His Guardian Angel.
John watched as his best friend plummeted from the edge of the roof. He pushed himself to run, even as he saw Sherlock strike the ground and heard the imagined crunch of bone breaking.
He toppled over as a passing cyclist hit him. He slowly stood, ears ringing, and staggered the rest of the way. People were already gathered around Sherlock, blocking his way.
Blood was pooling beneath Sherlock's head, his life leaking onto the pavement. John forced his way through, repeatedly saying that he was a doctor and his friend.
Finally, John reached Sherlock's side. He took his hand, pressing his fingers to his pulse point, and felt nothing! He closed his eyes, sorrow freezing his own heart.
'Please,' he silently pled. 'Let whatever grace I possess pass to him!'
But the skin beneath his fingers did not move. Did not warm. Did not change. Somebody pulled him away from the dying man who needed him and Sherlock, body broken and limp, was moved to a stretcher and taken away.
John stared at the blood staining the concrete and a sob caught in his throat.
"I failed."
oOoOo
Days later, John sat in Mycroft's car, staring out the window as they slowly drove to the graveyard.
He didn't know why he was still there. He'd failed his mission. He should have already been called back.
Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his knee and squeezed. He moved his own hand, from the opposite elbow, and placed it over hers and squeezed. She did not have herself to blame for Sherlock's death, but she felt almost as much grief as John did.
Mycroft sat on Mrs Hudson's other side. He seemed nearly lost and helpless without his brother. He only made John feel worse for failing his mission. Especially when the man had desperately begged for John to say that he had somehow saved his brother. Mycroft knew there was something different about the doctor, just not what.
The car came to a stop and John opened his door, stepping out. He helped Mrs Hudson out and she had her arm through his as they walked to the grave that had very recently been filled. Mycroft followed silently behind. No one else had been to Sherlock's funeral. Greg had said the Yard had refused to allow him to attend. Molly had been hidden in her flat since she had found out.
Sherlock's brother said not a word as he stood at Sherlock's grave. His face twisted in anger as he stared down at the words before him. The usually stoic man gripped his hands into fists. Watching, John realized what Mycroft was feeling. He was angry at his brother for dying. The man turned and swiftly returned to the car.
John and Mrs Hudson spoke quietly and she too eventually left him alone with the block of marble. He found himself unable to speak, throat clogged with apologies, confessions, and tears. He rested his hand on the cold stone and prayed once more, begging to have his friend back.
oOoOo
Every day since Sherlock had died, John had sat in his chair, waiting, watching. Either he would be called up or Sherlock would return. Hopefully. The only other time he'd left was for the funeral and he'd quickly returned to be disappointed that there had been no change.
The night after the funeral, John slumped in his chair, unwilling to move. He'd not felt so weary since he himself had returned. Almost against his will, he soon found himself slumbering.
He was awoken by the very solid weight that seemed to fall on him, the warm bare skin that pressed against him, and the tickle of feathers. John jerked awake and gazed with wonder at the occupant of his lap.
Sherlock Holmes had returned. He lay, curled up in John's lap, unconscious. He was completely naked, skin nearly translucent. Solid black wings sprung from his back, endlessly twitching as their owner slept.
John carefully moved his hand to touch the pale man's cheek, to prove to himself that he was real, but Sherlock jolted awake, hand trapping John's wrist before he could touch him.
"Sorry that I'm late."
Both men looked up from staring at each other and saw the man dressed in an immaculate cream suit in the middle of the room. The glowing man. With wings.
"Hello again, John," the angel spoke, voice seeming like light itself. "I believe you know why I'm here."
John nodded, absently clutching a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, but not giving him any more than that of his attention. "My petition was granted."
Sherlock looked back at John in disbelief, but then the man that was defying all logic by existing began to speak again.
"It wasn't just your plea, Guardian," the angel said, seating himself in Sherlock's chair. "The human race is better off with Sherlock Holmes alive. It is why you were saved and sent back. Without you, he is aimless."
Even as Sherlock opened his mouth, he felt John's hand dig into his shoulder. He glanced up and saw John shake his head minutely.
"Thank you, Andrew," John said. "I will instruct him in our ways."
"See that you do," Andrew nodded. He looked down his long nose at Sherlock. "You will be discreet about our existence, fledgling."
"He will," John answered for him quickly, so that Sherlock wouldn't.
Andrew nodded before disappearing as fast as he had appeared. John sighed, relieved the angel was gone.
"John?"
"That was Andrew, the archangel who directs guardian angels," John informed him. "That's what I am. And now, what you are."
"An angel?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "I don't even believe in-"
"Did you see anything while you were dead?" John interrupted, voice cracking on the final word. "Did you speak to anyone?"
Sherlock blinked. He had spoken to some…thing. It had had a voice, but no body. And it had told him to go back to John. "Yes," he said softly.
John nodded. "I know, because that happened to me as well. When I was shot in Afghanistan, I died. They changed me into an angel and told me to watch for the man who would need me. And then you came along."
Sherlock shivered and snuggled closer to John's body. "Why am I so cold?" he whispered.
"Well, you're naked," John replied, holding him. "But it's also because you just came back. Your body wasn't working for three days. Hold on a second."
John stood, Sherlock still cradled in his arms. Sherlock flailed, wings flapping from the unexpected move.
"Sherlock! Hold still!" John said roughly, holding him tighter. Sherlock stilled slowly and John moved them to Sherlock's room. He lay the new angel on the bed and pulled the comforter over him.
"How?"
John sat on the bed beside his friend. "Angels are much stronger than humans. And you're not exactly heavy."
Sherlock nodded, mind already analysing what that meant. One of his feathers caught his eye. He carefully pulled it from the blanket and twisted it between his fingers.
"Are we capable of flight?" he asked.
John nodded. "Yours aren't yet, but you just returned. The muscles must be strengthened."
"And the colours of the feathers…Do they have any meaning?"
John blinked. "Sherlock, are you asking if black feathers make you evil?"
Sherlock looked up at him, eyes intense. "Do they?"
"No," John said vehemently. "We're finishing our first lives. We're not fully angels yet. After we 'die,' they'll make us full angels, depending on how we lived."
"So we can die?" Sherlock asked.
John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Sherlock, go to sleep. We'll talk when you wake up."
Sherlock fought it, but fell asleep quickly. It didn't surprise John, who remembered those absent days he'd spent in a desert hospital recovering from both being injured and transforming into an angel. With a last stroke of the soft ebony feathers, John stood. It was time to offer some explanation to the one human who could help them. God, he hated talking to Mycroft!
He absently smiled, though. The hurt he had been partly responsible for to the Holmes family would be healed. Sherlock was back.
Okay! Just got a Tumblr! For news on updates and a lot of random things (including reblogged Johnlock fanart) come find me. I use the same name there and the title of the blog is I'm Annoying My Roommate. Don't forget to review and maybe come find me so that I won't be alone tumblin'!