The Book of Wingless: Aeternum Vale, Part Three
When John meets Sherlock and discovers what a piece of driftwood would feel like in the wake of a speedboat.
A rooster crows only when it sees the light. Put him in the dark and he'll never crow.
~Muhammad Ali
Rooster (Gallus gallus) - Pride, braggart. Impending Danger.
If possible, his flat seemed even emptier after meeting Sherlock Holmes.
John sat stiffly on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, perplexed. He would be mad to take up the man’s offer of a flatshare, utterly mad. Even so, something in him buzzed with anticipation, some instinct felt as though it was driving him towards Baker Street.
Snorting with disgust at his fancies, he tossed his phone and cane down, and slumped onto the bed, trying to ignore the nagging desire to get up and go meet the curious man from Barts.
Something was different, he thought to himself, staring at the ceiling. Something had changed in that room, something important. He felt it in his chest, a shift within himself, like something had thrummed to life at the exact moment those pale eyes met his.
The realisation hit him with the force of a train, and he sat bolt upright, breath tearing from him in a ragged gasp, shaking with shock.
His Guardian. He felt his Guardian.
Breathing deeply to try and calm himself, he closed his eyes and reached within himself, feeling along the humming edges of his Gift for the familiar twist that showed where the Guardian’s powers met his.
He almost missed it, it was so slight. Instead of the raging spiral of power that his last Angel had given him, it was a mere trickle, like running his finger over a stray thread on his jumper. For a moment he sat motionless, brushing against the weak stream, trying to fight back the sick feeling of disappointment rising in his throat.
He had almost hoped it was his old friend back, just for a moment...
Opening his eyes, he glanced about, trying to look without looking, for a quick flash that signified the presence of Guardians. Looking at the desk, his closed laptop, he saw a light in the corner of his eye, flashing on the floor.
Head snapping towards it, he made a frustrated sound in his throat, the screen of his abandoned phone brightly lit. Bending, he scooped it up, dimly registering that he hadn’t heard it go off.
The phone’s screen was open to his sent folder, a single message highlighted as though someone had scrolled along to it, about to open it. John held the phone loosely, eyes narrowed, thinking for a long moment before pressing open with steady fingers.
If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH
There it was again, that unfamiliar buzz of excitement. Just who exactly was this man, this Holmes?
He limped to his laptop and opened it, pulling up a search engine and watching the blinking cursor, with hesitation.
He was at a turning point, he knew. Dancing on the knife’s edge, so to speak.
Somehow, he knew his life was never going to be the same again. He rested his hands on the keyboard and began to type, fingers pecking at the keys.
Sherlock Holmes
Residents near the abandoned house at Brixton would later tell the police about the blood-curdling snarls coming from the house, prior to the discovery of the body.
One little boy could have told them, if asked, about how when the snarls began, every Guardian in the street had reared up, wrapping their charges in wings of frantic protection, fear and power blazing round them. He could have told them how the air had suddenly tasted of Death, and how slow ripples of Skill had thrummed from the house.
Although such questions were discouraged, he had asked his mother about Guardians, and whether or not they could be evil. His mother had laughed and told him that Guardians only existed to protect, that they could never be evil because they weren’t people with thoughts of their own.
He had thought uneasily of the huge bear-like Guardian he had watched pace the street, wings a matted black, and folded awkwardly against a humped back. The bear’s claws, curved and each as long as his hand, had made audible scrapes against the pavement, that set his teeth on edge. He didn’t need his Angel’s silent urging to go inside and hide from the beast, and it had been shortly after that the snarls had begun.
He thought to himself that perhaps if there was Angels, maybe there were Demons as well.
He would have told them all this, described the monstrous Guardian and the man who it followed, a pale shadow next to the creature, even though no one believed that people could really see Guardians. But no one asked him, and out of everyone on the street, he was the only one who slept soundly that night, dreaming of golden wings shielding him from harm.
His Guardian stood at the foot of his bed, staring intently in the direction of the house, power curled like a spring. Something evil walked the streets, and now all of them were aware of it.
The Guardian was having very much the same thought as one John Watson, although neither of them would ever know it. A turning point had been reached, and it was bigger than John had ever imagined.
