Though I've tried,
I've fallen
I have sunk so low
I messed up
Better I should know...

(Fallen by Sarah McLachlan)

He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't know why she still comes, slipping away from her Heavenly duties to meet him whenever he sends a desperate, urgent summons mind-to-mind. He doesn't know why the link between them still exists; all his other connections to Heaven and angels and especially to Him (don't think of Him, it's too painful) were severed when he foolishly allowed himself to be swept up in his brother's rebellion.

But come she does, swooping gracefully into the secluded forest glen where they always meet, no matter how much time passes between those meetings. She's exactly as he remembers her: her brown eyes and soft cinnamon tresses and the soft red of her lips contrasting beautifully against the alabaster of her flesh, the dazzling white of her wings, the muted gold of her tunic and sandals.

He reaches for her as soon as her feet touch the ground, pulling her into his embrace, guilt sweeping over him as their lips meet. Her mouth is supple and yielding beneath his, their tongues dancing softly in an intimate caress. He fists her hair in one hand, the other busy stripping her of what little clothing she wears until he feels her bared breasts against his chest. His mouth slides to her throat, sucking red marks into her flesh that fade almost immediately, but even if its only temporary he still needs to brand her as his own.

She moans and nips at his ear as he cups one perfect breast in his hand, thumbing the dusky pink nipple. She's already tugged off his trousers, all the clothing he's bothered to wear in thousands of years, not even sandals on his feet. What need have either of them for any sort of clothing, after all, when they feel neither cold nor heat in the way mortals do?

It is something they share with humans, he supposes as he presses her against the nearest tree, a need to clothe themselves. A shield against the sight of others, although humans seem to feel that God cares about nudity far more than Sherlock knows He does.

Again he banishes the thought of everything he lost, everything he still longs for and yet shies away from. He'd been a fool to join Lucifer and his own brother Sherrinford in their fruitless war, a war that led to their defeat and banishment from Heaven. Lucifer might rule in Hell with Sherrinford by his side, but Sherlock no longer follows him. Perhaps that self-imposed exile from those who have declared themselves eternal enemies of Heaven is why he's still allowed these fleeting moments in his lover's arms.

"Molly," he says, his voice a soft moan as he slides one hand up her leg, catching her thigh and pulling it tight to his hip. Her wings are spread behind her, outstretched and cushioning her from any discomfort she might feel against the rough bark of the tree. Any marks on those glorious white feathers will slough off as easily as the love bites he continues to give her, a sign of her purity of spirit, a purity that has never been tainted in spite of the way she allows him the comfort of her body. He discovered that during their first heated joining after his exile, and remembers the mixture of jubilation and - shamed though he is to admit it - disappointment that their relationship was no stain on her soul.

"Sherlock," she murmurs in response, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup his face. She smiles, a sad, sweet smile, and his heart aches with sorrow for all he's so willfully thrown away. Pride and arrogance are his sins, sins for which he is still and perhaps always will be paying; he knows that their Father will welcome him back if he but repents of his reckless actions.

He wants to, especially when he's with Molly, remembering all that they shared and all that they might someday share, but something holds him back. He still isn't sure what it is - that pride and arrogance, perhaps? An unwillingness to admit he was wrong? But he's already done that, if only to her. No, there's a feeling of something left undone, of waiting for a specific moment that keeps him from seeking redemption.

One day, perhaps. But not today. Today is about Molly, about feeling her body moving with his. His fingers caress her breasts, his mouth seeks hers and his erection - his heavenly rod as she'd once laughingly called it, back when they were both much more innocent - burns between them, aching to be quenched in the welcoming heat of her sex.

She slips one hand down his chest, her fingers leaving a trail of molten fire in their wake. The hand slips lower, lower still, until she's grasping his erection, rubbing her thumb over the tip and making him see stars. They sparkle and shimmer in his eyes and he lets out a guttural, animalistic groan before once again attacking her mouth with his.

His wings - once the same pure white as hers, now black with only the faintest glimmer of silver along the edges - flutter, rising and falling with every restless movement. As always she allows him to set the pace, to direct their carnal activities, to be the one in command. He's never taken advantage of her sweet acquiescence, never abused her trust even after his fall from Grace, even at the most incandescent height of his rage and self-loathing, never raised a hand to her or done her harm.

At least, not physical harm. His movements falter and shame rises up as he remembers railing at her for not joining him in his exile, the unfair accusations he'd flung at her, bitter words that she's never taken to heart. He kisses her again in unspoken apology for those hurtful times, and he feels her love and forgiveness envelop him as she strokes his shaft, guiding him into the sanctuary of her sweet body.

He nearly weeps at the acceptance radiating from her, but instead channels his emotions into action: he strokes into her with a fierce tenderness, one hand still supporting her leg, the other slipping into the cinnamon strands of her hair, cradling her scalp as he continues to kiss her. They breathe but have no need of breath, not as humans do, and so he can never actually kiss her breathless...but he tries. Oh, how he tries, until finally pulls his lips away in order to nip at the soft white column of her throat.

"Why, Molly?" he asks, his voice a husky growl that vibrates against her flesh. "Why?"

