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Winglock - John is Sherlock's Guardian Angel

((This was so much fun! Angst, fluff, and sweet moments, too. Thanks for a great RP! :D))

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Stranger: [Guardian Angel AU] When John (or at least, that’s the name he chose this time, John Watson) was assigned to a man in London named Sherlock Holmes, he was offended. He couldn’t help but think that it was some kind of punishment for nearly losing a man in Afghanistan. The man had been a soldier, John posing as an Army doctor, and John had been shot protecting the idiot. Of course, he wasn’t going to complain. That wasn’t what angels did. (Looking for a SH, been living together for some time)

You: Lounging on the couch, Sherlock reached out to the buzzing phone and grumbled, tossing it aside. "Mycroft. This is does not seem to be a promising day thus far." He turned his head, looking over at John. "Tea?"

Stranger: With a smile, the angel rose. "Course." A part of him was shrieking about the indignity of a several million year old heavenly being making tea, but the rest of him hushed that side up. "What does Mycroft want?"

You: "A case. National emergency. Incredibly dull. I loathe to give it a moment's thought, but I dare say that it might be better than lounging here. That he is texting tells me he is at a meeting. He will likely come here shortly after it is complete to convince me. Let him grovel a bit," he muttered, bringing his hands up to rub his eyes with the palm of his hands.

Stranger: John came back out while the tea steeped, shaking his head. "That's not nice, Sherlock," he scolded halfheartedly. Honestly, he didn't particularly like Mycroft either. The man constantly watched John, and it was a real possibility that he knew John's secret. "Besides, if it is a case of national urgency, I don't think you should waste time embarrassing your brother.

You: "/Everything/ is a national emergency with Mycroft. It very rarely truly is." Sighing, Sherlock sat up, looking up at John, a frown crossing his expression as something occurred to him. "Weren't you supposed to be at work today?"

Stranger: Damn, right, he was. Well, if he had an actual job, and not just a meeting with his contact. A meeting that had been canceled. "Sarah called, said I didn't need to come in today." Which meant something important was about to happen with Sherlock, something that John couldn't know about in advance but had to be here for. Bloody cryptic boss.

You: Sherlock eyed him carefully, his expression dubious, but instead rose to go to his room and change. "Best get ready, John. One does not know what will be awaiting us shortly."

Stranger: John sighed. Damned observant Holmes brothers. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep the facade on. Going into his own room to quickly change, he kept his mental eye trained on Sherlock. Nothing too weird, just making sure his instincts weren't warning him of any danger. Today was important, he knew that much at least.

You: ((If you have any idea as to what this danger is, feel free 'cause I have no idea lol))

You: Changing, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen, grabbing the teapot and pouring himself a cuppa while he waited for John and the imminent arrival of Mycroft. Hearing the door open and shut downstairs, Sherlock sighed and settled himself in his chair.

Stranger: John frowned, listening to the steps coming up the stairs. That...wasn't Mycroft. Too light, with no umbrella. He went to stand next to Sherlock, instincts screaming. Unable to help himself, he stood slightly in front of his charge, not liking any of his.

You: It took two footsteps for Sherlock to realize that wasn't Mycroft, nor Anthea (not that Anthea ever stepped foot into Baker Street after the incident a few years back). Settling into the chair, he sipped his tea and waited calmly for his visitor. Anxious, by the steps. Nervous. Hesitant. Yet very angry.

Stranger: When the man stepped into the flat, John didn't relax a bit. His eyes narrowed. Slightly yellowed eyes, twitchy movements--possessed, great. He knew that this was an area protected, but came anyway. It hissed at him, a very inhuman hiss, and he stepped fully in front of Sherlock. He spoke in the Ancient Language. "Get out, demon. You aren't welcome here."

You: Sherlock arched a brow at the hiss, but both brows shot up as John began to speak in a language that Sherlock didn't think anyone else knew, let alone John. "Indeed, and yet one willing to enter a room with you in it says he does not much mind." Straightening, he tugged his jacket downward slightly. "What do you want?"

Stranger: John turned slightly, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "You know what I said? What I am?" The demon chose that moment to lunge, and John quickly grabbed it, slamming the man to the floor with inhuman strength. "Funny thing, they usually just want humans dead. Usually more creatively than this, but still."

You: "Usually, yes. But there is one flaw in your logic." Sherlock moved over to the pinned possessed man and placed a hand on his forehead. The man began to struggle in earnest as Sherlock began to speak under his breath. Some moments later, the man dropped unconscious on the floor.

Stranger: John tilted his head, releasing the man and looking at Sherlock. He shook his head. "Those son of a bitches. They gave me someone with the Sight. Of course they did. How'd I miss /that/?" He shook his head. "How long have you had it? And do you actually know what I am?"

