"Do you believe in angels, John?"

John choked a bit on the sip of tea he just swallowed. Coughing to clear his throat, John looked over at his flat mate. Sherlock was stretched out on the leather sofa with his hands folded across his abdomen. Honestly, John was not surprised at the questions knowing what happened during the last case. Ginger haired men and women had been showing up dead around London with their throats slit. Sherlock had been working the case for five days and was at a stand still. When Sherlock was about to rip his hair out a simple phone call to his mobile solved the case. A woman called and told him a street name in South London and said one sentence: 'The blood is ginger.' Upon researching, it was discovered a private butcher was killing ginger haired men and women that walked past his shop. His shop was on the street the woman told Sherlock about. He had been draining the people's blood with the animal's blood and disposing of the bodies around his shop. Once closing the case, Sherlock had immediately tracked down the caller.

It was a ginger haired woman. When pressed about how she knew about the murders and how to call Sherlock, she had simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled weakly.

"An angel."

Sherlock had paused momentarily as if he didn't understand the word. "A what?"

"I walk down that street once a month to visit my uncle. Yesterday, something made me stop. I felt like I couldn't move forward; couldn't walk down that street. Something or someone made me walk down to the next block."

"The phone call?"

She blushed slightly before answering. "Once I was walking down the next street, I felt an overwhelming urge to make a phone call. I didn't know to whom but the urge was there. When I took my mobile out, I just dialed a number and said what was running through my mind. That was it.

"I'm not crazy, Mr. Holmes. I don't know how, what or why this happened. I'm going to chalk it up to my guardian angel looking after me."

Sherlock had been quiet the entire way back to the flat and for the remainder of the evening. This question had finally been asked twenty-four hours later.

John paused for long enough that Sherlock had sat up and turned to set his legs back to the floor. He watched John and waited.

John kept it simple. "Yes, I believe in angels."

Confusion flooded Sherlock's face a moment before he surged from the couch and started pacing. John watched as Sherlock planted one hand on his hip and the other hand rubbed the back of his head. He knew the dilemma that Sherlock was going through. John went through the same dilemma every once in a while during a moment of doubt and confusion. He set aside his cup of tea and the book he was reading to wait and listen.

"Eighty-three percent of the human population worldwide believe in angels or a higher deity. Why? There is no evidence. No evidence for or against. Why would people make random decisions and attribute it to religious interference if it turns out to be a good decision? It's a statistical probability that the decision will turn out positive," Sherlock muttered as he continued moving around the flat.

"Because it's not just random decisions, Sherlock. That woman had no other reason to walk down a different street other than what she felt. If she had walked down it, then statistically we would be inspecting her dead body."

Sherlock stopped and looked at John.

"Why do you believe in angels? You're slightly more intelligent than the idiotic populace."

John snorted and stood to collect his cooling cup of tea and walked to the kitchen. He was hesitant to tell Sherlock why he believed in angels, knowing the younger man would laugh or ridicule him. There had been multiple instances throughout his life but the one that had confirmed his belief revolved around Sherlock. How would the genius detective react to knowing that the morning of the day they met, John had held his gun and was about to place it in his mouth to pull the trigger? John couldn't say what made him hesitate. That just as he started to squeeze the trigger, John realized he wanted to see the sky one last time; breath fresh air one last time. He had intended to finish it when he arrived back at the flat but then he bumped into Mike Stamford. He had never looked at his gun that way again.

"John?"

John flinched and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. He looked back at his mug and slowly poured out the remainder of the liquid.

"I just do, Sherlock. Nothing I can say will convince you and I'm not in the mood to be ridiculed for my beliefs. Just accept the fact that I've seen a lot and my conclusion is that angels exist."

"You mean during your time in Afghanistan?"

"No, not entirely," John replied quietly and washed his mug quickly.

He went to walk past Sherlock but stopped when a firm hand grabbed his elbow. John could feel memories start to churn in his chest and he had to get away before Sherlock saw. He had to keep his face blank. Sherlock couldn't know the truth.

"John?"

The soft baritone rumbled through John's chest and his attention focused on the slight tightening of the hand still gripping his elbow. He stared at the delicate, long fingered hand and he saw it but his mind was elsewhere.

"When I was a child, I had a friend whose father was abusive. He would miss days of school and when he came back there were bruises and scratches. Another student must have noticed and told a teacher. I learned a few days later that the father had gotten wind that it was being looked into. He nearly beat his son to death with a golf club. The father told friends that he had gone to stay with his grandparents. It wasn't discovered until later that the son had been in the house all along. Broken wrist, perforated spleen, concussion, fractured eye socket among other scrapes and cuts. The father tried to flee and there was a massive auto wreck. He wrecked into a lorry hauling golf clubs and several impaled him. Poetic justice at its finest. That's one of the reason why I believe in angels."

