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godtiss: alicexz: You’re on the side of the angels… I seriously pictured this when he got up on the ledge though. Through my tears, of course. I may be on the side of the angels but don’t think for one second that I am one of them. John doesn’t hear those words, spoken through clenched teeth on the roof of St. Barts. He’s in a cab, three minutes away – cursing the London traffic, cursing his own gullibility, cursing Sherlock because he knows that something is very, very wrong. John doesn’t hear those words, but if he had, he would have strongly disagreed. He’s always been able to see Sherlock’s wings – wide and vibrant, with feathers of pure gold faded into silver at the tips. They tower over him when Sherlock stands, angry or agitated or excited. They swoop low and drape over the both of them when they stand together in the rain at crime scenes. Sherlock’s wings envelop him when John can see his thoughts turned inwards, droop when he’s complaining about boredom. John can’t imagine Sherlock without them, even while the rest of the world continues to turn uninterrupted, seems oblivious to the angel that walks among them. He’s out of the cab as soon as it stops outside of the hospital. His phone rings. “John.” And Sherlock’s there, on the roof with his wings spread wide behind him, nearly swallowing his figure as the sun catches in the feathers and John has to wonder how anyone can’t see them for how bright they are. He’s learned to read the set of Sherlock’s wings, knows what emotions plague that brilliant mind perhaps better than Sherlock himself knows. John can see the fear etched in the feathers and muscles and bones, can see the doubt, the grief, the quiet apology. “Goodbye, John.”  John had always been able to see Sherlock’s wings. He never saw Sherlock use them to fly.

godtiss:

alicexz:

You’re on the side of the angels…

I seriously pictured this when he got up on the ledge though. Through my tears, of course.

I may be on the side of the angels but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.

John doesn’t hear those words, spoken through clenched teeth on the roof of St. Barts. He’s in a cab, three minutes away – cursing the London traffic, cursing his own gullibility, cursing Sherlock because he knows that something is very, very wrong.

John doesn’t hear those words, but if he had, he would have strongly disagreed.

He’s always been able to see Sherlock’s wings – wide and vibrant, with feathers of pure gold faded into silver at the tips. They tower over him when Sherlock stands, angry or agitated or excited. They swoop low and drape over the both of them when they stand together in the rain at crime scenes. Sherlock’s wings envelop him when John can see his thoughts turned inwards, droop when he’s complaining about boredom.

John can’t imagine Sherlock without them, even while the rest of the world continues to turn uninterrupted, seems oblivious to the angel that walks among them.

He’s out of the cab as soon as it stops outside of the hospital. His phone rings.

“John.”

And Sherlock’s there, on the roof with his wings spread wide behind him, nearly swallowing his figure as the sun catches in the feathers and John has to wonder how anyone can’t see them for how bright they are.

He’s learned to read the set of Sherlock’s wings, knows what emotions plague that brilliant mind perhaps better than Sherlock himself knows. John can see the fear etched in the feathers and muscles and bones, can see the doubt, the grief, the quiet apology.

“Goodbye, John.” 

John had always been able to see Sherlock’s wings. He never saw Sherlock use them to fly.

(via seafiish)

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Greetings, one and all!
I'm ostenatiousChaos; seventeen-year-old amateur writer, artist, and voice actor. Aspiring bard.
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