Sometimes Sherlock misses grace.
He isn't quite sure how one can miss something they didn't know they had, but he does. He stands at the window with his wings outstretched, wishing the sunshine would soak into his bones like the grace did when he was human. It was that feeling of warmth that washed over him when he did well. When he fulfilled his purpose.
Then came the day with the cabbie and the pills and it wasn't the most glorious case he had ever worked, but it was fascinating, up until he made the wrong decision.
I can give you your life back.
Sherlock shivered at the memory. Being brought back from death was like having a hand reaching inside of him, grabbing him and hoisting him out of the cold, inky black.
You're one of us, now, Mr. Holmes. Welcome.
He shuddered as his wings folded themselves back into him, disappearing beneath the pale skin of his back. It always felt vile, hiding himself, but that is what you have to do when you're a demon living among mortals.
He remembers being a child in this body, spindly fingers reaching toward the sun, believing briefly that it was molten gold and he could reach it.
He had been young a foolish and proud. But death had changed that.
Sherlock felt like a child again, making deals with people far older and more powerful than he, his mortal soul hanging in the balance. Learning to move through shadows and hide his wings and breathe with the weight of the nothingness pressing down on his chest. Learning that he didn't need to breathe. That he wasn't living, but he could still die.
Years earlier
"Do you believe in angels, Sherlock?"
"Of course not." He didn't believe in many things. He knew that the sun was a star, and the notion of non-corporeal beings with the power and 'grace' of heaven had been too much for his young mind.
Mycroft had smiled knowingly.
Sherlock met an angel, too, one day when he entered Mycroft's office even though he had been told to stay out.
"I take my orders from them, Sherlock. That's my purpose."
"What do they want from us?"
"Nothing from you, Sherlock, not yet. If He needs you, they will find you."
Sherlock had long since given up hope that anyone would come looking for him, especially in this form. He spent his time never sleeping, never eating, sharpening his mind and keeping his boredom at bay while his brother did the angels' dirty work. Somewhere in that time, Sherlock lost faith.
Below is boring.
Sometimes they call Sherlock down and send him off to do his duty retrieving souls or artifacts. Mostly souls. Demonic greed is boringly simple.
He stood barefoot in the sand, wind whipping against him. The sun was blinding, and he thought briefly of the childish want of liquid gold. The sound of gunfire made him focus.
He saw his target fall, just in time. He gathered the dark ink of his soul into the small glass vile and tucked it into his coat pocket.
A rush of warmth washed over him, and the vile slid from his hand, landing long forgotten on the sand. He turned and saw a spatter of blood. A man lay in the sand, unconscious, shot clean through the shoulder. He was bathed in heavenly Grace.
Save him, Sherlock.
He will never understand why, but he did.
"It's a miracle."
"It's science, Mycroft. Stitches and antibiotics. He will recover."
Mycroft considers him for a moment, wearing that impenetrable mask of an expression that is purely Holmes. "He would have died in that desert if you had not brought him back."
Sherlock didn't respond, just stood frowning down at the man lying on the cot. His skin was weathered from the sun, his salt-and-pepper hair streaked faintly with what was once sandy blonde. The machine attached to his finger beeped insistently, as if the rhythm of that noise were all that kept the man's heart beating, not the other way around.
"You aren't his guardian angel, Sherlock; you've done your duty. Now leave him to heal and return to your… Scavenging." Sherlock sent him a cold glare before letting his wings unfurl, purely for the quirk in Mycroft's lips. Try as he might to act civil, the man will always detest that his little brother is a demon. He took one last look at the man on the bed, imagining him hard and strong as metal, deflecting any other bullets that came his way and returning home to his family. Then he pushed the tin soldier from his mind and braved the howling winds again.
It happened again, only months later. Sherlock did something he never imagined himself doing for a man he barely knew.
