When it hits him, he is alone in a sea of dying men. There is mud in every crevice of his body, blood spurting in tired bouts from every other space. His foot has been infected for weeks, and if he wasn't the only doctor himself, he would have had to amputate the limb. Not that it matters much, anymore. He iss bleeding in the rain, listening to the wail of sirens and the whistle of bombs flying overhead. To his right, a man gurgles through a bullet hole in his gullet, trying to form the name of his wife.

Humans die easily, they said. You won't be any different.

Arrogant in his gleaming armour and immortal bones, he had dismissed such warnings. How could something indestructible die at the hands of mere humans and their pathetic machines? He was eternal.

Of course, that was before a bullet dug its way into his shoulder, and he lay in the mud bleeding to death, feeling very human indeed. He clenches his hand in the muck, smelling the putrid scent of burning flesh. The trenches are on fire. Men are screaming, howling in pain. This is how he dies, in the blood-stained mud and under a grey sky of miserable rain.

When he was born, the songs had promised a death of glory and light, in fields of gold where armies clashed against soldiers of the darkness. The songs had spoken of his beauty and his honour. He was Uriel then, the son of fire, a general of the Mighty, an archangel.

Well, shit, he thinks faintly. This is a jolly good excuse of a life, isn't it?

'It is,' remarks a voice at his head. He recognises the sound before the face swoops into vision, dark eyes and dark hair knotted back against her head. She is all in white, and the blood and the muck stain the hem of her dress as she kneels down beside him. Her hands are cold on his forehead, colder than the rain. She smiles with her lips and not her eyes, but that was how she always was. 'Does it hurt much, Uriel?'

He coughs harshly. She uses the old name not in spite - she only knows the old truths of things - but it does not make it hurt any less. 'Of course it does,' he growls through gritted teeth.

She shakes her head in what would be dismay, if she was capable of any emotion. 'You chose this path,' she reminds him.

He remembers. He remembers the choices he made. He does not need her to recite these words. 'Why are you here?' he demands hoarsely.

The rain does not touch her, for she is protected. She cups his face with her hand gently, tracing her pallid fingertips against the weathered surface of his feverish skin. She is a paradox amongst these fallen soldiers, a figure of plump health, the beauty that these boys will never see again. 'I am here to make you an offer, Good Soldier,' she smiles. 'There is a man who needs a Guide. You must go to him. We will give you a new face, a new name, a new life.' She draws her fingertips against his lips. 'You will not have to die, Uriel. You can live.'

A Guide was a role he had not chosen. He chose to be a soldier and to fight away the darkness with weapon in hand, whether it was a sword, a rifle, or a scalpel. It is not in his nature to be a teacher, or a figure in the dark to push a human with subtle words and silent actions.

He swallows, and all can taste is smoke and bile. The pain is clouding his mind, swamping all other understanding. Anything but this, anything but this cold, empty torment.

She nods, for his pain is sufficient confirmation. She bends her head carefully to seal the deal with a kiss. Always a kiss, for those that wander between the realms, for her and her sisters.

The mud turns into sand. The rain sharpens into harsh, blistering winds armed with grains of sand. The sun burns a hole in his vision. The pain is explosive, cracking into his spine and ricocheting inside his skull. He roars in pain, muted by the sputtering cracks of a machine gun. Something explodes in a rush of light, but he is protected by the hulk of a tank. Someone shouts a name. Figures dance in and out of sight, heads covered by helmets and scarves to protect faces against the sandstorm, and hands press against the hole in his shoulder. The pain is like lightening.

She watches from behind them, her face calm, her hands covered in the blood of the innocent and the tears of the murderers. She smiles at him and nods in farewell.

The world blackens. He dissipates into nothingness.

.

He wakes up bandaged and aching, tongue thick with morphine. A woman in uniform tends to the wounds in his leg. Her face is tanned by the sun, and a white scar edges down to her jaw, almost hidden by golden twisting curls. When she meets his eye, he recognises her from thousands of lives before. She offers an apolagetic smile, perhaps for her heavy hand, or for his cursed existence. She presses her forefinger and middle finger against his wrist as if to take his pulse, but she is bleeding life into him, days and months and years and decades of insignificant facts. She distributes a mundane name to him, and a torturous history to explain the pain in his eyes and the tightness at the corners of his mouth.

When it is over, she presses her palm against his back to calm his racing heart.

