(A/N: Just a short epilogue after this. We're nearly there!)
John stared at Dr. Sawyer with no small amount of accusation.
"You said he wouldn't Fall," he said after a moment, his voice rough.
Dr. Sawyer looked confused. "He shouldn't have."
"Well, he has," John repeated. "And I would like to know why."
"I don't know why," she said, sounding genuinely sorry about that. "I don't know why he Fell. There hasn't been a record of anything like that before."
John couldn't accept that as an answer.
He just couldn't.
… …
He was half convinced that Sherlock had gotten to Heaven somehow. John holed up in his flat for days, researching for hours and hours, sleeping for a lot less, and eating whenever Molly or Greg stopped by to remind him to take care of himself.
He didn't see Sherlock, though.
If Sherlock had Fallen, John reasoned, he would still be on Earth. And he would have bothered John by now.
But then John would remember that he essentially told Sherlock that he didn't want a relationship with him. He wondered if Sherlock had simply listened to John (for once) and done what the man asked.
Those thoughts often led John to sitting on his sofa, staring at a bottle of whisky, weighing the risks of alcoholism against the desire to forget.
He had yet to take a drink alone.
He limited himself to getting pissed whenever Greg took him out to the pub. Which wasn't often, considering that Greg had a life of his own and couldn't be asked to baby sit a grown man every day.
From what John gathered, Greg finally asked Molly out. They had been dating for a few weeks. It seemed to be going well, from what John heard every time he pulled himself away from his thoughts to actually pay attention to what was being said to him.
That wasn't often, either.
His days were empty and grey, put on complete hold now that Sherlock was gone.
John had come close—he had come so close—to being with Sherlock.
If only he had opened his arms, instead of begging Sherlock to go.
He thought he was doing the right thing, by denying himself what he wanted.
But look where that got him.
Sitting on a sofa and staring at a bottle of whisky.
All alone.
… …
John both looked forward to and dreaded the days when someone checked up on him. 'Looked forward to' because he felt slightly better when he was with another person, being forced to take a shower and eat a real meal. 'Dreaded' because it just took away time that he could be spending trying to figure out what happened to Sherlock.
But he rarely had visitors two days in a row, which was why he was surprised to hear his flat buzzed only twelve hours after he had bid farewell to Molly the night before.
He buzzed them up without asking who it was, because really only two people talked to him, and idly looked around the flat to see if Molly had forgotten anything there.
He was not expecting the click on an umbrella against wood when Mycroft entered the flat.
The first thing that John noticed was that Mycroft stood straighter, moved more confidently. The second thing that John noticed was Mycroft's eyes.
They were blue.
Gone were the sightless, milky white eyes that John had grown accustomed to seeing.
"So you…" John started.
"Redemption," Mycroft answered for him. "My assistance throughout the whole Moriarty affair, and my assistance with Sherlock, has been rewarded. I am not permitted into Heaven unaccompanied, but I can return when invited."
John huffed out a bitter laugh. "I'm glad someone came out of this better off than before."
Mycroft frowned. "You're referring to Sherlock, I presume?"
"Who else would I be referring to?" John asked in flat anger, taking a seat in an arm chair and gesturing that Mycroft could do the same. The angel remained standing. "I assume you were there."
"I helped finish the job at his request," Mycroft answered. "And before you accuse me of anything, know that I tried to get him out of this a long time ago. I should have…I should have seen this coming, though. And I should have done more. I do shoulder a good deal of blame for this."
"So he's really Fallen then?" John asked, having known deep down that this was the case. "What's he up to, then?"
"He's healing," Mycroft said. "He lost consciousness shortly after his wings were removed. I expect him to wake up any day now."
"Could I see him?" John asked, half hoping the answer would be no.
"He will see you when he is ready," Mycroft said. "Do not let the guilt of this eat you alive, Dr. Watson. Sherlock did this for you. He would hate to see it destroy you."
"I didn't ask him to do this," John whispered, barely able to speak. "Never once, did I ask him to do this."
"I think you'll find that it has been for the best," Mycroft said, an odd note entering his voice. "Until then, be strong. I will send him to you as soon as he is ready."
"He'll be Fallen," John said sadly. "He won't be the same. He'll resent me for what he's lost."
