A/N::Word of warning to anyone reading this:: if you havent read the prequel:: Plumes in Red, you probably wont understand this story!

Here's the link:: s/7834853/1/Plumes-in-Red

xoxoxox

Plumes in Grey

"The wings of angels are often found on the backs of the least likely people-"

Eric Honeycutt

Sherlock scrutinised the wall of his apartment with disdain. He bit his lip with frustration: thinking, thinking, can't stop thinking-

John saw wings when he was in dire trouble, when he was dying, or when he felt he was facing death's mighty door. What did that make him? A crazy fool, an idiot? Surely John Watson was not seeing bloody fluttering wings, for God's sake?

Just as he was about to launch into a mental tirade that would've rivalled the chaos of a stampede of elephants crossing Piccadilly Circus on a Monday morning, he heard the door downstairs open. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was John: who else could have traced those light steps on the carpet: not even Mrs Hudson could walk so lightly on ground. He listened for each step on the stairs, and closed his eyes, mustering up a different face for the eyes of his partner, one that was not as angry.

It had been five days since John had left the hospital, and Sherlock knew that when John thought he wasn't looking, he would press a hand to his side, his face scrunching up in slight pain. Movement caused John to jerk slightly, but he refused to be aided. The doctors at the hospital urged him to stay a few extra days, just until he could cope without the painkillers, but John could not be moved from his resolution. He didn't like the lack of movement, and once or twice, Sherlock caught his left hand twitching, only faintly, but it was enough for John to budge from his quiet place on the bed.

John was seeing angel's wings? Or were they devils? What on earth did he see when he looked at Sherlock, when he thought he was going to die? What did he see as he lay in the alleyway nearly a week and a half ago? Did he see heaven, or hell?

He put both hands together under his nose, face thoughtful. On the outside he appeared calm, collected, but on the inside he was slowly breaking apart, and he didn't know why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact John was seeing something with his own eyes, and Sherlock was not allowed to see it at all. Maybe it had to do with the idea that John was possibly going crazy, hallucinating something that was not real, never real, and he could, in fact, have a tumour lodged in his brain, killing him with the stuff of fairytales. Or maybe it could have just been the plain, and simple, truth: Sherlock was worried for his best friend.

Last step on the stairs, and in came John from his shopping trip, bags in his hands, breathing heavily. Sherlock flinched at the sound, but knew better than to turn in John's direction. John didn't want him to see the pain etched on every nook and cranny of his face. John wanted to be collected by the time Sherlock said anything, or moved. He continued to drill holes into the wall with his bare eyes alone, waiting for that second when he would be able to turn around and wordlessly help his partner with the shopping. It was something Sherlock could do: maybe it was all he could do.

"Good trip I take it," he intoned, and the sound of it seemed to knock John back. No hellos, no nothing: just straight to the point: that was always Sherlock.

"Yeah, didn't have a fight with the blasted PIN machine this time. I think I'm starting to get to grips with modern technology, if that's even possible," John replied, sighing. Sherlock could see it in his mind's eye: John would be bending over, picking up the individual groceries, carrying them from the kitchen table and sticking them in cupboards. John would then-

"Holy-" John squealed, dropping the tins he was carrying, allowing them to clatter noisily on the ground. "Sherlock, is that a freaking pair of lungs- Gah! It stinks!" Sherlock finally looked away from the wall, and walked calmly into the kitchen, where he saw John, a hand covering his mouth, eyes closed tightly, stifling a cough. Sure enough, right in front of him, hanging off the top shelf, were a pair of dark red lungs, their smell pungent and raw. He narrowed his eyes in thought, before wordlessly reaching up and gently lifting them off their perch, squishy and wet in his fingers. He turned around, and as John opened his eyes, he opened the bin and dumped them in there.

"I could have sworn I got rid of them last week, before we went to the hospital," he muttered easily, rubbing his bloody hands together. John stared at his hands, then to the cupboard, where all that remained was a distinct trail of blood, dripping from the shelf, and onto the counter below it. He looked back to Sherlock, who was about to reach for the grocery bag, but not ebfore he uttered a sharp cry.

"Oh no, you don't! You bloody idiot, no bloody pun intended! Give me your hands!"

Reaching out for his hands, Sherlock was pulled along to the sink, where the hot water went on and a bar of soap magically appeared out of nowhere.