Boots thud against the floor. Worried faces accompany uniformed bodies. 'Christ, Watson,' one of the men whistle. 'We thought you were done for, mate.'

He can do nothing but smile wearily at the soldier as his memory readjusts accordingly. 'I'll be fine,' he promises, because he is still a doctor, and still a soldier. 'Flesh wound.'

Another man - Bill, is his name - pats the woman on the shoulder gently. 'You take care of him,' he says gravely. 'He's a hero.'

Because she has watched from the beginning of time, and she knows the secrets of the universe like her own bones, she holds the hand of the newly formed John Watson tightly. 'I know,' she says.

Captain John Watson is honourably discharged from duty. He walks with a limp, and his shoulder aches when it rains, as though in remembrance. The men that know John Watson as a hero disappear from existence. One dies in a raid. The three other are in a Jeep with five American soldiers when a car bomb explodes underneath them.

.

He is limping his way through a park, attempting to clear his head, when a voice calls out his new name. He almost ignores it, but then he remembers that he is no longer the soldier dying in the mud. The world is much different here, and the old smoking machines have been replaced by sleek things that hum and glide. He must become John Watson.

The man he greets is halfway through his lifespan, introduces himself as Mike Stamford, whose face is also imprinted in John's memories. In this age, humans can afford to be fat and content. John can see this in the way Stamford bends his head, blinks owlishly through his glasses, and moves around his weight with the ease of one much accustomed to such a disposition. He expresses his hatred for young students with a laugh, and John can only respond with a dry laugh.

Humans will always be young, impervious and foolish.

John finds it difficult to accommodate himself in London, with his funds being a bare minimum. Soldiers were never paid well in any era. Stamford suggests a flatshare.

John has nightmares of every single war. He remembers blood, and mud, and the smell of singed flesh. He knows the sound that children make when they call for their mothers. He remembers battles where scales and fangs burned, and battles where black blood oozed thick over the land.

'Come on,' he smiles humourlessly. 'Who'd want me for a flatmate.'

Stamford begins to tilt his head. Across from them, a young woman with curly blonde hair fastens her coat tightly about her waist. She glances once at John and her lips curve slightly in a bashful smile.

Almost apologetic.

'Well, you're the second person to say that to me today,' Stamford is saying.

'Who was the first?' John questions, his eyes drifting back to the young woman.

The young woman nods, and John understands. It is time for him to meet the man he must Guide.

John does not hold any expectations. He has learnt not to, with the ever-changing nature of humans. He imagines he will find something lost, perhaps, or something that has yet to understand that it is lost. He does not expect to find a young, beautiful fledgling crouched over a microscope, shadowy wings dancing wildly behind his back. Four wings, four black-feathered wings that only those like John can see. John does not know how to react to this, so he stares.

John offers the fledgling his phone, because it is needed. He does not know how to Guide one of his own.

The fledgling talks in rolling rush of words, incoherent thoughts that are not formed for common understanding. It is not normal for him to communicate in obvious terms. He decides, in a sweeping decision, that they must live together.

'We don't know a thing about each other,' John growls. He is angry at being forced to be a Guide for something that will eternally remind him of what he used to be. He is outraged that such a young thing is forced to exist here, in the world of men, where no one could possibly understand what it was like to know everything. 'I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name.'

But the fledgling knows everything about John, but then, it is only expected. When he draws closer, John recognises the colour of rain in his eyes, and this makes John a little afraid and a little saddened. Fledglings are meant to be full of hope. This man holds nothing but loss, death, and the icy feeling of mud seeping into the lungs of drowning men.

He is arrogant, which annoys John, and he is brilliant, which annoys him even more. He pauses by the door, inky feathers whirling in his wake, and meets John's eye. 'The name's Sherlock Holmes,' he informs John calmly, 'and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street.'

And then he winks, bids Stamford farewell, and is gone.

Stamford finds it amusing. John remembers the last time he was this enraged. He had burned a forest to the ground, and caused the clouds to tear apart with screaming lightening. This time, he shifts uncomfortably from leg to leg, feeling pain whisper through his limb.

.

John ends up traveling to the flat. He is met at the door by Sherlock, who is far more civil this time. They are both greeted by a homely woman decorated with soft clothes and a lovely smile. She folds her arms about Sherlock in the most comforting of methods, and it is then that John recognises her. She nods at him slightly as he walks up the door. Whether she is here to help John or to watch over Sherlock, John does not know. He only knows that her duty is only to observe, as is the duty of her other sisters. She is introduced as Mrs Hudson, but John knows that this is only a life she has taken in order to remain close to Sherlock.

