heavy casing toward him.
It was a cold night, but the blood on his hands kept him warm.
"I've a feeling there'll be another one," Sherlock said the second he stepped into Lestrade's office. Lestrade looked up from his computer, and saw John was with him, his hands stuck in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The doctor was tired. "In the city this time."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "You never have feelings. What's going on here, Sherlock?"
"The girl, did forensics get a name? A family, anything?" Sherlock asked dismissively as he warped himself to sit down in front of Lestrade. The DI watched him, mouth open wide. John came to stand beside Sherlock, and gave the DI a slight smile of apology.
"Yes, they did. Why the bloody hell are you here? Shouldn't you be out there?" Lestrade pointed out the darkened window. "It's way past midnight, Sherlock." He nearly felt like punching the know it all. Sherlock looked pointedly at him, eyebrow cocked.
"Shouldn't you be out looking for the killer, Lestrade, not cooped up here in this dismally boring place with dismally boring people?"
Sherlock honestly didn't understand certain characteristics of certain people. It bored him to death to observe them in their boring ways. Yes, it was past midnight, he was well aware. Lestrade wasn't going to go home tonight because he wanted to wait up with the others to see if they could find anything else out that would lead them, once again, to Moriarty, and the unnamed masked maradaur who travelled along with the pscychopathic weirdo-
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he sat forward as Lestrade's mouth moved. "Did you say Guardian Angel, Lestrade?"
John listened, but didn't hear. His hands were shaking. There was something infinitely wrong about all this.
He swallowed.
Guardian Angel.
Her name. She was a Roman girl, taken from her family-
"-the Roman police said they'd deal with everything, and her family have taken the body back. It's going back by plane, and should've reached the airport by now."
His heart raced, and he closed his eyes. God. He was tired.
The whole day was spent racing after Sherlock, who suddenly had the pleasant idea of running around the city, asking various members of the homeless network certain sets of various questions. Sherlock refused to let John hear any of those questions, he asked him to hang behind on the street while he asked. It would've been all grand, minus the case where they accidentally walked in on drugs bust down near one of the sewers two hours ago and were questioned extensively by the guards on patrol.
Sherlock brushed them off easily, telling them his name, but they didn't quite believe John when he told them his, and tried to hold him back. Sherlock went ballistic, in the way Sherlock usually does, and managed to divert their attention, as John steathily made his escape. They'd been running from the outskirts of London all the way here, which was why his heart raced faster than a petrol pump.
And now, to hear this. Moriarty knew. He must've known.
There was no other way.
He gripped his hands, just as the phone rang. Lestrade answered, and his eyes fell.
"What's his name?" Sherlock asked, cutting to the point, as Anderson waded through the dense crowds of people. John stood behind him, his eyes as wide as his open mouth. He couldn't believe how many people were here. They filed through the many cop cars toward the hectic scene of the crime, and avoided the flickers of cameras as they blasted the scene.
"Espirit, apparently. This time French. Our killer seems to be very much interested in different cultures," Anderson smugly noted, his voice bordering on annoying and sapped. John noticed the bags under his eyes. He found it hard to sleep. "Shots to the face, chest and legs. No other sign of attack, other than bruising across the neck. Trauma to the heart killed him. It was quick."
John stood still. Listening to Anderson's voice made him feel sick.
But watching the feathers fall from the wintry sky made him feel worse. They were blue, droplets of red on every one of them.
Spirit. His name was Spirit.
Sherlock was walking ahead, toward the crime scene. He turned his head back to John, his shoulders hunched from the sudden cold.
"Coming along?"
John stayed where he was, shaking his head quickly. Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes. It was written all over his face. He knew what he'd see. Red. Blue. White.
The colours of the French flag.
He closed his eyes, shivering, and turned around.
He knew what Sherlock was trying not to say. It was tangible between them at this point. Sherlock was afraid. He was afraid to face Moriarty. Because this time, he was scared of the consequences.
Distintly, he heard Sherlock call his name, but he wouldn't turn around. He always waited on Sherlock, and came whenever he was called, like the loyal pet he was. Not this time. Not now he knew something would have to be done.
This was his fight with Moriarty now. He wondered through the city lights, and into the dark cover of night, between side streets and places John knew Sherlock would never look.
"He's finally doing what he's supposed to be doing," Moriarty cackled. "But it was too easy!" He resisited the urge to clap his hands.
"Not easy enough," Moran countered. "Now, how do we capture the saint?"
Moriarty caught Moran's gaze, before they both smiled, lazily.
