The first moments of his consciousness were as physically agonizing as they were logically ludicrous. Lungs not used to breathing hacked and wheezed. Eyes not used to seeing constricted as morning light burned. A heart not used to beating cramped and ached as life pumped again. Sherlock Holmes lived.
As soon as his nerves regulated his essential systems, Sherlock's mind was alive and buzzing. 'Location: London, rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Time: 8:37am, late July, judging by traffic patterns and local foliage. Status: Alive, physically improved, cavity in lower right molar absent, scar above left knee faded, nicotine addiction eradicated. Burning ache in shoulders, result of handprint-shaped abrasions of unknown origin. Conclusion: … Not enough data. Must subsidize with previous memories. Logical memories conclude with the consecutive suicides of Moriarty and myself, followed by nonsensical flashes of mental and physical torture at the hands of black-eyed monstrosities. The latter memories are largely blocked, likely the result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Conclusion: I have either bested insurmountable odds and survived the fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew's, and have subsequently suffered brain damage, leading to loss of memory and the creation of horrific fantasies, or I have been raised from a hellish afterlife by supernatural powers. Objective: come in contact with an outside source in order to collect more information and clarify the facts.' Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket.
"I have no mobile."
'New objective: obtain mobile.'
SWL-SWL-SWL
John Watson sat at the end of the bar, his eyes fixed on the line of carbonation rising in his cider, his mind fixed on nothing at all. He knew it was ludicrous to be at a pub at 9:00am, but he didn't particularly mind. It wasn't that he needed the drink, although there was something soothing about a pint of good dry cider, but rather that he had no place to be at this particular time on this particular day, and he rather disliked the aimlessness of it all. At least at the pub he was doing something, even if it was just watching tiny bubbles rise in his glass. He'd been nursing the same pint for almost an hour, and it was rather warm and unappetizing, but there were worse things in life than warm cider. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, bringing him out of his reverie. He didn't recognize the number. John ignored the text, dropped a fiver on the bar, and left his warm pint behind.
John's mobile pulsed again as he crossed the street. Same number. John whisked it back into his pocket. Though he had no particular destination in mind, John's feet led him to the lab of Molly Hooper. Molly had been a godsend these last few months, at first offering a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to lean on, then, once the initial shock wore off, a place to stay. Baker Street had become too painful for John, even though Mrs. Hudson had been so understanding after-… well, after. When John needed a place to stay, Molly came through with a small, cozy flat that a friend had just cleared out. Now, though, Molly offered something more essential to John; she gave him purpose. When John had lost all direction, Molly got him a part-time consulting job at her lab. John didn't have a particular need for the money; Mycroft had established a small account for him with his condolences. There wasn't much work to be done anyway, a few hours a week at most, but it gave John something to do other than study warm cider.
Molly looked up from her microscope as John entered. She smiled sweetly and went back to her work. There was an unspoken agreement between the two: some days were just better spent without idle chatter. The silence was a comfortable one, at least. Or it would have been if it weren't interrupted by John's mobile. John nearly crushed the damn thing as he ripped it from his pocket.
"Seventeen messages since I left the pub, all from the same number." He sighed as he regained control and set the phone on a desk.
"What do they say?" Molly asked.
"Dunno. Never checked. Wrong number."
"Well, what if it's someone you know, they just got a new mobile and want to give out the number?"
The phone buzzed again, and rather insistently at that. Molly nodded her head at the thing and gave John a stern look. John rolled his eyes, snatched the mobile, and flipped open the first text.
The Flat. –SH
John froze, nearly dropping the phone. He opened the next text, and the ones after, not daring to breathe.
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
The Flat. –SH
"I have to go," John breathed.
"What is it? Is everything alright? John!" Molly called after him as he rushed out of the lab.
"Taxi!" John flagged down the nearest cabby, hopping in the backseat before it came to a full stop, "221 Baker Street, fast as you can."
John dropped a few notes at the cabby as he stormed 221B Baker Street, blood boiling and ready for action. He rushed the stairs, threw open the door, and belted, "I don't know who the bloody hell you think you are, but if this is your idea of the joke, you will be a mewling puddle of piss by the time I'm done with you."
"What took you so long? And not so loud, John, I'm conducting research."
Rage melted into confusion that resurged into grief. John's legs moved of their own accord, bringing him around the corner to the dining room. There, surrounded by books and scrolls, was Sherlock.
"You're dead," John gasped. Sherlock looked up from his tomes and moved toward him, "NO! No. I buried you. I saw you fall, I buried you, and you are dead." Tears lined his eyes.
"My initial research had suggested as much, but it is good to hear your confirmation of my death. You're sure I haven't suffered brain damage and am creating this entire scenario as I've escaped some institution?"
"Stop talking! Stop it. You're dead, you can't be talking, so stop it," John was close to hyperventilating now.
"Very well. All that remains, then, is the impossible conclusion that supernatural forces are at work. This would explain the physical irregularities of my anatomy." Sherlock muttered to himself as he turned to the bookshelf.
"What?" John asked, too astounded to continue any rational line of thought.
"You, John Watson, vouch for the fact that I am not the subject of grievous mental trauma, but, rather, that I have been deceased for the past six months. I may logically conclude that it would be highly unlikely that I would survive the fall at all, much less without severe bodily injury. In addition, though this entire scenario could be a figment of my damaged imagination, it is vastly unlikely that my fall resulted in brain damage sufficient only to alter my perception and leave the rest of my mental faculties untouched. That, combined with my physical alterations, leaves me to conclude that my resurrection must, indeed, be supernatural in nature." Growing impatient at John's lack of answer, Sherlock snipped, "Come now, John, use your brain. It's simple logic. Did I die, or did I not?"
