AN: Hey guys, sorry this is late. We've got more reveals in this chapter... EXCITEMENT.

Also. Let's play spot the Supernatural quote.

Quite a long chapter, so please remember to REVIEW at the end!

"Oh my god..." Mary breathed, her eye as round as plates. "You're...what the hell...what are you?" she managed to choke out after a minute, clutching her coat tighter around her to try and stop her shaking.

Sherlock shook his head and held out his hand to her. "No time to explain. Short version, I really did die two years ago and I was transformed into an angel by the archangel Michael. Now, come on, it's much faster to fly than by car, and we need to get to John!"

Mary was still trembling but she took a step forwards, somewhat hesitantly. Sherlock spread his wings out to full span, ignoring Mary's awed gasp and motioned for her to climb onto his back, in between his shoulder blades. Mary quickly jumped onto his back, settling in the middle of both wings, one hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the raven feathers. Sherlock took her weight like it was nothing at all to bear - he could easily lift a ton with his new angel strength. But it became clear that carrying an extra passenger during flight was going to be a hindrance to his speed and his durability.

"Mary, you need to hold on very tightly," Sherlock warned her. "I do not wish for you to fall to your death."

"Believe me, neither do I," the woman said into his ear.

Sherlock tested the weight of his wings before he began to beat his great black appendages in sync, creating cold gusts of wind as he swept himself upwards. With one fluid movement, he curled his whole body like a cat and leapt into the air, shooting up us above the buildings and quickly coming to a steady pace, gliding along on warm thermal currents, his mind palace setting his internal compass to Saint James the Less, the church where he would find John.

Mary had buried her head in the back of his neck and wrapped her arms tightly a round his torso, refusing to let go in sheer terror, her grip starting to hurt it was so tight. The wind was whipping the pair's hair into their faces, their clothes plastered against them, and while Sherlock could not feel the biting cold, Mary was shivering.

In the angel's mind, he was calculating how long it will take to get to St James the Less Church. Currently the journey would take 10 minutes. Sherlock growled quietly under his breath and quickly shifted currents, giving two great beats to wing up to a higher, faster air current. Mary squeaked and held on even tighter. Mary's phone sounded a text alert and she struggled to get it out while anchoring herself to Sherlock's body with one arm. It read:

Getting warmer Mr Holmes

You have about ten minutes.

Mary relayed the message, shouting it because of the loud rush of wind past their ears, and Sherlock gave another quick beat of his wings to try and control his anger.

"What does it mean?" Mary yelled, her blonde hair being blown into her eyes as she clutched her phone in her hands around the angel's neck. "What are they going to do to him?"

Sherlock shook his head, gazing down at the lights of the great city below as he flapped his wings, muscles rippling. "I don't know."

8 minutes

And counting...

He snarled and dived forwards, falling a few metres causing Mary scream before pulling up short, wings spread out to full span as he soared over the rooftops, coat lapping at his knees. The angel scanned the roads once before quickening his flight speed with a few adjustments to his flight feathers.

"Hold on!" Sherlock shouted before with several great beats of his wings he quickened his speed by a third. He could already feel his vessel's energy running out and stretching onto his reserves. As soon as the body was out of energy, he would have to use his Grace and risk injuring his true form.

"Sherlock!" Mary shouted, using one arm to stretch around and show him the next message sent while he was changing course.

Better hurry

things are

hotting up here...

"Almost there, Mary," he yelled.

Suddenly a barrier slammed into him, forcing him to pull up short, hovering. He quickly searched for the cause. Ah. He was entering the church's boundaries. He couldn't enter the area before the protective sigils were broken or new ones were placed. Growling, he quickly landed and helped Mary off his back.

"Why did we stop?" Mary asked, alarmed and worried.

Sherlock shook his head and rested his hands on his knees, trying to gain back vital energy for his vessel. "I can't enter the church boundaries. All the churches of London have protective sigils stopping demons and angels from entering."

"How do we get in?" Mary questioned, suddenly a lot more confident.

"You can get in perfectly fine," Sherlock told her. "Here, I need you to place this sigil within the boundaries, and quickly!" He placed his hand on her forehead and transferred the knowledge.