He's never asked her this, and if she chooses not to answer, he's not sure he'll find the courage to try again, but her voice, so gentle and loving, sighs in his ear. "You know why, Sherlock. You've always known why." She meets his gaze but he turns away, too fearful, too cowardly to acknowledge the unspoken truth between them. The one he's been running from since his Fall.

His movements falter at the sudden burden of guilt that cramps his belly, but she - as always! - knows exactly how to bring him back into the moment. She winds the fingers of both hands into his wild mess of curls, tugging fiercely but never cruelly, in a manner that's never failed to arouse him.

Now is no exception; he increases the pace of his thrusts, letting go of her hair and instead tugging her other leg up around his hip. Her wings shimmer in the last rays of the dying sunlight, fluttering like trapped butterflies against the tree that only partially supports her, and then she pushes herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him wildly.

A shudder runs through his body, a white-hot burst of energy that translates into action: muscles bunch, wings flap, and he launches them skyward. A joyous laugh bubbles up from Molly's lips and he smiles as she folds her wings against her back, trusting him implicitly. Just as he's always trusted her; she's always counted, always been the one that matters to him the most, and in moments like this the choices he made seem even more foolish than he already knows they were.

Molly's lips move to his throat and he holds her tighter as he increases their speed. Her hair billows around them as he takes them spiraling higher and higher, bodies locked together in a carnal dance. At the apex of their flight they cry out as their mutual completion overtakes them. Gasping against her neck, he snaps his wings against his back and goes into a dive, sending them plummeting back to earth, bodies still entwined, as Molly lays kiss after kiss against his overheated flesh.

At the last possible moment he pulls up, swooping perilously close to the tops of the trees, feeling leaves dislodged by their passage tickling the soles of his feet and exposed calves. With another deft maneuver he brings them safely back to Earth, landing gently with his lover still entwined in his arms.

He releases her when she lowers her feet to the ground, but her arms remain looped around his neck, and she holds him until he finally allows himself to look at her. It's always like this when they've made love: his shame at having dragged her back into his orbit causes him to flee, to leave her as quickly as he can, and usually she lets him go...but not this time.

No, this time his Molly has something to say, and she won't let him go until he's heard her out. "I love you," she says, those three words he's never spoken to her. When they were young and he wasn't yet an outcast, it had been out of complacency, the sure knowledge that they had millennia to spend together and the arrogant presumption that she already knew. After his decision to join Sherrinford and Lucifer, he'd been too caught up in the fervency of rebellion to allow himself room for any softer emotions. Especially after she (in his foolish mind) rejected him.

"I'm not worthy of your love," he says, his heart filling with the bitterness and self-loathing that have been his constant companions. "I never have been, Molly."

"Everyone is worthy of love," she replies, her voice firm. She reaches up with one hand to cup his cheek, the other brushing his ruffled curls from his forehead and tracing a line along the shell of his ear. "I wish I could make you believe that, Sherlock, as strongly as I do." Her smile turns sad. "I wish you would believe in yourself. You're a good person, here, where it counts." She lays her hand lightly on his chest, right over his heart. "And even good people make mistakes."

"You continuing to love me is your mistake," he says, the words coming out harsher than he means them to, desperation and fear rising up in his blackened soul. He wants to shake her, to force her to admit that mistake, to agree that he's no good for her and that they should never see one another again. He needs her to do this, because in spite of what others might think, he knows that she's the strong one, that she's always been the strong one.

But she's shaking her head, her expression one of quiet determination. "No, Sherlock. Giving up on you would be the mistake. And it's one I'll never make."

She holds his gaze until he can't stand it and reaches out to gather her close, kissing her as desperately as he had when she'd first joined him this evening. He's always known how she felt about him, but for some reason tonight it's different. He's still terrified and angry, but somehow none of that matters. Knowing that she's never considered loving him a mistake...those are the words he's needed to hear, that he's never dared to ask.

It is her rock-solid love for him, her utter faith in him, that finally - finally! - gives him the courage he needs. He rests his forehead against hers and pushes back the darker emotions that have all but consumed him since his exile. "I love you," he says quietly. "I've tried to stop loving you, but I can't. Not telling you before now...that was the biggest mistake I've ever made, I realize that now."

A sudden warmth infuses him; his eyes open and he pulls away from her, looking around for the source of that warmth. A soft gasp from her lips directs him to look behind him, and his heart pounds fiercely in his chest as he takes in the sight of his wings transforming before their very eyes. The black falls away like soot, fluttering to the ground and blowing away in the breeze that springs up around the two of them, leaving behind only a shining, glorious white.

Absolution granted. He doesn't need to hear those words sighing through his mind, his soul, to know the truth of them.

He's been forgiven. And all because of the gentle, kind soul who loves him, who never gave up on him. Tears spring to his eyes and Molly smiles at him joyfully. Holding out her hand, she says simply, "Come home, Sherlock."

Her fingers are warm in his, but not nearly as warm as his heart. "Home," he says, his voice filled with longing and wonder.

Today is that day after all. "Yes," he says, his voice rough with emotion, too many to untangle even for a mind as sharp as his. "Take me home, Molly."

A/N: Thank you, lilsherlockian1975, for cheerleading and helping me with the ending!