The Guardian rustled his wings uncertainly, glancing at the sleeping child. He could feel the battle approaching, and it was time to choose sides.
He feared that not everyone would side with their humans.
John turned sharply at the friendly, “Hullo,” aimed at him, unsurprised to see Mr Holmes stepping elegantly from a taxi.
The long coat swooped dramatically as a long hand was offered to him. John shook it briskly, feeling the swirl of others’ emotions shut off as though a door had been closed between him and everyone else. Blinking rapidly to hide his disquiet, he smiled nervously. “Ah. Mr Holmes.”
A cold smile in return, pale eyes flashing up and down on him, studying him. “Sherlock, please.”
John saw something flicker in those eyes, a sharp interest suddenly taken in him that hadn’t been there yesterday, as though John had suddenly manifested some interesting power. It made John feel as though he was a specimen, a butterfly pinned to a board by his wings.
“Well, this is a prime spot,” he chattered, trying to draw those eyes to something that wasn’t him. “Must be expensive.” Much more expensive than an army pension could comfortably afford, even halved.
Sherlock looked round, eyes scanning the street. “Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She’s given me a special deal. I did her a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”
“You stopped her husband being executed?”
Sherlock glanced back at him, not searching this time, there was a smile hidden behind his outwardly cold exterior. “Oh, no. I insured it.”
The door opened, and an elderly lady bumbled out, grabbing the man in a hug, which to John’s shock, he returned. “Sherlock!”
Sherlock stepped back, and flourished his arm, “Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson.” John was beginning to feel that his prospective flatmate had a flair for the... dramatic.
Best not to judge too quickly though, he thought sharply. Judging from the website he’d found last night, the man was a little eccentric, so to speak.
Eccentric he hoped, and not outright mad.
The landlady was gesturing for them to enter, smiling broadly. She patted him on the shoulder as he limped into room, and he felt her joy at seeing Sherlock bubble along his skin, tingling as though a bottle of fizzing wine had been uncorked along the area where her hand rested. He felt his smile relax somewhat at the sensation; the tall, dark man couldn’t be all that bad, if this gentle lady was so overjoyed to see him.
The flat was dusty, cluttered with books, papers and what looked like science experiments, and the wallpaper was simply awful. John noticed a violin propped in the corner, looking oddly out of place.
John loved it straight away. “Well, this could be very nice,” he said, trying to hold back the delight. He limped in further, taking in the kitchen and his new flatmate, standing by a doorway, looking almost nervous. “Very nice, indeed.”
Sherlock stepped forward, smiling. “Yes, I think so, my thoughts, precisely...” John was distracted for a moment by the now almost familiar feel of his not-emotions shutting his magic down.
They spoke over each other, John thrown by the void of emotion, Sherlock hardly even noticing John had spoken to begin with.
“As soon as we get it cleared...”
“... which is why I already moved in.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and John flinched, “Oh. So… this is all your stuff?”
The tall man leapt forward, grabbing papers at random and shuffling them about. “Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up.” He slammed a knife into them, pinning them firmly to the mantelpiece, and turned back to beam at John. “A bit.”
John felt a nervous giggle almost bubble up at the madness of moving in with a man who clearly thought that tidying meant stabbing his post. He choked it down with difficulty, and then actually choked, pointing with his cane at the mantle. “That’s a skull!”
Another half-smile. “Friend of mine.” John knew his eyes had widened slightly, one eyebrow raised, almost beyond his control. “And when I say friend...” Sherlock trailed off, not meeting his eyes.
If John wasn’t an Empath, if he couldn’t feel the solid wall of silence where Sherlock’s emotions should have been, he would have thought that the other man was actually nervous about impressing him. Perhaps he was, he thought. And just had really, ridiculously strong shields.
The answer hit him, and he cursed for not seeing it before. A Guardian with shielding talents, that would explain it. The man wasn’t emotionless, he was just protected! He felt himself relax, no longer as thrown by the emptiness. In fact, now it was less worrying, it was comfortable, a cocoon of silence in what could be his own flat, somewhere he could finally block out the world’s emotions.