She blinked before nodding, reaching her hand out. Sherlock passed over his angel blade without hesitation. The sigil needed to be done in human blood. If Mary was willing, then he wasn't going to argue. She quickly stepped over the boundaries and Sherlock winced as it shimmered slightly, sensing the angel Grace inside of her. Mary sliced her hand with a grimace and began painting the sigil onto the wall sweeps and curves of bright crimson. Mary's phone in Sherlock's hand bleeped.

Stay of execution.

you've got two

more minutes...

"Mary -"

"I'm doing it! Don't rush me!"

Sherlock's feathers ruffled in agitation. "Two minutes!"

"I said don't rush me!"

Her blood glided over the wall in ancient intricate pattern, a five pointed star and circle lined with strong red patterns of Enochian lettering. Sherlock's Grace inside of her was a shining pinprick of light inside of her head, the knowledge pouring out and out and out into her mind, into her hands. Finally the barrier released and vanished. Without a word, blood and Grace pounding, Sherlock grabbed Mary under the arms and launched upwards, his wings beating so fast they were a black blur. Soon they were swooping towards the church where the beginnings of a bonfire lay with crowds of people around it, laughing and playing with sparklers.

What a shame

Mr Holmes.

John is quite a Guy!

"What does it mean?" Mary shouted.

Sherlock gasped as the bonfire lit up in flames, the figure on top of it basked in orange light; the fire flickered and licked up the wood covered in gasoline and Sherlock could sense the soul in danger, situated in the centre of the fire... John. Ebbing, in pain, flickering, afraid and terrified and agonised.

"Oh Father," he breathed. He landed with a thump, dropping Mary and sprinting towards the fire, wings flared out behind him. "Move!" He screamed at the families, who were now hearing the cries from the bonfire.

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, diving towards the flames and throwing wood and scraps aside, desperately searching. "JOHN!"

"Help!" came the weak, cracked reply, muffled by the roaring of fire.

Mary was there, helping him and Sherlock concentrated, pulling on his Grace and searching for the tortured soul, finding it surrounded in fear and agony and horror. He ripped the scraps aside and finally saw the familiar ash-covered wool jumper. He dragged his old flatmate's limp from from the bonfire, out of the flames and onto the ground. John stared up at him with bleary, dazed eyes. His exposed skin was glowing bright red from heat exposure. The angel heard the heartbroken sob from Mary behind him.

"John?" Sherlock asked gently, slapping his face slightly, his voice breaking. His Grace was ebbing and throbbing in pain and in exhaustion but he hardly cared. "Hey, John..."

John's eyes slipped shut as he passed out. Sherlock gathered him in his arms, wrapping his wings around the man laying unconscious in his grasp, soothed by his Grace, and reached out for Mary's arm. With the sigils down, he gathered his Grace and managed to teleport the three of them back into the living room of Baker Street. Immediately his knees gave out and he fell to the floor in exhaustion, but he and Mary dragged John to Sherlock's bedroom and settled him on the bed. Sherlock's fingers danced over the burns and he gazed up at Mary with tired eyes.

"I need your permission," he said, voice slurred slightly.

Mary blinked in confusion. "Permission?"

"Yes, to heal him," Sherlock replied, his wings sagging against his back, drooping onto the bed. A few stray raven feathers scattered the floorboards. "I need his permission, but since John's unconscious, you can pass as his next of kin since you're engaged."

"We're not actually -"

"Mary," Sherlock said, bowing his head, while raising one eyebrow, his voice telling her not to argue.

She hesitated. "Heal him? You can actually do that?"

"Yes. It involves allowing my Grace to filter through his body to repair cells before removing it. Though I should most probably leave a minuscule piece attached to him if he is to see my wings."

"Okay. Just...be careful." Mary stepped aside, looking on warily.

Sherlock exhaustedly pulled on his Grace and forced the energy to seep into John, the angry red burns vanishing with repaired cells replacing it with new skin, and he seemed to breath a lot easier as well. When Sherlock took his hands off of him, he tipped over to the side, his eyes slipping shut. After flying with a passenger, teleporting three people and healing injuries, his Grace was exhausted and needed to be replenished. He thought he might pass out.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mary said gently, helping him rise, keeping a wary eye on his sagging wings as she guided him to the living room sofa.

