AN: Hey, guys! Brand new fic, straight from the printing press (ish). This was actually written for my World Lit class for our mythology unit, so it is in myth format. My apologies for any OOC-ness, but these are younger characters and I honestly know next to nothing about Victor Trevor. Also I have no idea if ACD was snarky in real life, but for the purposes of this fic he is.

This is a companion fic to Britain's Devil, but it's about how our dear friend became Satan. If you haven't read Britain's Devil, please do, it would make all my feels happy with joy.

Also, on the topic of Britain's Devil I am writing a second chapter, I'm just waiting on my beta to make an appearance. My apologies for the wait. I feel like a horrible story mama right now but I don't want to force you guys to read an unedited fic. *shudders in horror at own mistakes*

This is a one-shot, so yeah. My apologies for any American dialect I use, however hard I wish I just can't seem to become magically British.

I have to thank the people who edited for me, Hailey and Kyle. Dankeschön, mi amor! Love them, they made this pretty. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

I do not own Sherlock or Hell, no matter how much I may wish to. That belongs to Gatiss, Moffat, BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and any deity(s) you happen to believe in (or not).

Please review and tell me what you guys think! I'm happy to hear from you always.

Enjoy, bros!

~Kiro

How Morons Caused WW2 and Holmes Ended It

On Earth it was 1938. Down below, it was the 4th daemon-year of the rule of Satan Apollyon. Hell was running relatively smoothly, the new Demon King was strict but it was vital to be strict with chaos. There was, however, sorrow above. Germany was starving and several economies had collapsed following the first world war- the seam between Mephistopheles' reign and Apollyon's. Mephistopheles had been a great king, old though he was, and stable. People were unused to this new Satan's inexperienced rule and were beginning to take notice of the excessive strife that he allowed on the surface. A new sect had arisen that apposed Apollyon's rule- and they would do quite anything to end it.

At this time the Holmes family consisted of two members: Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. The family had once been on the rich side of middle-class, and Sigmund Holmes, the father of Mycroft and Sherlock, had a high position in the governance of Hell. When Sigmund and Violet Holmes passed away in the third year of Apollyon's reign, the Holmes brothers had little to worry for. Mycroft, at 23, now had custody of a 16-daemon-year-old (though as daemon-years equated to roughly one every six human years, he was technically 96) Sherlock. Mycroft had graduated Uni and was working a minor position in Hell's governance. Sherlock was still in Uni and caused a ruckus everywhere he went.

By the time that September of 1939 had rolled around on Earth, the rebels had assassinated Satan Apollyon. If anyone had dared, they might have said it was ironic that he was destroyed by sprinkling cursed dove's blood into the illegal holy water he indulged in each evening. No one dared, though, so instead they insisted how vulgar it was that he had no illegitimate, or, for that matter, legitimate children to carry on his name. The man was, after all, only 32 daemon-years old at the time of his assassination.

The title of Satan, ruler of Hell had always been passed down paternally. From Lucifer, the first Prince of Darkness, Binder of Chaos, all the way to the recently assassinated Demon King, every single ruler had been Bound when his father came to his end. As it was, there was absolutely no one in line to Bind chaos and keep the tumultuous balance between chaos and order on the planet. Satan's advisor, Victor Trevor, was put temporarily on the throne, but it was important that a permanent replacement be found and Bound.

No one really knew what to do. There was no heir. There was no second-in-command strong enough or willing enough to undergo the incredibly painful, changing, and difficult process of the Bonding. There was no convenient cousin or stepchild to force upon the throne. So, as in all times where no one had a clue, they turned to prophecy.

At first the general public was skeptical of this development, after all it had been thousands of years since last prophecy had been used. However, as time went on and the situations on Earth and in Hell merely got worse, they urged the advisors to do whatever they needed to. So they went to the Seer, a recently deceased man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He had been well-acquainted with the powers that be before his death and, now that he was a spirit, he was even closer to the makings of the universe than ever before.

Advisor Victor Trevor made his way to the place of Sir Doyle's residence, a cavernous opening close to the Rift which led to the permanent afterlife, where each soul went after its business on Earth or Hell was done with, sometimes known as Heaven. As Victor approached, he noticed something odd: the residence was empty. There was a note weighed down with a hunk of igneous, beside it a black leather-bound volume. He plucked the note from the ground, reading the irritated penmanship.

Advisor Victor Trevor,

I have left. I am through the Rift, don't come after me. I'm done dealing with all you demons and angels and humans, just leave me be. I have your prophecy for you, but seeing as you demons like things to be dramatic and would never accept a prophecy in a note, I wrote it for you in big fancy script with a feather pen in the leather volume to the right of this note. Now read it and leave me be.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

With a heavy, put-upon sigh Victor took up the book and flipped through the pages. Nothing, absolute blankness, until he came to the very last page.

Find the one who walks through fire encased in ice and he shall be your king.

With a murmur about knights and their drama, Victor took the prophecy to be deliberated upon.

