Angels and Howlers

Book 2

'John'

Now, Sherlock had a very limited view of John's life and habits. I, however, saw John as he lived his life high in the sky, I watched Sherlock kill himself slowly with those drugs. I watched as the world began and I watched when it ended.

I watched as the Angel fell.

It was a normal day, in all respects, when John went on a flight. He stood on his balcony, looking down over the sun kissed sky and the gorgeous clouds, spread his ivory wings out and let himself fall. The wind did not catch his wings until he fell passed the Palace, and then he tightened his shoulder muscles and glided on a fast air current under the Palace.

He didn't flap his wings until the air current evened out, and he left the Palace behind. The world was open at his feet, laid out beneath him, and the sun warmed his back and wings. The air was cold on his face and his breathing was smooth and easy, not hindered by the cold or thinness of it.

There was an unexplainable joy when one was flying; just the feeling of the air catching and pulling at your wings, feeling the feather shift with the air, knowing your completely free. To feel the sun warm on your back, feeling so light and strong, your heart and your breath and the warm hiss of the wind the only sounds in your ears.

John was an avid lover of flying. He loved everything about it and more. He adored to fly for hours and hours, alone but always accompanied by the wind and the clouds.

He decided when the sun started to sink and set the sky aflame to fly lower, towards the orange and pink clouds beneath him. So he loosened his muscles and stopped clinging to the current he was laying in, and felt himself slowly drop. He flapped, stayed level, and then continued down.

Now, on the Earth below John's wings, Sherlock Holmes and Geoff Lestrade where setting up their camp.

John flew lower; glimpsing a green covered Earth between the clouds and felt his breath catch. He was much closer than he anticipated, but felt safe.

The Howlers couldn't get him here.

*A note of advice. John would explain himself, but he and every Angel knew what a Howler was. It was etched in their very beings. Howlers are malevolent, spiteful creatures that live deep beneath the Earth crust, and hover high above the ground, but not quite in the Angel's territory. They feed on smog and gases and, legend says, evil and greed.

To an Angel, they are the Howlers. To a human, they are demons. The place they live below the ground? Hell. To an Angel?

Probably Hell too.*

But that was where John was wrong. The Howlers wanted an Angel, wanted to feast on Angel flesh, so they reached up and waited for him to fall.

John didn't know what happened. He felt his wings buckle, felt himself turn heavy, tilt and fall. He had no chance to spread his wings again and save himself. He fell and broke through the clouds and into the Howlers.

That fallen Angel would agonize over that for many nights and weeks, replaying it in his mind over and over, trying to remember a gust of strong wing or the lack thereof that would cause his wings to buckle. Maybe an updraft or a sinkhole in the air, or something that would distract him and make his wings loosen and buckle under the strain of the wind.

But he was living in the moment, and that moment he was falling and tumbling through the air and then he felt himself enter the Howler's domain.

At this point, Sherlock and Geoff were walking through the forest.

You know what happens next: the sudden, heart wrenching screech and the cackling, then bad-a-bumba!, and John was found in his crater.

But those sounds were this.

John felt the tainted, poison flesh of the Howlers touch and grasp his flesh and burn him, and then a Howlers toxic claw buried itself in his shoulder. It burned, it sent fire through his veins and hurt like no human could ever imagine.

John screamed. An Angel screaming can make any man, no matter how tough, start bawling, weep with such sadness, and can shatter glass and strike any creature dead with sorrow. It shakes the bones and can make any person cry, sob, anything. An Angel screaming hearing the most pure being, untainted with anger or fear, scream with something it's never supposed to know.

He didn't know where he was, which way was up or down as he fell through the Howlers lair, into the human world, and he felt the healing process start, but the substance that could heal his wound flew off, adding to the golden shroud of dust flying around him, tainted red by the blood of his wound.

He retreated within himself before he hit the trees. He didn't feel when he hit the trees, didn't feel when he hit the earth and broke his legs. He was acutely aware of his surroundings, but could not move. The healing started and the wound on his shoulder healing slowly and his legs as well. But his legs were bent awkwardly, and it healed wrong, but he could do nothing.

John's mind expanded out, engulfed his being and twenty feet out, monitoring, looking for anyone or thing that would harm him. There were tales of the Angels of the beasts that ran on the surface, wingless and filthy, murderous and greedy.

He certainly didn't want to be found by a human. Maybe, hopefully, he wouldn't be found at all.

But he had screamed, and it brought Sherlock and Geoff running.

He was aware of a being with a decently protected mind approach, look upon him. Another being came closer and his mind was not protected at all. John prodded his mind, but found nothing but swirling fear and shock. No coherent thought.

They spoke, and the first being, which was dangerously close to him, touched him. Touched him.

In human culture, angels are people who died who play harps and sit in white togas and dresses on clouds, heads topped with halos and occasionally wings. But in truth, Angels were a spinoff of humans, a different species. Evolved from birds, they lost their bodily feathers but retained their wings while evolving bodies that mimicked humans'. They evolved to breathe thin, cold air and eat rarely. Their legs were weak and their shoulders were broad and strong.

But they are the most pure beings of this Earth and beyond. They are meant to never be tainted by poisonous thoughts of greed, hatred, anger, fear or any vile impulses. Pure, strong, whole.

Humans, by comparison, are vile, cruel, dangerous beasts who defile themselves with horrid, loathsome actions and thoughts. Filthy creatures in comparison to Angels. Saints compared to Howlers.

But when a human of such filth touches an Angel, the human becomes clean while the Angel becomes tainted.

It's what woke John from his self induced coma, when Sherlock touched his neck.

His skin burned. The flesh of a human was like a hot brand on his fragile skin, and he woke and cried out, scrambling away.

