Fallen Angel
Chapter 1
To see a sunrise from above the clouds is a truly spectacular thing, and something that one John Watson has had the privilege to see more than once. A flock of seagulls flew alongside John, screeching and wheeling in a show of acrobatics. He'd been flying for a few hours now. Sherlock was out on a case the night before and without the usual sounds of life emanating from the living room, like pacing or Sherlock's violin serenading the still air at three in the morning, he'd found it difficult to sleep.
The sky began to lighten and he knew that soon the sun would begin to peek over the clouds. John decided he should head back to London. Using the updrafts from the sea, he began a lazy ascent to the higher levels of the atmosphere and entered a jet stream. The high speed wind carried him across British countryside until he began to see the outskirts of London. John exited the jet stream and made his way over London to Baker Street, all in the hopes that, as of yet, London's inhabitants would still be sleeping and wouldn't spot him.
John landed softly on the balcony outside his window, and once he had his feet planted firmly on the ground, crawled through his window. The muscles around his shoulders and back burned in a pleasant way, like after a particularly good run. His chest and wings felt grimy after flying through salty sea air and the smog of London, even early in the morning. Sherlock must have heard his entry because not a second later, the man himself was at his door, leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock took one of the few rare chances presented to him to study the anatomy of John's wings out without his usual shirt or jumper obstructing the view.
"Good flight?" Sherlock asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Yes. Bit chilly, though." John replied, answering Sherlock's own infectious smile. "Might take a scarf next time." Sherlock shook his head and pushed off from the doorjamb, entering John's room. John watched Sherlock seat himself on his bed as he slipped on a specially modified singlet that allowed him to have his wings out. John leant against the window he entered through.
"Hmm… yes. It seems winter has arrived early this year." Sherlock took a deep breath in before exhaling quietly. "You smell like… like the sea and the city… and tea and feathers."
"I flew right out to the coast this morning; riding on the updrafts with seagulls." For the last couple of weeks, at Sherlock's suggestion, John has been leaving a couple of nights a week, late at night, and gone flying to stretch his wings, returning early in the morning. "You should come with me some time, Sherlock."
"I don't think you're strong enough for that, John. Your body is designed specifically for you to be able to fly. My extra, added weight could greatly reduce your capacity for flight." Even at quarter to four in the morning, Sherlock's mind is whirring away in the background.
"Sherlock… we've been through this. I'm an angel, not a bird. The physical limitations for a terran bird and a celestial angel, such as myself, are drastically different. Besides, I think you've forgotten I've flown with you before; the afternoon you stepped off the building." Sherlock didn't have a reply, he merely shrugged.
"I don't have time to spare for trivial little day trips to the coast." Sherlock waves his hand in a non-committal manner.
"But you have time to lie around, complaining about being bored and shooting the wall? Something, might I add, that Mrs Hudson won't let you get away with." Sherlock raises one delicate eyebrow, smirking. "There's only so much one person can take. Actually, I'm surprised she allows you to keep those ghastly experiments around here. Honestly, heads in the fridge, mummified thumbs in the margarine container…" John trails off as he potters about his room. He turns back to Sherlock, pointing a finger at him. "Speaking of which, that liver that you'd left in the tub of chlorine has started to… decompose. Mrs Hudson asked me to see if you could remove it. You know, potential health hazard and all."
"But the experiment hasn't reached its conclusion yet!" Sherlock's smirk disappeared and, if anything, he looked mildly annoyed.
"Dear God! Did you just whine at me?" John laughed, pausing in making his bed to look at his friend. Sherlock turned sharply and headed for the door.
"Go to sleep!" He shouted before slamming John's door. Though John was smiling in amusement, he winced at his flatmate's loud behaviour. Mrs Hudson was right below them, and being woken at four in the morning was another thing that she simply wouldn't stand for. I'm your landlord, dears, not one of your university friends.
When John woke again a few hours later, refreshed, it was to Sherlock's violin. Violin usually meant thinking, and thinking more than likely meant a case. And a case meant running all over London, chasing after bad guys; possibly even getting shot. John's wing was still a little tender from Lawson's bullet. Luckily, he and Sherlock apprehended the man a few days after he escaped them on the roof of the office building. During the time it took for Lestrade and his men to arrive at the scene, Sherlock suggested that John got his own back in the form of a solid punch to Lawson's, not inconsiderable, gut.
Half an hour later, after emerging freshly washed and shaven, John went downstairs to the living room. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, staring at a bunch of photos tacked to the wall above the hearth.
"Good morning." John called. Sherlock didn't move, he simply kept staring at the photos.
"New case, John; the pilot of a cargo plane, James D'Arcy, was shot dead at a military base in Sheffield. He was supposed to be taking supplies, confidential documents and letters for the soldiers in Afghanistan." John sighed and stood beside his friend, looking at the information presented to them. "I'm guessing by the size of the bullet hole in Mr D'Arcy's chest, that he was killed with a gun using 20mm bullets." There was a large gaping mess where D'Arcy's heart should have been. There was no coming back from that. "He was shot at point blank. Whoever killed him had their gun pressed up against his back when they fired."
John shook his head and took a step back. "So far this is just sounding like an ordinary murder. What has got you so interested in this one?" He asked. Sherlock gave him an intense look, one he usually wore when he was in 'case solving mode'.
"He was killed in the base. No CCTV footage of his murder or murderer, no evidence left behind, and D'Arcy has no connections with anyone of importance. The confidential documents he was meant to be carrying weren't anything of importance, and he wasn't killed so they couldn't be delivered because the military only needed to designate another pilot. As far as we know, his heart could have just spontaneously combusted within his chest."
"I highly doubt that is what happened. It's too early for this." John muttered, pulling a face. He disappeared in to the kitchen.
"It's one in the afternoon, John!" Sherlock called "Why would anybody want to kill D'Arcy?" He continued, talking a little more quietly even though John wasn't in the room. Sherlock had stolen his skull back from Mrs Hudson, so he decided to direct his questions to it. Sherlock studied the face of the young man with a hole in his chest. "He's nobody; completely unimportant. Who and why would anybody go the effort of murdering this man in a military base?" Suddenly, John reappeared, shrugging on his coat.
"Off out, Sherlock; gotta' get some milk."
"Ah, good idea." Sherlock walked to the door and donned his coat as well.
"You're coming?" John asked, completely shell-shocked. John didn't even think Sherlock knew what a supermarket was. Sherlock gives him the look that John's deciphered as 'Of course, you idiot'.
John hails a cab and climbs in, closely followed by the detective. John opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by Sherlock. "Scotland Yard." John, staring, still open mouthed at his friend, gives an incoherent cry of annoyance.
"Sherlock!"