A.N.: Yeah... so I don't really know where this came from. It's kind of an impulse that came to me after watching Skellig and then splurging this on my phone. I suppose it's kind of an AU, but I'm not really sure how this fantasy world works.
Warning: References to drinking, injury, fire.
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.
Where is she?
The words revolved around his consciousness, the only thought he seemed capable of at that moment in time. He supposed that he should be scared, or worried, or... something other than the intense calm that he was feeling at the moment, at the centre of this burning building. Yet his body wouldn't let him feel anything other than this all-consuming faith that was driving out his fear.
He didn't know how he had ended up in this situation; his memory was failing him somewhat, but, much like the flames flickering all around him, that fact didn't bother him in the slightest.
She wasn't there at the moment. But that didn't matter.
She'd be there.
Soon.
"Hey!"
The words came to him from seemingly very far off, muffled as though he were underwater. He twisted and turned in his position on the floor, but he couldn't see the owner of the voice, until a face - that familiar face - appeared before him.
She had come to him a few months before, out of the blue. He had never seen her before, and she had no reason to be in his office. He wasn't even sure how she had got in, but there she was. And there she had been ever since, watching over him, making him feel safe - giving him faith.
She had been there when he they had argued, again, and he had tried to lick his wounds with a tongue covered in whiskey. She had taken the bottle from his shaking hands and held him in her arms for just as long as he'd needed her, before disappearing once more. Even then, he had known that she hadn't left him. She was still there, somewhere.
Somehow.
And she was here now. She was leaning over him, with her brown hair and her slightly freckled complexion, her unconventional beauty that wasn't necessarily breath-taking but was undoubtedly there, and her gorgeous, soft, light, feathered wings protruding from her back.
She was here to rescue him.
"Come on," she breathed, groaning with the effort of heaving him into a sitting position. Only when he was standing did he realise that he wasn't actually injured; he just needed to get out of here...
She led him to the side of the room, where the windows looked out over an impressive view of London, a picturesque city when lit up like a Christmas tree with artificial lights. They were twenty storeys high. They would need those wings.
She was breaking the window. It was putting up a fight. He knew that he wouldn't be able to help her; she was far stronger than he. He stood back and let her work, watching the muscles in her arms work as she battered the glass, until it gave way under the force of her power, shards plummeting down to the ground below.
A harsh gust of wind rushed through the gap and breathed new life into the fire, so that the flames became more violent and more threatening.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the gap, before jumping...
They were flying. People were tiny dots on the pavement below, working to put out the fire as it raged on. But it was in this moment that he gained his first, and only, reason to fear: from above him, there was a terrifying scream.
He looked up, and gawped at the sight that met his eyes: one of her wings, one of her beautiful wings, had caught the flames, and was burning bright against the dark night sky. Her features were fixed in pain, but she seemed determined to carry on.
"Put me down!" he shouted, to make himself heard over the flapping of her wings.
"I'm not going to drop you! Don't worry."
"I am not worried about you dropping me! I trust you completely," he told her. He paused for a moment as the reality of his words hit him. He had never trusted someone completely before; not for an awfully long time. "You are injured! Let me help you!"
Her eyes grew wide in disbelief, and she looked down at him with an expression that was just the right mixture of surprise and gratitude that it made his heart break. She spent all her time helping others, but no one had ever thought to return the favour.
She nodded once, changing course to take them to what he guessed would be her home.
They were flying straight towards a block of flats, a middle floor – much like the one that they had left – and he found himself surprised that this was where she lived; not that he had put much thought into where she lived, he realised with a pang of guilt. She crashed through the window to her flat, dropping him to the floor and falling on her front. Her wing was still ablaze, but there was a fire extinguisher on the wall. He grabbed it and put the flames out, leaving behind a charred, smoking feathered appendage. She was whimpering in pain.
He knelt down beside her shaking form, where she had buried her face in her arm and was gasping with the shock.
"Tell me how to fix this," he whispered gently, afraid to touch her in case he caused her more pain.
"In... the cupboard," she gasped. "There's an... ointment."
He was on his feet immediately, shedding his jacket as he made it to the cupboard. He wrenched open the door and gaped at the various ointments inside.
"Which one?"
"Pink!" she cried, and he tore the only pink bottle in sight from the cupboard and rushed back to her side.
"Will it hurt?" he asked, wondering why he was suddenly concerned with such trivial things, why he was letting sentiment in.
"Don't think about that," she told him. "Just... put it on. Please."
Sighing, but knowing that it was exactly how he would have acted had he been in a similar situation, he opened the bottle and emptied out a generous portion of the contents into his palm, before gently applying it to the burns.
She cried out once more, her hands balling into fists and her entire body tensing. He almost stopped, but knew that it was far worse to stop than to continue. A little pain now would save her a lot later. When he had used all of the ointment in his hand, he went to apply more, but she shook her head.
"That's enough," she gulped, her voice gravelly. She lifted her head and rested her cheek on her arm, so that he could see her face. There were wet tracks down her face, and her eyes were glistening with tears.
He sat, transfixed, for a moment, staring at those signs of agony that, up to this point, he hadn't believed her capable of feeling.
He had thought her invincible.
He had been wrong.
"Bandages," she said after a while, tearing him out of his reverie. She had a small smile on her face, one that he couldn't help mirroring.
He nodded once, and returned to the cupboard to replace the ointment and retrieve the dressings.
Bandages in hand, he returned to her side and tentatively began wrapping them around the injured wing.
"Ow," she groaned, her eyes closing for a brief moment before she opened them again to watch him as he worked.
He was as gentle as he could be, but he had never been the most gentle of people and wasn't sure how good a job he was doing.
When he had finished, he took a moment to admire his handiwork. It was pathetic, no touch on the standard of work his brother's flatmate could produce; but, then again, he had been a professional, so maybe he shouldn't beat himself up so much...
"Thank you," she smiled, and he smiled back. How long had it been since he had smiled? It hurt, but it was worth it.
He leaned down to the injured wing, and gently brushed his lips over the bandage. She sighed contentedly, and her eyes slipped closed.
"You need rest," he murmured into the feathers, finding with a touch of surprise that they weren't tickling his nose, unsure of where this medical knowledge was coming from.
"Hmm..." she agreed, making no effort to move.
That smile was tugging at his lips again. "Do you want me to take you to bed?"
"No, it's okay, thank you. I'll stay here. You take the bed."
"People might talk," he smirked.
"People do little else," she replied.