In The Last Dark Hour Chapter I

Notes: Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive. Re-posted from Sherlock_bbc meme. Unbeta'd.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too.

John Watson sat at the end of his bed on his beige duvet in his dull, brown room. It was a grey day and he felt empty. This was the way it would always be – that yawning void within when he was not on assignment. He wondered if Michael would call. His last assignment had ended when he'd taken a bullet, slowing down his charges from walking in to an ambush that would have taken their lives. He should have felt satisfied - his job done. But it was always a loss to be parted from one's charges. The empathic bond that formed between guardian and change was one of the great blessings of his existence, something precious to be nurtured and cultivated. It was its own summons to a charge in distress and a balm to his spirit when his charge was content. Then he heard it – Michael's distinctive melodic voice. He was being called, sounded urgent, probably dangerous.

He lay down on the bed fully, closed his eyes and reached back into his mind to Michael's voice. He shifted up through the fissures in space and time to where Michael awaited. He wasn't the only one there – he recognised Sheppard's unruly mop of black hair. They'd met in Afghanistan. Watson had managed to save his charges, all of them; Sheppard had lost three. He looked wrecked.

"You're both being reassigned." Michael was always to the point, a quality more mortals could stand to emulate. Sheppard's relief and worry was obvious and he felt no different. Michael looked to him.

"33. Sherlock Holmes. Genius. Reformed junkie. Self-proclaimed sociopath. Probability statistics suggest a 95% chance of death in three months. Prevent it."

Michael transferred the remaining information to him. This wasn't going to be easy. John was always eager for a challenge but a sociopath? "Could it be worse?" he wondered. Michael turned to Sheppard:

"37. Rodney McKay. Genius. Poor people skills. Probability statistics suggest a 98% chance that he'll destroy 5/6ths of a solar system within eighteen months."

John paused in processing the data on his charge. Well, he considered, apparently it could be worse, much worse.

Back in the brown, cramped room, John contemplated the best approach to take to Sherlock. Every charge was different. Assimilation into each of their lives was variable but John's medical training favoured introduction as a doctor, though on his last assignment, John had been more than that, he was a comrade in arms. He'd found that role particularly fulfilling. It was the limited future projections' data flowing from his charge's 5% survival rate that got John rather enthused. That data strongly suggested an 86% probability that Sherlock would have a substantial positive impact on hundreds of other lives, if he survived to 40 (with a 2% chance of survival to that age), and on thousands - if he survived to 60 (0.13% survival rate). He would become a powerful force against evil and wrongdoing (in 91% of instances) but he hadn't yet committed himself by his own choice to this path. The next three months were absolutely critical. If he died, these lives would remain untouched by him, very much for the worse and he would not have fulfilled even a shadow of his potential. Although the data on the projected impact of other lives, the ripple effect, was sketchy, it appeared that Sherlock was one of those rarest of rare charges - a lynchpin in the timeline – and it looked like he'd be John's sole charge for the foreseeable future. Michael's urgency made more sense. Lynchpins had to be given one's entire attention and if they became unhinged in the slightest, the result was catastrophic with far-reaching, long-lasting, crippling ripple effects.

The only other lynchpin John knew about had been Irene's charge back in the 80s. She's taken him on while he was a school-child but hadn't taken the bullying issue seriously enough. That had been the unhinging event and little James had taken another's life before he'd left primary school, his path fixed by that choice irrevocably.

The latest info on Sherlock suggested that he was looking for a place in the city to live. John knew why he'd been picked as guardian – Mike Stamford, his charge while training at St. Bart's (probability statistics suggested a 67% chance that the death of his mother would result in self-isolation and dropping out) was known to them both. Sherlock also made use of the research facilities at St. Bart's. John could go in as Mike's colleagues, start up at Bart's - there was an opening in pathology. It would bring him in contact with the charge on a weekly basis. It would be easy enough to offer the usual unsolicited medical advice and adopt a paternal persona. John rejected the idea readily enough – Sherlock hadn't got on with his father, appeared to have consistent trouble with authority figures and his relationship with his elder brother was highly acrimonious at best. No paternal was not the way to go and clearly fraternal wasn't either but that left John with only one option: friend.

