Stretched Sore

Book 3

'Sherlock'

We all, Angels and Humans alike, know that no matter what happens today, tomorrow will always come, and life will always move on. No matter how much we want life to stop, to grind to a halt to catch your breath, the world continues moving, buzzing, like an infernal beehive.

For our angelic couple, life did continue on, and it was peaceful. But there was always the threat of John's 'rescue' angels coming to take him away, and of the poison in his scar to spread, but they lived through every day, and only thought about the next when it came.

Soon after the incident, John approached Sherlock about protecting his mind. It went something like this:

"Sherlock, stop it."

"I wasn't doing anything."

"Yes, you're staring at my back and you're practically shouting in your mind."

"You can hear my thoughts?"

"Well, when you're only thinking about 'John John John John John John', it's kind of distracting. It can get pretty loud."

"You can hear my thoughts?"

"Yes, Sherlock, don't get hysterical. I'm an Angel. Telepathic creature, you know."

"…"

"Right, fine. I'll teach you. Come over here."

So Sherlock sat next to John and the Angel looked into his eyes.

"Now, I've learned that humans don't have any telepathic abilities, or any protection around their minds. Hell, they don't even know when someone's ripping their very memories apart. But I have encountered only two minds with any degree of protection."

"Mycroft and I," Sherlock said before John could continue. John simply nodded, expecting that.

"So it makes it a bit easier, seeing you can already protect your thoughts a bit. I had to take a few seconds to read your thoughts the first time I met you—that's pretty substantial for no practice or awareness, actually. So I'm going to access your mind, but not read your thoughts or anything—just slip into your mind and see if you can feel it, okay?" At Sherlock's nod, John reached out and gently put his fingers on his temples, and stared into his eyes.

Like the first time he had stared into John's eyes, he felt his mind wandering, losing his train of thought.

"Tell me what you're feeling," John whispered, not blinking, unmoving.

"I…I don't know. I can…barely think. Like I forget what I was going to say…or even think, for that matter."

"That's me," John murmured. "I have primary access to your current thoughts. I can hear them; hear your mental voice through the connection. 'John…how is this happening…why can't I think…' Now, Sherlock, you have to expand your mind, feel the edges and the recesses of your consciousness. It's uncomfortable and hard, but once you do, you might be able to feel me."

Sherlock nodded, and as he stared in those diluted blue eyes, he isolated his point of awareness in his mind, expanded it, tried to feel the walls holding his consciousness in, to press against them. It felt strange, like he was rummaging through his brain and looking for something he had deleted or something he never knew nor saw.

Then, he felt it. It was like pressing his hands against plastic wrap, a thin membrane that held him in and kept the world out. It was fragile, but bendable and flexible, able to pull and warp and grabbed and not be torn.

He searched for the other walls, felt them, and then felt an intrusion. A breach in the membrane, sealed on the edges but swallowing his thoughts, and he tentatively pressed against it. He was instantly aware of John, his presence, his mind; he couldn't even describe the feeling, he just knew it was John and he was safe.

Sherlock heard John's voice in his mind, whispering but very, very clear in the silence of his devoted mind. Can you hear me?

Yes. Sherlock thought hesitantly, wondering if he had to think aloud for him to hear his answer.

Good. You found me much quicker than I thought you would. Do you think you could recognize my mind anywhere?

Sherlock thought about that one, focusing on the warm, fuzzy yet impossibly smart mind of John and was pretty sure he could find him amidst the boring minds of the mass population. Yes.

Even if I stood in the heart of London? A single cell of blood in the heart, of all the blood in the body? Of millions and millions of cells, could you isolate mine among them?

Sherlock hesitated there. How many minds would he be able to even rub against until it wore him down, unable to search? I…I don't know.

That was when Sherlock found out the connection between their minds was two ways, like a door; able to be stepped through in either direction once it was opened. So he pressed through the breach (it seemed no bigger than a quarter) and found himself in the mind of the fallen Angel.

