Sherlock invites him into the night so they can watch the cars pass by from a restaurant. The owner - Angelo - welcomes him happily, announcing that Sherlock saved him a lot of trouble by clearing his name. Sherlock seems displeased with being held responsible for any form of helpful activity. His wings droop against the floor, dancing far across the restaurant.
John wonders if he believes he doesn't deserve praise.
Angelo brings a candle. 'It'll be more romantic,' he explains with a broad grin. John tries to explain that they are not romantically involved in any way, but the man is already nodding and smiling and completely ignoring John.
'Order something,' Sherlock suggests, his eyes darting out the window. 'We'll be here for a while.'
John needs to eat, so he orders a plate of pasta. He knows that Sherlock's disregard for his physical disposition is only natural. Fledglings do not need to feed on human food any more than a fully grown archangel. However, there is a delicate, pained thinness to Sherlock that almost hurts to look at.
His dinner arrives, and John busies himself with food. He remembers the cold remnants of the food he ate in the trenches, and the sick feeling in his gut when the smell of flesh rotting and infecting drowned out the smell of each meal. He is grateful for this heat, and this food, and the fact that he is not being shot at all the time.
After a while, John notices that Sherlock is watching him.
'You know more about the victim than you want to tell me,' Sherlock states grimly.
John sets down his fork. 'I'll tell you what I know if you answer all my questions,' he bargains steadily.
Sherlock considers this briefly, a line appearing between his eyebrows. He nods once.
Good. Communication. Progress. John feels calm. 'What do you do?' he questions. 'Why do you work with the police?'
'I'm a consulting detective,' is the smooth reply. 'The only one. I invented the job.' Sherlock tilts his head slightly. In the dancing candlelight, his eyes are suddenly a deep indigo, and John does not remember what shade they were before. 'When the police are out of their depth, which they often are, they consult me.'
John nods, digesting this information. The fledgling plays a careful, finding those criminals and allowing them to be justly punished, but never fighting, never really having the stain of blood on his hands. He's too young for real battle, but already he is glorious. John cannot fathom how many killers, how many rapists, how many dark-hearted men Sherlock has put away.
'Alright, so how long have you been doing this?' John questions.
Sherlock shrugs, his fingers dancing distractedly over the tablecloth before running through the flame tauntingly. It seems that, as his emotions infect John's, John's own instincts are diffusing into Sherlock. 'Two years,' he replies. He offers no more information. His wings unfurl and loom over them both, not protectively, not threateningly, but in defense.
John narrows his eyes. He knows that Sherlock will answer all questions, as promised. The fledgling would do anything for completion of his knowledge.
'And what happened before that? You don't look young enough to have just jumped out of university,' John observes.
Sherlock's jaw clenches. He hovers his fingers a few seconds too long over the fire, the fleshy pads of his fingertips blushing an angry red. 'I was unfortunately displaced from full sobriety,' he answers cryptically.
John understands immediately. A fist clenches in his gut.
Of course this would happen. Leave a fledgling in the human world, and things go sour.
'I am not proud of my actions, but it got... difficult to keep the voices quiet.' Sherlock's eyes flash quickly to John's face, searching for some form of reaction. 'It was the only way I could find. Biological manipulation of the mind.'
John parts his lips, breathes in the air, and it hurts his lungs. Sherlock's face is blank, guarded, but his emotions swirl in a dark hurricane of fear, regret, and anguish. His feathers fall in a heavy rain around them.
'I understand,' John says at last. He does, actually. He is angry that he could not have been a Guide earlier, before so much damage had been done. Or was this part of the experiment as well? How to destroy a fledgling? It made him sick to think about it.
The candle burns a little brighter, but Sherlock does not seem to notice. He is busy staring at John as though the older man has somehow sprouted a pair of butterfly wings.
'What?' John sighs, stabbing his pasta exasperatedly.
Sherlock shakes his head. 'That's not what most people say,' he reveals.
'Most people aren't me,' John replies with a grin.
For a while, the fledgling watches him, his fingers pressed together, resting against his lips. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, and his eyes light up into brighter, more hopeful shades. 'No,' Sherlock agrees. 'They aren't.'
The candle glows a warmer colour. They both notice, but they say nothing of it. Perhaps Sherlock attributes it to a more positive mentality.
'So, you'll tell me why the victim managed to cut her wrists,' Sherlock states eagerly.
