The pain lodged in Sherlock's chest was overwhelming. He sunk to the ground, jostling his cracked ribs, but all the pain, the bullet and the beating, was irrelevant in the terrible glory in front of him.
His hand reached out to touch the glossy white feathers. John had dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, folding his wings into a canopy, a shield to hide and protect his best friend. Sherlock could only gape.
"John," he gasped out at last.
"Don't move, Sherlock. Despite the now un-hidden wings, John had the same, grounding voice. "I have to stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down, and you moving won't help with that." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times.
"Are you an angel?" he blurted out.
"I suppose that's one way of putting it," John said, laughing slightly. Then he stiffened. Sherlock could hear, at first distant, then closer, the sound of a helicopter. John straightened, standing over Sherlock like a heavenly centennial as he gazed into the dark sky. A searchlight swept across the alley in front of them and John shuddered, unconsciously pulling his wings inward, towards his body.
"John?" said Sherlock. His voice sounded small in his ears. John let out a shaky breath as the light moved closer.
"Sherlock, you're going to have to trust me. Don't worry. I will get us through this." The beam caught them in its glare. John squinted and tried to shield his eyes. "I will get us through this." John raised his hands in surrender to faceless men. "I will get you through this." John fell limply onto the pavement, a dart sticking out of his left shoulder. Sherlock screamed.