Author's note: My story has been edited by thedragonaunt. She has done absolutely great job and I'll always be grateful to her. Thank you! I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters from BBC Sherlock.

The Beauty of the Heavens

Here I lay, looking upwards,

What a glorious sight to behold.

The eternal beauty of the vast heavens,

looking down on me.

This forgotten beauty will always be with me.

I think of the god of heaven and Earth, and I know,

That one day I will be dancing on the stars with you,

lost in the eternal beauty, and bound eternally with love.

(Alex R. Wolf)

Part one

The Night in His Eyes

Chapter 1

Sherlock crouched in dark shadows of the high brick wall. His long coat swung slowly in the nigh breeze and his curly hair hung wildly over his frosty blue eyes, now shining with excitement. John stood right beside him, his back pushed against the wall, steely Sig Sauer in his hands and an attentive, slightly cautious expression on his face.

Next to Sherlock, to his left, was a corner of another shaded alley, which crossed the one they were standing and disappeared into the darkness. Silvery clouds wandered along the winter night sky, scattered with twinkling stars and the moon, pale and cold and distant.

The sound of running footsteps broke the silence of the alley, approaching from the far left, around the corner. Sherlock and John glanced at each other, mild surprise in their eyes.

"I thought they were gone," John whispered and stared into the darkness with narrowed eyes.

"Keep it ready," Sherlock whispered back and nodded briefly to the gun.

The steps grew louder - light, quick steps like a child running along the street. Then there was a sudden flash of a black, hooded coat, almost like a cloak. It threw itself around the corner, made a quick roll, came to its feet and fired explosively along the alley, towards something John and Sherlock couldn't see. A man's groan blended into the fading echo of the shot. Then the coat dashed through the alley and disappeared behind the other corner.

"Bloody hell, that was quick!" John grunted, his ears ringing.

"Whoever it was must be on our side."

Sherlock bounded onwards and raced after the black coat.

They rushed down the alley, dark and wet and stinking. There were more loud gunshots and more groans and screams. Somewhere to their left, they could hear men yelling at each other but their words dispersed between the high walls and ramshackle buildings. As they reached another corner, Sherlock suddenly stopped and John ran into his back. He lost his footing and almost dropped his gun.

"Shit..."

"John, on the roof!"

John tilted his head and saw the dark shadow of a man standing on the rooftop of the old warehouse, against the sky and the moon. The man was holding a rifle. The barrell was pointed down to the alley but the man was not yet aiming. John raised his Sig Sauer ready to fire at any moment, if needed.

Sherlock quickly appraised the scene. There were five people at the end of the alley, where the brick wall made a dead end. Four men, tall and strong and dangerous-looking were running after the person in the black, hooded coat. Whoever was wearing the coat was small, but acrobatic and incredible quick. Sherlock watched in amazement as the coat ran against and along the wall, took three quick steps upwards, made a back flip in the air and rocketed down and into one of the men, the force throwing him violently onto the street. Once on the ground the coat balanced itself and, in a flash, a leg darted from the black folds and kicked another man in the temple. With a quiet sigh, the man crashed to the tarmac.

Sherlock frowned and tried to figure out if he should have any part in the odd fight but, before he really had time to think, he was running towards them.

Another well-placed kick shot out from the folds of the coat and the tallest man roared when his knee shattered. But his long arm had already been on its way and he managed to destabilize the black coat with a haphazard hit, throwing the coat off balance, just enough that the last man managed to wrap his hands around the wearer. Despite the broken knee, the tall man moved forward and threw a savage punch right under the hood. There was a sickening crunching sound and the black coat crumpled, bent double.

A second later, Sherlock tackled the tall man. They smashed to the ground in a mess of fists, legs, curly hair and a lot of swearing. Another second and the grabbing man was suddenly tugged from the ground and thrown over the black shape to the street, just next to Sherlock. The dark detective had already fiercely punched the tall man on the face, breaking his nose and knocking him out; and in one smooth move he threw a sharp rock straight into the back of the last man's head. The man jerked violently and fell onto his face, where he lay still.

Then a double-gunshot tore the night apart. Sherlock heard the whiz of a bullet, as it passed by his head and hit through the black-coated shape behind him. The coat made a slow turn and fell to the ground.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and John swooped out of the shadows.

"Are you okay? Hell, I couldn't shoot him in cold blood and... Holy shit!"

Both men stared at the black coat in amazement. The hood had finally dropped down and, under the hood, there was a graceful, girlish face, now covered in blood, two befuddled blue eyes and a mess of long, golden hair.

She scrambled to her feet, leaned heavily against the brick wall and aimed a gun toward Sherlock and John. Her left arm hung useless at her side. She gritted her teeth and gasped. Her gun hand was shaking, but her grip was firm.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she whispered in a hoarse voice. "What do you want?"

