My Absent Angel

Book 4

'John, Sherlock and a Lost Prince'

Every living being has a dark side, no matter what the fiction writers or the overly optimistic say, and that includes the pure and loving Angels. Rarely does their evil show, but when it does, it is dangerous and explosive. Be out of an angry Angel's way is the life lesson of a lifetime.

And John Watson was not very controlling of his temper. He never had been, and certainly wouldn't hold it back now. His demonic side had broken through his happy exterior and now reared its ugly head to tear this Howler apart.

And that's exactly what John, lost in anger and pain and pure hatred, intended to do.

Moriarty saw the change in the human's face as he watched him. A flicker from him to the Angel, then his eyes widened and jaw lost a bit of tension. He turned, and staggered at what he saw.

John was lost. His eyes were lost in the electric blue, irises and even the whites of his eyes turned to the unnatural blue color. Both Howler and Human could see blue electricity crackling up his arms and down his body, around his head and fizzing the air around him. Though it wasn't electricity, it was John's defenses. Ahem, magic, as humans would call it.

He was pulling against the manacles, the earthly metal bending and distorting under his astounding strength, and he was unfazed by the burning gold. His magic was coursing through him and he did not feel it. With an almighty pull, his right manacle broke from the wall and hung sadly from his wrist, and his magic surged down the metal. Merci—he was certainly not the warm, lovable John Sherlock knew, this was hatred and pure power of the Angels—pulled his left hand free the same way.

The Angel then stood, eyes crackling blue and the magic coursing through the metal and over his body, and he seemed to tower over the Howler and Sherlock. He was…scary to say the least. Terrifying.

He took two steps forward and the Howler screeched, scrabbling backwards and around behind Sherlock, who didn't even notice because he was staring dumbfounded at the electric angel in front of him. His Angel. His.

"You can't touch me!" Moriarty screeched, throwing pride out the window with John's easy going demeanor. "You'll kill the human!"

In the very least, Moriarty was dead wrong. Merci was an Angel after all. He had his words, he had his magic, and he had his status.

"You have disgraced the Angel and Human kind with your presence, Howler," Merci said, his voice resonating with the power of his magic and mind. It shook both Howler and Human's down to their bones.

"You broke the peace between the two societies," the Angel continued. "Your kind was warned what would happen if you did so."

"You have no rights!" Moriarty screamed, clinging to the back of Sherlock's chair. "We are on neutral land!"

"It matters not," Merci said, taking another threatening step forward. "You kidnapped and tortured an Angel. Now, Howler, do you know who I am? Take a guess, why don't you? See if you regret your actions."

Moriarty was confused. Why would he be more special than any other than any other Angel? He knew they were a close knit breed, but why did it matter that he knows who Merci was?

And why did that damn name sound so familiar?

"No guesses? I'm saddened, Howler. I am Merci Anjhelis Caeruleus, orPrincipis et Spes Somnia. I am the only son to Regina Amoris Iactura et. Also only blood of Voluptatem et Dolorem Regem. Does this ring a bell, Howler?"

Ring a bell it did. Let alone the names, the Angel words were searing to the Howler's ears, and Moriarty clutched at them as he heard the names. He knew those names all too well.

"You're lying!" The Howler screeched, and Sherlock's head was ringing between the screeching of the demon and of the Angel words. "You are a lying wretch, Angel! You could not be him!"

"Have you ever heard of a lying Angel, let alone one lying in the Language?"

"John, who are you?" Sherlock yelled, his ears ringing and head throbbing, and he felt like his heart was going to burst from beating so fast. Why was John hiding who he was?

The dazzling, devastating blue eyes turned toward him and locked him in place. "Sherlock, I am the Prince of the Blue Palace. I am Prince Merci."

-Fallen Angel-

Obviously, Moriarty did not believe him. That was obvious when he crouched down and lifted a knife hidden in his pant leg, and then threw it as hard as he could at John. John was expecting it.

He snapped the sizzling chain up and it wrapped around the blade, and diverted its path from Angel heart to earthen floor. The Angel Prince looked at the Howler and knew he wanted revenge for all the dead Angels in the last Demon and Angel war. For his father, who died heroically in that very war, fifty seven years ago.

