A/N: So I'm not sure whether to continue with this story. Leave me a review and any ideas that you might have for future chapters and I'll try to work it in. :)
John had always known that Sherlock was special; after all, not many people got assigned their very own guardian angel. John had been given very specific instructions to keep an eye on him at all times, This child is going to be very important one day, he had been told by his commander, You mustn't let anything happen to him; watch him at all times. John had momentarily wondered what it was that this unborn child was supposed to accomplish one day, but was too well trained to voice such an impertinent question.
He had known Sherlock before he was even born, whispering into barely-formed ears as the child floated inside his watery cocoon, assuring Sherlock of his presence and promising that he would always be safe. John liked to pretend that Sherlock could understand him, and would while away the time counting every beat of that tiny quivering heart.
When Sherlock was born, he seemed almost like every other baby John ever seen (and he had seen all of them throughout his eternal existence); squalling and red-faced, with a shock of dark hair on top of his soft head, mottled pink skin and pudgy limbs that reminded him of artists' renditions of cherubs (inaccurate though they were). But there was something different about John's charge; Sherlock seemed to possess an awareness lacking in most infants, a concentration in those blue eyes, eyes that were never fuzzy or unfocused and seemed to see through everyone around him. It was disconcerting to the nanny who had been hired to care for the newborn, but his parents apperared unaffected, mostly because they were never around him for long.
John would spend his days hovering in Sherlock's nursery, an invisible observer who never seemed to tire of listening to the gurgling and baby gibberish that constantly emanated from the crib. Besides, Sherlock was so often left alone that John felt sorry for the child (and not a little angry at the parents for ignoring their new son so completely), and would often interact with Sherlock. John would coo to his tiny charge, manifesting himself into a form that was comprehensible to humans, but only when he was sure no one would walk in unexpectedly. He would tell Sherlock what it was like in Heaven, stories about his countless brothers and sisters and of things he had seen on earth throughout his existence. Sherlock would listen, rapt, as John's words washed over him, not understanding the meaning but enjoying the cadence of his angel's voice.
The day that Sherlock first touched John was one he would never forget. He had been gesticulating as he told Sherlock of the Ark (for he remembered it was one that children typically seemed to enjoy) and the logistics involved when attempting to fit two of every animal on one boat. His hand had unintentionally drifted close to the wriggling bundle inside the open crib, when he felt a tiny hand clasp around one finger. John stopped midsentence, seemingly at a loss for words at the unexpected contact. As the dimpled hand continued to hold onto his index finger, John found himself surprised at the sensation of physical contact. As an angel, he was largely incorporeal, and, although he could make himself tangible if he so chose, the nature of his duties generally did not require for him to manifest himself. As such, he had never had physical contact with another being outside of battle, and certainly not with a human.
Sherlock's touch brought an unbidden smile to John's face, stretching the skin on the face of this physical form in unfamiliar — although not unpleasant — ways. He could feel a blossom of warmth that he recognized as love spread through his chest as he saw Sherlock give him a toothless grin in return. It was in this moment that John knew, with every fiber of his being, that this was the happiest moment in his existence.