Sherlock came back to himself slowly.

He couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing, at first, as the shrill beeping of a monitor somewhere in the distance slowly brought him back. His memories, and his thoughts, came back to him sluggishly, one piece at a time.

Defeating Jim.

Losing his Angelinity.

The pain.

His emotions.

And then John, John who was there every step of the way with stupidly sentimental rubbish pouring from his mouth like a faucet, taking his hands and siphoning off his pain until he passed out himself, which had made Sherlock go into a frenzy of panic. John, saying he wouldn't leave and that it didn't matter if he was Human, because he'd still be the same person he was.

John, who fought tooth and nail when the Angel Council suggested putting Sherlock into medically induced coma when the Angel medication stopped working and his wings were burning, literally burning, it felt like, and Sherlock tottered somewhere between lucid and hallucinatory. John, who had only conceded to the coma when Sherlock had collapsed in the shower one night, cracking his head open against the porcelain and needing stitches for it. John, who had been there as Sherlock went under, promising he'd be there when he woke up.

Sherlock opened his eyes painfully.

"Sherlock?" John's face swam into view, worry breaking into relief as Sherlock's mind went on to other deductions (hospital, private, Mycroft, human). "Hey," John murmured. "I wondered when you were going to come around. I almost had Lestrade start looking for a case... I thought it might wake you up."

Sherlock smiled wryly. The motion felt unused. He wondered how long he'd been under. "... Is there a case...?" he cracked out. His voice was deep from disuse. He found he couldn't clear it; his mouth was too dry.

"No. Well, I don't know," John said shortly, pouring water from the nearby pitcher into a paper cup. "Lestrade knows you're out of commission, anyway, so he wouldn't tell us if there was. Here, let's sit this up..." He picked up the bed controls and sat the bed up, holding the paper cup up to Sherlock's lips. "Drink."

Sherlock's nose pulled up from the command and the position he was in, but he allowed John to tip the cup back so that he could drink.

"Better?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "Yes... How long have I been out?"

"About a week," John said quietly, sinking into the visitor's chair. "... You're totally human now," he added.

Sherlock sighed. He felt the breath expand his lungs and he let it out slowly. It felt different now, somehow. "I can tell."

"Can you?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I've been an Angel for three hundred years. I can tell when that part of me is gone."

He didn't add that it felt weird. Really weird. Like breathing was more difficult. Like he felt more than he did when he was an Angel. The emotions were there, stronger than before, beneath the surface like irritation, sadness, uncomfortableness. Like he couldn't see the details that he used to, that the world was dulled in its colour and vibrancy. He could pick out that this was a private hospital and he knew which one just by memory, but the clarity of senses was off.

Sure, he'd Descended years ago, and he'd had to get used to being a human then, but this was different. This wasn't being a human because he was an Angel needing a vessel - he had questions about that, too, but he'd ask later - this was being a human because he had to be a human. He could never go back to Heaven. Not unless he died... although he didn't know if he'd even go back to Heaven, then.

"Three hundred years?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, snapping back to the present. He looked up at John, tilting his head slightly at his expression. "Oh... I never told you that, did I? How old I really am. Was." He paused. "Am."

"No!" John frowned before raising his hands to rub at his eyes. "Well. I don't know what to say to that. I shouldn't be surprised." He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at him again. "Are you feeling alright?"

Not really, he wanted to say. The essential part of him had been ripped away and he was still trying to deal with that. He wanted to wrap his wings around himself and press back into their feathery warmth, burrow into them and ignore the fact that he was stuck in the hospital, feeling virtually helpless. But he couldn't, and he wasn't really the type of person to complain about personal problems, not like this. So, instead of saying not really, he instead told another version of the truth.

"Tired," he admitted. "Although I suspect that's merely because of the physical and mental strain of the transformation and the fact that I've been asleep so long. I've still got aches and pains, but then... that's to be expected, I guess."

John nodded. "Yeah. Your doctor said that you might be in pain for awhile afterwards. Or experience symptoms, like, er-"

"Phantom limb syndrome?" Sherlock supplied, tilting his head slightly to look over his shoulder. "Trust me when I say that that part will be the worst to overcome." He looked back at John and cracked a wry smile. "Remind me not to go jumping off of roofs again. I don't have wings to cushion my fall anymore."

