The Bane of My Existence Three-Part Series

Also available on AO3, link is in my profile.

Wherein Sherlock is a demon, Mycroft is a bastard, and John is just John.

Part 1: Faking It

Part 2: Kill and Tell

Part 3: Gone So Long

Part 2: Kill and Tell

"John!" Sherlock yells, "Where are the socks?"

"Sherlock, keep it down! Jesus, I'm right here. And how would I know?" John grumbles.

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise, his dressing gown flaring as he spins around. The living room's in a sorrier state than usual, with books, paper and newspaper strewn all over the floor, couch, and Sherlock's chair. John's chair is the only piece of furniture absent of this clutter. Instead, it's occupied by the owner himself.

John pauses in his reading for a moment, "Hang on, why are you so worked up about a pair of socks? Just grab another pair."

Sherlock shoots him a haughty look, "The socks, John. They're not mine, and they're not just socks!"

"What do you mean?" John asks, looking up briefly before shaking out his paper and continuing to skim it.

Sherlock continues scanning the room, tapping his foot urgently. He flops onto the ground on his front and peers under the couch before sticking his torso back up meerkat–style. His face is a study in irritation.

"I mean they are fickle, potentially hazardous spirit–energy triggered bombs. The supernatural version of an atomic bomb. It depends on the person, but if the wrong person puts them on practically all life on the planet would perish," Sherlock says, his voice like a machine gun as he scans the room again, his frame rattling with nervous energy.

John looks up and stares at his flatmate for a moment, "You're joking? Exploding socks?"

Sherlock shoots him a grade–A bitch face, "No, John, I'm messing with you because I have nothing better to do. By all means, if you'd like to see life as we know it die from exploding socks, sit back and enjoy the show!"

John eyebrows rise and he tries not to laugh, "I – alright, I'll give you a hand. What do they look like?"

He stands, folding his paper in half and places it precariously on the side table, taking care not to knock his teacup, the lamp, or science tomes over. Really though. Exploding socks? John feels giddy at the very idea – it's bloody absurd!

Sherlock continues perusing the living room with a sugar–fuelled–toddler–like energy, and it's the only reason John is actually taking this seriously. His friend simply can't be having him on with such an atmosphere about him; and if he was, John would be able to tell if he's faking.

Sherlock says, "Okay. They're dark blue, white band around the heel, toes and – "

"Found them."

"What?" Sherlock whirls to face him.

John's pointing down at his shoe– and evidently sock–clad feet, a sheepish expression on his face. Sherlock stares at him. There's a long moment where neither of them move. John only blinks back, what?

"John, take them off!" Sherlock cries, diving for John's feet.

"Wha – Sherlock!" John yelps as Sherlock shoves him back into his chair, the zippy detective yanking off his shoes, then his socks.

Sherlock grabs both socks in hand and throws them towards the kitchen, as if that would somehow rid them of the danger. They take a moment to catch their breath, and John heaves a weary sigh.

"You realise if those socks were about to explode they probably would have already, right?" John says.

Sherlock clears his throat and stands, "Perhaps, but we had no way of knowing for certain."

John gives him a heavy, layered look, "Right."

There's a pause, and it's a bit awkward.

"Tea?" John says.

Sherlock snorts, John smiles wryly, and the heavy atmosphere dissipates.

"So. Socks?" John asks as he flicks the kettle on.

"Socks," Sherlock affirms, nodding his head a couple of times, and says nothing more.

–––

"What are you doing?"

The question is like a cutlass–clad, cloaked intruder in his mind palace, and Sherlock doesn't have time for this right now, he seriously doesn't.

"Thinking," Sherlock says heatedly, "Or trying to, but your boring thoughts are in my face and it's distracting me."

"But – you're upside down," John says, completely ignoring most of what Sherlock's just said with practised ease.

John just stares at Sherlock's upside down face in wide-eyed bewilderment. Soon enough, Sherlock's eyes snap open and he unfolds his hands from beneath (above?) his chin.

"Yes, John, I know," Sherlock glares.

"How are you upside down?" John asks incredulously.

Sherlock sighs, as if it's the most obvious thing on the planet. His feet are touching the ceiling, flat, and he's ramrod straight. His eyes are almost level with John's. They are sharp with irritation, just as effective the wrong way around.

"I'm sure you're well aware by now that I do not exist in the same reality as you. Not quite, anyway. John, it's really not difficult for me to avoid being affected by such a simple principle as gravity," Sherlock scoffs.

John can't stop staring. He feels like Sherlock's speaking another language, and John's vaguely understanding the meaning through tone and familiar body language.

Perhaps he shouldn't be quite so shocked, what with Sherlock being a bloody fallen angel and all that entailed, but this, this more than everything else has pulled the rug out from underneath John's feet. When he takes a step back in his mind and looks at it like that, he finds it a bit ridiculous. No less disconcerting, but ridiculous.

"Physics has always been dreadfully irrelevant," Sherlock mutters, and he's suddenly upright once more, striding away to his room.

John's sure he hadn't even blinked but he'd missed it anyway. He can't help but muse on how Mrs Hudson would react to seeing Sherlock pinned to the ceiling like that, and honest to god giggles at the thought.

John grabs his laptop off the coffee table and sits in his chair for some quality blogging time. He finds that it's a bit of shame he can't say anything about Sherlock's latest quirks without having his sanity questioned by his faithful readers. They would make great entries. After frowning at his laptop for a moment, he ends up typing them up anyway and saving it all as a private entry.

It's dark out when Sherlock reappears, dressed in his customary suit and clingy dress shirt. John glances up at him, notes the smug barely–there smirk and a triumphant light in his eyes.

"Solved it then?" John says.

"Yes. Coming?"

"Of course."

–––

Sherlock's eyes squint as he stares down at the corpse.

He's been staring for longer than two minutes.

"See? Makes no bloody sense," Lestrade says.

It could be that this is a particularly tricky one, but Sherlock would have said something along those lines by now – in a tone of great joy.

John has a sneaking suspicion that there's something else going on here. He knows it's not good to jump to conclusions, but this absolutely reeks of Mycroft and classified government affiliations.

They're in an apartment in one of the more affluent areas of London. The corpse lies on the black leather couch, and the walls – all four of them – are sprayed with blood. If John had to guess, he'd say someone had taken a paintbrush, dipped it in the victim's blood and splattered the walls like they were a giant 3D canvas.

The corpse itself looks like a weird parody of a flower containing nectar. The skin of the chest has been cut into petals with a sharp instrument – surgical perhaps? – and is peeled back, revealing the cavity.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Battlefield or not, this one's particularly jarring. The very epitome of upper–class security and civility – vintage paintings, dusted and polished mantelpiece, embellished mahogany coffee table, whiteboard–sized windows – and the white–washed walls are sprayed with some poor sod's blood.

Sherlock hasn't said a word since entering the room, and the techies are silently going about their jobs. For once, there's no chatter.

The cause of death is obvious: asphyxiation caused by liquid entering the lungs. That in itself is not very confusing. The confusing bit is the fact that the man's lungs are filled with water, bits of seaweed, sand, shells, and there's even a little starfish. They know this because one of the lungs has burst in decomposition, of course. The thing is, there are no traces of sand, or seaweed or anything on the clothes. They're pretty spotless, apart from some minor blood stains that look like stray dripping from the paintbrush or whatever was used to decorate the walls. It's also a bit odd that even though he has water in his lungs, the room looks like an improvised slaughterhouse.

And there are no foot prints, or stray blood on the floor, no drops of it anywhere but on the walls. Even the blood on the ceiling hasn't dripped; smeared and swirled in odd patterns, but no drips. It's so precise, but so chaotic. The very epitome of an oxymoron.

Sherlock looks like he's eaten a particularly sour lemon and is regretting it dreadfully. He's glaring at the body, hands stuffed into his pockets, his mouth downturned ever so slightly.

John sidles up to him, "Any ideas?"

Sherlock doesn't respond; holds a hand out for a pair of gloves. Receiving John's, he crouches by the body once more.

"Well? What have you got?" Lestrade crosses his arms, obviously impatient.

John finds this more than a bit ironic.

A moment passes as they both watch Sherlock, quicksilver eyes scanning the body once again, perhaps thinking he's missed something.

Sherlock's not facing either of them, but John sees the exact the moment he stiffens. He rises slowly, removes his gloves, turns to face them. His face is a study in nonchalance.

"I don't know."

John's eyes him warily, but Lestrade's eyes almost bug out of his head, "You – you're stumped?"

"Yes," Sherlock snaps shortly.

Lestrade frowns heavily, "But –"

"I don't know, Lestrade. This scene, the cause of death, the location – logically, nothing adds up. I'm afraid I cannot assist. John?" here he glances at John, receives a nod and together they make their way to the exit.

Lestrade looks back at the body and sighs.

–––

Later, in 221B, John glances away from the novel he's reading to look at Sherlock sprawled on the couch across from him. He's staring at the ceiling, but not really at all. Artificial light throws their faces into an aged papery glow, and Sherlock looks different in this light, totally different, with his white skin and bubbles–against–a–blue–sky–coloured eyes, starkly contrasting with his dark attire and his black curls; he doesn't look any more supernatural than John does. He looks like a relic that refuses to be kept behind glass in a museum.

"You know what happened to that man, don't you?" John asks.

Sherlock blinks slowly, and it's ten seconds, not that John is counting, before he responds. Though he does respond, which is something in itself.

"Yes," Sherlock doesn't look at John.

"Why didn't you help?" John tilts his head at the detective.

Sherlock gives a twitch of a smile at the phrasing. Brilliant John – he knows that Sherlock could have done so, but he had chosen not to.

For a very good reason too.

"The man was killed by a Selkie," Sherlock says placidly.

John doesn't bat an eyelid, says, "A what?"

"A Selkie. Half human, half sea serpent. Lures their victims by singing a song which hypnotises and renders them completely obedient. They don't need to feed often, perhaps one human every ten years, but sometimes they get lonely, or bored," Sherlock shrugs, "I gather that a particularly bored Selkie committed the crime."

John exhales deliberately, "Right."

There's an interminable pause, but their own minds fill the gaps the silence creates between them.

"So what are we going to do about it? This – Selkie or whatever, we can't just allow it to go around killing innocent people," John frowns.