How do you befriend a self-proclaimed sociopath? The clear answer to John was that you didn't, but you could make yourself useful to them - become so utterly indispensable that they knew they wouldn't be able to do without you. And Sherlock needed a flatmate. Perfect. Now, all John had to do was "coincidentally" bump into Mike while he took lunch in Postman's Park, suggest he needed a flatmate and that he was having difficulties and he knew Mike would try to 'casually' introduce him to his charge. No, thought John, that wouldn't be enough. Sherlock needed a challenge. He needed to think that he had chosen John as his flatmate, rather than it being Mike's choice, and he needed a reason to do so. The man seemed to thrive on a challenge, particularly mental challenges, being proven right and showing he was better than others. John would just have to give him such a challenge. The shinning metal of his crutch caught his eye and John found himself smiling.

Sherlock had taken the bait. He'd picked up on the psychosomatic limp within scant minutes of meeting him. John was now one of his projects – he had no doubt that Sherlock would make his first attempt to "cure" him within the next twenty-four hours. John packed his jumpers and the rest of his clothing into his duffle bag. It was 5 o'clock now, he'd be meeting Sherlock in a couple of hours at Baker St. and he would move in to 221b by tomorrow morning. He wondered if it would be worthwhile letting Sherlock succeed in curing him on his first attempt – which would probably involve the 17 stairs to the flat he proposed sharing or if he should make him work a bit harder? John's limp would slow Sherlock down and he didn't think the Detective would be the type to wait around. If he didn't allow Sherlock's efforts to bear some kind of fruit, it was likely that Sherlock would get suspicious but if he was cured three minutes with Sherlock after months of therapy, that would be equally suspicious surely? There was only one thing for it then, he'd have to let himself get left behind – that would help convince Sherlock that John genuinely believed he couldn't walk but he'd probably only have to do it the once. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip into the core of himself where he heard Sherlock's pulse, the distant pull of his presence on the other side of the city and the slight echo of his feelings. The initial meeting with a charge and being in close physical proximity aided in the formation of the empathic bond. Frequency increased its strength though not its duration. The tenuous formation of that bond on reassignment left a feeling of completeness in John and he had been eager to meet Sherlock in the hospital yesterday to further it.

The greatest surprise from that introduction was the strength of Sherlock's feelings. Self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock may well be but a psychologist he most certainly was not. John had felt the wave of Sherlock's emotions crashing over him when he'd entered the room and had been wary of looking in his direction lest Sherlock noticed. The dominant emotion was curiosity. He never had a charge that experienced curiosity as a feeling, usually it was nothing more than a motivation but Sherlock hungered for knowledge as some of his last charges had lusted for women. The bond helped John see what Mike could not – Sherlock's self-diagnosis was just a front, a disguise to shield him from caring too much. All that curiosity, when sated, brought knowledge. That knowledge gave Sherlock an edge that almost made him the equal of one of Michael's data acquisition guardians. When John considered how Sherlock must appear to those without the private line to his inner workings he wasn't surprised that Sherlock would have chosen to close himself off thus. He knew he'd have to be extremely careful in all his dealings with Sherlock – all the records pointing to Sherlock's not inconsiderable intellect strongly supported John's conclusion that there was a very high risk of disclosure.

The rules on disclosure between charges and guardians were simple: laissez faire was not a policy that anyone adhered to but every effort had to go into its appearance. In short, John was left with a good deal of freedom in using his abilities with, for or on his charges, as long as no one knew they were used. It was a solution of which any mortal politician could be proud. Being a doctor was a terrific advantage in that regard, as he could use his healing abilities without raising any suspicion. His ability to fly was substantially less advantageous and he barely took the time to flex the ten metre span that was compressed into his body behind his shoulder blades for the twenty minutes everyday as recommended. The constant compression left his shoulders sore. John told himself that it wasn't worth the risk but mostly it was because he had always been a heavy shedder and couldn't be bothered with the hoovering. Short of keeping a pet snowy owl á la Harry Potter, it would be difficult even for the most expert liar to explain the copious amounts of white feathers. Sheppard, on the other hand, had always loved flying, even trained as a pilot. He avoided compression as much as possible and had used his ability to deal with failed parachutes on more than one occasion. John had never had to save a charge in mid-air and his gift of flight had been utterly unused save on that one occasion when he'd been running late for a rugby match when his current corporal form was in its teens. That hadn't involved any charge – he just hadn't wanted to leave Blackheath a man down. Technically, he wasn't supposed to use his gifts for such mundane things but, damn it, it was the Cup Final! John wasn't going to apologise for taking it seriously and Michael had never called him on it. He didn't do it again.