He knew this John Watson—John, oh how sweet to put a name with a face—the instant he saw him. He noted the tan lines and the limp for show, leading the tin soldier to believe that's how he'd known he was an army man. John stared at him for a moment, like one does when trying to place a face they recognize.
"I've been in the papers before. On the telly. That's probably where you've seen me."
Sherlock sees the psycho-sematic limp and the wear of nights without sleep and decides firmly that once wasn't enough, that he needs to save John Watson again, but this time from himself. He finds it terribly ironic, a demon aiding a man obviously on the side of the angels. John himself has never pledged to be devoutly religious, but through casual observation, Sherlock sees open-mindedness to existence that leads him to believe John isn't entirely in the dark about what goes on around him.
But, knowingly or not, John is important to them. He has a divine purpose to keep on living, a purpose he cannot fulfill if he is dead or wasting away with the aid of pain and sleep medication and a therapist. So Sherlock lets John pull him out for food and sleep and generally mother him, because that's what John enjoys. And God knows Sherlock can deny him nothing.
"You haven't told him yet?" Lestrade's tone is reproachful and demeaning and for once, Sherlock admits that maybe he deserves it. A little. He isn't usually into lying to his friend, but admitting to not being alive is a conversation he doesn't look forward to, so he put it off. Until the Detective Inspector made a joke about feathers damaging the integrity of a crime scene, and John frowned at him, his expression caught somewhere between you're crazy and I missed something here, didn't I?
It's not the first time Sherlock has generally neglected to tell John something, but it is the first time he's avoided the conversation completely.
So John does the natural thing, and tries to pick it out of him gingerly in every conversation they have. When he's continually missed the mark in Angelo's, on the phone at the Tesco, and while they're out on a case, he finally corners Sherlock over tea.
"You've got something to tell me, then?"
"I'm not sure what you're referring to."
"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You've been coming up to me all week, poised to make conversation, like it's something serious, then making off like there's somewhere else you have to be." Sherlock watches John watch him, honestly a little surprised John had caught his air of indecisiveness. A little surprised, but mostly proud. "If you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine. But if you do, which I'm pretty sure you do…"
Sherlock lines it all up in his head, best and worst case scenarios, for about thirty seconds before deciding there is no better time or way to do this. "I'm a demon."
John splutters, having taken the silence to mean Sherlock wasn't going to talk and starting in on his tea. "What did you say?"
"I'm a demon, John, I said it perfectly clear the first time," He grumbled, annoyed at John, who clearly knows how he despises having to repeat himself.
John, on the other hand, didn't mind his minor transgression. He forewent the expected apology in favor of staring at him like a complete idiot, which Sherlock also hates.
"I suppose you're awaiting an explanation."
"You suppose right."
"Well, I died. I made the wrong decision and—"He frowned, not caring to tell the story of the string of incorrect deductions that had led to his death. "I made a deal. My soul keeps my body alive, and I have some annoyingly mundane duties to do, but mainly they leave me be." John's staring again with that wide-eyed stare that makes Sherlock want to say, haha, just joking. But he can't, because he isn't, so he applies all of his patience and sits still under John's gaze while he puzzles this entire thing out.
"So you're… dead?"
"Yeah."
"And a demon."
"Also correct. I even have the wings to prove it. I can—"
John reads his mind before he can even extend the invitation. "Another time, Sherlock."
They drink their tea in silence for a while, before John extends the paper in Sherlock's general direction, muttering about idiots trying to rob banks, and Sherlock assumes that this is John's acceptance.
They go on that way for a long while, solving cases and being inherently normal until, one day, the inevitable happens.
"Why John?"
"Why not, Sherly? I love it when you get upset. And don't play games with me," Moriarty twirled his cell phone in chalk-stained fingers. "You don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're just stalling so you can figure out how to get out of there." He gestured to the chalk circle that held Sherlock in place.
"Sherlock-" John started, but cut off when the gun at his temple clicked ominously.
