"You didn't know me, so I just went the deductive route and made you think that I was just a random passerby," Sherlock said, munching on a piece of toast. "You didn't remember me from Afghanistan, so it was easier than trying to explain I was your Angel."
"Why? You should have told me," John said.
"Why?" Sherlock countered. "It wasn't necessary and it's not in the Handbook."
"There's a Handbook?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. I ignore the rules that won't get me into too much trouble, though."
John laughed slightly. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Because I attracted a psychopath's attention on the first day that you and I met which coalesced into my faking my own death and then coming back to London and you finding out that I'm an Angel," Sherlock said simply, taking a drink of his tea.
John snapped his fingers. "That's how you faked your death!"
Sherlock glanced up. "Huh?"
"You just fluffed out your wings and cushioned your fall. And then blood from Molly and... I thought you said there were snipers on you."
"One," Sherlock clarified. "But Mycroft got him to reconsider. The rest were just waiting on a signal... They were at Scotland Yard and Baker Street."
"... Huh." John slumped back in his chair. "So, what does this mean?"
"What does what mean?" Sherlock asked, taking another bite of his toast.
"This." John gestured between him and Sherlock.
"It means nothing more than it did when we first met. I'm here to protect you. Until your heart stops, John Watson," he said, smirking. "Or until I die," he added.
"You can... really die?"
"Well... In ways. This body is a vessel. So if I was shot or jumped off a roof," he said sardonically, "my vessel would die but I would be sent back into Heaven until I could possess a new vessel. But there are ways to kill Angels..." he trailed off and studiously chewed his toast.
John got the distinct impression that he wasn't going to elaborate. "Alright..."
"But my job is to protect you, so I'll always be around." Sherlock finished off his toast, brushing crumbs onto the floor. "The two years I was away nearly killed me."
John raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"I'm serious. I wasn't around you. I had people watching you, of course, but when an Angel and its..."
"Human," John supplied.
"Sure," Sherlock replied absently. "Human are separated, things... physically happen to the Angel. I was moulting," he said disdainfully.
John felt like there was something more there than Sherlock was letting on, going by the distant look in his eyes, but he didn't pull him up on it.
Sherlock shook his head, picking up his mug. "Are we done with this?"
"There's nothing else I should know?"
Sherlock shook his head again. "No. Nothing more than you already know. You didn't even need to know I was your Angel; it hardly makes a difference."
"Well, I'm glad..." John cleared his throat. "I mean, it's good to know."
"Why?" Sherlock asked, standing. "Does it make you feel protected, knowing I would throw myself under a bus for you?" he asked sarcastically.
"Would you, though?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "By Angel guidelines, I have to."
"Oh, nice," John muttered, picking up his tea to take it to the sitting room.
Sherlock shrugged. "I'd die if I didn't, anyway. Or rather, be cast into Purgatory and, despite my don't-care attitude, that's not really someplace I want to go."
John sank into his chair. "You'd be sent to Hell?"
"Purgatory," Sherlock replied, ruffling his hair. "Worse than what you can think or imagine about your Hell." He yawned. "Really, are we done? I'm tired."
John sighed heavily. "Go to bed. You know I'm going to-"
"Have more questions later, yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sure."
Without another word, Sherlock turned and trudged back to his bedroom. The door closed and John heard the squeak of the mattress as the detective fell into bed.
John sighed again and stared at the blank television screen. How quickly his life had changed. But, if nothing else, he thought, at least life with Sherlock Holmes wasn't boring.
John puffed out a breath, racing off after Sherlock.
"Sherlock... Sherlock, watch it!"
"Wait up!"
"Keep up!" Sherlock yelled back, clamouring onto the fire escape and darting up the stairs.
John barely cleared the fire escape ladder - damn the man for having such long arms - and took off after him.
"We're going to lose him!"
John blindly followed Sherlock without so much as a thought to where they were going or how their suspect planned on getting away. They were on the rooftops now, pretty high up. No one was getting down unless they jumped, and if anyone jumped, they wouldn't be alive after they fell.
Unless it was Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock Holmes could apparently do that.
One minute, Sherlock was running along the expanse of the rooftop. The next, he'd slipped and all John saw was a glimpse of the dark greatcoat tumbling over the incline.
"Sherlock!"
John didn't think that Sherlock was an angel. He didn't think that only vessels could die, that Sherlock technically couldn't die, only his body would be harmed and his soul or spirit or whatever would still be around, doomed to protect John for the rest of his life.
He didn't think about that. He wasn't used to the concept. He just knew that he watched his best friend plummet over the side of a roof and his stomach dropped out.
"Sherlock!"
John scrambled to the edge of the roof, looking towards the ground. Sherlock wasn't splattered on the ground. Sherlock wasn't... anywhere, in fact, not that John could see.
"... Sherlock?"
"What?"
There was a light whooshing around his ears and John whirled around unsteadily, watching a now half-naked Sherlock land lightly on the roof behind him. John just, in simple terms, ogled.
"Don't look so surprised," Sherlock muttered, tucking his wings close to his body.
This was so bizarre. Only two weeks ago, John had been made aware of the fact that his best friend his Guardian Angel and now? Sherlock was falling off of rooftops and flying back to land on said rooftop he'd fallen off of.
