Author's Note: Hello, hello! I realize I shouldn't be starting a new story because I have yet to update my other one yet, and I apologize for that! I will update that very, very soon. I've always loved fics with Sherlock as an angel, so I just had to write my own. If you watch the show Supernatural, you'll see that my basic reference of an angel comes from there. Considering my other story, most of my inspiration seems to be coming from that show, haha. Anyway, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't know, and don't own.
It was nearly three in the morning, but John Watson couldn't sleep. The nightmares had woken him a couple hours ago, and it was one of those nights where they were so bad he was afraid to fall back asleep.
John continued down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his cane. The doctor had advised him to stay off his feet as much as possible. He'd only gotten back from the army six months ago, after all, and he'd only been able to walk for two of them. He'd been shot right above the kneecap and invalided home. Honestly, he was lucky to be able to walk at all.
But John refused to sit around feeling sorry for himself. He'd taken nightly walks before the army, and he was for damn sure not going to give it up now. He moved off the walkway and into the wide, grassy field. It was harder to maneuver through, but the soft earth was much easier on his knees than the hard, cement pavement.
He breathed in and out heavily, pain coursing through his whole leg. He had to stop. He bent over, resting his free hand on his left knee and the other one held the cane for balance. Tears stung in his eyes as he cursed himself. He balled his fist and slammed it into his leg. The pain increased tenfold and nearly sent him toppling over, but he didn't care. He hated this. He hated being a cripple. Hated feeling so utterly useless.
He sniffed and straightened up, pushing the tears back. He squared his shoulders and stood as solidly as possible. He looked up at the stars. They were easier to see here, in this field, away from all the lights. It was somewhat of a miracle to find this big of a field at all, in a city, albeit it was the outer-city limits. He couldn't afford to live in the heart of the city anymore, like he used to. Although he desperately wanted to move back.
A bright light appeared in the sky, flying across it. A shooting star. John stared at it, watching it blaze. He was not a man of faith. In fact, he didn't believe in God at all. Or at least not the God that everyone else worshipped. But he found himself wishing on the shooting star anyway.
He didn't wish for money, nor fame. He didn't even ask for happiness. Not directly anyway. All he wished for was his leg to be healed. He could handle anything else if he could have his health back. Because he didn't have a life here, not anymore. If he was healthy, he could return to the army. To the dry heat of Afghanistan. Things were much simpler there.
The trail of light flitted out as quickly as it had appeared, and John couldn't help but laugh at himself. He knew there was no one up above to hear his prayers. It was silly.
He shifted out of his rigid stance, beginning to prepare himself for the walk back, when another shooting star appeared in the sky, this one brighter and larger than before. John's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't remember reading about any sort of meteor shower that was supposed to happen tonight.
He shook his head and turned away, done wishing for things that would never happen. He began his walk back to the sidewalk, the pain in his leg even worse than before. He mentally chastised himself for his actions. His therapist had told him he needed to find "constructive" ways to work out his anger. Harming himself didn't exactly fall under that category.
A loud whirling sound suddenly pierced the air, almost like a whistle, and the wind picked up. John paused in his stride, frowning. The sound seemed to be coming from behind him. He started to turn, when a loud boom sounded, and the ground quaked under him. He was thrown off his feet and landed hard, hitting his head. Everything went black.
John blinked his eyes open slowly. He was seeing doubles, no triples, of everything. He tried to sit up, and the world spun around him. He laid his head back down. He stared up at the stars until they came into focus, and then, groaning, pushed his way to his feet.
The image that greeted him made him wonder if he'd been knocked into some surreal comic book universe. There, less than 10 yards from him, was a giant crater in the earth the size of a small house.
"Holy mother of…" John blinked rapidly, waiting for the image to dissipate, or to wake up from this dream. He tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly bone dry.