Sherlock flaps a hand in a dismissive gesture, "Oh I expect a few hunters will take care of it in time."

"Hunters?" John asks.

"Yes, hunters. They're humans who know of the supernatural world – knowledge passed down over generations. It's their self–appointed job to hunt supernatural creatures."

"Oh."

Sherlock shoots John an unreadable look, but John misses it.

"There's more out there than you know," Sherlock says in an airy tone, turning back to the fascinating ceiling.

John shakes his head, "Yeah, I'm starting to get that."

–––

"Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?"

"That there are life forms in existence you know nothing about."

"No."

"No?"

"It doesn't bother me."

"Yes but why?"

"Because they've always been there, right? Just because I know they're out there now doesn't mean I have to freak out about it."

"Freaking out would be a natural reaction."

"An unnecessary one though."

"I concede the point."

"Besides, people often reject things they don't understand…"

"Of course."

"…but right here I have access to a millennia–old data base on the subject if need be."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"What is?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes."

–––

Donovan and Anderson seem worse than ever.

"So, you're still sticking around. Why is that?" Donovan asks, a meaningful undercurrent to her tone.

They're at another crime scene. This time, it's in the British Museum of all places. Security guard: hacked to bits. Said bits and pieces have been scattered all throughout the Asian Propaganda Exhibition they've got going on at the moment. Absolute sacrilege – some of these artefacts are centuries old!

Oh and of course John feels sorry for the guard too.

Sherlock must be rubbing off on him, or maybe he's gotten used to deaths, even particularly gruesome ones? Both happenings sound bad, but he only admits it in his mind and leaves it at that.

Sherlock's been wandering around, assessing the various body parts and their positions – he says (obviously) the positioning of each part is deliberate.

It's also 5:00 AM on a Sunday. A Sunday, otherwise known as his day to be blissfully lazy and sleep in, so John is not amused – no matter how bloody interesting the crime is. No pun intended.

"There's no reason not to," John replies coolly.

Unfortunately, Donovan's in one hell of a mood. Either that or she's as persistent as a cow chewing its cud.

"He's a psychopath. Isn't that reason enough?" Donovan replies.

That gives John slight pause.

She's said it before, sure, but John had thought Sherlock was human back then. Human, and definitely not psychopathic or sociopathic. John has lived in close quarters with him. He's the person Sherlock chooses to spend the majority of his time with. Back then, John was certain in his stance that his mate wasn't an unfeeling prick, just disdainful and somewhat ignorant of social niceties, norms and emotions.

Now, though? He knows Sherlock's different, that he feels things differently. He's not human, but does that mean he has no emotions whatsoever?

He's paused long enough for Donovan to gain momentum, spouting all manner of supposed evidence to support her theory: he never treats the witnesses with compassion, never cares about the way someone died beyond what it took to solve the puzzle, how he's experimented with body parts in the microwave, how he only takes the cases he deems interesting.

John's hackles rise; he's had enough.

"Sally, look," he says in a slow, precise tone, "Just – I know what he seems like to you and that's fine, but please, keep your opinions to yourself."

John watches as Sally clamps her mouth shut, prickling; she spins on her heel and walks away with her nose in the air like a proper snob.

Anderson's leaning against a wall nearby, his arms crossed. Having heard the whole exchange, he deigns it fit to comment in that grating, nasally voice of his.

"Why do you defend him? I mean, unless the sex is like, really good and you feel a sense of duty or whatever –"

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Our personal relationship is none of your business."

Anderson snorts, "Why not? He's gone and made my love life his business."

"And you, what, need to get back at him through me because you and Donovan calling him things he's not when he's doing your jobs for you isn't bad enough? Grow up, Anderson," John lets out a humourless laugh and shakes his head with disbelieving smile.

The horrid man gapes at John, mouth hanging open and everything. John derives a bit of satisfaction from making his usually constipated face look even more constipated.

Sherlock's standing ten metres away, but that doesn't stop him from grinning.

–––

It starts, once again, with a feather.

Sherlock's in his dressing gown, huffing and groaning and flouncing about the flat as if John needs any extra hint that he's going stir crazy in his ennui.

John's bored too, but he's a bit more subtle about it. He's half–reading a copy of today's duller–than–dull newspaper (but he only really admits this in the corner of his mind). He's also keeping one hawk eye on Sherlock because it looks like the time to blow things up stage of his scintillating mind's rebellion to boredom is about to start.

John would be at work around about now on a regular shift, but Sarah called this morning to say that he wasn't needed. Now, he kind of wishes they'd needed him. Even if things are more than a tad awkward now, after the pretty shoddy break up over the stinking phone. He sighs mentally just thinking about it. Perhaps ending it so abruptly without even allowing them both time to cool down wasn't such a great idea. In retrospect he doesn't regret the break up itself at all, just the way he went about it.

In front of him, Sherlock heaves a great sigh and flops onto the couch on his back. He drums his hands on his stomach, then tosses onto his side to face the backrest. Practically a second later, he sighs again and tosses to face out into the room.

His body, muscles, and expression tighten as if he's a rubber band being stretched and stretched and stretched until he either snaps or flings into no man's land.

John counts down in his head and –

"Argh!" Sherlock lets out an almost undignified yell and flings himself facedown off the couch.

He stays there, breathing heavily, and John feels a pang in his chest at the sight. It looks like his mind has blown a fuse.

"Sherlock?" John ventures, folding and putting away the newspaper.

"I need work," Sherlock almost–whimper is muffled.

John sighs, "Have you tried Lestrade? Molly?"

"Yes," the frustrated response loses some of its effect, buried in the rug as it is.

John's at a loss. How does one go about entertaining a millennia–old being without committing a triple homicide?

Turns out he doesn't have to: Mrs Hudson comes calling. She knocks on the flat door before entering.

"Boys!" she says, "I have a letter for you. It was in the mail, mixed up in all the bills. There aren't any addresses, but it has your name on it, Sherlock dear."

Sherlock's gone very still.

John's eyes go to Sherlock, and he tenses in tandem. This looks promising.

Sherlock lifts his head slowly and says, carefully, as if he's trying not to get his hopes up, "No addresses?"

Mrs Hudson looks down at the envelope in her hands, flips it around as if checking whether or not she's missed any.

"No, none," she replies, mystified.

Sherlock leaps to his feet, and takes the envelope out of Mrs Hudson's offering hand. If she were any other elderly woman, or person for that matter, she would be a bit indignant at such manners but this is Mrs Hudson and this is Sherlock. That doesn't stop her and John from sharing a glance that reads typical before John's attention is drawn back to the lanky detective.

In Sherlock's hands, the envelope is different. It's the same tea stain brown, bland and sealed – except now, it's more than that.

It's a puzzle piece, a promise of danger.

Sherlock goes to the window, holds it up to the light, flips it once and once again. The paper is thick, no shadows of its contents visible. Sherlock knows that fingerprints – aside from Mrs Hudson's and his own – would be absent if he was to check. He knows who the letter is from; there's no other person it could be from.

He opens it to reveal a feather.

–––

"So he's alive then," John says.

Sherlock holds prayer–positioned hands up to his lips. Lowers them, exhales.

"Yes," he says finally.

John prides himself on his observational skills. They're not like Sherlock's, of course not, though he likes to think he's getting better (he isn't). Sherlock observes. Sherlock observes people's habits, their past actions, their past whereabouts, their occupations – it's all logically attained. John does something different. He sees people. He sees fidgeting, limping, sweating – all manner of physical ticks, and beyond. He sees and understands why someone reacts a certain way, and if he's paying close attention he sees their line of thinking and their heart.

He's a doctor. It's a job requirement.

John clears his throat lightly and says, "At least you're not bored any more."

Sherlock's face remains blank, focus distant, and apart from the tapping of his fingers on the armchair's arm, he is utterly, totally still.

John sees all of this and thinks: Something's different about this one. Beyond the obvious 'master criminal' element, something's different.

–––

It's good and it's bad all at once.

Sherlock knows that Moriarty's return means John's in danger, but at the same – he is fascinating. Moriarty is something unheard of. Sherlock wants nothing more than to peel back the half–breed's skin, examine the organs, see what's different, see what's the same, dissect the brain, record data and run tests and experiment and experiment again because he's never come across a creature so wonderfully unique before.

John's in danger, yes, but technically he's been in danger ever since they began their ... association? Friendship? Such inadequate ways to put it, but the statement still stands.

It's not of immediate concern, and it's not like Sherlock has anything to feel guilty about. John thrives on danger as much as him, needs it as much as him. Besides, demons don't have the capacity to feel guilt.

Sherlock's got contingency plans of contingency plans, so it's fine.

–––

He walks through a field. The grass sways in a breeze he doesn't feel, the air crisp but not cold.

He's looking for something. Something important, he assumes, or else he wouldn't be looking for it.

The moon is bright, and stars fade in and out as the light is interrupted by obstructing particles, and Sherlock's eyes are sharp enough to catch the changes. Either that, or it's energy leaking through from another dimension.

The latter spells trouble. A unattended leak is never good.

He tenses, muscles and inhuman nerves twanging in anticipation.

The wind picks up. Gentle at first, but then it quickens, and quickens, coming to him faster and faster until it's rushing past his ears and throwing his hair about, catching on his clothes, and he has to hold an arm up to his face against it.

It's not a whisper, it's a scream.

It's screaming in Old, a language Sherlock hasn't heard in a long time.

It hurts.

Then Sherlock is screaming, and there's a burning in his chest that eclipses all other sensations; leaves him shaking, facing skyward and he tries to focus on stopping the pain.

When he looks at the sky, the stars are gone. Nothing but one lonely moon glowing down at him.

He waits, for long enough, but the sun doesn't rise.

–––

Sherlock gasps as he wakes, and if he had a heart he's sure it would be racing much faster than is healthy for a human. As it is, his blood is too hot, his skin feels clammy, and he feels drained, like someone stuck a straw into his brain and sucked out all the moisture to leave it dry, parched and throbbing.

He allows himself to calm before furrowing his brows.

He thinks, What was that?

–––

"Should I be worried? You're not doing voodoo magic or anything, are you?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from the book he's scanning. He senses John smiling slightly at his own joke, yet there's an air of careful concern about him as he looks at the books open and piled upon Sherlock's desk.

