A/N: This story is not only inspired by a gorgeous photo manip of Ben C that duskybatfishgirl on tumblr made, but is also very very VERY loosely based on the idea of non-biblical angels ruling the world from the Nalini Singh Archangel novels. Haven't read them? DO.

He caught sight of her as he overflew the small copse of woods on the farthest edge of their master's territory. She'd come close, he had to give her that; if he'd been just a bit less good at his job as Hunter, she might even have made it away from Moriarty territory and into the (relative) safety of Lestrade territory. Not that she'd be free; no, it would simply be trading one form of slavery for another. But the current clan leader - Gavin was his name, or was it Geoff? - was well known for his unwillingness to hand over any escaped slaves, human or angel, especially not to Moriarty. The feud between the two clans was violent and bloody and went back centuries and interested Sherlock not one whit.

All that interested him in the moment was retrieving Lord James' runaway property and getting her back to the castle in order to face her punishment. He would fly her back, drop her off into Guard-Captain Moran's custody, and return to his quarters for a well-earned week's rest, the only reward he'd ever receive for doing his duty.

As he ghosted his way through the trees, honing in on her current hiding place in the underbrush, his silvery eyes took in every detail: the branches that might catch his wings, the small flashes of wildlife scurrying into hiding from what they rightly perceived as a threat, the few leaves that fell lazily to the ground. It was early fall, not the usual time for runaways, but the girl - Molly, he'd been told was her name - hadn't really had much choice in the matter. She was a kitchen slave who'd caught Lord James Moriarty's eye - and fled before he could bring her to his palatial bedroom and relieve her of her virginity.

He caught a glimpse of her face as he landed, panic in her features as she scrambled deeper into the underbrush. "You may as well come out now," he called out confidently, laying a hand on the pommel of his sword. "If I have to I'll cut down every branch and vine until you've nowhere left to hide."

The frantic sounds of movement stilled as he spoke, and a small smile played about his lips as he waited for her to make her decision. It was exhilarating when they tried to run, but if she was sensible and came quietly, he could be home that much quicker. There was a particular scroll of mathematical proofs he was impatient to return to, not to mention the comfort of his own bed; it would be dark soon, too dark for even an angel's exceptional vision to pierce, and he hated having to bed down outside even in the heat of summer.

The rustling of the underbrush resumed, and he listened carefully, smirking when he discerned that the rustling was towards and not away from him. A sudden wind gusted through the trees, lifting his dark hair away from his head, setting his feathers to fluttering and teasing the ends of his low-slung black kilt.

He wore very little other than that kilt: a sturdy brown leather sword belt, a leather harness across his chest, and a pair of leather braces around his upper arms to hold his throwing daggers. On his feet were leather sandals laced to just below his knees, all of it practical and well worn.

Except, of course, for the kilt. He remembered he'd once asked his sire why angels wore kilts, which seemed utterly impractical for flight. The only answer he'd received had been 'tradition', which seemed even more ridiculous; who started the tradition, when, and for Spirit's sake, why?

He'd been full of questions as a young lad, but two decades of slavery after his own clan, the Holmes', had been defeated in a brutal war against the Moriarty's had effectively silenced that part of his nature. Now, he kept any questions to himself, performed his duties as a Hunter, and in return was allowed a precious measure of freedom. The sooner he returned this girl to the castle, the sooner he could partake of that freedom.

The rustling increased, and she stepped into view, brushing futilely at the leaves and twigs that had snarled her braided, waist-length hair and littered her clothing. She wore a simple tunic and trousers in the Moriarty clan colors of rust-red and black; her feet were shod in sturdy leather boots, and she carried a dark green cloak bundled around what he assumed were either her second set of clothes or stolen food, or both. Possibly there were some pathetic trinkets or mementos in the bundle as well, but he didn't care enough to deduce the contents further. "You're smart," he said approvingly as she came to a stop just outside the thicket where she'd hidden herself in a futile attempt to avoid his notice. "Not everyone is. Let's go."

"Wait."

He'd started to turn, to lead the way out of the copse of trees to open ground where he could more easily launch the pair of them into the air, but stopped at her single, desperate word. He raised an eyebrow as he studied her more closely this time. She was pretty enough, he supposed, with big brown eyes and hair a rich shade of cinnamon, but he wasn't sure what exactly had drawn Lord James' attention to her. "You look sad," she blurted out, interrupting his wandering thoughts, and he stared at her in surprise and consternation. "Sorry!" she squeaked, blushing furiously. "I just…you do. And not just now, but back at the castle. I've seen you, when you think no one's looking. And you always look…sad. I just…I'd like to know why. Before you bring me back to him."

There was a world of loathing in that single word, loathing that he, too, felt for the other angel if he was careless with the lock he kept on his emotions. He took a step forward, frowning, his hand clenching tightly to the pommel of his sword. "Girl, don't overstep any more than you already have," he warned her.