You: Sherlock gave him a faint smile. "John, I am afraid it is slightly more complex than that." He straightened up and tugged his jacket once more. "Get rid of him and we will talk. You have greater ability in that regard than I do." The way he spoke made it clear that Sherlock knew exactly what John was.

Stranger: John just shook his head, picking up the man gently and popping to where he knew he lived. Gently reaching into the man's mind, he erased any memory of the possession, leaving a blank space for the mind to fill in on its own. He popped back to Sherlock, crossing his arms. "Alright, explain. I've never had a human like you before, but you are definitely human. My instincts wouldn't work for a nonhuman, I know that much."

You: "Unless they were made to fool your own instincts," Sherlock remarked simply. Without another word, a pair of wings began to unravel from his back. But unlike the wings of an angel, these were stark black. The mark of the Fallen.

Stranger: John took a stumbling step back. "No...why would I be assigned to a /traitor/?" he spat unthinkingly, memories of the war still burned into his mind. His own wings, dusty brown, unfurled, but stayed close to his body protectively. "Michael wouldn't have done that, not with me having fought. He /wouldn't/." Every muscle was taut, as if for a battle. His mind was conflicted: on one hand, it was /Sherlock/, but on the other, /traitor/. He watched the Fallen in front of him cautiously.

You: Traitor. Coming from John, the words stung far worse than any use of the word 'Freak'. Sherlock pursed his lips briefly, his feathers ruffling slightly. He held his head high, despite having no reason to. "You should be careful with that word, John. I betrayed no one but myself." The wings disappeared suddenly, and Sherlock dropped onto the chair, exhausted. It took great effort to use his limited powers around John. Just as the demon had been weakened around John, so was he (although to a lesser degree). "I think you need to pop off and have a conversation with Michael."

Stranger: John watched Sherlock, noticing the hurt on his face. "I don't understand," he murmured softly, shaking his head. "Nearly all the Fallen went with Lucifer, all but a few. And I knew which ones didn't. You...weren't one of them." He kept his wings out, but he sat in front of Sherlock, watching him. "Recently Fallen then. But...why? And why would I protect you?" He shook his head. "Mike won't answer my questions, he's even more cryptic than Father can be. Why'd you...Fall?" This was surreal, talking to a Fallen. Usually, one was trying to stab the other. "What makes you different?"

You: Sherlock let out a soft laugh at that, although no humor resided in it. "It is one of the Deadly Sins, John. Surely you know which I was most likely to be accused of. I did not fall, John. I was cast out." He shifted slightly in the chair, a glance over at John before looking away once more. Cast out, and yet, he had not embraced his powers as a Fallen. Quite the opposite, in fact. In his limited time here on the surface, Sherlock had been working, fighting, to gain his proper wings back. He had no luck in the matter whatsoever, and he knew the moment John appeared in his life that it was not for lack of his efforts going unnoticed. It was that his efforts hadn't mattered.

Stranger: John relaxed. He hadn't met a Fallen that had been cast out before. They usually didn't stay on the surface for long. Lucifer usually enticed them pretty quickly. "Pride," he murmured, looking at Sherlock with compassion. "You've been trying to get them back, haven't you? That's why I'm here. To help." It made sense, in a way. He frowned. "But...Lucifer must have made you an offer. He does for everyone." He had even tried to win John over, in the old days, right before the war. John had thought he was joking. "Why didn't you accept? The odds of you getting your wings back..."Well, no one had done it before. Not for as long as John remembered, and he remembered quite a lot.

You: ((One sec, please))

Stranger: ((of course))

You: "Because evil is dull, and nothing he could offer me would be of interest." Power. It was one thing that Sherlock despised, yet it was the thing that Lucifer had tempted him with. After all, Sherlock knew he could do things better than anyone. Why not give him the chance to prove it? But Sherlock did not want power. He never really had. "As for not having done it before... I am fully aware."

Stranger: A small smile pulled at John's lips. "I bet that pissed him off," he muttered, remembering the temper tantrums a younger Lucifer had thrown when he didn't get his way. That probably should have been an indicator, come to think of it. He sighed, folding his wings away, trusting Sherlock a little bit more. "Well, just because it's never been done before, doesn't mean it can't be done. I mean, look at the whole Jesus thing." He rubbed his jaw, thinking. "I take it the whole crime-solving gig is your attempt at redemption?"

You: A sigh of relief left Sherlock as John put his wings away. The exhaustion was considerably less now, and Sherlock's gaze went back to John as he spoke. "Redemption and attempt at relief from the monotony of it all. Life is /boring/, John."

You: ((Stranger, I'm sorry, but I'm really hungry. Can you stick around while I go afk?))

Stranger: ((Yeah, I'll just reply and you can respond when you get back!))