He licked his lips and looked around. Surely someone else had heard the boom, or seen something…
John chewed on the inside of his cheek, debating what to do. Any sane person would be screaming their head off, calling for help. Running far away from here. And yet…John felt drawn to the crash site. He wanted, no, needed, to see what was there. Most people would take one look at John and assume he was just some average bloke who worked a 9-5 job, wife and kids, white picket fence. Nothing special. But that was far from the truth. There had always been a sense of curiosity that was present somewhere in his soul. Like a burning coal, sitting, waiting, for someone to fuel it, to make the fire spring into life, to grow.
He took a step forward, not looking back once as he approached the crater. This was the most excitement that had happened in John's life since the army, and he was not going to let this opportunity pass by.
The ground grew hotter the closer he got, until he was right at the edge. Great tendrils of steam rose from the hot earth, and the dirt burned orange, like simmering coals. He thought he saw something in the center of the crater. He squinted, unable to see it clearly.
Once again he looked around, this time to make sure no one was looking. With a great sigh, he shook his head. "Curiosity killed the cat, John," he mumbled to himself. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, deciding how best to get into the crater without falling on his face. "Yeah, well, at least it died knowing the truth."
John stuck his cane into the side of the crater first, and then slid down after it. He stumbled his way down, nearly falling multiple times. His shoes felt like they were going to melt off his feet, and he wasn't entirely sure they hadn't until he reached the bottom and found himself intact.
"Bloody hell!" John called out, his laughter slightly hysteric. He stopped to catch his breath for a moment, and then walked forward. The ground was extremely soft and uneven, and he found it difficult to walk on, but he was determined to see what was at the center. Probably some meteorite. Perhaps they'll name it after me, John thought, smiling to himself.
But as he got closer, and the object became more visible, John knew that it wasn't a meteorite. It was shaped oddly…
He was about 5 yards away, when the thing began to move. John froze, his eyes widening and his heart stopping in his chest. For the first time all night, he felt fear. Alien Invasion was the first thing to pop into his head. He wanted to laugh at the thought, thinking he'd been watching too much telly, but standing here, in a massive crater that was created by something that fell from the sky, the idea didn't seem so impossible.
The thing groaned, and began wiggling on the ground. It reminded John of the uncoordinated movements of a newborn child. John's curiosity flared up again, and he found himself taking several steps closer.
Suddenly, in a flash, the thing was standing upright. John's breath caught in his throat. It…It was beautiful. Before him stood a man, pale as milk and as iridescent as the moon. And stark naked. The hair that sat atop his head was raven black and curly. His eyes were the colors of moonstone, shining a pale blue, and then green, shifting like a hologram. His face was long and angular, his cheekbones high and prominent. His body was lean, so lean. It looked as if it'd been carved by the gods themselves.
As John's eyes traveled, he couldn't help but notice that the man was…well endowed. It was not unusual for John to see men naked. He had worked in the army after all, and he was a doctor at that. But he'd never been one to stare. Never had he felt such stirrings in himself at the sight of a naked man.
He tore his eyes away quickly, not wanting this man…this thing, to think he was a complete pervert. He looked back up to the man's face. He didn't look human, not really. He looked otherworldly, ethereal. And, John realized, he very well may be.
"What are you?" John breathed out, completely in awe.
The thing turned its eyes onto John. They were quick, and as sharp as a whip. His gaze was hard and unforgiving. "I am a servant of the Lord," he spoke. His voice was deep, resonant. Velvety. Like the growl of a jaguar inside a cello.
John's awe dissipated almost at once. His eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry…You're what?" He couldn't help but laugh. He understood now. This was a prank. Some strange elaborate prank that wasn't meant for him. John placed his hands on his knees, unable to stand up right as the laughter racked through him.
"Why are you laughing, mortal?" the man demanded, his tone sharp and authoritative, demanding an answer.
John attempted to straighten himself up. He wiped his hand under his eyes, flicking away the tears that had sprung forth. "Christ, mate, that was a good one. I'll give you that. What's this all for?" John waved his hand around the ruined earth. "Some kind of NASA experiment?"
