This is sort of a touchy universe to play around in as it can come across as religious. Please note I have no intention of pushing or disparaging any religious views. I just really like the world created by Sharon Shinn and certain things that come along with it! If you’re familiar with the series, my story doesn’t really take place anywhere that would fit within the canon timeline, though it fits best around Archangel.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, son of the man Siger and the angel Victoria.”



Mycroft froze and stared down at Anthea sitting before the interface. “Could you repeat that?”

“The next Archangel is to be Sherlock, son of the man Siger and the angel Victoria,” she read again, fingers tapping across the on-screen keyboard lightly. “Born in the Eyrie in Bethel.”



A long-suffering sigh came from the angel standing beside her, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. This must be some sort of terrible joke from the god as punishment for knowing the truth. But he’d kept the secret, had he not? He’d been a good Archangel for the past 15 years, had he not? What could he have possibly done to deserve what was bound to be a very exhausting end to his 20-year term, schooling Sherlock to lead all of Samaria? And it would have to be him because no one else was going to do it and he had no desire to see the world destroyed in a blaze of righteous lightning.



And the man was his younger brother, after all.



Mycroft had led the host at the Eyrie years before his own nomination as Archangel had been announced by the oracle at Mount Sinai; years before that, he and Sherlock had only been boys, creeping into this very chamber of the mountain where the oracles spoke to Jovah through a glowing glass screen embedded in the rock wall while their parents held a meeting in another wing. They’d eagerly put their fingers to the screen, naming themselves to Jovah - the language used was normally only reserved for the oracles but they’d found a book hidden deep in a cellar the previous summer and deciphered the letters together. Sherlock had tried a phrase he’d seen in the book - teleport - and after being surrounded by golden light, they’d found themselves surrounded by strange lights and white panels.



They’d spoken to Jovah and the world they knew fell apart. Jovah was the spaceship Jehovah, the computerized voice told them, a colony ship from a distant planet that had chosen Samaria as an adequate location to repopulate. Angels were biologically and genetically modified humans whose “miracles” were nothing more than the spaceship responding to certain requests via its vast storage of food or weather-altering capabilities.



Anyone else would have been devastated by the knowledge, but they were different. At the time, Mycroft remembered the story of an oracle who’d returned babbling incoherently after coming across the very same teleportation command. He’d written down many things but any trace of those writings had been locked away, presumably because the information there would have caused a huge upset to the balance in the world. It was this knowledge that made him ask Sherlock to make a promise, a promise to never reveal the truth to the public.



Sherlock kept that promise but, as he grew up, opted not to participate in performing the services angels had built their life around - lifting their voices to Jovah in song to request respite from plague, drought and flood. Instead he turned to books to fill his increasingly brilliant mind and when the angel Greg Lestrade from Monteverde started a force to handle various crimes throughout the provinces, Sherlock inserted himself neatly into the cases that interested him, bypassing the courtesy of asking for permission. He would rattle off deductions without missing a beat, pulling several mysterious circumstances into the light of day, solving any crimes he encountered.



Some labelled his skills as a blessing from Jovah at first but when that sharp intellect would turn on them, they retreated out of fear of having their secrets spilled to the world, innocent or not. In the end, people observed him at a distance.



Mycroft, on the other hand, chose to continue life as it had always been, especially after he’d learned of his impending role as Archangel. Better to keep the people in the dark and happy, believing their god answered the prayers of their beloved angels. It made it easier to keep the peace and the harmony at the Gloria every year if they had something to fear.

He and Sherlock had argued about it once, and only once, the night before the annual Gloria where he would emerge as the new Archangel.

“Sherlock, you need to pull your weight or the others will start to resent you.”

“They already resent me.”

“Then maybe you should start working towards fixing that,” Mycroft had said flatly.

His younger brother had pressed his lips together into an unhappy line. “What for? The others do the job just as well without me. I see no point in singing to a ship in the sky when you can just as easily type a command into the interface at Sinai and get an equal response.”

“You know we need to keep everyone in the dark about that.”

“Ah, yes. For the greater good. Lest we traumatize all of Samaria and leave havoc in our wake.”

“That could very well happen if the truth were to be spilled in such a careless manner. The Jansai, Manadavvi, Edori – do you think this tentative balance that stands among them will remain if they knew there was no god to rain vengeance? It can barely be categorized as a balance given all the problems that exist.”

“They act of their own accord even with the fear of Jovah. If they didn’t, there would be no need for Lestrade’s force or my help. The bigger problems are none of my concern anyway.”

“No, but they will soon be mine!” He’d snapped. Taking a deep breath, he’d settled the wings on his back. “Sherlock, I ask of you-”

Sherlock’s eyes had blazed. “You are asking me to be someone I am not. It may not be a service expected of the angels but I am performing a service for Samaria with the skills I was given. Do not ask me to loft pretty words into the sky to improve people’s opinions of me as your next 20 years will be doing enough of that for the both of us.”