John takes note of the skull, amused by the fledgling's choice of toys. He might be an adult in human terms, but in truth, he was no more than a squealing babe. Everything is a mess, a hurricane of it, and when he mentions the thought, Sherlock attempts to rearrange things in embarrassment. John finds it oddly endearing.

Mrs Hudson mentions something about suicides, ambling in the doorway. She limps because she once rose up against the decisions of the Mighty, so they punished her accordingly. Now she is eternally old, and every movement she makes is plagued by anguish. She has learned not to disobey, and it hangs in her demure posture.

Then, the police arrive, lights flashing in darts of colour against the curtains.

'Not three,' Sherlock notes, 'but four.'

A grey-haired man leans tiredly in the doorway. There are scars on his heart where he has seen the bodies of children, but his love is still large enough to swallow a world. People like him are rare among humans. John watches him with interest.

'What's different?' demands Sherlock, glee dancing in his eyes.

Ah. Right. Rejoicing in the fall of humanity. John understands why the fledgling requires a Guide. It was easy to laugh at the demise of mankind, when one did not experience these pains firsthand.

Of course the grey-haired stranger knows that this is inappropriate behaviour, but he sighs and accepts the statement. 'We need you,' he states solemnly. 'Will you come?'

Sherlock calmly accepts, but once the man is out of sight, he dances about and announces that it's Christmas. His wings beat heavily against the air, almost forming solid shape.

John watches with growing panic. Not only is the fledgling rejoicing, he is publicly celebrating death. This is not John's salvation. It is clearly some form of twisted punishment.

But damn it all, he is beautiful in the dark, grinning like a cat with its prey. John remembers another fledgling with the same colour wings, and the same sharp smile, the same dark beauty, and his heart hurts with an ache he has not felt in two thousand years.

With a joyful flourish, Sherlock bounces away, and John is left alone with Mrs Hudson. He taps his cane against the floor in a short burst of frustration. Normally he would have attempted to follow the mad creature, but this time the ache in his knee had turned into agony.

'Did they do that to you, too?' Mrs Hudson asks meekly, gesturing to John's knee. 'Was it punishment for leaving, Good Soldier?'

A rush of white-hot anger roars through John. He slams the cane against the floor. 'I was not punished!' he snaps.

Mrs Hudson draws away, trembling with fear. John realises that his hands are on fire.

John breathes slowly, calming himself. The fires die out. He smiles weakly at the old woman. 'I'm sorry,' he apologises. 'My knee still hurts.'

Mrs Hudson smiles back. She forgives easily, for if she did not, she would be bound by all the mistreatments thrown upon her. 'That's alright,' she soothes, pressing her palm against her chest. 'My sister told me you were in pain. It's only natural that you're angry.' She claps her hands softly, and the agony fades into a dull thud. 'There,' she smiles. 'Let me make you some tea. Only this time, though,' she laughs, nodding at John's knee. 'I'm your Watcher, not your helper.'

That answers that. She's here to watch John, not Sherlock.

John sighs. He must be calm. He is living with an old woman and a child now. This is not the battlefield. This is a new terrain, and he must adjust himself to it. He studies the newspaper in search of more information on the suicides, and why Sherlock would be involved.

Naturally, this is when the man himself bursts back into the flat. 'You're a doctor,' he states.

Yes. Have been for the past five hundred years.

'Yes,' is all John allows himself to say.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'Any good?'

John reminds himself that he is dealing with a child, and must be patient. 'Very good,' he replies steadily, clenching his hand around his cane.

The black-winged fledgling watches him in avid delight. 'Seen a lot of danger?' he teases.

John remembers the dead, and the smell of blood mixing with rain-beaten mud. He remembers the smoke, and the feeling of sand digging into his open wound. 'Enough for a lifetime,' he says quietly. His shoulder throbs in response.

A smile drags dangerously across Sherlock's face, and John cannot breathe. He forgot how intoxicating a brother's happiness was, or how infectious the desire for a thrill was. He has spent too long separated from his kind. He wants the blood on his sword. He wants fire to bloom wherever he touches. He wants wrath, and he wants to bestow on others the sort of pain he feels. He wants the chase, and he wants the charge of the battalion.

'Want to see some more?' Sherlock asks.

'God, yes,' John grins.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson despairs for the fate of mankind.