Where My Demons Lie: When the Days Are Cold
11:55 PM Some random Monday night
Reggie Palmer is speaking to an unseen audience. He's the host of the television show playing lowly in the sitting room beyond where John Watson is stretched out on his back on the sofa, deep in sleep, mouth open, face and limbs slack.
"So, to sum up this episode of Aliens Were Here First, let's turn to Doctor Michael Stamford now. Doctor Stamford, can you give us a quick review for our audience so that no one's confused at this point?"
"Absolutely, I'd love to do that," Doctor Stamford's warm voice states clearly over the rather obnoxious music playing in the background. It dies down some, so he continues. "You see, Reggie, the latest theories in ancient alien technology all seem to point to the first contact with our species, which is about the same point in time, let's say, just before humans discovered the many uses of fire. It is thought that due to the nature of the war between two similar races, both of them what we think of as humanoid in appearance… well, eventually representatives from both races wound up on the blue planet. At different times through human evolution and indeed, the long history of our species, we've discovered that they came into contact with our civilizations: the Ancient Egyptians, the Greeks, the Aksumites, the Romans, the Olmecs, the Mayans…Reggie, the list goes on and on."
There's a burst of polite applause from the audience. John snorts in his sleep a little, brushes beneath his nose with his index finger, completely oblivious to the odd subject matter being discussed on the telly.
"So, then, Doctor Stamford, I've got to ask, what does all of this research mean in terms of modern-day religion?"
"That's a very interesting question, Reggie, and I'm glad you brought it up. We're running out of time today, but let me just say that those beings, some still believe they exist, what we would call angels and demons, well, that's not what they were known as originally. Right now, I think it's pretty much agreed by all of those involved that both of those alien races called themselves Y'waz. Have you heard that name before?"
"No, can't say that I have. How do you pronounce it?"
"I think the best explanation would be yaw waz," Doctor Stamford chuckles a bit, "though it really doesn't make much difference, since we will probably never be able to ask the beings themselves."
"These two races, then, you said, are humanoid? So that means what? They were just like us, just thousands of years advanced?"
"Yes and no, Reggie. The main differences between them and us, or rather the "us" as we collectively know ourselves to be in this day and age, well, both of those races are believed to have had telepathic powers, high intellect and very possibly unique physical features such as wings. Other than that, it is my belief that they could pass as humans, easily."
"That's amazing, Doctor Stamford."
More applause. John Watson rolls over on the couch, curling up and tucking his face against the back cushions. On the television, Doctor Stamford is still talking.
"….really, then, there is no 'evil' and 'good' the way we have been taught to think of it. Indeed, the very idea is ridiculous. Those two races gave so much to our species, we actually do them quite a bit of disservice by thinking there is some unknown 'higher power' floating about in the clouds above our heads…the 'All Father' or the 'Great Mother,' 'the one true God' or even the 'Heavenly Father,' really, it's all down to mistaken identities."
"Well, then, Doctor Stamford, we will continue this rather fascinating conversation in tomorrow night's episode of Aliens Were Here First…"
The sound is abruptly cut off as Sherlock Holmes glides through the room, taking in his friend's cold shoulders from the way he's got them hunched up and the ridiculous commentary on the television. The next time he runs into Mike…
John shifts against the sofa, doing his best to curl even farther into himself.
"John," Sherlock intones, his voice low and deep in the fresh silence of the flat. He doesn't touch the other man, but reaches out a hand as if he'd like to do exactly that. "John."
After a moment, John wakes enough to answer, eyes blinking as they adjust in the dimness of the sitting room. "Mmmm…what? Sherlock?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock agrees, now moving closer. Grasping John's bicep as the groggy man turns over, he tugs a little to help him stand up. "Come on, go get into your bed. Your shoulder will be killing you in the morning if you don't."
"Was waiting on you, great git," John mutters as he's pulled to his feet. He pats Sherlock's hand and pulls out of his grip to amble towards the loo.
"Well, I'm here now. Go on." Sherlock states quietly as he gives John a gentle push by spreading his fingers over the small of John's back.
Sherlock stands a few steps from the door, waiting to ensure John gets up the short flight of steps to his room without stumbling or heading back towards the couch. He offers a soft 'good night' as John heads towards his bed.
Though, if Sherlock were completely honest with himself, he'd rather it be his bed, Sherlock's oft cold and lonely bed that John would be crawling into tonight. But no. He shakes his head as he pulls off his coat. Dropping it on the back of the sofa, he toes out of his shoes and drops down to take up the space John's so recently vacated; he tries to tell himself that it means nothing that he savors every last little bit of the warmth the other man has left behind.
11:55 PM Tuesday night a few weeks later
"What do you mean, you don't know?" John hisses under his breath. It's all he can do because he's squashed between a hard-as-a-brick wall detective and an actual brick wall, a not too uncommon occurrence but annoying all the same.