Sherlock replies with a short, "No. Research."

"Oh. New case?" John sounds a bit relieved, but Sherlock doesn't waste time rolling his eyes.

"No."

Sherlock flips a page, eyes flicking back and forth and up and down.

John shrugs to himself and heads towards the kitchen.

Sherlock switches himself off to the outside world. He's wrapped up in a whirling swarm of data and new information, finding old correlations in his expansive database and discarding irrelevant figures as he goes. It's a constant stream and evaporation of information, recycled head space and travelling through expansive labyrinths within labyrinths in his mind palace. It uses up much energy, but he makes his way to the surface to find a cooling mug of tea at his side and drinks it all in one go. Nutritionally worthless, but refreshing all the same, just as he'd told John once after being asked about it. With the warm liquid settling, he plunges once more into his work. He keeps going and going and going and his mind's running faster than a bullet train, than moonlight, than anything until –

An idea shatters his concentration and freezes his earth body in place.

John.

He groans in frustration, berating himself. He's been so obtuse. John's human, meaning he sleeps often, meaning – he's so stupid, stupid, stupid!

He's done it again, he just knows it – overlooked the simplest conclusion, assumed this new development is singular only to him and his species.

He looks around – dark inside the rest of the flat, streetlamp light peeking through the drawn curtains – and checks his watch. 2:39 AM. Damn, still early.

Sherlock taps his fingers against the desk for moment, deliberating, before rising and taking up the stairs two at a time.

He flings John's door open and without further ado, leaps onto his bed.

"John! Wake up, John!"

John jerks in his sleep, awakens mid–snore and scrambles for his sheets, "What? Sherlock?"

"John, before you get mad, it's a matter of great importance," Sherlock says.

Still trudging his way out of sleep, John narrows his eyes, "Okay…"

Sherlock takes that as a sign he's allowed to continue without getting a punch in the face for interrupting John's beauty sleep. He takes a deep breath.

"Last night I was recharging – sleeping – and something rather anomalous occurred. I've been trying to find an answer to this phenomenon, looking through ancient tomes and texts on demons and angels all day but I can't seem to find the answer and I was wondering if you could assess my predicament and give your diagnosis considering humans typically require sleep nightly," Sherlock says.

John rubs a hand down his face before supporting himself on his elbows and appraising Sherlock with a familiar expression, one that says he'll humour Sherlock despite Sherlock being himself.

"Right. Go on then."

"Around three–quarters of the way through my usual sleeping hours, I found my subconsciousness – imagining a scenario. I was there as myself, but I wasn't controlling anything. Almost like a vision. Do humans ever have similar occurrences?" Sherlock says, quietly and earnestly.

John stares unblinkingly at him for a long moment.

Sherlock shifts in his kneeling position impatiently. Perhaps John's brain is being especially slow tonight?

His impatience soon gets the better of him and he snaps, "What?"

"You had a dream, Sherlock. A dream. Christ, this is why you shouldn't delete things so when you get confused about something so widely known you don't wake me up in the dead of night and badger me about it."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to stare, "A what?"

"A dream! It's a natural phenomenon that most people have when they're sleeping. Shows the mind's processing and recharging after the previous day. The mind thinks up feelings and scenes and ideas that you might or might not remember when you wake up. God, I can't believe you woke me up because you were confused about a dream!" John groans before collapsing back onto his bed and shutting his eyes.

Sherlock frowns, eyes becoming unfocussed, "That doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense, Sherlock?" John asks.

The detective turns his head and makes eye contact, and John's irritation flees with an uncomfortable clenching of his stomach. Maybe it's just his imagination, or the lack of light in his room, but for a moment it's as if Sherlock's eyes, the whites and the iris too, are black and bottomless.

Soulless.

Then John blinks and rubs his eyes and Sherlock is Sherlock again.

Sherlock says, under his unnecessary breath, "Demons and angels aren't capable of having dreams."

–––

They're walking from their cab towards another crime scene. It's a good thing John couldn't get back to sleep after Sherlock's rude (and befuddling) awakening, because Lestrade's call came in just three hours later.

After Sherlock's statement about demons and angels being unable to dream, the detective had leaped from the bed and thumped his way downstairs. By the time John had made it downstairs, the man had vanished from the flat.

When he'd walked into the living room hours later, he'd simply said, "Case," waved the mobile in his hand, and John had followed wordlessly, abandoning the book he had made next to zero progress in since picking it up.

Their footsteps seem louder in John's ears, smacking against the pavement like jackhammers slowed to a fraction of their regular speed, and he keeps mulling over Sherlock's words.

"Maybe you deleted it? Deemed it irrelevant ages ago and just delete it when you have one?" John says, blowing foggy air into his hands and rubbing them together.

"Hmm? No, no. If that was the case there would have been recounts of dreams or visions or such things in the books I perused yesterday," Sherlock replies, waving a hand dismissively, "Besides, if that was the case I wouldn't delete the existence of dreaming, merely the content of the dreams."

John glances at Sherlock, "Maybe it has something to do with how you've abstained from torturing innocents?"

Sherlock's face remains impassive, "It's a possibility."

Sherlock lifts the yellow tape and they duck under it. Blue and red lights illuminate the scene in concentric flashes, and Sherlock has a passing thought of the pool's stalls. He ruffles a hand through his hair quickly, trying to dispel the unpleasant sensations the memory conjures up.

"You okay?" John asks.

"What? Yes, fine. Why?" Sherlock turns to him sharply.

John looks straight ahead, "Nothing."

Sherlock watches the doctor for a moment before approaching Lestrade.

The case passes in a blur. It's easy, really easy, and Sherlock would have started ranting about the Yard's general incompetence and their growing dependence on him to do their jobs, but something else has caught his eye.

It's something in his peripheral, but his senses are keen and have kept him hidden for millennia; he trusts them. It could so easily be mistaken for a trick of the light, but he is certain it's not. He's not sure what he's seen, and determines to get a better feel of it. He shuts out Lestrade's voice debriefing him and his human vision, tuning into his other senses. Taking care not to use any demonic energy, he stretches his conscience towards the swirling thing he sees in the corner of his eye.

When he makes contact with it, he recoils, flinching both metaphysically and physically.

John steps towards him and Lestrade cuts himself off.

"Sherlock? You alright mate?" Lestrade asks.

"It's … nothing," is all Sherlock manages before he passes out.

–––

When he comes to, it's not gentle. One second he's unaware and the next he's slammed back into the earth realm. It's an onslaught of sound sound bodily sensations so much noise light light light everywhere too much sound too much too much before he grows accustomed to it once more and finds himself picking out John's voice.

"… do as I say, alright? Everybody just stand back!"

"I think he's coming around," someone else says.

"Sherlock, hey there, take it easy," John says, concern evident in his voice.

Sherlock struggles to sit up against John's hand, "I'm fine."

"No you bloody well aren't, Sherlock. You just collapsed in the middle of a crime scene. Not to mention your eyes turned black again," the last bit is a hiss only for Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock seems to jerk back into full awareness at that, "What?"

"Your eyes. They went black," John says, tension in his quiet voice.

"Again, you said 'again,'" Sherlock quickly squinting at John as if he could pluck the answers from John's mind with his sight.

John takes a deep breath before saying, "Not here, yeah?"

Sherlock looks like he's about to protest, before conceding the point by saying nothing.

John helps him to his feet, choosing to ignore Sherlock's indignant wet cat impersonation.

"Sherlock's starved and sleep deprived. I'm going to take him home and take care of it," John says, addressing the mildly curious officers around them at large.

"Bloody typical. Alright then," Lestrade nods.

–––

Sherlock stares at the empty fireplace. He's sitting on the couch, changed into his pyjamas and trademark blue dressing gown. His legs are tucked up, his chin resting on his knees, feet resting on the dark olive leather like warped starfish. He's holding his legs like he's a kid who's just been told his pet is never coming back.

John pushes some of the flat's usual debris off the surface of the coffee table to make room for himself. He wanders into the kitchen, fetching two steaming brews of tea. Handing one to a near–catatonic Sherlock, he sits in the spot he's cleared for himself, right in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock wraps both hands around his mug and stares into it, but doesn't drink.

John takes a long swallow of the scalding liquid before asking the million–dollar question.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

If John concentrates, he can hear the hum of the heater. He can hear the dripping of the leaky tap in the kitchen he's been meaning to fix, cars driving by, his own breathing, Sherlock's breathing. The noises of their lives. Ordinary noises, little things that fill the silence. Their lives are full of noise.

Without Sherlock talking it's far, far too quiet for John.

John takes a deep breath and sets his mug down on the floor beside his feet; there's absolutely no room left for it on the table. He takes Sherlock's mug and sets it down beside his own, then takes Sherlock's hands in his. He flattens the chilly – far too chilly – hands between his own and rubs to warm them.

Sherlock's eyes come into focus on their hands, which eases some of the tightness in John's chest.

John asks another question, quietly, "What happened at the crime scene?"

"I blacked out," Sherlock says, monotone, as if on autopilot, and he's stating the obvious, but still.

It's a start.

"But it wasn't a normal blackout, was it?" John asks gently, "Fallen angels don't just black out, do they?"

Sherlock frowns, still looking at their joined hands as if the movement, the feel of them, is delightfully confusing.

"Rarely," Sherlock mutters.

Just as John's about to ask his next question, Sherlock suddenly snaps his head up to John.

"Why don't you say it?

John blinks at him in surprise, "Say what?"

"You never say 'demon', you always say 'fallen angel'. Why?" Sherlock asks.

John doesn't see how this is pertinent, but he responds anyway, "I – I don't know. I just do."

Sherlock stares at him unblinkingly, but John doesn't waver or elaborate.

"In what circumstances do fallen angels black out?" John asks.

Sherlock gives him an appreciative look, "Good, you're asking the right questions."

"Well, what circumstances then?"

Sherlock goes back to looking at their hands, and he gives a small sigh.

"Not good ones."

John exhales slowly, "Right."

They sit in silence for a moment. John slowly stills the movement of their hands, but doesn't relinquish his hold.

"John, at the crime scene. You said my eyes turned black," Sherlock says, not phrasing it as a question but asking one all the same.