John didn't smile - he never really did when Sherlock brought up the fall - but just looked at him unhappily. A little bit sad, a little bit pitying, without realising it.

Sherlock looked away. "Anyway..." He curled over onto his side because old sleeping habits died hard and sprawled out against the soft mattress of the private room's furnishings. "At least it's over."

"Yeah... Go back to sleep."

"Haven't I slept enough?" Sherlock muttered, although he had already closed his eyes and pulled the blankets closer. He was cold, he was tired, and he was more than a little bit numb. He wanted to sleep and get back home, get back to life as much as he could.

"Yeah, well, you're a lazy sod," John replied.

Sherlock laughed quietly, only a breath of laughter smothered into his pillow, as he pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. They were too cold.

"It's rare, but the only reason we can even entertain is that Mr Moriarty's demon bite interacted with your Angel blood and turned you into a human."

"But how?" John interrupted. "I didn't think this sort of stuff could happen."

"Well," Peter said contemplatively, "our theory is that humans are basically two elements. There's all these depictions that humans have two sides to them: there's a side of the Angel, and a side of the Devil."

"Right. The Angel and Demon on your shoulders," John replied.

"Right," Peter said. "When Moriarty injected his Demon venom into Sherlock's Angel blood, it joined together to make that sort of same element: Angel and Demon in one body, the mark of a human."

"Isn't that a bit hypocritical, though? Couldn't he have turned into, I don't know, a Hybrid? Instead of a human?"

Sherlock sighed through his nose, closing his eyes. He'd just gotten home today and the Angel Council had shown up, explanations (theories) abound. Sure, he was curious, but he honestly just wanted to sleep. He wasn't back to his quote-unquote usual self, he was still exhausted, and he had just been glad to get home, back to his things, when the Council appeared.

Still, it would be his luck to turn into a human instead of a Hybrid. Not that he had ever heard of Hybrids, but he hadn't heard of an Angel turning into a human, either.

"It's physically impossible." Peter paused. "At least, it's supposed to be. There's only been rumours of Angels Turning at all. Angels don't have venom, so it wouldn't be possible to infect a Demon by biting the vessel, but Demons could theoretically corrupt an Angel with their venom. Even then, however, the Angel would simply Fall."

"Fallen Angels... Right," John muttered.

Sherlock turned his head from the ceiling, looking at Gabriel. "What happened to the soul that resided in this body?" he asked flatly.

Gabriel looked over at him. "Most likely, it perished when Moriarty bit you."

Sherlock blinked slowly. He hadn't really expected anything different, but it was still... regrettable. Life and Death and all that, but Angels were never supposed to take their vessels unless there was a mutual agreement and stuff like that. "I'm assuming there's a place in Heaven for said soul?" he asked dryly.

Gabriel looked at him with surprise. "You know I don't have the answer to that."

"Right." Sherlock looked back at the ceiling. "Only the reapers know that. Yes," he added, "there are such things as reapers and you can only see them when you're about to die." That was purely for John's benefit; he could practically hear him formulating the question.

"Okay." John was quiet for a second. "But, wait, I thought I was dying in Afghanistan, I never saw one then?"

"I got there first," Sherlock said.

"Oh."

"I'm sure the reaper who was on duty for your vessel's soul took the fact that that soul gave home to an Angel into consideration during reaping," Gabriel replied.

Sherlock nodded absently, closing his eyes again.

"Are you feeling alright, physically, though?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open again. "Sorry." He looked at Mary. "I didn't think you cared about me at all."

Mary looked back at him evenly. "Of course I do. You're one of God's children."

"One of his children - as an Angel or human? Because you notice I'm not exactly an Angel anymore," he pointed out.

"As you," Mary replied. "As Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock inspected her for a short second. Loathe as he was to admit it, as weird as he might have found it, there was only concern and care and honesty visible in Mary's eyes. Sherlock had known her long enough to be able to read her, unless she was on duty, of course, and he didn't sense any hostility from her. Or maybe it was because he was human and he just couldn't tell anymore.

"Huh." He looked back at the ceiling. "Miracles do happen."

"Sherlock..." John muttered.

"I'm still sore from the internal abuse on my wings and the rest of my body. I'm tired, which is why I was trying to sleep," Sherlock muttered. "It feels weird, being completely human, I mean, I can definitely tell the difference. But I'll be fine, I suspect, once I get back on my feet and back to my work." He waved his hand towards John. "You've my blessing to date her if you want," he said absently, draping his other arm over his eyes.

