Starts with more torture and such. Grows from there.

Lights. Lights and sound and something moving and everything was blurring together. And then all at once, it stopped. Everything was dark. Still. There was just….nothing.

Waking up was…terrifying. It was always terrifying, but this time it was frightening in the sheer alienness of it all. He wasn't cold. Or in pain, or uncomfortable at all. There was something soft under him, something warm on top and it smelled…of lilac which was odd and something cracked nearby and he was screaming again. Because surely this was some new torture. And he wasn't sure he could handle this, to be teased so with warmth and comfort to have it ripped away, likely in the worst ways possible.
Footsteps and then Mycroft was there and how strange was that? Was he joining in now? Where was…Sherlock couldn't breathe. He was disoriented and frightened. Mycroft was saying something to him, hands on Sherlock's bony shoulders. And then Mycrofts' face blurred and morphed into blackness again.
Sherlock's head lolled against the pillow. No control…and his wings, they were burning they were on fire and he was screaming again, flinging himself against the wall, he had to put out the fire. Two angels were grabbing him, and he didn't know them and he panicked, striking out with feet and fists, though neither made much of an impact. They wouldn't let him put out the fire, why wouldn't they let him….and then Mycroft was there with a hand on his neck, and then he could breathe again. And Mycrofts' arms were around him and Sherlock sagged against his brother.
For a long time, nothing made sense. There would be food, and when he could be convinced to eat it, he always got sick. But it was never followed by a beating. He'd be gently cleaned, and Mycroft would say things in that same worried tone that he always had that seemed….odd, for Mycroft, though Sherlock could never remember why it was odd.
He dreamed, every night. Nightmare upon nightmare, slowly building up inside his head, and they just kept getting worse. Mycroft didn't understand, he thought that Sherlock was getting better. He tried to explain, but there were no words in their tongue to describe how he was feeling. And English felt dull and heavy in his mouth, on his lips.
John helped exponentially. Being able to share with John, to show him…Each time, he felt a little lighter. As if the memories and dreams had weight, and by showing them to someone, he was removing a little bit of the burden from himself. John didn't seem like he was letting them, the memories, crush him. Or even weigh him down. That was good. It meant that Sherlock could keep showing him. John wanted to help, and really, this was the best way, at least in Sherlock's mind. He couldn't carry this by himself, and John could.

Baker Street was…much, much better than Mycrofts home. It actually felt like someplace he wanted to be. It felt like someplace that wanted him there. Mycfofts house was just…well. It was big, and beautiful, and full of valuable things. It was a lot like heaven, actually. And very much not for him. Baker Street was his. It was small and cluttered and full of things that maybe weren't valuable, but they were important and that meant so, so much more.

John was happy to have him here, though he worried incessantly. Sherlock wanted to tell him that it would be alright, that he was fine, he was home. But he wasn't really fine at all, and they both knew it. And talking, lately, had just seemed to be so much extra effort that he didn't feel like dealing with at all. English felt wrong on his tongue. All the little rules and regulations felt tiny and insignificant and he simply didn't care. He could get his point across with out using words. And John more or less accepted that, taking Sherlock's impressions and images and using those to communicate, though he begged him to use his words almost daily. Sometimes Sherlock complied. Other times he did not.

He cursed his weakness, because he was still contained to this human form. He was still weak, needed to eat and sleep to kep breathing. He needed to breathe which was annoying too. He was so much more human than he'd ever been and he hated it. He remembered before, when he'd been brought cases to solve. He'd liked that. He rather thought he'd like to try again, though lately, focus was not something he was very good at. His mind skipped tracks like a broken record, hopping from one to the next in the middle of a thought, only to shift back to the first several days, or even weeks later, as if he'd never stopped thinking about it. It was part of what made talking frustrating. He'd start sentences and forget to finish them for hours, filling the interim time with new thoughts, new ideas. It was easier not to talk at all. He had to get his mind under control. He had to make it his own again.