Mrs Hudson had been chattering as he thought the issue through, Sherlock stripping off his coat and scarf. He only caught the last of her comments. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
He blinked rapidly, aware of how guilty this trait made him look, but completely thrown. “Well, of course we’ll be needing two.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door has got married ones.” She bustled in, brushing against him and replacing the silence with her calm competence and a small buzz of affectionate irritation. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”
“I looked you up on the internet last night,” John mentioned, flopping into an armchair.
Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and studied him. “Anything interesting?”
“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”
The other man’s face brightened. “What did you think?” He looked like, of all things, a child waiting for praise. John felt a warm hum in his chest, where his Guardian’s thread wove within him, as though it was pleased. It was the first reaction he’d got out of it, and it was aimed at his new flatmate.
He didn’t dare wonder about what that said about him. Just cleared his throat and made a noncommittal face at Sherlock, whose expression crumpled. “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” Slightly disbelieving.
Sherlock seemed put out. “Yes.” A short, biting answer. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” Another pause. “And I can tell you that, even though you act like one Severed, your Guardian is perfectly intact.”
John froze. “How?” The moment was tense, Sherlock glaring at him and John glaring right back.
Mrs Hudson cut in. “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street.” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, eyes flicking over the papers in a messy pile on a desk. Suddenly, his head snapped up, like a dog that’s spotted a rabbit, eyes locked on the window. “Three exactly the same.”
John watched him move smoothly towards the window. “Four,” snapped Sherlock, looking down onto the street. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”
A flicker of unease that was both his and something else’s, as blue lights danced on Sherlock’s pale skin. “A fourth?” murmured Mrs Hudson.
John heard steps thumping up the stairs, and craned his neck round as a man with short greying hair and a pleasant demeanour raced in. John could tell copper from a mile away, even in plainclothes. Detective, then.
“Where?” Sherlock barked.
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The new man’s voice was low, but not unpleasant.
“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me, otherwise?”
“They’re not suicides, not anymore. At least, if they are, they've had help.” Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the other man at this. “Will you come?”
Sherlock’s face had barely changed from a steady look of bored disinterest, even as his eyes flickered along the detective. “Who’s on forensics?”
A frustrated sigh. “Anderson.” John glanced at his new flatmate, noting the flash of light at the copper’s breast pocket as he did so. Keeping his Angel close to his heart, then. It made him much more human than his flatmate, whom John hadn’t even noted a single spark from. It was almost enough for John to suspect that Sherlock had no Guardian, but neither could he feel the coldness that usually radiated from those Wingless. He wouldn't go so far as to say the man wasn't mad...
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t work well with me.”
“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”
“I need an assistant.”
The man snapped, eyes frustrated. “Will you come?”
“Not in a police car, I’ll be right behind.”
The copper nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced over at John and Mrs Hudson for the first time, eyes not quite meeting theirs and nodded to them as well, before striding out.
John watched him leave, then turned to Sherlock, opening his mouth to say something, before stopping in shock.
Sherlock was grinning, the first real smile John had seen on him since they met, a wide ear-to-ear smile that lit up his face. “Brilliant! Yes!” he cried, actually leaping into the air with joy. John’s mouth dropped and he felt a slight hint of that champagne-buzz along his skin, muffled and slight, the first hint of anything from Sherlock. Actual, real, excitement, then, strong enough to leak through his Guardian’s shields. It was comforting, in a strange and disturbing fashion. “Four serial suicides, and now this, it’s Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.” He grabbed his coat and prepared to sweep out.
John was beginning to realise that he hadn’t judged him unfairly; this was a man who had to be dramatic in everything he did. Mrs Hudson tsked. “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”
Sherlock ignored her. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”
Mrs Hudson looked at him after Sherlock had almost sprinted down the stairs and out, having somehow taken all the air in the room with him. John slumped in the chair, dazed, feeling a keening from his suddenly vocal Guardian that had nothing to do with his mood and everything to do with his flatmate’s absence. “Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same. But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I’ll make you a cuppa, you rest your leg.”
John felt fury that wasn’t entirely his well up. “Damn my leg!” He flinched, wondering frantically where that had come from, ashamed at the shocked expression on her face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just, sometimes, this bloody thing.”
Mrs Hudson smiled nervously. “I understand dear, I’ve got a hip.” She bustled off and John stopped paying attention to her, searching frantically for the source of the rage.