Instead of bursting into tears or groveling for mercy, she stood her ground, flinching a bit when he moved forward but otherwise remaining still, arms wrapped around her small parcel of belongings. "It doesn't matter what I do or say; he's going to have me whipped at the very least, make an example of me. And then he'll either rape me himself or let Guard-Captain Moran do it. Then have me killed right after."

Her voice remained steady as she spoke, and Sherlock found himself impressed in spite of himself. She'd known exactly what she was in for if she fled, but rather than take the easy path and submit to the inevitable, she'd chosen to take her chances on escape. "You should have just let him take you in the first place," he felt constrained to point out, drawn into conversation in spite of himself. There were very few people, angels or human, who could manage that; his wing-mate John Watson had been one of them, and John's human wife, Mary, another.

No. Shut the memories away. They were dead now, just like Sherlock's own family. The dead belonged in the past, and he had long ago vowed to live only in the present.

The girl - Molly - shrugged. "I couldn't just sit there and let him…it was bad enough when my family was sold into slavery to pay off debts, but to know that eventually I would have to surrender my virginity to someone as, as cruel and heartless as Lord James? Just because of some stupid tradition? No." Her face was set, her expression hardened by anger but surprisingly beautiful.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was a seasoned Hunter, not some moon-eyed stripling in the flush of first love! His sudden surge of - not sympathy, but understanding - was entirely beside the point. Just because she, too, longed for the freedom to live her life as she pleased, didn't mean he should delay her return to the castle.

"What makes you think life in Clan Lestrade will be any better?" He narrowed his eyes as she tensed, just the smallest bit. Unnoticeable by eyes not as sharp as his, very likely ignored by minds duller than his own. Which is to say, almost every other mind he'd ever encountered. He swept her with his gaze, picking up on clues he'd missed before. "Open the bundle," he said coldly. When she simply stared at him, he reached across his abdomen and pulled his sword partially from its sheathe. "Open it."

Finally there was fear in her eyes instead of defiance; she carefully laid the bundled cloak on the ground, picking apart the - rather expertly tied - knots. It fell open easily, and he took quick but careful stock of the contents. A second tunic, as expected. A small packet of needles and a roll of thread, practical when one only had two sets of clothes. But the other items… "Flint and tinder," he said, holding her gaze with his as he recited the remaining contents. "A small hand-axe. A brace of knives suitable for many tasks. Fishing line and hooks. A handful of candle stubs and a small length of rope, most likely clothesline." His voice turned incredulous. "You weren't running for Clan Lestrade territory, you were going into the wilderness."

She'd pulled her lower lip between her teeth while he spoke, and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he stared at her. After a moment, she let out a puff of breath and gave a sharp nod, confirming his deduction, as insane as it seemed. "I was. I know how to set traps; my father taught me before he died. I know how to fish, and how to prepare whatever I've caught be it land animal or water; that was one of my jobs in the kitchens. And there are caves too small for bears or wolves to use, that I could spend the winter in. After that, I was going to find someplace to build some kind of permanent shelter."

"Or die trying."

She nodded again. "Or die trying. Die free."

He considered her words, her passion stirring something in his heart long turned cold, long denied. Freedom. To be able to go where he wanted, when he wanted, to live his life as he chose,under no master's boot…it was a dream, but not one he'd allowed himself for many, many years. Because the price of freedom, of course, was manyfold: fear, hunger, thirst; freezing in the winter, burning in the summer. And always the need to look over one's shoulder, because Lord James Moriarty was not one to either forgive or forget.

Especially if the one who fled was a valuable slave like a seasoned Hunter.

"Close it back up," Sherlock said gruffly, gesturing toward the cloak. Molly lowered herself to her knees, carefully refolding the cloak and then tying the knots. She hefted it into her arms and rose to her feet, her eyes on him the entire time. "Come here."

Her eyes slid longingly toward the underbrush, then lowered as she trudged forward obediently. Sherlock took her hand in his, first pulling the cloak from her arms and fastening it to his harness so it hung low on his back between his wings.

As soon as they emerged onto the open meadows, he swung her into his arms. "You never answered me," she gasped as her arms automatically encircled his neck, sliding between the warm flesh and her cloak-bundle. "About looking sad. Will you?"

As last requests went, it was simple enough, and yet so complicated that he hesitated to answer her. Finally he turned his gaze so that their eyes once again met. He wondered briefly what she thought of his appearance; dark hair slicked back and tied at the neck by a bit of rawhide; silver eyes with hints of blue and green when the light hit it at just the right angle; black wings and pale skin, the latter marked with scars from the many battles he'd fought - and from some desperate souls ready to die rather than return to receive punishment at their master's hands.

"For the same reason you do," he finally answered her, then launched the pair of them into the air. He held his lips close to her ear as he added, "Because until now, there's been no one to catch me if I fall."

Stared at him uncomprehendingly until he changed direction, flying not toward the Moriarty clan seat, not toward the Lestrade territories, but northward.

Toward the wilderness - and freedom.