Angels are Red, Fallen are Blue
Book 3
'John'
The holiday John was speaking of was in fact, something near the name of 'Uniting of the Pure,' and it was just as John described it. Every Angel from every Palace (in order of population, they are the Blue Palace, the Sunset, the Red, the Silver, the Gleaming and the Violet) flies through the sky, on the moonlight's back, flying through every Palace's territory to see every part of their land and getting home before first light.
John felt it in his bird like bones that this night was the night of the Uniting of the Pure and he was determined to fly with his brethren. So he climbed to the top of flat and stood on the roof, away from the searching CCTV cameras and the obvious men that were stationed to spy on them. John was an Angel, though, and when he chose not to be seen, he would not be, no matter if you knew he was standing right in front of you.
Sherlock stood at the window, his face stony and he knew that Mycroft would see the 'anger and annoyance' in his features, and so the cameras would be stationed on him. He held John's mind, and his actions played in the back of his mind like a dusty puppet show. He felt him stand on the edge of the building and let himself fall, then he felt a great power surge through him and his wings grew and the Angel soared off into the night.
John flew up high into the sky, the air gloriously cold and sharp in his throat, chilling his overheated lungs and soothing his dull headache that hadn't dispersed. He stretched the rope of the connection with Sherlock was taut as it would go, then as he flew too far away he let it snap with a soft goodbye.
He soared up as high as he dared, not willing to get too close to the greedy claws of the Howlers once again, and the light of the full moon shone on his wings and made them glisten like gems, it shone on his skin and seeped power into his mind. The stars were gorgeous flickering flames of light licking at the darkness surrounding them, lighting the sky with their soft light.
John flew on the soft wind, no other sounds but the air flowing of his wings and his soft, easy breathing, and the world was laid out at his feet and he watched it pass with wonder, wondering how he came to love it more than the soft cloudlike buildings of his Palace, wondering how these humans, nothing more than beasts, had come to claim him with such gentle of touches and kind words.
With a sudden longing to hear his fellow Angels, he looked up to the silent sky above him and wondered for only a moment why he couldn't see his people. Then it dawned on him that the layer of Howlers that separated the Earth and the Palaces blocked his view of the others, but the flying Angels above him could see him.
He occasionally caught a glimpse of a small breach in the Howlers, spotting a wing, a hand, occasionally a face, staring at him, smiling, pointing, waving, laughing. He decided he wanted to hear their words, the pure words, and with a surge of his wings, flipped upside down and flew with his back to the surface.
John didn't dare put his mind against the Howlers, so he searched for a word in his vast vocabulary and called, "Liona es florei!"
The translation to that, mortals, is 'please speak to me!'
The answer was immediate. "Merci!" He heard first, then "Merci, ahja!"
Merci is the equivalent to John. Merci is his name as an Angel, while John is his name as a human. 'Ahja' is a greeting, not quite hello, not quite hi. Not informal, but not completely formal.
As Angelic words were pushed through the Howlers, he caught more glimpses of his own kind, women and men all in their silky robes of spun air and clouds (made from their minds and magic), wings of all colors extended. He saw a woman, with mahogany colored hair and wings, her face beautiful and carved and shining in the moonlight. He saw the band of red on her sleeve and the tattoo on her wrists. Her feet were bare and around her ankles were the same intricate tattoos, like bracelets. She was from the Red Palace.
John waved and smiled and told them he was fine, he was happy, he was safe and to tell his mother as well. He asked of her well being and got this response, translated back to English:
"Oh John, she is not well. She watches you every day but you are hidden from view and she is sick with worry. She is strong for the other Palaces and her people, but we know she is not well on the inside."
"Tell her I'm safe," he said in the Angel language, and it resonated through the air like bird song. "I'm happy."
He could almost sense the message being sent along the countless chain of minds above him. He smiled and flipped back over, and when he closed his eyes he could almost feel the other Angels flying with him, side by side and laughing and speaking their pure language. He smiled and opened his eyes once more, knowing that Red Palace Angel was flying above him, the thought of bonding in her mind, but the thought of beauty in his.
He flew with his ivory cape and with the moonlight on his back and his brethren by his side.