Mycroft looked slightly affronted. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit before gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly. "I had hoped that you would think better of my brother," he said with disappointment. "He has tried so hard to be good enough for you."
… …
Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at the white light in confusion.
He felt so sore, so battered and bruised.
Where was he?
What had happened?
"At last," a familiar voice said at his side. "You've awoken."
Sherlock rolled over and blinked in surprised at Mycroft.
"Your eyes-" he started, his voice raspy.
"As you predicted, brother, I was rewarded for my help," Mycroft said with a smile. "As were you."
"Rewarded?" Sherlock didn't understand. He had never felt so weak in his existence. How was this state a reward?
"Love is a complicated thing," Mycroft said instead of answering. "It's an understatement to say that our religion has its problems. Even God knows that it does. But one thing that this religions gets right, time after time, is pure and utterly good act of sacrificing for love." Mycroft smiled. "Yes, Sherlock. You have been most richly rewarded. And you would know how if you stopped seeing and started observing."
Sherlock took his brother's advice and gasped.
… …
Knowing that Sherlock was coming to see him helped somewhat.
John cleaned his flat, reacquainted himself with regular personal hygiene, and started eating better.
But still, it was a few more days before there was a knock at his door.
Whoever it was had gotten into the building without buzzing. Heart hammering in his chest, John opened the door.
Sherlock stood there, a small smile on his face. He was hunched into himself, looking insecure. "Hello, John," was all that he said, however. He gave John puppy dog eyes, and it was a moment of half disbelieving and half intensely relieved silence before John realized that Sherlock wanted to be invited in.
"Come on, then," John said gruffly, trying not to betray anything.
Sherlock still looked uncertain, but he entered the flat.
There was another silence as Sherlock looked around.
John decided to bite the bullet and get on with this. "What are you planning to do now?"
"Now?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Now that you've Fallen," John clarified, the sentence almost physically painful to utter.
Sherlock slowly smiled. "I've haven't Fallen, though," he said, his eyes bright.
That derailed John's thoughts completely. "What?"
"As always, John. You see, but you do not observe." Sherlock held out his arms, displaying himself. "I'm not an angel anymore," Sherlock said, sounding breathless. "But I haven't Fallen."
That was when John realized that he didn't feel the sad, oppressive energy of the Fallen, nor did he feel the light, airy presence of an angel.
All he felt there was Sherlock.
"You're-" John choked, his eyes wide.
"I'm human," Sherlock said, looking elated and slightly terrified at the prospect. "I am one hundred percent mortal."
"But-" John didn't understand. "How? Why?"
"Angels never Fall for love," Sherlock explained. "They Fall to temptation. They Fall to vice. Love is a beautiful and brilliant thing. It isn't a sin. Yes, my wings died because I lost my Grace, but not as punishment."
Sherlock took a hesitant step towards John. "It's why there was no records of angels having Fallen for something other than sin. Angels that love are quietly given their humanity and disappear among the humans for the remainder of their lives. It isn't a punishment, John," Sherlock said, taking John's hand. "It's a gift. I—I've been given the chance to be with you." Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted, looking uncomfortable. "That is—if you would like to, that is. You are by no means to feel obligated to-"
John silenced him with a kiss.
Sherlock froze, obviously having absolutely no idea what to do, but let John's hands guide him where he was supposed to be, let John's lips guide him into what he was supposed to be doing.
"It's alright then?" Sherlock asked when they pulled apart. The man looked terrified.
John just smiled. "We've…we've got a lot to work out," John admitted. "A lot of things to discuss. You need to learn how to function in this world. We have to figure out how we are going to work, and what we're going to tell people."
"I have no intention of lying," Sherlock said immediately. "Keeping this quiet is idiotic. If just one angel before me had made a record of what happened, there would have been a lot less pain."
"I think the pain is part of it, love," John said with an apologetic smile. "We don't exactly get our rewards without being tested first, do we? It isn't sacrifice if we expect to get something from it."
Sherlock gave a grudging, "I suppose not…" before trailing off and gazing at John with wonder.
"Alright there?" John asked, feeling embarrassed under the intensity of the gaze.