He was tied down on a cold metal slab. His wrists and feet were bound with leather cuffs, inscribed with sigils to render an angel at full power weak. It was unnecessary on him, but it did his job. He could feel what little power he had left being muted, stifled. He struggled briefly, but a cruel looking man grinned down at him, eyes white and gleaming. It seemed that Moriarty had pulled some strings to get hell's most proficient torturer here.
"Now, now," he said, voice smooth as silk. "None of that, angel. None of that. Don't want you hurting yourself." His grinned widened. "I'll be doing plenty of that myself." He held up a wicked looking scalpel. Sherlock's eyes widened. He knew what the demon had planned. "Yes, they said you were a clever one. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I've done it to so many human souls. Though never on an angel. And the humans never knew what was coming till it was happening.
"No," whispered Sherlock, "God, no." The demon whipped the scalpel down, cutting a gash across Sherlock's cheek.
"No God here," he hissed. "He can't hear you, no one can. Your precious Father is dead angel. He won't help you now. There's no one. No one but me." And he made the incision, straight down Sherlock's torso. He screamed. The demon didn't stop cutting, making two more cuts from the shoulders, meeting the center line. Sherlock was shaking, unable to even scream as the skin was pulled away, leaving his rib cage exposed. The demon grinned at him. "Ready nurse, for the autopsy?" he asked, and there was a low chuckle from a demon Sherlock hadn't seen before. A young woman strode up to the table.
"I got the spreaders," she said gleefully.
"Hand them over dear," he said, and she complied, before leaning down to Sherlock's ear.
"You know what's gonna happen next," she whispered. "He's gonna crack those ribs wiiiiiiiiiiide open. And play with your insides." Sherlock whimpered. The demons looked at each other with obvious pleasure. And then Sherlock was screaming again as his ribs were cracked open and pushed wide. He wasn't screaming for long, as blackness overtook him.
Relief was short lived, as an electric shock sent him all but shrieking toward consciousness. The demon bitch was grinning at him still, what looked like a small cattle prod aimed directly at his heart. He assumed. He couldn't see much except skin and his broken ribs, red and dripped peaking out over his chest cavity. The man 'tsked' at him. "Come on now. That's cheating. Mr Moriarty won't like that at all, will he." It wasn't a question, however much it might be phrased as one. The male demon gently pushed the electrical tool away, and the girl stood back, setting it down where Sherlock couldn't see her or it. And then the demon man plunged his hand into Sherlock and grabbed his heart, and started squeezing. "I trust you are familiar," he whispered, "with the story of Prometheus?" And somehow, through the haze of pain, Sherlock did know exactly what had happened to Prometheus. He tried to scream but all he could d was cough. "Sadly," the demon continued, "I don't have anything as majestic as an eagle." He gestured, and the girl came forward again, a rather large rat in her hands. "This will have to do." She made sure Sherlock got a look at it, before the demon nodded. "Put it in and close him up."

John awoke to screaming. He had been sleeping in the same room as Sherlock, and was attuned to the whimpers, he'd thought, that preceded most of his nightmares. On this night though, Sherlock had been silent until the screaming started. John didn't wake until Sherlock was shrieking to wake the dead, hands clawing at his stomach, red lines appearing on pale flesh, already bleeding. "It's in me!" he shrieked. "No! No! Get it out! Get it out!" He was half sobbing, and John couldn't grab hold of his wrists. Sherlock had most of his strength, and pushing John away was no harder than pushing away a flea. "Rats, rats," he sobbed, "get it out, get it out, no, no, no, please." John felt sick.
He screamed for Mycroft who was there in an instant with Isda, and the two of them managed to subdue Sherlock so he couldn't hurt himself anymore. John tried to wake him for nearly five minutes before he stopped thrashing and his eyes lost that blank, unseeing look. He was panting and still sobbing slightly. "There's nothing inside you Sherlock," said John. "Except for what is meant to be there. No rats." Sherlock nodded, then panicked again as he felt his arms still held captive. He started to scream again, as Mycroft all but shoved John out of the way.
"It's alright. It's just me. I have you, alright? You are still safe." Sherlock took several deep breaths, trying to calm down.
"Dreams," he whispered. "Just dreams."
Mycroft didn't go home for nearly three days after that, until Sherlock all but kicked him out the window. What he actually did, was banish Mycroft outside the flat, and refused to let the protections down to let him back in again, and eventually Mycroft had texted John, told him to keep Sherlock out of trouble and to call him if there was more incidents, and gone home. Sherlock was extremely pleased with himself for the rest of the day.

It was nearly a month and a half after what John called the Pond Incident, and two months after the Dream Incident, that Sherlock decided he wanted another day out. John had tried to steer him away from the park, but Sherlock was absolutely adamant. He hadn't even thought about it until three days ago, when the little boy had turned up at Baker Street. Sherlock had opened the door before John could protest, and the boy had started with babbled thanks. "She's all better sir, the doctors didn't know what to say, and she had to be in the hospital for another week, but she's all better and your water did it. Thank you, thanks sir, I mean, really." and he hadn't seemed likely to stop, so Sherlock had merely nodded once, and shut the door on his face. John had gone to apologize, but the boy was gone, and in his place was a piece of paper with a drawing of Sherlock dressed as a superhero. Sherlock didn't care, when John had shown him, though a little pleased feeling ran through John that he was pretty sure actually belonged to Sherlock. He supposed it was a good thing that Sherlock was pretending not to care about it. He never would have shown that he cared about something so sentimental before. John decided to take it as a sign that Sherlock was getting better. But he kept the picture, putting it in a box that he kept under his bed, slipping the paper underneath his war medals and next to the last picture he'd taken with his father before the man had died. Sherlock could claim it later, if he wanted.

But after the boy had come, Sherlock had started feeling the pull of Outsideagain, and finally, John had agreed. Sherlock was quietly pleased to be going out, and John could feel it occasionally, bubbling across whatever link Sherlock (or Mycroft, he honestly wasn't sure which) had set up so he'd be better able to help. Since they weren't touching, he wasn't getting anything clear from Sherlock, just an overall sense of general wellbeing. John was glad to make him happy.

