Though Sherlock is Human No Matter His View

Book 3

'Sherlock'

Sherlock was not ecstatic that John was going on a night long flight, but he was not upset either. He didn't like that he was out of his sight, but knew he was an Angel and needed to fly alone sometimes, and that he was not human. He had to be with his own kind, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

So he sat on pins and needles after John had severed their connection—he had given John fifteen minutes and twenty seconds, and he had lasted almost twenty six minutes—through most of the night, ignoring his almost constantly buzzing phone. It was mostly Mycroft, though near the morning it was Lestrade's texts filling up his inbox. He read them at first then got bored and let his phone ring out.

When John touched his mind again near seven in the morning, he sighed audibly and spoke to him, and he distantly felt John flying strong, though with a comfortable burn in his wings and back. He was jerked from relaxing on the couch, a dreamy smile on his face (he was not aware of it, but I was!) when Lestrade strode in, his face set but anxious.

"Sherlock," he said dangerously, "We need to talk."

Sherlock sent an alarm to John, and felt him pull out of his dive and veer away.

"I'm not interested, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled, standing and wandering deliberately to the kitchen.

"I don't care, Sherlock. We need to talk about John and his staying with you."

Sherlock, very irrationally mad that this man would talk that way about his Angel, slammed his fist on the table with a sudden fiery explosion of passion. Lestrade jumped, shocked by the sociopath's excess emotion.

"Do not bring John into this!"

"Into what, Sherlock? What have I said to make you think we are in anything? John is changing you—"

"Yes, I am aware, Lestrade! He is! Now if you would like to continue living on this Earth, I would suggest getting out of my flat!"

"Are you threatening me, Sherlock?" Lestrade was absolutely outraged by the younger man's words, and his voice cracked with indignation of the threat.

"No, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I am not; I am simply suggesting you leave before I throw you out my bedroom window!"

"Sherlock Holmes, if you threaten my again, I'll have you arrested! Sherlock? Are you listening?"

Sherlock had been distracted by John speaking in his mind, and had zoned out to stare at an evil smiley face shot into the wall. He shook his head and looked confused for a moment before focusing back onto the situation at hand.

"Yes, of course I am," he spat, with much more venom than before. Only John, in his mind, could see that it was a show. "I do not care that you could arrest me, Lestrade, nor do I even have a small urge to care. But in this instant, if you do not get out of my flat, I will give your officers good reason to want to arrest me—not that they ever could, by the way. Now leave!"

Lestrade had not expected such a violent reaction to a simple line of inquiry. He watched with wide eyes as Sherlock stomped off to his room, slamming the door violently behind him.

Sherlock touched his temples and spoke with John, studiously ignoring the fact that he sensed Lestrade hovering in his living room.

Where are you? He received a snappy reply and spoke back, frazzled slightly by John's overwhelming sense of being lost. His Angel was distracted, though, by the approach of two men, who would have been threatening to anyone else besides the Angel. He felt a sudden jolt of pain in his head that was really John's, and cried out both physically and mentally when John's mind went suddenly and dangerously black.

"John!" He cried. "John!"

His Angel did not reply, though, and he only felt a startling darkness on the other end of his connection. He screamed with both his voice and his mind, but it was in vain. The only thing that came out of his shouting was Lestrade barging into his room quite forcefully, only to find Sherlock standing in the middle of his room, clutching at his head, pulling out the obsidian curls.

Lestrade reached out for Sherlock, shouting over the detective's ranting cries, but when he touched him Sherlock screamed, throwing him off, and shouting over Lestrade. His main shout was "John, wake up! Speak to me! Don't leave me alone!"

"John's not here!" Lestrade shouted. "He's not here!"

"I know!" Sherlock yelled. "He's out there; he's hurt and—shut up!"

The room went quiet and Sherlock clutched his head, muttering to himself, desperately searching for John's absent sparkling mind. He found a void of a mind, something he nearly overlooked, and clutched onto it with both hands.

He pressed against John's still guarded mind, shouting against it, but John was out cold. He wrapped himself around John's consciousness, not unlike the nights he would bear John's curse with him, and tried to literally put himself in John's position.

He was aware of the sounds first. John's mind was still active, just locked and paused. He was still very aware of his surroundings, just unable to grasp the light of his consciousness. He heard the sound of a heavy motor, the screeching of tires on torn up pavement, the sound of cackling laughter. Sherlock then became aware of the feeling of tight ropes on his wrists, on his ankles, a dirty rag in his mouth and tied around his head.