"We take him by telling him he has no choice, of course," Moriarty undertoned, the lapels of his coat flickering in the windy breeze. Christmas was coming early.
Sherlock should never have let John walk away like that. He walked back to the appartment, and had waited there ever since. He cupped his fingers under his nose, thinking. He knew what would come next, and he didn't like it at all. There would be another body, a final one he supposed, but now that Moriaty's plan was beginning to hatch, he doubted the body would be found until a later date. He sat on his chair, waiting for his phone to go off, waiting for them to tell him to meet him someplace, preferably a quiet, holy one, where he knew the angels would be linked.
He didn't deny the fact John was terrified. It bothered him, to see the doctor so upset. It bothered him more than he liked. John was a level-headed man, and yet even though he could see angel's wings, or whatever kind of wings... He shook his head. It didn't matter. John was level-headed. He was made that way, since Afghanistan.
Sherlock clenched his teeth. John could be anywhere, wondering around. Sherlock knew he was tired, and his limp would be hurting by now. They should've gone home, like he suggested yesterday. No more prattling around people's business like it was his own.
He was an idiot. If John had gotten into difficulty, he'd kill himself. Although, he brought his phone with him, so he could just ring him-
That would imply to John he actually cared. No. Better not. He gritted his hands, rubbing them. Waiting for the phone call.
Wondering where John was.
Lestrade slept in his seat in the office. His arms were wrapped around his head, cradling him, and he was surprised by how warm he felt. Thoughts of yesterday floated through his mind and he blearily blinked, before sitting up fast.
Something soft had fallen down his back, and he blinked again, trying to get his head in order. A new day. Something was going to happen today. He felt around himself and found a blanket. Orange. Hm. He didn't-
He looked up just in time to see a familiar face, and he narrowed his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, not unkindly. He couldn't believe his eyes. "Where's Sherlock?"
"I believe my brother is waiting for John to return home," Mycroft answered, and Lestrade jumped.
"Where's-"
"My team has scouted him to St Dunstan's in the East, here in London," Mycroft said, his eyes twinkling, sadly. "And I'm afraid he may be about to walk in on a little trouble."
Lestrade stared at him, then grabbed his watch. It was five in the morning. He sat back, rubbing his head. He wondered why the lights were still on in the office. No-one else was here.
"Did you get everyone else to leave here before you came in?" he asked, trying for amusement, and a spark lit in Mycroft's eyes.
"Ah, a good spy never reveals his secrets," he winked, and Lestrade smiled faintly, before the truth of what Mycroft said hit him full force. He gripped the table edge, and straightened.
"What do you mean, trouble?"
Mycroft sighed sadly.
John watched the sky as it wavered into a sea of gold and bright red. Morning was finally here, and he blinked the tiredness away.
It was easy to sneak in here eariler. Guards weren't patrolling the gardens as they used to, and what with the recession, he knew there were bound to be a few less guards watching the sacred church.
This place was quiet. Peaceful. He allowed his eyes to drift closed before he opened them again. He felt close to something, to someone. Swallowing, he listened. People would be walking around here soon.
He checked his watch. It was past six. Great. He needed to get up and moving. He needed to think.
Feathers. They all had feathers. Blue and white. Angelus Custos and Espirit. Guardian Angel and Spirit. Methods and wills of the God himself. Although there was a poetic ring to the whole charade, John knew this was just Morairty playing with them. The more he thought of them, the more he considered the idea that Morairty himself was speaking to him.
He was trying to make him do something.
He stood up, and started to limp back into the trees, the garden full of places to hide and shadows to cross safely. He was walking in darkness, and it reminded him of Afghanistan before the idea even arrived and fully formed in his mind.
He remembered seeing wings then. They spiralled over his head, and they were dazzling, beautiful. They were the wings of the soldiers who saved him on the field. The angels who fought and later died for the freedom they believed in.
He jolted as the memory of the pain came, unbidden, through his mind, and he shook his head.
He wouldn't allow for any of it. The past could stay in the past. Afghanistan was no more for him now. Now, he had to deal with-
"Well, the man who lived, eh?"
John looked up from the ground, and turned to see a shadow hanging around the trees with him. John narrowed his eyes and looked deep into the greenery that surrounded them. He wasn't Moriarty. He had a taller build, much more capable of taking down a wrestler than a pint-sized midget.
"I believe Moriarty isn't by himself anymore. He's got a pet."
