Fallen Angel

Ohh, That's a Nice Word, 'Blipped'.

 

Chapter Twenty-five

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Sorry, I just realised I combined two chapters back in part 22. So that's part 22 and 23. Making the last one 24 and this one 25. So... yeah.

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I stood in my empty room, stifling any stars that formed above my head. It was a temporary and hasty measure, a quick-fix that didn't actually solve anything. I blipped – ooh, that's a nice word, blipped, I'd need to refer to my travelling as that from then on – to my main room and started fixing the stars. The fault in my stars, I mused, is that they can only grow so fast before everything becomes confusing.

 

Ignoring everything I'd ever been taught about starting small, I decided to tackle Sherlock's star – though it was more of a miniature galaxy, made up of different ideas and theories that all matched up to create a single simple idea – first.

 

Okay, I thought, recap: Sherlock's my brother (the centre formed, an entire structure based off this one piece of knowledge and already beautiful); he Fell when Sherlock was overdosed and the Falling read him as an infant so he... forgot (thoughts of onions were stifled as the next idea became a solid part of the star); he overdosed again but the only damage this would have had would be to his human mind and would have made him less inclined to 'do drugs' (and another); he is still there, I can still get him back (the thought burned, bright and determined, becoming part of the other thoughts and binding them together).

 

I followed the string to the next star, building that one up too: we're High Ones, able to reach into the In-Between at any time and with anything (how could I have forgotten, stupid, stupid, it didn't help me and never would now that I had Fallen but I should have remembered, should have paid attention to it) but Sherlock is also a brilliant detective and most likely wanted by Jim for some other reason aside from that. The fact that my brother had forgotten was most likely added incentive – the things he could do with Sherlock on his side just using his brilliance...

 

Hours passed as I tried to solidify my thoughts into something more tangible, something that was worth paying attention to, rather than a constant murmuring of 'what if's and facts in equal amounts. It was making order out of chaos, proving that it could be done, proving that I was more than this (and as I was struck by this thought, I made an internal sweeping gesture that enveloped the entire situation).

 

When I had finally finished, I was tired. The word was an understatement but summed up everything I felt. What I wanted most of all at that moment, more than answers and a solution and memories and food, was sleep. But not yet, I couldn't sleep yet, I couldn't-

 

oOo

 

I brought an arm up to cover my eyes, blocking out the light from the open curtains. I groaned, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow. I dimly registered that my duvet had not been on me when I'd ...fallen asleep... but ignored the thought beyond the brief rush of affection for whoever had. Most likely John.

 

Getting out of bed, I got dressed and put on my sling, giving a soft sigh as I stretched my wings. I'd been holding them against my back for a reason that had faded with my dreams and forgotten as I'd achieved full consciousness. I let them drop, the tips brushing the floor as I bent over and picked my hairbrush up from the floor.

 

Walking out of my room and along the hall to 221B's kitchen/dining area, I resolutely refused to let myself blush as I saw John making tea and toast by the stove. Sherlock was, as customary for him, standing by the window, plucking softly at the strings of his violin in a slowed rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee.

 

I walked over to him and went on tip-toes to tap on his shoulder. He turned, moving his violin to rest position in one swift movement and raising an eyebrow. I removed the violin from his hands, ignoring his movement in protest, and replaced it with the hairbrush, sitting down in his chair.

 

“What- what am I supposed to do with this?”

 

“Brush my hair with it.”

 

I could practically feel the questioning glance.

 

“If John can do it, you can.”

 

Grimace. Reluctant acceptance. Commenced brushing of hair.

 

I practically purred.

 

At the sight, John stopped in place with his tea before turning and placing it down. Picking up his phone, he quickly snapped a picture of the scenario and started texting.

 

“John- John, who are you sending that to? John, don't-!”

 

John started giggling, resolutely pressing 'send' and I twisted my head around to see the faintest look of horror on Sherlock's face. I mouthed 'who?' to John and he signalled an 'L'. Lestrade. Of course. I'd not seen much of the man but I'd deduced enough about him from John's stories to know that he would appreciate the photograph.

 

After my hair had been brushed and breakfast had been eaten (and Sherlock had sulked until John had made Lestrade promise to not show anyone the photo) I made an announcement. A small one. One that shouldn't have shocked anyone.

 

“I want to see Mycroft.”