AN I know I really shouldn't be starting a new story but the plot bunnies were attacking me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this.

I've written a second chapter but please review if you think I should continue. It's a season 3 AU and I'm planning to go all the way through while adding extra cases as well. I'd love to hear suggestions for the extra cases as well. Thanks.

Sherlock jumped. The wind rushed through his dark locks and his coat caught the downward breeze making it flap like a pair of wings. He heard John scream his name. It was all too quick, too fast to deduce. As Sherlock fell he remembered Moriarty's words. Sherlock had claimed to be on the side of angels. Moriarty had not known how accurate he had been.

Overwhelming light blinded his eyes as Sherlock suddenly appeared in a lush green garden. There were orchids and roses and tulips and bluebells and lilies and - STOP! There was too much. Too much information overloading his Mind Palace, the bright smells and colours intruding into his thoughts.

Then -

"Hello, Sherlock."

He turned. It was a man, tall with sandy brown hair. He had piercing silver eyes and wore a white suit. Pure white wings hung majestically from his shoulder blades, each feather shining with barely contained Grace and power. They had a magnificent wingspan of four metres - no, four point two, Sherlock noted.

"Michael," Sherlock replied shortly.

The archangel bowed his head in acknowledgement, his wings stretching out slightly and giving one wild erratic flap while he smiled warmly at the detective. Sherlock glanced around at the garden once more before resting his hands in his signature Belstaff, gazing at the archangel.

"I wasn't sure you'd agree to my terms," Sherlock told Michael coldly. "You did not reply to my last prayer."

Michael smiled and answered apologetically, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm a busy man. I receive over seventeen point four million prayers a day. It takes quite a filing system to get them sorted."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

Michael's smile dropped and he regarded Sherlock worriedly. "Are you sure you want to return, Sherlock? Your heaven is waiting upstairs for you. Nobody would judge you if seeked eternal salvation. You did just jump off a building after all."

"I had to," Sherlock informed him. "If I hadn't, John would have died. Better I be dead than him."

"He wishes he was dead right now," Michael told him quietly. "He's praying for you."

Oh god oh god oh god oh god sweet Jesus NO NO NO NO SHERLOCK NO OH GOD SHERLOCK NO PLEASE NO you can't be dead please don't don't don't don't please no god no please don't be dead Sherlock no no SHERLOCK SHERLOCK NO NO PLEASE BE ALIVE NO NO DON'T BE DEAD SHERLOCK NO NO OH GOD OH GOD NO...

The sobbing mental voice was projected through the room and Sherlock closed his eyes, pained. Michael watched him calmly before waving the voice away and it faded into the bright light and beautiful flowers.

"What do I do?" Sherlock eventually asked in a strangled voice. "Mycroft and Molly, they have my corpse."

"You told them you would survive," Michael remembered. "You said that when your body was taken in, you would live."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And I did not."

Michael looked around the garden cautiously before stepping closer and telling Sherlock quietly, "Look, Sherlock, as head archangel I can do stuff. I'm technically allowed to do whatever I want, leader of heavenly host and all."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Sherlock, if I accepted your soul into our ranks you would be able to be stationed back on Earth and live again."

"You mean...become...an angel."

"Yes," Michael agreed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "You want me as an angel." When the archangel nodded the detective snorted and turned away. "You're completely insane. I am not worthy to become an angel."

Michael smiled at him gently before laying a hand on his charge's shoulder. "Let me tell you something Sherlock. I have met and seen over ninety three thousand and fifty seven billion souls accepted into Heaven. Some are Christian. Some are not. Some are heroes and some are cowards. Sherlock Holmes, you are more than worthy of our ranks. You are courageous, clever and you sacrificed yourself to save three of your closest friends and you did it without a moment's hesitation. Now that - that is bravery. So Sherlock Holmes, it would be an absolute honour to accept your soul into Heaven's Host."

