Fallen - Chapter 1: Falling
Title: Fallen - Chapter 1: Falling
Length: 2247 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 my beta and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, compliments, and just overall awesomeness and being inspirational! Still looking for a Brit-picker. :)
Fallen - Chapter 1: Falling
Sherlock is running. Sherlock is always running it seems, dashing this way and that through buildings or traffic, either a target himself or targeting someone. So why should tonight be any different?
All right, that’s not strictly true. He does also spend a great deal of time sitting or lying down as still as a statue, deep in thought with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He can also move with infinite grace and patience when working on a spell or an experiment. But just as often he’s pacing with a frenetic sort of energy or rushing to some location or another. And when it’s time to track down a killer, chase down a lead, or race against time to stop a crime before it can be committed, Sherlock has never been one to sit back and, Heaven forbid, let the police handle the matter.
John still isn’t sure if it’s a matter of pride for the consulting detective or the irresistible allure of the adrenaline that causes him to hurtle head first into trouble and danger at the least provocation.
At least he’s gotten his drug habit under control. Mostly. That last “accidental” overdose was almost two years ago now. Both Mycroft and Lestrade put their hypothetical feet down after that and made some arrangements to try and rein Sherlock’s dangerous habit in. And if the Detective Inspector had a little help on knowing just exactly when to drop by on a friendly personal drugs bust, who’s to say that he didn’t have a bit of a sixth sense about him when it came to such things? It certainly seemed to improve Sherlock’s opinion of his policing abilities. As well as royally piss him off.
But at the moment the danger in question comes in the form of a young man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, running south along the tree-lined edge of Victoria Tower Garden, closing in fast on Lambeth Bridge. And Sherlock is closing in on him.
John follows. John always follows, but that’s his job isn’t it? Wouldn’t really do to sit back at the flat and just wait for Sherlock to return, though truly, for all that a Guardian Angel is allowed to do, it sometimes feels like the result would be about the same.
The skies have opened up and rain is pouring down in a torrent. While Sherlock is nearly soaked to the skin, his coat flapping behind him heavily as his long legs extend further and further to make up the distance, John flies behind him, perfectly dry and unaffected by the storm raging above them. He follows at an almost leisurely pace; wings beating the air slowly as he takes in the scene laid out before him, assessing the risks, the situation, taking in the literal bird’s eye view.
“Duck,” he tells Sherlock mildly, just as the wind whips a tree branch toward his head and, for once, Sherlock obediently does as he’s told, his mind more open and aware in the middle of a chase, more susceptible to John’s gentle hints and nudges than when he’s deeply buried in his own thoughts and concerns. But in retrospect, it would have been better to not warn his charge of any dangers of incoming branches or even incoming cars. Not when John knows what is ahead of Sherlock, just what it is that he’s chasing. After all, it’s not a man they are pursuing tonight but a demon. A demon with, of all things, a gun. A gun. What will they think up next?
The ground shifts from grass and dirt to pavement as Sherlock hits the bridge and gains more traction, his pace increasing as the distance between him and his quarry grows shorter. Between the lateness of the hour and the vile weather, there are few cars driving over the bridge tonight. They are, for all intents and purposes, on their own.
Lestrade and his people are following behind, but not nearly close enough. A blessing and a curse. They’re too far behind to help Sherlock, but also too far behind to come to any harm. Because the problem is, Sherlock doesn’t know it’s a demon that he’s chasing. Hell’s bells, he doesn’t even think it’s a man with a gun. Not that it would honestly stop him if he did. No, he’s in hot pursuit, eyes on the prize, fully determined to catch this seemingly young and innocent quarry that has been responsible for at least ten murder/rapes in parks of London so far. Not that he committed a single one of them personally, but that doesn’t make him any less responsible for the fact that they happened.
John can’t help but feel a sickening sensation in his stomach as Sherlock reaches out with his fingertips to snag at the hood of the sweatshirt before him, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling backward just as he continues to surge forward. The two bodies collide and go down in an untidy heap.
Fluttering to the ground, John’s wings twitch restlessly as the two ‘men’ struggle before a sharp jab to the stomach leaves Sherlock rolling on the ground in pain while his opponent surges back and up to his feet, gun drawn.