"I can't believe you were about to actually mix food with stale blood, Sherlock," John chided, and Sherlock smiled. He sounded like a father, and it pleased him. After the many things that changed in the past two weeks to them, only this one thing remained clear for him: no matter what would happen to John, he would always be there to watch over him. Nothing would ever change that. At least, he thought, he hoped not. "Wash your hands, before you decide to touch food, okay?" John was drying up his own hands, before looking critically at the shelf still sopping with blood. "I have absolutely no idea how we don't get rats," he muttered to himself.

Taking a cloth, he grabbed a chair, and pushed it close, before leaning one leg on the seat. Sherlock held the towel in both hands, and watched John as he stepped up, his face flinching from the movement, before he reached up and started to mop up the mess.

Was it really true? he thought, as he watched John clean, his eyebrows knotted together, his eyes set in one place: was it really true that he saw angel's wings?

John had fallen asleep on the armchair while he worked meticulously at the microscope. He knew it, when a half hour later, he sat up from the task at hand, and walked into the sitting room, his eyes catching sight of John's head as it lay nestled on his shoulder. He looked peaceful, and silent. His features betrayed nothing, not the possible nightmares he could have been having, or the blissful dreams he was experiencing. He continued to watch him, continued to take note of this pleasant face, unmarked by what had happened to him a week and a half earlier. John was so calm, his breathing patterns relaxed enough to make him feel drowsy, content.

He eyed the violin case in the corner of the room, and narrowed his eyes.

When he held John in his arms, John thought he was playing the violin for him. John thought he was at home, listening to Sherlock play, while in actuality, he was dying. It was bizarre, he noted, how John would be dreaming of him in his final moments. It was bizarre that anyone would consider thinking about him in their final few moments.

Noiselessly, and with great care, he took up the case and unpegged the violin from it, wondering what he should play to the sleeping John. He smiled softly, looking to John, who did not stir, his hands holding an open book in his lap. Taking the violin, he closed his eyes, and began to play softly spoken vibratos and whispery thin pianissimos. He did not know what he was playing: maybe he was making it all up, but surely he would be under strict tempo for it, and he felt no rush to play something like this. It was his own piece for John.

Somewhere between reality and dreams, he lost himself to the music, sympathetically singing to the sleeping John.

The bow arched over the strings, and in them, he felt himself wondering how someone who claimed no belief in God, could see something so significantly sacred. He closed his eyes, against the violin still resting on his cheek, and imagined those wings again, those perfectly shaped arcs of bone and feather. Somehow, he found himself wondering what John's looked like: were they white? He listened to the loud crescendo, and his eyes flew open fast, knowing his rising anger would possibly wake up his friend.

He looked over his shoulder, and there sat John, looking up at him with bleary eyes. He smiled sleepily at Sherlock, before he stretched.

"I dreamt I could hear you playing," John whispered. "And when I woke up, here you were." He folded his arms over his chest, settling further into the armchair. Sherlock let down the violin, letting himself fall back onto his own armchair, directly in front of John. How badly he wanted to ask, to listen to John tell him how this came to be.

"Hm, you told me something similar a week and a half ago," he murmured in return, looking away from John's deep blue eyes, to inspect the bow he held in his hand. He placed the violin by his side, and then narrowed his eyes, watching the gentle curve of the bow against his fingers. While he done this, he still felt John's eyes on him, and he blinked.

"I know I did," John mumbled, letting his head fall back onto the back of the armchair. "But the funny thing about it is, this time, my dreams were real." Sherlock looked up, and turned his head toward John, who smiled. Sherlock's hand twitched, and he grasped it tighter. He closed his eyes.

Gentle John.

He sounded so sad.

Gentle John, who saw angel's wings, devil's wings, his wings.

He swallowed tightly, the questions rising up along his throat, burning his voicebox, the millions of words, the statements, the final verdicts placing themselves one by one beside each other, like red dominos.

What would happen if John was secretly going mad inside his own head?

"Can I ask you a question, John?" he whispered softly, not daring to speak above a certain volume. He felt so lonely, and he couldn't explain it, for fear of unearthing something that had to remain buried for all eternity. He had to whisper, because at least then, John would not be able to hear the genuine fear in his voice. He looked up from those dark thoughts, to see John's eyes closed, his breathing deep once again. Even without thinking, John had gone on and fell asleep without him. Even now, he left Sherlock by himself.