"What?"

"Just be careful with her. I still don't trust her entirely," Sherlock continued lazily. "And Mary, take care of John. Or I'll have to intervene and I warn you, human emotions seem to be more turbulent than the muted Angel ones. I'm not sure I have quite a handle on them yet."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock let his head fall to the side, peering at John over his arm. "Not good?" he asked absently. "I thought you liked her."

John seemed halfway between a glare and a blush. His cheeks were tinted pink, but his eyes were annoyed. Probably not good, then, Sherlock figured. What he didn't understand was why John was still bothered by all of that. He was like a little schoolgirl.

"Not the time and place, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "He likes you," he said to Mary, dropping his arm back over his eyes.

John sighed. "Anyway..."

"Well, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock opened his eyes again to look at Gabriel. "What?"

"Well, you're no longer an Angel."

Sherlock moved his arm. "What exactly are you getting at?" he asked slowly, leaning back against the armrest of the sofa.

He still felt like he should be minding his wings. It was habit and too hard to break right now. The one decent thing about all of this would be that he wouldn't need to cut holes into his shirts anymore. He'd become quite the expert with sewing because of the wings...

"There will no more association between you and the Angel Realm."

Sherlock sat up a bit more. "Meaning you won't be infringing on my privacy anymore?"

"That's the general idea, yes," Gabriel replied.

"You won't be flash stepping into my flat without warning?"

"No."

"Seeing as how average humans never have any association with Angels, it's against the Angel Code unless the human has a Guardian, I won't see anything else of you?"

"No. Not unless we're here on assignment for an Angel," Gabriel said.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before grinning briefly, flopping back onto the cushions. "Well. That's the best news I've heard in months."

John sighed again.

"We'll monitor your progress for a few weeks, but unless something drastic changes, I doubt that we'll be in contact with you again."

"Good." Sherlock waved his hand towards the door. "Don't let the atmosphere hit you on the way out."

Gabriel just nodded. "Dr Watson."

"Yeah, thanks, for... everything."

"Our pleasure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His eye roll came to a stop when Gabriel extended his hand to him. "... What?"

Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

"Do you really think that's necessary?" Sherlock asked.

Gabriel just looked down at him evenly, although he didn't move.

Out of all of the Angels, Sherlock thought, Gabriel was the leader. It wasn't exactly true, not exactly honoured. God hadn't had a 'chosen' Angel, not since Lucifer, but Gabriel... most Angels looked up to him, sought him willingly if they needed advice or direction.

Sherlock had never done that. Not once. From the day that he could remember meeting Gabriel, he had tortured him with the idea that he might be part Demon, somehow, that he was a defect, a freak. Of course, he'd never said it in so many words, that, but it was heavily implied. Sherlock knew that it was just part of their job, part of Gabriel's job to make sure that the Angel Realm stayed in its correct boundaries, but it hadn't really resonated in Sherlock before.

Not that it mattered. He would always have some sort of ill will towards the Angel Council, that was undeniable. But they had helped him... this time. And maybe, just maybe... Maybe Gabriel was trying to make up for the past.

"Atoning for your sins?" Sherlock intoned, meeting Gabriel's gaze.

"Only one being is perfect, Sherlock," Gabriel replied evenly. "And He watches over us all."

Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, I know." He leaned forward and gripped Gabriel's hand. "Don't think I'm disappointed to see you go," he said bluntly.

"Never," Gabriel said.

"Farewell, Mr Holmes," Peter said, fixing his glasses. "The Angel Realm will be less exciting without you in it."

Sherlock snorted. "You mean it'll be less annoying and generally a better place without me in it."

"You are special, Sherlock. Do not forget that," Luke said shortly.

"Special's just another word for a weird," Sherlock replied. "But I'll take abnormal over normal any day."

"Abnormal is good," Mary added, smiling. "Where would the world be if there wasn't someone to shake things up?"

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah, well, I'll do my best. Anyway, weren't you all leaving?" he asked, striding into the kitchen. "There's too many... people in here."

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes. May God in Heaven protect your soul," Daniel said, before vanishing into thin air.

"And John's, too," Mary added. Sherlock watched over his mug of tea as she smiled at John. "Maybe I'll see you."