He found it, a petulant ball of Guardian that was profoundly unlike any he’d had before. They had been extensions of himself, facets of his personality he could reach for and have them be as familiar as his hand. This… This was a pale shadow of that, and angry, simmering bubble of faded power, ready to lash out.
He was slightly uncomfortable with the realisation that his new Guardian seemed to have the ability to swing wildly from emotion to emotion. That probably, definitely boded ill for his mental state.
He refused to think about how happy Sherlock seemed to make it, and how he could almost sense the resentment aimed at himself, from himself. The Guardian hadn’t formed enough to have a shape yet, still latched tightly to his power. No wonder he’d been picking up so many emotions lately, his basic shields rendered useless by the sudden potency of his powers. That would fade when the Guardian either took on a form or found something to attach to. Hopefully the mood swings would go with it.
It was enough to make his head hurt, and he slumped further into the chair, closing his eyes, hands gripping his cane tightly.
“You’re a doctor,” came the deep, velvet voice, startling him out of his reverie. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”
John stood, refusing to let his mad flatmate see him startled. “Yes.” He silently willed his Guardian to shut up, as it suddenly blazed with excitement again, anger forgotten. It was making it difficult to concentrate, like trying to hold a conversation with someone else shouting in his ear.
“Any good?” asked Sherlock.
John frowned. Couldn’t he just read the answer in his shoelaces or something? “Very good.”
Sherlock took a step towards him, intent. “Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” Another step.
“Well, yes.” Don’t think about that, don’t think... Was that another step?
Sherlock was almost toe to toe with him now, imposing. “Bit of trouble too, I bet?”
“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” Did the man have no personal space?
“Want to see some more?”
John felt his Guardian surge inside him, but he didn’t need its input for this. “Oh, God, yes.” He followed the taller man down the stairs, feeling alive for the first time since the army, finally feeling in control of himself. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, skip the tea. Off out.”
“Both of you?” she asked, put out.
“Impossible suicides, four of them?” Sherlock practically shouted, wheeling round. “No point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent,” she grumbled, but John could feel her affection and love for the strange man.
Sherlock laughed. “Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”
He swept out the door, dragging John behind like a piece of debris caught in his wake, loving every moment of the ride.
Part Four
A rooster crows only when it sees the light. Put him in the dark and he'll never crow.
~Muhammad Ali
Rooster (Gallus gallus) - Pride, braggart. Impending Danger.
If possible, his flat seemed even emptier after meeting Sherlock Holmes.
John sat stiffly on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, perplexed. He would be mad to take up the man’s offer of a flatshare, utterly mad. Even so, something in him buzzed with anticipation, some instinct felt as though it was driving him towards Baker Street.
Snorting with disgust at his fancies, he tossed his phone and cane down, and slumped onto the bed, trying to ignore the nagging desire to get up and go meet the curious man from Barts.
Something was different, he thought to himself, staring at the ceiling. Something had changed in that room, something important. He felt it in his chest, a shift within himself, like something had thrummed to life at the exact moment those pale eyes met his.
The realisation hit him with the force of a train, and he sat bolt upright, breath tearing from him in a ragged gasp, shaking with shock.
His Guardian. He felt his Guardian.
Breathing deeply to try and calm himself, he closed his eyes and reached within himself, feeling along the humming edges of his Gift for the familiar twist that showed where the Guardian’s powers met his.
He almost missed it, it was so slight. Instead of the raging spiral of power that his last Angel had given him, it was a mere trickle, like running his finger over a stray thread on his jumper. For a moment he sat motionless, brushing against the weak stream, trying to fight back the sick feeling of disappointment rising in his throat.
He had almost hoped it was his old friend back, just for a moment...
Opening his eyes, he glanced about, trying to look without looking, for a quick flash that signified the presence of Guardians. Looking at the desk, his closed laptop, he saw a light in the corner of his eye, flashing on the floor.
Head snapping towards it, he made a frustrated sound in his throat, the screen of his abandoned phone brightly lit. Bending, he scooped it up, dimly registering that he hadn’t heard it go off.
The phone’s screen was open to his sent folder, a single message highlighted as though someone had scrolled along to it, about to open it. John held the phone loosely, eyes narrowed, thinking for a long moment before pressing open with steady fingers.