For a moment, he was confused. The being across from him looked like an Angel. Sharp features, dark hair, pale porcelain skin, icy grey eyes. But he felt the burn on his neck, saw the lack of wings, knew he was no Angel.

He had fallen. He was a Fallen Angel.

His mouth opened to speak, but then realized his Angel language might melt these creature's brains. If they got violent, it might not be a bad idea. He stared into the not-Angel's eyes, prodded his mind with his and flew through his memories.

Sherlock Holmes, thirty four Earth years old, male, one elder sibling, consulting detective (whatever that was), lived at 221b Baker Street, London, UK, with an elder female, Mrs. Hudson. Sometimes worked for Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade, addict of some substances, spoke English. He flew through his memories, vocabulary, and knowledge. It was immense, the amount of knowledge this not-Angel stored, and it helped him immensely.

The other being spoke and he jerked his head to him, pulling his mind from Sherlock Holmes' and into his. More information. This was Geoff Lestrade, DI, married but widowed, forty nine Earth years. Such and such. He flew through his vocabulary, memorized the words, the names, ideas, plans, laws, habits, accents, information, everything.

He looked back to the not-Angel, searched through his memories again, staring into his grey eyes, holding him still. His mind was immense, clever, sharp. He was surprised at first that he had a protected mind, but when he saw the many shining facets of his quick witted mind, his confusion dissipated. He had the looks and mind of an Angel, just not the wings and purity.

He had access to his current thoughts, but they were fuzzy, more properly guarded than the rest of his mind. It took him several seconds to get the gist of his thoughts.

This not-Angel thought he was…human? A veteran of…war? Shot in the shoulder….well, whatever this not-Angel thought, he should go with it.

He opened his mouth, found that no words came, and closed it. He frowned, opened his mouth and scoured through the correct phrase to use when meeting someone. The words were rough, scratchy on his tongue, grunts and strange tongue rolls. So, he opened his mouth and said:

"Care…for a cup of tea?"

It was obviously not the right thing to say. The other human, Geoff Lestrade, lost his mind while the not-Angel calmed him and he found himself confused.

The not-Angel asked him what his name was.

He searched through the not-Angel's mind again, finding something called a hospital and doctors. Well, he thought he was in war, and he seemingly hated doctors, so he said the first name that came to mind.

"John Watson." Did 'Doctor' come before or after the name? He took a guess. "Doctor John Watson."

That seemed right. He was questioned for a moment, and then they decided on a plan of action. The not-Angel tried to touch him, but he screeched at him not to touch him. His flesh still crawled from being befouled by Howlers and the touch of a human.

He stood, found his hips and knees ached, and found a startling weight lifted from his shoulders. Quite literally, I'm afraid to say.

For there were no wings on John's back. They had disintegrated when he had been stabbed by the Howler, made that shroud of golden around him as he fell. He was a wingless, fallen Angel.

He was terrified, to say the least. He had no choice but to go with the humans and hope they could integrate him into their society without trouble. Until he found a way back to the Angels.

-Fallen Angel-

The air was thick. It was warm and thick and it clogged his chest and made it impossibly hard to breath. He was wheezing, sort of, and it was hard to walk with his awkwardly healed legs. He caught the not-Angel staring at him when he walked and when he slept (even when he slept, his mind was active and monitoring his surroundings) but that was okay, because he showed no indication of figuring out he had had wings. Or was any different than any other human.

They brought him through their city, piled high with hot steel and concrete, towering above the ground and blazing bright. Not a calm, serene bright that the sun made on the clouds, but a painful glare off of unnatural materials.

He stared, he wondered, he hoped, he stayed silent.

At the…what do humans call it?...station, of course, John was sent into a panic. According to Geoff's thoughts, they were going to search his names and records. He obviously did not have any, since, you know, he's an immortal Angel.

Oh, did he mention he's immortal? If not, John can live forever. Well, not at this rate, falling from his home and breaking his limbs and losing his wings—and falling straight into the least responsible person on the Earth's hands—but if he didn't get shot or break his neck or catch some human disease, he would live forever. He was young though. Only two hundred. Young according to the Angel's standards. Compared to human years, he is about Sherlock's age.

How convenient.

Anyways, he once again had to use his mind to bluff his way through these strange rituals. He hacked into the computer mentally, scoured through hundreds of thousands of millions of files. He found a Doctor John Watson very quickly.

Former veteran of war, shot in the right shoulder, PTSD sufferer, no kids, a drunk of a sister, no parents, living homeless, kicked out of his flat.

Good job, John, he thought to himself. Pick the homeless veteran and not some typical person. Well, at least he was a veteran and shot in the shoulder with no kids. He would have to live with the drunken sister.

He altered a few words here, a few there, erased right shoulder for left, swapped out a lanky man's photo for one of his own (don't ask how, he just can) altered a few numbers for his birthday and social security.

They believed it. He breathed out a mental sigh of relief until the not-Angel got the thought for him to live with him.

Oh no, oh bloody no.

But he had no choice. He created this honest, facially loud mouthed façade, and had to stick with him. Not too intelligent, not to strong, boring and typical. Hopefully, he thought grimly, it will bore the not-Angel out of his mind and let him go.

Then he could find his way home.

Woah! That was a lot of work! John is a strange minded person…er…Angel, and he's certainly hard to right. A bit pompous, I must say, though I didn't really mean for that to happen.

Sorry for those who are either banging their heads against a wall or rolling around on the floor because I didn't continue with Sherlock's…predicament. I can't pay for all of your medical bills. It will come in time! John's a very fast paced man…er…Angel, and he'll get to it. Steadily.

Thoughts? Concerns? Criticism? Anything? Please tell me! Pretty please!

Stay Happy,

Spirit

John

Sherlock