He shrugged out of Sherlock's grasp and slowly walked up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving the consulting detective behind in the kitchen doorway. John had multiple reasons why he believed in angels. Surviving the war. Surviving his childhood. Surviving his own depression. Bumping into Mike Stamford. Having Sherlock Holmes as a friend. Being Sherlock's friend. Though, if John wanted to be truthful to himself he wanted more than just friendship. It took him a long time to admit it. He wanted Sherlock's love. It had been his only thought for the past three months every time he looked at the dark haired genius. But common sense had won out. He would rather keep the friendship if a relationship was unlikely. There was no misunderstanding 'Married to my work'. John was happy with what he had. Yes, the grass may have been greener on the other side but John knew how that theory usually played out. He knew crossing that fence meant he couldn't uncross it. He was okay on his side.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock glanced at John for a brief moment before looking back at the body in front of him. John had been acting odd since the angel conversation a few days ago. He sometimes caught the doctor just staring at him as if caught in a thought and not able to dispel it. Occasionally he would blush and look away before Sherlock could comment or question. Despite everything he could read in John's posture and clothing, nothing hinted at what was bothering him. Shaking his head, he looked back to the body and took one more glance before standing.

"This is a pointless killing, Lestrade. This man was homeless and penniless. There was nothing for the killer to steal. The killer dressed him nicer clothing after drawing odd cartoons on the skin. Check the recently discharged male mental health patients. Canvas the local stores and residents to see if they recall any odd occurrences. This location is important for some reason," Sherlock directed and Lestrade nodded while writing.

At his words, John twitches before tilting his head slightly and looking around. Before Sherlock can understand the actions, John is suddenly moving and barrels into Sherlock just as the crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier reaches their ears. John jerks against Sherlock as they tumble to the ground and everyone ducks for cover. John and Sherlock land behind a metal dumpster and John's hands are immediately fumbling over Sherlock's torso.

"Are you hit, Sherlock? Are you hit?" John asks frantically and pulls at the heavy coat and suit jacket.

Sherlock does a quick scan of his transport and other than soreness from the tackle and hitting the ground he is unhurt.

"No, I'm fine," he replied as he looks up to John and suddenly feels his mind slow.

A stream of blood trickles down John's coat from the hole Sherlock can clearly see in the fabric.

"John," he whispers and slowly reaches out to swipe his fingers through the red liquid.

At Sherlock's expression, John looks down at his chest and immediately notices the blood, pulsing out in time with his elevated heartbeat. His own fingers move to touch the blood and he lifted his fingers to look at the liquid and rubs it between the pads of his fingers.

"Oh."

It's like someone cut all the strings holding John vertical and he starts to crumple to the side. Sherlock lunges forward and eases his fall with one arm while his other presses his palm to the wound. John's hands spasm around Sherlock's hand as he tries to control his reaction to the onslaught of pain.

"John! John, it'll be okay. Lestrade! Mycroft!" Sherlock screams; screams for anyone that could possibly help.

"It's okay...Sher...Sherlock. I'd-I'd do it again," John murmurs as his head rolls slightly and his eyelids slowly flutter.

"Stay with me, John! Keep your eyes open," Sherlock orders as he digs for his mobile with his free hand.

Just as he unlocks the device John's bloody hand slowly wraps around his to stop him from dialing. His gaze snaps to John's and reads what he doesn't want to admit in the doctor's eyes.

"Won't..make...it in...time. Jus-...talk to...me...please."

Sherlock's jaw tightened painfully as his mind raced through possibilities and he soon realized that John was correct. The amount of blood he was losing and the average response time of London's paramedics suggested he wouldn't even make it to hospital and die enroute. Even with Mycroft's connections, he couldn't just snap his fingers and clear all the traffic from here to hospital. John's breathing was getting more labored but his gaze was locked on Sherlock. Sherlock heard Lestrade on his mobile yelling for an ambulance and trying to figure out where the sniper was. Sherlock sobbed slightly at the realization that he was about to lose something important but he didn't know what.

He cleared his throat and started speaking:

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

Lestrade and the others slowly approached the two on the ground and heard Sherlock speaking. The sniper had been handled and now the repercussions were obvious. All movement and activity stopped as everyone became aware of the emotional storm brewing nearby. Lestrade felt the emotion burn in his chest and throat as he watched the genius say goodbye to his first and only friend. Donovan had tears streaming down her face and she was clinging to Anderson's shirt. Anderson for once had lost the condescending expression and finally observed. Observed the friendship that was doomed to end too early. Sherlock ignored them all.

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Sherlock saw John's weak smile as his eyelids fluttered close. He was aware of the medical concept of the death rattle. He had even heard it a few times during his time as a junkie and then as a consulting detective. He never intended to hear it from his friend; his only friend.

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Sherlock's bottom lip quivered as he slowly pulled his hand away from John's chest and back to his own lap. He remained kneeling there, staring at John's slack face. Why was this bothering him so much? John was just a friend. He had lost friends before. Yes, he mourned them but never to his extent. Never did the emotions near the shattering grief that consumed him now. Sounds around him faded away and all that was left was a low pitched hum. He felt very...in the moment. Like he couldn't believe there was anything after this. Nothing to move forward to; couldn't go back.

(!)(!)(!)

So, this is the new story. It's been rumbling around in my head for a few weeks, so once I fleshed it out some I thought I could put it down. The poem Sherlock quoted is from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. Reviews, alerts and favorites are always welcomed. Cheers.