There was one significant exception to the rules: no secrecy was worth the death of a charge. But John had never been in a position to make that call. He strongly suspected that life with Sherlock would change that.

When Sherlock had said that he needed an assistant, John carefully kept his eyes from his charge's face but he had felt Sherlock's desire at that moment – he wanted John to suggest himself. In that moment, the empathic bond firmed and strengthened, connected on both sides. And John really wanted to say yes, but he had to stick with the game plan. There would be more satisfaction for his charge in the end, if he believed he had motivated and angled John into the role than if John elected it. Free will: it was one of John's personal rules when he dealt with his charges. Sherlock had to be the one to choose him, just as he had as a flatmate, just as he would as a friend. When Sherlock came bounding back up the stairs, John knew he'd made his choice.

At Lauriston Gardens, John tried not to ham up the limp too much and took his time coming down the stairwell, knowing full well Sherlock had taken off back to the flat and had chosen to leave him behind. Stage one was completed and it looked as if Sherlock might well cure him before the next day. John had felt a deep sense of pride in his charge when he saw him in his element. But it had saddened him to feel Sherlock's surprise at his words of praise and awe in the cab and then later at the crime scene. He knew that Sherlock needed to feel that his intellect, his work and he, himself, were valued and that he'd had little experience of it. That would change now, thought John.

Admittedly, he'd been wide off the mark about the phone but John could hardly tell Sherlock that Harry and Clara were two hyperactive cupids who worked for Raphael's department with a penchant bordering on obsession for mortal tech and hand-engraving. Everything from the George Foreman Baby Grill to the carpet-sweeper in their house had been engraved "Love Clara xxx" or "Love Harry xxx". He'd been right about the scratches and the alcoholism. However, these had occurred when the phone had been lent by Harry to her latest charge, whose story, unsurprisingly, had a happy ending with the love of a good woman saving both Frank and his liver. Harry and Clara were one of the most successful cupid teams out there at the moment – averaging a 100% success rate in soul mate matches in the last 67 years. But Sherlock was right in the essentials – he did think of Harry as a sister and he didn't want to accept her help, not because he wasn't close to her as Sherlock supposed, but because it would have involved kipping at a house where everything was pink (and engraved) and Barry Manilow played 24/7. Cupids – they made great friends but terrible decorators.

John was making his way back to the main street when the phones seemed to ring in response to his presence. He thought it might be one of Harry's pranks but when he answered it was an unknown male voice that responded. He knew he was wearing a look of surprise visible on the watching camera but the real cause was the alert he got on his guardian radar. He kept one part of his mind on his conversation but the bulk of his attention was on that growing blip. He knew another warrior guardian was in the area, in corporeal form and they were on an intercepting trajectory. By the time the sleek black car pulled in, he'd identified the other: it was Irene and she was sitting on the back seat.

He got in the car and greeted her. She responded nonchalantly with a sideways glance. He wasn't sure if she went by Irene now - it seemed more likely that she would take a new name – to go with the different corporeal form and her assignment. He was proved right – she called herself Anthea.

He reached out with the telepathic communicative sense that could be initiated only between and among their kind.

"Irene?"

"Your charge. The odds are changing, shifting and they're not going in his favour." Irene was like Michael that way, straight to the point.

John immediately stretched his bond to Sherlock to its furthest most limits. He wasn't at the flat as John had originally supposed but no more than ten minutes from John's own location and he was excited and searching for something. He tuned back to Irene.

"What kind of odds? Michael's data said I'd three months?"
"85% probability of death in the next six hours"

John's heart sunk "How? Who?"
Irene continued "The murderer, his patron and your charge himself"
"My charge?" John could not believe Sherlock was suicidal.
"He's an idiot." John calmed – not suicidal then, just some stupidity on his charge's part.
The only question that remained unasked was how she knew but John already had an inkling. Before Irene worked as a warrior guardian, she'd been in data acquisitions. Whether she'd acquired the data herself or from an old contact was unknown and ultimately irrelevant to John.

He felt a strong twinge along the bond: Sherlock was happy. He'd found what he was looking for.

