Chapter 7 - Falling Star
The years following that last encounter brought the Apocalypse. People died, tragedy shook the globe, demons and angels walked the earth. Then just like that, everything came to a screeching halt, thanks to the Winchesters. They threw away the script. Heaven was in turmoil from the moment Michael and Lucifer disappeared into the Cage forever.
Angels strove to bring peace and order to that chaos. Neither would be achieved, even in the years following the deaths of the Archangels.
Naomi, Angel of the Lord, met each struggle with everything she had. She was thrown into a higher position of power over the angels. She was coerced into making a bid for complete control. Backed by a faction of angels she'd trusted, it seemed the best course of action. She did what she had to, to bring order to the Heavens.
But in that endeavor, she'd realized something. She was a monster. She was not beautiful or worthy. And everything she'd done crashed over her in a tidal wave of guilt and heartbreak. She couldn't bear it. She wished to go home, to crawl into Mycroft's arms and diminish. But that yearning could not be attained. There was work to do and she couldn't escape.
She'd underestimated Metatron, the Scribe, in the process. Her most serious mistake.
Sharp agonizing, indescribable pain hit Naomi the moment the drill pierced her skull. Metatron's hand held it there, pinning her to the very desk she'd spent so long behind, as he spat atrocities at her. The drill itself dug into her grace, her very being. The drill would kill her. The realization didn't hit until Metatron had walked away, leaving her immobile and dying.
Death claimed her slowly.
Suffocating darkness surrounded her, creeping over her inch by inch until the white light of home was gone and all that was left was black nothingness.
Nothingness was pleasant. There were no expectations. No pain. No death or suffering. No sacrifice. Just…nothing.
But this nothingness would be so short-lived. She felt pulled up, out of the depths. Like she was being lifted by two strong hands, taken out of the darkness and brought into the marvelous light. Rebirth was joyous. Invigorating. Lively. Exhilarating.
The pleasure did not last long.
Naomi jolted back to consciousness when her body disappeared underneath an ocean wave. Cold water threatened to claim her. She struggled back up with weak kicks, blindly reaching up to the surface, to the heavens she was no longer a part of. She heard shouting of various voices. And then someone grabbed her hand. They dragged her up out of the sea into a fishing boat.
Four hours later, Naomi was in a hospital in Helsinki, Finland. Warm and cared for, her bleeding skull patched, her bruises iced, her ruined suit discarded. They'd asked for details. She gave them few.
"Mrs Holmes?"
Where she was curled up on the hospital bed under many blankets, Naomi glanced up from the tea they'd handed her. The nurse brought a corded phone over and placed it next to the bed.
"There's an international card, if you need to place a call. Do you have anyone to help you?" The nurse was kind, grandmotherly, with excellent English and a light Scandinavian accent.
"I…I don't know," Naomi said. "Thank you, though."
"Not at all, call if you need anything." Moments later the nurse slipped out the door.
Naomi studied the phone in quiet trepidation, a million thoughts running through her mind. She had someone she'd loved. However, she didn't know if he'd come for her. She'd broken his heart almost five years ago.
She wasn't worthy of his love anymore. She had abandoned her husband and daughter. Not intentionally, at least not initially. She'd saved their lives by accepting her grace and her position in Heaven, it had been the right decision given the variables.
And yet. Her heart, which had been hidden away for nearly five years, made her chest ache with emotional pain. Her fall and attempted assassination had destroyed her wings and let free the humanity she'd been deprived of. And it just hurt.
She had nowhere else to go.
Minutes of silent deliberation later, she reached for the phone, dialing the number by heart.
"Hello? Holmes residence."
Naomi's heart nearly stopped. The voice on the other end of the line was that of a young woman. Not a housekeeper, not Mycroft himself. It was Zariah, a fifteen year old girl who'd grown up the last five years without a mother. The girl that had been abandoned, was evidence staring her in the face that returning to Heaven had impact more than just on the surface. It's like it hadn't even occurred to Naomi until right then. Until the voice at the other end of the telephone was real.
Naomi's hand covered her mouth and she barely suppressed a sob.
"Hello? Someone there?" Zariah asked again. Another second of pause and the phone clicked. She'd hung up.
Naomi couldn't bear it. She put the phone down, curled up into a ball under the blankets and cried. She grieved the years lost, and every other failure in her very long life.
Mycroft Holmes came home from another day. He'd had a meeting with Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin which had taken up most of his afternoon. He was looking forward to dinner with his daughter, and alone time later after she went to bed. Zariah was home for summer break from her boarding school early, since she'd taken most of her exams ahead of schedule.
Considering what they'd been through as a family, almost five years ago now, she'd recovered beautifully. In his struggling to be the father she needed and deserved, they helped each other find emotional context. He'd never been very good with people, his daughter included, but they shared a bond that he didn't have with anyone else. She got to see his human side when he shed the icy exterior and allowed himself to just be.