Sherlock collapsed down on it on his front and buried his face in a pillow, his wings splayed out onto the floor and over the back of the sofa, pressed up against his back and the wall exhaustedly. He felt hands removing his coat and his socks and shoes, but he only made a small grateful noise, barely audible. Mary even helped place his wings in more comfortable positions, apologising heartily when his feathers caught and he shuddered.

"I'm going to pass out now," Sherlock mumbled, turning his head slightly out of the coolness of the pillow to address Mary. "Don't wake me up; my Grace is trying to replenish itself and it's better if I'm unconscious to gain direct access to the Axis Mundi to siphon off the energy from the souls."

"That's alright, Sherlock. Rest, I'll take care of John. Though I expect an explanation later."

"Yes, I thought you might..." He took a deep breath then asked in a small voice, "Does John hate me?" He knew he sounded childish asking, but he had to.

"No, Sherlock. I don't think he could ever hate you. In fact I think he was walking here to speak to you when he got kidnapped."

"'Kay," the angel murmured. "Thank you."

He took a quick glance at the clock. Only ten. He should be fine. He turned and rustled his feathers, smoothing them down before allowing his Grace to settle and rest at the back of his vessel, slipping into blessed unconsciousness and curling up into the warm darkness.

...

When the angel awoke again it was to turn and find John Watson staring at him from across the room, seated in his own chair. Mary was in the kitchen trying to navigate around test tubes and conical flasks and ominous liquids while making tea. Sherlock glanced outside. It was still dark out. A glance at his clock revealed it to be nearly midnight. 23. 32 to be precise. He had only gained around two hours of 'sleep'. John was still staring.

Sherlock turned away and curled up, face in pillow once again. His Grace still felt weak, still exhausted, not fully replenished. He needed another few hours of unconsciousness to get up to full power once more. As he curled up like a cat, his flight feathers twitched and the muscles spasmed once, causing John to startle and jump in surprise. Sherlock smiled into his pillow. John was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, still staring. Mary came back into the living room, passing John a cup of strong tea and setting one down on the floor next to Sherlock, before settling in Sherlock's chair opposite John.

"We know you're awake, Sherlock."

"Go away," he muttered. "My Grace still needs replenishing. I told you not to wake me up."

"Sherlock..."

John's voice had a small stutter in it. The angel sighed and shifted his wings. He sat up slowly, not meeting either humans' eyes. John and Mary glanced each other before gazing at him silently, waiting for some kind of explanation.

"Sherlock..." John said. "Do you want to start by telling me what the bloody hell is going on?!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered. "I know I should have told you."

"Yeah, you should have told me! You should have told me ages ago, you stupid, masochistic, cold-hearted bastard -''

"JOHN," Mary said sharply, because with every word Sherlock had been shrinking back, ending up curled up, knees tucked into his chest and wings wrapped around him like a blanket, head buried in the mass of black feathers.

John inhaled and stared at his knees. "I just... I want to know what is going on...and I want to know now."

"I died," Sherlock said in a small voice, head appearing out of the raven feathers and his eyes flashing.

"What?"

"When I jumped off of Bart's," Sherlock explained. He tried to keep the shake out of his refused to show emotion. "I really did die. What I told you in the restaurant, that I faked my death... It's all fake. Molly thought I was dead too. Mycroft as well."

"You...but you're still alive. You're here. You're alive," John said, confused.

"John, you know very well what I am. I am far from human. I am far from alive."

"You're an angel."

Silence.

"Yes," Sherlock finally answered. "I am."

"Have you always been?" John questioned, with hidden anger.

"No. Only since Bart's."

"So. For two years."

"Yes."

Silence again. Then John looked up and asked slowly, "How?"

"It's...complicated."

"We have all night," Mary replied calmly.

Sherlock turned to her with narrowed eyes. "Very complicated."