The man's eyebrows furrowed, his face becoming angry. "I am a servant of th-"
"Yeah, I heard you, mate. You're a servant of the Lord. What's that then? Is that what you rocket scientists are calling yourself now? Some sort of religious joke?"
The man's face darkened with impatience. "I can feel your lack of faith, mortal. I can see it in your soul. You, and all the rest of your kind, are weak. You stand in the presence of an angel of heaven, and you dare to call me a liar?"
John's eyes widened. Christ, I'm dealing with a nutter. Better handle this one swiftly. Usually if you agree with them, they'll let you go without much trouble… John had dealt with men like this in the army before. Ones that had seen too much action, seen their buddies get blown to pieces.
John held up his hands, and spoke in a soothing voice. "Right, mate, 'course you're an angel. Why don't I just go…" He began to step backwards, wanting to be as far away from this guy as possible in case he was the violent type.
A whooshing noise sounded, and giant, sable-colored wings sprouted from the man's back. They loomed over him, the glossy wings spanning across the ground and blocking out the moon.
John's mouth fell open, and if he was a lesser man, he would have fainted on the spot. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt like it had swollen up, and he couldn't get his words out.
I'm dreaming. Or imagining things. I hit my head really hard and now I'm hallucinating. I should see a doctor. There is a logical explanation for this…There has to be. Angels aren't real.
"How…How…" John stumbled, shaking his head. The man. Angel. Thing. Whatever! Looked even more beautiful than before. He was radiating light…and for a moment, a teeny-tiny part of John believed that he actually was seeing an angel.
"You have no faith, mortal," the angel repeated. Its gaze traveled the length of John's body, a look of disgust on its face. "And you are broken. You are physically weaker than most, and…" Its eyes stopped over the left side of John's chest. They widened in surprise. "Your heart…" The angel sounded genuinely confused. It blinked, its eyebrows furrowing, and seemed to grow angry or upset. "Your heart. It is pure. Lacking faith, but pure. No mortal is capable of such a thing." His eyes turned accusatory as they flashed up to John's face. "What are you?" It demanded, staring at John as if he were now a threat.
Confusion washed over John again, but before he could speak, the angel was in front of him. It pressed its middle and index fingers to John's forehead, and everything went dark. John's body collapsed to the ground.
The angel, Sherlock, his name was translated to in the mortal realm, circled the fallen body. With his mind he looked into the man's soul. John Hamish Watson. He could read his whole life story. He had a normal life. Nothing of import. But he was brave, braver than the average man. And then there was the matter of his heart…He felt angry again. He could not understand. And he understood everything. He was known for his vast knowledge and skills of deduction in heaven. Many of his brothers, fellow angels, avoided him because of it. Even angels, the purest of creatures who did not know hate, found it hard to be around Sherlock sometimes.
Sherlock cast his eyes heavenward. "Brother! I know you can see me. Come down here!" he shouted. He could have done it telepathically, all angels could communicate as such, but that was not enough for him now.
A moment later, a fluttering noise sounded, and his brother, Mycroft, appeared before him. Although all angels were brothers and sisters, angels had one partner, one other angel, who was considered their other half. They came in pairs. They were created together. And Mycroft was his other half.
Mycroft, unlike his brother, was dressed in mortal's clothing. He was tall and thin, his hair a light brown. "You've woken the heavens with your shouting, Sherlock."
"Why have I been sent here, Mycroft, and what is this thing that I awoke to?" He pointed at the bag of meat laying at his feet.
Mycroft looked at him evenly, and gave an exasperated sigh. "That is a human being, Sherlock, you know that. And you know why you've been sent down here."
"That is not a human being, brother! You can see its soul, feel its heart. It is too pure for a mortal."
Mycroft shook his head slowly back and forth. "So much anger, dear brother. Too much for a servant of the Lord."
