The Angel Islington
Summary: Sherlock is the angel from Neverwhere, John is in the unfortunate position of knowing much more than he should.
Warning: No real warnings here, I don't think...
Disclaimer: Neverwhere is a brilliant book, by Neil Gaiman, it is well worth a read. Everything else belongs to BBC and Arthur Conan-Doyle. The poem/song comes from the book but that was taken from a 1600 poet.
AN: I listened to the BBC radio production of Neverwhere a little while ago, Benedict Cumberbatch plays the Angel Islington and he sings/whispers the poem. It's a brilliant series though I can't seem to find the episodes anywhere... Anyway, if you do happen to find them, I would recommend a listen whole heartedly.
"Why do you insist on calling me by a name which is false?" The angel sighed wearily. They had been through his conversation many times and his human flatmate had yet to give a satisfactory answer. John stood his ground.
"Why do you insist you mean me no harm?" He retorted. Islington stretched his wings out, the feathers brushing the far corners of the room. This doctor was no fool, he had seen right though the warm voice and pleasant smiles to the twisting lies underneath.
"I once told you that I was on the side of the angels but not one of them." He hummed, sounding lost in his recollection. "I dread to inform you that it is indeed the exact opposite which is the case." John's eyes softened, not the usual response to being told he was sharing air with a villain.
"I refuse to believe that's true." He answered. "You are far better a man that any I have met." The soldier was hurled across the room with a mighty blow, crashing into the peeling wallpaper with enough force to make the whole room shake.
"I am no man." The angel growled, accentuating every syllable. John's shallow breathing was the only indication that he had survived the hit, he felt his energy seep out of his every pore, leaving him with barely the ability to expell teh air from his lungs. His flatmate swooped beside him, lifting him up as though he were naught but a feather.
"I am sorry, John." He purred with hooded eyes, "I really do mean it when I say I mean you no harm. My temper gets the better of me around you; I should not show such emotions." The doctor moaned softly, thanking his lucky stars that he could still feel his legs.
"Oh John, you must know I could never do that to you. And, if by chance, I did, I would always fix you afterwards." He chuckled lowly, amused by a joke known only to himself.
This wasn't how John had envisioned the confrontation would go. He had found out about Sherlock's true identity quite by accident. There had been pointers though; Sherlock's ever increasing mood swings, his ability to appear from a blocked alleyway, his agility, his strange ways, the feathers. Oh God, the near endless supply of random feathers which appeared at irregular intervals, seemingly from nowhere. It really was amazing that he hadn't been caught out sooner. John huffed a laugh, realising that this angel had been caught out, many times, in fact. The thing was that he got rid of those who knew before they could say anything. It was a pretty farfetched story to believe in the first place, that Sherlock was actually an angel who was meant to guard over Atlantis but ultimately failed so watched over some place called Bottom London until he was cast into an alternate universe by a door. John shook his head, what he knew was only hear-say but that sounded crazier than he was willing to believe. Still, the fact was that Sherlock was an angel. And now that John knew, he wasn't going to be in the land of the living much longer. The doctor briefly wondered if his skull would join the one on the mantel piece, Sherlock had said it belonged to a friend. John was brought out of his thoughts by a haunting tune.
"If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon,
Then every night and all,"
The doctor turned to see where the sound was coming from, for he knew only one person whose voice was low enough to sing it. The door to his prison opened slowly, granting entrance to the angel. Sherlock smiled as he took a step into the darkened room.
"Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christ receive thy soul." He crooned, staying by the threshold and blocking the only exit. John felt his muscles tense in anticipation, waiting for the end. The angel finally took a another step into the room, closing the door behind him.
"Lie down, John." He offered in a breathy whisper, gesturing to the bed. The doctor tried hold in ground, warily staying in the opposite corner.
"I have questions." He ejected. Islington cocked his head in amusement but conceded and glided to sit on the bed himself. He patted the covers next to him, folding his wings back to allow space.
"Then I shall answer all I am able." He purred. "But please, rest."
The two males fell into a staring match, one which the angel won. John sighed and tiptoed over to the bed, as though making a sound would break this careful balance of power they had set up between themselves. The doctor arranged himself so he was facing his flatmate, a metre away. Not much good if the angel decided to kill him but it made him feel a little safer all the same.
"Ask away." The taller male said airily, waving a delicate hand. John licked his lips.
"So how did you get here?" He enquired, it was not the question he truly wanted to get answered but it was a start. Islington smiled.
"Through a door, by Door. I find that doors are all around; and yet not the one I seek. She was a fickle creature." He hummed. The doctor nodded, having no clue what his flatmate/captor was on about.
"So where were you before?" He asked, "What was it like?" The angel chuckled.
"I have been many places. My first was a beautiful kingdom but it drowned in waters I could not protect from, my second was a lowly place of Below London where I dwelled for an eternity until Door arose. My final place of resting in here; that much you know. I find that all places are the same, just a dwelling. I cannot say that I could describe any of them to you now, for my memories are locked away, safe."
John shuffled, feeling his leg twinge in discomfort. The other male eyed him.
"You should rest." He suggested. "I will answer more in the morning." John snorted.
"I don't think so; you're planning to kill me." He huffed. The angel looked affronted.
"I would do no such thing." He growled, feathers rising like the heckles on a cat. The doctor laughed again.
"You killed everyone else who found out. Why wouldn't you kill me too?" He said, more annoyed that the angel was trying to lie again than anything else.
"I did not kill everyone, I killed those not worthy of knowing." Islington replied. "There is one I have found worthy whom you know, the morgue girl."
"Molly?" John asked, Sherlock had never treated that girl with any respect but she loved him anyway. It was a bitter twist of fate, and one which the doctor had tried to rite several times by getting the detective to be nice to her.
"Yes, she is so much like Door in appearance, but nothing like her in mind." Something clicked in John's mind. Door is a person! Suddenly, everything his captor was saying made a little more sense.
"What kind of a name is 'Door'?" He asked himself. A chuckle told him he had accidently said that out loud.
"It is a name just like any other, of a girl wishing to solve her fathers' death in the hope it brings her a peace that is just fiction, while also avoiding a death of her own." He sighed and leaned back. "But that is off my original subject, you are weary. Please rest. I shall be here in the morning and we can continue."
Despite his best efforts, John soon found himself trapped beneath the covers of a bed which was not his own. Why Sherlock-Islington had chosen his room instead of John's was a mystery. The angel stood over him, in a manner which was creepy by all accounts. His eyes bored into the soldier, never blinking and never looking away.
"Sleep, John." He purred in tones of velvet. "I shall sing you off to dreams." The soldier felt as though he had been given a sleeping draft, he could barely keep his eyes open. Something in his head screamed that it was an effect of the angel's voice, but John knew that couldn't be the case. Surely not.
"This aye night, this aye night,
Every night and all.
Fire and fleet and candle-leet,
And Christ receive thy soul."
As the covers heated with the radiating warmth of his body, John sank faster into his mind, slipping away from the frail world of reality. The soldier in him fought hard to stay awake, but ultimately it was a battle he couldn't win. And even as he faded into his subconscious, John knew that he would never again wake.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
Then every night and all,
The fire shall make thee shriek;
And Christ receive thy soul.
"Sweet dreams, John."
AN- So guys, what do you think? I'm wondering about making this multichapter... Tell me if you think I should. Please? I'll give you my eternal love and hypothetical cookies!