You: ((Excellent. I'll brb! :D))

Stranger: "Yes, well, it can be if you aren't doing it right. I think I know what the problem is," he shot a small grin at Sherlock, noticing his exhaustion with guilt. He should have remembered that Fallen didn't react well to full angels showing their power, and he tamped down on other expressions of his power. It was a bit uncomfortable, but he /was/ supposed to keep Sherlock comfortable, even if he now knew a bit more about his assignment. "You are still an arrogant git. If you were cast out for pride, the way back in would be through true humility. So, no showing off, for a start."

You: Sherlock arched a brow in his direction, as if John were being entirely unreasonable. "That would be even duller than accepting Lucifer's offer, John."

Stranger: John sighed. "Do you want to go home or not? All of this is pointless if you don't address the source of the problem, you stubborn git." He muttered under his breath. "No wonder I thought you were human, you are being absolutely /thick/."

You: "If they cannot accept me for me, John, then there is little point in the matter, is there? Life is boring, but it is better than pretending to be otherwise simply to placate people that have no business telling me how to live my life!" Sherlock snapped, rising to pace the room, his energy back now.

Stranger: John sighed, the effort of holding in his own power taking its toll. "Sherlock, I don't know how you missed this fact, but you were an angel. We aren't human, we don't get free will. That was a part of the package, and with good reason. He doesn't ask much, just that we not break the rules we are supposed to teach humans. We are supposed to be examples to them. I'm not asking you to pretend, I'm asking you to change for the better. You must have been humble once, don't you remember that?"

You: Sherlock gave him a look that very much suggested otherwise. "The conversation is over, John. This is not your task, I can assure you. This is my task, and mine alone." With that, he moved off down the hall towards his bedroom.

Stranger: John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before rising to follow the Fallen angel. "Then what, exactly, am I supposed to do? Not protect you, you can do that well enough on your own, obviously. This is the only thing I can think of. And you know I can't very well just /leave/, if you were ever a guardian." Something he highly doubted. Guardians were usually fairly humble, having seen something as small as humanity become so very strong.

You: ((Okay, I'm rusty on this lol. Is there such a thing as like, 'brain of the operation' angels?))

Stranger: ((Idk, I just kind of make this up as I go along...but I would guess there would be, so sure!))

You: ((LOL Okay, just running with that idea.))

You: At that, Sherlock scoffed, although his expression saddened. "Guardian? No. No, John, I was not a Guardian. I was a Designer..." With that, he stepped into his room and shut the door behind him, leaving John standing in the hallway.

You: ((I figure maybe like the Greek muses? If so, Sherlock's... Music? I think that makes sense.))

Stranger: ((Sure, that'll work!))

Stranger: John bit his lip. The Designers always were more vulnerable to falling. They took such pride in their work, and they usually loved seeing humans take their particular assignment and run with it. Given Sherlock's talent with the violin, John would guess Music. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced up at the heavens. "What did I do to you, Mike? Why do I get the Fallen with an attitude problem?" He went into the kitchen, realizing the tea had gotten cold and making up another batch. He brought a cup to Sherlock's door. "Do you want some tea? I've found that helps with quite a bit."

You: ((Hahahaha, Mike. I see what you did there.))

Stranger: ((thanks!))

You: "No." The remark came instantly. Seated on the floor, resting against the bed on the opposite side of the door, his fingers gently stroked the edge of the violin. He always said that the violin helped him to think. It was not only that, but that it was a source of his power. It was the only reason he still had any power left. If not for music, he would have truly fallen long ago.

Stranger: John sighed, leaning his head against the door. "Music, am I right? That was your division, wasn't it?" He chuckled. "I should have known, given how you play. I want to help, Sherlock, but I'll freely admit this is a bit out of my experience. I've never met a Fallen who wanted to go home, much less been assigned to one." He swallowed. "I'm sorry about what I said. I...fought, in the Great War. I make assumptions I shouldn't, sometimes. I want to help, but you have to let me." He left the tea outside the door, not violating the Fallen's privacy. "I'll leave this here, alright?" He walked away, rubbing his chest slightly. Holding back his power tended to make it hurt, but he wouldn't let it out until he was well away from Sherlock.

You: Sherlock waited until John was gone, feeling him leave the immediate area. He put the violin down on the nightstand, not plucking a single note from its strings as he buttoned his jacket once more and made his way down the hall, sidestepping the cup of tea. He reached for the back of the door to grab his coat, slipping it on and reaching for his scarf.

Stranger: John watched him leave, from the sofa, but didn't interfere. He would follow him, of course, make sure he didn't do anything too stupid. Still, he'd be discreet, not interfere unless he had to. He rubbed his chest again. Well, maybe he'd release a bit of energy before he followed him.

You: "I have survived without you hiding your abilities before, John. There is no need for you to do so around me. Do not follow. I am going to Mycroft's." Tightening the scarf around his neck, he slipped out the door and down the steps.

