Sherlock Short Stories

The consulting... angel?

It had been an incredibly long day. To begin with, Sherlock Holmes hadn't slept for 3 days and so was at his peak mental capacity but physically, well, his. It's was moving slower than a garden snail. This, by itself, was a tiresome and worrying event for John and Sherlock alike, both held up by the detective's fragile state however this was only worsened by a triple homicide: if required stealth, stamina, skill and intellect and ... a seven hour stake out. Following this, John and Sherlock had spend an hour in a taxi in horrendous traffic which John had immediately jokingly pinned on Mycroft (it later turned out that it had, in fact, been the government and so John's joke fell flat).

So, when Sherlock and John finally arrived home it was a great relief to see the dark walls of the flat. It was an even greater relief for Sherlock when he could finally close his bedroom door and release his cramped wings from his tight shirt.

Wings. Sherlock has wings. He managed to hide this peculiar weirdness from most people (more specifically from John) through his long coat and folding them tight to his back however it left him feeling cramped and itchy, desperate for a gentle massage or even just a fly.

Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh of relief, stretching his wings out wide before tenderly flapping them, testing out the unused limbs after being crammed against his body for so long.

Meanwhile, John was cheerily making two cups of tea. Normally, he would wait for Sherlock to return from his room to deliver the tea but tonight - exhausted by the long day - he decided not to wait.

"I made you tea," declared John proudly announcing his presence in his friend's bedroom.

The tea slipped from his grasp, tumbling in a circle, saucer separating from cup and the tea spiralling away as if gravity had abandoned it before - clang - the cup landed and, thank fully, smashed into three large pieces.

John didn't even notice this. He was too busy looking on in gobsmacked awe as his flat mate fumbled with his shirt, attempting to undo the eventful revealing of his secret but to no avail.
"Sherlock?"
"Oh, hello John. Fancy seeing you here," Sherlock tumbled over his words.
"You have wings," John observes. Just for a moment, Sherlock attempted his usual sarcastic come back however he bit hue tongue and instead went with a simple, "yes."

John watched a Sherlock begin to tremble. Sherlock learned precariously against his bed, eyed wide and face pale.
"I'm sorry John,"
"You have wings," John approached, moth wide with a smile and eyes glistening with unshed tears. He reached out a hesitant hand, gently brushing his hands through the black feathers, "they're beautiful," he complimented as he reached his arms against Sherlock, now storyline the elegant wings boldly. Sherlock flinched back confusedly.
"Sorry," John caught himself.
"No, no. They're just sensitive is all," encourage Sherlock. He stretched his wings - which he had hated for so long that the idea of John's affection for them seemed novel - around the waste of his flat mate.
"Why do you..?" John began.
"I'm an angel demon," Sherlock explained, hating the title - hating what he was.
"An angel demon?"
"Half angel, half demon. Hence the black feathers not white," he clarified, now embracing John enthusiastically, adoring the affection and the sensation of John's delicate hands massaging his wings.

The two men eventually moved from the bedroom and to the lounge. They curled up against each other, arms enveloping waste, wings enveloping arms, love enveloping wings. They slept peacefully, the two uncertain of the future but adoring the present nonetheless.

The angel and the doctor.