Broken Wing

Book 2

'John'

Let's just say that John was not thrilled when he heard Sherlock think that he wanted him to live in his flat. He was less than thrilled, actually.

He was horrified.

After all, he had no idea when, or if, his wings would reestablish themselves. It would be disastrous if he was making tea (it took him almost twenty minds to figure out how to make decent tea) and poof! his wings magically decided to tear his fuzzy and not-so-uncomfortable jumpers.

John was surprised to find out that humans wore clothes…constantly. At night, inside, outside, everywhere and every time! You must understand that Angels are not as strict as humans, and their culture is to wear only a flying robe to protect the skin. Otherwise, Angels were a…revealing race.

He was also curious of the rituals and cultures of the human race. It was fascinating what he learned from the countless minds that roamed by his window. So many occupations, classes of financial wealth, words, languages, cultures, ideas, hopes, plans, relationships, governments, ethical rules, material items, plant life, and so many others.

He relished learning about the human's ways of life. Typical routines, standard days, careers, ages, mingling. It was all overpowering, but John adored the times he immersed himself in other's minds. He did notice, however, that no human—besides a very select few—had any protection over their minds. They didn't know when someone was scouring through their very thoughts.

One of those select few was Sherlock Holmes. John learned that the not-Angel was very different than the other humans. He was not what the majority considered typical, normal, polite, average, things of the sort. But he was one of two humans he had encountered that could protect his mind, no matter how weakly.

The other had a decent protection, but it was nothing compared to the strength and stealth of an Angel's mind. The other's name was, ironically enough, Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe minds do run in the family.

Anyways, John was a bit stuck. He had no choice but to move in with the detective, because he knew that the not-Angel was desperately obsessed with him and his seemingly ordinary countenance. That included not really wanting to argue or the lack of the ability to do so.

The first night he laid in that uncomfortable bed with the scratchy covers, he felt the Howler's claw dig into his shoulder once more, like a white hot iron shoving itself into the heart of the scar. He stifled a yell, clamped his jaw shut, and clutched at his shoulder.

He gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, and rode through the pain. He felt the poison crawl through his veins, burning his pure flesh. It lasted deep into the night, and when he finally could breathe smoothly again and see the ceiling without the veil of tears clouding his vision, he staggered up and into the bathroom.

Only to see his shoulder inflamed, almost visibly throbbing, and angry red and black streaks branching off from the blackened core of the scar. He hissed, seeing the red marks of where his fingers dug into his flesh, and gently prodded the blackest part, a lance of pain shot through his shoulder and he swallowed a cry. He took a breath in and put his hand over the poisoned flesh, and used his magic to slow the poison in his flesh.

No longer was he pure. He had Howler poison in his veins, under his flesh. If he couldn't get back to the Palace, to his home, he would become corrupted, impure, and die.

Dying was not an option right now.

-Fallen Angel-

Now, you obviously know what happens in the months of May, June and early July. Very few moments that stick out to Sherlock, but John was constantly thinking, planning, wondering, and hoping. He sat by his window periodically, for several reasons. One was to learn from the passerby's minds, another to breathe in cold night air, the third to stare at the sky and wish the Angels would come for him.

Through those months, he had those stabs of pain in his poisoned shoulder almost every night, and occasionally climbed up to the roof and sat there to first light. One time Sherlock found him and sat with him.

He found himself not thinking of him as the not-Angel, but as Sherlock. He also found himself a little hesitant to reach into the genius's mind to read his intentions. After all, his mind was his own.

When he went on that case, the first time he brought John along, he found himself flabbergasted by the anger and resentment in that corpse's dying consciousness.

It was when he reanimated his consciousness, Jeremy Earal's, that is, just for a moment to find his name, occupation and killer, that Sherlock saw his eyes flare that electric blue. He was aware of it, knew Sherlock saw, and hoped he wouldn't ask. It only happened when he summoned his powers, and used considerable amounts of magic.

John was getting used to Sherlock. He liked him. He protected him from ruthless, very rude police officers and from the 'boring mass population' and kept him close. It was like he knew John was different and protected him viscously, with tooth and claw and tongue.

Those months were not fun for John, but they were not boring or dull. He and Sherlock had a bond, whether it was because of prolonged exposure to each other's minds, or if they were just attracted to one another naturally, it mattered not; John and Sherlock were inseparable.

And even more so when that case came, where Sherlock so conveniently happened to fall off a building. You know what happens, and it's not much different from John's point of view, besides what happened when Sherlock fell over.

He ran to the edge. He looked down and saw him falling. He didn't think, he felt pure power rage through him and he jumped after him.

John knew how to streamline his body, and he was naturally lighter than any human. He fell with shocking speed, and grasped onto Sherlock. He didn't think about what was happening, he just clung to Sherlock's body and told him to hold on, and spread his magnificent, ivory wings. He threw his legs forward, twisted in air, tried to pull in his wings as not to clip them on the building in front of them.

John's heels hit the building and he pushed off of it, ignoring the burning in his muscles. He wrapped his wings protectively around Sherlock as he dove up into the air, and then threw them open.