Stranger: John sighed, knowing that he couldn't follow now. He relaxed his hold on his powers, sighing in relief. Well, he had a certain brother he had to deal with as well. "Michael," he called. "Get down here, you have some explaining to do." ((do we just want to skip ahead to when Sherlock comes back and Michael leaves?))

You: ((Well, I had a bit of an idea...))

You: ((What does a "Muse" of music need above all else?))

Stranger: ((Music? An audience? Why, what's your idea?))

You: ((Sound. Hearing. I'm thinking something happens to Sherlock (ie, captured?), and he's given the choice of John living or him keeping his hearing. Let his pride take a hit when he realizes there's more important things than himself. In this case, John.))

Stranger: ((Oh, that's good! You go ahead and start it, I can play off you. That's very good, I'm excited!))

You: A black car pulled up to Baker Street and Sherlock sighed, slipping into it without a glance. "What is so dreadfully important in your little mortal world, Mycroft?" It took a moment or two for Sherlock to realize that this was not Mycroft's car, the haze of magic and power lifting to reveal its true intent. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Moriarty. I thought I made my position clear already." Moriarty tutted, waving a dismissive hand. "I come with an offer you can't refuse, my dear. Although I'll not have you /hear/ it just yet." With a motion to the man beside him, a shot of energy was released that hit Sherlock square in the chest and pulled him into unconsciousness as the remainder of his energy was drained.

You: ((Let me know if that's okay.))

Stranger: ((Oh, that's great. I can work with that, yes indeed.))

Stranger: John jerked up as his instincts went insane right after Michael left, instantly moving to where Sherlock was. Or rather, where he was supposed to be. He tensed as no less than six demons. He snarled under his breath, recognizing the head demon in this little gang. "Moriarty. Where's my charge?" The man just smiled, and the numerous demons attacked. Although John fought, it wasn't long before they managed to restrain him, tying him up with bonds no angel could break. He hissed in pain, swearing under his breath. Moriarty came up, and with one bolt of power, knocked John unconscious.

You: It wasn't long before Sherlock began to stir, finding himself in a place that was not immediately recognizable to him. But he knew neutral grounds. This wasn't Moriarty's territory, it wasn't tainted. It didn't feed the evil in him, the evil that threatened to overtake him daily. He tried to move, but found the action impossible. He was up against a pole of some sort. His arms were bent and twisted upwards towards his neck, held tightly into place behind his back. His legs were bolted to the floor, forcing him to kneel. Yet he was held upright by the fact that his head was forced against the pole, locked to the point of complete immobility. As his eyes opened, he took in the sight of John Watson before him.

Stranger: John moaned as he slowly woke up. He wasn't nearly as tightly restrained, but he didn't need to be. These bonds sapped his strength, causing pain to shoot through him every time he so much as drew breath. He forced his eyes open, looking at Sherlock, frowning at the restraints. His instincts, muted by the ropes, still screamed in protest. Still, not much John could do at the moment. "Are you badly hurt?" he rasped out, ignoring his own injuries. Fallen or not, Sherlock was John's responsibility. It was /wrong/ for him to be hurt, and John felt the instinctual urge to help. He shifted slightly, hissing as the ropes caused new injuries. "I thought we stopped giving these out," he joked, trying to take his mind off the pain and their predicament.

You: "Better off than you are." Sherlock tried to move then, hating the restrictions, but found he couldn't do much of anything. "...It is feeding me," he admitted softly, trying not to sound as horrified by the thought as he actually felt. With John's powers muted, and the neutral grounds surrounding them, there was nothing /good/ around him. Just the aura of their binds, and it was slowly seeping into him like a poison.

Stranger: John managed a weak smile. "Well, something good had to come of it. Don't let it corrupt you, alright? You are still basically good, I know that much." He was interrupted by a cold laugh that he recognized all too well. "Dammit," he swore, tensing as he tried to gather what little power he had and prepare to fight, only to gasp in pain as the burning of his bindings increased tenfold. He closed his eyes, a shudder going through him. He was helpless before Moriarty now. It was up to Sherlock no, and John hated that.

You: Sherlock clung to the flash of power from John, however limited it was. It hurt him. God, it hurt him, but he needed that just then. The warmth of the darkness was just a bit /too/ comforting just then. Seeing John in pain had almost been invigorating. But it wasn't supposed to be like that. It wasn't supposed to feel /good/ to see someone in pain. His eyes flicked to the side, unable to see Moriarty without turning his head. "What do you want, Moriarty?" He asked finally, his attention split in half. Part of him sought out John's aura, and the other part carefully watching where Moriarty was going to turn up... and what he was going to do. "You, of course. Surely you figured out that a mere Guardian wouldn't be enough to stop Him from getting what he really wanted?" A quiet whisper tickled at Sherlock's ear. "He wants you, Sherlock. He wants to give you exactly what you want. Exactly what you need. You will never be bored."