Sherlock's hands balled, and his wings twitched with irritation. "Is that why I was cast down? You sent me into a world filled with sinners to make me right my wrongs? Your methods are questionable, Mycroft, and your actions hypocritical. I see you've been in the Garden of Eden again, with Anthea." He smirked. You smell of Ressemene flowers, brother, only found in that garden, and your right hand is trembling slightly. A visit with Anthea always has that effect on you.
Mycroft's face hardened. He tugged on his suit and rolled his shoulders. "You have been cast from heaven, Sherlock, because of your growing anger and restlessness towards the other angels. We have also sensed a weakening of faith in you."
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft continued before he could speak. "But that is not the only reason you have been sent down, brother."
"Then why?" Sherlock demanded.
"As an angel, all others' fates are revealed to us, open to view at any time. All fates but our own. And your fate, dear brother, lies here, on Earth, with this mortal."
"This mortal?" Sherlock jerked his head at the man, John Watson, pointing at him, enraged. "How dare you say such a thing? You insult me, brother. My fate is not tied to a mortal's."
"Ah, but it is." Mycroft waved his hand over Sherlock. Sherlock felt a tug on his finger, and looked down. A red string was tied around his right index finger, glowing brightly, and traveled down. Sherlock followed the string, and saw that it was wrapped around the mortal's body, ensnaring him.
"No. This isn't…This isn't possible. How can my fate be tied to a mortal's? There must be some mistake," he protested, his voice quiet with disbelief. But he knew that wasn't true. A red string of fate could not be faked.
The theory went that a red string, invisible to the eye, connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break. It linked you with your soul mate, so to speak.
Sherlock had seen mortals completely wrapped up in them when he opened his mind to the human realm. Red strings spanned the entire globe of planet Earth. It was one giant web. Sherlock could not see his own, of course, until his brother, his other half, revealed it to him.
"It is possible, brother. The love between you and the mortal John Watson has been fated in the stars since the beginning of time. It is inescapable."
"But he is a mortal. I could never love a mortal." Sherlock's wings flared up as he stared down at the body at his feet. The man was 5'll, had light blonde hair, ocean-blue eyes, a round face, and a solidly built physique. He was nothing special. Not beautiful in any particular way. He could not believe that such an ordinary being was tethered to the end of his red string.
"He is not, ordinary, Sherlock, and you know it. Do you think just any ordinary human could ensnare the heart of an angel? And you at that? The coldest of all us angels. You said it yourself. The man is pure of heart. There is no other mortal like him."
"Then tell me what I am supposed to do here, Mycroft. How does finding this mortal help me regain entry to heaven?"
Mycroft smiled, walking around Sherlock to stand next to John. "You may think him ordinary now, not much to look at, but there will come a day when none will be more beautiful to you than him. Not even God himself. You need him as much as he needs you. Which is why you're here."
Mycroft kneeled next to John. He touched his arm gently, awe coloring his face. "Look at him, Sherlock. He is broken. Not just in body, but in spirit. His heart may be pure, but his mind is not. He is faithless, but not only that, he is suffering. He is not happy. His days in the war have taken a toll on him. He is lacking the will to live." He looks up at Sherlock. "You must fix this. Fix his mind, make it as pure as his heart. He is your destiny. You must make him whole."
Sherlock bristled at the idea. "So I am to be a babysitter to this mortal?"
"No, Sherlock. You are to become his partner. And he yours. Because you see, dear brother, you need just as much help as he does. You may be pure of mind, but your heart is growing cold. You are losing your way and your faith. John Watson will help you find it. He will find your heart, and in many ways, he will become your heart. You two need each other, and when you find each other, without either of you noticing it, you will become whole again."
Sherlock frowned and pulled his wings back in. "My heart is fine, Mycroft. And what do you mean "find" each other. We already have, if you haven't noticed."
