John walks silently down the dark corridor towards the soft sound of voices. He is burning with fury now. He has allowed his fledgling to be kidnapped by a rule-bending demon. He failed. He grits his teeth tightly, fists clenched. He does not have a gun, does not have a weapon, but by the Mighty, he would bloody well tear that demon to pieces. He finds the source of the voices, recognising Sherlock's low rumble. The other voice is soft, gentle, almost harmless.
'Oh, I see,' Sherlock sighs. 'You're a proper genius, too.' His words are laced with sarcasm. Anyone that can be caught by his great intellect is not worthy of praise. If only he knew this was a demon's game, to turn one's vices against themselves.
'It's a simple game, really,' the demon whispers. 'Science or magic. Mind or matter.' There is a brief pause, and something metallic scrapes against a wooden surface. 'Logic is strong, isn't it, Mr Holmes?' he teases. 'Let's see if logic can keep me out.'
There is a second scraping sound, a blade being lifted away from the wood. John's heart trembles in his chest. 'This is not exactly a gamble of intellect,' Sherlock says calmly. 'Shall I demonstrate intellect, then?' A chair scrapes against the floor. Sherlock is rising from his seat, he is leaving. Good. Good. 'You aren't playing with human life for fun, or even for revenge. Photographs in the taxi of children, two, and a third person, obviously torn away. A woman, from the shape of her hands, and from the wedding band, an ex-wife. There is shaving cream still hanging from the back of your ear, so there is no one living with you to notice. But you have children.' Steady footsteps draw closer. Sherlock will leave, then, once he has explained the demon's entire history, his motives. 'I cannot imagine the result of a demon and a human procreating,' Sherlock continues, and John can almost see the cold smile in his voice. 'I would assume that your children are not entirely normal. So, this game of yours is for them, isn't it?'
There is a soft, wheezing chuckle. 'We're not supposed to have children, us demons,' the demon admits pleasantly. 'If my boss finds out, he'd kill them. If the angels find out, well, we'd have a war on our hands. But I have a more people I kill, the longer my kids will be kept a secret.'
Sherlock's footsteps stop. 'Sponsor?' he repeats slowly, tasting the word in his mouth.
'Oh, no one says his name,' the demon sneers. 'We wouldn't dare.'
There is a brief, terrifying silence, before the footsteps continue towards the door. 'Pity,' Sherlock remarks. 'Your game is over. The police will be here very soon.'
Oh for Christ's sake, man, get out of there.
'But you'll never know the answer the the great question, Mr Holmes,' the demon calls tauntingly. 'Is your power of logic really more powerful than me?'
The footsteps begin to lead away from the door, slow and hesitant.
'Come on,' the demon purrs. 'Have a taste. Give it a try.' Sulphur fills the air.
No. No. No.
Sherlock makes a noise in his throat, a sentence collapsed before it has even begun.
It's started.
Not going to lose him. No.
The door splinters at John's touch. Sherlock is collapsed on the floor, his trembling hands clenched over a hunting knife. The jagged blade quivers just a hair's breadth away from his pale wrists. His eyes are wide, blown with terror. The demon is an old man. He could be a teacher, a friend, a father. John falters for a moment.
The fledgling gasps as the knife kisses his skin, drawing a thin, red line. The demon's lips twitch with a smug smile, his eyes too black and too large.
How dare he.
Pure rage explodes through John. It floods his veins, drowns his bones, breaks through his skin. He grabs the demon by the neck. There is a long, keening wail as the demon's skin begins to blister and pop. The skin on the demon's hands begin to crack. Burning flesh sizzles its stench into the air, smothering the sulphur. It's not enough, never enough for hurting Sherlock. John cannot see anymore, the fury is blinding. The demon's face is twisted with fear. He pleads and babbles, but John does not care to listen. He will burn every last molecule of this creature.
A hand grips his forearm. 'Enough, John,' whispers a voice in his ear.
John blinks. The anger is gone. He releases his hold on the demon's neck, and the burned body falls limply to the floor. From the whimpers, it seems that John has not killed it.
Sherlock bends over the demon, still wielding the hunting knife. He presses it against the demon's neck. 'Who is your sponsor?' he asks quietly, coldly.
The demon grits his teeth, eyes fixed on John in fear. He is too young to know what John was before.