Stranger: John forced his mind away from the pain, watching the pair. He forced out a laugh. "When did you become his lapdog, Moriarty? I thought you were his bodyguard? Do something to displease him? Been a bad puppy?" He knew it was stupid to taunt the demon, but he had to get his attention away from Sherlock. Sherlock, who was looking a bit too interested. He didn't know what to say to convince him not to join Moriarty. All he could do was try and keep him safe. He bit back another hiss of pain as the binding burned again, in punishment. He forced out another pained chuckle. "You might need more than a bit of burning to shut me up, Moriarty. Or did my once-brother not share that little bit of information with you?"

You: Moriarty grinned coldly at John, returning his attention to Sherlock. "You see how he offers nothing? It's because they are nothing. They're nothing compared to you, Sherlock. They were foolish to let you go. You on the surface makes you a God amongst mortals. You beneath the surface will make you even more powerful. You could do whatever you wish, and no one will dare stop you. You could do /anything/," he whispered. Sherlock visibly shuddered, and his wings phased into existence, the stark black wings looking more vibrant than they ever had before. It was a heady feeling, knowing exactly what was being laid out before him. He knew what he had been cast out of, he knew what his life was like now. The unknown, the promise of being able to do as he wished... it was an incredible thought. But his response was immediate. "Not interested." Moriarty's face turned into a scowl.

Stranger: John smiled at Sherlock, a proud, if pained, smile. He eyed the wings cautiously, remembering fighting wings like that. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said quietly, glad that the Fallen hadn't made the easier choice. The binds were weakening him more, and he slumped weakly, breathing shallowly, eyes still watching Moriarty. It wasn't like the demons to go through this much trouble to just put forth an old offer. What were they planning? His question was answered when he felt the cold blade of a cursed knife at his throat, his head yanked up. He couldn't stop the yelp of pain as the metal hit his skin, burning it. He didn't dare struggle, but he glared at Moriarty, who just smirked at him and turned back to Sherlock.

You: "You want to make this difficult. Fine. We do this the hard way." Moriarty dipped down to Sherlock's other side. "I will give you the choice, Sherlock. Let's see just how /good/," he spat the word before continuing, "you really are. Let's see you deny what you were meant to be. Let's decide this once and for all." Moriarty drew away, speaking so both angels could hear him. "You have power still because we permit it. The little power you have left from your time as a Designer comes from your music. What happens when we remove your source of power?" He snapped his fingers and Sherlock cried out, straining hard against his bonds before finding himself drawing in a ragged breath and going limp, nearly falling unconscious by the forced removal of power. He'd gone through this once before, when he'd been cast out of Heaven. Now, he was being cast out of Hell. The wings flickered in and out of existence, before the magic was gone. With no magic left in Sherlock to hide them, they remained visible, falling to the floor with a thud, hanging limply from his shoulders. They were horribly dull, a muted grey that seemed to lack any color at all. Moriarty smiled coldly. "One source down, one more to go." A snap of his fingers and a violin could be heard in the distance. Sherlock's chest swelled, and it became easier to breathe. It was his favorite song, the notes he was proudest of. His eyes slowly opened, taking in the sight of John, his immobilized head unable to look anywhere else.

Stranger: John saw where this was going to go, and he began to struggle against the hold, the knife cutting into his skin and burning, but he still struggled. "Stop it!" he snapped. They were going to take the music, take all of Sherlock's power. He looked at the grey wings, feeling sick to his stomach. It felt so /wrong/. It felt like one of his kin were being tortured, and he supposed, one of them was. He hated these damned bindings, wanted to call his brothers, call anyone, to stop what was about to happen. "Don't you fucking /dare/, Moriarty!" he snarled, being abruptly silenced by the knife pressing harder against his throat, cutting deeper, although not deeply enough to do any real damage. He looked at Sherlock in desperation. He still felt weak, painfully, ridiculously weak and pale. He knew his wings were out as well, the ropes having taken any strength he had to hide them with, and that much longer under these things was going to leave him unconscious. Still, he /had/ to help Sherlock. Save him from what the demons had planned.

You: Moriarty moved to Sherlock's other side. "Lovely tune, Sherlock. You outdid yourself with this one." Ducking down beside Sherlock, Moriarty whispered. "This is it, Sherlock. The Final Problem. The solution to the stalemate that we are all rapidly becoming bored of. We want you for your talents. For your ability to sway the most heartless of men with the simplest of tunes. We could conquer the world with that kind of power. You could make music heard on Earth in a way it's never been heard before. But, I am most afraid to inform you, your precious John will die." Sherlock's eyes widened. He was about to speak when Moriarty pressed a finger to his lips. "I am not done yet. Decline the offer to join us, and I am afraid we will have no choice but to remove the one thing that makes you useful to us. You will be rid of us, you will never be tempted by us again. You will never hear the quiet whispers of temptation ever again. Not because we will stop bothering you, but because you will never be able to hear again." He snapped his fingers and Sherlock's world went silent. For the first time, Moriarty moved around him, his face between him and John. Sherlock couldn't hear the music, he couldn't hear Moriarty as his lips began to move, the conversation going on without him. "Terrifying, isn't it? The silence? Knowing that the world is going on without you, and you are unable to keep up?" He rose and walked off, leaving John in his sights once more. He snapped his fingers, and the world came back in a rush. "So what will it be, Sherlock? What will you choose?"

