Salvation

John coughed slightly in the dust and debris, squinting in attempts to see through the cloud that surrounded them.

He couldn't wait to get out of here.

People were yelling his name. His ears were still ringing from the IED and he was practically choking on the dust and death around them, but he had to press on. He was an army doctor. His duty was to protect and take care of these people. John Watson, MD, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Queen and Country. Whither the Fates Call.

The gunfire wasn't a surprise, but the sudden heat was. His shoulder grew very hot and then the pain came; he went down like a ton of bricks, aware of screaming but unaware that he was the one doing the screaming.

He heard his name, over and over, and, as he closed his eyes, there was a flash of something black, something blue, a shadow that broke the brightness of Afghanistan, but John was unconscious before he could see what had impaired his vision.

It wasn't a surprise that, when John returned to London, he found himself deep into an uncurable depression riddled with boredom and unhappiness.

He didn't know how many times that the gun in his drawer found its way into his hand and it wouldn't be until far into the future until John began to wonder how the chamber had never ended up emptied when he'd held it. It was a heavy, cold presence in his hand, reminding him of his days in the service and how those were days that he would never have again. So, he would wonder... in the future... how it had never ended up empty.

The most accepted theory was that John Watson had a Guardian Angel.

John knew this wasn't true.

In a world where Humans and Angels co-existed on the same plane, it wasn't a far-fetched concept to think that he might have a guardian angel. But Guardians showed up in the time of need and they stayed for a lifetime. John hadn't met anyone new as of late and all the people had had surely hadn't had wings.

So, he didn't have a Guardian Angel. That was obvious.

Still, he hadn't shot himself yet, so he supposed he had luck.

Surprise coloured his life when an old friend from Bart's stepped into his life. Stamford, Mike, that was, and then he met Sherlock Holmes. And then it wasn't a matter of how many times he held the gun in his hand for a sign of remembrance of battle but as a legitimate reason; he shot people for Sherlock Holmes.

He was rude, he was pompous, he was childish and blunt and strange. But John liked him... liked him a lot in fact.

And then there was a fiasco with a psychopath, Sherlock committed suicide, and John was alone again.

No, he definitely didn't have a Guardian Angel.

But then Sherlock came back.

Somehow. Magnificently. Miraculously.

Miracles did happen.

John pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open without knocking. Their relationship had progressed beyond needing to knock at this stage. "Sherlock, did you-"

He stopped abruptly.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked from head to toe save the black-brown curls on his head and... what appeared... to be... jet-black... wings sprouting from his back. He glanced up in surprise, looking vaguely shocked and then a little bit abashed. "... John."

For the first (and hopefully last) time in his life, John fainted.

When he came to, he was curled up in a bed that wasn't his and he was drenched in sweat. He couldn't exactly remember why...

"Honestly, John, surely you've seen an Angel before."

Sherlock's monotone snapped John out of his reverie. He sat up quickly, making a grab for the blankets for whatever reason. Security, he supposed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Are you alright?"

John blinked a few times. "... You're an Angel," he said quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. His tone gave voice to the unspoken So?

"... You're an Angel," John repeated, finding the correct conviction. "I didn't know you were an Angel!"

"That is obvious," Sherlock said, pulling his dressing gown more firmly over his shoulders. "I was never particularly hiding it from you."

John stared up at him, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. Sure, he knew that Angels lived with Humans and he had even seen a few Angels in his lifetime. A few in Afghanistan, to be sure, but... living with him? For two years?

"Stop staring, John. I haven't changed at all since we went out to dinner earlier."

"You have wings!" John accused.

"I've had wings," Sherlock said. "I didn't just grow them a half hour ago."

"... For two years?" John asked weakly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I said everyone else was an idiot when I first met you, didn't I?"

"Where are they... where..." John trailed off.

"On my back, as is obvious," Sherlock replied, turning away. He went to his dresser, presumably to find his pyjamas to put on.

John tried to be sly in inspecting the satin blue cloth that covered Sherlock's back, looking for any sign of Sherlock's... state of species.