"There is nothing simple about it you robotic, cynical, maniac!" John's emotional reserve snapped, "You died. I witnessed your death, I oversaw your autopsy, I was pallbearer at your funeral. You died. I may not have come to terms with it, but damn well know that it happened."
Sherlock faltered for a brief moment, his motive caught between wanting to evaluate John's emotional response and wanting to carry his argument through to its logical conclusion. Logic first, emotion later. "Established fact: I, Sherlock Holmes, died. Next, your sanity. Are you, at this moment, awake, sober, and of sound mind and body?"
"Enough," John breathed heavily, exhausted, "just enough… I'm awake, I'm sober, sanity I can't vouch for, but… whatever this is, whatever you are," his eyes locked on Sherlock's for a brief, ragged moment, "I just can't do it." John slumped into the chair nearest to him- the same chair by the table from which he'd written many of his blog posts.
Sherlock stood, almost dumbfounded. There was no logical conclusion to this scenario, no evidence from which he could draw. His traditional paths of action were closed off to him, leaving only untried and rather intimidating terrain. Silence stood heavy in the room for he knew not how long before John spoke in a cracked, weary voice.
"I prayed, Sherlock. I didn't know what else to do. You were dead, and no magic trick could bring you back, but I prayed." Sherlock moved to speak, but John continued, "I seem to have two options. Either I'm imagining this whole thing and what I do doesn't matter anyway, or someone heard my prayer and brought back my friend." John smiled weakly, accepting whatever absurdity he'd stumbled into, "A guardian angel."
Angel.
Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes slammed shut as a vision- no, a memory- wracked through his body. John rushed to his side as Sherlock fell to the ground, books tumbling around him as he crashed against the shelves. A man. A man with blue eyes and vast wings, brighter than anything ever seen or imagined. The man, the creature, gripped his shoulders tight, searing his flesh with holy fire. His countenance was gentle, but he spoke with a voice like a thousand silver trumpets, "Rise, Sherlock. There is work to be done."
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice seemed distant as a roaring echo continued to ring in Sherlock's ears.
Sherlock gripped John's shoulder, nodding that he was unharmed saying, "I think your angel may have heard you, John."
SWL-SWL-SWL
Weeks and months passed with little conflict. Sherlock and John decided it would be best if the world at large were kept ignorant of Sherlock's miraculous resurrection. Mrs. Hudson knew, of course, but John kept Sherlock's cover as the detective hid away with his research. The work was slow, but John and Sherlock filled their days with the study of Biblical lore, supernatural events, and folk legends from around the world. But if each day brought Sherlock closer to answers, each night brought countless more questions. In his few sleeping hours, Sherlock was plagued with constant, baffling dreams. Tonight was no different.
Sherlock stood in a graveyard; it was old, ill used, and overgrown. The sky was gloomy and cloudy, yet rain never came. Before him stood a disheveled man in a trench coat. The man had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and hands that seemed a perfect match for the scars on Sherlock's shoulders.
"I remember you with wings" Sherlock said drolly.
"There is little time for banter, Sherlock Holmes," the man responded, "There is work to be done."
"So you have said. I don't suppose you'd care to clarify at all?"
The man visibly curbed his annoyance before responding, "You are a man of logic and understanding. I can see now that you will not continue on your path without having your way. Very well. My name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord, and it is I who raised you from the Depths."
"The Depths? Then I was in Hell?" Castiel nodded. "If you are who you say, then you would not have done so without reason," Sherlock argued, "What do you want of me?"
"A chain of events has begun stirring that, if allowed to come to fruition, could scourge the planet Earth with a second Apocalypse, one we have no hope of stopping. You are necessary to the cause that seeks to prevent this."
"Me? What could I possibly do to prevent an apocalypse?"
"Lucifer seeks to walk the earth to rain destruction upon Mankind. There are crucial steps that must be taken to prevent his resurrection. Namely, we must free a soul that is held captive in the deepest and darkest circle of Hell."
"I can hardly see how one soul is paramount to the destruction of the planet, much less how I factor into all this."
"Sam Winchester is Lucifer's vessel," Castiel flared at Sherlock's insolence, "Without him, Lucifer cannot rise. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the only human being who has been in Hell and is capable of finding its weaknesses. You, who can deduce all things, must discover the key to freeing Sam Winchester and preventing the Apocalypse."
"You can't just do it yourself?"
"Angels do not have the power to enter the Pit."
"You freed me," Sherlock was relentless.
"You were within our reach, not in the deepest circle chained to Lucifer's throne," Castiel answered, trembling hands betraying rage that calm façade could not hide.
Sherlock had to admit, that he was fascinated by it all. "I accept the case. Although, I am loath to admit it, I do not believe that it is within my power to do all of this on my own."
"I concur. I will double my efforts to provide you with suitable assistance. Be watchful of their coming."
Before Sherlock could answer, Castiel reached forward, placed a finger on Sherlock's temple, and shocked him with a holy power. Sherlock woke with a start, the scars on his shoulders flaring and itching as they always did after a dream. He returned to his study, only to find John already searching through their notes and typing away at his laptop, despite the late hour.
"Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock asked as he shuffled over to John's desk.
"Not a wink," John answered, "nightmare woke me up."
Sherlock nodded as he peered over John's shoulder at a scrap of paper clutched in the doctor's hand. Sherlock froze as he read two words. Sam Winchester.
"What's wrong?" John asked, turning away from his screen.
"Your nightmare, did it take place in a ruined cemetery?" Sherlock asked hurriedly.
"Yes," John was astounded, "But how could you-"
"Castiel saw fit to visit me as well." Sherlock answered, grinning zealously as the case of the Inmate of the Inner Circle took its first fascinating new turn.