Sherlock clung desperately to him, his face buried into his shoulder and legs hooked around John's, arms curled around John's neck and clinging to the torn jumper. John wrapped his strong arms around his shoulders as he leveled off, loving the feeling of the cold air whipping his longer hair and hitting his face, smoothing over his wings.

Almost three seconds after leveling off, he spotted Baker Street and said in Sherlock's ear, "Sherlock, hold on. It's going to seem like your falling, but just don't let go—I've got you."

With that, he tilted his wings down and sliced through the air, and fell in a shallow curve toward the roof of their flat. Sherlock almost cried out, but only held on tighter as he felt the weight leave his limbs and the air rub the nape of his neck raw.

John had no time to slow down, had no time to make a safe, soft landing. He loudly told Sherlock, "Legs—around my waist! I can't land without my legs!" Sherlock did as he was told, and nearly fell because of it, but stayed put tight against John.

John threw his legs forward, put of by the extra weight of Sherlock on his upper half, but his feet hit the roof. He was still going much too fast, and was forced to stumble forward, wings spread and flailing. He tripped, dropped Sherlock (who tumbled on the roof, like a child rolling down a hill) and went crashing to the flat roof.

Sherlock was momentarily disoriented. His head was aching, left arm throbbing with pain, but he soon remembered how he got to the roof of his flat. "John!" He scrambled up and ran to his non-human friend.

John was flush against the lip of the building, his back to it, one wing laid over his prone body, the other crushed awkwardly against the hard cement and under his body. He was motionless as Sherlock approached.

Like before, dear readers, in the crater when he fell, he was aware of all the minds around him. He just needed that spark to wake him from the trauma self induced coma.

Sherlock's touch was his spark.

Sherlock only had to put his hand on the side of his face. John's eyes snapped open and he gasped in his breath. He hissed, sat up and lifted his mangled wing. He clenched his teeth and rocked forward onto his knees.

"Sherlock," he grunted, eyes squeezed shut. "My wing…is broken. You…need to…snap it back into…place before it heals." He noticed Sherlock's expression and gasped, "Please, Sherlock! If it doesn't heal right, I won't be able fly!"

That made Sherlock blink and hesitantly reach forward, and hissing once he saw the mangled joint. The bone connecting the bone from his back to outer wing snapped clean off, sticking through the fragile flesh. The ivory feathers around the wound were bloody and ruffled, with the other parts of the wing torn free of feathers and rubbed raw.

"I…just…snap it in place? I would have to pull it apart then push it under the skin—"

"Yes, okay! Just—do it before it heals!"

Sherlock saw the golden dust starting to build up on the wounds, and it started to glow. Sherlock gulped and gently placed his hands over the wound, wincing when John tensed and hissed. The dust soothed his burning hands, but he took a shaky breath, then pulled the bone sticking from his flesh away from the joint and forced it into the wound near the joint.

John cried out, and then relaxed as his wing was set correctly. "Thank you," he mumbled, then the dust glowed bright on various places on him, and fell away, looking nothing more special than dirt. If Sherlock had been more of himself—and not confronted with a winged man—he would have collected samples, but right now he had reason to be forgetful.

He turned his attention to the wings he had absently set. Ivory colored, gorgeous, one slightly raised and spread as it healed and the other folded against his back.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and John opened his diluted eyes to look at him. "You are aware that you have wings, and its entirely impossible for humans to have wings, correct?"

John seemed to hold back a grin, but it broke through to a tiny smirk. "Yes, I am aware, Sherlock."

"Then…how?"

John shook his head. "Not here," he wheezed. "I can barely breathe." A beat passed, and John didn't want to ask, but he forced himself to. "Can you help me? I…my ankles are still healing from probably shattering them on that building."

If you haven't already inferred, Angels have a much more advanced natural healing ability. Magic, some would say, but those who knew better knew it was just an ability to survive various, devastating attacks from the Howlers.

Sherlock did help him down, by gently pulling his arm until he was standing straight. John slowly, tenderly, put his arm around Sherlock's much higher shoulders and hobbled down the trap door to the attic that eventually led to their cold, inviting flat.

Before I end this narrative, let me ask a question. If you were in Sherlock's place, would you have questions?

Yes?

A lot of them?

Obviously?

Well, Sherlock had a little more than 'a lot' of questions. He had hundreds, piling up in his brain as he helped this impossible man into their flat, not able to stop glancing at the gleaming ivory wings that had seemed to sprout from his friend's back.

Yes, Sherlock did consider John his friend.

But now, he considered him his.

(His fallen angel…)

Yes. Okay. Not my best, hopefully the less good it can get. It was rushed, I know, and a bit choppy. I was halfway through the flying scene when I realized I had not really made any kind of suspense, by making you wait one chapter to figure out what happened to Sherlock.

But you know? I'm a reader myself, and I hate it when authors do that. I guess my subconscious wanted to spare my fellow readers.

Please tell me what you think! How I did! What I should do! Pretty please! I can even put microwaved eyeballs or severed fingers on top!

Stay Happy,

Spirit