If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH
There it was again, that unfamiliar buzz of excitement. Just who exactly was this man, this Holmes?
He limped to his laptop and opened it, pulling up a search engine and watching the blinking cursor, with hesitation.
He was at a turning point, he knew. Dancing on the knife’s edge, so to speak.
Somehow, he knew his life was never going to be the same again. He rested his hands on the keyboard and began to type, fingers pecking at the keys.
Sherlock Holmes
Residents near the abandoned house at Brixton would later tell the police about the blood-curdling snarls coming from the house, prior to the discovery of the body.
One little boy could have told them, if asked, about how when the snarls began, every Guardian in the street had reared up, wrapping their charges in wings of frantic protection, fear and power blazing round them. He could have told them how the air had suddenly tasted of Death, and how slow ripples of Skill had thrummed from the house.
Although such questions were discouraged, he had asked his mother about Guardians, and whether or not they could be evil. His mother had laughed and told him that Guardians only existed to protect, that they could never be evil because they weren’t people with thoughts of their own.
He had thought uneasily of the huge bear-like Guardian he had watched pace the street, wings a matted black, and folded awkwardly against a humped back. The bear’s claws, curved and each as long as his hand, had made audible scrapes against the pavement, that set his teeth on edge. He didn’t need his Angel’s silent urging to go inside and hide from the beast, and it had been shortly after that the snarls had begun.
He thought to himself that perhaps if there was Angels, maybe there were Demons as well.
He would have told them all this, described the monstrous Guardian and the man who it followed, a pale shadow next to the creature, even though no one believed that people could really see Guardians. But no one asked him, and out of everyone on the street, he was the only one who slept soundly that night, dreaming of golden wings shielding him from harm.
His Guardian stood at the foot of his bed, staring intently in the direction of the house, power curled like a spring. Something evil walked the streets, and now all of them were aware of it.
The Guardian was having very much the same thought as one John Watson, although neither of them would ever know it. A turning point had been reached, and it was bigger than John had ever imagined.
The Guardian rustled his wings uncertainly, glancing at the sleeping child. He could feel the battle approaching, and it was time to choose sides.
He feared that not everyone would side with their humans.
John turned sharply at the friendly, “Hullo,” aimed at him, unsurprised to see Mr Holmes stepping elegantly from a taxi.
The long coat swooped dramatically as a long hand was offered to him. John shook it briskly, feeling the swirl of others’ emotions shut off as though a door had been closed between him and everyone else. Blinking rapidly to hide his disquiet, he smiled nervously. “Ah. Mr Holmes.”
A cold smile in return, pale eyes flashing up and down on him, studying him. “Sherlock, please.”
John saw something flicker in those eyes, a sharp interest suddenly taken in him that hadn’t been there yesterday, as though John had suddenly manifested some interesting power. It made John feel as though he was a specimen, a butterfly pinned to a board by his wings.
“Well, this is a prime spot,” he chattered, trying to draw those eyes to something that wasn’t him. “Must be expensive.” Much more expensive than an army pension could comfortably afford, even halved.
Sherlock looked round, eyes scanning the street. “Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She’s given me a special deal. I did her a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”
“You stopped her husband being executed?”
Sherlock glanced back at him, not searching this time, there was a smile hidden behind his outwardly cold exterior. “Oh, no. I insured it.”
The door opened, and an elderly lady bumbled out, grabbing the man in a hug, which to John’s shock, he returned. “Sherlock!”
Sherlock stepped back, and flourished his arm, “Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson.” John was beginning to feel that his prospective flatmate had a flair for the... dramatic.
Best not to judge too quickly though, he thought sharply. Judging from the website he’d found last night, the man was a little eccentric, so to speak.
Eccentric he hoped, and not outright mad.
The landlady was gesturing for them to enter, smiling broadly. She patted him on the shoulder as he limped into room, and he felt her joy at seeing Sherlock bubble along his skin, tingling as though a bottle of fizzing wine had been uncorked along the area where her hand rested. He felt his smile relax somewhat at the sensation; the tall, dark man couldn’t be all that bad, if this gentle lady was so overjoyed to see him.
The flat was dusty, cluttered with books, papers and what looked like science experiments, and the wallpaper was simply awful. John noticed a violin propped in the corner, looking oddly out of place.