Mycroft shook his head and stood back up. "You were never supposed to meet here, Sherlock. It only goes to prove how strongly linked your fates are that you've broken the prophecies made of your initial meeting. You've found each other sooner than you should have."
"What are you saying?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, anger simmering in him again. He did not like asking his brother questions. He didn't like not understanding what was going on. He always knew. He'd never been in the dark before as he was right now.
Mycroft gave him a small, sad smile. "Part of your destiny is that you must find each other through trial. You, Sherlock, must become adapted to the human world before you meet John Watson. You must establish a life here. You must find a job that both interests you and does something for the common good of the mortals. And then, and only then, will you two meet again. From there, your relationship will grow."
Mycroft took a step closer to Sherlock, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I will not lie to you, brother. It will be difficult. The road ahead is dark. You will find many obstacles in the way of yours and John Watson's fate. You will have many battles to fight, but one thing you will not and cannot fight, is destiny. You two will be together. And when you fall in love, when you fulfill your destiny and become pure of heart again, you may return to heaven."
Sherlock looked at his brother's hand on his shoulder, and then back up to meet his eyes. He understood now. "You're going to make me forget this happened. You're going to make me forget everything you've said and shown me tonight." It wasn't a question. He should have realized as soon as Mycroft showed him the red string. You are never supposed to see your red string of fate until your destiny has been fulfilled.
Mycroft nodded, actually looking sorry. "You will remain an angel, of course, and still posses most of your powers. Your wings will be hidden to all, unless you choose to show them. You will know that you've been cast from heaven, but think the reason is only because of your anger and weakening faith. When the time comes that was written in the prophecies, you and John Watson will meet. From there, the road ahead is unclear to us, but the destination remains the same."
For the first time in awhile, Sherlock didn't know how to feel. But one emotion was easy enough to identify. He shook Mycroft's hand off, and took a step back. "You have betrayed me, brother. It is you who has gotten me cast down from the heavens and doomed me to a life with a mortal. For this, I will never forgive you."
A deep look of hurt crossed Mycroft's face. They may argue more than most of their brothers and sisters do, but they still loved each other dearly, as all angels do. He smiled softly, having already forgiven his brother for his cruel words. "I know you do not understand now, Sherlock, but one day you will. Soon enough, you will be thanking me."
Sherlock's gaze remained hard, not amused as his brother seemed to be. He crossed his arms over his chest and wrapped himself in his wings. "Get on with it then." He may forget all about this John Watson in a few moments, but he would not forget that it was his brother, Mycroft, his other half, that got him cast from heaven. He would not forgive him, ever, no matter what Mycroft said. He could never love a mortal.
Mycroft stepped forward, his wings suddenly appearing, warm amber in color. "Good luck, brother, and remember that what I've done has all been for you. Never forget that I, as well as all our brothers and sisters in heaven, love you, and will miss you dearly. Goodbye for now, dear brother."
Reaching forward, he gently touched his index and middle finger to Sherlock's forehead. The lids fell down over Sherlock's glacial eyes, and his body sagged. Mycroft caught him, and laid him down next to John Watson.
He stared for a moment at the pair, wrapped together and tangled in the red string of fate. He cocked his head. He, himself, did not quite understand the pairing. He would never condemn his brother to a life with a mortal if he had a choice. But this was different. He didn't know how yet, but he did know that one day he would be reunited with his brother, and Sherlock would be whole again. Happy again, as Sherlock had not been for many centuries. That knowledge was the only thing that gave Mycroft the power and will to cast his brother from heaven.
Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair, and then turned away from him. He grabbed onto the mortal, John Watson's, body, and disappeared, taking him home where he'd wake up tomorrow none the wiser, not knowing the fate that laid before him. The fate that spoke of a love story which none other would ever rival.
So, what did you think? Should I continue this story, or make it into a one-shot and focus more of my attention on my other story? Some of you may have noticed how close Sherlock and Mycroft seemed at first. I wanted to show how their relationship came to be so strained. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought and if I should continue or not.