"Just…" Sherlock frowned. "I just can't believe…I can't believe you want me," he said frankly. "I was certain that given some time away from me you would realize that I am not a good friend or companion, and that there are many better partners for you out there. And I…" Sherlock gave John a rare, dazzling smile. "I just feel blessed."
John could understand the feeling.
He was still stuck on the idea that something that was supposed to be as perfect and magnificent as an angel of the Lord would give up everything for him.
"I'm nothing special," John reminded him. "I'm the one who's blessed."
Sherlock gave John his typical you're an idiot but I still like you smile. "What did I just say? As always¸ John," Sherlock said, sounding very put upon. "You don't observe anything. It's hopeless, really, at this point."
"I'll keep trying," John promised, pulling the former angel down for another kiss.
… …
It took some getting used to.
It took Sherlock a while to understand how simple things worked. He never quite caught on to some of the finer points of social interaction, but in a few weeks he could manage in London just fine by himself.
Greg and Molly were overjoyed, but then realized that even as a human Sherlock could be an enormous twat, and settled for seeing him once a week or so, provided that John was with him.
Mycroft disappeared from their lives.
He said a quick goodbye to Sherlock, during which Sherlock teared up (he had yet to get a firm grip on all those pesky human emotions) and Mycroft just looked mildly concerned.
They didn't have to ask why Mycroft left them. They had seen firsthand what too much emotional attachment did to an angel.
Not that Sherlock minded, in the end.
After a month, he had firmly beaten all his emotions and submission, and returned to the logical, calculating, and occasionally cold man that John had somehow fallen in love with.
John wasn't sure what it said about him once he discovered that this brought him a sense of relief. It wasn't that John was opposed to affectionate Sherlock, it was that affectionate Sherlock was very insecure and had the tendency to cry when overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion.
Even positive ones.
Dealing with that had been exhausting.
After a month, everything settled.
After a month, John went back to work as an exorcist, and Sherlock joined Greg in the business of hunting demons. He had a knack for sorting human based crime from demon based crime, and took enjoyment from solving both.
This terrified John to no end, as Sherlock seemed to forget that mortals could die, but more often than not, John was there watching Sherlock's back, making sure that the madman kept himself out of trouble.
He didn't always succeed, but he did his best.
Even now, all Sherlock had to say was "Could be dangerous," and there John was, ready to fight at his side.
… …
Sherlock paced the floor of 221B. He and John moved in a few weeks after Sherlock's return (since it was bigger than John's other flat) and he felt that things had settled into enough of a routine that he could risk rocking the boat.
He was ninety percent confident that his request was going to be received positively, but he was never quite sure with John. He really missed having the sense of a mortal's mind. It would certainly make everything easier with this whole 'relationship' thing. Monogamous relationships were actually a lot more complicated than Sherlock had envisioned when he was still an angel. Although, admittedly all he really had envisioned was holding John's hand and being with him forever and ever.
But once John kissed him that first time, Sherlock remembered that there were things that couples did that were in a separate category.
John had been considerate to Sherlock this past month, waiting for him to acclimate, allowing him to experience different emotions in safe settings before he was able to understand them and, eventually, get some modicum of control over them. John never pushed, he never hinted that he might want more, even when he very obviously did, he just waited for Sherlock to go at his own pace.
And while Sherlock appreciated that very much, at this point he was more than ready for them to just get on with it.
So, without any real seduction or finesse, Sherlock just pounced on John as soon as he returned with the shopping.
"Sherlock-" John tried to protest between kisses. "Sherlock, what are you—Sherlock, I have milk! It's getting warm"
"Then put it in the fridge so we can continue," Sherlock snapped, grabbing either side of John's face with his hands and pressing his lips wherever he could manage.
"I can't put it in the fridge until you bloody let go!" John complained, finally pulling away. "Give me a moment, then we can continue…" John gestured to Sherlock as a whole. "We can continue all of this."
Sherlock sat in his armchair and waited primly until John returned.
"Should I be concerned?" John asked first, which Sherlock found very annoying because, after all, John was the one who had been human his whole life and presumably knew how these things worked, while Sherlock was blindly bumbling around, trying to convey himself effectively without being too embarrassing.
"No," Sherlock said shortly. "Now, straddle me."
