A/N- If you're familiar with Supernatural, then - as you've probably figured out - this is inspired by Dean's stint in Hell when he was torturing souls, 'putting them on the rack', and Castiel saving him. (the whole "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition" thing), Dean being the righteous man who Heaven needs in order to stop the impending Apocalypse.
And there's the summary for you non-Supernatural readers. If you're wondering why he's in Hell if he's the 'righteous man', that's because he made a demon deal to save his brother and demon deals are when you sell your soul to a demon for a given amount of time in exchange for anything you want, but when your time's up they take your soul and you die and get dragged to Hell by Hellhounds. Yes I know, cheery, innit?
Also, as to why he's turned to torturing other souls - long story short, Allistair, this big bad demon dude, tortured Dean (or in this case, John) for 30 years down there and each day he offered him a stop if Dean took up the knife himself. After decades, Dean broke, and spent the next ten Hell years putting souls on the rack himself. Hence, the brokenness of the Righteous Man.
And then Cas pulled him out and yeah. Hope that was clear enough for you guys. xP If you do watch Supernatural and already know all this, then you're awesome. ;) (What, it's an awesome show :P)
Read on, fellas~
She screams. Shrieks out mingled fury and agony. Begs for an end, begs for release. Writhes and cries and just bleedsbleedsbleeds all over.
He used to tune it out.
Now, he lets it surround him. The cadence to his well-practiced script – she, the Sufferer; he, the Harbinger of Retribution.
Redemption, some would say, is sought only by the conscious-minded. Redemption, he would tell them, is liberating a cursed soul. He's learned well, his (Tor)Mentor tells him every day (every screambegcry from his Marks, black Souls, Sinful victims-), all pride and dark glee, and he shuts that out too.
This one breaks too easily. He surveys her with a critical eye (not that he has much of an eye or a face or an anything real and tangible and label-worthy, but after years-and-decades-andtoolong he's learnt not to think too literally on such matters) and decides she's done. He hasn't been working on her for long. But then, her Mass of Sins doesn't flash as horribly as some of his previous works, those who were so encompassed by the felonies of their miserably short lives he had to work years on each one 'til he reached the Core. And, oh, what satisfaction that brought.
He is done with this one. She hangs limp and loose, not muttering or crying, not twitching, just still. Just another black Soul to join his other works on the Rack. He draws back, lets the knife-that-is-not-really-a-knife melt away, embers and ashes crumbling from his grip, until his next Mark is ready and he chooses an appropriate method of reprisal.
He looks up to the next one and had he a face he would surely have smiled. Doubtfully one that would reach his eyes (sunken and dark, seeing naught but his Marks and their Sins and the bloodboneflesh in fireiceblades one after the other aftertheother endless and there's always more) but a smile all the same. This one, well, this one is promising. This one lived his life as the terror of the streets. Sinners feared his name. Do-gooders feared the thought of him.
Now, he meets his equivalent in Hell.
The not-really-a-knife returns, longer and sharper and hot enough to melt flesh and bone and this will be interesting, this will take yearsandyearsandyears because he is surrounded, all Foul and no goodwill.
The blade probes at what-could-be-a-hand and cuts and sinks and melts until he sizzles and burns.
Had this one a mouth, he would be grinning.
For he does not scream.
Sherlock is perhaps not the best Angel in his garrison. He is too curious, demands answers to questions he should not be asking, and does not work well with his kin.
However, no one can deny that he is very good at what he does. Finding. He Sees and connects all he knows and Finds all that is sought.
So when they approach his garrison to select a few for an Important assignment, the likes of which only the Higher-Ups know all the details to (doubtless that Sherlock can find out everything he wants to know, though), he is understandably puzzled when they choose him among the ten others.
When he knows of the assignment, however, he lets the intrigue overcome the confusion. Hell is somewhat of a Taboo to the younger Angels. The Abode of their long-Fallen brother. The Pit of Despair, Lake of Fire, the Eternal Prison of the Sinners – the one place where Angels avoid treading.