He pulled his hand back, holding on the chain with his hand, and whipped it to Moriarty with all of his strength. The chain wrapped around Moriarty's neck and burned his flesh, and the demon screamed. It was not as convincing as John's, but it made Sherlock cry out when his ears bled.

The Angel dragged Moriarty to him and replaced the super heated chain with his own hand, and surged magic into the demon's body, uncaring of the consequences. Moriarty screamed, gripping onto the hand, screamed for his life, howled for his brethren, then died in John's clutches.

He turned to ash and fell harmlessly to the floor.

Prince Merci only stared at the ash of the demon for a few short moments before he looked up at the human. He felt the rage dying down, with the energy and power with it. Before his eyes turned back to normal, the Prince used the chains to break Sherlock's bonds.

"Sherlock," he whispered as his eyes faded to the diluted blue that was much more comforting than the hatred crazy blue they had been. He staggered and fell to the ground, and didn't move.

"John!" Sherlock surged up and grabbed John, hissing when he touched the Angel's flesh. It was burning hot to the touch, but he hugged John to his chest and looked at his slack face.

"John," he whispered, stroking his head, running his fingers through the messed up hair soothingly. "John, look at me, please. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need."

John did not respond for a terrifying five seconds, before his eyes fluttered open. He managed to rasp out, "roof," before his eyes closed again.

Sherlock frowned and stood up shakily, hissing as his probably broken leg buckled under the pressure. He was unsure if he could carry John, but knew even if he saw the bone stick out of his calf, he would get John to that goddamned roof.

The detective pulled up the fragile, unmoving John into his arms and carried him honeymoon style out of the room. There were no people anywhere to be found. Even when Sherlock forced his mind to occupy the building, he found not a living creature there. The explanation appeared before him instantly. No mortal could have sat quietly when both Angel and Howler had screamed. He had only survived because he knew how to protect his mind and had the iron will of the Angels.

He forced his way to the roof and laid John near the edge, but far enough away to be safe. He held the Angel on his lap, in his arms, stroking his face and not trying to mask the threatening tears in his eyes.

"John, we're on the roof now," Sherlock whispered. He saw the spidery black lines of the Howler poison wrapping all around his shoulder, up his neck and down as far as his hip. The Angel was struggling for breath and his chest rose and fell dangerously slow and harshly.

The Angel was dying. The Fallen Angel was breathing his last, harsh breaths.

John's eyes flickered open and he looked up at the gray, swirling sky. He seemed to struggle for words then whispered, "It looks like it's going to rain later, Sherlock."

John always managed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But Sherlock looked up as well and felt the sharp crispness of an upcoming storm. "Yes, it probably will, John. We can watch it from the window at home, if you want. I know you like rainstorms."

John smiled and breathed out harshly. "That would be nice." There was a short pause, with Sherlock still holding John close, and John just watching the sky.

"I have to go now," the Angel eventually said.

Sherlock clung to him tighter. "I know."

"I'll come back, I promise."

"You can't promise that, John."

"I can," John murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

The Angel arched up in Sherlock's arms, and let out a wailing scream that was heard miles and miles away. The scream resonated high up into the sky.

Howlers screamed and dispersed.

Angels cried out and rejoiced.

Humans panicked and ran for shelter.

A single shaft of light broke through the gray mass of clouds and fell upon John and Sherlock. The dazzling sunlight hurt Sherlock's eyes, but John relaxed and closed his.

As Sherlock watched, three dots appeared in the light, three tiny black dots in the small sliver of the looming golden sea. The fell down the beam like falling stones, though managed it so it looked like graceful birds.

Three figures landed on the opposite side of the building, wings folded and hair windblown but beautiful. A man and two women. The man was tall, with a beautifully sculpted face, and light blonde hair that looked like hand woven sunlight. His skin was tanned but his face was sculpted like a cat's, graceful yet beautiful in its feline glory. His wings were pale with whiter highlights.