John stared at Sherlock flatly. "You want me to…?"
"I'm ninety percent certain of how this works," Sherlock said, allowing some room for error. "The internet was very helpful on most points. Although most of the tips on seducing men seemed to be made for women, and I couldn't really convert most of them to suit our needs. Quite frankly, I'm not sure where to get lingerie in my size, unless I order online of course, but that required several days for shipping and I didn't really want to wait for that long. So I decided to forgo the seduction altogether and hope you got the message, but I might have miscalculated, since you seem so confused. Is seduction really necessary to get to the sex bit?"
John blinked rapidly. "You want to have sex."
"Yes," Sherlock said, glad that they were on the same page. "Very much so. I suggest that we proceed swiftly to the bedroom and begin immediately."
"Sherlock…" John looked rather shocked, which sent a flare of annoyance through Sherlock. He had been so certain that John understood by now. Perhaps he would need to make it more obvious. "Sherlock, I honestly didn't think that you wanted sex."
Now it was Sherlock's turn to blink in confusion. "Pardon?"
"You've never…responded that way," John said, gesturing helplessly. "We've…we've been nearly there a few times now, and you never physically responded."
"That's because I didn't let myself," Sherlock explained, waving that away. "I've found that thinking of Mycroft solves that problem rather neatly."
"You didn't…? Why not?!" John asked, a note of demand in his voice. Now it was his turn to look irritated.
How bizarre.
These human reactions still made very little sense.
Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't ready," he said honestly, feeling a bit embarrassed by the fact. "It was too much, for a while. Too much feeling, too much sensation. It was overwhelming and I couldn't think." Sherlock frowned. "Thinking is all I still have from before, really. Losing it was distressing. But I've gotten used to not thinking sometimes, and I've grown comfortable with it. Now I would like to follow the natural progression of things and experience sexual gratification with the man I love."
John grinned a goofy little grin, like he did every time Sherlock reminded him how cherished he was.
"Are you sure about this, love?" John asked, taking a few hesitant steps forward.
Sherlock nodded quickly. "Yes. Now, straddle me." He patted his lap in invitation.
John barked out a laugh. "I don't think so," he said with a smile. He held out his hand. "Come with me, I'll show you."
The undressing was a bit awkward, with Sherlock clinically removing his clothes and John trying to tease the fabric off between kisses.
Sherlock just did not understand why John was delaying so much.
"It's called foreplay, you nutter," John informed him when Sherlock vocalized his confusion. "It enhances the experience."
"How?"
"Because we love each other and this lets us show each other with our bodies."
"You show me you love me with your body every time you hold my hand."
John smiled a big crinkly smile. "You're a big softie at heart, aren't you? Shut up and get on the bed."
Sherlock shivered slightly when his bare skin rested against the cold linen. He sincerely hoped that the friction was coming soon because he was bloody freezing.
"I'm here," John said, leaning over Sherlock and trailing kisses down the exposed skin. "I'm right here for you."
Sherlock shivered again for a completely different reason.
John showed him where to put his hands, and explained the science behind why a finger right there felt so unbelievably fantastic and why teeth there made Sherlock whimper and squirm.
They went slowly, with John backing off each time a new feeling, a new sensation, caused Sherlock to blank out. He repeatedly asked if Sherlock wanted him to stop, but when each time the answer was negative, John simply waited for Sherlock to acclimate.
Sherlock's heart was absolutely racing. He felt too much, felt trapped in his skin and he couldn't make himself lie still. Every movement, every plea he uttered, was to chase after some impossible to define physiological need that he barely understood.
"I've got you," John promised as Sherlock neared this indefinite goal. "I'm right here."
"I love you," Sherlock whispered, barely able to get the words out in between panting breaths.
"I love you too," John promised.
And then something snapped. His vision whited out and for the first time he properly understood why there were so many humans on this stupid planet. It was no wonder they kept reproducing if this was what it felt like.
It felt the same as flying, or falling when you know that you would not hit the ground.
The two were not dissimilar.
… …
"Are you alright?" John asked a while later, watching as Sherlock slowly blinked back into awareness.
"Over a thousand years," Sherlock croaked. "And this is what I had been waiting for." He looked up at John with eyes like molten silver. "Every single second has been worth it."