"It's strange. I never imagined I'd have someone to say goodbye to when the time came." The phone shook against his ear. He tightened his grip but was unable to still his trembling hands.
"Sherlock? What are you talking about?" John's voice came through the reciever. It sounded so calm, so still, but Sherlock knew better. He could feel the confusion and rising panic in that voice; John had a distinct talent for remaining calm in a crisis, but after all their time together Sherlock could see straight through him. Still, he savored the sound of John's voice; even with the anxiety behind the words, it comforted him. He paused, letting it echo in his ears for a moment. He took a deep breath and balled his free hand into a fist. He was running out of time. It had to be now.
"Thank you for everything, my friend. Goodbye, John." He did not wait to hear John's response. The phone fell from his ear. I'm so sorry, John was his final thought before he stepped off the roof. I'm so sorry. Air filled his coat as he plunged toward the street. His eyes clenched shut, unwilling to watch the concrete rising to meet him.
There was a sharp exhale as impact forced the air from his lungs.
And then a gasping as he fought to refill them.
"What?" Sherlock's eyes flashed open to see the street far below him, and the arms of a trenchcoat wrapped around him.
"Do not be afraid, Sherlock," a deep voice said to him. "You are safe."
Sherlock watched wide-eyed for a moment as they descended slowly to the ground. Then he remembered why he'd jumped.
"No! Let me go! I have to die you don't understand!" He thrashed and fought against the arms around his waist with all of his strength, but his rescuer barely seemed to notice.
"John is safe," the deep voice said, the arms of the coat tightening around him.
"What did you say?"
"My brother has taken care of Moriarty's men. John is safe." Sherlock fell still.
His feet touched the grass and the trenchcoat released him, allowing him to collapse to the ground. He turned around to face his savior. The trenchcoat belonged to a man with stern face and brown, messy hair.
"How did you...who are...what are..." Sherlock had never had so many questions with answers beyond his reach.
"My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."
"That is impossible." Sherlock mutter in a confusion that quickly turned suddenly to rage. "Who the Hell are you? Tell me!"
"I come not from the pit of fire," Castiel said sternly. "I am an angel of Heaven, a warrior of God."
"Why the Hell would an angel of God save me?" Sherlock spat back.
Castiel's eyes softened. "The angels are also on your side, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock stood silent and unmoving. He was not sure what answer he had expected, but that was certainly not it. He had always been despised for his talents; why would angels have any interest in him?
"Of course we alone cannot take credit for your salvation." Castiel said, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts. "We did not come by accident; we were called here."
"You were called here? But who..." Sherlock did not bother finishing the question. He turned back to the building he had flung himself from only minutes ago. Staring from across the street, frozen in place, stood John.
"John," he said quietly.
"I have never felt so strong or desperate a prayer," the angel continued. "It caught us off guard, particularly as John Watson has never called on us before."
Sherlock rose from the ground and stood facing John, who had started walking towards them.
"Sherlock?" John stared in disbelief up at his friend who he was certain should be dead. "How?"
"Seems as though you've saved me again," Sherlock said quietly.
They stood in silence for a moment before John took notice of Castiel. "Umm, who's your flying friend?" he stammered as casually as he could manage.
"Oh, yes. John, this is Castiel, angel of the Lord. Castiel, this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said plainly, gesturing to each of them in turn.
"I see. Well, alright." John shifted uncomfortably under Castiel's gaze. "Thank you, I suppose."
"Apparently you brought him here," Sherlock continued, watching John curiously.
"I did what?" John stepped back, confused.
"Your prayers," Castiel said matter of factly. "We heard you John. And we came."
"Oh, yes. Right. Of course." John's ears burned hot as his face flushed red. He looked down to avoid Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't even realized he'd been praying. His mind had gone blank when Sherlock had stepped of the roof. All he remembered was begging No, God please no. Did that count as prayer?
Castiel looked up toward the sky suddenly. He released a long sigh as he lowered his gaze back to the two men. "I am needed elsewhere. Farewell."
Castiel vanished before either of them had the chance to respond. The two stood staring at the ground where moments ago the angel had stood.
Slowly the shock of seeing Sherlock alive and meeting the angel who had saved him began to fade behind the pain and anger rising his John's chest. Finally the silence was broken by the sharp smack of John's hand against Sherlock's cheek.
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!"
"What?" Sherlock fell backwards, caught entirely off guard by the sudden assault.
"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME SHERLOCK." John looked up, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Confusion, anger, and betrayal burned behind his eyes and soon started running down his face.
Sherlock stared back at John and watched the tears stream down his face. For the first time he found himself utterly lost for words.
"John I..."
"AND WHY WOULD YOU EVER LIE TO ME LIKE THAT. YOU ARE NOT A FAKE, SHERLOCK."
"John, please..."
"AND WHAT ABOUT ME, SHERLOCK. DID YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO ME AFTER YOU WERE GONE. DID YOU EVEN STOP TO CONSIDER WHAT THIS WOULD DO TO ME?"
Sherlock, finding his voice again, finally screamed back, "I DID IT FOR YOU, JOHN!" He turned to face away from John, who's raging eyes had quickly fallen into lost, confused ones.
"What the Hell does that even mean?"
"It means Moriarty's men had a gun pointed directly at your head!" Sherlock's breathing became heavy as he fought against the emotions prying their way up his throat. He took deep breaths and waited until he had calmed down to continue. When at last he spoke again his voice had resumed its usual matter-of-fact tone. "Either I jumped or you died, John. So yes, I did consider what would happen to you. That's why I did it."
Silence once again fell over the two men. Sherlock sat down on the grass and pulled his knees to his chest. A few minutes later John sat down beside him. There was so much John wanted to say to him, so much he desperately wanted Sherlock to know. But he couldn't find the words.
"Looks like we're even, then," he said finally.
"What?"
"You jumped to save my life and I...summoned an angel of the Lord to save your's."
"Yes. I suppose we are." Sherlock turned to face John. They sat for a moment, looking at each other but saying nothing, until John suddenly started laughing. Sherlock's deep laugh soon joined John's and in that moment John knew they both understood. No more words were necessary.
Once the laughter stopped John pushed himself to his feet. He extended a hand to Sherlock and helped pull him up next to him.
"Hungry?" John asked as he pulled Sherlock to his feet.
"Starved."
The pair crossed the street, put the roof and the concrete behind them, and headed back towards 221B.