He’s a minor demon, not much power, but enough to fool the eyes of mortal man, enough to taint the hearts and minds of souls already on the edge of corruption. He’s a ladder-climber, with the potential to be very powerful if he simply has the patience for it. But he’s greedy. Greedy for more and wanting it all now. And he sees Sherlock as quite the bonus prize in his current string of pilfered souls. There’s something of a bounty on the Adept’s soul down in Hell. They’d prefer him alive, of course, and wreaking havoc on Earth for their side ‘til he dies and his soul is theirs, but honestly they’ll take him either way they can get him, if for no other reason than to be done with his infernal interference.
Sherlock has gotten up to his feet as well, hand on his stomach, still trying to catch his breath as he leans against the railing of the bridge and stares at the gun in disgust. “A gun. Really? How far the damned have fallen, that you have to rely upon the weapons of man…” Blinking, John turns and stares at Sherlock to realize that he’s ‘looking’ at the culprit now. Most Adepts are also Sensitives - able to work magic and see it in all but it’s most hidden forms. Sherlock would argue that being a highly functional sociopath somewhat interferes with one’s ability to be ‘sensitive’ to much of anything.
His dark hair is plastered to his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration, a faint hint of power behind those irises as he studies his foe. Opening one’s third eye by force requires the manipulation of magic, and this newly gained talent for seeing what is magically hidden does not come readily to Sherlock. But this demon is not particularly adept at secreting away his true nature.
Stepping closer, John receives confirmation that Sherlock still cannot see him. No great surprise there. Angels are the hardest of supernatural beings to be seen unless it is their duty to be so. The demon sneers even as John lifts his wings up in threat. Of course he sneers. John can look as threatening as he wants, but they both know that Guardian Angels do not interfere.
They can hear shouts as Lestrade nears the end of the bridge. The demon pays the approaching humans as little heed as he does John. They are, like the angel, impotent. Gesturing with his gun the demon snorts, “I was hoping to bring you in alive, but honestly I’ll take you any way I can.” Ambitious and smart. Smart enough not to gloat about his success or taunt Sherlock, allowing the Adept time to reach into his pocket for a protective spell or weapon. Without hesitation, he points the gun at Sherlock and shoots.
Things happen so fast that they can barely be seen, but to John, everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion.
The bullet flies through the air, striking Sherlock in the shoulder and flinging him backward with such force that it pushes him back onto the wide railing of the bridge. He teeters there for a moment, flailing in shock and pain before gravity makes the decision for him. His long lanky frame tilts over the edge of the railing and falls down, down, down toward the frothing surface of the Thames.
At nearly the same moment, a sensation of pure fury and fire blossoms within John. Reaching down to his hip, he draws the sword of his spirit and charges the demon without a second thought to things such as consequences. Leaping into the air, wings flared, John descends upon the demon in a flash of burning light, the skies above booming and roaring in a reaction of thunderous shock. The minion of Hell doesn’t have more than a second to look up at John in pure astonishment, his hand futilely rising to try and ward the angel off before he is struck down in a white blaze of righteous rage.
With the demon slain, John pivots and flies, surging down, down, after Sherlock, arms wrapping about him protectively, wings narrowed, as they plunge beneath the surface of the Thames together.
It is no effort at all to pull them both free of the freezing grasp of the water, and John knows that he has precious little time now. He’s broken the Rules. He’s interfered. And Sherlock is still dying in his arms.
Not on his watch. Not this time. In for a penny, in for a pound, and damn the price.
Sherlock’s body is utterly limp in his arms, head lolling back, his frame boneless, his face as white as a corpse. Cradling his charge in his arms by the edge of the Thames, John places his hand over Sherlock’s left shoulder. He can feel the bullet where it has come to a stop, imbedded in the shattered remains of Sherlock’s scapula. He pulls the lump of metal toward his palm like a magnet, weaving it backwards through the path it has already carved through tender flesh until it rests within John’s grasp, still hot and dripping with blood. The offending object is thrown violently into the river before John places his palm once more against the open wound.