"We're not stupid," John said, his voice tinted with fury. "Stop treating us like we are. We have the right to know, Sherlock. I watched you jump off that bloody building. Now I find out you're an angel. I have the right to know how."

Sherlock turned away, huffing in irritation. "That's what Mycroft said," he muttered.

"Mycroft?" Mary questioned.

"His brother," John replied. "So Mycroft knew, about all of this."

"Yes, obviously. He insisted that I reveal myself to you. He said it would be rational, considering the circumstances." Sherlock sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"First of all, how."

"Michael. The head archangel. He's been my guardian angel for a few years now. Since the pool actually. Heaven's forces recognised Moriarty as a major threat. When I died, he gave me to chance to convert. My soul was transformed into Grace and he gave me my wings." To prove his point, Sherlock fanned them, a few dark feathers falling to the floor again. "He stationed me on Earth."

"So what have you been doing for the last two years?"

Sherlock frowned. "I told you. I was shutting down Moriarty's network."

"So now the angels care about him?"

"They care if he's dead."

John took a deep breath. "Were you ever planning on telling me?"

"Truthfully? No."

John leapt up and punched him. Sherlock barely felt the blow, but his vessel's nose started to bleed. John was shouting words at him furiously and Mary was trying to rein him back in.

"John! You can't punch an angel!"

"I didn't punch an angel! I punched a dick!"

"Will everybody just calm down!" Mary demanded.

Sherlock glanced away from John while the fuming man stepped back and stormed back to his chair. The angel's wings were tucked tightly against his frame and his eyes were wary and untrusting. Mary now appeared guilty, embarrassed that her fiancée had attacked an angel, in said angel's home.

"Okay," Mary said cautiously. "This is good. We're talking at least."

John was breathing deeply, trying to get his temper under control. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun. The angel immediately tensed and flinched backwards, eyes wide. But John just placed the gun down on the table. In return, Sherlock drew his angel blade and set it down next to the gun.

"Alright then," Mary said slowly. "Now, Sherlock, why don't you explain to us why you weren't planning on telling us?"

Sherlock shook his head but grudgingly said, "I was not sure that after the two years I spent abroad I would come back and find the man I had trusted. I feared you too had been corrupted by Moriarty's influence. There was also the factor that if I had told you, both of you would be dead. While Moriarty's network was still in operation, you were in danger. I had to eliminate the threat."

"I can protect myself," John snapped.

And Sherlock was angry. Because though he was a soldier, John was vulnerable and had been a target for Moriarty. "I'm sure that's what you told the assassin meant to kill you if I didn't jump off of that building," Sherlock snarled, his wings spreading out menacingly.

John made a strangled noise. "What?"

Sherlock sighed before explaining in a calmer, quieter voice, "You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed if I hadn't jumped off St. Bart's."

"So you martyred yourself?" Mary said, frowning. "Nobody likes martyrs, Sherlock."

"That doesn't matter. I did what had to done, and now it's in the past," Sherlock growled in a clipped tone. "If you don't want me here, then I will return to my superiors and Heaven." He stood and flapped his wings twice, ready to take off and leap onto the Axis Mundi.

"NO!" John shouted, and it wasn't angry, more panicked and desperate. "Don't... Sherlock, don't go. Please. You've only just got back after two years that I thought you were dead. Don't go now."

"You clearly despise my presence in your life," Sherlock told him bitterly, casting a few raven feathers onto the floor. "Your increased heart rate and high blood-pressure as well as the sweating in your left hand and twitching of your right hand's fingers inform me that you are withholding the urge to hurt me. Your soul is tormented and furious. I think it would be best for both of us if I removed myself now."

John was still tense, but questioned curiously, "My soul?"

"Yes, your soul," Sherlock said, frustrated. "It's pulsing. Bright. Ravenous for adrenalin. You're obviously itching to punch something. May I suggest the throw pillows?" He picked one up and passed it to his dumbfounded colleague.

"No, I mean..." John shook his head. "You can see it?"

"I thought it was fairly self-explanatory."

"You can see souls. You can see my soul." Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulders and the now more violent twitching of his right hand's fingers and the frown lines around his eyes and forehead.

"I won't look if you don't like it," he murmured, turning away.