-Fallen Angel-
All night he flew, and when the light of the sun started streaking over the horizon, he turned and flew into a strong air current, soaring on it towards Great Britain again. The ocean below him was vast and the bluest of blues and wavering and shimmering with the faint morning light. The salty cold air was painful and soothing at the same time, something he had come to like, even love.
He soared high above England, smiling with the wind and feeling so light, so gloriously light. Even though he found he liked the ground, the security of the compact earth beneath his fragile feet, he loved the soft air under his wings and the feeling he was no heavier than a faint feather, or a hummingbird. To feel his wings stretched out, the wind slipping on his face, under his wings, along his body and trickling over his toes.
As he started to smell the comforting London air, he stretched his mind out and grabbed onto Sherlock's shining and heavily protected mind. Heavily protected as in more protected than the average human, but startlingly vulnerable to an Angel or a Howler.
He sensed Sherlock's relief almost instantly. Good flight?
Very good, John replied. I'm over London, I'll be landing soon.
Don't, Sherlock suddenly hissed, after a comfortable silence had sat between them. Lestrade just came, damn him, and you won't be able to land quietly.
John knew he was right, but that didn't help that he had started his dive towards Baker Street. He turned sharply, tilted his wings up and surged up into the air again, and searched for safe landing spot. Fine. But I don't have any money for cab, so I'll be walking back.
Don't severe our connection, Sherlock suddenly ordered. John had to smile with a glowing warmth in his gut, and he knew that Sherlock could sense it through their connection.
Never.
John struggled for a while to find a landing spot, and eventually found one on a nearly deserted building, and climbed down the side of the building. With a single thought, his wings disintegrated. He had practiced for many hours to have his wings appear and disappear on his command, and now had it down to an art.
He had nothing but a shirt with two slits neatly cut in the back and jeans, no shoes and nothing else. He walked slowly down the street, listened absently to Sherlock's physical conversation with Lestrade, but found he was lost very quickly. He didn't know this part of town and had no desire to enter a thug's dirty mind to find out.
Sherlock, he thought, but Sherlock was in an animated argument with Lestrade. He waited for a break and said Sherlock again.
What? Was the irritable thought back. Damn, Lestrade, I don't care! Ah, sorry, meant to say that aloud. Uh, what's wrong?
Lost. Very, very lost.
One minute!
John listened as Sherlock argued with Lestrade and then stomped to his room, unable to hold a physical and mental conversation at the same time without telling one person something he had meant for the other.
Where are you?
If I knew that, I wouldn't be lost, Sherlock!
Ah, slow of me, sorry. Show me a 360 degrees view, John.
But John didn't respond. He was occupied with the approach of two heavily built men. One was taller, with broad shoulders, a goatee and rough and tough looking clothes hanging loosely on his streamlined frame. The other was shorter and leaner, but by no means weaker. He had spiffier clothes, a gleaming jacket and shining shoes, but a dirty, malformed face and dirty blonde hair hanging over his dangerously gleaming eyes.
"Need some help, Dr. Watson?" the smaller one asked him.
"No, I'm fine, what—"
Before he could finish his sentence, one of the men sprang forward and hit him over the head, in the side above his ear, the Achilles heel of the Angels. His mind went blank and he fell to the ground, not staying conscious long enough to hear Sherlock's panicked cries.
Phew! That was fun, was it not? Ah, creating the Angel language is fun! All pure and rounded and nice and glittery. ^_^
On that note, Bonding is the equivalent of marriage, if you didn't piece it together.
Sorry if there are any mistakes, I tend to have an impressive array of them. Also, I do not own Sherlock or its characters.
The title comes from that John is of the Blue Palace, and the female Angel was of the Red Palace. So, 'Angels are red' as in that woman and 'fallen are blue' as in John is Blue. I'm a very literal person, and would not have realized that if I had not been told. Those who are like me, you're welcome.
Thank you all who reviewed (all fifteen of you) and I give you all wonderful hugs and protection from the wrath of the Howlers I am about to release upon those who read and did not review. *cheeky smile* Those who didn't review, I have asked, begged and now threatened. Don't make me go further. R.E.V.I.E.W. N.O.W.
R.E.V.I.E.W. PLEASE! I LOVE REVIEWS!
Stay Happy,
Spirit