Brow creasing in concentration, he uses his powers in a way he hasn’t needed to for eons; to heal the wound, reknitting bones, mending torn flesh and opened arteries. In turn, John feels like his blood is singing in his veins, the power within him that he is so often forbidden to wield deliciously sweet and rich. This is what it must feel like to take in a deep breath of pure fresh air, or eat a delicious meal after too long a fast. It’s invigorating. For the first time in longer than John can recall he feels truly alive. If angels could cry, his eyes would be filling with tears for the pure joy of doing what he has been yearning to do for years now; use his power to heal and protect what is his.
Drawing away his hand, John silently studies the once again perfect and unmarred flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder, a tiny smile gracing his lips. His body is still lax and unresponsive, lips tinged with blue from the cold and the blood loss. He can’t replace the lost blood, but he knows he doesn’t have to… that Lestrade will find Sherlock shortly. Reaching out with his senses, John feels the frantic panic coming off of Lestrade and gently sends out a beacon to the man. Here. Look here, along the river’s bank. Come find us. He shifts, cradling Sherlock against his chest, embracing him as he waits for Lestrade. Waits for judgment to fall.
Sherlock’s eyes slowly flutter open, his body weak and sodden in John’s arms. His pale gaze is unfocused and scattered, in shock, his body starting to shiver with cold. Wrapping his wings around them, cocooning Sherlock from the elements, John increases his body temperature to try and warm his charge while he still can. Give him a better chance of survival. And all the while he gently rocks his human and murmurs softly, “It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He reaches out once more, that small smile growing broader as he can sense Lestrade drawing closer, walking along the edge of the Thames now, heading in the right direction.
His palm curves over Sherlock’s cheek as he gazes down into his human’s pale silver eyes, whispering, “Lestrade is coming. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me Sherlock. Stay.” His lips twist sadly as he drinks in his fill of the man before him, ocean-blue eyes flickering over those fine elegant features for the last time, fingers trailing through the dark wet locks upon his brow. The bittersweet irony is not lost on John. After all, it isn’t Sherlock that is leaving.
He could have sworn that those eyes of light and mercury met his and actually saw him for the first time, and the last, just before he felt himself torn away and whirled off into darkness.
Length: 2247 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 my beta and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, compliments, and just overall awesomeness and being inspirational! Still looking for a Brit-picker. :)
Fallen - Chapter 1: Falling
Sherlock is running. Sherlock is always running it seems, dashing this way and that through buildings or traffic, either a target himself or targeting someone. So why should tonight be any different?
All right, that’s not strictly true. He does also spend a great deal of time sitting or lying down as still as a statue, deep in thought with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He can also move with infinite grace and patience when working on a spell or an experiment. But just as often he’s pacing with a frenetic sort of energy or rushing to some location or another. And when it’s time to track down a killer, chase down a lead, or race against time to stop a crime before it can be committed, Sherlock has never been one to sit back and, Heaven forbid, let the police handle the matter.
John still isn’t sure if it’s a matter of pride for the consulting detective or the irresistible allure of the adrenaline that causes him to hurtle head first into trouble and danger at the least provocation.
At least he’s gotten his drug habit under control. Mostly. That last “accidental” overdose was almost two years ago now. Both Mycroft and Lestrade put their hypothetical feet down after that and made some arrangements to try and rein Sherlock’s dangerous habit in. And if the Detective Inspector had a little help on knowing just exactly when to drop by on a friendly personal drugs bust, who’s to say that he didn’t have a bit of a sixth sense about him when it came to such things? It certainly seemed to improve Sherlock’s opinion of his policing abilities. As well as royally piss him off.
But at the moment the danger in question comes in the form of a young man wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, running south along the tree-lined edge of Victoria Tower Garden, closing in fast on Lambeth Bridge. And Sherlock is closing in on him.
John follows. John always follows, but that’s his job isn’t it? Wouldn’t really do to sit back at the flat and just wait for Sherlock to return, though truly, for all that a Guardian Angel is allowed to do, it sometimes feels like the result would be about the same.
