Fallen - Chapter 2: Judgment
Title: Fallen - Chapter 2: Judgment
Length: 1622 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 2: Judgment
At first he can’t tell where he is. A street, somewhere in London, empty and abandoned, half the lights out and unnaturally quiet. He surges up, opening his wings to rise and immediately crashes down to the ground on legs barely willing to hold up his weight. He has never felt like this before because with brutal abruptness John, at the pure core of the matter, can actually feel. He can feel the cold of the night air upon his flesh. He can feel the weight of his body, a baffling weakness in his limbs. Beneath his hands he can feel the rough surface of the road, the grit, the wet. Against his frame he can feel the gentle fall of the rain as the storm starts to subside.
John feels at once lighter and heavier, both physically and spiritually, and with suddenly trembling fingers he reaches behind his back to feel the truth. His wings… are gone.
“You have been cast out. You are Fallen, John. You know what comes next,” calls a voice before him, cool and firm.
Panting, down on one knee, John glances up at the Archangel hovering over him and shakes his head in astonishment, droplets of water scattering to and fro as they flick free of his hair. “Michael. I’m surprised that they felt it necessary to send you to deal with me.” Slowly, unsteadily, he regains his feet, swaying slightly from side to side as he tests gravity and finds his balance. He has to learn in seconds what most humans have years to attain. “I don’t know if I should feel honored that He thought I would be too much of a match for anyone else, or shamed that He didn’t think I was worth the time to smite Himself.” What is this he’s feeling? Bitterness? Anger? It tastes sharp and acrid in his mouth. It lights a fire in his belly.
Michael’s beautiful face is peaceful, impassive, as he intones mildly, “You should feel neither, and for that reason alone it is clear why He felt it was time for you to be banished.” Within the Archangel’s hand, his sword glows a brilliant white. But he doesn’t move to strike John. Instead he asks, “He wants to know why. Why did you betray the Rules, John? Why did you intercede on your human’s behalf?”
Time. Whether it is intentional or not, he’s been given time to adjust, to learn this body, master these sensations, before putting them to the test. His lips curl into a smile, but without any pleasure. “Oh please, exactly whom are you trying to fool? I might not sit at His right hand as you do, but even a child brought up in church knows about God and sparrows. It is you who wants to know because you cannot understand.” His head tilts slightly as he looks up at the angelic figure before him, teeth baring slightly as he asks, “Am I your apple, Michael? Do you truly wish to take a bite from me so you can experience the knowledge for yourself?”
The Archangel doesn’t reply in words, though his lips form a thin line of displeasure and the grip upon his sword tightens at the implication of John’s taunt. Shaking his head, John breathes out a breath, an actual breath. Maybe it starts here. New ideas. Questioning tradition. Maybe he is the pebble that begins the landslide. Either way, it’s almost a relief to be able to finally express out loud what he’s been holding inside for so very long. Perhaps this is what confessionals are like. Perhaps this is, in fact, an act of kindness on the part of the Archangel, to allow John to unburden his soul, as it were, before departing forever.
“Because they deserve our help. Because the scales are unbalanced, with Evil allowed to do anything and everything while we sit by the sidelines and haplessly cheer our charges on to make good choices and avoid temptation. Because those charges who fight for justice, for mercy, for goodness and against violence, cruelty, and brutality deserve more than a smile and a pat on their proverbial heads. They deserve our support, our strength, our action. They are the true angels. They’re the ones doing the work that we should be doing.”
Michael seems to consider those words for a moment, turning his head away as if looking at something unseeable before turning back and pointing out, “But your human. His motivations are not what one would call altruistic. He does not do what he does for the betterment of mankind. He does not pursue those that would perpetuate evil because he cares about their victims or concerns himself with what harm might come if they are unchecked. He does it because he is bored. Because it entertains him and interests him to do so. It sustains his ego and his pride and gives him pleasure. His motivations are purely selfish and it would take little effort to shift his talents from being arbitrarily ‘good’ to being actively ‘evil’. In that regard,” he deigns to offer, “I must compliment you, John. You helped him to make good choices in the face of great temptation and darker opportunities. But your work now is done.” The sword is raised up high as Michael intones mildly, “Prepare yourself.”
Prepare himself? Prepare himself for what? There will be no Heaven, no Hell, not even a mortal life or Purgatory for a Fallen one. After the mistake with Lucifer, angels are never left to simply ‘fall’; they fall and are then destroyed. Utterly, completely, and forever. How does one prepare for the end of everything? For nothing? Does Michael truly expect him to go like a lamb to the slaughter after breaking his bonds of service?
He doesn’t have a chance, and he knows he doesn’t. Not against God’s greatest warrior angel. But the fire burning in his belly has risen up to engulf his heart and his head, a tingling in his hand causing his gaze to drop and then stare in confusion. There, much to his shock, is the impossible in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it. He couldn’t draw it, could he? His wings are gone. He is Fallen. No longer an angel. And yet there it is, his sword in his hand, glowing fiercely and pulsing with his newfound emotions.