John nods, dragging his gaze through the restaurant. He sees no angels, no watching sisters, no demons. Angelo waves enthusiastically from his post. John finds himself smiling bleakly in return. He diverts his attention back to Sherlock. 'Fine,' he nods. 'Are you a scientific man, Sherlock, or are you open to other ideas?'
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
John smiles. He repeats the motion Sherlock went through moments before, slipping his fingers into the candle flame. He holds his hand steady. Sherlock needs this physical evidence for the supernatural before he hears the full explanation. He is a mind that works in such ways, demanding proof for every detail. 'When you bent over the woman, you smelt sulphur, didn't you?' he questions calmly, his voice gentle. He is patient, and the fire warms his cold bones nicely. How long has it been since he has felt this glow?
Sherlocks eyes are wide open, drinking in the impossible sight of flesh settling above flame, unharmed. He is rapt with curiosity. 'Yes,' he murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he watches. 'Yes, but it didn't fit. Well,' he frowned, 'it could fit, if we assume she came into contact with the chemical in a laboratory or whilst passing a construction site, but there is no evidence to support those theories. The smell came from her mouth. Possible links to a tradition of taking sulphur and molasses as a spring tonic, but there was no molasses involved. So why ingest sulphur? It's not too harmful, but it's not pleasant either.'
John shakes his head slightly, smiling. 'You speak from experience,' he laughs.
Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. 'Of course I speak from experience,' he replies, which makes John laugh even more.
Sherlock's eyes draw themselves back to the sight of John's fingertips, still immersed in the dance of the candle. He still does not understand. Fire must burn.
Fire does burn. It does destroy. It also warms and protects. That is why John belongs to such an element.
'The sulphur is a textbook mark of demonic presence,' John continues. At the sound of his voice, Sherlock's attention whips back, elastic in its versatility. 'The woman was possessed.'
Sherlock is silent for a moment. His wings rise above him, stretching out like four points of a compass. The shadows in the room grow longer and darker. His presence feeds the black corners of each room, swallowing away at the light. It is terrifying and extraordinary all at once.
'You are telling me that demons exist,' Sherlock whispers, eyes wide. He is suddenly very young, a child listening to fairytales, believing and wondering and doubting all at once.
John draws his hand away from the candle, offering his fingers to the other man for inspection. Sherlock grabs them greedily, drawing his pocket magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket.
'And angels,' John says pleasantly.
Sherlock's fingers brush against the the callouses on John's hands and fingers. John has worn many bodies since his fall, and they have all worn different marks and scars. 'Which are you?' Sherlock demands.
John considers the question. He reclaims possession of his hand, setting it on his lap. 'Neither,' he replies truthfully. His pasta is cool, but no less enjoyable, so he continues to eat.
Sherlock seems to have lost all interest in the case. He is now staring at John, as though simply absorbing visual information will provide an answer. John finds it slightly uncomfortable, but it is not the first time he has been so closely observed. He continues to eat until he is finished. Sherlock continues to stare.
'What about the killer?' John prompts, setting his plate aside. 'That text you made me sent, it should make him come right here. So what happens when he appears? How will we know it's him?'
Sherlock focuses immediately, his wings snapping together with a powerful rush of air. The candle goes out. If Sherlock notices this, he makes no mention of it. 'What does a demon look like?' he questions.
'Like a human,' is the frustratingly simple reply. 'They tend to blend in,' John clarifies. 'Like I do.'
This seems to light a spark in the fledgling's mind, because the same look of understanding floods his angular features. 'Of course,' he breathes, 'now it makes sense. Each of the victims are random because they're not picked. There is no underlying link because it isn't the killer that picks them, but the victim that picks the killer. The killer would be a stranger, but a stranger we trust instinctively, and can hide in a crowd. Someone that we seek out ourselves, even.' Sherlock's eyes widen with glee. 'Oh, that's clever,' he all-but gushes. 'But why is it clever?'
This again. John resists the urge to press his palm against his face. At some point, they need to have a talk about appropriateness. It's all a bit not good.
Then Sherlock's gaze drifts over John's shoulder through the window. 'Oh,' he breathes, and it is like a prayer. 'Who hides in a crowd?' He nods at a parked taxi. 'That cab hasn't moved in over an hour.' He rises from his seat in a flurry of beating wings and falling feathers.
John follows without a second thought. The spiral together into the face of traffic, dodging oncoming cars and dashing towards the taxi. It slides away, and they begin to chase. Sherlock must have a map of London in his head, because he darts into a thin alleyway without hesitation, dragging John behind him. Sherlock's coat billows at his calves majestically, cast into deep shadow by the shape of his outspread wings. They end up on a roof, somehow, and the fledgling leaps from rooftop to rooftop like an overgrown cat. John stares down into the ravine, remembering that he does not have the aid of wings or supernatural capabilities. Sherlock makes an annoyed noise, and a rush of adrenaline glistens in John's veins. He jumps over the gap before he even knows it.