The first women was tall as well, with thick red hair that tumbled down her shoulders. Her face was feline as well, beautiful, and there were red tattoos on her wrists and ankles, with a red stripe on her cloud white robe. Her wings were wide, and the feathers red with deeper shadows.

The second woman was tall, voluptuous with graceful curves and pin straight blonde streaked hair. Her limbs were long and her face was sharper than the others' and her icy blue eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Her wings were long—not as long as John's, Sherlock estimated—and a startling white.

All three of them were silent, barefooted, and wearing similar white robes, with stony faces and their minds expertly guarded.

"Help me," Sherlock whispered, and then repeated louder, "Help him. Please, I won't hurt you or him. Just…help him."

He opened his mind willingly, and felt as the man entered his mind and surged through his memories faster than a strike of lightning. He pulled back and glanced at his two companions, obviously speaking through a mind connection, and nodded towards the Human and Angel.

The blonde woman started forward, wearily approaching them. Sherlock shifted around and loosened his hold on John to show them the state of the Prince. The woman hissed in her breath at the sight of him and approached much more easily.

She knelt in front of him and looked in his eyes, and tentatively touched his mind. He opened it willingly and she scoured through his memories as well. She looked in his eyes as he repeated, "Please, help him."

The female Angel gestured for the prince, and Sherlock hesitantly lifted John off of his lap and into the Angel's lap. His lower half only turned as his upper body was transferred from Human to Angel. John stirred and tensed somewhat, but relaxed at the touch of his own kind. The woman hissed once again at the prince's touch, startled as John's flesh burned into hers, very slightly, though.

"He's been poisoned," Sherlock explained, not knowing if they had memorized the English language yet. "He's dying—please help him."

The red haired woman approached him and spoke to him in perfect English.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "I'm John…Merci's friend. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

She smiled and touched her own chest. "Curae," she said. She repeated it again, tapping her own chest. Then she said, "Tueri," as she pointed to the male Angel, and then to the other woman as she said "Sortem."

With names established, she said once again in English, "We are going to help Merci. But not here. We must take him back to the Palace to heal him. He will be okay with us, Sher-rlock." She stuttered a bit over the foreign name, but managed it will enough.

Sherlock nodded, and watched as the blonde Angel picked John up easily, and the male, Tueri, helped her. He stood as well and put his hand on John's forehead, unable to stop tears from running down his face. He wiped them away as the three spoke through their minds, and the two carrying John took off and flew up the beam of light.

He watched them go, raising his hand in farewell, watching his Angel leave. Watching his John get carried away to the heavens, never to see him again. He knew John's promise was a lie.

The red headed woman, Curae, looked at him and smiled sadly, and her beautiful face surpassed any human woman's fake beauty. "He will be okay," she said, her words lightly accented.

"I know," he whispered. "But it doesn't help."

She was perplexed. "Why not?"

"I know he'll live, but I'll never see him again."

Curae bid him farewell, telling him empty promises, then took off effortlessly and flew up into the clouds.

Sherlock sat on the roof and watched the sky. He watched the hole in the clouds shrink and close. He didn't start crying until it rained, and hid his tears. He sat on the roof alone, crying, soaked to the bone and lost until Lestrade came bumbling onto the roof and found him there, eight hours later.

*tear* Goodness, that made me sad. I feel bad. Sherlock never cries. But for his Angel he does, I suppose.

Anyone see that coming? John, royalty? Impossible! …Possible, now! I didn't plan on naming the Angels, by the way. But if you want to hear the pronunciation, then go to Google Translate and type in 'luck', 'to protect' or 'protect', and 'care' to translate to Latin. Merci is something I pulled off the top of my head.

Switch the thing to Latin to English to find out what the King and Queen's names are. I don't even remember.

Excuse any mistakes, pretty please. =)

I don't own Sherlock or its characters. *huge sigh*

I picked a random number for the lucky review to get a sneak preview of the next chapter/sequel. So review. Please? I love reviews. Tell me if you hated or loved or are indifferent about this chapter. I'm not sure how you'll all react to it.

Stay Happy,

Spirit