Slowly his head lifts to stare at Michael, the Archangel standing there with infinite peace and grace, prepared to do his duty with the same dispassionate calm as all of his brethren. John doesn’t have a chance, but by God if he is going to come to his end here he will leave this world, this newfound life, feeling everything he can and fighting until the very end.
As the sword of the Archangel descends, John is spurred into action. With a heave and a roar he flings himself forward, bringing his sword to bear and crashing it against Michael’s. Blocking the blade he pivots around, sliding his blade free and then charges back in. There is a brief surge of pride as his attack forces the Archangel backward, sparks and fire flaring up from where their two swords meet. Michael yields another step back and looks almost puzzled before charging John, who manages to block the strike of the oncoming sword and spin out of the way again, driving his blade toward an exposed flank.
While Michael’s sword glows with a cool and steady white light, John’s sputters and flares with all the colors of the rainbow; an oil spill of power and energy that meets each slash and thrust of his opponent’s blade with matching strength and speed. But it does not last. John’s body struggles to keep up with Michael’s swift attacks and more and more he finds himself on the defensive, retreating beneath the strength and confidence of the Archangel.
It is with a sense of shame that he feels the hilt pull from his fingers, Michael’s glowing blade blocking his attempt at an attack and then circling around and beneath to slap the sword up and out of John’s grip. He leaps to try and capture it, only to feel a line of fire and ice slash over his right thigh, the pain like nothing he has ever felt before, because angels do not feel pain. Collapsing, John clutches at the wound that doesn’t bleed, only burns; gasping for breath as these new sensations fill him, overwhelm him. This is it. This is the end. At least it was a good fight. At least he was able to save Sherlock one last time. At least he got to remember, even if only for a brief moment, what it was like to be truly alive again.
He waits, head lowered, for the final blow, and when it doesn’t come, John lifts his head up again and stares in confusion. Michael’s sword is lowered to the ground, the tip of it touching the asphalt beneath his feet, scorching it. He should have his sword raised. He should have split John in half, destroying him utterly and completely. But instead of smiting him, Michael stares at John’s sword resting on the ground a few feet away, still glowing with power.
“Come on,” John manages to rasp. “Finish it.”
He doesn’t understand at all when Michael sheathes his sword. He understands even less when his own sword is picked up by the Archangel, flaring and sputtering in the hands of one for whom it was not made. And when Michael takes the weapon and plunges it into John’s left shoulder all comprehension of everything vanishes in a burst of agony and then darkness.
Length: 1622 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 2: Judgment
At first he can’t tell where he is. A street, somewhere in London, empty and abandoned, half the lights out and unnaturally quiet. He surges up, opening his wings to rise and immediately crashes down to the ground on legs barely willing to hold up his weight. He has never felt like this before because with brutal abruptness John, at the pure core of the matter, can actually feel. He can feel the cold of the night air upon his flesh. He can feel the weight of his body, a baffling weakness in his limbs. Beneath his hands he can feel the rough surface of the road, the grit, the wet. Against his frame he can feel the gentle fall of the rain as the storm starts to subside.
John feels at once lighter and heavier, both physically and spiritually, and with suddenly trembling fingers he reaches behind his back to feel the truth. His wings… are gone.
“You have been cast out. You are Fallen, John. You know what comes next,” calls a voice before him, cool and firm.
Panting, down on one knee, John glances up at the Archangel hovering over him and shakes his head in astonishment, droplets of water scattering to and fro as they flick free of his hair. “Michael. I’m surprised that they felt it necessary to send you to deal with me.” Slowly, unsteadily, he regains his feet, swaying slightly from side to side as he tests gravity and finds his balance. He has to learn in seconds what most humans have years to attain. “I don’t know if I should feel honored that He thought I would be too much of a match for anyone else, or shamed that He didn’t think I was worth the time to smite Himself.” What is this he’s feeling? Bitterness? Anger? It tastes sharp and acrid in his mouth. It lights a fire in his belly.
Michael’s beautiful face is peaceful, impassive, as he intones mildly, “You should feel neither, and for that reason alone it is clear why He felt it was time for you to be banished.” Within the Archangel’s hand, his sword glows a brilliant white. But he doesn’t move to strike John. Instead he asks, “He wants to know why. Why did you betray the Rules, John? Why did you intercede on your human’s behalf?”
Time. Whether it is intentional or not, he’s been given time to adjust, to learn this body, master these sensations, before putting them to the test. His lips curl into a smile, but without any pleasure. “Oh please, exactly whom are you trying to fool? I might not sit at His right hand as you do, but even a child brought up in church knows about God and sparrows. It is you who wants to know because you cannot understand.” His head tilts slightly as he looks up at the angelic figure before him, teeth baring slightly as he asks, “Am I your apple, Michael? Do you truly wish to take a bite from me so you can experience the knowledge for yourself?”