The mind of an Angel, readers, is vast and complicated and impossibly big, and to a normal mortal, the second they laid their mental eyes upon it, their brains would melt. Quite literally.

But Sherlock was no normal mortal, and he looked upon John's mind with reverence and shock. In Sherlock's eyes, it was vast, like a towering cathedral, bathed in a womblike golden light. The immense knowledge he stored in this first cavern was dumbfounding. He was bombarded with memories of countless flights, of love and family and—

He was pushed out of the mind almost violently, and he went sprawling on the couch from sheer exhaustion. His heart was pounding and he felt like he had just ran a chase the length of London three times after no sleep for nearly a week. Yes, he had experienced both, but not back to back.

John was leaning against the couch, breathing hard, but then he seemed to recover and he looked at Sherlock with concerned and stern eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm…fine," Sherlock muttered, slowly sitting up. His head was pounding, and he had no desire to cut that protective membrane surrounding him again.

"Sherlock, you have to understand: my mind is so different than yours that it could instantly kill another human if they see it. You had only a glimpse of it, and if you have prolonged exposure to the knowledge I have, you will die. Only access my mind in the most deadly, direst situation, and even then let me enter your mind."

Sherlock was dangerously interesting in John's mind, but he simply nodded.

"Are you ready to try again?" He was answered by another nod. "Okay. Now I'm going to stay out of your mind, and you'll have to break your own natural protection and locate my mind, yeah?"

The detective nodded, closed his eyes and strove to find the edges of his mind. He found the membrane easily, and pictured his hands pressing against it, fingering the thin barrier but unable to break it. He frowned, and dug the mental nails into it, and tore. He dragged his nails across it, leaving behind small tears, but when he tore it thinner and thinner, he felt himself pressing against the weak spot relentlessly.

Then it tore.

When one opens their mind, quite literally, their very being is exposed to the cruel world. Creatures like the Angels get used to it at a young age, but to a human who never so much as felt the boundaries of his mind, it was plain scary.

It was like being shielded and clothed his entire life, then suddenly striped of everything and thrown out onto a cold street.

His mind was bare, and he felt irrationally frightened. His mind, his mind, was unprotected and skin dry. Feelings and sights and so much information overwhelmed him and he cringed, cried out, and retreated back into the quickly mending walls, back into his safe haven.

"Scary, isn't it?" John said once he was sure Sherlock was okay. "It's scarier than anything before, right? Well, whenever you're ready, tell me and you can try again."

-Fallen Angel-

Sherlock did, in fact, break through his mental protection and locate John's mind with a probe of his mind. By the time he did, though, he was pale and sweating, feeling a bone-deep, mental exhaustion that he never quite felt before. He slept longer after that than he ever remembered before.

And so started a tradition between the two. John would walk out when Sherlock was working on an experiment or on some occasions, sleeping, and go down the street or sit across the road from their flat and wait for him to notice. When Sherlock woke, he would find a text on his phone or a note pinned to the fridge saying See if you can find me, Sherlock. No cheating.

So Sherlock would open his mind, scour the flat and the street. As he got used to the feeling of his mind being bare and vulnerable, he felt his mind strengthening and he could stretch his mind to the flat across the street, then encompass the whole of Baker Street, then to Scotland Yard (which he amused himself for many hours messing with Anderson's thoughts, even though John told him not to) and beyond.

For this reason, when Sherlock woke tied to his bed, he didn't panic. He knew it was his bed—yes, he had been tied to his bed before thankyouverymuch—and felt the decently soft leather belts that held his arms to the rails and his ankles to the footboard.

Sherlock blinked his eyes and ran through a checklist in his mind. 1) Was he injured? He tested his bonds, clenched all of his muscles, rolled his neck; he was uninjured besides an aching head. 2) Was there anyone around? No. Mrs. Hudson had gone out, and he didn't sense John. 3) How did he get captured? He thought back, and remembered talking to John and going to his room to fetch his nightgown. He heard something behind him, but didn't remember what he saw when he turned around. So, someone came and hit him before he turned. John, most likely—after all, what burglar would tie him to his bed almost politely after knocking him unconscious?