"Do they scare you as much as they scare me?"

Outside, he heard the pitter-patter of rain.

He never slept properly at night. He was used to the constant ticking of his brain, and it was no surprise the natural genius suffered from acute insominia from time to time. When he found it hard to close his eyes and simply let go, he would just stare up through the window, toward the sky, straight to the stars, and beyond. It calmed him, and made him feel further away from the real world than he actually was.

When he was a child, he used to believe there were places between the stars and the earth, places only imagined by children: fairytales-

He shook his head furiously, dispelling the thought as easily as it had come. He was furious with himself, and had noticed lately how he seemed to stare at space more often than he pleased to on clear nights such as these. His eyes wandered to the digital clock: 3 30 glared back at him in red fury.

And outside, the world slept unawares.

He looked to the ceiling, his eyes wandering between the cracks from where he lay on the bed. His hand crackled the crisp bed sheets at his side, his eyes narrowing in thought. He wondered if John was asleep right now. He wondered, dazedly, if John ever stared at the stars at night, like he did.

Biting his lip, he sighed dramatically, and climbed out of bed. He threw his robe over his shoulders with the sway of the sleek fabric and walked out toward the sitting room, where he noticed the light was on. He stopped in the hall. Did he forget to turn off the light earlier? He could have sworn he did. Fearlessly, he padded into the sitting room, and peered around to see a figure sitting hunched up on the armchair. John's armchair.

John.

John looked up from his cup of tea, and smiled sleepily at him. But of course Sherlock knew better. John's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Bad dream?" he asked, biting back his thoughts. He must've fallen asleep at some stage. He hadn't heard John come down here at all. He walked over to his own armchair, and sat across from him. John's fake smile faded, and he looked down to his cup of tea.

"I don't want to talk about it, Sherlock," he answered, evading everything to do with the question, his face a mask. He sipped at his tea. "How about you?"

"Hm, well if you aren't going to talk about yourself, and how you're feeling, then why should I?" he sounded like a spoilt child, but what other way was he going to coax anything out of his friend? It was always a funny kind of bark and bite situation between the two of them, but it was the kind of bark-bite that meant they were honestly looking out for each other, and that was perfectly fine with him. John's eyes glanced up to meet his, and in them, Sherlock saw a raw kind of pain he only glimpsed when something really bad happened. It was the kind of look that begged him to take notice, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, cocking his head to the side slightly.

Quickly, as if it's presence was noticed by John, the pain disintegrated from his eyes, replaced by confusion. John looked away fast, as if he noticed he was caught, and he finished his tea, before getting up and dropping it in the sink.

"So are you going back to bed then?" he asked in the deadpanned air. Sherlock continued to watch him, his every move, every slight gesture. He wasn't looking straight at him anymore, he couldn't bear to, not with his eyes as readable as a book. He looked away from John, and sighed.

"No, I'm not, but you are," he replied, matter of factly. He noticed he'd forgotten to finish that experiment from earlier, and now he felt his mind palace ticking coherently again, a list of things popping up in his mind. Things to do, experiments to finish and, of course, the next murder to wait for. He heard John swallow.

"I actually-"

"No, you are tired, and you will be running errands for me tomorrow, so you will need to sleep, any of what is wrong, off, and be well for the morning that will come," he sat up off the armchair, and walked toward the kitchen, where John stood, unmoving, staring at Sherlock as he clattered around the kitchen, rumbling through shelves. It was silent for a few minutes, and John still watched Sherlock as he placed a set of fingers from the freezer on the kitchen table.

"Is something wrong?" he whispered, before he took a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock didn't hear him properly, and continued to work away, thinking of how many different fractures were possible on one finger alone. All the possibilities were opening up in his mind, and he stared into space, lost in a maze he would eventually find his way out of. He didn't see John as he laid one shaky hand against the table surface, not until he heard another unsure breath follow from John's lips. He looked up fast to see John's face as pale as a sheet, his hand gripped vice-like around his side.

John was speechless: his head was bent over.

"What is it, John? What's wrong?" Sherlock stood and walked over to him in two strides. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling it tremble under his fingers. His heart started to beat faster and faster, and before he knew it, he heard John's ever-calm voice mumble through.