Stranger: John swallowed. To take Sherlock's hearing, the one thing that the Fallen treasured above everything else, the one thing that gave him strength...oh, this was crueler than usual. "Let me die," he rasped out, eyes nearly closing in pain at the knife and ropes combined, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He had to, for Sherlock, for his charge. For his friend. "You...need your hearing," the knife was off his throat slightly, but the pain wasn't abating. "Can keep the hearing...but not turn. You /can/." He chuckled briefly. " 'm just another angel. Plenty of guardians. Only one /you/." He sagged suddenly, only the hand yanking his hair keeping him upright, the knife pressed flush against his neck again as he stopped speaking. He braced himself for death, just as he had numerous times. He would die in the line of duty, he had always known that. It was part of being a Guardian. Still, he would rather not die tied up, but beggars can't be choosers. He needed Sherlock whole, and if his life was the price, so be it.

You: Sherlock listened to John's plead, took in his words, but he had already come to his decision. He took John's voice and filed it away, putting it away in a place he would never forget. "He lives," Sherlock whispered softly. From behind him, Moriarty scowled. "You are a /fool/." Sherlock felt hands pressed against his ears and the world went silent around him. He fell limp against the restraints, even as Moriarty and the demons disappeared. The rope around John fell away without the power of the demons to sustain them, and the knife clattered onto the floor.

Stranger: John took a moment to regain his strength, before rushing over to Sherlock, untying him. "You damned /idiot/," he hissed, tears in his eyes. "You absolute /moron/!" He cradled the Fallen close to him, pressing hands over his ears and trying with all his might to heal them. The man was conscious, if only barely. John shook his head as his healing failed, over and over. "No, no, no," he mumbled. "You can't have done this, why couldn't you have been proud /one more time/, you daft idiot?" He snarled a cry to the heavens, summoning Michael As the elder angel came down, John stared at him desperately. "Restore him!" He begged. "He made the humble choice, the angelic choice, that's all it takes, right?" He could feel the tears coming down. "Let him come home!" Michael knelt next to John silently, taking the Fallen angel from John's lap and settling him into his own.

You: Sherlock let himself slump against John, his eyes locking on John. He couldn't hear what the man said, but he could see it in his face. He reached out to stroke the man's cheek gently, finding it took a great effort to do so. He was tired. So very tired. He'd never known a life without magic. It was... cold. Lifeless. It was something he'd taken for granted, and his body ached for it. It wasn't so much that the lack of magic hurt, but he couldn't even feel John anymore. He felt the pressing of his hands over his ears, and the warmth coming from them as John tried to heal him. He felt himself tensing as Michael took him in his arms, not having seen the man since he was cast out. Michael looked down at him, washing a hand over him, then looked up at John sadly, speaking words that Sherlock could not hear. He was handed back to John and Michael disappeared. (("It's not that easy, John. He has no magic anymore. I will need to confer with the others and see what they say."))

Stranger: John nodded weakly, cradling Sherlock once more. He pressed his forehead to the other man's. "They won't have a choice," he muttered. He pulled back so Sherlock could read his lips. "They won't have a choice," he said, articulating carefully so that Sherlock would have a better chance at understanding. "You did the good thing. The right thing. They'll have to take you back," he said, drawing the man close once more. He ran a trembling hand through the man's hair, trying to sooth him. "I would give you my hearing, if I could. It's not as if I need it. Not like you do." He tensed as a group of angels came down, drawing Sherlock close to him. He trusted Michael, but many of these angels were strange to him. He wasn't letting Sherlock get hurt anymore, never again.

You: He leaned into John, sighing softly as John pressed his forehead against his. His eyes dropped to John's lips, reading them carefully. It was a skill he learned long ago, never thinking it would come down to being used like this. Sherlock found himself trembling as it began to sink in that this was to be his life. Unable to hear, unable to hide what he once was. He would have to bind his wings, or... or consider the unthinkable in order to keep his secret hidden. When the other angels arrived, his grip tightened around John along with John's own grip around him. He hadn't been amongst this many angels in years. He could trust none of them anymore, not after their decision. So he clung to the one angel he trusted, the one angel that meant something to him. The angel he had given up the most important thing he had so he could have life.

