"When looking back I dimly see
The trails my feet have trod,
Some hand divine, it seems to me,
Has pulled the strings with God;
Some angel form had lifeward leaned
When hope for me was past;
Some love sublime has intervened
To save me at the last."
– Robert Service

"Sherlock, you have an assignment."

"What dull place are you sending me this time, Mycroft? To keep some poor eighty year old with cancer company?"

"You're going to Afghanistan."

"Why?"

"Because, as you would know if you paid attention during our meetings, it is an active war zone. We've had to send many of our guardians there to minimize the death count."

"And so you can meet your rescue quota. Will I be stuck with this one till they die? Or is this a temporary situation?"

"That remains to be seen. But for now, you will go to Afghanistan and you will do so without complaining."

Sherlock leaned against the fence post and watched his new charge. He was a small man named John Watson, a doctor. He was well respected and liked by his fellow troops. Sherlock could see the war wearing on his face. He had seen some horrible things, no doubt. But in all honesty, Sherlock had had no cause to save John thus far. The man was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, very cautious, and there had been little action since Sherlock had arrived. He had spent most of his time avoiding his fellow angels, who kept attempting to make conversation with him during the slow days. Some of their charges had not been so lucky. Some of the men had gone into the nearest town a few days after he arrived, and only half had come back. Sherlock had watched as those angels disappeared, back to Heaven for a new assignment. They wouldn't be following their charges anymore.

Sherlock followed John and his troops across camp as they made their way to their tents. John was cracking jokes with the men, but Sherlock could tell he was only using humor as a coping mechanism.

Sherlock was already mentally preparing for another quiet evening. His brain was beginning to rot down here.

And then he heard the crack of gunfire, and the army doctor collapsed.

John felt the pain shoot through his shoulder, and he immediately began assessing himself, trying to determine if any major arteries or veins had been hit by the bullet. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the shouts of his comrades. Some voices were those calling for help. Some were only screams of pain.

Who becomes the doctor when the doctor becomes the patient?

John tried to get up. He had to get to his medical kit to try and help the other soldiers. But he could barely move. He could feel the blood soaking through his clothes, and he realized that one of the groans he was hearing was his own. He started growing dizzy, and knew he wouldn't maintain consciousness for much longer.

Two faces appeared above him. One was a soldier, trying to talk to him. When he didn't respond, the man yelled for help. The other face was a pale man with dark hair. He wasn't in the familiar army fatigues. Instead he was wearing a black suit, minus the tie. John thought he was hallucinating, that the dessert and the blood loss were playing tricks on him. He shut his eyes for a moment, but when he reopened them, the man was still there. He had a strange look in his eyes. Concern, yes, but also...irritation?

The man brought his face down close to his and said, "I will not have you dying on me, John. That would be a massive inconvenience." John saw the man's hand appear near his face and instinctively flinched. The man rolled his eyes. "Really, John, now is not the time." John felt the hand on his forehead, and there was no denying that this wasn't a hallucination. He could feel the long fingers, the cool skin. "Now hold still. And don't make me tell you twice."

John opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling of his hospital room. His shoulder throbbed still, but it had been a couple of days since the attack, and given the circumstances, John thought he was healing well enough. He had an ache in his leg he couldn't explain. Perhaps from when he'd fallen after being shot?

He had heard the reports from his men, that they'd lost three soldiers in the attack. His friend Bill had said that they thought they'd lost him as well. When John heard that, it jogged his memory.

"Yes, where was the man who helped with those of us who were wounded? I'd like to thank him."

Bill had frowned, confused. "John, there was no man. No one tended to your wounds until we airlifted you and the others to the nearest hospital." John was quiet. Had he imagined it? It seemed impossible. The whole incident had felt so real. The man had even spoken! "You've had a rough time, John. I'm sure you'll be fine."

But John could hear the doubt in his friend's voice. He decided it would be best to not mention the man again.

"We're sending you down again."

"Mycroft, I just returned from Afghanistan. I think I've earned a few months of not dealing with any more accident prone humans."

"Sherlock, remember, whether you like it or not, you were born an angel. And part of that involves looking after human beings. You don't have to care about them. You don't have to enjoy it. But it is part of your job."

"Where are you sending me now?"

"London. You'll be there a while. We've assigned you to one person permanently. So you will be with him until he dies." Sherlock groaned. "You will show yourself as human."

He paused. "Excuse me?"

"This man needs a tangible guardian. Someone he can see."

"And just how do you expect me to come off as a human?"

"Find a job. Get a flat. Try to appear normal, though I know how difficult that is for you," he said with a sneer.

"And where will you be in all this?"

"Around. I will be checking in on you, of course. I will put you in contact with some of my people on Earth, help you get started. They know the human version of me that I've been forced to utilize in the past."

"And why can't I just stay in this form like I usually do?"