John loved it straight away. “Well, this could be very nice,” he said, trying to hold back the delight. He limped in further, taking in the kitchen and his new flatmate, standing by a doorway, looking almost nervous. “Very nice, indeed.”
Sherlock stepped forward, smiling. “Yes, I think so, my thoughts, precisely...” John was distracted for a moment by the now almost familiar feel of his not-emotions shutting his magic down.
They spoke over each other, John thrown by the void of emotion, Sherlock hardly even noticing John had spoken to begin with.
“As soon as we get it cleared...”
“... which is why I already moved in.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and John flinched, “Oh. So… this is all your stuff?”
The tall man leapt forward, grabbing papers at random and shuffling them about. “Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up.” He slammed a knife into them, pinning them firmly to the mantelpiece, and turned back to beam at John. “A bit.”
John felt a nervous giggle almost bubble up at the madness of moving in with a man who clearly thought that tidying meant stabbing his post. He choked it down with difficulty, and then actually choked, pointing with his cane at the mantle. “That’s a skull!”
Another half-smile. “Friend of mine.” John knew his eyes had widened slightly, one eyebrow raised, almost beyond his control. “And when I say friend...” Sherlock trailed off, not meeting his eyes.
If John wasn’t an Empath, if he couldn’t feel the solid wall of silence where Sherlock’s emotions should have been, he would have thought that the other man was actually nervous about impressing him. Perhaps he was, he thought. And just had really, ridiculously strong shields.
The answer hit him, and he cursed for not seeing it before. A Guardian with shielding talents, that would explain it. The man wasn’t emotionless, he was just protected! He felt himself relax, no longer as thrown by the emptiness. In fact, now it was less worrying, it was comfortable, a cocoon of silence in what could be his own flat, somewhere he could finally block out the world’s emotions.
Mrs Hudson had been chattering as he thought the issue through, Sherlock stripping off his coat and scarf. He only caught the last of her comments. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
He blinked rapidly, aware of how guilty this trait made him look, but completely thrown. “Well, of course we’ll be needing two.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door has got married ones.” She bustled in, brushing against him and replacing the silence with her calm competence and a small buzz of affectionate irritation. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”
“I looked you up on the internet last night,” John mentioned, flopping into an armchair.
Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and studied him. “Anything interesting?”
“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”
The other man’s face brightened. “What did you think?” He looked like, of all things, a child waiting for praise. John felt a warm hum in his chest, where his Guardian’s thread wove within him, as though it was pleased. It was the first reaction he’d got out of it, and it was aimed at his new flatmate.
He didn’t dare wonder about what that said about him. Just cleared his throat and made a noncommittal face at Sherlock, whose expression crumpled. “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” Slightly disbelieving.
Sherlock seemed put out. “Yes.” A short, biting answer. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” Another pause. “And I can tell you that, even though you act like one Severed, your Guardian is perfectly intact.”
John froze. “How?” The moment was tense, Sherlock glaring at him and John glaring right back.
Mrs Hudson cut in. “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street.” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, eyes flicking over the papers in a messy pile on a desk. Suddenly, his head snapped up, like a dog that’s spotted a rabbit, eyes locked on the window. “Three exactly the same.”
John watched him move smoothly towards the window. “Four,” snapped Sherlock, looking down onto the street. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”
A flicker of unease that was both his and something else’s, as blue lights danced on Sherlock’s pale skin. “A fourth?” murmured Mrs Hudson.
John heard steps thumping up the stairs, and craned his neck round as a man with short greying hair and a pleasant demeanour raced in. John could tell copper from a mile away, even in plainclothes. Detective, then.
“Where?” Sherlock barked.
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The new man’s voice was low, but not unpleasant.
“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me, otherwise?”
“They’re not suicides, not anymore. At least, if they are, they've had help.” Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the other man at this. “Will you come?”
Sherlock’s face had barely changed from a steady look of bored disinterest, even as his eyes flickered along the detective. “Who’s on forensics?”