John blinked. "Are you Moriarty's pet?" he asked boldly, because he was sick of roundabouts and twenty questions. He wanted outfront answers, not riddles. Carefully, this man walked towards him, and in between patches of summoned light between the leaves, he saw a face.
A familiar face.
"You're the one who stabbed me," he mustered, ignoring his racing heart, and sweating palms. "You-"
"Johnny-boy," Moriarty's cackle came as a warning, and John glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of black wings, tall, magnificent and deadly. There was a wicked grin in there too, among the feathers, but John's gaze was more taken up with the growing horror of what was coming. "So nice to see you again." John swallowed.
"Moriarty," he whistled, just as he bravely pointed to the man standing behind him. "Is this the new recruit? Or are you copying Sherlock now?"
Morairty rolled his eyes as he stepped around him, walking toward the tall and vicious man with folded arms and near enough to pointed teeth. "John Watson, meet Sebastain Moran, my good friend, and Sebastian, this is John, the man you stabbed." He made a sing and dance about it, his eyes flashing dark and menacing across the ground they stood on. "So, I suppose we should all shake han-"
"John?! Where are you?! Moriarty, I know you have him!" an urgent voice called, strong and deeply baritone. John jumped, and looked over his shoulder, wondering where it had come from.
"Ah, no, you cant!" Moriarty interveened, whispering and indicating John. He had a twinkle in his eye, something bright and childish. He reminded John of an imp, small and devious. The man had planned this, and wanted to see it through. "Don't let him think you're here. We have a proposition for you." Moriarty held a finger to his lips, just as Sherlock continued to walk through the paths in a separate direction to where they stood. John could hear his retreating footsteps.
He had no clue they were here.
"What makes you think I want to hear what you have to say?" John asked, as a breeze ruffled his jacket. God, it was freezing out here, and the slight fear he felt in confronting not one, but two of these deranged killers, didn't exactly slow down the beating of his frantic heart. He didn't let them see it, but he knew they could smell his fear. It wavered between them, hanging in the air.
"Because Sherlock's life hangs in the balance this time, not yours," Moran judged, as he stood. John saw the glint of the gun he carried, nestled away beneath the fabric of his coat. "Well, both of yours, actually. You can see them, cant you?" John narrowed his eyes as Moran had continued.
"Of course he does. He's afraid of them. Doesn't understand why he can see them, but still so very afraid," Moriarty leered.
"What-"
"The Wings of the Eternal Ones. You can see them, cant you?"
John took a step back, confused, and as he did so, a feather fluttered past his face, small. Grey.
He jumped, and looked up, and not trying to hide his amazement as thousands of them, beautiful, whisper thin and smoking with menace, dripped from the sky, like the pitter patter of rainfall. The trees sheltered all of them as they gracefully found their way to the ground at his feet. And still, they kept falling.
"Who's-"
"Ours," Moran answered. "Exactly the same as each others. Colour. Shape. Size, everything," he indicated himself and his partner in crime. "The perfect match for the unmatched duet." He pointed to John, the sharp glint in his eye. John swallowed and his hands shook. "You and Sherlock don't match at all. Therefore, your match hasn't been sealed, and therefore, one of you must pick," he simplified, "who will die to save the other."
John allowed the silence between all of them to filter through the deadpanned quiet. He could no longer hear Sherlock call his name, he was long gone. No-one knew he was here. No-one knew at all. He blinked.
"I'm sorry, Eternal what?" he tried to fill for time. Not that any of what they were saying made any sense, and abruptly, Moriarty's hands clapped together in glee.
"I knew you wouldn't know at all," he added with a sharp, bitter tone to his usual bite. "It doesn't make sense that an ordinary, plain man like you would be able to see what the chosen few can-"
"I really don't understand-"
"Of course you don't," Moran leered, his face twisting into the demon he really was. "You wouldn't understand at all, Mr Watson. You're just normal. Nothing ever happens to you, and yet you choose to use your gift to save your kind."
John shook his head, bordering on exasperated. "What the hell is that supposed to-"
"The Eternal Ones are those who promise to never die. They live, and they see everything," Moriarty pointed a straight finger in John's direction. "They are chosen by above to watch, and to make events happen. They are good. And bad. They are the ones who will bring about war, destruction, and the end of the world-"
John's eyes saw his father's dead body, wrangled past identification-his eyes were gone, black holes for empty sockets-
"-they are the ones who choose who lives and who dies-"
He remembered the pain, the bullet wound, and being carried. Angels' wings. They were angel's wings. And then they died-
"-they save, and they kill. Yet wherever they go, they can see the good, and the bad in everyone, but they cannot see themselves for who they are-"
He often wondered why he couldn't see his own wings. Were they horrible? Just like his father's? Were they twisted and warped into something that made no sense at all? Were they just like him, a useless, stupid nobody?-
"-and when they get close to anyone, they make them suffer too-"
"How can you see those wings? Why can you see them?"