"He's been traumatized, Sherlock. We don't want to risk pushing him over the edge by making him think he's hallucinating again."

"Again?"

"Yes. The last time he nearly died, he saw you."

"A repeater, then?"

"Precisely. And the higher-ups decided that you two, shall we say, worked well together."

"Which one is it?"

"John Watson."

Ella stared unrelentingly at John. He had been in her office for mere minutes, but the silence made it feel like years. He didn't know what to say to her. She was convinced he was one of hundreds of traumatized soldiers, and that with enough talking and therapy, he would be healed. But it wasn't as simple as that. She couldn't understand. She wasn't there.

And all this wasn't even taking into account the fact that John was trying his hardest not to mention The Man.

John had grown more and more convinced that The Man had saved his life. Against all logic and rationality, he believed someone had saved him before the harried surgeons at the army hospital had sewn him up.

Since coming home, John had been haunted with dreams of the attack. He'd relived it a hundred times, and while the attack itself varied in his dreams, the part where The Man saved him remained perfectly preserved as it had happened.

John looked out the window, distracted. He was mentally counting down the minutes left before he could leave. Of course, that would mean standing, which would just draw Ella's attention back to his leg.

When the clock finally ticked down, John walked away as steadily as he could, despite the pain shooting through his leg. Some days it was worse than others. Today was a bad day. He was tired, alone, and miserable. He'd talked to Harry recently, and she hadn't made him feel any better. She tended to darken his mood on the best of days.

John was walking home, wishing he'd swallowed his pride and taken a cab, and thinking much too seriously about the gun in his desk drawer, when a voice drew him out of his thoughts.

"John? John Watson?" John turned as a large man came up to him, a smile on his face. "Stamford. Mike Stamford."

Sherlock had only been in Baker Street for a few days, although Mycroft ensured that it felt like longer to the humans who were now officially Sherlock's "friends" and business associates. Sherlock had decided on being a detective, since Mycroft had insisted he have a job like everyone else. Sherlock had taken some joy in how displeased his brother had been with his career choice.

"Must you make everything difficult?" Sherlock had only smirked. "We have a meeting for the two of you scheduled for the end of the week. Try to make a good impression."

Sherlock had thrown Mycroft a line about how an angel should be more concerned with the ethics of deliberately arranging meetings between people. He had not taken kindly to that.

So Sherlock waited out the few days working in the lab at Bart's. He had his orders. There was a certain restaurant he was supposed to be at that Friday to try and befriend his charge. But until then he was content to work in peace.

John cast a glance toward the man as Mike led him into the lab. He seemed familiar from somewhere. John remembered very little of the conversation that followed, because when the man looked up at him, John instantly recognized the face, and so spent the next few minutes trying to not give himself away. This wasn't just any man. This was The Man. John would know that face anywhere. As he handed The Man his phone, he saw his hands, and the long fingers were unmistakable.

Maybe Ella's notes were wrong. Maybe he was more than just traumatized.

When his phone was returned to him, John met The Man's eyes for a split second. The Man looked surprised to see him, like he was a friend who had shown up after years of being away. But he quickly corrected himself when a woman came in with coffee. John could feel his nerves going haywire inside of him. Had he imagined the look? Was he reading into things that weren't there?

John was still trying to sort it out, having gone through the remainder of the conversation on autopilot when The Man said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!" And he left with a great flourish of his coat.

John turned to Mike, dumbfounded for reasons he couldn't share with his friend. And all Mike could offer him in the way of explanation was, "Yeah. He's always like that."

Sherlock spent the majority of the rest of the day pacing, trying to work out how this had happened. He'd called Mycroft, who had taken his good sweet time about coming down to Earth to see what was going on.

"I thought you said the meeting was tomorrow!"

"It was, Sherlock."

"So why did my charge wander into my lab today?"

Mycroft was quiet. He had anticipated all manners of complaining and impatience, but had not expected this. "Well, now we have less work to do. You should be happy that he came to you instead of us having to throw you two into the same room."

But Sherlock was not so happy. It couldn't be a good sign, things lining up this way. If he'd been truly human and had a heart beat, he was sure it would have been racing.

John only ever thought about his gun now in the context of shooting serial killers or Chinese gangsters. He'd wished he'd been able to use one on Moriarty when he'd nearly killed them in the pool. And as much as he hated admitting it, he wouldn't have minded using one on Irene either. She was a risk, a complication. And John was not going to allow her to hurt Sherlock, not after all they'd been through.

John was convinced within the first day that he wasn't imagining things, that this man really was the same person he saw in Afghanistan. But he still was concerned about the reaction he would get if he brought it up, so he'd kept it to himself. Instead, he'd decided that he would do his best to try and protect the person who had saved him on the battlefield.

Granted, that was easier said than done.