The Archangel doesn’t reply in words, though his lips form a thin line of displeasure and the grip upon his sword tightens at the implication of John’s taunt. Shaking his head, John breathes out a breath, an actual breath. Maybe it starts here. New ideas. Questioning tradition. Maybe he is the pebble that begins the landslide. Either way, it’s almost a relief to be able to finally express out loud what he’s been holding inside for so very long. Perhaps this is what confessionals are like. Perhaps this is, in fact, an act of kindness on the part of the Archangel, to allow John to unburden his soul, as it were, before departing forever.
“Because they deserve our help. Because the scales are unbalanced, with Evil allowed to do anything and everything while we sit by the sidelines and haplessly cheer our charges on to make good choices and avoid temptation. Because those charges who fight for justice, for mercy, for goodness and against violence, cruelty, and brutality deserve more than a smile and a pat on their proverbial heads. They deserve our support, our strength, our action. They are the true angels. They’re the ones doing the work that we should be doing.”
Michael seems to consider those words for a moment, turning his head away as if looking at something unseeable before turning back and pointing out, “But your human. His motivations are not what one would call altruistic. He does not do what he does for the betterment of mankind. He does not pursue those that would perpetuate evil because he cares about their victims or concerns himself with what harm might come if they are unchecked. He does it because he is bored. Because it entertains him and interests him to do so. It sustains his ego and his pride and gives him pleasure. His motivations are purely selfish and it would take little effort to shift his talents from being arbitrarily ‘good’ to being actively ‘evil’. In that regard,” he deigns to offer, “I must compliment you, John. You helped him to make good choices in the face of great temptation and darker opportunities. But your work now is done.” The sword is raised up high as Michael intones mildly, “Prepare yourself.”
Prepare himself? Prepare himself for what? There will be no Heaven, no Hell, not even a mortal life or Purgatory for a Fallen one. After the mistake with Lucifer, angels are never left to simply ‘fall’; they fall and are then destroyed. Utterly, completely, and forever. How does one prepare for the end of everything? For nothing? Does Michael truly expect him to go like a lamb to the slaughter after breaking his bonds of service?
He doesn’t have a chance, and he knows he doesn’t. Not against God’s greatest warrior angel. But the fire burning in his belly has risen up to engulf his heart and his head, a tingling in his hand causing his gaze to drop and then stare in confusion. There, much to his shock, is the impossible in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it. He couldn’t draw it, could he? His wings are gone. He is Fallen. No longer an angel. And yet there it is, his sword in his hand, glowing fiercely and pulsing with his newfound emotions.
Slowly his head lifts to stare at Michael, the Archangel standing there with infinite peace and grace, prepared to do his duty with the same dispassionate calm as all of his brethren. John doesn’t have a chance, but by God if he is going to come to his end here he will leave this world, this newfound life, feeling everything he can and fighting until the very end.
As the sword of the Archangel descends, John is spurred into action. With a heave and a roar he flings himself forward, bringing his sword to bear and crashing it against Michael’s. Blocking the blade he pivots around, sliding his blade free and then charges back in. There is a brief surge of pride as his attack forces the Archangel backward, sparks and fire flaring up from where their two swords meet. Michael yields another step back and looks almost puzzled before charging John, who manages to block the strike of the oncoming sword and spin out of the way again, driving his blade toward an exposed flank.
While Michael’s sword glows with a cool and steady white light, John’s sputters and flares with all the colors of the rainbow; an oil spill of power and energy that meets each slash and thrust of his opponent’s blade with matching strength and speed. But it does not last. John’s body struggles to keep up with Michael’s swift attacks and more and more he finds himself on the defensive, retreating beneath the strength and confidence of the Archangel.
It is with a sense of shame that he feels the hilt pull from his fingers, Michael’s glowing blade blocking his attempt at an attack and then circling around and beneath to slap the sword up and out of John’s grip. He leaps to try and capture it, only to feel a line of fire and ice slash over his right thigh, the pain like nothing he has ever felt before, because angels do not feel pain. Collapsing, John clutches at the wound that doesn’t bleed, only burns; gasping for breath as these new sensations fill him, overwhelm him. This is it. This is the end. At least it was a good fight. At least he was able to save Sherlock one last time. At least he got to remember, even if only for a brief moment, what it was like to be truly alive again.
He waits, head lowered, for the final blow, and when it doesn’t come, John lifts his head up again and stares in confusion. Michael’s sword is lowered to the ground, the tip of it touching the asphalt beneath his feet, scorching it. He should have his sword raised. He should have split John in half, destroying him utterly and completely. But instead of smiting him, Michael stares at John’s sword resting on the ground a few feet away, still glowing with power.
“Come on,” John manages to rasp. “Finish it.”
He doesn’t understand at all when Michael sheathes his sword. He understands even less when his own sword is picked up by the Archangel, flaring and sputtering in the hands of one for whom it was not made. And when Michael takes the weapon and plunges it into John’s left shoulder all comprehension of everything vanishes in a burst of agony and then darkness.