Work Text:
Dead is dead. Done. Finished. Gone into the ground, ash into an urn, cast to the waters and scattered to the wind. So thought John Watson. The realist. The practical man.
Which meant that Sherlock was not coming back, not from the dead, to have the last word with his best friend. That thought chased all others into oblivion, cooled endless cups of tea, un-sipped, un-tasted, as if they were poison.
So when the improbable, the impossible happened, blazed right through the roof of 221B in the still dark hours of a London morning, John swore he was dreaming and muttered something rude towards the ceiling. Only the ceiling was gone. And a great white wash unfurled before him.
The wings were, unexpected. Overly dramatic and poised in far too biblical a fashion, but the voice was unmistakable, heartbreaking.
“It’s been two years, three hundred and fifty eight days, sixteen hours, eleven minutes and fourty-two seconds. I’ve missed you John.”
Not speaking in tongues then.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m coming home.”
“But you’re dead…”
The angel smiled. “One quick lie to fool the devil John.”
A bright finger traced the iridescent air, stretching a thread of light between them. The truth was almost blinding.
John swallowed. “So you’re an…angel now?
“Oh John. Isn’t it obvious?” I always was. I always have been.”