Sherlock's face, something close to terror, worry and concern. He was the one to carry John, and mull over him when he was stuck in the hospital. What about Lestrade, Mrs Hudson? What if they were to go crazy from his actions, from the fact he could see what they couldn't?
"-unless they were to be with their own kind. The angels watch over them, always. They leave feathers for them to follow, and my oh my, I can see thousands of them right now, all falling for us, dear Johnny boy. I wonder if that means we are meant to be together, a trio, not a duet for one party to play on immortal instruments, while the other suffers alone," Moriarty softened his tone. He saw the emotions battle across John's face. He knew what was coming.
"You say we need to find a match. Sherlock isn't mine-"
"Sherlock's is brown and white, like owl's feathers. Brainy, intuitive, nothing like yours. It seems yours cant decide who they want to be, but they certainly aren't a match for Sherlock's. Those two colours, and those different sizes, they don't mix," Moran added, his voice still sharp, ready to do what must be done. He could see Moriarty's wings spiral upward, smoking and charcoal grey, black shadows mingling and softening the darkness he carried with him wherever he went.
They were both sure of what they must do. And they were both all too happy to do it.
Moriarty smirked.
"You have to choose someone, John," Moran added, as he took the gun out, deadly and sharp. John looked up, his hair ruffling in the breeze. "You have to choose. You, or Sherlock?"
"-OHN! I know you're here! Come out, NOW! Please, John, PLEASE come out-"
Sherlock's voice carried along the breeze. He was coming back. John's hands gripped themselves. An Eternal Being? Sherlock, he didn't think he could see them. Sherlock never said anything. He never opened up after what he'd said before he was brought back to the hospital.
He couldn't see them, so he shouldn't have to-
"Me," he answered, bravely. He wasn't actually afraid. Not anymore. Angels? Yeah, he'd believe it. He looked up to Moran. "I'll pick myself, then, everytime. For Sherlock." Moriarty stepped back as Moran stepped forward.
"JOHN!"Lestrade's unmistakable voice filled his ears. Ah, so they were both looking for him now. But he was ready. He was sure.
The feathers floated downward, and he closed his eyes.
"-JOHN! Come out, now! It's all just a magic trick, John! PLEASE, JOHN, SHOUT!"
But it was too late.
He heard the shot, and imagined those feathers still falling. Stil whispering. Always, forever quiet. Just like him.
He got to choose who lived. And who died.
Please, God, please... let me...
The crows cawed. Sherlock looked up just as Lestrade came into view.
No.
Feathers.
He slumped to his knees, weak and suddenly exhausted. It was too late. John was-
The idiot. He gritted his teeth.
"I think it came from back there," Lestrade thumbed his direction behind him. "Come on, we can still see if we can find him. He's a fighter, remember? He was shot at before."
Lestrade was right. He sat up, and started walking. Blindly. His heart thumped so hard, he felt it was beating now, for the both of them. For him, and John. He kept moving, he walked down the path, close to the entrance of this silent place. It was a nice place, to get shot in.
The trees were silent, reverant. The benches were waiting for someone to come and sit in them. The grass wasn't trampled on, nothing was touched. Everything was waiting for the next person to visit them.
"John!" he called, his voice horribly low now. He caught sight of something through a small frame of hedging, and there, he saw another.
A feather. Silver. Dotted with drops of red.
He ran. His palms sweated, and his breath came faster and faster. The bushes swayed as he waded through them, all the way into the centre of the clearing. No one was here. Not Moriarty or Moran. Black feathers were dancing everywhere in the light breeze, but more than them, Sherlock could see millions of feathers coated in blue, red, white and yellow, purple and orange, brilliant and shining.
Like a Bird of Paradise.
And there, nestled under all those beautiful colours, lay a hunched black coat, his wings lifeless and cold, the blood seeping through the thick fabric, melting the ground around it like tainted molten lava, and it was nothing more than cheap silk.
Lestrade came up behind him, and stared hopelessly at the ground.