The skies have opened up and rain is pouring down in a torrent. While Sherlock is nearly soaked to the skin, his coat flapping behind him heavily as his long legs extend further and further to make up the distance, John flies behind him, perfectly dry and unaffected by the storm raging above them. He follows at an almost leisurely pace; wings beating the air slowly as he takes in the scene laid out before him, assessing the risks, the situation, taking in the literal bird’s eye view.
“Duck,” he tells Sherlock mildly, just as the wind whips a tree branch toward his head and, for once, Sherlock obediently does as he’s told, his mind more open and aware in the middle of a chase, more susceptible to John’s gentle hints and nudges than when he’s deeply buried in his own thoughts and concerns. But in retrospect, it would have been better to not warn his charge of any dangers of incoming branches or even incoming cars. Not when John knows what is ahead of Sherlock, just what it is that he’s chasing. After all, it’s not a man they are pursuing tonight but a demon. A demon with, of all things, a gun. A gun. What will they think up next?
The ground shifts from grass and dirt to pavement as Sherlock hits the bridge and gains more traction, his pace increasing as the distance between him and his quarry grows shorter. Between the lateness of the hour and the vile weather, there are few cars driving over the bridge tonight. They are, for all intents and purposes, on their own.
Lestrade and his people are following behind, but not nearly close enough. A blessing and a curse. They’re too far behind to help Sherlock, but also too far behind to come to any harm. Because the problem is, Sherlock doesn’t know it’s a demon that he’s chasing. Hell’s bells, he doesn’t even think it’s a man with a gun. Not that it would honestly stop him if he did. No, he’s in hot pursuit, eyes on the prize, fully determined to catch this seemingly young and innocent quarry that has been responsible for at least ten murder/rapes in parks of London so far. Not that he committed a single one of them personally, but that doesn’t make him any less responsible for the fact that they happened.
John can’t help but feel a sickening sensation in his stomach as Sherlock reaches out with his fingertips to snag at the hood of the sweatshirt before him, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling backward just as he continues to surge forward. The two bodies collide and go down in an untidy heap.
Fluttering to the ground, John’s wings twitch restlessly as the two ‘men’ struggle before a sharp jab to the stomach leaves Sherlock rolling on the ground in pain while his opponent surges back and up to his feet, gun drawn.
He’s a minor demon, not much power, but enough to fool the eyes of mortal man, enough to taint the hearts and minds of souls already on the edge of corruption. He’s a ladder-climber, with the potential to be very powerful if he simply has the patience for it. But he’s greedy. Greedy for more and wanting it all now. And he sees Sherlock as quite the bonus prize in his current string of pilfered souls. There’s something of a bounty on the Adept’s soul down in Hell. They’d prefer him alive, of course, and wreaking havoc on Earth for their side ‘til he dies and his soul is theirs, but honestly they’ll take him either way they can get him, if for no other reason than to be done with his infernal interference.
Sherlock has gotten up to his feet as well, hand on his stomach, still trying to catch his breath as he leans against the railing of the bridge and stares at the gun in disgust. “A gun. Really? How far the damned have fallen, that you have to rely upon the weapons of man…” Blinking, John turns and stares at Sherlock to realize that he’s ‘looking’ at the culprit now. Most Adepts are also Sensitives - able to work magic and see it in all but it’s most hidden forms. Sherlock would argue that being a highly functional sociopath somewhat interferes with one’s ability to be ‘sensitive’ to much of anything.
His dark hair is plastered to his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration, a faint hint of power behind those irises as he studies his foe. Opening one’s third eye by force requires the manipulation of magic, and this newly gained talent for seeing what is magically hidden does not come readily to Sherlock. But this demon is not particularly adept at secreting away his true nature.
Stepping closer, John receives confirmation that Sherlock still cannot see him. No great surprise there. Angels are the hardest of supernatural beings to be seen unless it is their duty to be so. The demon sneers even as John lifts his wings up in threat. Of course he sneers. John can look as threatening as he wants, but they both know that Guardian Angels do not interfere.
They can hear shouts as Lestrade nears the end of the bridge. The demon pays the approaching humans as little heed as he does John. They are, like the angel, impotent. Gesturing with his gun the demon snorts, “I was hoping to bring you in alive, but honestly I’ll take you any way I can.” Ambitious and smart. Smart enough not to gloat about his success or taunt Sherlock, allowing the Adept time to reach into his pocket for a protective spell or weapon. Without hesitation, he points the gun at Sherlock and shoots.