"Yeah... I'd like that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Goodbye, Mary."

"I thought we had your blessing?" she teased.

"Yeah... well... not in my flat," Sherlock muttered, gulping back his tea.

"It's my flat, too, you know," John retorted.

Mary laughed. "See you, you two. Sherlock, you might not be an Angel anymore, but you can still watch over him."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I will."

Mary smiled softly and then she was gone, followed by Peter and Luke and then, after a final farewell, Gabriel.

"We hope to see you again, Sherlock," Gabriel said, ruffling his wings. "Every one of us."

"We'll see where the reapers send me," Sherlock said.

"In the end," Gabriel said shortly, "that's all we can ever do. Goodbye... Sherlock." There was a faint pop and then it was just Sherlock and John, surrounded by their flat and their own things and their lives.

"... Well," Sherlock said. "Want a cup of tea?" he asked, looking across the room at John.

John looked up at him. "... You're offering me tea?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, I do make tea sometimes. I am capable of menial tasks, like making tea and dressing myself." He felt John's eyes on him and looked up again, taking in the way John was pointedly looking at Sherlock's clothes: holey t-shirt, pyjama pants, dressing gown falling off his shoulders. "... Do you really want to go there?" Sherlock asked. "I did just get home today."

John held up his hands. "I didn't say a thing."

"You were thinking it." Sherlock handed a mug to John.

"Thanks. And I was not."

"You were." Sherlock sank into his chair, muffling his groan against closed lips. He wished they still had Angel medication, but that didn't sell here on earth, and he wasn't due a paracetamol dose for another hour.

"Seriously, Sherlock," John said, sitting opposite, "how are you feeling? You're still in pain."

Sherlock sipped at his tea. "I'm as alright as I expect I should be," he said. "Or... as good I can be right now," he murmured.

"You haven't changed, you know," John said. "You might not be able to fly anymore, but you're still yourself."

"Oh, not you, too," Sherlock said, pressing his back into his chair more firmly. Of course he knew that. That he wasn't totally different. Outwardly, he was the same exact person, minus the giant wings. Inwardly... it was a little different. He wouldn't be living for another three hundred years and he couldn't talk to John through his mind anymore. But he'd get over it. He always got over it.

"What doesn't kill you," he muttered.

"Besides," John said, swallowing a mouthful of tea, "if you want to fly, you can always get on a plane."

Sherlock grinned. "I do have a license."

"To fly a plane?

Sherlock nodded, his smile widening at John's incredulous look. Honestly, why was he surprised anymore? His flatmate was an Angel turned human and he ogled the fact that Sherlock had a pilot's license.

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, I don't know... thought it might come in handy."

"Huh." John shook his head. "Captain Sherlock Holmes."

"... My last name is somewhat lacking when you add 'Captain' in front of it," Sherlock said idly. "You kind of need a last name with multiple syllables to make it sound believable. Like Wat-son... although your first name lacks the punch, but I guess your fists can make up for that."

John laughed. "What's a good Captain name, then?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "'Sherlock Watson'? An amalgamation of our names make a multi-syllable name... it's not bad, but not infallible, either."

"And it also makes us sound like we're married," John muttered.

"Oh. So it does." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, thoughts filtering through his head and settling in or falling out based on level of importance. "But if we got married, you'd obviously take my last name. John Holmes."

"Oi, why would I have to take your last name?"

Sherlock smiled again. It was starting to feel less out of place. "Well... it's obvious, isn't it?"

John glared at him, but with something like... contentedness in his eyes. "I wouldn't finish that thought if I were you."

Sherlock laughed and took another gulp of his tea.

"I just helped you out of hospital. Don't forget I can help you back," John mock-threatened.

Sherlock only shook his head, trying to chase away the amusement. It was so much stronger, now. He figured it was the human thing again. But the smile was stuck fast, and he decided to just hide it over his tea than try and fight it.

Maybe he would be alright. With all the stubbornness that belonged to humans, maybe he would be alright, after all.

Yes, that was a Cabin Pressure reference.

And, after much dithering and a lot of complaining to myself to get writing, Salvation has come to a close! It was my first venture into an AU like this, and I'm actually really pleased with the way it turned out. So, you might see some more wing!lock vignettes from me... if my muse agrees. :P

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading! Your reviews, favourites, and follows mean a lot!