"Why...why wouldn't I like it?" John asked, and he sounded slightly confused.

"Because a human soul allows me to see everything about them. Their emotions, their thoughts, their memories. By simply looking, John. It's quite intrusive. Which is why normally I force myself not to see the soul, but examine the person instead. You, however..." The angel gave a small smile. "You are an open book. Your soul is clear to see. Your eyes betray you."

John was staring. Not glaring or glowering. There was no hatred in his gaze. Maybe curiosity, maybe slight shock and anger and concern, but no hatred. Mary too. She was more uneasy than angry. Uneasy as she glanced between her fiancé and the angel, who were battling before her with spiteful words and lies.

"Don't go, okay?" John finally said. "I lost you once and I can't lose you again."

The clock struck midnight. Chimes rang through the silent flat, and on the last sharp chime, Sherlock folded and unfolded his wings uneasily, black feathers rustling and shining and bristling.

"It's late," he said sharply. "You two should return home. We can continue this conversation later on. I will teleport you." He lifted his hands to lay them on John and Mary's shoulders, but John brushed his hands away, stepping back, still wary.

"John, it's okay," Mary told him, giving a reassuring smile. She shot a gracious and understanding look towards the angel. "How do you think we got from the church to here in under two seconds?"

"Teleportation?" John asked hesitantly. He looked between Sherlock and Mary. "If that how you got to the church so quickly?"

Sherlock froze, wings becoming still, and he whipped his head around to gaze at Mary, whose mouth was now opening and closing as if she didn't have the words. Sherlock had to admit, he was curious of what Mary was going to tell John, how she was going to explain how they crossed London in under ten minutes.

"We flew," Mary finally confessed, putting it simply and bluntly. "Sherlock flew us there."

"You can fly?" John was shocked, surprised and amazed all at the same time.

"The wings aren't just for decoration, you know," Sherlock said, amused, flaring them out to half-span. "Angels do fly. Though it is very like teleportation. We fly faster than the speed of light, so to human vision we simply vanish and appear." He took a deep breath. "However, there are means to slow us down. Protective sigils around the church forced me to fly at the speed perhaps of a peregrine falcon or black eagle. We were able to cross London by using thermal currents that pass through the city."

"That is...quite extraordinary," John finally commented. "Can I...?" He reached a hand out to touch the feathers and when Sherlock tensed, he recoiled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -"

"I did not protest, John," Sherlock sighed.

He turned and spread his wings out, perhaps to three-quarter span, as the room was too small to accommodate the sheer width and length of his dove and sixth limbs. Unlike Molly and Mary's hesitate brushes, John had firm hands, running them down the feathers and bone. It was only when John stepped back to grab a pen and started writing notes that Sherlock realised what was going on.

"John, are you examining my wings?" He asked incredulously.

John blushed, looking up from his estimated measurements and quick sketch. "It isn't everyday one gets to see angel wings you know. They're interesting."

"I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind us taking some measurements and data," Mary quipped, before meeting Sherlock's eyes somewhat surely. "Right?"

"You are quite correct," Sherlock agreed. "It would be fascinating to compare my own wings to those of my garrison."

"It's really late, and we have work tomorrow," Mary said, pulling at John's jacket. "Come on. You can examine Sherlock's wings the next time we see him."

John's hands vanished and Sherlock turned again. He glanced at Mary for the go-ahead and when she nodded he stepped forwards and raised his hands to their foreheads.

"Goodbye John, for now," he said quietly.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John replied, equally quiet. "And I'm glad you told me. We can work this out."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he was quite sure they could.

His fingertips met their foreheads and they vanished, back to John and Mary's apartment. As soon as they were gone, Sherlock heaved a sigh and collapsed back down on the sofa, curling up and resting his wings over him. His Grace still needed replenishing, but he felt happy, dazed and overall pleased with the outcome of John and Mary's knowing of his Grace.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt hope once again.

AN: Sorry if characters are OOC. Love your comments and reviews, they really lift me! Please review!

Also still taking case suggestions. And need ideas for my muse on how Keatrade and Mrs Hudson find out...

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Please review and thanks for reading!