"Hm, there's a bullet in one of these chambers," Moriarty sang. "Then there will be no more doctor Watson, and little demon Sherly will be alone again,"
John gritted his teeth, his eyes cold and a little fearful. "Sherlock." He began again. Sherlock pressed his hands against the barrier that rose from the circle at his feet, wishing he could reach through and grab Moriarty, hurt him, strangle him, drag him to hell for bringing John into this.
"Sherlock?" John said again, softer, and Sherlock finally met his gaze. They were men of action. To be caught here, one in a trap, the other at the wrong end of a barrel of a gun, was actual hell. The way John was looking at him made it all worse. It was a look Sherlock had seen many times before- half worry, half fear; a twinge of exasperation and a whole lot of faith. John believed Sherlock would get him out of this. He had failed his little tin soldier.
His eyes snapped to Moriarty, who stood toying absently with the gun.
"You want john to make a deal with you." He said finally, and watched the slow smile spread over his face. John paled a bit. He hadn't realized Moriarty was a demon, too. "You think he will offer himself in my place."
"Exactly. Because we all know he would hate to watch your wings ripped from your back." Sherlock suppressed a shudder, ignoring John's look of distress. He had to figure this out. He could do this.
"But what?"
"Oh, Sherly, you should know the answer to that. What couldn't a good demon do with a righteous man's soul?"
"I'll do it." John's voice was soft but solid, like always. He never faltered on a decision.
"Oh, good!" Moriarty stepped back to smile broadly at John. He waved the gun about absently as he rambled, the words being filed away somewhere in Sherlock's mind even though he wasn't really listening. The cold darkness of Below iced his chest, moving through his veins and stilling his mind. He heard the thud of John's heart, heard the hum of power from the circle that trapped him. Sherlock listened to the ancient words echo in his ears before he began to speak over them. The dialect was old, the accent rough, and the power of the circle dimmed as he chanted, his voice growing in volume. A familiar warmth spread over him and he spoke a language he had never learned- the language of the angels, ancient words of grace and power that should have burnt his throat as he said them. The words tumbled from his lips as he stepped through the barrier like a parting curtain. Moriarty yelped, spinning the gun on him, but sherlock's voice grew louder.
"Duco!" He growled. I command you, he said, and Moriarty froze, trapped by the power in Sherlock's voice.
"Morior."
Die.
As the word slipped from his mouth, the gun fell from Moriarty's hand and the demon crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
The echo faded and Sherlock crumpled too, his eyes sliding closed as he fought to stay conscious. The familiar cold fought to embrace him again, but a different kind of warmth surrounded him as John pulled him onto his lap.
"You okay?"
Sherlock shrugged, his eyes still closed.
"You gonna tell me what that was?"
"My purpose." He said finally. The warmth felt like sunshine as it spread over him and he hummed contentedly.
"Sherlock-" John's voice sounded panicked.
"What?" The detective opened an eye to see the doctor staring down at him in awe.
"Your... Your heart's beating."
Sherlock frowned, and took a quick mental checkup. The feeling of nothingness that had once inhabited his chest was but a distant memory as he drew a deep breath, bringing a hand to his neck to feel his own pulse.
"That I am."
John laid a hand on his chest and they sat there for a moment, marveling at this.
"So how's this possible? Was that Latin you were speaking?"
"A form of Latin." He shrugged. "An ancient form, the form the church has always used."
"The dialect of the angels."
Sherlock stood and John watched him pace. He was Human again, living and breathing, free of his curse. "Yes." He muttered finally. "The dialect of the angels." He turned, his deep blue eyes focusing on John.
"What are you thinking?"
"That's it!"
John groaned. "What's it, Sherlock?"
"You aren't in the angels light anymore, John. You've fulfilled your purpose."
"And that was?"
"To make me..." He trailed off as it clicked in his head. John's purpose was to make Sherlock human again. To offer him salvation. To make him want to sacrifice himself for someone else, to take command of the gift the angels offered him.
"To save me."