"Calm down," Sherlock said, slowly raising his arms. "We are on your side."

She narrowed her eyes and studied his face for a moment. Sherlock could see quick thinking behind her blue eyes.

"Why would I believe you?" she asked. Her face had turned extremely pale and the scarlet blood glistened against it like the shards of a ruby. Her back slid slowly down against the wall, as her legs gave in. She tried to push herself up but couldn't. She swore quietly and bent her knees to almost sitting position, there on the wet alley.

"Well, I just tackled down your assailants and he," Sherlock glanced at John, "he shot one of them."

She slowly put the gun down on her lap and nodded. Her head drooped and she took a deep, shivering breath. John glanced at Sherlock and the tall man nodded shortly. John handed his gun to Sherlock and squatted down in front of the girl, or woman. He really couldn't say. She looked young but she had that tired look in her eyes, like she had already lived through several lifetimes. John felt a sudden twist in his heart.

"Hello, my name is John."

She looked up and said nothing.

"You have been wounded. We need to get you to the hospital."

Her eyes widened in panic.

"No!"

"Listen, you -"

"No! I'm not going to the hospital!"

"Look, the bullet -"

One sudden movement hardly possible to perceive, and there was that gun again in her hand, pointing directly at John Watson's brain.

"Hospitals. Never. Again."

John frowned at the gun. He stared into her eyes for a moment.

"Okay. Hear me. I'm a doctor. If you'll let me to have a look..."

She hesitated for a moment and laid the gun down again. She turned her face away when John moved the black coat, carefully. Under the coat there was an expensive-looking shoulder holster and a black shirt, wet from all the blood pouring from her arm. John unbuttoned a few buttons from the shirt so that he could see the wound.

"No broken bones, I suppose."

Her voice was small and emotionless. John glanced at her, curiously.

"How would you know?" he asked.

"Feels like it," she said. "The bullet just passed the muscle, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're most likely right," John said, studying the wound with narrowed eyes. The light in the alley was poor, just some glimmers from the streetlights and the distant moon. But considering the location of the wound, she had made a correct diagnosis.

The entrance wound was small and clear. The bullet had passed through the deltoid muscle, about half an inch deep and, as the distance between the entrance and the exit wound was so short, the exit wound was not that bad, only slightly larger but somewhat ragged. She had been very lucky. Well, considering...

The bleeding was quite bad, though, and the wounds needed careful cleaning and stiches; time would take care of the rest. John knew he could do it all by himself, at Baker Street, where he kept some basic equipment to hand.

He looked at Sherlock with a silent question in his eyes. Sherlock stared at the girl for a moment and nodded.

"I can clean and stitch the wounds, if you like," John said, mildly.

She turned her head and looked into John's dark-blue eyes, so kind and full of sympathy. Her dizzy eyes shone. She dropped her head down and whispered something John couldn't hear but he assumed it to be a submission of some kind.

"I'll make a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding," he said, soothingly. "It'll hurt, but bleeding will eventually take you to the hospital, so I assume you prefer this."

She nodded briefly. She had begun to tremble and her gaze was unfocused.

John frowned and thought quickly. Then he pulled off his shoes and socks.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"I need your scarf."

John put the shoes back on and rolled up his socks tightly. He had changed them just few hours back, so they were quite clean and would do the job. Sherlock stared at John for a moment and, slowly, took off his scarf and handed it to him. John moved the girl's gory sleeve to get a clean piece of cloth to cover the wound. Then he placed his rolled socks onto the wounds and pressed. She inhaled sharply and gritted her teeth.

"Hold these," John said to Sherlock.

The tall detective kneeled down and placed his black leather gloved hands onto the socks. John took the scarf and wrapped it, firmly, over the socks and around the shoulder, several times. She was breathing quickly and lightly, as if she knew that to be the best way to control the pain.

Once the bandaging was complete, the girl's head drooped again and her eyes closed. She was nearly unconscious. Then a quiet whisper, hardly audible, ran drowsily from her lips and shaped a small brook of words:

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain...

"What did she say?" John asked, puzzled.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and something glinted in his eyes.

"Keats..."

"What?"

"John Keats. From Ode to a Nightingale.

"Is she... reciting poetry?"

Sherlock glanced at John, an inscrutable look on his face. He stroked his lips, lightly, with his glove and for a moment his gaze was distant, as if some old memory had passed across that continuous observation behind his eyes.

"I'll carry her," he said suddenly.

He leaned forward and eased his long arms under the fragile shape. He lifted the girl and her weight was like a breeze in his arms. He stared at John. He saw him looking at her long, straight, amazing hair, swinging gently in the bitter night air.

It was like an angel had fallen from the sky, deep down into the shady back streets of their vast city of London. The angel with a gun, which she refused to give up, though her mind had already wandered away.

"I think we found our killer," Sherlock said quietly as the sound of police sirens wailed in the distance.