aka "Sherlock Holmes: Porn Angel Extraordinaire"
I will be cutting out the more raunchy sections as they come, as per FFN's shitty standards, but rest assured that the full version can be found from the AO3 link on my profile : ))
Sherlock Holmes' first Earthly thought was, 'Shit.' His second Earthly thought was that it was very cold, which led immediately to his third Earthly thought: 'Fuck.'
He had landed in the middle of an asphalt street, the rocks and sticks on the ground poking painfully into his arse as he sat and thought; he couldn't even revel in feeling anything right now for his preoccupied mind. It was dark, but there were streetlamps. So it was a well-populated area. Then why was he alone?
He needed to get out of the populated areas, and fast. On instinct, he stretched his wings, gasping in pain when the right one twinged in aggravation. "Don't be broken," he pleaded to no one in particular, touching the twisted feathers and noting their off-white tinge. Well, he didn't have all the time in the world to fix it, but he had even less time to stay where he was. Wherever that was. Deductions should (and would) take precedence.
There was snow on the ground. A lot of snow. So, Northern Hemisphere. The street signs were in English… he looked around for a more obvious sign. Ah, there: Good Favour Lane. Britain, one of his favourite places on this Godforsaken planet.
Sherlock pushed himself up with quickly numbing hands, a little wobbly on his new feet, but determined to move. Naked, wet, cold, frail and alone, he wasn't eager to be found by anyone with more lecherous intentions, even if he did want—
He snapped his fingers, delightfully surprised when the action conjured the parchment it was supposed to. His Fall hadn't stripped him of any powers, he still had his wings, and his heart didn't have that sinking, aching feeling that preceded a one-way trip to Purgatory. All in all, a great deal.
He scanned his list with a thoughtful expression, his otherworldly bright blue-green eyes narrowing at the line at the bottom in a much neater handwriting than his scrawl:
Do try to take care of yourself. M
Mycroft was still meddling, even after Sherlock had been banished. Would he ever stop? A dark chuckle rose from his throat, accompanied by a wicked twist to his lips. Mycroft could meddle all he wanted, but Sherlock was free.
He jumped up, whooping loudly as he hadn't since he was young, stopping abruptly when it jarred his injured wing. "Fuck," he said aloud, staggering into a pitch alleyway. "Damn."
Right above him, there was a window open. The lights were off and Sherlock could smell someone inside; from the deep, even sound of their breathing, they were asleep. All else was quiet. Steeling himself, Sherlock took a few steps back to have a running start at the third-floor window, beating his wings until he was through the window and then crumpling to the cold wooden floor in agony. He bit his lip to reign in his screams, a flicker of regret passing through him. He came to the land of the living to feel, but so far, there was only pain. Maybe the Humans did have something to complain about.
The Human in the room—a man, Sherlock realized as he crawled a bit closer—was still asleep. There was a faint line between his eyebrows, hinting at distress, but when Sherlock curiously touched his forehead there was no rush of senses. That worked well enough on dead Humans. Or maybe he had lost that ability.
Sherlock wandered around the man's flat for a while, finding an aid kit but unable to work on his wing from his angle, running hot water from the tap through his dry, matted hair, staring in the mirror for an inordinate amount of time (his body was better than he could have hoped for, if a bit gaunt and pale), and finally working his way back to the man's room and into his closet.
Dr. John Watson. Sherlock flipped through his wallet, closing it with a snap and tossing it onto the dresser. Interesting. This "Dr. Watson" was shorter than Sherlock's new body by a generous amount, so he didn't have much in the way of clothes for Sherlock to choose from. The Angel made do with a pair of sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt (his body had much narrower shoulders than most Human men he had seen), sliding on the trousers and fingering the shirt lightly. He padded back out of the Human's room in search of a knife or some scissors.
When he was near-to-comfortable, the shirt sporting a large hole in the back for his wings to rest comfortably and a pleasant-smelling afghan spread over his legs, he was struck with the agonizing realization that his halo was gone. He hadn't felt it when he washed his hair, or when he pulled the shirt over his head. He covered his mouth with his hands to prevent himself from being sick. "Fuck," he whispered again.
If that simple golden ring was gone, then Sherlock was a presence on Earth. A potentially permanent presence.
The man, Dr. John Watson, came out of his room right at that moment and Sherlock froze, eyes wide. One thing after another was delaying the completion of his list. Must have been Mycroft's doing.
Dr. Watson stared at the couch, seeming to look right through him, before shaking his head and walking into the kitchen. Sherlock exhaled heavily, a satisfied smile playing on his full lips. The Human couldn't see him—Molly, one of the younger Angels made to deal with deceased Humans, would say that it was a good thing Dr. Watson didn't go through anything traumatic enough to see him. Sherlock scoffed at the thought. Trauma was all Humans had going for them.
He snapped his fingers again, snatching the parchment and pen deftly out of the air and sucking the top of the pen in thought. It had always helped him to lay out the facts, and his sudden (and painful) expulsion from Heaven needed a lot of thought.
1. Mycroft is a stupid bastard.
He stared at number one for a long moment, a pleased smile on his face, before continuing:
2. Lucifer questioned, I merely observed.
Perhaps that's why he was on Earth, instead of in Hell or Purgatory or simply Out. It was definitely why his most important appendage was missing.
3. God is angry with me.
God was always angry with Sherlock, so that didn't come as a surprise.
4. I don't know whether or not I can go home.
That one was frightening. He only intended to visit, have a bit of sex, drink a bit of coffee, and pop back. From the greyish tinge to his wings, it seemed that "popping back" was going to take manipulation, effort, and time. More time than he was willing to wait.
5. I can stay at this Human's house, because he can't see me.
All in all, good. The fewer Humans that could see him, the better (unless, of course, they were up for a shag).
6. I have been on Earth for five hours and I have not had sex once.
His train of thought was interrupted when Dr. Watson came back into the room, holding a steaming cup of tea and staring into the nothingness that occupied Sherlock's seat. "I suppose you'd want to know what I'm doing here," Sherlock said pleasantly.
Dr. Watson frowned and turned away, his gaze instead settling on the desk drawer opposite Sherlock. After his extensive search, Sherlock knew what that drawer contained: Sellotape, pens, pencils, a notepad, a laptop, and…
The air seemed to have been stolen from Sherlock's lungs (he never thought he would feel that, and now that he had, he never wanted to again). There was also a firearm. From the slight tremor in Dr. Watson's left hand and the way his eyes went cold, Sherlock could tell that was the only item in the drawer he was thinking about. "Killing yourself is not a good idea," Sherlock offered in an uneasy voice.
His unheard statement seemed to strike a chord somewhere within Dr. Watson. His deep blue eyes shifted to the window and Sherlock was able to take a breath again. "You wouldn't happen to have any fags, would you?" he murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and ignoring the burning behind his eyes when his wing screamed at him, once again angry at being jostled. "You wouldn't be able to…" he swallowed hard, "to help me?"
Dr. Watson stood and left the room and Sherlock was left alone again.
He went back to his list.
7. I think my wing is broken.
Not good. Really not good. If it healed in the wrong way, he would be crippled forever (if he was even still immortal).
8. I'm not sure if I'm still immortal.
He certainly didn't want to die from gonorrhea or AIDS or anything terrible like that, but he wanted to have a lot of sex and didn't have any money for protection. The Humans who could give him what he wanted would most likely not be the cleanest. Heavy trauma messed Humans up in a way much worse than just physically.
9. I want to know what sex is like.
This item was redundant, as he already had another list of things he wanted to do while on Earth, but he felt as if it deserved repeating.
10. I want to know why Dr. John Watson looks so sad.
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