Irene sighed beside him "You''ll be fine. It could be worse. I've got to help my charge avert another inter-galactic war."
"Do I want to know?"
"He's the British representative of the IOA."
"Mycroft Holmes?" It was the only possible answer.
"Yes" confirmed Irene.
"Ah." This was more Sheppard's assignment than John's though he was glad he'd been there for Sheppard's briefing. On further reflection, that was probably why Michael had briefed them together. Even after all these years, with the ever increasing numbers of potential charges, temporal interference and variable probabilities, it still surprised John how nearly everyone was tied together by charge or by guardian.

Irene carried on "He'll test your loyalty. Offer you money."

And Sherlock would want him to accept, feed Mycroft false info and then split the money. John would refuse. Irene looked up from her blackberry. They shared one brief look of understanding before the car pulled into a disused warehouse. A solitary figure stood a few metres in front, illuminated by the approaching car lights. He glanced questioningly to Irene and she gave a slow blink. She spoke aloud: "We're here. You can get out now." It was chilly outside of the car and he resisted the urge to shiver. Irene was right: it could be worse - he could be with Sheppard in Antarctica.

The bond hummed gently and John sensed Sherlock was contemplative fairly near to Baker St.

John knew exactly what Mycroft wanted; in some ways it wasn't all that different from what he as a guardian wished: to keep Sherlock safe. Both also knew that the risks that Sherlock himself created were not the sole obstacle to achieving this aim. The original data on Sherlock had indicated a very small risk of abduction by a Trust cell active in London. That probability was markedly reduced in light of the more recent statistics but Mycroft didn't know that. All he knew was that his choice of work was exposing his brother to a risk of danger and not being involved with the programme meant Mycroft had limited resources with which to protect him.

If Sherlock was harmed by any of Mycroft's enemies, the guilt would crush the man and probably cripple Irene too. She could not afford to lose another charge. No guardian really could afford to lose any: the empathic backlash was almost completely disabling. It was a testament to her strength that she'd not only chosen reassignment but been able for it.

John also knew what Mycroft expected of him. He suspected, though he would never admit it to his charge, that Mycroft might be somewhat smarter than Sherlock. He would have to carefully fit himself within his crafted persona of recently returned war veteran, laden with trust issues and a dodgy PTSD diagnosis. Mycroft had probably already read his file from the therapist and accessed his service record. If he suspected John to be anything other than what he appeared, he had no doubt that he'd want him out of Sherlock's life and possibly into the afterlife. It could make things quite difficult. However, he trusted that, notwithstanding Irene's ostensible role as PA, her subtle influence with her charge would safeguard John's current placement. John felt a bit more confident. Plus, if Irene, who worked with Mycroft daily, had been able to fool him for years, John was sure he could weather the next few minutes successfully. Sherlock, meanwhile, had had some kind of epiphany of logic - his self-satisfaction came singing down the bond.

"You don't seem very afraid" observed Mycroft.
"I'm not supposed to" thought John - if there is one thing immortals don't fear, it's death. He steadied his left hand and stood straight. The vibration of Harry's mobile with a message from Sherlock to come home did not surprise him. There would be another in less than a minute; he could feel Sherlock's impatience. As predicted, the offer of money was made and rejected and by the time Mycroft was checking his left hand, John was certain Mycroft Holmes would not be any opposition to his role. He suspected he would be seeing a lot more of Irene.

He collected the remainder of his things, including his firearm, before Irene dropped him off at Baker St. He noticed that she seemed more agitated after the meeting than before and they spent most of the journey in silence. As they turned on to Baker St., she opened a channel of communication,

"It's all connected but one step removed."

She said nothing further and John regretted not having done a stint in data acquisitions where that sort of nebulous statement would have made complete sense. As it was, he felt as if he'd been asked to join up the dots without the dots or the pen. A feeling of oblivion from Sherlock urged him into the cold again and upstairs. The parting comment of Irene left him unsettled and he was now down to three hours. He glanced at the window but sensed nothing. Sherlock immediately picked up on his distraction but John quickly ascribed it to his meeting with Mycroft. Finding out that he had been the source of the text to Sherlock's lead on the case sickened John. It was not in his nature, nor in any guardian's, to assist in the creation of a threat to their own charge.

Things were progressing rapidly and John knew if he was to adhere to his resolve to accompany Sherlock at all times, the limp would have to disappear at the earliest opportunity. At Angelo's, he made certain to put the crutch out of view - a credible excuse for forgetting it. Temporarily distracted by food, he nearly missed Sherlock's hasty departure. Seeing him get hit by a car, sent John's senses into overdrive but he felt no pain from Sherlock only frustration. He was off running before John had finished mentally assessing him for injury. All John could do was follow.

