A/N: Okay, finals are kicking my butt, and I have the flu, those are my excuses. I said we were at the end, but there should just be one more chapter after this one, then we start on the sequel. Thanks to all the new followers, love you guys. R and R, Enjoy!
"Why?" John asked, staring at the stony figure behind Sherlock. They were stuck. The cages on either side of the room formed a very narrow alley. John and Sherlock were practically in the middle, a yard or two apart, facing each other. One statue stood behind Sherlock, and one behind John, blocking off their exits. There was no answer for a long moment, so he tried again. "Sherlock, what happens if I blink?"
Sherlock was looking over John's shoulder, but if he hadn't known any better he would have thought he was staring right at his face. "They're aliens, John."
"Like you?"
"No," he said quickly, "nothing like me. They're fast, and they're deadly."
"Sounds a bit like you," John chuckled once, no humor in his voice. "They just look like statutes."
"They are statues only when you see them," he said, his voice very quiet. "Close your eyes, or turn away, and they've got you. Lots of busy streets in London. I don't know why they're here—most likely an accidental shift into space-time. Whatever it was, they must be trapped here. Too many people out there, never time to sneak away without being seen."
"The people in cages?"
"Weeping angels have to feed. They take human lives, in a way, and who better to take than chimney sweeps? Tramps, beggars, prostitutes, anyone that old London town would never miss ends up in here. Plenty more where that came from."
"My eyes," John said, his voice thick with concentration. "I need to blink."
"Hold your lids in your fingers so they don't slip, and blink one at a time. Carefully."
John obeyed, but winced when he found that it made it even harder to keep them open a second time. "You didn't answer my question. What happens to you, right now, if I blink?"
"How far is it behind me?"
"Half a meter. Maybe. My eyes are blurry."
"If you drop your gaze, even for a fraction of a second, it will zap me into the past. I'll live out my life in whatever year it sends me to, and be dead by this century."
"The one behind me…" John started and trailed off.
"Yes, it will do the same thing."
"That's not what I wanted to know. Would we…would we be sent to the same year? The same place? Or would you be alone?"
Sherlock gulped, the question taking him completely off guard. "Each Angel sends someone to a different year. It's doubtful that I would ever see you again."
"We might," John said. Sherlock could see him shaking, nearly imperceptibly. "We meet up at the flat in Baker Street, okay? If you're sent to, like, 1780 and I'm sent to 1800, I still expect to see you standing there, waiting for me in Baker Street as soon as I arrive. Understand?"
Sherlock nodded, a tightening sensation surrounding his chest. John was planning. Of course he was. They couldn't keep their eyes open forever. There was no way out. No one knew they were here.
Yet. No one knew they were here yet.
"Your notebook," Sherlock said suddenly, "John, do you still carry that notebook you were using to write down my observations?"
"Yes," John said, carefully blinking one eye at a time again.
Sherlock took one step forward, then motioned John towards him. "Walk towards me, slowly."
John didn't ask questions, he simply started walking away from the statue behind him, getting closer to his friend. John reached to his back pocket, but his head turned slightly and Sherlock yelled out a warning.
"No! Wait, don't turn your head. I'll get it."
John nodded, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, pulling the notebook and pen from his jeans and trying his best to write out a quick message to Mycroft. They sidestepped until he could reach the wall, then he punched a small hole in the wall.
"Sherlock!" John gasped.
"Relax, the wood was very thin," he promised, shoving the note deep into the wall. "Come on Mycroft…"
They were silent for a long moment, both just staring at the angels over each other's shoulders. Despite the situation, Sherlock heard John chuckle once. "You can let me go now, Mate."
Sherlock realized with a start that he still had his arms around John. His eyes burned, and as he tried to blink them one at a time, he realized how slim their chances were. This building was old, it was bound to be renovated before Mycroft ever arrived. All the time he had had at his disposal in Baker Street, and only now, in their last few seconds, had he ever hugged John Watson—and this had been an accident. He didn't let go.
John stood in confused silence for a moment, then he patted Sherlock on the back gently. "You…you know you're my best friend. Right? Sherlock…you're my best friend."
"John…" he started, trying to make each last, precious second count. "There's something I should say…something I've always meant to say, but I never have."
"Sherlock—"
"Just let me say this—"
"No, Sherlock, behind you!"
There was a loud crash of stone and metal, echoing around a sharp screech. Another. Another.
"Doctor, up here!" Rose called from behind Sherlock. "Boys, I can see them both."
Sherlock gasped, automatically stepping back from John and closing his scorched eyes, John did the same, shaking where he stood.
Sherlock turned to find his mother smashing into the Weeping Angel's head with a large hammer. She wasn't looking at either of them, her eyes were trained on the other angel, but she was speaking to him. "I swear, Sherlock," she yelled, "if you ever put yourself in harm's way just because you're bored I will personally take this hammer to your head. Are we clear?"
Sherlock smiled, still trying to calm down. "Mycroft got my note then?"
"You're lucky he did," the Doctor said, running in behind Rose and pulling out his sonic screwdriver to work on the cage locks.
"God," John breathed, sinking to the floor. "We almost… God."
Sherlock looked away from him, helping his mother incapacitate the other Angel. The little family pulled people out of their cages, and the Doctor scanned them carefully.
"They should be fine," he announced. "They've been drugged, underfed, but they'll live."
"Are there more?" John asked, running a hand through his hair. "The Angels I mean, are there more of them here?"
"Fairly small nest," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "These should be the only two."
Sherlock approached John slowly, not looking at him. "I…I'm so sorry. This was my fault."
"What?" John asked, genuine confusion on his face.
"I…I put you in jeopardy. I'm sorry, John, If you want to go home I'll get you there immediately. I could…I could let you have some time."
John sighed. "Sherlock… You didn't… can we get home please? Both of us?"
There was an uncomfortable silence, then the Doctor clapped his hands. "Well, off to the 21st, eh?"
Rose was still smacking the second Angel in the face with the hammer, muttering. "Stupid, irresponsible, evil, sons of bit—"
"Okay," the Doctor said, gently stopping her swinging arms. "You know that won't actually kill Weeping Angels, right. They're going to reconstitute in just a few hours. We'll take the boys home, then we'll have to come back to deal with them."
"I'm perfectly aware," she spat, giving one more swing at its face. "Except, next time it'll pick someone else's baby."
"Come on," he coaxed gently, pulling her slowly from the room.
Sherlock was still not looking up from the floor. John sighed, clapping him on the shoulder once as they followed the couple out of the building. "We need to talk. Soon."
"I know," Sherlock said solemnly.
"I don't think you do," John said, clearly frustrated. He stalked ahead of him, and Sherlock watched his friend's back as he quickly descended the staircase.
Sherlock followed after him, still trying to solve the enigma John Watson presented.