"I don't know, John," Sherlock grits out prissily between his teeth. "I made a mistake, aren't I entitled to do just that on occasion, or do you really think of me as a machine?" He frowns into the almost-darkness, brows touching over his nose.
John mentally steps back a pace, knowing full well that not knowing something is akin to a worldwide disaster in Sherlock's books. As Sherlock leans in close enough that what little bit of light is available from the street, John opens his mouth to say something then realizes the futility of the action. Instead, he shakes his head slowly back and forth, only receiving an offended huff for his efforts. John concentrates on that instead of the almost preternatural heat emanating from Sherlock's body; not to mention the heady mix of excitement and pure male musk he's giving off. He inhales deeply through his nose, effortlessly committing another mistake.
"Dammit," he mutters.
Luckily, though, Sherlock's attention is elsewhere at that very second.
11:55 PM More nights
John's memories replay over and over after the horror. There's a madman in town playing a dangerous game; Sherlock dances the edge of an uber sharp knife's blade, solving each riddle as it passes through his fingers. John hates it; hates the game, hates the madman and the way Sherlock's eyes light up with glee. Until the old lady dies, blown to heaven on the words The voice, it was so soft…
After that moment, everything seems to buzz through John's head so fast he's unable to keep up with it all. Though it is weeks and months…it seems like hours. Sherlock's gone. Some cosmic clock has counted down to this moment, this very second when John's chest feels like it is fighting for every breath, his grief threatens to pull him downward. Why bother going on when everything that was worth living for in this life is gone?
ooo
Cutting through the frigid November night like the devil's on his heels, Sherlock rushes up the steps, shoving the door aside so that it bangs against the wall in his wake. Everything is moving slowly as if through molasses, John is….oh god, no. On the sofa, John is wrapping his lips around the business end of his service weapon…the gun he's cared for so well that it gleams dully in the cast off light from the window and Sherlock cannot move fast enough to stop him when he pulls the trigger.
And the bullet disappears.
"I'm already dead." John's voice is hollow, bereft of any of his normal warmth. The gun thuds to the floor with a sound too similar to the one from hours ago…the one he was never meant to hear.
Sherlock, still in his coat, the shoulders coated with dirt and dried blood, slowly folds his long body, lowering himself to his knees in front of John.
John reaches out to touch Sherlock's face, a disbeliever now, in all of his senses. John's rough fingertips tremble as he wipes away some of the crusty, still tacky, stain beneath Sherlock's eye. Sherlock leans into the touch, dry lips parting to release a plume of steam from his lungs into air suddenly gone as frigid as the worst of winter.
John moves forward achingly slowly, blue eyes held as if jewels embedded in steel. When their heads finally touch it feels like eons have swept them by. Sherlock exhales then takes another breath, slowly, before he unfurls the massive pair of wings hidden beneath his thick coat. They slip through the secret slits cut into the material, making a shushing sound as feathers come into contact with wool.
John backs away, but only enough to look more closely, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock's shoulders. He stares at the feathered appendages, much less taken aback than Sherlock would have expected; they don't feel exactly right, either, so he turns his head to look at them. Sherlock knows that if John had seem them earlier today they would have been black as the deepest night, glossy with hues of aquamarine and salmon, now, though they are bent, broken, twisted and some are even missing.
"You really did fall," John whispers into the freezing air of the flat before gripping the sides of Sherlock's face and bringing their lips together, passion on the edge of pain, a hint of anger in clashing teeth, need in the way their bodies meld with one another's.
For an instant, John pulls back, shaking his head, golden eyelashes frosted with moisture. Sherlock only goes away as far as he can still touch John, his eyes widening as John reaches down and pulls at the hem of his jumper, somehow succeeding in pulling it off his body while never losing contact with the other man. Then they are kissing again, tugging at one another, John on the edge of the sofa, Sherlock on his knees between John's thighs.
Beyond the gentle sibilance of broken feathers, Sherlock can make out a new sound—similar but different all the same. His head a confused muddle of emotions he typically chooses to ignore, he lets his mouth fall away from John's so that he can look.
And he's almost overtaken by the sight that greets him: a large pair of cream-colored wings have erupted from John's shoulders, wide with a thin membrane more like a bat's than a bird's.
John turns his eyes away from Sherlock's in order to look over his shoulder. Sherlock can read from every line in his body that he's surprised.
"They haven't been…they were gone," John explains in a whisper as his gaze meets Sherlock's again.
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock says, shaking his head back and forth. "Please."
John agrees by wrapping his arms back around Sherlock's shoulders, bodily pulling him into his chest. "This. Tonight. Yes?"
"Yes." Sherlock states plainly; for the first time in a long while honest.
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll talk. Understand?"
"Yes."
John whispers something else that could be 'okay' or 'alright' as he bends his head back towards Sherlock's mouth. Two pairs of wings wrap around them as John slowly falls into Sherlock's lap. Darkness descends around them, offering privacy for the moment.