4) What was around him that he could use to escape? He looked around, found his pocketknife moved to the far desk, but his phone leaned against his alarm clock. His hand was near the cord of it, and he tugged it and the phone crept closer to his dexterous fingers. It fell into them, and he pressed the okay button and read the following text:

Sherlock, surely you've deduced I knocked you out. I had to do it as if you were captured and I was away. No escaping, just try to find me. No cheating, Sherlock! –JW

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes and pressed against that thick membrane that protected his mind. He winced at the mental scars that were left behind from his first attempt, then slipped through his mind and extended himself through the flat, across Baker Street.

He thought this through before he got too tired. If he had done this to John, where would he hide? Where would he go if he had been captured?

The first obvious thought was Mycroft, and then dismissed it. John certainly wouldn't have gone to his brother. The second was to Scotland Yard, but Sherlock wasn't quite positive John would be there. After all, he would be able to detect Donovan or Anderson or Lestrade's mind shouting that John was there before he actually located John's consciousness.

Where would he go, where he wouldn't be noticed and yet comfortable until Sherlock woke? He thought through John's likes and habits. He obviously liked wide open spaces and cold air. He didn't like to be anywhere that he felt constricted or confined. He didn't adore the noise of the city, but didn't dislike it.

A solution popped into his stretched mind and he deemed it most likely and slithered his consciousness towards Regent's Park.

Once he was looking upon the park with his mental eyes, feeling the consciousnesses of the animals and tourists, he paused and then set out to find the glowing presence of his Angel. He searched long with his mind, retracing his steps several times and zigzagging along the paths. He felt himself get tired, a bone deep tired, and his mind literally stretched close to its limit, he saw a small, petite blonde man sitting calmly on a bench.

In his mind's eye, he could see a shimmering veil behind him, taking the vague form of his glorious wings, but not there physically. He sighed and stretched forward and pressed himself against John's mental guards.

John quickly engulfed his mind like a warm, fuzzy blanket. (Yes, even though Sherlock is a strict scientist, he can use words such as fuzzy. After all, there are no other words for the feeling of John's comforting presence.)

Took you long enough, John's voice said in his mind. It resonated in his skull and he felt better and less stretched.

Excuse me, Sherlock snapped back, though without convincing venom. His mental voice couldn't replicate his stinging slaps of words that his physical voice could achieve.

He heard the dim echo of a physical laugh that John couldn't contain to his mind. Just sit still, I'll catch a cab and get you untied. Make sure to rest, you're mind will feel stretched for quite a while. Don't do anything unreasonable, Sherlock!

Sherlock groaned slightly, feeling a flickering ache along the long trail of his mind to his tied up body. Fine. He pulled back from John's mind and rewound himself, picking up the rope of his mind and wrapping it on his arm like a hose. He pressed back through his vulnerable mind and gasped as he opened his eyes.

His body was aching and his vision flickering from exhaustion, something he's not used to but experienced before. Sherlock groaned and let his body go limp, waiting for John to get back and untie him. He obviously could have got out himself, but he had just stretched his mind close to its breaking point, and he was very happy to let John do it for him.

After all, neither of them was in any trouble, and he could relish his most recent victory.

If he would have checked his phone, he would have seen five texts from Mycroft and three missed calls. In his vigorous endeavor to find John, he had missed the ringing of his phone as his brother desperately tried to contact him.

Why, you ask?

If you remember, Mycroft is best pals with CCTV cameras. That doesn't discount the event that happened about a week before.

Sorry for the wait! I had writer's block for nearly the entire find-John thing and yeah. I know there are mistakes in here somewhere, so please forgive them.

This one was just a Sherlock getting used to a winged telepathic John kind of thing. The next chapter is Mycroft figuring John's, ahem, uniqueness, and an Angel holiday! Yay!

And holidays always bring us closer to the end.

Stay Happy,

Spirit