A frustrated sigh. “Anderson.” John glanced at his new flatmate, noting the flash of light at the copper’s breast pocket as he did so. Keeping his Angel close to his heart, then. It made him much more human than his flatmate, whom John hadn’t even noted a single spark from. It was almost enough for John to suspect that Sherlock had no Guardian, but neither could he feel the coldness that usually radiated from those Wingless. He wouldn't go so far as to say the man wasn't mad...
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t work well with me.”
“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”
“I need an assistant.”
The man snapped, eyes frustrated. “Will you come?”
“Not in a police car, I’ll be right behind.”
The copper nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced over at John and Mrs Hudson for the first time, eyes not quite meeting theirs and nodded to them as well, before striding out.
John watched him leave, then turned to Sherlock, opening his mouth to say something, before stopping in shock.
Sherlock was grinning, the first real smile John had seen on him since they met, a wide ear-to-ear smile that lit up his face. “Brilliant! Yes!” he cried, actually leaping into the air with joy. John’s mouth dropped and he felt a slight hint of that champagne-buzz along his skin, muffled and slight, the first hint of anything from Sherlock. Actual, real, excitement, then, strong enough to leak through his Guardian’s shields. It was comforting, in a strange and disturbing fashion. “Four serial suicides, and now this, it’s Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.” He grabbed his coat and prepared to sweep out.
John was beginning to realise that he hadn’t judged him unfairly; this was a man who had to be dramatic in everything he did. Mrs Hudson tsked. “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”
Sherlock ignored her. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”
Mrs Hudson looked at him after Sherlock had almost sprinted down the stairs and out, having somehow taken all the air in the room with him. John slumped in the chair, dazed, feeling a keening from his suddenly vocal Guardian that had nothing to do with his mood and everything to do with his flatmate’s absence. “Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same. But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I’ll make you a cuppa, you rest your leg.”
John felt fury that wasn’t entirely his well up. “Damn my leg!” He flinched, wondering frantically where that had come from, ashamed at the shocked expression on her face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just, sometimes, this bloody thing.”
Mrs Hudson smiled nervously. “I understand dear, I’ve got a hip.” She bustled off and John stopped paying attention to her, searching frantically for the source of the rage.
He found it, a petulant ball of Guardian that was profoundly unlike any he’d had before. They had been extensions of himself, facets of his personality he could reach for and have them be as familiar as his hand. This… This was a pale shadow of that, and angry, simmering bubble of faded power, ready to lash out.
He was slightly uncomfortable with the realisation that his new Guardian seemed to have the ability to swing wildly from emotion to emotion. That probably, definitely boded ill for his mental state.
He refused to think about how happy Sherlock seemed to make it, and how he could almost sense the resentment aimed at himself, from himself. The Guardian hadn’t formed enough to have a shape yet, still latched tightly to his power. No wonder he’d been picking up so many emotions lately, his basic shields rendered useless by the sudden potency of his powers. That would fade when the Guardian either took on a form or found something to attach to. Hopefully the mood swings would go with it.
It was enough to make his head hurt, and he slumped further into the chair, closing his eyes, hands gripping his cane tightly.
“You’re a doctor,” came the deep, velvet voice, startling him out of his reverie. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”
John stood, refusing to let his mad flatmate see him startled. “Yes.” He silently willed his Guardian to shut up, as it suddenly blazed with excitement again, anger forgotten. It was making it difficult to concentrate, like trying to hold a conversation with someone else shouting in his ear.
“Any good?” asked Sherlock.
John frowned. Couldn’t he just read the answer in his shoelaces or something? “Very good.”
Sherlock took a step towards him, intent. “Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” Another step.
“Well, yes.” Don’t think about that, don’t think... Was that another step?
Sherlock was almost toe to toe with him now, imposing. “Bit of trouble too, I bet?”
“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” Did the man have no personal space?
“Want to see some more?”
John felt his Guardian surge inside him, but he didn’t need its input for this. “Oh, God, yes.” He followed the taller man down the stairs, feeling alive for the first time since the army, finally feeling in control of himself. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, skip the tea. Off out.”
“Both of you?” she asked, put out.
“Impossible suicides, four of them?” Sherlock practically shouted, wheeling round. “No point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent,” she grumbled, but John could feel her affection and love for the strange man.
Sherlock laughed. “Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”
He swept out the door, dragging John behind like a piece of debris caught in his wake, loving every moment of the ride.
Part Four