That had been 15 years ago. They’d both settled into their roles and Sherlock had become less volatile, even performing the odd weather request approximately once a month when he was plagued with boredom, having no experiments or cases to work on.

It was still a very long way from being someone fit to be Archangel.

“Angelo?”

Mycroft raised his eyes to see Anthea watching him patiently. He smiled faintly and shook his head. “Just feeling a little overwhelmed at the prospect of Sherlock being the next Archangel. Our work is cut out for us.”

She merely nodded, her expression showing that she understood completely. And why shouldn’t she? She was his angelica.

The starship Jehovah not only chose the Archangel but their bride or husband as well. Their partner was meant to complement them, to know things they did not and to have skills they did not. Anthea was one of only three oracles, one for each province of Samaria: one at Mount Sudan in Gaza, one at Mount Sinai in Bethel, and one at Mount Egypt in Jordana. Apart from himself and Sherlock, the oracles were the only people to know the truth about Jovah, the knowledge being passed on from one oracle to the next over the years. Not having to hide what he knew certainly made their working relationship much easier; she was also brutally efficient at filtering duties to the other angels, leaving only those of the utmost importance for his attention.

They’d married, as tradition required, but they’d seemed to come to a mutual agreement that there would be no romantic attachment – it was a marriage of convenience. They’d developed a friendship and a certain fondness existed between them, causing comforting warmth to glow from the Kiss embedded in their arms. It was nothing like the fireworks fabled to occur between Archangels and angelicas or angelicos of the past, but it was enough for them.

The Kiss of the God was a small, acorn-sized amber stone implanted into the right arm of nearly every soul on Samaria, grafted straight to the bone. Typically done at birth, sometimes later in life by choice, it was said that Jovah acknowledged all of his children through the stone, giving him a way to watch over them. In reality, it was just a way for Jehovah to track the progression of genetics and other census statistics.

The romantics claimed it would spark upon meeting one’s true love. Mycroft was far too jaded to believe in any of that.

But it did make him wonder which poor girl had been chosen to complement Sherlock.

“Anthea, find out who his angelica is, will you? I have a feeling we’ll be needing these next five years just to convince her to stay,” Mycroft said, bending to peer at the screen as Anthea typed the request.

Her query disappeared as it was transmitted and a moment later, text blinked onto the interface. Mycroft and Anthea both stared at the response with equally baffled expressions.

“How curious, angelo,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

“That may be an understatement,” he replied.

---

Sherlock sat at the table of his self-converted lab at the Eyrie, carefully examining the herbs laid out before him. His bedroom opened into a sitting area meant for entertaining guests, but as he rarely had visitors, he’d taken the liberty of setting up tables and shelves and a cooling unit for his experiments. The cooling unit was particularly clever, he couldn’t help thinking with a touch of pride, as it involved diverting some of the cold water that flowed through the pipes in the bathroom.

The door chime rang and he ignored it, picking up one of his carefully carved pieces of glass to magnify the tangled roots of one of the plants. After a moment, the door opened anyway and Mrs. Hudson walked inside with a mug of tea. Angels tended to only carry a given name while with the humans it varied on their social status and tradition, but to Sherlock and everyone else, she would always simply be Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, the mess you’ve made,” she said, her tone distressed. “Have you eaten at all today? I’ve brought you some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Stepping carefully around the piles of books and the edges of his wings pooled on the floor behind his chair, she set the mug down on an empty area of the table and smiled fondly at him. “You’re welcome, dear.”

Mrs. Hudson had often babysat him and Mycroft when they were younger and prone to get into trouble. When their mother had died, she’d decided to take on the role as their motherly figure despite both of them being in their mid-twenties. She was one of the few people he would tolerate when he wasn’t busy.

“I’m having one of the angels take me down to Velora this afternoon for some shopping. Did you want to come along?”

Sherlock said nothing, picking up one of the herbs to hold it against the light from the window.

“I’ll bring you back something tasty from the market.” She patted him on the cheek affectionately and headed back towards the door. “Make sure you drink that tea.”

Blessed silence filled the room again in her absence but silence was a relative term when at the Eyrie. The Eyrie was one of three locations in Samaria that housed a host of angels and was carved into the Velo Mountains, high above the ground where the city of Velora nestled at its base. At all hours of the day there was a group of angels crooning songs overhead, filling the rooms and halls with soothing music. They would sing in shifts, swapping angels in and out so there was never a break in the voices. Sherlock had long since filtered it into background noise when he was trying to concentrate.

Sherlock thought very little of social gatherings. They were often so boring he would take to analyzing his surroundings out loud which always resulted in offended murmurs and false excuses to leave. The only time people listened to him properly was on the crime scenes and even then it was only Lestrade who was smart enough to actually listen to him. It didn’t matter whether they were angel or human, most people were so vacant.

Two hours had passed before his door chime sounded again, the tea on the table long forgotten and cold, and the door promptly opened before the sound had even faded. Sherlock gave a cursory glance over the angel before focusing back onto his experiment.