Sherlock took his shoes off the second they reached the park. John had sighed, and collected the discarded shoes and socks. Sherlock hadn't wanted to wear them at all, and maintained that walking in bare feet wouldn't harm him anymore. John wasn't at all sure that was true, but managed to convince him it would look strange to walk all the way there with no shoes, and they didn't want to draw attention to themselves again, and he'd reluctantly agreed.

He briefly checked the water and the fish in the pond but, satisfied, did nothing else. The boy seemed to have done what he said and not told anyone, because there were no reports of the magical healing properties of the pond, which was good, because they didn't exist anyway. He continued wandering about the park, stopping occasionally at a bush or tree before moving along again. John watched anxiously. So anxiously, that he didn't even notice the woman sit beside him.

"Which one's yours?" she asked, and honestly, John thought it was obvious. He had his own socks and shoes on, and yet was clutching another grown mans pair. Sherlock was more or less the only lone man in the park, and he was the only one without shoes. Sherlock would have had a scathing comment. John just smiled and pointed. He was examining the large tree at the edge of the park now, about fifty or so paces from the bench where John sat. The woman nodded, pity filling her eyes, and John immediately felt his defenses rise. "I have a niece," she said. "Autistic, poor dear. It's nice though, that they let him out. Are you his doctor?" John tightened his jaw.

"I'm his friend. And he isn't autistic. He's been through a trauma." The woman started backpedaling.

"Oh, I am so sorry." She coughed slightly, then looked back at the tree to change the subject. "It's a shame, what's happened to that tree. It died about three years ago. Well. Started dying. They're going to cut it down. I grew up with that tree though." She sighed. "It's at least a hundred years old. Lot of history there." She sighed again, recalling picnics, stolen kisses, a tire swing that had long since been removed. Sherlock glanced over at them. John stood suddenly, and Sherlock turned and put both hands on the rough bark. "Is he going to try and push it over?" the woman asked, bemused.

"No," muttered John. "Sherlock don't you dare," he added, pushing the thought toward his friend with all his might, but Sherlock ignored him, and pushed slightly. And there was a loud crack, and Sherlock was sauntering away from a tree, old and gnarled and very much alive, looking very pleased with himself. John scowled at him and Sherlock strolled over to him and grinned widely. One of these days, thought John, he'd learn not to tell Sherlock not do do things. Sherlock hadn't lost his contrariness. Or at the very least, he'd finally regained it, and he seemed to take immense pleasure in doing the exact opposite of what John wanted.

Though, technically, he supposed Sherlock was more or less doing whatever it was that he wanted, and ignoring what John wanted. Sherlock frowned and put a hand on his shoulder. "No," he said. That wasn't it at all. "I fixed it. It was sad, and people were sad, and I fixed it." He could explain it better without the english words, but John wanted him to speak aloud as much as possible, and though the words still felt stiff and heavy on his tongue, but he wanted to show that it wasn't just being contrary that made him happy. He could do what John wanted too.

The woman looked nonplussed, and then awed. "Was that you?" she asked, breathlessly. "You made the tree alive again?"

He tilted his head slightly. "It wasn't all the way dead. I…" he struggled for the right english word, and not finding it, substituted. "Helped it."

"My niece," she said, slowly. "She's…could you fix her?" John frowned again, and Sherlock mimicked his expression.

"I only fix what's broken," he said. "I see your niece." He tapped her forehead. "Nothing broken with her. She's happy." He scowled at the woman. "Come John." And he grabbed his shoes away from the man and strode away, making John jog after him.

"You okay mate?" he asked, a little breathless as he caught up to Sherlock's furious strides.

"The girl is fine," he grumbled. "Happy, not broken. Good with singing. Nothing to fix." He grabbed John and with a flap of invisible wings and a rush of air, they were back at Baker Street. John stumbled, coughing. He hated that method of travel. Sherlock had collapsed on the floor.

"I fix things John," he whispered. "I fix broken things, and dying and sick….why am I still broken?" And John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and held him close, closing his eyes. He never wanted to see that lost, distraught expression. Not ever again.

"You aren't broken," he whispered. "Not irreparably. You fix yourself every day. You let me help you. You let Mycroft help when I cannot. Don't ever think you're broken Sherlock. Because you are picking yourself up. And gluing yourself back together, and there is no way you could do that if you were unfixable."

Sherlock leaned against John and clutched at his shirt, closing his eyes. He could feel the warmth, the concern, the love, rolling off of John. He could feel how much John believed what he was saying. Not broken, not shattered. Just a bit cracked. And he was getting better.

Notes: This might be the last for real chapter. I might do one more, set a few years in the future and put in some Johnlock slash, but...I guess that depends on demand? So. Unless I get hit with a real good idea, this is it. I might do ficlets in this universe of various extras.
I hope you weren't too disappointed. Also, if you caught the supernatural cameos...good on you. Like I said before, this story isn't really a Supernatural Crossover, more of a fusion, with elements taken from it. However, I couldn't really help myself here. So. Some characters found their way in, though not by name.