John nods, still staring at their joined hands, "I was watching you right before you collapsed. I don't think anyone else noticed, but right before you fell, it was like your eyes flooded with black ink."

John can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, intense and familiar.

"And that wasn't the first time?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"No. Last night – well, this morning, your eyes turned black much the same right before you barged out of my room."

Sherlock hums thoughtfully in response.

"Sherlock, what does it mean?" John asks, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze.

Blue–grey–green eyes watch him, flickering with something that has John's stomach clenching in worry.

"I intend to find out."

–––

Sherlock hasn't done this in a long time.

He's in an old house in the suburbs that plenty of other pledged allegiances of Satan have used before him. It's far from Baker Street, and he got here by walking, then catching a bus, then another taxi, and finally walking down the mice–quiet street with his coat collar turned up against the chilly night air. Since this place is often used by others, the minimal energy residue he'll inevitably leave behind will mix and fade in with the multitude of the others', like paint of all colours mixing in a giant bucket.

Someone of skill might be able to pick out his distinct energy signature, but it's a risk he's willing to make. He's made it extremely difficult for anyone to be able to trace the energy signature back to Baker Street. They might be able to trace it to him, but Baker Street is warded. It's the best he can do in hiding; he's taken all the precautions he can.

Sherlock enters a room which was blatantly once used as a dining area and adjoined kitchen space. There's a sink in the kitchen that will suit his purposes quite nicely, so he makes his way to it. He twists one of the knobs, but no water disperses. Disconnected from the water mains, then. No matter. Sherlock holds out his hands, palms facing down, and hums an incantation under his breath. He feels the air around him start to thrum with the energy that leaks through his humanlike pores, rolling off his body in distorting waves. His palms glow faintly, and something that a human would mistake for smoke drifts down from his hands. The substance is shaded, close to black, writhing, and it swirls into the sink. As it touches the basin it starts to solidify, and soon the cavity is filled to the brim with a dark, inky, glistening tar, not a single drop escaping down the plughole thanks to Sherlock's will.

The detective presses his lips together in concentration, trying to retain as much of the unused energy as he can. He can't afford to waste any; he's hardly in a position to get more whenever he pleases. When he's gathered as much as he can back into himself, he taps the skin–like surface of the liquid with an index finger, watching the ripple fan out and back in on itself. He says a single word, and more ripples form before settling once more.

"Show me Jim Moriarty," Sherlock says.

The tar ripples, but this time it doesn't stop. It grows restless, almost like a stronger signal is causing some kind of static and remains that way. Sherlock growls in frustration. How can this be? He hisses a reverse command and the tar stops throwing a fit.

Sherlock leans against the edge of the counter and glares down into the murky liquid like it's personally insulted his intelligence.

This is absolutely absurd. Unprecedented. Somehow, Moriarty has blocked himself from being seen. No, not just seen but detected by supernatural entities. Fairly powerful demons at that.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls in clear agitation. This can only be bad news. Either Moriarty has utilised his full potential or he hasn't or he has minions, and all possible scenarios have Sherlock grinding his human teeth hard enough to chip. He has the sudden desire to be close to John, to hear him breathing or making tea or shuffling around 221B, to feel his soul's presence in his immediate vicinity through his other sight, just reaffirm that he's not been taken by Jim.

Before he can talk himself out of it, because there's no real harm in checking, Sherlock taps the viscous liquid and says, "Show me John Watson."

The surface of the blackness flutters briefly before settling into a familiar image. 221B, living room. John's in his armchair reading. Just plain reading. Sherlock's muscles loosen, his shoulders dropping. He nods to himself before whispering the reverse command. He berates himself for overreacting. Of course John is fine; the wards would have been tripped at the very least if something had happened in Sherlock's absence.

He should be getting back; he can't risk getting caught by some low grade demon and wasting time cleaning up the resultant mess. Demon killings, never an easy clean up. Leaning back, he continues to look at the liquid before him for a moment, deliberating. He should do more. It would be a waste of a trip and his energy reserves if he didn't do much more.

No, no he shouldn't do it. Not now, if ever. It's risk weighed against risk: seeking assistance from old untrustworthy acquaintances on the scales with Jim's threat. Right now the fewer that know about him, the better. He's certain he won't get that desperate. If he's being honest with himself it's mostly the curiosity he's feeling that wants him to do it – he's wondering what's become of the idiots. Not to mention the ever–present desire to flaunt his superiority. Coming out of hiding after millennia to shove his power in lesser demons' faces was always a sweet, if imbecilic, temptation. It might have something to do with his power coupled with his dark inclination.

So no contact with his kind it is.

Sherlock a bit disappointed though – he hasn't learned much from this little excursion. The only new information he's gained is that Moriarty is much more powerful than he'd originally thought, and coupled with his hybrid nature, Sherlock has the sinking feeling that things might get sticky before he's even realised he's stepped into the quicksand. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands before letting out a shaky exhale.

With a word, the black goo is gone. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and walks out of the house into the night.

–––

John is confused.

At a crime scene, this isn't all too unusual. Sherlock tends to gather information, deduce, and then relay what he knows to all who choose to listen in the most dramatic, impatient and condescending way that he can. John's used to be confused at first.

The thing is, this crime is a whole new level of weird – more so than flower like corpses and blood on prestigious walls.

The body is surrounded by feathers. Black ones, with hints of purple and green, and they're sticking to congealed blood in the shape of wings.

Yes, wings. There's no doubt about it.

Lestrade is just bewildered. Demon worship script and sadistic messages written in the victim's blood, that's been done before, but wings? That's a new one. Not only is it odd, it seems like the culprit went to the trouble of kidnapping a murder (hah!) of crows for the feathers for aesthetics. It seems so absurd that he'd called in Sherlock straight away – maybe he's missing something?

The consulting detective is just staring, impassive, unmoving, and for John this is worse than his black moods because at least he's feeling something in such moods. John sees him lying on the couch with the most despondent look about him, and he demands tea, and cigarettes, and attention. John can never stand this: the blankness, the stillness.

Sherlock is the epitome of all emotional extremes. He's either a pinball of glee and childlike energy or a lump of inertia and frustration with the world at large. This blankness doesn't fit, and it's making John feel like he's standing on a Jenga tower with someone, some mystery thing taking blocks away when he has his back turned and he just can't catch a glimpse, can't defend himself, because he's not bloody quick enough.

"John, a word?" Sherlock's coat flares dramatically as he spins on his heel and turns down a nearby alleyway.

When they round the corner, Sherlock seems to shed a coat of indifference immobility and turns his eyes to John. The orbs are bright, not black, wide, and they shine with something that looks like panic. John feels sick.

Before John can open his mouth, Sherlock blurts, "Those feathers are mine."

John blinks, processing, "What?"

"The feathers around the body, they're mine, from my wings, John, and whoever acquired them is either someone from my past or –" Sherlock cuts himself off, his lips stretching thin as he looks towards the alley's entrance.

John's stomach churns, so to calm himself he tries to get his facts sorted.

"You have wings?" he double–checks.

"Yes, John, try to keep up."

"Why haven't I seen them before?" John asks, frowning almost accusingly.

"Because I haven't allowed them to materialise in your presence," Sherlock's coat flutters as he moves it with the hands he's stuffed into his pockets; a physical manifestation of his restlessness, an echo of his wings.

"Right. And I'm guessing whoever found those feathers of yours shouldn't even be able to see them without your consent?" John asks slowly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's face quickly, a bolt of lightning before the low rumble of thunder, "Correct."

"And that's not good."

Sherlock exhales harshly, "No."

John nods to himself, "Okay, so what's the plan?"

Sherlock seems to vibrate with … John would say anxiety, but that's not quite right because there's more to it; a gleam in the man's eyes that's undeniably delighted, that just screams, oh, this is most definitely not boring. He's vibrant, alive, but he's also a bit … off. Sherlock starts to pace, his movements jerky as he thinks through the problem, hands held under his chin in a parody of a prayer.

Before long he stops and stares at John, "You need to leave."

John stares at him and blinks uncomprehendingly, "What?"

"You need to stay away from me. From Baker Street. Mycroft owes me a favour, or I'll owe him. It's of no consequence," even as he says it Sherlock chokes out the words like they taste of bile, "He'll arrange transport and accommodation. I hear Scotland is nice this time of year."

"No, wait, just hold on a second. Are you – why do you want to send me away?" John asks, voice rising with incredulity.

Sherlock walks up to him and grabs his shoulders on impulse, eyes piercing imploringly, "John, don't you get it? This isn't just some run of the mill serial killer with a thing for magpies. It's something worse, and can do things you can't even begin to imagine. You're merely human, and Moriarty is so far from just a man with a perverted power complex! If he gets his hands on you – you won't be able to defend yourself. This isn't a regular battlefield any more. This is a clash of supernatural classes and going from experience, people get hurt. For Satan's sake, we've already got a body count."

Sherlock quiets as John reaches up and takes Sherlock's hands off his shoulders, but instead of letting go like Sherlock expects, he holds on to them, squeezes them. Sherlock forgets to breathe for a moment, staring down at their clasped hands.

John swallows audibly, "Sherlock, I want to help. I don't want to be sent away like some fainting Victorian heroine. I want to help in any way I can."

Sherlock growls in frustration, spinning away and resuming his pacing.

It's paramount, vital, that no harm comes to John. Sherlock doesn't understand. It should be obvious, even to John. Sherlock needs him to be safe. It's not optional. Why is John insisting on being himself, on being noble and brave and loyal to a fault? This case with Moriarty is not boring, but it's starting to lose its appeal.

"This is something that you need to stay away from, John. You can't be among the fatalities, I simply won't allow it. You must not be harmed. Do you understand? You cannot be harmed."

They stare at each other, John with eyebrows drawn together and lips pressed together, Sherlock's eyes wide with a hint of desperation and borderline panic.

John clears his throat and asks, "What does it mean? The man with feathers stuck around him. It means something that's – well, upset you."

Sherlock looks at him appraisingly for a minute, and then just looks because he can. He sees John's dishwater hair, bright in the afternoon sun. He sees his eyes, a better blue than the sea. He sees his wrinkles and smile lines and his lips and sun tanned skin and thinks: I absolutely can't lose this man.