The advisory council took weeks to deliberate upon the prophecy, discussing the literal and figurative possibilities of such a thing. One part of the prophecy was certainly easy enough to fulfill; daemons walked through fire every day. However, there had not been an ice daemon for at least a thousand years. By now it was merely a myth to tell children after dinner to get them to sleep. No, the council decided that the prophecy was figurative, and decided that each and every male daemon was to be interviewed, starting with the higher class and ending with the lowest pits of Hell.

Every single one of the higher staff of Hell was drafted to begin interviewing daemons. There were thousands upon thousands of daemons to be interviewed just within the three highest tiers, even more when the middle class was reached. Hell was left in chaos as the people who kept it running smoothly were forced to do more menial tasks and the normal tasks were left undone. The entire ordeal was a nightmare, even for daemons.

The Holmes brothers were, of course, somewhere around the 300,000th persons in line. Mycroft was drafted into the interview effort and Sherlock was left to spend his days causing trouble, having no one to apprehend him with the government in such an uproar. They waited months and months for their interview, though, of course, neither thought that they would be the one picked.

Sherlock most certainly did not want to be Satan, going through all of those rules and prose and paperwork. Mycroft, well, Mycroft had always wanted power. He, however, had never wanted to be in the public eye. Just a nobody in the background, ruling behind the scenes. That was his dream, though he was nowhere near fulfilling it.

On the sixth month of the search for the new Satan, Sherlock was hauled out of the Holmes' small apartment in central Hell and was taken off to be interviewed. Before the first minute was up, he had deduced the canine daemon doing the interviewing and managed to both enrage him and convince him that Sherlock was, indeed, the boy from the prophecy. Otherwise how could he manage to wade through others' red-hot fury with such an icy demeanor? This was, of course, a horrid and naive assumption on his part, as Sherlock pointed out before proceeding to flee down the corridor.

Sherlock was so not up to this. He had never been a fan of politics, all those average IQ's stuck in one room moping over how not to kill off the human race or wear out the current Satan. He certainly had never wanted to be Satan, responsible for the whole of chaos and Hell. He could barely manage to keep himself alive, and even that was due to Mycroft's heavy interference (though Sherlock would never once admit it). Then there was the pain, the Bondage with chaos. Sherlock's brain was already chaos, and he had never been a fan of pain. The hallucinations that came with the bonding and and that horrible change, that would drive Sherlock over the brink. No, Sherlock was getting the Hell out of Hell, as fast as he could.

Thus ensued a rather comical chase through an office building, ending with a miserable Sherlock knocked out against the edge of a table, a dog daemon's teeth digging into his leg, and a rather disappointed-looking Victor Trevor insisting on an immediate coronation and lightning-quick press release.

Mycroft had just gotten through an interview with a rather nasty Darth Maul-type daemon and decided that he most definitely needed a slice of cake, but tea would have to do. He got about two steps into the break room when he heard the radio. Two seconds later the door was swinging, not a Mycroft in sight.

The coronation was to be a miserable affair, a tied and gagged Sherlock forced to Bond with chaos in a half-filled royal hall. The press was there, as were the Satan's advisors and the head advisor, Victor Trevor. The high priest was there, knife prepared for the blood-and-tears Bonding part of the coronation. There were only the barest necessities there, the ceremonial knives and chalice, the crown, and, of course, the red carpet and fire-curtain doors to the chamber.

Mycroft was not, he thought, particularly brave. Brave got people killed, brave was rash. No, Mycroft figured himself for a schemer. He came up with careful strategies and plans that would win any battle. Yet, as he tore through the palace to the ceremonial royal hall, he did not think if any winning strategy or of any cunning plan sure to save his brother. Instead, he gave his brain over to blind, cold rage for the first time in his life.

His brother was the only thing he had in this world. Sure, the boy was annoying and rude and far too curious for his own good, but Mycroft still (though God forbid he say it out loud) loved his little brother. The fact that his brother would be forced to do something so damaging, much less be humiliated so on Hell-wide radio, fed Mycroft's fury into an icy blizzard.

Now daemons have biologies quite different from humans. Daemons are quite a bit more in tune with their spirits, and their spirits quite a bit in tune with them, even affecting their outer physicality. When a daemon reaches maturity, be it at twelve demon years or fifty (though it happens on average at around 18 daemon-years), they hit what is called The Morph. The Morph is comparable to human puberty, except that it, through magic, portrays a daemon's soul in its physical manifestation. For instance, when Mycroft hit the Morph five daemon-years prior he gained two magnificently dramatic black bat wings, thanks to his love of power and the dramatic. It is known that, in the years surrounding the Morph, traumatic and dramatic events can trigger a small amount of physical change. If there is one thing that can be said about having one's smaller brother and only family member kidnapped and forced to undergo a painful and changing process to become king of two worlds when he can barely keep from killing himself, it is that it is highly traumatic.

Mycroft froze. Literally. His icy, frozen rage manifested on the outside as a thin covering of ice, a millimeter-thick sheet of armor covering his wings, suit, face, his entire body from head to toe. He appeared almost unreal as he burst through the royal hall, a figure encased in ice wading through flame. The press turned and sank to their knees, the highest of the highest class bowed before him. Mycroft ignored them as simpering imbeciles and continued to the altar, completely unaware that his body was encased in frozen water.