"Did a freaking bird's nest die in here?!" he exclaimed, before he caught Sherlock's eye, and trained it on the figure lying on the ground. "Jesus Christ!" He jumped into action, and pulled out his phone, ringing the one number he knew would make things happen faster than an ambulance. "Mycroft, we found John, he's in bad condition-Look, can you send something over ASAP? I can't-" he ran toward John, and began pulling at the lapel of his coat, tugging the collar down so he could reach his neck. "Yeah, he's still breathing-Did you hear that, Sherlock?-He's- Yeah, look just send something, please-we'll-"
John was alive. But Moriarty wanted him to die. It made no sense.
He couldn't see straight. He felt relieved, weak in the knees. He wanted to be sick, and he wanted to jump for joy. He couldn't understand. He didn't want to understand, not this time-
"Are these freaking wings? What the hell is-"
Sherlock stopped.
"That was simple," Moran cawed. He pocketed his gun. "Although we both know that we didn't kill him."
"That wasn't the point, my dear," Moriarty cawed, his eyes shining with giddiness. He had grabbed the arm of his partner, and pulled him closer. "I just wanted to see how much pain he could endure, before he broke in two."
"And everything you said?" Moran murmured, trying to hide the faint blush on his cheeks. "I know everything you said was true, but didn't you get the memo about him? John? He-"
"I know," Moriarty agreed softly. "John is different."
"He doesn't allow the people closest to him endure insanity," Moran chuckled. "Like others do." He wrapped his fingers around Moriarty's open palm, his partner in madness. His coat flapped in the sudden wind, and with it he thought he saw a feather, as dark as night. All his partner's, his Chosen, his mate.
"No, he is special. He allows them to see what he sees, and he protects them from the ugly truth behind our Sight."
"And those feathers-"
"They mix with every colour known to man," Moriarty laughed, happy, but not because he'd almost killed the mate of Sherlock Holmes. He was happy because he'd finally found his mate for life, his match. "I suppose it was my last. Our last."
"Yeah, although the trouble will brew again. We demons cant stay away from saints and angels. It's part of who we are."
Moran was grinning now too. His face was lit, just like the sun that was coming up through faded clouds. It was cold out, temperatures were below freezing, but he didn't feel it. He was warm. Content. "We wouldn't have been able to kill John anyway."
"Are you sure about that?"
"He has that God watching over him, the one who created beings like us. His name."
Moriarty's eyes widened slightly, and he chewed on his lip as they left the church behind. Outside, London was beginning to unravel from its slumber. Cars milled around streets and buses were shooting horns. None of these people noticed them, the devils they were, the ones who could see their souls.
"God is Gracious," he translated John's name, before he smirked. "No. John has His watch. Or Hers. And now he has Sherlock's too, just as John cares for the people around him. Every single one of them. Maybe even you and me."
"Angels do have that awful habit of caring too much."
Moriarty stopped, and smiled again, before he pulled Moran into his embrace, and held him. Just because he felt like it.
"Maybe that's just the way he always was. He was just searching for his mate, the one who'd protect him when he couldn't protect himself. A Chosen. A saint, not an angel. Someone not like him."
It was nice. Warm, even. He didn't feel cold anymore.
So that was it, then. This time, Moran done his work, and completed the job.
He felt safe. Relaxed. Calm. It was nice for a change. He didn't have to watch over Sherlock anymore. Heh. That sounded like a Guardian's duty, didn't it, and he wasn't a Guardian. Not a Gurdian Angel, like Angelus.
Just plain, old John.
Was this death?
He could happily float in this feeling forever. No more worries. No more pain.
But his head felt fuzzy. What was it Moriarty said? Something about living, and dying? It didn't matter, he supposed. They had done their job, and now Sherlock was free.
Maybe he wouldn't do anything crazy anymore. He almost snorted. Sherlock? No more stupid experiments? Get real, John. Of course there'd be more.
And...
He felt a ripple of something.
Something sad.
And Sherlock would be lonely.
"I dreamt I could hear you playing" he once said to him. "And here you were."
Sherlock was always there for him. Always. Even when he was almightily pissed, which was often. But, there was a good side to that. At least he felt something for him.
And by dying for him... he felt at peace with that notion. Maybe Sherlock would damn him for it. But, he saved him too. He could see what Sherlock couldn't. Maybe that wasn't so bad after all. Sherlock was-
"-how many bloody times are we going to have to do this-"
Heh. Now he was imagining things too. Now he really was crazy. In his own death.
"Sherlock, they're everywhere-"
Lestrade?
"Of course they are: they're John's-"
"-cant be serious-"
They zoned in and out, their voices. They were loud, he noticed. Close by.