They intercept the taxi at a crossing. Sherlock yanks the door open. A confused face blinks up at him, an American voice demands explanation. Sherlock flashes a police badge gleaned from Lestrade, of all things, and grins. 'Welcome to London,' he chirps, and dashes away with John soon behind.
The tourist calls on an actual police official, and Sherlock drags John into an alley. The hide, half in shadow and half in light, backs pressed against mildewed brick and lungs heaving. One of them begins to laugh - who exactly, John cannot quite discern - and it is infectious. Soon they are collapsing against each other, wheezing and guffawing like complete idiots. It doesn't matter.
John hasn't felt this alive in a long time.
He only notices that he is not using his cane when it is returned to him. Sherlock looks smug. John suspects the entire chase was only to heal his limp, and he feels a rush of thankfulness.
Except when they climb up to their flat, they are greeted with a sobbing Mrs Hudson and half of Scotland Yard prowling and rummaging through Sherlock's things. Lestrade perches on a couch, giving Sherlock a long disapproving look. He informs them both that withholding evidence is a punishable crime, and Sherlock responds in a furious outburst.
'I'm not a child,' he snaps.
Lestarde argues that, yes, he is. John agrees silently, but then their definitions of a child are quite different.
'You don't have a warrant,' Sherlock argues, glancing into the kitchen.
Donovan discovers eyeballs in the microwave, much to her horror, and is immediately ordered to return them. Apparently, they are an experiment. John is slightly worried by this. Meanwhile, Lestrade is calmly informing Sherlock that he does not require a search warrant, as he is currently conducting a drug sweep. John wonders then if it was Lestrade that pulled Sherlock out of the dark spots in his life. The fledgling himself grows very silent.
Anderson appears in the kitchen. According to Lestrade, those that are present volunteered. Anderson sneers at Sherlock's experiments, and Sherlock sneers at Anderson's relationship with Donovan. John stares at her then, because he has never heard of copulation between humans and angels being permissible.
Donovan must sense his alarm, for she pulls him aside. Sherlock's gaze follows, his expression unfathomable.
'He's not human,' Donovan explains, glancing at Anderson guiltily.
'He's a dick,' John states bluntly.
The Guide shifts her wings uncomfortably. 'A bit,' she admits, frowning. 'But they all are, aren't they? Changelings, I mean.' She is guilty about their relationship, especially because is indulging in pleasures of the flesh. 'He has his good points,' she adds desperately.
John knows he should remind her that the Mighty really don't care anymore, but she is unkind with Sherlock, and this makes him resent her just a little. He offers her a tight-lipped smile and advises that she put the eyeballs back in the microwave.
By the time he returns to Sherlock's side, the brilliant creature is rattling away about passwords and how the names of dead relatives were often used as such things, and how they could track the killer using the phone's GPS. John's head hurts with the flurry of technological references. Sherlock produces a laptop from the horrifying mess that is scattered about the flat, and he types fiercely. Of course he touchtypes, John thinks dryly.
'There!' he announces triumphantly. He frowns, peering closer. His lips move as he mutters something, but it is drowned out by a squeal as Anderson discovers a pig fetus next to the milk.
'Don't touch that,' Sherlock barks, leaping to his feet. Pandemonium rages as Anderson rants about the health and safety regulations. Lestrade looks pained.
Mrs Hudson appears in the doorway, trying to tell anyone who will listen that Sherlock's cab has arrived.
'I didn't call a cab,' the irritated man responds.
'Oh, but he's here,' Mrs Hudson sighs. 'I can't just send him away.'
Donovan spots a catalogue of blood spatters and alerts everyone, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the neatly framed photographs. John sighs and protests in the name of privacy, but then it's a little too late for that. He doesn't notice that Sherlock has left until he realises he has been waiting for a scornful attack on Donovan for too long. The flat is terrifyingly empty, despite being full of people.
Cab for Sherlock Holmes.
John rushes down the stairs. The stench of sulphur hangs thick on the wallpaper. He bursts into the night air, but Sherlock is gone. Black feathers dance on the cold night air, suspended as though hung from a string, drawing a clear path for John to follow.
Molting feathers. A clear sign of distress.
'Fuck,' he utters, and charges after the nearest taxi.