Arriving back at Baker St, out-of-breath and "cured", John felt Sherlock's triumph at his apparent success. Despite what he knew would occur later that evening, he found himself chuckling along - Sherlock's happiness was contagious. When he got his breath back, he heard the distant shuffling of feet over his head. It obviously was not Mrs Hudson, who padded around softly and there was more than one of them. Sherlock was smiling at him fondly and John sensed he was anticipating someone - had he invited these people round?

The doorbell rung and when John got his crutch back, he tried his best to look surprised. The time spent with Sherlock this evening was paying off as was sharing in his emotions - more threads were being added to the bond. A stronger bond meant not only a stronger empathic echo that could be heard across greater distances but a more keen sense of each emotion and its level. Mrs Hudson appeared and then Sherlock was off again, bounding up the stairs a bundle of energy, frustration and underneath it, some hurt. For John, the raid couldn't have come at a better time - having the flat filled with a half a dozen policemen and women would surely make someone think twice about making any kind of attempt on his charge that night. He was keenly aware that each second ticked away the last hour. Despite the waves of bitterness now emanating from his charge at the doubt he saw in the faces around him, John felt only relief. He positioned himself next to the door, his eyes on Sherlock. He moved off to his laptop when requested, Sherlock looking over his shoulder. 55 minutes.

He knew the moment it happened, when the choice was made that would put in place the series of events that would end in his charge's death - Sherlock had left for a breath of air. John kept an eye on him through the window and saw him get in the taxi. There was silence on the other side of the bond - he'd had to get used to those moments, when Sherlock's mind absorbed all his energy and there was no room for simply feeling. It was like feeling a heart skip a beat. They were of short duration and usually superseded by self-congratulations and pride but only wary anticipation followed now and, to John's annoyance, he recognised another emotion as the thrill of the chase. His idiot charge was going to get himself killed and drive him mad in the process. He turned to the police but they were leaving. His attempt to motivate Lestrade by getting him to own to Sherlock's value succeeded partly. It didn't stop the DI from leaving. John had to get moving before the bond stretched too far and he lost geographical accuracy. The quite ping of the laptop distracted him, the new search was complete and he knew how to find Sherlock.

Twelve minutes. He had just twelve minutes before it would be too late. Sherlock had remained by turns calm, inquisitive and quietly confident which was consoling to John. The GPS had given him the building but not the room and his empathic sense was driving him forward to the room at the end of the corridor. He flung the door open, ran in expecting to see Sherlock in front of him and stopped. There was Sherlock holding up the pill, the man responsible was standing in front of him and John was separated from them by a hundred feet of air.

There wasn't enough time to decompress his wings but he could line up a shot. There was no other option. Sherlock was holding the pill to the light and moving it towards his mouth. "Of all the stupid, stupid things to do!" was John's last thought as he moved into position and let his training take over.

He knew Sherlock had figured it out, felt his realisation and gratitude flow into him from his direction. He made certain his expression did not alter when Sherlock looked away from Lestrade and towards him. His charge would confront him, John would laugh it off and they'd head back to Baker St. As Sherlock made his way over to him, John detected Irene heading towards him again, probably with Mycroft. The pair appeared, black car to the left, as they were making their way from the crime scene.

John was getting plenty of practice on his 'surprised' face today. Sherlock didn't even glance at him as he explained what John already knew of the relationship between his arch enemy and himself. John feigned an interest in the sibling feud as it played out in front of him while he opened up communications with Irene who was standing off to the side, blackberry in hand. She didn't look up.

"Thanks"
"It changes nothing, only delays the inevitable."
"Sherlock's still alive - I'd call that a change."
"For now. The last connection still hasn't been made."

Sherlock was storming away and Mycroft's attention shifted to John, who was caught staring at his PA intently. He posed some questions but Mycroft was gazing at him with a questioning expression. Irene's wry amusement was evident to John as he covered by telling her they'd met before, earlier. She'd always loved irony.

Despite Irene's cautious attitude, the thought of spending the remainder of the night with his charge guessing the riddles in some Chinese fortune cookies warmed John. He felt giddy excitement welling up in Sherlock and with one word, the warm feeling dissipated and the cold rushed in.

Moriarty.

The last connection. The sponsor. The step removed.