This, of course, only makes the assignment more imperative. They know almost nothing – except to Find and Save the Righteous Man, the one whose Destiny links to stopping an impending Apocalypse.
And his name is John Watson.
It is very, very grim. The antithesis of their home Above.
Dark and hot but iceicecold as well and it is Wrongwrongwrong, he feels it deep in every fibre of his Being.
And he is almost thrilled. Oh, this is new.
He can see them all, the Senseless and the Ghastly, clawing and shrieking and grabbing (and other Angels evade their clutches but this is Something Else he will not shy away from, no) relentless, from beyond their cells of Eternal Torment.
All the Souls, the long-Darkened and the new yet-bright little beacons amid the darkdarkdark and screamsbegscries for mercy. Soon to be snuffed, he knows, because a firefly has no place among dead moths.
But there are many Souls and muchmuchmore sectors to the Pit and they comb and comb and comb (for monthsandyearsandyears and what is to be left of the Righteous Man now?) in tiring search. It weighs on the strongest of Angel Soldiers, the constantceaseless gloom and many retreat, would preserve themselves over the uncertain Soul of a (so they think) long-gone Man.
(But he will not, he refuses, rejects the pain and dimming of his Essence and the way the Shadows lurk and creep onto him and seep into his Wings, long-furled and dimmed in their brilliance. Yet he forges on.)
And it is he who Sees the Man.
At first he cannot move on. Stares and stares and makes Sense of what this is because it is captivating and horrifying and he is entranced.
Racks upon racks and all full with the writhing mass of Souls amongst the Blackest Souls he has ever Seen, and in the middle of it all, in the centre of the Carnage is the One meant to stop all evil.
He drifts towards the fascinating Soul. Shrouded and shaded from yearsanddecades of Torment, of Evil, and it hangs over him like a cover (but he is the best at his job and he Finds the Man and Sees him beneath the cloak and he is Pure, pure as White, and so Good and Honest and how did he come to be here, why would such a Man deliver himself to the Gates of perpetual anguish, what would drive him to do so and why can he not See all this?).
And there is another here, a Presence, blacker than Sin and most Vile. Not a Soul, no, not this one. It hovers over the Man always Watching and Guiding and Teaching (Teaching what, what is it that this thing can offer the Purest of all that is Good, how much has it Corrupted the Man's Soul?) and it is not a Man and not a Soul but it is one with the encompassing darkness in its Demonic shroud of pure ceaseless Sin.
It is in its Element but he is an Angel. And he advances with purpose (because he has accomplished his goal and done what he does best in Finding the Man) and it is alerted to his Presence, tries to crowd forward, push him back, awayfaraway from the Man (from its Pupil, he can feel the malevolent pride it takes in deforming the Pure Soul to this mess), but he is an Angel and he spreads out his Wings. Damaged and spoiled though they are, they radiate the Power of a Seraph and surround them large and wide and all-too-encompassing and the Demon cowers back, shrinks away, because the Touch of an Angel burns and the Sight of the Wings is Pure and bright, chasing away the shades, and he is triumphant now.
He is triumphant because he needs only to grip on to the defamed Man, embrace the Essence with his Wings and pull him closer and along for the long journey Out. His Touch on the Soul is powerful, though, and had the Man a mouth he would certainly be screaming.
For it burns through the cloaks of Torment, and it pushes through to the Pureness of the Soul, and it smoldersandglows and it brands onto him.
It brands, and it hurts, (hurts the both of them, like ice meeting fire and one will melt while the other one sputters and each tries to undo the other until eventually they Merge and stifle each other) but there is no other option and so he grips and he grips tightly,
and raises the Righteous Man from Perdition.
A/N: (Before you ask, yes, that was insanely fun to write and also should I be worried? xD) So. This is most likely going to stay a two-shot, so next chapter will be the last and will probably have an overall ambiguous... end. I might come back to this fic in the near future and expand on it, but it all depends. x) In any case! Would absolutely love to hear your thoughts because reviews are absolutely amazing ;) Don't be shy now. *prods the review box* I will shower you with love. :P And also angel!Sherlock ;) If you can handle him, that is.
Cheers~
Iz.