“I take it the visit to the oracle didn’t go as expected,” he said.

“You could say that,” Mycroft replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “May we talk?”

Pushing back from the table, Sherlock rose to his feet to stand before his brother. Though they were related, they hardly looked similar at first glance – interacting with them, on the other hand, made their family resemblance all too clear. Mycroft had the dark red hair of their father, Sherlock had the black hair of their mother, often in an organized mess of curls atop his head. Mycroft was reasonably fit, though he’d gained a bit of weight over the past few years, and Sherlock was all long, slim lines from flying to cases all over the continent and his tendency to forgo eating. His brother’s wings reflected his hair colour, the white feathers freckled with spots of auburn, but his own were nothing but pure white, a rarity among angels.

Even rarer was that their mother had birthed two angel children. The success rate of birthing an angel child versus a normal human was so low that any angel child was typically celebrated by the entire host.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over Mycroft, picking facts out of the subtleties. He’d arrived back from Mount Sinai not even fifteen minutes ago but had taken the time to change out of the flying leathers into his typically formal clothes, so he’d wanted some time to consider his words. He’d obviously gone to find out the next Archangel nominee only it hadn’t been someone he expected, judging by the tense lines of his face and body. If it’d simply been someone Mycroft disliked, there would have been no reason to come to him.

“I’ve been nominated.”

Mycroft didn’t bother to ask how he’d known. “Yes.”

“And if I refuse?”

“This isn’t something you can refuse, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mirrored his brother’s pose, tucking his hands behind his back. “No one else knows the news yet, so there would be no need for damage control of the rumours. You could simply go back and request a new Archangel, claiming I am unfit—” A shifting of weight made him pause. “Ah, you already tried that.”

“Yes, and Jovah insists it must be you,” Mycroft replied, sighing a little. “I don’t presume to understand what factors he uses to choose the Archangels but there must be some reason for it to be you. For the sake of the world, it may be best to simply follow through.”

“The Gloria is meant to be a gathering of all races to assure our so–called god that there is harmony. I highly doubt that will occur when the time comes for me to step onto the Plain of Sharon and claim my role, given my current popularity.”

Mycroft brought his hands forward into a helpless gesture, the feathers of his wings whispering as he shrugged. “A lot can change in five years.”

A dark eyebrow raised sceptically in response. “Forgive me for doubting your abilities, brother, but I don’t think even the Archangel can change enough to make this work.” He frowned a little, nose scrunching in thought. “It’s also highly unusual for two brothers to be nominated in a row.”

“Like I said, I don’t presume to understand the factors used.”

“You will need to deal with people claiming favouritism and influencing the god into this decision,” Sherlock pointed out, lifting his hands to his mouth as if in prayer, his eyes focused on some distant thought.

“Am I to assume this means you will be taking the position?”

Sherlock thought carefully. It was a duty he didn’t particularly want as it involved pandering to a lot of dimwitted people but if Jehovah had calculated some reason for him to be in such a position, he was curious to know what it might be. Mycroft and Anthea hadn’t produced any children so could it possibly be a second attempt at extending their genetic line? Whatever it was, it merited some further investigation.

“It is under consideration.”

“Good.” Mycroft inhaled slowly, holding the breath to give himself a moment as he prepared for the next line of questioning. “Now, Sherlock, there’s the matter of your angelica…”

“Ah, yes, who is she?” he asked idly, still considering the possibilities for his appointment as Archangel.

Sherlock had never put much thought into romance. Love was nothing more than simple chemistry, and dangerously destructive. The women that attempted to gain his attention growing up were mostly vapid, some even using the rare manna spice in the food they cooked for him, believing the tale that it would make any man fall in love with them. It would have been far more useful to let the seed sprout when the root it produced was such an efficient healing salve. And he never ate the food anyway.

He’d written off romance as unnecessary and as of yet, no one had made him consider otherwise. There was one angel, Irene, who’d made Sherlock almost wonder for a little while, but he classified the feelings as mutual respect upon further investigation. Irene was the leader of the host in Monteverde and her intellect was commendable by his own standards.

Realizing that Mycroft still hadn’t spoken, Sherlock refocused and frowned at his brother. “Well?”

“It’s a most unusual situation.”

“Unusual, how? She isn’t dead, as Jovah would have simply assigned a new angelica. She obviously exists as you wouldn’t be struggling to name her otherwise.” He began to pace the floor, a short track back and forth. “Is she some poor farmer’s daughter who knows nothing of what her role will require? Because that’s something you could certainly take care of. I have no interest in playing husband, so you could mention to her that she’s free to ease her feelings elsewhere.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Your angelica isn’t a woman, Sherlock.”

The room was filled with the faint voices of angels singing for a brief moment as Sherlock absorbed that statement, trailing feathers shushing to a halt as he stopped mid-turn.

“I don’t understand.”

“It appears Jovah has decided that rather than an angela, your complementary partner is an angelo,” he said, expression perplexed.

“And who is it?”

“John, son of Hamish and Elizabeth.”