Sherlock would hate him. Sherlock would hate to see him dead. Wait-
"-ohn's wings, for Chrissakes! Don't just stand... hear the -lance?"
It sounded so cut off. Faraway.
Sherlock said-
Wings?!
But. But...
He could feel himself surfacing. Something was completely wrong here. He was confused, and something ached, blooming in his chest like blood. Blood. He was bleeding. He couldn't see anything. It was dark. But he was so peaceful, and now-
Another sharp sting of pain and he took in a breath-
"JOHN! Can you hear me? Open your eyes-Now, John! NOW!"
He was being shook, but he didn't want to wake up- Hurt too much. So much pain.
"These cant be wings, Sherlock! There are too many colours-"
"Oh just leave it! Forget about that right- Stop staring at me, Lestrade. Go find the ambulance, they should be here by now- And where the bloody hell is Mycroft?"
Sherlock was beginning to sound like himself again. That was good. It was all an illusion. This wasn't real-
"NO, you are waking up right now, John! Now open your bloody eyes, or so help me God I WILL pummel you into the next field-"
John blinked, surfacing through the dark water that he was once encased in. He gripped his fingers, everything was bloody freezing and it hurt, oh God, it hurt-
"P-Please-" he murmured, closing his eyes tight, as Sherlock reeled him closer to his body, sheltering him from the cold. What had he said eariler, about dying for Sherlock? What the bloody hell did that mean when it hurt so bloody much?
"It's okay, John, the ambulance is on it's way, thank God, you had us all worried sick-"
"P-Please let-"
"What, John, what's wrong?" Sherlock had pulled him away from him, looking deep into his eyes, and John finally had a close up of his best friend, thankfully unharmed. John wanted to reach up with his hands, and touch that face, check in case Moriarty wasn't true on his word. Blue eyes absorbed his, and stared right down into his soul's-
He winced when he finally felt the cold sting of the bullet, sharp and ready to dig through muscle in order to reach his heart. He gasped, and felt himself going back. He felt weightless, if only for Sherlock holding him up, keeping him warm. He wasn't falling. He wasn't falling at all.
He saw wings, just up over his Sherlock's head. White, brown spots, and he smiled, looking back down to Sherlock's eyes. Finding them, and making sure his eyes were the only thing he could see, the last thing he would see this time.
"Please God, let me live," he whispered, before he felt a rush of air fall past his lips, and his world went dark.
He was sure he heard Sherlock screaming his name.
Lestrade sat with Mycroft in the emergency room. In one way, it felt familiar to Lestrade, and he winced when he recalled all that blood, John's life bleeding out of him, dark and red, and wet. He shivered, and hunched his shoulder, swallowing and looking ahead as vacantly as possible. He refused to take on anymore cases for the evening.
It was a bloody exhausting morning, and he was still waiting for sleep to catch up on him.
Tiredly, he rubbed his eyes.
"You said you saw them too," Mycroft muttered, and Lestrade looked up blearily. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes and a frown. Coffee cup in his hands, cane lying dismally on the floor.
"Hm?"
"Wings, Lestrade. Angel's wings."
He stopped, and started to rub his hands together. He was ready to fall off the chair, his elbows seated nicely on his knees, and his head hung downward, as if it was too much bother to move. "Yeah," he whispered in return.
"And why do I get the sudden alarming feeling this is the first time you've seen them too?"
"Probably because I have just seen them," Lestrade replied, and Mycroft sat up.
A couple doctors walked passed by, followed by a nurse, who smiled kindly on them. She turned down an opposite corridor, away from hearing range.
"I think it's something only John is able to do," the agent remarked. "Ever since I first met him, I knew there was something different about the ex-soldier."
Lestrade remained silent, before he murmured, "The colour of John's-"
"They're different, because John is different. John is unique. He makes us see what we often don't notice. He makes us look twice," Mycroft answered. "He is loyal, and would never walk away, not even if he had to. I think the colours.. make him who he is."
"But, Sherlock-"
"Brown and white. Perfect for him," Mycroft interveened with a smile. "An Owl, to John's Bird of Paradise."
Lestrade looked over to him, a small smile on his sleepy lips. "Bird of-"
"He is the Paradise we've all been waiting for, I think. The place where all the colours bleed, and mix to make him perfect for everyone. Tell me, Lestrade, what are mine?" Mycroft turned to look at Lestrade, who stiffened, and as his eyes wandered behind Mycroft, just over his back, he smiled.