"It's okay, no need to worry. I just need to take a batch of painkillers is all." John wasn't offering to move, and Sherlock placed his free hand on John's neck, feeling the temperature of his skin burn through. John flinched.

"You're very warm. Are you feeling unwell?" he asked.

"I'm fine, really. I'm just due to take something, that's all," John replied, breathing quickly, before he whimpered. He pressed his hand tighter into his side, and Sherlock quickly and gently pushed John against a seat, where he sat down as slowly as he could. Still John's head was bent over, and Sherlock quickened his speed and turned around to search for the painkillers in one of the cupboards. He found an empty glass and filled it with water from the tap, before running back to John.

John took the glass with a shaky hand, and swallowed two of the painkillers without water. He guzzled down the drink offered, and it was only when he pushed his head up that Sherlock saw how white he'd gone.

"You shouldn't be feeling like that after a week, John," he stated, slightly worried. John's eyes, dull and tired, looked to him, and he smiled weakly, shaking his head.

"No need to worry, Sherlock, I promise. I'm fine," he added softly, his breaths coming back more calmly and relaxed than five minutes prior. Sherlock looked away, biting his lip. After a second thought, John spoke again. "I've been having more than bad dreams lately, Sherlock. They feel like more than nightmares. They feel too real, and no matter how hard I try, they won't go away," he murmured. "I know they're inspired by what happened two weeks ago, and I'm not surprised, considering what happened, but I wake up thinking I can feel blood on my hands, and a pain in my side, and I can hear you screaming my name, and it all may sound childish to you right now, but then, when I was bleeding, I-"

He closed his eyes, and swallowed tensely. "-I couldn't feel anything, Sherlock. I was so numb for so long. My body felt completely alien to me, and I was so far away: I thought I was sleeping in the sitting room, listening to you play," he felt his voice waver, and he clenched his hands. Sherlock watched him, trying to understand why he was saying all of this. Of course, John was terrified of these nightmares. Goodness knows when he first moved in with him, he woke up screaming at night, his thoughts lost in whatever had happened to him in Iraq. But John was trying to say something else here, and he didn't know if he wanted him to continue for it.

"But that wasn't what scared me, Sherlock, I swear, that was nothing compared to feeling that I got afterwards, when I woke up in the hospital, and saw you sitting in the seat right beside me," John looked into Sherlock's eyes now, daring to let him see what fears lay just beneath the surface of his light blue eyes. There they were, as watery and innocent as they always were. "Feeling like I was literally one step away from going somewhere else, and I-"

His eyes widened, the logic setting in. Would John really feel that way? No, of course not. John was not like that at all. John wouldn't be the kind of person to willingly give in, and let his life go. Was he?

His heart pounded fast, like the fragile wings of a bird caught in a suffocating cage. He narrowed his eyes; let his mouth form a thin line. He could tell John was trying to decipher the face he pulled, but of course he would never understand that what Sherlock was trying to say by facial expression alone was, Would you honestly prefer not to be here, even if it meant you couldn't live on this earth at all?

"-I couldn't believe I was literally one step from leaving here, leaving all I've ever known, and walking to somewhere else without you-" he finished, before mumbling "-Wherever that would be."

He remembered how it felt to hold John, limb in his arms. He remembered John mumbling about the pain after he came to the second time. He remembered how it felt to see that much blood and literally think that all of it was John's. And now he would forever recall that time when John said he didn't want to die, because that meant leaving his best friend behind.

"Wherever that would be," Sherlock mouthed, looking away. Wherever that would be, would be a place where John would be among them. People who had wings. Angels, devils, and those in between. He looked to his fidgeting hands, feeling them twist and twirl under his thoughtful gaze. That would be a place where John would be happy, but it would also be a place where Shelrock could not, and would not, ever, be able to go. He listened to John's steady breathing as it grazed his face, felt John's eyes pierce his even though he was not looking directly at him. He could practically feel the heat radiating between the two of them, and, almost silently, he whispered- "How can you see them John?"

"See what, Sherlock?" John's voice was tentative, afraid. He could tell by the slight hitch in his voice.