Stranger: An angel came close to the pair, eyeing them in curiosity. He looked at John. "We can save him," he said. "But you must relinquish him to us." John shook his head. "He's my charge. He's my friend. I will help." He looked at Michael, the only familiar face in this group of strangers. "Please. Let me help." All of the angels nodded, a small smile playing around some of their lips. "Bring him to the center." Struggling slightly with Sherlock's weight, his own weakness made apparent, John brought him to the center of the angels. Each angel placed a hand on Sherlock, and John, through his contact with Sherlock, heard the decision of the group. "/You have chosen to sacrifice your most treasured sense, the source of your power, for the one you care for. You have proven that you have overcome the pride in your heart. For this, we welcome you home and restore you to what you were. No demon's hand can rival ours. Welcome home./"

You: If it weren't for John's grip, Sherlock would have fallen. Sound rushed back into his mind, and he felt a wave of energy surge through him. He drew in a deep breath, and felt an electric tingle rush through him from head to toe, surging as it ran through his wings, which went from a dull grey to a immaculate white. Sherlock was utterly stunned, not believing what was happening. This hadn't been his intent. He hadn't intended on making this is exam to come back. He just wanted John to live. He fully expected to live out the rest of his life without any of this. That he had been accepted back... He turned, bringing his hands up to cradle John's cheeks, a surge of warmth rushing through him and allowing John's wounds to heal. "John?" He needed to hear his voice, to hear the thing most important to him.

Stranger: ((I'm sorry, I've got to go eat dinner. I'll be back in about 30 min, if you'll wait? If not, we can continue this on email, [email protected]))

You: ((I'll wait, sure. :D))

Stranger: ((okay, back, give me a mo to reply)

You: ((wb! And np :D))

You: his exam* not is exam

Stranger: John stared in wonder as Sherlock became the angel he once was, brushing a tentative hand through the white feathers. As he felt hands cup his face, he met Sherlock's eyes, smiling as the man used his once lost powers to heal John. "Sherlock," he whispered holding the man close. "Praise the Father," he said, his voice slightly louder. The circle of angels had withdrawn to allow the two their moment. He gave a sudden, bright grin. "You never can do anything the easy way, can you? No, you have to nearly die." He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's again. "Welcome home, you absolute /moron/."

You: The grin that spread across his face at the sound of John's voice grew exponentially as John called him a moron. He wrapped his wings and arms around him, drawing him up against him as he hugged him tightly. "Could not have done it without you, my Guardian," he replied, burying his head against John's neck.

Stranger: John returned the embrace, his wings fitting underneath Sherlock's to wrap around the smaller angel. Michael stepped forward, interrupting the moment. John nodded to him subserviantly, remembering his previous, unacceptable behavior. "Forgive me, Michael," he said, folding his wings neatly behind him neatly. "I was...distraught." The head angel simply nodded in understanding before turning to Sherlock. "You have a choice, Sherlock. You may return to your previous position at home, watching and crafting music. Or, you may take a new post, back where you were as a Fallen, watching over the humans you have grown to care for with John as your protector. Of course, you will still have to craft music, but I believe you have a violin for that." He hesitated, a rare motion. "It should be mentioned that while the first option will not completely cut you and John apart, it will not allow for the closeness you are used to. He has his duties as well, and if you do not need protecting, he must be reassigned."

You: Sherlock's decision was instant, but before he gave his answer, he looked to John, seeking an answer he hoped was as obvious to John as it was to him. Remain on the surface. Yes, it was dull, far more dull than it was in the Heavens where he could surround himself with music and wrap himself in its existence. But he would be without John, and that simply was unacceptable. The question was, did John feel the same?

Stranger: John smiled at him, but it was hesitant. He wanted Sherlock with him, more than anything, but he didn't want to restrain Sherlock. Didn't want to bore him. He took Sherlock's hand gently. "I can't decide this for you, Sherlock. I just want you to be happy. I can handle anything, even being separated from you, if you are happy." Oh, he wanted to choose for this wonderful, brilliant angel, but he knew that Sherlock had to choose his path, or he would never be happy. He caressed the knuckles lightly, showing his affection.

You: Sherlock looked to Michael, looking more confident than he had in years. "I will stay, so long as John deems it acceptable to be at my side." His pride had definitely taken a hit today. He learned he could not work alone, and that John was the perfect man to help balance him and make him complete once more.

Stranger: Michael looked at John, and John wrapped a wing around Sherlock briefly before kneeling before Michael. Speaking in the Old Tongue, he placed a hand over his heart. "I will keep this angel, Sherlock Holmes, safe on the surface world, even at the expense of my life, until the day he or our Creator, the Lord of Heaven and Earth, dismisses me. This I swear, by my wings and my life." Michael smiled briefly, placing a hand on John's head. "I accept your vow, John." He looked at Sherlock. "Take care you do not abuse his loyalty, Designer." With a gesture, he sent them both back to Baker Street.