"It's mixed," he muttered, squinting his eyes through those graceful arcs of strong and capable wings. "Tints of red, and straight daggers of brown, white and.. yellow. Like an eagle, I think." He looked back down to see the full smile on Mycroft's face. "But, they're more like bird's wings. I thought angel's only had white wings-"
"Sometimes angels can be found in the most unusual of places, Lestrade. We don't always see them for who they are."
"But, we aren't dead, and, whoa-" Lestrade held his hands up to his forehead, trying to cradle it from the outside. Anxiously, Mycroft sat up, and moved closer.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm freaking dreaming. I'm hallucinating. I'm crazy. I've finally lost my mind. Anything but the truth that we are now dead in some weird place and oh my God, is this Purgatory?"
The shock had finally gotten to the man, and quickly, Mycroft shuddered out of his jacket to put it around the DI's shivery shoulders. He was tired. He needed to rest, just like John.
"The sight of John done this to you, not his wings," he whispered softly. "You just need to get home, and sleep."
Over Lestrade's back, Mycroft saw them too, glittering and fresh, like they only started to grow minutes ago. They probably had. Knowing John, anything could happen. He knew he done it all, made them real. There they were, magnificent and perfect.
"Yours are pearl white," he told Lestrade. "If that makes any difference." Like a dove's.
Lestrade's tense shoulders relaxed.
Mycroft smiled. They were perfect.
Sherlock watched John worriedly as he slept fitfully. He was jumpy, scared, and tired. He hated waiting. It was terribly boring.
The crisp white sheets below John were swathed around his body, making him appear infinitely paler than he really was. The nurse had told him he was just sleeping, and would come out of the anesthetic quickly.
But quickly wasn't enough.
He wanted John back now.
Sherlock's lips were bitten and felt raw from being chewed. He was anxious, ever since Moriarty had texted him with the news hours ago. His heart had never stopped racing. His hands had never stopped clenching.
And now the God must make his choice. Humanity, or Himself? M
By God, John, please wake up.
His wings were still there, arching around his back and comfortable, protecting him from the hard mattress of the bed he slept in. Maybe they were the reason why John was sleeping so deeply. Reaching out a slightly shaking hand, he tipped his hand against one of them, and was more than surprised to feel downy softness tickling his open fingers.
They were solid masses.
Softly, he trailed his hand down them, inching his way past feather after feather, feeling them and the comfort they gave. They were tickling soft, and Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining he could feel himself fall asleep against them. Could John feel that-
John slowly moved, and his eyelids fluttered. When blue eyes opened, Sherlock dived for the bed, and peered over his partner, his breath finally let out in one sharp and graceless movement. He could feel John's wings, encircling the both of them, keeping them safe, and he never had felt so secure before. But he was downright terrified.
"John? Can you hear me?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Yeah.. can 'ear you... bloody git. What time is it?"
At the tone of his voice, Sherlock relaxed. John was here. He was safe.
"It's six in the evening. You were out for hours. You... you had me scared to death. I-" he stopped. The cold, sociopathic consulting detective? Scared? He gripped his palms, allowing them to fidget with the sheets as John's eyes slowly focused, and found his. "Jesus, John, I thought I'd lost you."
Did his voice sound so hollow? Did he really sound that worried? Concerned? He couldn't understand why. John was his best friend. John wouldn't have left him behind, not after last time-
"-I couldn't believe I was literally one step from leaving here, leaving all I've ever known, and walking to somewhere else without you-"
John wouldn't have chosen to walk away. Not from him. Not like that. Not unless he had no other choice.
"S'rry," John murmured, smiling. "Either you.. or me, mate. Didn't want you to die."
... Humanity, or Himself...
Sherlock's heart fluttered like a butterfly's. He softened, and felt... lighter. He felt happier, but it was probably just relief. John wouldn't give up, he knew. Not on this.
"Moriarty made you choose?"
"Either you... or me. Chose myself. Better this way," John's eyes were about to close. God, he was tired, so sleepy..
"Please don't do that again, John, I swear, I don't think I could take anymore." Sherlock slumped back onto the chair he sat on. He watched John's face stiffen. "Between these wings, and you dying.. and everything else, I thought. I really thought this was it."
"You can see them," John said, in a small voice. It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement. Sherlock swallowed, and looked around him at all those falling feathers. Pure. Colourful, tinting the area around them both in rainbows and swaths of beauty.
"Yes, John. And yours are beautiful," he murmured, watching them.
