Footsteps sounded heavily behind him as the man with the gun ran up what seemed like a million flights of stairs. Lungs burning, legs aching, the man burst out on to the rooftop; gradually slowing to a stop when he realises he's been cornered. Doing an about face, he turns back to the door he just burst forth from. His two pursuers emerge, panting. The tall, curly haired one starts talking, pacing around him like a hunter surveying his frightened, cornered prey. He tells him what he's done, the mistakes he made that led he and his partner to him. Remembering the gun tucked in his waistband against his back he whipped it out and cocked the gun. The curly one froze, his friend stiffened in surprise.
"I've 'ad enough, Mister 'Olmes. I did what I 'ad to do to protect my kids. Don' you see? She was gonna run off wit' dat other guy and take 'em away from me. I couldn't allow that. The other guy's a tosser!" Sherlock stared at the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest, and tried not to feel the wind blowing him towards the edge of the building behind him. He could see John behind the criminal, eyes wide and frozen with fear for his friend. "I don' need the likes of you turnin' me in to da coppers. They'll only take my kids from me too, an' I don' wanna 'ave to kill more people jus' so's I can see my own kids."
"Put the gun down, Lawson. I know you're upset, but you have murdered your own wife. What sort of effect would that have on your kids if they found out?" Sherlock asked.
"I don' plan on them findin' out." Sherlock stared at John as the gun was aimed more directly at his head and took a step backwards.
'This is it, John. Please don't let me down. Prove me right.' He took one more step backwards, still staring John in the eyes, pleading with him. He dropped backwards over the edge, and almost seemed to fall in slow motion. He heard three distinct sounds. The first two sounded like fabric ripping and a flock of birds taking flight, the third sound was what bothered him. Outside the rushing of wind in his ears, he heard a gunshot. It wasn't fired at him though; he'd already been falling for about 3.7 seconds before the gun fired. The sky was a beautiful deep blue, and he took time to admire it before he found his genius brains splattered all over the sidewalk. A figure leapt out over the edge of the building, it looked like a massive bird in the silhouette created by the sun in his eyes. It dropped towards him at a greater speed than he was falling. Strong arms encircled his waist and tilted him in to the dive too. Warm brown eyes smiled at him for a moment before looking up – or down, depending on how you look at it – at the ground rapidly approaching them. They pulled out of the dive suddenly; the force generated by the manoeuvre pushed all the air out of his lungs as they shot up in the sky, before evening out and landing on a smaller building opposite the one they had just been standing on.
"John!" Sherlock wheezed, dropping to his knees as he tried to suck in a breath. The winged man reached around and touched one of the wings drooping slightly at his shoulder – the right one, Sherlock noticed. Well, John thought to himself, there's another jumper ruined. Sherlock realised what happened. John had revealed his wings, ripping through his clothes, as soon as Sherlock slipped over the edge and must have jumped past the man with the gun. In his shock, he'd fired the gun and it must have grazed John's wing.
"You okay?" John asked, wiping the blood off his hand on his jeans. Ever the doctor, Sherlock thought, asking if someone was okay before accounting for himself.
"Me? Fine. What about you? You're hurt!" He pushed himself to his feet and approached the man who had saved his life for what could have been the twentieth time or the hundredth; he'd stopped counting ages ago.
"I'll be alright." John murmured, staring up at the other building. Mr Lawson had done a runner. He cursed and returned his attention to the piercing blue eyes staring at the wings protruding from his back. "What?"
Sherlock boggled. "What do you mean, what?" The other man waved his hands in a vague indication of the extra extremities the other man possessed. "You have wings, John! And that begs the bloody question, why have I never seen them before?" John couldn't help but smile at that. Of course Sherlock would be… well… Sherlock, in a time like this.
"Because you're not supposed to see them, Sherlock; no one is." John tried to inject seriousness in to his voice, but failed miserably at the sight of pure joy and awe on his friend's face.
Sherlock reached out, "Can I–?"
"Go ahead." John turned his left side towards Sherlock slightly, as his right wing was really hurting right about now, thanks. The hand that he has watched handle fragile items, and glasses and tubes full of dangerous chemicals now stroke the soft feathers of his wings as if they were the most precious, fragile things on Earth.
"What are you, John?" Sherlock whispered. John had to strain to hear him, as his question was nearly blown away by the wind.
"You really want to know? I'm what I suppose you would call an angel. I'm not sure I am, though. As far as I know, I was sent here from another dimension. I was fighting in a war – not Afghanistan, something much bigger and less petty – and I was killed. Next thing I know, I wake up in a hotel, a set of documents in a folder on a bedside table and a few thousand pounds to my name. I wander around the city for about an hour or so, when Mike Stamford, whom I'd never met before, comes up to me and starts talking like we'd known each other for years. Then, next thing I know, I'm moving in with you." Sherlock's eyes widen even more, if that's at all possible.
"What's your last memory of that place you came from?" He asks, his voice quiet with wonderment.
"Not sure. I do recall pain; something rising from the Darkness, and demons! Yes, lots of those. It's all a bit blurred, really." John grunts as the pain in his wing suddenly makes itself known again. He winces and Sherlock notices.
"How about we get down from here and head back to Baker Street?" John sighs in relief.
"Please." After a few moments of them walking back through the building and down on to the street, John speaks up. "You know Lawson got away, right?" John's wings seem to fold in on themselves and disappear into his back, leaving two tears in his shirt and jumper where the powerful limbs used to be.
"Yes. Nothing escapes my notice."
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"Nope. I've got something much more interesting than some normal, everyday murderer."
"And, pray tell, what would that be, then?"
"I've got my very own angel!"
John stopped walking and stared after his friend who continued walking down the street with an air of nonchalance. "You're not experimenting on me, Sherlock!" John called, hurrying to catch up with the Great Detective.
AN: Well, there you go. I think this is the first Sherlock story that I actually completed. Yay me. Any reviews would be nice. No, really; reviews are what give me the will to go on living... Next up, the sequel to this story, Fallen Angel.