You: Sherlock found himself touched at John's vows, nodding at Michael's orders. But the moment John and he reappeared in Baker Street, Sherlock found himself by the fireplace, and John by the couch. He stretched out his wings, fascinated by the fact that it was so easy to slip back into the /goodness/ of it all. Looking over at John, he found himself grinning. Extending a hand out towards the hall, his fingers curled around the violin as it suddenly appeared in his hands. Taking up the bow, he began to play a tune so sweet, so lovely, one would never think such a touching emotion could come from a man like Sherlock Holmes. Yet his eyes never wavered from John's as he played, and it became increasingly clear where the source of his inspiration came from. He moved closer towards him before dropping to his own knees before him. He dropped his head and let his arms and wings droop to his side. "I am yours for as long as you will keep me, my Muse," he vowed. There was no higher compliment from a Designer, for there were few things that often caught their attention long enough to inspire them. Yet John had not only captured it, but he had managed to hold it.

Stranger: John knelt before Sherlock, his wings brushing the Designer's affectionately. It was so strange to see this man restored. It was like seeing only half the colors in the world your whole life, and thinking 'well, that is it.' And then, for a horrifying moment, all the colors fade, and you are left bereft, in a world where there is only gray. Until, suddenly, all the color rushes back, and you are left blinking at the incredible change that you never even expected, but now couldn't imagine the world without. Sherlock felt /whole/ now, and John was left staring in awe. The music had left tears in John's eyes as he realized what this man had been so deprived of for so very, very long. When Sherlock called him his Muse, John was left speechless. To be named such, by such a man, to be the inspiration for Sherlock's music...there were no words. Swallowing, he brought a hand up to caress Sherlock's cheek. "So I am your Muse, and you are my purpose," he said softly. To a Guardian, his purpose was everything. They were always on assignment, because to be left without someone to guide and protect was unimaginable. He smiled. "That sounds about right."

You: They were opposites, in a way, but in such a manner that was absolutely perfect for the other. As John's hand came up to caress his cheek, Sherlock found himself mirroring the action, leaving the bow on the floor. He pressed his lips to John's forehead, sighing softly. "Thank you, John. Thank you for saving me," he whispered, stroking his cheek gently.

Stranger: John chuckled. "I think you did a good bit of that yourself, while saving me, I might add." He shrugged. "I was just stubborn. I wasn't going to let you go, and I may have sort of dragged the leading authorities along with me." He pulled back slightly, a shocked look on his face. "By the Creator, I called the leader of all Guardians down like a dog!" He was amazed Michael hadn't simply dragged his ass home and left the Fallen on his own.

You: "Hmm, precisely my point." His hand absently plucked at the violin, a few notes of good humor shining through. "There was no choice in the matter for me. Life without music was far more preferable than life without you in it, John. You are not merely a Guardian. You are my Muse. My other half." Sherlock sighed softly, realizing he had no words for what he was trying to say. He drew away just enough to pick up the violin and began a gentle tune, playing what he was trying to get across in the only way he knew how.

Stranger: John smiled at the tune, hearing the words Sherlock couldn't quite say. The tenderness, even love, with an underscoring dependency and need. John understood, because it was the way he felt himself. The music echoed his own heart, and he interrupted the playing to place a gentle, hesitant kiss on Sherlock's lips. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

You: Sherlock just about melted at the touch. It worked. He understood. John /understood/. Setting aside the violin, he hesitantly brought a hand out to cradle John's cheek, leaning in to kiss him tenderly in return.

Stranger: The two sat there for a long moment, lips gently pressed together, until John heard a sound on the staircase. It was male, heavy tread, human, but no umbrella. He sighed, hiding his wings away and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. It was odd, having to hide, after everything that had happened. Still, rules were rules. "Lestrade," he murmured, not pulling too far away, not caring what the DI saw.

You: Sherlock drew his head away just slightly, listening to his Guardian and putting his wings away. He would hide his wings and all the rest from the world, because they were John's to see. But his adoration? That would remain hidden no longer. It was a new life, a new start. He could not imagine taking on this new challenge without his Muse, his Guardian. The man who would protect him, and whom he would protect, to the very end. So when Lestrade walked in on Sherlock leaning in to kiss John once more, the two of them kneeling before one another on the floor, Sherlock knew that neither of them could care less about the questions they would have to answer. And so he wouldn't have it any other way.

You: ((This was absolutely LOVELY, but I'm afraid I must be going now!))

Stranger: ((Okay, thank you SO MUCH for doing this, it was FANTASTIC!

You: ((Got a tumblr by any chance? And thank you! This really was a lot of fun! :D))

Stranger: ((Yes, actually. beloved-complex737.tumblr.com!! You?))

You: ((coatandscarf.tumblr.com :D))

Stranger: ((Yay! Well, if you ever have a prompt, you just let me know, and we will get on here, okay? Bye!))

You: ((Followed and will do! Same here, feel free to drop a line. :D Take care!))

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