"What would happen if I said yes?" Sherlock questioned cautiously.

"I would replace your soul with holy Grace. You would memorise thirty thousand scriptures. You would be in service to me. You would be in service to God. And with your Grace shall come your wings and you shall be gifted with flight." Michael stated this as if it was rehearsed and said it firmly and without hesitation. Then he softened and said, "And in your service to me I would place you down on Earth in the Christian country of England and you would live amongst humans and there you would fight and condemn all who threaten Faith."

"How soon could I get back?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Today if I gifted you with Grace. You would become a lower Seraph immediately and be given passage out of the Northern gates down unto the Earth. And on the winds of ice and fire you will ride down to England and your wings shall be blessed with English Faith."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snapping, "Shut up, Michael, you sound like you're reciting from scripture."

"I am," Michael replied and he pulled out from his suit pocket an old parchment. "From Heaven's scribe himself, Metatron. He writes the word of God. And this is God's will."

Sherlock hesitated before asking, to confirm, "I'll see John again?"

"Of course."

"Then I say yes."

Michael grinned and placed one hand on Sherlock's forehead. Immediately Sherlock felt his insides burst into flame. A searing burning heat clawed at his heart and burned with the light of a thousand suns. Yet the heat did not hurt. It was warm and fresh and lovely like a summer breeze and hot water bottles and beautiful tea. When Sherlock looked up again, his senses were even more heightened than usual and he felt two extra limbs. He lifted his wings and spread them out and the archangel stared in awe at the majestic black wings stretched out into the sky before him. The feathers shone and shimmered nightingale blue in the light of Sherlock's Grace.

Michael had seen many angel wings in his time, yet Sherlock's had to be one of the most magnificent pair he had ever seen. They were almost as large as his own, but were sleek and built for a warrior. While Michael's wings were meant for intimidation and leadership, Sherlock's wings were meant for stealth and speed.

"How do you feel?" Michael questioned his newest angel.

Sherlock turned to him and replied, "Impossible."

Michael laughed and Sherlock, now able to hear his real voice, heard bells chime in time. "Well, brother, your vessel lies below on Earth. It is time for you to go to duty."

"Yes, brother," Sherlock replied, "And I am extremely grateful, Michael. I cannot thank you enough."

Sherlock turned to where the Northern gates stood in the distance and was about to take flight, but Michael grabbed his sleeve. When he glanced about, he saw the unreadable emotion in the archangel's eyes.

"Sherlock. Be warned, you can be recalled back to Heaven for duty. Just because I have stationed you on Earth does not mean you are there to stay. The Revelations approach and Raphael is restless. Have caution, brother."

Sherlock dipped his head before taking flight. He was returning to Earth.

...

Mycroft sat silently in his office, head in his hands. He had recently received the news about his little brother's swam dive off St. Bart's. It pained him and tore at his heart because it was his fault. It was his fault Moriarty had destroyed Sherlock's life. Now his little brother was dead. Sherlock had been moved from St. Bart's morgue to their family estate and was lying motionlessly in his childhood room. Molly Hooper had completed all the autopsy forms and reports for Mycroft and left the estate soon after, tears in her eyes

Mycroft could not understand Sherlock's message. Before his jump, Sherlock had sent him a text, just one word in capitals - 'ARCHANGEL'. The message did not make any sense. What did archangel mean? There was no code in the text, he was sure of it. And apparently Sherlock had told Molly Hooper very surely beforehand that he would survive the jump.

Mycroft sighed and stood, pouring another glass of his favourite whiskey and sighing, leaning back with one hand on his desk. His office door opened. The elder Holmes looked up then dropped his glass. Shards shattered on the wooden flooring. The golden alcohol pooled at his feet.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him cheerily, flexing his wings. "Now, let's get down to business."

AN Thank you so much for reading. It's my birthday as well today so if I could get ten reviews or more it would be my perfect present.

Please Review! Should I continue this?