John shifts as time stretches between them, and Sherlock snaps out of it.

"Demons don't die easily. There are very few ways we can be killed," Sherlock's voice is low, concentrated, like he's focussed on getting the words out evenly, "But every demon has a weakness, and if that weakness is found and … exploited, a demon can die. The most obvious message in that corpse is that Moriarty has found mine, and he's close enough to find stray, manifested feathers."

John's throat closes up, dread sinking to his stomach like a stone.

He needs to be sure, "What's your weakness?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says how are you even breathing without any medical help? and John feels foolish for second guessing. For an absurd second he feels the need to apologise.

"Sherlock," John takes a deep breath, "Are you absolutely certain that me leaving is the best option?"

"Yes, John," and his voice is barely above a murmur.

John nods, "Okay then. I'll go. But only if you're one hundred percent certain that it's the best thing to do."

Sherlock nods, "I am."

"Alright then. I want you to keep me posted though. Regular updates, alright? I'll assume the worst if you don't," John mock–threatens.

Sherlock mouth twitches, but his eyes have a look in them that only John has ever been privy to, "Will do."

John smiles and Sherlock's features seem softer as they look at each other.

"How long do you think I should be drinking lager and dancing in a kilt?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes glint, and his good humour vanishes, "As long as it takes to find Moriarty."

John feels a thrill of fear, "Are you saying what I think you're –"

"John, he won't stop until he is stopped."

John purses his lips, "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock says stiffly.

John's not buying it.

"You're going to be reckless about this aren't you?" and this time John's tone is definitely accusing.

"My methods haven't got me harmed so far," Sherlock says shortly.

John steps closer until their faces are centimetres away from each other.

"You're never not reckless, Sherlock. Your middle name is reckless."

"Really John, I like to think I have better defining characteristics –"

"If you die, I'll find a way to bring you back and kill you," John says quietly, and Sherlock believes him.

It's not like it's entirely impossible anyway.

They're standing so close. It's calming and invigorating all at once. Sherlock breathes in John's air. John breathes in Sherlock's. Sherlock wants this. He wants to touch John's face, to take him in his arms, press his lips to John's, run his tongue over his lips and teeth and tongue, savour his taste, feel him, touch his hair, hear him make pleased little sounds and swallow them, be the source of them, claim him.

But John doesn't want that.

Does he?

Sherlock scrutinises him, and it doesn't take long in earth time. John's pupils are dilated, his heart beating too fast, his skin flushed. Textbook attraction, but just because John's body wants him doesn't necessarily mean that John wants him.

Or that Sherlock is what's best for him.

Sherlock swallows back a heavy frog. He's never put someone else's needs before his; it's a novel feeling.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, steeling himself, before stepping back.

"Sherlock," John whispers, and it's a question and a request all at once.

"I'm not human, John," Sherlock says to the ground between their feet.

"I know," John replies with feeling, "I don't care."

Sherlock looks at him, "I don't feel the same way you do, I'm a demon. It's highly likely I will miss something and hurt you. You don't deserve that."

John stares at him open–mouthed, "You can't be serious. You don't want to … be in a relationship with me because you don't want to hurt me and because you deserve something more?"

Sherlock huffs an exasperated breath, "No, I think it's unwise to begin a romantic relationship with you because I'm a demon and you're a human, therefore we are not compatible."

John looks frustrated, torn between wanting to throw his hands up in disbelief and just kiss the stupid man.

"Sherlock, you can't seriously think that after what, a year? We're friends. Great friends. You can't say we're not compatible after all that time."

Sherlock looks away, "John –"

"No. Your concerns are perfectly normal, actually. People get scared of the same things when they get involved with someone; not wanting to hurt them in the future, incompatibility, not wanting to lose them altogether, thinking the other deserves something 'better'…" John trails off.

Sherlock gaze drags back to John's, "I'm not scared. I'm simply making a reasonable prediction: it will end badly. I can't have that, I – I need you in my life, John. Jeopardising our friendship isn't – it's not worth it."

John stares, and then his eyes widen in realisation.

"You honestly believe that, don't you? You really think you'll drive me away. You really think that eventually you'll do something that'll drive me away," John says, confidence growing with each word he says.

Sherlock just blinks at him, "That's the way it's always been, John. After millennia, what gives me reason to think differently?"

"Me," John says quietly, "Maybe it's not much, but I'm not leaving you, you git, not for anything. Unless you want me to."

Sherlock is floored. John's telling the truth; no rise in pulse or catch of breath. He's calmly telling Sherlock that he's in this for life. In with Sherlock, of all creatures, for life. This is completely unprecedented, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock finds his mind blank with shock. He feels like his body is still and his conscience is floating like a feather beyond his body, as light as sunlight and just as bright and that isn't meant to happen unless he's dying. Maybe he is dying – dying of mind–numbing shock?

John wants to stay.

John wants to be in a relationship with him.

He's just standing there looking at him, waiting for Sherlock to make a choice.

Dare he?

With Moriarty lurking in the periphery, Sherlock is reluctant. If he loses John after they escalate their relationship –

No, it won't matter for two reasons. One, he's already thoroughly emotionally invested, and two, he refuses to even consider the possibility of losing John because it's simply not happening.

Sherlock's thousand–kilometre gaze focusses on John, and turns piercing in its intensity. John's pupils noticeably dilate, and Sherlock grins in response.

"Come here," Sherlock holds out a hand.

John smiles, and the smile grows into something wide, boyish and happy, so much so that it warms Sherlock from the inside out.

John steps forward and Sherlock folds him into his arms.

–––

There's a murmur in the air, both resonating through their bodies like deep base notes and trilling like high notes. Energy.

It's not demonic, or angelic, or any kind of supernatural.

Well, not literally. Neither of them think themselves sickly romantic, but in the confines of their minds they can admit that this, what they have, is something they'll never find with anyone else. They will never be content without each other, not after feeling this way – this unique closeness to another being neither have found before, this clicking of two different textured and coloured but perfectly matched puzzle pieces, not after feeling so giddy with unexpected, unadulterated joy.

John's set to leave for Scotland that Friday night. That leaves them with two days together. Well, a bit more than that – 50 hours. They're making the most it.

They're on the couch, kissing lazily. Sherlock's lying beneath John, his violinist hands running through John's short hair, gently brushing over his cheeks, cupping his neck. He can't stop touching John when they're like this. It's addictive. Heady. Nice. Better than nice. It's wonderful. John is wonderful.

He feels hazy and pleasantly warm, buzzing, his skin humming with an energy that he's never known before. Before John came along with his smile and his giggle and his sincere, wonderstruck compliments. John with his yelling and tolerance, John with his exasperation and fondness, John with his surface normality and hidden, scintillating interior, bright and warm and so full of light.

A conductor of light, and they're brightest together.

He's Sherlock's, all Sherlock's, because John chose him. John wants him. It's almost too good to be true. How could this man exist? He's so normal, so human, and yet somehow not –so unlike the rest of human mediocrity. Could Sherlock have missed others like John over the years, walking past them on the street and never knowing? Have they slipped through his fingers, hop and skipped along on different paths, circling each other but never coming together? Sherlock hadn't exactly known he wanted someone like John, and so hadn't been looking. Other companions of his have never caused such feelings in him, but could there have been another over the years?

Sherlock thinks about it, but the idea of another human exactly like John seems preposterous. There can only be one John Hamish Watson.

The feeling of John's fingers stroking Sherlock's scalp and catching on his curls is electric, like sparks are fizzing beneath his scalp where John's fingers touch and his nails scrape gently. John's mouth is warm, wet and enticing, and the sounds he makes when Sherlock licks the roof of his mouth, just behind his teeth, causes some of that electricity to jolt down to his stomach. It's a rush better than cocaine, and Sherlock explores with an intensity that leaves John boneless against him. He tugs on his lower lip with teeth and then sucks on it, runs his tongue over it and John shivers, and it's delicious. He takes his tongue and brushing it with his own, switching between teasing and demanding at a dizzying pace and John's groans vibrate against his own chest and it's exquisite, fantastic, every single positive adjective in the English language and then some.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, and it looking like John is the exception to the rule, just as Sherlock is the exception to the rule of unfeeling demon.

By Hell, it almost feels like he actually has a heart thumping wildly in his chest, like it's full and light all at once and he's warm and he feels wanted and needed and loved to his very core and all because of this one man, this singular, highly improbably man.

Somehow, they manage to migrate to the bed – Sherlock's bed – without putting too much distance between themselves. The world around them has dimmed. Their awareness has been reduced to just the two of them, to each other's body heat, heavy breathing, gentle puffs of air skimming across their faces; to each other's mouths, and the liquid fire running through their veins, the shivers induced in the other when they run hands over bare backs and chests and stomachs; to the noises they're making and the tingling desire that tangos in their bellies.

They're caught up in each other. Right now, there is nothing but each other, and the incredible sensations they're inciting in each other, two worlds colliding and merging and sparking in all manner of colours and creating one bigger and more magnificent than before. They need each other now, a matter of survival and indulgence all at once, or else their atmospheres and ecosystems will become tainted, a shadow will fall, the lights will go out – and just as the big things will lose vivacity and luminosity, so will the little things, like smiles from strangers and warm baths and tea.

They need each other now.

After the moans and cries have died down, they lie together tangled and sated and warm, and the world seems to expand back to normal. They can hear car horns and traffic outside, a siren down a couple of blocks, meowing of stray cats, music floating from downstairs. The air tries to cool their sweaty skin. John strokes a hand gently through Sherlock's wayward hair and Sherlock has his face buried in John's chest. He inhales John's scent, the musk of the result of their activities smells like a mix of both of their scents. Sherlock angles his head and licks John's chest, again and again, earning a squirm and a half–hearted reprimanding tug of his hair, but Sherlock can feel John's body vibrating with his laughter and Sherlock grins, carefree, feeling the happiest he's been all his existence, so much so that now it feels more accurate to call it life.

–––

John's stomach is in heavy duty, wilderness–survivor–grade knots. They've been over the plan enough times for John to know it practically word for word. On top of his own stress, he feels bombarded by the anxiousness emanating from Sherlock.