Then came the debilitating weight on his chest. It was like there was a man sitting on his sternum and he could barely breathe. The air was hot and dry and like sand in his throat, and the weight was almost enough to make him black out.

Is this what you feel like every day, John? Sherlock wondered absently. I'm so sorry.

There was also a blaring pain in his head, right above his ear, and his scarred shoulder was screaming with pain. Either because his arms were tied behind his back roughly or because he lying on it. But there were, readers, another reason, but that was unknown to both Sherlock and the unconscious John.

The car stopped viciously and he felt John's body tumble against the seat ahead of him. Several sets of hands grabbed a hold of his body and threw him to the unforgiving and cold ground.

Come on, John, Sherlock desperately muttered, physically and mentally. Show me where you are. Show me!

John may have been unconscious, but he was not dead. He heard Sherlock's plea, and his sub consciousness delivered. His eyes were shut, so he could not give a visual view of his surroundings. So he gave what he could.

Sherlock was only slightly relieved when he got a sort of map of the area around John's body. It was a blurry, indistinct sense of the surface. He sensed three heated shapes huddled near him, and a grumbling mass that could only be the vehicle that had brought him there. There was a squat, shambled building (maybe it was a warehouse, it was hard to tell with the shifting and gray sense) and it look vaguely familiar, but it struck home when John's limp body up and he had a view of it.

Sherlock snapped himself back to his body, to see the distraught eyes of the Detective Inspector searching his face.

"They have John!" He said, breathlessly, and he staggered for a moment before he regained his feet and ran out of his room. "I know where he is!"

"Sherlock, how could you possibly know where he is? You're rambling!"

"I am not!" Sherlock snapped, turning on him. "You're just far too dull and human to keep up! Now either give me a ride or I'll run all the way to the warehouse!"

Lestrade instantly knew which warehouse Sherlock was talking of. "Sherlock, I was very clear that if you started on drugs again—"

Sherlock could have screamed with frustration. "I am not on drugs! John was kidnapped and he will be killed if I do not get to him! Lestrade, trust me, please!"

Lestrade had only heard Sherlock say please twice in the entire time he had known him. Once when he had been raving mad on drugs, and this time, he thought, he might just be on drugs as well. But his eyes were clear, his voice was sharp, and he looked very much clean. And a plea was a plea, no matter which way you cut it, and Lestrade knew Sherlock was not kidding when he said he would run to the warehouse where he used to buy his drug of choice.

"Fine," Lestrade sighed, watching as the younger man's eyes lit up and then he went rushing for his coat, gun and scarf. All, the detective inspector did not fail to notice, were within three feet of each other. Sherlock threw his coat on and rushed out of his flat, reaching out with his mind again, only to find not a soul within the warehouse or anywhere near it.

He faltered for only a moment when he found no living creature near the warehouse, but plowed on relentlessly and forced Lestrade to move faster. When they were speeding along London roads with the sirens blaring, Sherlock found himself watching in very slow motion as a car rolled in front of them, blocking the path. He opened his mouth to shout, to warn the others, but the police car turned around it, and smashed the left side of the hood to the back of the offending car.

The police car jerked, turned, and rolled. The glass shattered and the sound of crunching and snapping metal filled Sherlock's ears, along with the coarse shouting of Lestrade and another police officer mending with his own. He shouted only once, for three seconds, before he snapped his mouth shut as they rolled and then the world went black when his head smashed into the door beside him.

All good books end with a car crash, yeah? =) Book 4 will start soon, I guess. But, to tell you the truth, I kind of lost track of the books and stuff. So, don't really bother with them, they're just there to be there.

Again, sorry for any mistakes there are. I can't catch all of them, and even if I did, it would add another day before I published it. I personally think a few mistakes are worth a day of less waiting.

I do not own Sherlock *wail sob* or any of its characters.

Oh, the title may not make obvious sense, but it rhymes with the last title. It makes sense if you don't think about it. *smile* Try reading them together, it sounds much better.

Please review. Please? The Howlers wouldn't listen to me. (They seem to have more mercy than me. Does that say anything about my personality?) I like reviews. I do not, however, like to threaten my readers with the demons of our nightmares.

Stay Happy,

Spirit