Sherlock sighed. "Did you want to see them or are you just going to pass out again?" he asked dryly.

"... Can I?" John asked quietly.

"You're the only person allowed to make me show you my wings," Sherlock muttered.

Before John could process that statement, Sherlock had unhooked his gown's belt and let it fall from his shoulders, pooling in a heap around his ankles. He was still without a stitch of clothing beneath it but, for once, John wasn't sputtering at him for it.

Because the jet-black wings that unfurled from Sherlock's body took predominance, predominance over everything. They were long and large, the blackest black that John had ever seen. Where the light hit them, they almost seemed to have a blue shine, a hue to them that very nearly had John's mouth falling open before he caught himself.

The feathers looked silky, soft to the touch. John again had to shake himself away from the childlike wonder of experiencing something he hadn't yet experienced, resisting the urge to crawl off the bed and walk the few short feet to where Sherlock's wings were.

The spell was broken when Sherlock drew them back close, drawing them impossibly tight around his body. The very tips of the feathers draped the floor near his ankles and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

"Impressed?" he asked, his voice a monotone but the slightest hint of curiosity rearing its head into the question.

"Do you honestly think I'm not?" John retorted. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock snorted and turned back to his dresser.

John felt the tips of his ears burn. "That's not what I meant, you arse. Your wings. Your wings are beautiful."

Sherlock hummed in a non-commenting tone, but something about the way that his wings shuffled slightly made John think that he had taken the compliment to heart.

"... What do you do with them? When you're dressed, I mean," John asked shortly.

"They stay where they are," Sherlock said, stepping into a pair of pyjama pants.

"But how come no one notices?"

"Most of the time when I go out, my coat provides for good coverage," Sherlock said conversationally. "Otherwise, I do have a sort of... cloaking 'magic', per se, but I don't use it often. Any magic uses up Angel mana, as it were, so I don't tend to bother using any of it. Most people don't pay enough attention to notice."

"'Angel mana'?" John repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm just putting it in terms you'll understand. I doubt you took a course in Angels when you were in training."

John shook his head. "No... Guardians tend to, you know, save people, not need saving."

He stopped suddenly. Guardians. They... saved... people...

He looked up at Sherlock. "... Are you here because of me?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock fixed the shoulders of his shirt, fingers roving to his dressing gown. "Of course."

John blinked again. "You're my Guardian."

"Yes."

"My Guardian Angel," John repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. "You are remarkably slow this evening. I mean, you seemed to be there for the case today, but now you've taken a backturn."

"I just found out you're an Angel; what do you expect?!"

Sherlock shrugged. "A cup of tea would be nice, actually. Do you want one?" He brushed out of the bedroom, his feathers completely invisible beneath the clothes he was wearing. Not a feather remained in his place.

"Wait just a moment," John exclaimed, following him. "How long have you-"

"That's a dull question, John. You know when we met."

"But Angels aren't supposed to Descend for a person unless they're in need, dying."

"... Afghanistan," Sherlock said quietly.

Realisation hit like a ton of bricks and for the second time in the night, John felt light-headed and woozy.

"... You. The black, back in Afghanistan... it was you."

"Yes."

"I thought I was just seeing things."

"You weren't."

"You saved me."

"Yes."

"... You're my Angel," John repeated, sinking into the kitchen chair.

Sherlock sighed, sitting a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "We're going to have one of those talk things, aren't we?" he asked dryly.

John looked up to meet his gaze, nodding ever-so-slightly as he stared at the detective... his Guardian Angel, literally, in the flesh.

So, I've finally succumbed to writing an AU. Wing!lock is so damn... attractive. Ever since Ben played Islington in... Neverwhere, was it? By Neil Gaiman, on the radio? Oh, the crossovers and now the wing!lock. And I love it. It's my one AU fault.

Special thanks to meridette, who's given me in-depth help with wing!lock thus far and helped to persuade me without knowing it to write and publish my own wing!lock.

I do not own Sherlock. I'd love your opinions, since this is my first real AU. :P