Deals with Devils
I got the idea for this story from a picture I found on tumblr, by the user sexlock.
"As you know, Sherlock, my dear, I have several of my demons in their positions already. At my command, they'll rip your precious John and Mrs. Hudson into little tiny pieces, slowly of course, to savor that beautiful shrieking noise, and they'll munch on their bones for ages, enjoying th-"
Sherlock advanced suddenly on Moriarty, grabbing him by the lapels and cutting him off.
"Don't you dare," he hissed in a low voice. "Or I swear to our father that I will never forgive you. Never."
"Oh, you're so adorable when you get sentimental," Moriarty crooned. "But he's not our father anymore. Just yours. You forget that he's the one that made me like this," he gestured at himself. "He cast me into hell! He's not a very nice daddy!"
Sherlock let go of Moriarty. "You used to be so great," he said, almost to himself. He gazed questioningly into the Moriarty's eyes, trying to deduce some explanation on Moriarty's madness. He couldn't. Maybe it was the nerves. Maybe it was because Moriarty looked so dead.
Sherlock shook his head, braced himself, straightened his back and announced, "Well, the reason why I've come here, then. I've come to make a deal."
Moriarty laughed. "What could you possibly offer that I would want, to change my mind?"
Sherlock backed up a few paces. He stared Moriarty straight in the eyes and said, "This."
Sherlock puffed himself up, a glare of light enveloped the roof of the hospital that that they were standing on. When the light dissuaded, it revealed Sherlock and his unfurled wings. They were enormous, glossy night black things that seemed pillow soft, yet razor sharp at the same time. They shimmered in an ethereal way. They were truly breathtaking, and Moriarty looked on at them hungrily.
"This is all I have left," Sherlock said softly.
"You would sacrifice your grace, your wings for some puny humans? What is this world coming to?"
Sherlock nodded resolutely. There was no going back.
"Very well, then, dear," Moriarty said, and a large smirk began to play over his features. "Oh, how I've been longing for your wings. I can add them to my collection! They will be the centerpiece, and all the demons and lost souls in hell can look on and admire their beauty. Doesn't that make you proud, Sherly? It makes me almost giddy with excitement!"
"I don't care what you do with my wings, just tell me, will you call off your demons if I give them to you?"
Moriarty stared ravenously at Sherlock's outstretched wings, stalked up to them and ran his fingers through the feathers. Sherlock shivered involuntarily.
"Of course I will, Sherlock, did you mistake me for a dishonest person? Well, I should say devil, but it's all the same don't you think?" He paused, hungry eyes wolfishly devouring the angel's wings. "Are you ready, dear?" He hissed in Sherlock's ear.
"Ready as I will ever be," Sherlock replied. He was extremely nervous, despite his stone etched face. He didn't know exactly about how painful it was to remove wings. And the uncertainness about it scared him. Do it for John, he thought.
Moriarty smiled evilly and cracked his knuckles. "This is going to be so much fun! Now, don't be a disappointment," said the devil as he traced circles around the base of Sherlock's wing.
Moriarty pulled out a silver blade from a concealed pocket in his suit. It shimmered menacingly in the light. Weird symbols adorned it and seemed to swirl on the handle.
"No," Sherlock breathed, recognizing it. Moriarty only grinned in reply. He felt a cold hand grab the feathery muscle firmly. Expertly. Like he had done this a thousand times before. The angel blade soon sliced through his suit and into Sherlock's skin, piercing it and it began to cut around the base of his left wing.
Now Sherlock could feel the new sensation, the pain, and he squirmed in agony, screaming. So this is what it was like to be human, his brain thought dazedly. The blade kept cutting, slicing expertly, and light and blood seeped out of the cuts. He screamed again, wailing so loud it was a wonder no one had called the cops. Moriarty only laughed, a psychotic laugh that rang through Sherlock's head. Sherlock collapsed onto his knees. His wings twitched and shuddered spastically, against his own control. The pain was unimaginable. With a final swipe of the blade, Moriarty finished with the left wing, and pulled. Sherlock screamed again inhumanely, and almost passed out from the pain. Lights were flashing and he couldn't focus on anything; the world was spinning and everything was fuzzy. Light poured from the cut and Sherlock could only look up and see Moriarty triumphantly holding the battered and bloodied wing. It made Sherlock's stomach turn.
"Please God, make it stop," he slurred. The pain was now a numbness that was never ending in his wracked body and it inhibited him from functioning properly.
"Halfway there, sweetie!" Moriarty lilted. "NOW HOLD STILL."
Sherlock felt himself being pushed, and his forehead was now pressed against the ground. The knife jabbed into his skin again, the cold brutal pain resurfaced, and he grit his teeth once more. Moriarty was going painfully slow, enjoying this immensely; Sherlock knew it. The knife jabbed even deeper, and Sherlock cried out, tears springing in his eyes. Moriarty laughed again, and cut deeper still, and light seeped out and the world span and Sherlock blacked out.
He came to a few seconds later from a harsh slap in the face by Moriarty. "I want you to be awake for the whole experience, dear," he crooned into Sherlock's ear. Then he resumed the task, and Sherlock prayed for it to end.
Finally, after what seemed eons of excruciating pain, it stopped. Light and blood gushed out of the deep gashes in his back, his shirt and suit looked like they had emerged from a horror movie. Two jagged and broken bone tips were the only things left where his beautiful wings once were. Moriarty held the wings in his hands, a triumphant smile stretching over his face. He walked around to Sherlock's front, and kneeled down. He grabbed Sherlock's face ever so softly in his hands, slowly guided his head up and forced Sherlock to look at him.
"I hope your precious John was worth it," he remarked in an icy cool tone. He stood up and with a snap he was gone, wings and all.
Sherlock could not move, could not think, and stayed on the roof until night fell, his head pressed to the ground in that submissive pose, and begged for death.