He wore the weight of the world on his shoulders but sometimes it got lighter. When Zariah had a twinkle in her eyes, usually one that reminded him of Naomi. When there was laughter at the table and cuddling by the fireside. When there was a competitive chess match. When she wrapped her arms around him and tucked her head on his chest after she'd been away for school. When there was tea shared and walks had. His little girl was his whole world. If he had to, he'd bring England to its knees for her.
She was definitely a teenager, and they'd had their moments of moody disagreements and fights. That was natural, normal, and hardly worth mentioning in the grand scheme of things.
That May evening, oblivious that everything was about to change again, Mycroft set his briefcase, umbrella, and suit coat aside, and went to find Zariah. She was at the dining room table with her laptop and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Do you need to buy more books, Zariah?"
"Well, I probably don't need to, but I want to," she quipped back.
Mycroft sat in the chair facing hers and quirked a brow in a teasingly strict expression. "At least you're self-aware."
The two of them went back and forth a bit, chatting about their day and planning out the evening. The two parted again until dinnertime. Zariah headed upstairs to go to bed around the usual time. She kept a predictable schedule. And would probably be reading in bed for at least an hour before she turned the light off.
Mycroft settled into his film screening room, putting on an old black and white favorite he used to make Naomi watch with him. He alternated between a cigarette and a glass of brandy as the film played.
He thought he was hearing things when he heard a car on the drive. It was too late for guests, and Sherlock was still out of the country. Not to mention the person had gotten through the perimeter gate. Mycroft's brow pinched and remained so when he went to investigate. He snagged his umbrella along the way.
Through the window, he saw the car pull up and stop. A lone figure wearing a long coat stepping out of the driver side. The motion light went on, but the hood of the coat and tilt of her head obscured identifying his female visitor. She was alone. There was something oddly familiar about the figure.
Mycroft hovered by the door. Waiting. The seconds stretched out into the dark.
Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound was light. Mycroft might have said hesitant. And in a smooth motion, the umbrella ready to draw if he needed to, he unlocked and opened the door.
"I don't think you need that, darling," she said quietly, eyes flicking to the object in his hand and then back up to his face.
He hoped he didn't need it, because the umbrella fell to the ground when he lost his grip on the handle.
Naomi lowered her hood, revealing loose auburn hair and a sorrowed expression. "Hello, Mycroft."
She said his name and the world around them might have faded away.
He was uncharacteristically speechless, his brilliant mind stammered for words and thoughts. He didn't know if he was in danger, if Naomi was actually here or if it was a product of the supernatural world. He didn't know anything.
And then all of the thoughts came at once. Deductions, estimations, observations. She'd driven, she must not have been able to fly. There were signs of a recent injury to her head and barely visible bruises on her face. Her clothes were second-hand but new to her. She wore no jewelry, make-up, or adornment. And her eyes, her beautiful blue eyes, carried such sadness.
Naomi didn't move towards him to enter the house they'd shared years of marriage in. Instead, she lowered herself. The angel kelt on the ground, bowing her head and clasping her hands in her lap, never once meeting his eyes or looking up. She took a deep breath in. "I do not expect forgiveness or to be taken back, but I must speak to you. I have been through a great deal since I abandoned you. None of it truly worthwhile, and most of it deeply sinful. On top of leaving you and our daughter, I have killed and manipulated, lied and destroyed. I grew so consumed with my lust for power and order, that I lost sight of the only thing that has ever mattered. Protecting Creation, protecting you. I am not worthy of your forgiveness, I only wish for your understanding." Her voice finally cracked and she loosed one hand from the other to wipe at her watery eyes. "I'm so sorry, beloved. I am so, so sorry."
Mycroft couldn't fathom Naomi bowing there before him, like some inferior being, but he recognized it as a show of surrender. Of suffering, even. It broke his heart. He didn't say anything initially. He crouched down in front of her. Gently, he tipped her chin up so their eyes could meet. She looked older, weary, broken. But there was the woman he'd fallen in love with, created a life with.
He held her gaze. "You are forgiven."
Naomi's shocked eyes shone with unshed tears, frozen in place. "What?"
"You are forgiven," he repeated. "That is not without thought or deliberation, nor extensive consideration had you ever come back to me. I love you, I have always loved you." He paused, moving his hand to cup her head instead. "You're welcome home, if you want to stay. We do have a lot to talk about."
She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, an absolute mess of an angel. "I want to be with you. I love you, I never stopped. Not truly stopped," she said quietly.
Mycroft caved to the temptation and moments later he'd knelt and pulled her into his arms right there in the open doorway. He could feel her shoulders shaking with emotion. And he felt all the ice of the years melt away. He turned his nose to bury in her hair. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too, Mycroft."