"They aren't scary looking then? They aren't black?" he seemed anxious, and his eyes had flurried open, reminding Sherlock of drifting snow. Beside him, the heart monitor began a steeple climb, pumping faster and becoming erratic. Sherlock shook his head.
"Yours are every colour but black. Blues, greens, silvers and reds, oranges and yellows, purples and whites. Like a rainbow, only more beautiful than that. They're perfect, John. Extraordinary." The wonder in his voice calmed John, and he smiled sadly, looking at Sherlock with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "They mix with everything. It's like as if they're not sure which colour they want to be, so they'll be everything, just like you. They go with everyone else's John."
"Thanks. Yours are beautiful too. They're owl's wings, white with spots of brown. They glitter in the sunlight, and no matter how many times I see them, they just... they're so pure," John closed his eyes, breathing softly. He felt he was falling, but it was nice for a change. "I keep thinking that no matter how bad things get, somehow, if I see them, everything will work out alright. And they always do, just like the pool."
Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on John's open palm. He squeezed it, allowing the warmth of his hand to seep into John's.
"Moriarty told me we didn't fit right," John whispered, his voice suddenly weak, his face broken, as if he was about to cry. "But whenever I think about it, I think we do. I don't think-"
"We do fit, John," Sherlock answered, a hint of anger in his voice. "We fit perfectly together, just you and I. I know."
"How can you be so sure? An Eternal Being- I can- I'll make you crazy Sherlock. I'll eventually turn everyone against each other, and I could-I could be the reason why you die, soon. I-"
"Shh, stop," Sherlock softened, reaching out his free hand and placing it over John's chest. Abruptly, John's heart rate fluttered more slowly, as if his touch could calm him, make him feel safer. Strange. "You and I will talk about this some other time. None of that is important. Just rest, okay? I'm pretty sure I'm nuts enough by myself, John, never mind you jumping into the equation."
At the sound of Sherlock's joke, John barked out a laugh, slightly hysteric, but also slightly tearful. He was scared too. That was good. They could be scared together.
"Actually, no, that's not true," Sherlock added, more sure of himself this time. John sat up, and looked at him, his face falling. His grip never came undone through Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock knew he didn't want to let go. "I already am insane, like everyone says. You coming into my life, you- You made me sane again, John. You're a cure. A bloody, walking miracle."
John's eyes were shining, assured by Sherlock's words. "But you have to tell me, if you ever feel different. I'll leave-"
Again, Sherlock placed his hand on John's chest, allowed it to measure it's speed and marvelled at how it slowed down second by second at the mere touch of his fingers. Somehow, Sherlock knew this wasn't normal. This was a heaven-sent miracle. Something that couldn't be explained naturally through science. The heart monitor calmed down again and the beeping stopped annoying him.
Sherlock also gathered John wouldn't leave. He knew that if John were to leave, he'd become erratic, possibly insane. John wouldn't be able to live without his partner by his side. He smiled. His best friend, his something more, needed him more than anything in the world, and so he'd stay. Forever if he had to.
Because he owed John.
John's face watched Sherlock worriedly, and his eyes closed slowly, waiting for Sherlock to say something. He looked like a sad puppy, scared and lonely. That was it. He looked lonely.
Taking his hand away from John's chest, he tipped his fingers against John's chin. John's eyes opened, and looked to him, begging.
"I'll follow you this time, wherever you wish to go," he simply whispered, looking into John's eyes, knowing he got the message. "Wherever that may be."
"-I couldn't believe I was literally one step from leaving here, leaving all I've ever known, and walking to somewhere else without you-"
John blinked. Then smiled. A quiet thank you.
Sherlock cradled John's head, and waited for him to fall asleep.
The feathers fluttered to the ground around them, a promise eternally kept regardless of the risks and methods of the Eternal Beings, whoever they were, whatever they seemed to be, and outside, the snow began to fall.
Silently.
Softly.
Slowly.
Like an innocent promise, it continued, forging the Angel and his Saint into something that would forever be, till death done them part.
Like a duty never forgotten, it bonded the two Guardians to a pact that made them look out for each other, and watch over others, as they always had, and ever shall.
Like a bloody gift from one to another, it swore the Devil and his Demon into a ribboned-tied prophecy that they would never, ever walk alone.
A/N::This fic reads like a religion: it doesn't explain everything and its not supposed to. I hope you all liked it and sorry for the confusion. But I'm proud of this and I love it to bits! X3
Peace and love, (and feathers by the dozen!)
PassionandPromise
xxx