Sherlock breathes out in a little irritated sigh. He presses the knife down against crisp skin, drawing a gurgled cry. 'Don't look at him,' he orders. 'He's not the worst of your worries now. Give me a name.' His wings loom over the demon menacingly.
The demon is slipping, fading. The Good Soldier's fire is something that very few survive. He shakes his head, eyes darting from Sherlock to John, Sherlock, John.
'A name,' Sherlock hisses, dragging the blade slightly. A sliver of skin peels away.
That's not very good. Playing with torture is not something a fledgling should be doing. John is fallen, so he can do what he likes. He can play dirty. But a fledgling is pure, unformed, still wavering at the precipice of reality.
The demon scrabbles helplessly at the floor. 'Moriarty!' he screams.
Sherlock lifts away the knife, but the demon is already dead. He tosses the knife away. They stand in silence for a while, watching each other warily. John rubs the back of his neck, trying to dispel the heat still burning in his skin.
'You told me you weren't an angel,' Sherlock says quietly.
'I'm not,' John confirms, inspecting his hands. They are clean. Always clean, despite the blood that will always stain his hands.
Sherlock smiled thinly. 'Then why do you have wings?' he questioned.
John frowns. 'Wings?' he repeats. The appearance of his wings is strictly impossible. Still, he glances behind him, but he sees nothing. He turns back to Sherlock in confusion. 'I don't have wings, Sherlock. Not anymore.'
Sherlock shakes his head firmly. 'You certainly have them,' he responds determinedly. He glances down at the corpse. 'Perhaps we should remove ourselves from the scene before Lestrade arrives.'
John nods and turns to exit through the door he destroyed. This is when Sherlock reaches out - curiosity, damn curiosity - and touches something that has no right to exist. A shudder of pleasure licks its way down John's spine, and he stumbles against the doorway.
'There,' Sherlock announces, oblivious to the effect of his actions. 'Your wings.' He reaches out and grabs.
Sparks dance behind John's eyelids. He is still descending from the roar of adrenaline and the dance of fire. This much psychic contact is uncontrollable. He forces himself to focus. Long, white-tipped feathers are clenched in Sherlock's fist, ruby, crimson, gold, auburn - all the colours of a tree in full Autumn. His vision swims as Sherlock moves his hand slightly. Oh, Christ. Has it been that long? This is too good. Intoxicating.
'Sher-' he gasps, gripping the doorway, 'S-stop, stop that.'
The fledgling releases him as though he were on fire. 'Did I hurt you?' he demands, anxiety flashing over his face.
John tries to laugh, but it comes out in a strangled croak. 'No, no,' he breathes. Oh, damn. Breathing is difficult. 'But, please, don't touch them.' He tries to glimpse his wings again, but they are gone. Good. Good. This makes more sense.'Touching, Jesus, just don't, okay?'
Sherlock watches him with his strange, shifting-sky eyes. He nods once.
John manages to calm down by the time they walk out of the building. He stands at a safe distance from Sherlock, trying to understand what would bring his wings into existence, and why only the fledgling could see them. Sherlock, meanwhile, paces agitatedly, his wings scraping over every space around him, reaching desperately for something. John's gut lurches when he considers that it just might be his own wings. When the police finally arrive, John has never been more thankful. Then he remembers the burnt body, the knife, and the shattered door.
Lestrade approaches them first, and Sherlock all but runs to his side. He talks in lowered tones, gesturing wildly and excitedly, waving at the buildings and the parked taxi. The Detective Inspector shakes his head. 'You're in shock, Sherlock,' he says gently, pressing his hands on the taller man's shoulders. 'Just sit down for a while, alright?' He nods at John. 'You alright?'
John manages a sordid attempt at a smile.
Sherlock looks incredulous. 'Of course he's not alright,' he hisses. 'Did you not listen to a thing I just said?'
'Sherlock! Go. And. Sit.' Lestrade pushes the outraged man towards the ambulance. 'Your wrist is bleeding.'
Reluctantly, Sherlock sulks over to the ambulance, where he allows himself to be patched up and is given a ridiculous orange blanket. Meanwhile, Lestrade sets his hand on John's shoulder. 'Sherlock's trying to convince me some random spontaneous human combustion occurred before you went in and saved him,' he explains. 'Is that really what happened?'