"You can fly," he said - rather stupidly, he had to admit.
"Of course I can fly," Sherlock said, fingers gripping gently at his feathers from beneath his wings. "Wings generally are for flying... Well, most of the time. Some birds, penguins, for instance-"
"Sher- I don't care about penguins," John retorted. "Are you alright? What happened to your clothes?" He traipsed back up the roof to join Sherlock. "Are you hurt?"
Sherlock sighed. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? And where did your clothes go?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow briefly. "Well, cloth doesn't just grow holes for these vast appendages to shoot out of. I ruined another coat." He sighed, his breath turning to a puff of condensation. "And lost the suspect."
"Why didn't you fly after him?" John asked, following Sherlock back towards the fire escape.
Sherlock shuffled his wings a bit, mumbling something that John didn't catch.
"What?"
"I can't fly well," Sherlock muttered.
John blinked. "You..."
"I already said it once; I'm not saying it again."
John couldn't help but smile at his tone. "Why not? Didn't you learn when you were a kid or something?"
"Well... Sort of. There are different forms in different realms and learning to fly as a Human is like you learning to walk. Mum and Dad helped with it a bit, in our true forms, but they both got assignments. I never took to it and Mycroft never helped much... Not to mention he became a Guardian before me and, by the time I got here for you, he was quite used to flying."
"... Mycroft's one too?!"
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "Of course. Heritage," he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How in the hell did I never notice this? Two years living with you, well, two and a half now, two years that I assumed you were dead and I still had no idea..."
Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't go falling off rooftops unless it was intentional and you never spent much time with Mycroft."
"I feel so stupid," John muttered.
"It's touch and go," Sherlock said, hailing down a cab.
John crawled into the cab after Sherlock, sinking heavily into the seat. "But an Angel. You think I would have noticed feathers."
"If you did, you probably thought it was an experiment," Sherlock replied, stretching a bit. "Ugh..."
John glanced at him. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, not like that. While I was away for two years, going out of London left for a lot of flight time. Now that I'm back, well, the city doesn't make for a great place to fly and I've been out of practise the past six months now."
"Do you like flying?" John asked, his eyes once again invariably drawn to the black-blue feathers wrapping Sherlock's upper torso.
"I like solving cases," Sherlock said. "But I like flying a lot, too. Love it, actually, when I manage it. I went down in a tree on the outskirts of Portsmouth earlier last year; I thought I was dying." He glanced sideways at John. "You can, if you'd like."
John met his gaze. "I can what?"
"Touch them," Sherlock clarified. "You've been dying to ever since I showed them to you."
John swallowed and flicked his gaze back to Sherlock's wings. He felt strangely nervous and he wasn't sure why. Nonetheless, he reached his hand out and gently brushed his fingertips against Sherlock's wings.
Sherlock jerked from the touch and John pulled his head back as though he'd been shocked, heart racing.
"Sorry," he muttered.
Sherlock shivered slightly. "No. That was my fault. Wings are sensitive. Sort of tickled." He frowned. "No one's ever touched my wings. Well, except to pluck feathers."
"Why would someone pluck your feathers?" John asked, reaching out to run his fingers over Sherlock's feathers again without asking this time.
"Angel Wings are priceless amongst Humans. The more feathers you have from a viable host, the more value they have. It's also common of Wingers to take feathers from the Angel they have sex with to keep as a momento-"
"Woah, wait a second," John said, pulling his hand back again. "Wingers? Sex? Look, Sherlock, I know Angels exist but I've never done any research and it wasn't as commonly discussed when I was in school."
"Wingers are non-Angels, mostly Humans, in this case, sexually attracted to Angels. And yes, Angels can have sex. We are in human vessels, after all, and that is a normal part of human biology." His tone stated obviously.
"It seems... rather derogatory, for Angels," John muttered.
"And your parents were Bible-thumping Christians," Sherlock replied easily. "But it's different than that. Angels have no use of sex when we're in our true forms, but when we take another form, their likenesses become ours. It's really nothing crude or defiling."
"Like you'd know," John said, tearing his gaze away from Sherlock and to the window. He was normal. He really was. And now there was another implication. Wingers. So people were going to think that he was gay and a Winger. A gay Winger. Great. How often was he going to have to tell people he wasn't this time?
"More than you'd think," Sherlock muttered, looking at his own window.
John felt his face flush... again. "I don't want the details, thanks," he muttered.
"Well, not sex with anyone else, anyway. Not many people actually know I'm an Angel so going to bed with them would probably give them a heart attack, not to mention that I don't actually care to have sex with anyone," Sherlock said.
"I said, I don't want the details," John repeated loudly.
Sherlock chuckled softly and fell silent, the only movement in the cab Sherlock's wings brushing John's coat as he shuffled them slightly.
Onto Chapter Two! More explanations abounds for poor little Human!John.
Warning for upcoming chapters: I'm borrowing plot straight out of Series Three, so there'll be some pretty major spoilers. Yes, I know, where's Mary if you're taking on Series Three? Sorry, Mary's not here. I love her, but it works better if the boys are living together if Sherlock's an Angel. You'll just have to wait and see what happens.
I do not own Sherlock. Any reference to Supernatural (which would be coincidental because I don't watch it) also is not mine.
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