John wasn't sure what Sherlock was, exactly, and he almost never talked about himself, or gave away any clues, but he certainly had no qualms about throwing himself into danger at seemingly every turn. When John debated as to what Sherlock was, he always returned to a guardian angel, or something like it. That would explain his disregard for his own safety, his general other-worldliness, and his ability to heal people like he'd healed John. But as pleasing as the imagery was, the longer John knew him, the more he realized that angels probably didn't call clients morons or store body parts in the kitchen.

Sherlock stood outside the morgue that Christmas, watching the crying family behind the double doors at the end of the hall.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He tried to ignore his brother. He'd been down on Earth much more than usual lately, and Sherlock was beginning to think it was just to annoy him.

"I wasn't thinking about Irene Adler."

"I am well aware. Remember, Sherlock. You're a guardian. This is a job. Rein in your emotions. They will not serve you well here."

John sat in the cafe with Mycroft, eyeing the evidence bag on the table between them. He had always been suspicious of Sherlock's older brother, and this was not improving his opinion of the man.

He'd never really been clear on what Mycroft did. He'd said once that he occupied a minor position in the government, and Sherlock had quickly refuted him, saying he was the government. One evening, John had made some offhand remark at Mycroft's expense, about how he was dressed awfully well for a government peon.

"He has what you might call friends in high places."

When John would inevitably return to his angel imagery, he could only laugh to himself, wondering just how high up Mycroft's friends were.

Sherlock was in a rage as he stood in Kitty Riley's apartment, staring at Moriarty. This was getting out of hand. Mycroft had been no help, as usual. If anything, he'd made the situation worse. Sherlock had yelled at him, told him to go back to doing busywork in Heaven where he belonged and leave Earth to those who had some idea what they were doing.

Everything was spinning rapidly out of control. How could Sherlock protect the person he cared about when he was being consumed by this man's killings and obsessions? He was a distraction, but not a pleasant one. Sherlock wanted him dead.

Unfortunately, it was becoming more and more apparent that Moriarty had the same idea.

Sherlock stood on the roof of Bart's with Moriarty. His head was spinning. How had it come to this? Over the last day, he'd had to reevaluate his entire plan for his life, and for John's. Moriarty had ruined everything.

"You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you." Sherlock hardly believed the words coming out of his mouth. It was a phrase the other angels would cringe to hear. But it was true.

"Nah, you talk big. Nah, you're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels. But don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Sherlock knew that if anyone was listening in that they would call him a heretic. But he wasn't an angel anymore, not really. Maybe in the world of technicalities he was, but John Watson had made him human. And he was beginning to think that was the better option, even with all the irrationality and pesky emotions. This was no longer a matter of protecting his charge, of doing his job.

When he thought he'd stopped Moriarty, trapped the spider, the man had shown just how far he was willing to go in his obsession. Staring down at his body, Sherlock couldn't help but think that no one had assigned a guardian to Jim Moriarty. And now there was no one to call off the snipers.

There was a gun on John, and Sherlock realized that what he was about to do, it had nothing to do with a job. It had to do with saving the only person who had ever saved him in return.

John stood on the street below Bart's looking up at Sherlock standing on the ledge. His voice sounded choked over the phone. John was in denial. There was no way in hell this was happening. They would fix this. This was a bad dream, like the dreams about the war. He would wake up any minute and hear Sherlock playing his violin and everything would be okay. Not this. Anything but this.

"Goodbye, John."

A chorus of No ran through John's brain. He was suddenly back in Afghanistan, seeing his "angel" for the first time. And he remembered his prayer of "Let me live." Except now it was, "Please, God, let him live." Please be a real angel. Please use your wings and stop yourself from hitting that pavement.

But as John had been told growing up, God didn't always give your prayers the answer you wanted.

John stood in front of the tombstone, hating the gold lettering shining back at him.

"You...you told me once...that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human." John gave a shuddering breath. He touched the granite and all he could feel was the memory of the skin of Sherlock's wrist, and the absent pulse that had told him his angel's wings had broken.

Sherlock watched from across the cemetery, listening in, listening to prayers as he had for years.

"I really didn't think you were human." A defeated little laugh. "You know, I always believed you were some sort of...angel or something, someone who had saved me in Afghanistan. But I guess that was always a pipe dream, wasn't it? Just a way I explained a near death experience. That's probably what you would say. And you'd be right. Because if you really were an angel, you wouldn't be –" His voice broke. Sherlock cringed as he watched the man break down in tears. After a minute, he pulled himself together and turned to walk away. He was wearing a soldier's face again. And it made Sherlock's heart ache to see it. He was going to leave when he saw John turn and say imploringly at the headstone, "But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

Sherlock was about to step out from his hiding place and do just that when Mycroft grabbed his wrist and they both disappeared.

They reappeared in the Diogenes Club.