One of Mycroft's trademark black cars will soon be waiting for them outside; Sherlock's waiting for the text. They've lugged John's two suitcases downstairs, and are going over things again slowly, deliberately prolonging the moment. Neither feels ready to say goodbye, no matter how temporary or necessary it may be. When they fall silent, they don't meet each other's eyes, John looking at his feet and Sherlock looking at the wall behind him.

Sherlock clears his throat, "Remember the salt. All windows and doors. And keep that blade handy and safe – they're difficult to come by. Mycroft should have the clearance papers for everything in the car."

"Yes, okay, mother," John says sarcastically, but there's a hint of fondness in his tone.

John raises his head and Sherlock brings his gaze to John's.

"Be careful, alright?" John says softly, "I hate leaving you behind like this –"

"You know this is the best move, John. Moriarty knows about our friendship, but he can't possibly know about the intimacy of it. I realise that simply being my friend has imperilled you, but he shouldn't feel the need to bother with you if you've gone to ground while I'm out in the open and causing trouble. You'll be out of the range of fire," Sherlock says.

John's gaze hardens, "You're planning on using yourself as bait."

"Yes, although I doubt he'll show himself before he's ready to be as dramatic and show–stopping as possible. Don't worry, John, I'll be fine. Focus on taking care of yourself."

John snorts, "That's rich coming from you."

Sherlock's eyes flicker away quickly, attempting to hide the lance of pain that alights in his heartless chest. John notices anyway.

"No, no, that was – I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean it like that," John's eyes are wide.

Sherlock sighs.

"You're right. I'm a demon, and demons don't care much about anyone, just as no one cares for them. Not like humans do," Sherlock says quietly, eyes glistening as they bore into John's.

"Right, well, you can't be a demon then," John retorts.

Sherlock's eyes seem to snap from bubble blue to silver grey with shock, "What?"

John gives him a lopsided smile, walks up to Sherlock and takes the man's hands in his own.

"You can't be a demon. You care about me, and I care about you. Not to mention there's Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and Mycroft too. They all care about you, and you care about them in different ways. You can't be a demon, because you care about people, and they care about you," John says, rubbing the backs of Sherlock's hands with his thumbs.

John hesitates.

"Last night more than anything should give you reason to believe that you aren't a typical demon," and there's a wistful, reverent undertone to his voice, and his eyes smile with more life than the sun, like Sherlock is the centre of his universe.

Sherlock forgets to breathe, staring into eyes the colour of the night sky in the dim hallway. He could look into them forever and not be bored by the emotions that run through them, the perhaps imagined slight shifts in colour, and all the things they say, all to Sherlock and Sherlock alone. He wonders if there'll ever be a time when John doesn't habitually rip the rug out from under his feet with the mere fact of his existence.

"If I'm not a demon, what could I possibly be?" Sherlock whispers, ignoring the new raw edge in his own voice.

John smile warms Sherlock from the inside out, and the shorter man leans up as he tugs at Sherlock's hands to draw him closer; he gives Sherlock a sweet, chaste peck on the lips.

"You're Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, chemist, violinist, god–knows–what–else and infuriating, arrogant, quirky man–child. Oh, and also lover of John Watson."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, some of the tension dissipating at John's touches and words.

"Seriously, John? Lover? Bit fanciful, don't you think?" Sherlock drawls, his eyes dancing playfully.

John bursts into giggles and buries his face in Sherlock's chest. Such a laugh should not be endearing for a thirty–seven year old, yet Sherlock finds it positively adorable, his head feeling lighter at the sound.

John's muffled words intersperse his laugh, "You ruin everything. I was trying to be romantic and you want to argue semantics?"

Sherlock gives a deep chuckle and wraps his arms around John, burying his face in John's sandy hair and inhaling, memorising the scent that is so wholly and uniquely John. John's arms encircle Sherlock's waist and rest there, solid and secure. They soon quiet down but don't release each other, savouring each other's warmth for the last time in what will assuredly be far too long a time apart.

John shifts, turning his head to the side. He takes a moment to hear the illusion of a heartbeat before asking quietly, "What do you want me to call you then?"

John doesn't need to be watching Sherlock's face to feel the shift in the detective's expression.

"Sherlock," and the smile is audible when he says it, "It is my name after all."

John can't help grinning too, and he hums in agreement.

Sherlock's phone chimes and they both tense.

"Mycroft's car," Sherlock murmurs.

John nods, but doesn't move, his arms seemingly tightening their now clinging hold.

"John, we need to go," Sherlock says down into John's hair, closing his eyes.

"I know, I know," John replies.

He sighs and pulls back, their limbs still lingering around each other. Sherlock searches the other man's face before gently taking his neck in his hands, tilting his head up and leaning down to press their mouths together, and he'd meant for it to be sweet and chaste, honestly, but it's like a jolt to them both. They delve into each other's mouths, hunger and need and want spelled out in their movements, feelings yelled from the rooftops through a brush of the lips, a nip of teeth, a touch of tongues.

They break their lips apart and press their foreheads together, neither wanting to open their eyes and face the world outside, much more content to hear each other's heavy breathing, feel it on their faces, tasting the other in their mouths. It's a much nicer reality, one with just the two of them and no one threatening what they've found in one another.

It can't last.

"Come on," Sherlock rumbles.

John nods before stepping back and picking up both of his suitcases. Sherlock glances at John briefly before striding forward and flinging open the door to 221B, donning his apathetic mask.

Sherlock piles himself into the back of the car, leaving John and a man in a black suit to put the suitcases in the boot. He stares out the heavily tinted window on his right unseeingly. The boot door slams shut; Sherlock feels it through the backrest.

The back door opens and John sits himself in that window seat, slamming the door shut behind him. The suited man shuts a door in the front and before long they're sliding into traffic.

They don't look at each other, wary of prying eyes even through the dark windows. Sherlock should know better, and he does, actually, but finds himself not caring as he places his hand palm up on the black leather seat between them. John catches the movement and looks at Sherlock in surprise before something like tenderness softens his gaze. He takes the offered hand in his, twining their fingers together.

John admires the contrast of his own worn tan skin against pale and smooth, and returns to looking out the window and resisting the urge to go back on his word and never leave Sherlock's side, his smile and laugh and touch, his maddening everything behind.

They don't let go until they arrive at Heathrow airport.

The car's still running; at a standstill. John takes his new passport – his name will be William Gilmore for the foreseeable future – as well as his business class ticket and special clearance papers from the folder that lies on a table in front of him. The folder contains information on his new identity – education history, occupational history, family history – all of it fabricated and made passable by Mycroft's influence. The plan is to memorise and then destroy the unnecessary sheets of information. John shakes his head at the detail of them all. Kudos to Mycroft for being so thorough, but it seems he's up for quite the challenge.

He puts it all back in the folder, suddenly sensing Sherlock's gaze on him. He stares at John, everything about him as still and as calm as a statue aside from his eyes, which seem to roil with emotion. John knows his body is displaying the exact opposite of how he actually feels right now, and he clenches the hand in his own in sympathy. He knows how Sherlock feels.

"Just remember to be careful, you git," John says, his attempt at humour falling flat as Sherlock's body language doesn't change.

Then Sherlock darts forward and crushes John into a hug. John lets out a little 'oof' of surprise before returning the hug, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock presses his into John's. John rubs at Sherlock's back, trying to soothe the mild tremors that runs through his lean detective.

When Sherlock slowly pulls away, he takes an envelope out of his coat and slides it into the middle of the pile of papers in John's hand.

John looks up at him curiously, and their faces are mere centimetres from each other. Sherlock's is grave and John swallows back the near–choking desire to call this whole thing off.

Sherlock whispers, "Open it when you're alone."

John nods, not trusting himself to speak.

They don't say goodbye, and they don't say it either. Those three little words are redundant, and if they said it now, it would feel too much like a final goodbye. So they don't say it. They already know.

Sherlock stays in the car, and doesn't watch John walk away without looking back.

–––

In Scotland, John clambers into his rental car and shuts the door. He stares out in front of him at the car park, full of other rental cars ready to be borrowed. He twists in his seat to look around him; no one in sight. He figures he's alone enough.

He pulls the envelope out of his inner jacket pocket; runs his hands over the plain white envelope. There's nothing on it except his own name, written in Sherlock's elegant, barely legible scrawl. John smiles softly and runs his hand over the lettering before flipping it over and opening it, pulling out the contents.

A feather falls into his lap. It's black, with a tinge of purple and green at the softer end, the stalk end tough and smooth. It reminds him of the one that Moriarty sent Sherlock, the one that he now remembers picking up from the floor of 221B a lifetime ago.

There's a note in the envelope too. John pulls it out, opens it and reads:

John,

Keep this feather on you at all times. If you ever find yourself in need, snap it in half and help will come. I realise it sounds absurd, but surely not unbelievable after everything else you now know. I hope for your sake Scotland's not as dull as I recall.

– SH

John lets out a shaky laugh and folds the note carefully, putting it back in its envelope.

He picks up the feather and holds it up to the light, watching the light highlight and catch on the purple and green bits, running a finger through the fringes, watching as they flick back into place.

–––

John arrives at his temporary residence with no hassle. It's in a fairly small town not too far from the countryside. The landscape is blanketed in a light layer of snow, and there's a forecast for much more coming soon.

He steps out of the borrowed car and unloads his luggage, taking it up to the house and depositing it at the doorstep. It's a charming little thing; a brick house with a wooden door and gravel drive. He looks around before retrieving his house keys, thinking that maybe the evident beauty of this place would be even greater with a certain someone with him.

He sighs, trying to expel his maudlin thoughts.

Opening the door, John drags his cases into the foyer and leaves them there. He shuts the door, deciding that a cup of tea is in order before a spell of loud crap telly to drown out the silence and his thoughts before he falls asleep.

–––

Without the sun, the moon dwells in shadow; without the moon, the sun burns on without its counterpart.

The earth cannot thrive without them both in vicinity of one another.

–––

Sherlock's eyes are closed. He's not breathing; all illusions of human life discarded in order to concentrate on manipulating his energy, the energy tied to his true creature that he hasn't used in a long, long time.

It's a pleasant distraction from the aching in his chest, the ridiculous John–sized gap that he's trying so desperately to ignore.