Things happen so fast that they can barely be seen, but to John, everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion.
The bullet flies through the air, striking Sherlock in the shoulder and flinging him backward with such force that it pushes him back onto the wide railing of the bridge. He teeters there for a moment, flailing in shock and pain before gravity makes the decision for him. His long lanky frame tilts over the edge of the railing and falls down, down, down toward the frothing surface of the Thames.
At nearly the same moment, a sensation of pure fury and fire blossoms within John. Reaching down to his hip, he draws the sword of his spirit and charges the demon without a second thought to things such as consequences. Leaping into the air, wings flared, John descends upon the demon in a flash of burning light, the skies above booming and roaring in a reaction of thunderous shock. The minion of Hell doesn’t have more than a second to look up at John in pure astonishment, his hand futilely rising to try and ward the angel off before he is struck down in a white blaze of righteous rage.
With the demon slain, John pivots and flies, surging down, down, after Sherlock, arms wrapping about him protectively, wings narrowed, as they plunge beneath the surface of the Thames together.
It is no effort at all to pull them both free of the freezing grasp of the water, and John knows that he has precious little time now. He’s broken the Rules. He’s interfered. And Sherlock is still dying in his arms.
Not on his watch. Not this time. In for a penny, in for a pound, and damn the price.
Sherlock’s body is utterly limp in his arms, head lolling back, his frame boneless, his face as white as a corpse. Cradling his charge in his arms by the edge of the Thames, John places his hand over Sherlock’s left shoulder. He can feel the bullet where it has come to a stop, imbedded in the shattered remains of Sherlock’s scapula. He pulls the lump of metal toward his palm like a magnet, weaving it backwards through the path it has already carved through tender flesh until it rests within John’s grasp, still hot and dripping with blood. The offending object is thrown violently into the river before John places his palm once more against the open wound.
Brow creasing in concentration, he uses his powers in a way he hasn’t needed to for eons; to heal the wound, reknitting bones, mending torn flesh and opened arteries. In turn, John feels like his blood is singing in his veins, the power within him that he is so often forbidden to wield deliciously sweet and rich. This is what it must feel like to take in a deep breath of pure fresh air, or eat a delicious meal after too long a fast. It’s invigorating. For the first time in longer than John can recall he feels truly alive. If angels could cry, his eyes would be filling with tears for the pure joy of doing what he has been yearning to do for years now; use his power to heal and protect what is his.
Drawing away his hand, John silently studies the once again perfect and unmarred flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder, a tiny smile gracing his lips. His body is still lax and unresponsive, lips tinged with blue from the cold and the blood loss. He can’t replace the lost blood, but he knows he doesn’t have to… that Lestrade will find Sherlock shortly. Reaching out with his senses, John feels the frantic panic coming off of Lestrade and gently sends out a beacon to the man. Here. Look here, along the river’s bank. Come find us. He shifts, cradling Sherlock against his chest, embracing him as he waits for Lestrade. Waits for judgment to fall.
Sherlock’s eyes slowly flutter open, his body weak and sodden in John’s arms. His pale gaze is unfocused and scattered, in shock, his body starting to shiver with cold. Wrapping his wings around them, cocooning Sherlock from the elements, John increases his body temperature to try and warm his charge while he still can. Give him a better chance of survival. And all the while he gently rocks his human and murmurs softly, “It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He reaches out once more, that small smile growing broader as he can sense Lestrade drawing closer, walking along the edge of the Thames now, heading in the right direction.
His palm curves over Sherlock’s cheek as he gazes down into his human’s pale silver eyes, whispering, “Lestrade is coming. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me Sherlock. Stay.” His lips twist sadly as he drinks in his fill of the man before him, ocean-blue eyes flickering over those fine elegant features for the last time, fingers trailing through the dark wet locks upon his brow. The bittersweet irony is not lost on John. After all, it isn’t Sherlock that is leaving.
He could have sworn that those eyes of light and mercury met his and actually saw him for the first time, and the last, just before he felt himself torn away and whirled off into darkness.