"Release my brother. He is not the one you seek, as you could tell if you had any eyes at men on the altar, too, turned and sank to their knees, releasing Sherlock in their awe. Mycroft did not know or quite care why the daemons were all of the sudden fascinated with his hair and wings, he simply helped up his brother, quickly severing his bonds and making to lead him away.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for seeing reason. My brother and I shall be taking leave and wish you luck in your quest for a new king, Hell knows you'll never find one without turned and started to make his way for the door, only to be stopped by his brother's unmoving form. With a sigh, he looked back at the pre-Morph boy.

"What is it now, Sherlock? Surely you don't want to be King of Chaos?The words seemed to snap Sherlock out of his stupor and he shook his curls before turning his self-righteous expression back towards his ice-daemon brother.

"You know, somehow I thought that our Satan would be thinner, brother dearest. I never thought that Cakecroft would turn out to be an ice-daemon and Satan. At the very least I would think that he would realize that he was covered from head to wingtip in a solid coating of ice. Go, brother. Take your chance while you can, Hell knows that you won't have a chance like this one again."

Sherlock sounded just as sardonic as he always did, but now there was an undercurrent of pride and wonder in his voice. It was this more than anything that made Mycroft tune into his words and realize that, yes, he was encased in ice and, yes, this almost certainly meant that he was prophesied to be Satan.

Mycroft wasn't exactly sure what he thought of this realization. He had hidden in the shadows for his entire life and that is where he was comfortable. Once he was Satan there was no going back, he would be a celebrity and would be remembered by generations upon generations of posterity. That he could possibly be that recognized, that famous, but even more, to hold that much power even after he was eventually destroyed, that made the Holmes dizzy. He wasn't sure if he was ready for such a thing.

Outwardly, of course, Mycroft gave his brother a haughty glare and turned to the dais, face a barely-held mask of disdain.

"I must apologize, advisors, but my brother and I must take our leave. I do not think that the fame associated with becoming Satan will become me, I much prefer to work , he turned to walk out of the hall, and again he was stopped by the arm he was clutching in a death grip.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much,Sherlock declared in a voice of feigned boredom, "Just say yes, brother. Hell knows that you are one of the least inane daemons that could be picked and you will make a better queen than any other smirked and gestured with his eyes to the altar.

This was probably the most complimentary thing that Sherlock had ever said to Mycroft in his lifetime, and the winged 23-year-old found himself inexplicably glad to have his brother's blessing, however hard Sherlock tried to disguise it behind his minced words and convoluted insults. This was as good as encouragement for him, and he found himself nodding once to Sherlock then facing the altar once more, straightening his spine and climbing the steps to the ceremonial altar.

Mycroft turned to the officials and knelt before the high priest for his crown before offering up his inner wrist for the Bond-cut. His inner wrist was sliced and a bowl held out for his blood, capturing the metallic red in its curve. A single tear made its way down the daemon's cheek and fell into the bowl, mixing with blood, holy water, and a dark mysterious liquid. The mixture was stirred thrice then spread on his wound and the Bond speared his body with the hiss of cauterized flesh.

In the Bonding, Mycroft saw pictures and images, hallucinations of a time long passed and not yet come, as chaos invaded his mind. He saw London and wars and peace and a silver-haired human not yet born. He saw his brother and another, umbrellas, cake, blood and war zones. He heard screams and tears and laughter and a deep "Ido". He smelled flowers and iron and gunpowder and cleaner and dirt and rain. There was no particular pattern to these hallucinations, simply chaos invading his mind. It changed him as a person, scarred his soul and moulded it to a new tune, a new person suited for power plays and who took results using any means necessary.

The Bonding is known to cause a second Morph to go along with a person's changing soul and inner workings. Mycroft's physical appearance changed. Gone was the young man who sat timid at a desk for most of the day. Gone was the doughy figure and the great black wings that were his pride. Now Mycroft was a tall, thin yet broad-shouldered and muscular king. His hair was a flaming auburn and his eyes flashed an icy titanium colour, the shade of newly polished armor and broadswords and katanas. His figure and face formed the sharp, aristocratic lines of someone who wore power in place of a suit and he needed no horns or wings to show just how much you would pay if you were to cross him.

Mycroft looked a king when he emerged from his sickbed three days later. The chaos had imbued him with an energy unlike any he had ever known, an he harnessed it. With this backlash of the Bonding he created order in the highest points in the government, working his way down and stopping the war within the next six human years. He rode the wave of energy, surfing as he imagined the motion worked, though he had never tried the activity himself. He did not sleep or rest until at last the war had ended and he could sleep for a week, trusting his seconds-in-command could handle any immediate crises.

Six human years, only one daemon-year, after the last Satan had been destroyed peace was restored. A new Devil sat upon the throne and a new Prince of Darkness reduced whole rooms of the palace to rubble with his experiments. Hell was under one of its most competent leaders, one who preferred to stay out of the public eye as much as possible and who carried a black umbrella in remembrance of the beautiful wings he had once had. It was as close to Heaven as Hell could get.