Like drawing his bow across his violin, he takes the energy firmly and skilfully projects it, stretching it wide and far like giving the world around him a second skin, expanding over metres, then kilometres. It threads through people without their knowledge, so thin is the energy. It weaves between and through buildings, into homes and winding alleyways, brushing against taxis and buses and cars and their occupants, and it pulls at the flood of information before filtering not only what is happening, but what has happened; the echoes of memories in the objects and people in the bustling, alive sinuous city of London. The feather–light net collaborates, extrapolates under Sherlock's will and it's a rush that he's missed. How could he forget how this feels? This is what it is to be a true master of observation, to not only feel but become the flux and flow of the world around him, taking it inside his very being and hold it in the palm of his hand.

He could upset the balance. He could thicken the skin, tighten the net, and yank on his hold and London would tremble and be brought to its knees. He has the capacity to, with enough energy reserves, but not once has he seriously considered it. London wouldn't go down without a fight, and the life of the city itself would turn on him, eradicate him like a cancerous cell. London belongs to Sherlock just as Sherlock belongs to London; they are one and the same, have grown together and apart but always, always returning to each other, dancing; moon and earth.

Now he must search the confines of the city, take to it with his magic and his mind and eradicate the true cancerous cell. Then John can come home.

Then John can come home to Sherlock.

–––

Mrs Hudson asks where John has gone, and Sherlock says he's at a medical conference.

Lestrade asks why John hasn't tagged along in a while, and Sherlock says they're in a fight and John's giving him the silent treatment, or he's ignoring Sherlock, or he's visiting his sister.

Sarah calls by and asks after John because even though he resigned, she hasn't heard from him in a while. Apparently they're still on friendly terms, and she's concerned. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at her and dismisses her with a sarcastic deflecting remark.

Everyone seems wary of how Sherlock seems more on edge, and how much quicker he is to snap at people.

Sherlock rarely stops to recharge unless it's imperative. He runs himself ragged, chasing leads and only taking cases that whisper of Moriarty, scrounging the city for trails and using his homeless network and spying on the underground demon network for his mission. He pushes himself past the exhaustion of his physical body, his mind working in overdrive as he fuels it with his magic and fuels the wards he set up long ago, but has now expanded to a fifteen–kilometre radius to shield his residual energy.

Before John had left, Sherlock had embedded a compatible energy code in John's mobile that allows him to be shielded from the public network and hides his location by bouncing the signal off multiple towers and satellites every time he receives or sends a text. He'd also done the same to his own mobile to be safe, and in the hailstorm of radiowaves used to transmit such messages all across the globe, even the best celestial technology would have difficulties tracking either of them.

Sherlock texts John every night. John's replies allow him to wind down enough to grab a few minutes', sometimes hours' reprieve. Sometimes they text about the case, but mostly Sherlock asks about John, or complains about little things.

Mrs Hudson made tea. Not as good as yours. – SH

I miss you too you git. I hope you thanked her anyway. – JW

Of course. – SH

Three hours later I presume, if at all. – JW

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John. – SH

I wasn't being sarcastic, you're just really predictable. – JW

I am not. – SH

You are to me. Very much so :–) – JW

I resent that. – SH

No you don't. – JW

No, John, I resent emoticons. – SH

I'll keep that in mind ;–P – JW

––:––

My legs are creaking. It's bothersome. – SH

Should I be concerned or is this one of those angel things? – JW

Probably. I could be overstraining my body. – SH

Sherlock, jesus, please tell you've been sleeping regularly? Recharging or whatever? – JW

Yes, I have, but only when strictly necessary. – SH

You're insufferable. Knowing you that's probably a couple of hours every week, right? – JW

Good guess, John, I'm impressed. – SH

I could throttle you. Get more rest or you'll be too strung out to deal with Moriarty! – JW

Yes Mummy. – SH

Git. – JW

––:––

How is Scotland? Been attacked by a mob of gingers yet? – SH

I fear I have turned into you. The entire town is so boring, no murders or missing persons at all. – JW

None whatsoever? That's odd. – SH

Closely–knit group apparently. No more than a thousand residents, I'm the first to arrive in a while. – JW

Shouldn't entail no criminal activity. – SH

… case? – JW

Worth checking out. Remember to take your gun. – SH

The knife and holy water too. – SH

Will do. – JW

Be careful. – SH

I will. How're things going with Moriarty? – JW

He's as slippery as ever. He won't be found unless he wants to be, but I'm working on remedying that. – SH

It's been two months. What is he waiting for? – JW

That's a very good question. – SH

You have no idea, do you? – JW

I have a couple, but every one makes as little sense as the next. – SH

Call me, I'll be your sounding board. – JW

As always. – SH

You just want to hear the sound of my voice. – SH

So sue me. I'll bet you want to hear mine too. – JW

I retain the right to remain silent. – SH

Not on my watch. Call already will you? – JW

That phone call ends up lasting well into the early hours. John ends up falling asleep listening to Sherlock rattle off ideas, and it's a whole ten minutes before Sherlock realises. He leaves the line open and listens to the sound of John's breathing, inhale and exhale, soothing like a balm on his mind as he shuts his own eyes and indulges a little, wanders the giant bedroom of his mind palace where all memories of John reside. He smiles at the flickering pictures, clips, feelings, sounds, tastes, smells, and feels more refreshed than any hours of sleep have done for him over the past two months.

–––

He's running.

Lamplights throw their meagre light on him as he runs down alley after alley, flashing in his vision like cameras going off. His breath fogs up in front of him, habit really, and the pull of human muscles and the pumping of human blood naturally tug him into the well–worn mindset of faking human. He pauses at an intersection, a crossroads, deliberating before taking a left.

His pursuers gain on him, ticked off after Sherlock went a bit too far into their territory. He'd only meant to gather data – eavesdrop, glean information from the memories of inanimate objects – and leave, but they'd heard him, or sensed his thrumming, electric energy. It's too excited and excitable after Sherlock's long period of abstinence, and Sherlock can't risk gathering inaccurate data while splitting his focus to restrain residual energy.

But by Lucifer, this is a major part of why he loves what he does as a consulting detective. The running, the blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline – all parodies of the human fight or flight response, but Hell, he doesn't care – he feels it just the same, he thinks, and he loves it.

He slows to a stop, rounding another corner and pressing his back against the wall. He ceases breathing, strips away his heartbeat illusion, and stills the inner workings of his human body. He can't rid himself of the energy traces, but he knows his pursuers are lesser demons, and most likely unskilled enough to be unable to trace him properly.

The heavy fall of footsteps – three of them, average build, two females one male, hissing and panting with exertion, unused to their human bodies then – draw closer, and Sherlock tenses, his body thrilling with anticipation, the dangling moment suspended in time where he could be caught.

The demons slow to a halt and then begin to argue, of all things, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. They're deciding on whether to continue forwards or take a left or right. Sherlock gets bored of waiting, so he makes a decision for them.

"Hi! Hello. Hope I'm not interrupting anything terribly important," Sherlock drawls, stepping out of the shadows.

The three creatures start and turn to face him, hunching their backs and hands curve as if with retractable claws, eyes flooding black.

"Bernael," they hiss.

Sherlock blinks in mock–surprise, "Oh, how delightful. You remember me!"

The one on the left – female, 20–years–old, Japanese-English descent, was a uni student – grins, and the creature behind the face makes the action look rigid and off, "Of course we do, all earth-dwellers knew you were the best of us."

Sherlock inspects the collar of his coat, brushing off imaginary lint.

"Indeed. I still am," he says, and smirks when he feels the demons' auras flicker with hesitancy.

"No you aren't. You've grown soft with age!" the one on the right – male, 24–years–old, from the west, electrician – accuses, hands clenched.

Sherlock summons his power, and it crackles around him, contorting his features and shadows flick over, around, and through him. These shadows hide his true appearance, leaving it to the demons' imaginations to fill in the gaps; nothing he could do with a trick of light energy could scare them as much as their own minds. Apart from maybe his wings, but he's not ready for that yet. His eyes glow with harsh white light, a breeze stirred by his energy whipping at his clothes and unruly curls. He reminds them exactly why he was nicknamed the fallen angel of darkness and evil. He reminds them of those he tortured with delicate, elegant tools and clinical, hard–to–impress detachment and poise. He reminds them that true evil isn't malevolence, but bored apathy without an agenda or moral code, willing to do anything.

He reminds them what he could do the three of them without lifting so much as a finger, and they gasp and back away, eyes flooding normal again.

The middle one – female, 22–years–old, African descent, another uni student – speaks up, and her voice shakes, "It would seem we were mistaken."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and smiles an indulgent smile, and his eyes are harder than diamonds, cold and unfeeling and befitting a prince of Hell.

"So it would," Sherlock says, amenably, "Don't worry, I know a way you can make it up to me. I've been out of the loop for quite a while, and what better gossips are there than a trio of lowly slaves of the Pit?"

The three demons are frozen, the one on the right quaking with fear where he stands. None try to escape, because they remember Bernael, remember his ways, and remember the futility of fleeing.

Sherlock grins. He has missed this, the power he holds over them all. Torturing souls? Dull (and wrong, a voice reminiscent of John's whispers). Messing with low–ranking demons to get what he needs? Amusing, to a point. Kind of like playing fetch with a puppy, if he was ever so inclined to do such a thing as plebeian humans are wont to do. It gets tiresome after long hours of it over and over, but once every so often it is simply delightful.

This wasn't the plan, not yet, but he does need more information. He might as well take the opportunity and enjoy himself while he's at it. John's voice seems to permeate his thoughts, and it echoes of disappointment in him, shame, but Sherlock shoves it away. John's not here, and besides, he would care about the humans the most – their souls are long since gone.

"Why don't we go somewhere quiet, hmm? Somewhere no one will hear you scream," Sherlock says quietly, a thrumming undercurrent to his tone, and his eyes don't turn black once.

–––

He finds an umbrella–wielding sucker sitting in his chair when he gets back.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks, irritated.

Mycroft looks up at him lazily, twirling his umbrella a bit.

"Earlier this evening, I received reports of three demons found in an abandoned warehouse, brutally eviscerated, third and second degree burns, with numerous broken bones. I was simply curious as to what role you might have played in the event," Mycroft says, his tone pleasantly conversational.

"You're here to scold me?" Sherlock scoffs with an arrogant jerk of his head.