John looks down at his hands, then back up at the grey-haired man. He does not know what story Sherlock wove together. He does not know if Sherlock simply told the truth.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. 'Right, okay, you too,' he sighs. 'Go join Sherlock.'
John complies, because his head is beginning to throb. He sits next to Sherlock in silence while the other fiddles with his phone. They wait in silence until Lestrade allows them to leave. There is no denying that Sherlock touched his wings. Hell, he actually grabbed them. Therefore, John's wings exist, despite the fact that he willingly gave them up when he made his choice. He cradles his head in his hands.
A paramedic drapes a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock is staring at him again, cocking his head in an almost reptilian nature. His gloves peer out of his coat pocket, and his sleeve has been cautiously rolled up to give space for the bandage around his wrist. He seems unharmed and completely unaffected by the demon's attempt at possessing him. He is, however, staring with disturbing relentlessness.
'What is it?' John sighs heavily.
'The connection between your body and your wings is clearly cut off by the blanket,' Sherlock notes, indicating with his hand, 'but the shape and positioning of your wings have not changed. It is as though the blanket and the wings exist in different dimensions, and yet, I am able to experience both.' His bare fingertips drag delicately over John's wings. A long line of flame-coloured feathers fabricate themselves into existence in their wake.
John hisses as pleasure courses through his body, crackling in his fingers and his toes. He bats Sherlock's hands away quickly. 'I said not to touch me,' he growls.
The fledgling grabs John's wrist, pressing his forefinger and middle finger against his pulse. His eyes widen and his mouth opens in a silent 'oh'. 'You become sexually aroused,' he observes.
John flushes a startling shade of pink. 'No, I don't,' he snaps. 'It's not like that. That - that's not what it does.'
Sherlock tilts his head slightly. 'All the symptoms are present,' he argues. Perhaps he is disgusted, but he has yet to relinquish his hold on John's wrist. 'Your pulse is elevated. Your pupils are dilated.'
'I'm not bloody horny,' John whispers, very much aware of the paramedic now watching them. 'It's just how wings work, alright? They don't exist in this dimension, they exist in another, where our emotions exist. When you're touching my wings, you're touching my soul.' He leaves out the fact that, since he is no longer amongst the angels, he should not have wings.
Sherlock's forefinger draws a half-circle against John's still-sensitive skin. His lips are parted, his eyes still wide, a cat fascinated by a dancing pinprick of light. 'To have direct access to your soul would be very inconvenient,' he reasons. 'Controlling emotions would become near impossible.' He wrinkles his nose in distaste.
John watches the fledgling's pale finger trace idle patterns against the inside of his wrist. 'Sounds about right,' he smiles wryly.
The paramedic kneels beside them, clearing his throat uncomfortably. John expects Sherlock to withdraw from physical contact, but his fingers remain pressed against John's pulse. The paramedic turns his attention to John, very possibly because Sherlock was stroking thin air not too long ago. 'Does your boyfriend suffer from any drug allergies?' he questions briskly, routinely.
John frowns. 'He's not my boyfriend,' he corrects. 'We're not together.'
The paramedic looks surprised, then embarrassed, and glances unconsciously down at Sherlock's hand still gripping John's wrist. 'I'm sorry, I thought, I mean, of course you're not,' he stammers, swallowing nervously. 'But, not that it's wrong, I mean, it's fine, it's all fine.'
'I know it's fine,' Sherlock interrupts calmly. 'And no, I am not allergic to any drugs. Please leave us alone. We have no further need for you.'
'Sherlock!' John cries reproachfully.
Sherlock argues that they really do not require any more assistance, since John himself is a doctor. Neither of them are in shock. He then proceeds to discard his blanket and saunter away. John has to follow. After all, Sherlock ishis responsibility. They have only walked a few steps when Sherlock reaches towards John's invisible, impossible wings. John dodges quickly, swearing loudly. Sherlock begins to chuckle.
'Stop it, Sherlock,' John says exasperatedly. 'We can't act like five-year olds at a crime scene.' He is beginning to giggle despite himself.
They are laughing in the face of danger. John knows that this can only lead to another disaster. He also knows with complete certainty that he has not felt this young or brazenly idiotic since he felled Morning Star, and it fills his heart with horrible joy.
Let the fledgling be many things, John prays. Let him be mad, even, but do not let him be a second Morning Star.