"Sherlock, what did you think you were doing?!" He was livid.

"I was doing what you told me to, Mycroft. I was protecting my charge! If you had kept that lunatic locked up, I wouldn't have had to do that!"

Mycroft paused, let out a frustrated sigh. "You're going home."

"What?! Why?!"

"Because you got attached, Sherlock. And look where it got you! We have to reassign someone to this case now, and it is going to be a great deal of trouble. And don't think that no one heard the remarks you made on the roof. You're an angel first, Sherlock. It's high time you remember that."

Sherlock had never minded Heaven before, but now it might as well have been hell. He was sent on a couple of small assignments, very tedious ones. Boring cases were always Mycroft's way of punishing him. He hadn't heard of anyone being assigned to John's case. And then Mycroft told him the case had been closed entirely.

"Are you insane?! You're just going to leave him alone down there! Look what almost happened last time! You're going to get him killed!"

"It's no longer our affair, Sherlock. It's out of our hands."

"I see where the name Iceman came from."

"Sticks and stones, brother dear. Now do your job."

Sherlock hesitated. "No."

"What was that?"

"No! Send me back."

"Sherlock, I can't just send you back."

"You dragged me up here, didn't you?"

"If I do this, you will not be coming back. Ever again. You won't be parading as human. You'll be one."

"I don't care. I told you I wasn't one of the angels." Mycroft stood there, debating. "If you don't send me, I'll find a way myself. I'm the smartest one here. You know I'll figure it out." There was a tense and heavy silence. Sherlock began to feel jittery. "Give me five minutes in this form, and then you can do whatever you want. You can cast me out for all I care."

Finally, Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and said simply, "Very well."

John was not doing well. It was coming up on the anniversary. It had been nearly a year. But John barely noticed. Every day ran together now, all in shades of grey. Nothing stood out, and nothing much made him happy. He had done only some temp work in clinics. He hadn't had anything resembling a relationship. His dreams were haunted with technicolor replays of the fall. In one version, Sherlock had a great pair of white wings emanating from him as he stood on the roof, and as he said goodbye, they turned to black. When he jumped, they would catch on fire and turn to ash before his eyes, like Icarus in a blue scarf.

He was sitting in one of the countless hotel rooms he'd lived in since the angel had fallen. He hadn't been able to go back to Baker Street.

He felt an ache deep inside of him growing. It had been threatening to consume him for days, and it seemed it had finally won.

He looked toward the gun on the desktop.

Sherlock saw John standing to walk toward the desk before he had made it all the way down to Earth. By the time he was actually in the room, the gun was in his hand. He closed the distance and grabbed it.

John stared at him, wide eyed and terrified. There was someone standing there who looked like Sherlock, but that was impossible, wasn't it? This person's skin seemed to glow, and he had wings. John thought surely he was hallucinating, finally. Maybe the vision of The Man in Afghanistan had been a subconscious thing, like he'd seen Sherlock in passing once and projected the image of him as an angel in response to his imminent death. Maybe this was why he saw him now. But when he looked down, the gun was indeed gone from his hand.

"Don't be an idiot, John." There was the familiar irritated concern.

"You have wings. Why do you have wings? Are you a ghost? Or were you always one? Are you an angel? Or is this part of a near death experience?" He spoke quickly, his words coming out tense and manic. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and felt no pulse. He began to feel sick. Why was there still no pulse if he was standing right here?!

"I was an angel," Sherlock corrected. Even as he said it, John could see the wings fading behind him, the glow disappearing. And a pulse jumped to life under his fingertips. "A guardian angel, to be precise."

"It really was you in Afghanistan." The pulse grew stronger, more regular. Sherlock winced. He wasn't used to this pounding in his chest. How did humans stand it? "Why are you back?"

"I have to watch over you, don't I?"

"How are you back?"

"I left." He shrugged.

"You're human now."

Sherlock nodded. "So you'll have to be at least a little more careful. I can only look out for you. I can't heal you anymore."

"That's exactly what you're doing now." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who was momentarily taken aback, surprised at the forwardness. He returned the embrace, felt John's head rest on his shoulder. "You can never go back can you? You left for me."

"Yes. The next time I go back, it will be when I'm dead, for good. I'm sure Mycroft will still drop in from time to time, though, even if only to get on my nerves." He felt John laugh lightly against him. He pulled back and looked down at him. "Are you all right? You took my apparent death much harder than I had anticipated."

"It broke me. Watching the person you love die is painful. Look what even the threat of it did to you. But I think it's safe to say I'm all right now. At least I know that I'm not insane, that I wasn't making all this up." He smiled.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. "Really, though John. Suicide over sentiment. How very human of you."

"Said the angel who abandoned Heaven."

Sherlock reached down and grabbed his hand and felt the second pulse beating so close to his own.

"This is Heaven enough for me."