Mycroft looks up at him, then, and his eyes flash with holy light, "Don't play games with me, Sherlock. Am I to understand that this little game you and the hybrid are playing is sending you spiralling back into the older days?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snaps, "You know very well why I did it. There are hardly any more effective ways to extract information from such twisted creatures."

Mycroft taps the tip of his umbrella on the ground, "You know what they say about it taking one to know one."

Sherlock lets out a savage snarl.

"Get out."

"Come now, Sherlock –"

"I'm busy and you're boring me, now get out!"

Mycroft huffs out an exasperated breath, stands and makes his way to the door. He pauses at the doorway for a moment, turning back halfway. Sherlock knows it's just for dramatic effect; every move Mycroft makes is carefully thought out and calculated.

The angel says, "Perhaps you should consider bringing that soldier of yours back. He's been a surprisingly positive influence on you. In fact, I might arrange for transport myself."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock says, his voice a low rumble of thunder, "You know that would put him in danger."

"Isn't one safest at the centre of a hurricane?" Mycroft asks airily.

Sherlock picks up an empty, unwashed tea cup and flings it at him, but Mycroft's already gone. It shatters against the wall, and the shards tinkle mockingly as they fall to the floor.

–––

Sherlock decides on an experiment.

He should be reserving his energy, but he wants to try something and if it works he and John will have another, better way to communicate than through electromagnetic signals and tinny speakers.

It's five past midnight, and he's certain John would be asleep by now. Sherlock lies on his bed – their bed, really – and opens the gate to his energy. It flows and ebbs, and he lets it settle before stilling his mind and slipping into a trance–like state, one where he's not quite awake, not quite asleep, but in a grey area in between.

Then he takes his energy and sends it out, like an air current made of his essence tethered to himself; invisible to the human eye but tendrils of dancing gold stardust to those who can see it. It flies over London, over the streets and houses and buildings, over countryside and water bodies and sleeping children, until it finds and reaches the temporary, still temporary, house of one homesick soldier.

He sees, not with his human eyes but with his energy, the house in the snow. The energy circles the house and flows through the bedroom window, and Sherlock gently, feather-light, touches John's forehead with it.

Blinding white takes over Sherlock's vision, like a flashlight being shone directly into both his eyes, and he groans a bit at the explosions behind his eyelids. Then the white fades, dimming as another vision comes into view: pitched tents, a fire burning, silhouettes of trees against a sky full of stars, and a full moon bright and bigger than London's painted on a canvas of the deepest blue.

The racing of Sherlock's mind quiets into an unparalleled bliss.

He manifests himself, sits himself by the fire and waits. There's sand beneath his feet, but strangely enough it's not coarse or grainy. It's smooth and soft on the soles of his feet. Crickets chirp their rhythmic song. The air is cool, heat long since gone after the fall of night. Sherlock tilts his head back and leans back on his elbows, gazing at the stars and wondering at how he feels down to his very atoms that they shine and dance to a tune of adoration and serenity solely for him.

"Sherlock?"

John.

Sherlock leans up and looks at his more–than friend (he still hasn't quite gotten around to choosing a set term), and he smiles, and it's like John's finally come home.

John's wearing his oatmeal jumper and jeans. His feet are bare and his hair is longer than when Sherlock last saw him, silvery in the moonlight. Sherlock wants to touch it and see if he can feel the differences as the strands mix with the ethereal light of the dream–conjured celestial body above them.

"Hello, John," Sherlock smiles.

"What – this is a dream, right? I'm dreaming," John steps closer and looks down at him, head cocked slightly in question, "How can I tell? Usually I don't think that until after I've woken up."

Sherlock smiles, "We both are, in a way. Call it joint dreaming."

John's eyes widen, "Wait, this is really you?"

"Of course it is. Sit," Sherlock pats the earth next to him, then hides his delight as dust floats up and lingers in the air like there's no gravity, like silver stardust.

John concedes.

"How?" the doctor whispers, faint with awe, still staring at Sherlock's face, so much clearer than in his regular dreams.

Sherlock leans closer to the flames and sends John a sideways glance and arrogant smirk, softer than usual.

"Magic of course," Sherlock says haughtily.

John laughs softly, and Sherlock hones in on the sound, takes it and holds it close.

"Of course," John replies, fondness colouring his voice musical to Sherlock's ears.

There's a pause, and they watch the flickering flames long enough to have black shapes overlaying their vision, and they listen to the crackling of the logs, the chirping of the crickets, the breathing of another being beside them as solid as they wish to believe.

"I miss you, you know," Sherlock says, and even though he says it quietly, John feels as if it's rumbling right in his ear and he shivers.

"Right, now I know this can't be real. You'd never admit that out loud," John chuckles good–naturedly.

Sherlock sends him a slightly wounded look, and John sobers up.

"You don't think I could express sentiment to your face?" Sherlock asks, his eyes now taking on a curious, puzzled glint.

John stares into those ancient eyes and swallows back a lump of emotion, "No, I think you could and wouldn't want to."

Sherlock gives him a small smile, and John thinks he looks every bit a fallen angel as possible.

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock asks softly, amusement and joy making him light–headed, and John sees it shining in his eyes.

John thinks he looks heart-shatteringly beautiful like this, but instead of shattering, his heart soars with the knowledge that he is the one that has such an effect on this brilliant, transcendental being.

"You never say what you mean when it comes to your own emotions. You're precise and take it all the way when it comes to others' affairs and torments, but you always talk about your own feelings in a roundabout way, or not at all and I can read it in your actions and your body language instead," John takes a breath, staring at the fire in front of them before continuing, "And even though I haven't known you long, relatively speaking, and there's probably a million things you've done or witnessed that you haven't told me about, I know you, Sherlock. I understand you, and dare I say it, maybe a little more than you do. I may not be skilful when it comes to drawing deductions from observations but I'm pretty comfortable deducing you. So even if you did tell me how you feel, you'd only be telling me what I already know."

John hadn't meant to say so much, but in this beautiful, dreamlike place that echoes of Afghanistan, with Sherlock finally with him, it's as if his mind–to–mouth filter has broken down and once he'd started, the floodgates were not only opened but obliterated.

"John, look at me," Sherlock says, and his voice is rough and takes John back to another time.

When their eyes meet, John sees it, sees what he already knows, in nothing more than the roiling plethora of colours that are Sherlock's eyes, highlighted and shimmering in the mix of moonlight and firelight, and he thinks he falls just a little further.

"All angels have names. True names. They are names that they rarely, sometimes never in their lifetime, give to another soul. Even humans have true names, but most never learn them within their lifetime. Names are power, John, and if someone knows your true name, the power they hold over you is absolute. With a true name, another being can control you with their will alone and under no circumstances can the hold be broken – unless, of course, either the controller or the controlled dies."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John reminds himself to do the same – although does it really matter in this dreamland? John doesn't know. His thoughts are running wild, but he has a feeling he knows where this is going.

Sherlock clears his throat and continues, "You know me as Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft and most demons from my past know me as Bernael, the angel of darkness and evil. As a human I've been many historically renowned figures in history."

John gives a small snort and shakes his head at that, and Sherlock gives an arrogant grin in return, but it falls away to sincere seriousness soon after, and all humour drains from the cool air around them. He wants to ask what the meaning of this is, but something tells him not to.

To his surprise, Sherlock takes his hand from where it lies on his knee, and they both gasp and shudder in unison, startling at the roar of yearningfondnesslust that crashes over them. It feels more intimate than holding hands in real life, like their souls are touching, and for all John knows they very well are.

Sherlock eyes draw him in, and he stares at John as he brings the hand he holds up to his lips to kiss the back of it. John flushes hot and shivers at the touch of those lips he so misses and the intensity of that gaze, that intellect and sheer brilliance trained on him and him alone.

"John," Sherlock says in his rumbling baritone, "My true name is Kakabel."

John feels faint and dizzy, and he discards many responses before falling back on tentative humour, "Well, telling me that was a stupid move."

Great, way to ruin the moment you idiot, John thinks to himself.

To John's immense surprise, Sherlock bursts into laughter, but not the throaty chuckle that he's heard before. No, this is a flat out, roaring, stomach–hurting, holding–a–hand–to–his–forehead kind of laughter. John's stunned. Relieved and starting to feel amused and joyous beyond belief, but stunned nevertheless.

"John, you are ridiculous. Completely and totally ridiculous," Sherlock says when he stops, voice full and lilting with amusement.

John rubs the back of his neck and gives a single–shoulder shrug, "Glad you approve."

Sherlock hums with palpable contentment, eyes trailing over the side of John's face and it's like their souls are brushing again.

"Why did you tell me?" John asks, his voice even when he finally meets Sherlock's relaxed gaze.

"Because, John, don't you see? You hold something in here," Sherlock reaches over and taps John's temple, "That's an integral part of who I am, not just as you know me but as a fallen angel. You simply can't be allowed to leave me now, either by your own choice or due to outside force."

John snorts with laughter, "Christ, Sherlock, a bit not good! I knew it was a bad idea getting involved with you."

Sherlock leans closer, his eyes gleaming but lips pulled into a pout, "But John, I was being romantic! It's a promise. A pledge. I want all you'll give me, John."

The air feels thick. Not suffocating, but John feels like Sherlock's taken away all the air and John couldn't care less. They're drinking each other in, the only water in this barren, beautiful land. God, he never wants to wake up. He just wants to stay in this incredible place with this essential, magical creature that makes his heart ache and fly and sing.

On second thought, he does want to wake up. He wants to wake up and fly back to London that very next day, Moriarty or no.

"I miss you," John whispers.

Sherlock breaks their gaze, looking back to the fire before swallowing visibly and nodding.

"I know."

A/N: Holy mary mother of god that was a lot longer than I intended it to be. 2763 words longer than my goal. Whoops. Anyway. What did you think of part 2? Review, favourite, let me know if you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Seriously, it makes me so giggly and smiley to know someone out there in the world likes what I do. I've done my own editing, so any and all errors are my own. Point them out if you feel so inclined and I'll fix them up. Also, part 3 will be a separate story so if you want an alert when I post it, you'll probably have to put me on author alert. Or subscribe to the series on AO3, your choice. That's all for now, hope to hear from you with feedback of all sorts soon! x