"How can you see those wings? Why can you see them?" Sherlock looked to John's eyes, watching them mask over from honest shock to a calmness that cried 'fake'! He stared into Sherlock's eyes, knowing it was all useless, he'd already been ratted out and Sherlock was not going to let it drop until he got to the bottom of it. John looked away first. "Please, John," he pleaded, "Please tell me."

"Tell you what, exactly, Sherlock? I honestly have no idea what you mean," John replied smoothly. At least, to anyone else, it would have been smooth, but to Sherlock's keen eyes, he saw the slight twitch in those blue orbs, that near desire to look away. John chuckled nervously, "Me? See, what, bird's wings? Are you crazy, Sherlock, or did you forget you need a night's sleep in order to function properly?" He closed his eyes suddenly, bit his lip, and crouched forward again. Sherlock held out his hands.

"That's it, I'm calling the ambulance," he sat up and looked around for the phone, wondering where on earth he'd left it. He felt his heart pound fast in his ribcage, nearly wishing to beat itself out of his chest. His palms grew sweaty, and he didn't know why on earth he felt this worried.

"Sherlock, stop, it's okay," John grumbled behind him, as he wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'm just tired, and need a few hours sleep to kick this off-"

"No you are not," Sherlock retorted, turning back and walking around the seat John sat in in order to face him properly. He leaned down, his face coming close to John, who still hadn't looked up."You are in pain, and you need medical attention, the kind you so obviously cannot give yourself in this present state. I'm calling the ambulance, and you are getting some medical attention."

He stopped when he felt something graze his forehead. He glanced upward quickly, for the most part, ignoring whatever it was, but he stopped as he was about to open his mouth to ask John a question, and looked up slowly again. Feathers danced their way to the ground, patterned in greys and silvers, so-so-

He couldn't put a finger on it, but his mouth opened wide, his eyes full of wonder. Where were they coming from? He looked further up, and saw them, as clear as day, as pure as the night. Silver, and grey, dapples of white, small rainbows of colours as vibrant yet as subtle as a human touch. It was as if not even these wings were sure what colour they wished to be, so they remained in shadows, afraid to pick. They arched upward, curling around the ceiling, five feet over his head, and all around him, loose feathers grazed his skin, his fingers, as he held out his palms to touch them.

Like a Bird of Paradise.

They were falling endlessly, as perfect and beautiful as he imagined them to be, only more perfect and more beautiful. He gasped as he felt them touch the tips of his fingers, smiling. So this is what John sees. This is exactly what John sees when he is dying, when-

His eyes widened, and he looked down quickly. John is hunched over on the table, breathing fast. He groaned, and toppled off the chair as suddenly as Sherlock had looked down, and he quickly brought his arms out to grab John just before he hit the ground. The wings that surrounded John fell forward, and Sherlock's face was suddenly ensconced in white and silver. They felt light to the touch, but they carried with them the inevitable feeling of dread. He didn't know why John was in so much pain, only that he needed to ring an ambulance, or John would surely pass out from the agony.

He looked over his shoulder, before knowing he had to call Mrs. Hudson.

He felt John start to go limb in his arms, and he held him tighter, clutching him to his chest. He barked out Mrs Hudson's name, and kept calling for her long after John had passed out.

The doctors had taken John in the second they arrived at the hospital. He was left sitting in the waiting room again, feeling very much like someone caught in the déja vu scene for the millionth time. He twitched whenever he saw someone come out through the doors John was wheeled through, and he idly wondered how long it would take before he was allowed to see him.

He looked down to the ground, narrowing his eyes.

They were real. They felt real, and breathtaking. He closed his eyes. They were beautiful.

John wasn't making them up. He wasn't seeing things. And even if he was, then they were, at least, the prettiest lie imaginable.

He tightened his hands around each other, allowed them to weave in and out of his fingers as he waited for someone to approach him, and tell him what should've been left unsaid had John not left the hospital at all. He waited. Patiently. Hours on end.

Eventually, a figure shadowed him, and he stepped up.

"He suffered from an infection. The stitches weren't done properly, and he had a minor internal bleed before he was admitted," the surgeon spoke, to the point and quick to Sherlock's every question. "We'll monitor him for the next few days, and he will be fine."

Sherlock let go of the breath he'd been holding for the past four hours he'd been waiting for the news, and imagined, only briefly, that a small feather had fallen from the sky above him, and landed on his shoulder, a promise that everything would be okay.

A promise that the angels were watching.