"I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you. I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break. We had to break the first seal before any others, only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win, when we bring on the Apocalypse and burn this earth down, we owe it all to you."

"John," Sherlock whispers. "What are you doing here?"

He watches in mingled fascination and horror and hunger and fear as the diminutive army doctor steps forward, the fires licking tempestuously at his clothes.

"I told you," John answers softly with a smile on his lips and steel in his voice. "There's nowhere you can go that I can't follow you."

If demons had a heart, Sherlock's would've surged and swelled and broke at that very moment.

"You're not supposed to be here," Sherlock says desperately. "You're-"

"On the side of the angels?"

Sherlock's head swivels towards the smooth, cold, reptilian voice that hisses from the shadows. John follows his gaze, and his eyes widen in disbelief.

"No," John whispers. "It can't be..."

Moriarty emerges from the shadows and smiles at them sweetly. "Welcome to Hell, Johnny-boy!" He exclaims cheerily as he spreads his arms. "How are you liking it so far? I can give you a tour..."

And he drops his arms as his voice darkens and the whites of his eyes turn coal-black.

"... But it won't be free."

"Don't touch him."

Moriarty's laugh echoes throughout the chamber as Sherlock steps in front of John, black feathers ruffling as he spreads his wings out like a shield to protect his friend. His only friend.

Who has now followed him into Hell.

"You're not in a position to tell me what to do, Sherlock." Moriarty slowly steps into Sherlock's personal space and reaches out to caress the other man's cheek with the back of his hand. "My dear," he murmurs.

John's hands curl into tight fists to quell the sudden burning rage that bubbles inside him, to stop the overwhelming urge to rip out Moriarty's fingers.

One. By. One.

Demons can feel pain too, right? John thinks in inappropriately gleeful savagery.

"Why yes, John, yes we can."

John stares back in horror as Moriarty's black eyes are now trained on him, his gaze shamelessly and hungrily devouring him.

"Killer instincts. You have them, Johnny-Boy, oh you have them," Moriarty murmurs happily. "Cold, hard, unrepentant killer instincts. And you're capable too, my little soldier. Not as capable as my Moran, but..." He smiles widely at John. "Why suppress it? Why not... let it take over you? Let it all out?"

And John steps back instinctively as Moriarty's eyes and voice transform into something else entirely. Something that makes him believe in the monsters hiding underneath his and Harry's beds when they were children.

And then suddenly, Moriarty is there, in a blink of an eye, his lips hotly caressing John's ear.

"I can have so much fun with you."

The next thing John sees is Moriarty slumped against the wall on the other side of the chamber... and black wings curled protectively around him.

John swallows as he struggles to find his voice. "Sherlock..."

Strong arms loosen their hold on him as Sherlock steps back, and John stifles a gasp as Sherlock opens his eyes.

His coal-black eyes.

John feels a shiver run through him. And he wonders what it says about him when he knows it isn't a shiver of fear.

If anything, he is... inexplicably thrilled.

Is it possible for demons to be that beautiful? John thinks in breathless awe.

Sherlock blinks at him... and smiles.

And the next thing John feels is a possessive hand grabbing his hair and a hot, wet tongue invading his mouth, and before his human mind can even process what's happening, Sherlock pulls back and presses his forehead against him and breathes against his lips:

"Moriarty can't have what is mine."

Behind them, Moriarty laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

"Now that is precious, Sherlock, so precious my darling, I can't take it!"

The demon and human locked in a forbidden embrace turn to look at the other demon walking towards them. His hands brush the dirt off his Westwood suit as he quips, "You seem to have forgotten, Sherlock."

He catches Sherlock's eye, and he grins.

"You and I, honey... we are one."

"What is he talking about, Sherlock?" John hisses at the demon currently cradling his head against his chest. Dimly John registers the frantic beating of his own heart, while Sherlock...

Sherlock doesn't have one.

"Do you feel that, Sherlock?" Moriarty teases as he slowly circles around the demon tightening his hold on the precious human being in his arms. "That want, that desire, that overwhelming urge to just take and use and possess The Good Doctor?"

Black wings wrap themselves around said doctor as Moriarty laughs again. "Oh Sherlock, honey, I understand. I feel it too, of course I do. We're one and the same, remember?"

He grins maniacally as Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Of course, there's a big difference between you and me," Moriarty murmurs as he suddenly stops and turns to face them. "Unlike you, I'm not that selfish."

He smiles beatifically. "I don't intend to keep Dr. Watson only to myself."

Then he raises his head and calls out, "Seb, darling, will you do the honors for me?"

And Sherlock can only stare in horror at the black sword that pierces through John Watson's heart, as Sebastian Moran grins triumphantly behind the wide-eyed doctor.

"My pleasure, Boss," Moran purrs as he wrenches the sword out. The blood dripping from the dark blade touches the floor as John falls to his knees.

The ground glows. The walls shake. And somewhere in the distance, there is the sound of chains breaking and a cry of triumph.

The first seal is broken.

And from above, Alistair glides forward weightlessly as he settles into the ground, his ethereal black robes billowing behind him.

"Well done, my boys," he murmurs. "Well done."

Moran frowns as he flicks the blood off his sword and sheathes it through the scabbard on his belt. "Really Boss? You were comparing me to this pathetic piece of shit?" Disgusted, he kicks the writhing human on the ground.

Moriarty claps his hands delightedly. "But he had such wonderful killer instincts darling, you should have felt it! Oh it was delicious." He sighs. "Too bad he felt the need to suppress it, to control it. How utterly boring."

Alistair chuckles as he lays a hand each on Moriarty's and Sherlock's shoulders. "I knew I could count on you boys. Especially you, Sherlock." His coal-black eyes crinkle into a merciless smile. "I knew you wouldn't fail to deliver Dr. John Watson to me."

But Sherlock isn't listening. He stands there, numb and horrified, as he watches the blood pooling and spreading from beneath John Watson's crumpled body. And yet the consulting detective in him still can't help but observe, catalog, deduce. For even as John Watson's crimson blood seeps through the ground, he sees it... transform. It begins to turn silver. And it begins to glow.

And somewhere in the distance, the triumphant cry turns into an anguished howl of pain.

Alistair narrows his eyes. "Lucifer?"

"Sherlock's right, you know."

All the demons turn to face the small human being struggling to stand up. Sherlock's eyes widen as John smiles at him.

"Do you remember the first time we met? You got everything right... except for the fact that Harry's my sister, not my brother."

"John..." Sherlock watches in awe as the army doctor stands on trembling knees, his blood pouring through the hand that is clutching at his chest.

The crimson blood that is beginning to glow silver.

The anguished cry in the distance is growing louder, more desperate.

"I'm not only on the side of the angels."

John holds out his hand, and a bright, golden, magnificent sword suddenly materializes. He grips it firmly.

"I used to be one of them."

Alistair takes a step back and shakes his head slowly. "No... no it's impossible!"

John steps forward, his legs suddenly steady, his blue eyes as hard as ice. "You're right about my killer instincts, Jim," he says quietly. "That's why they kicked me off Heaven. I was too ruthless."

"Were you?" Moriarty breathes.

John smiles. "But that's fine. Perfect, actually. Because if there's one thing I like about being human..."

He curls his fingers, and the sword glows once, brightly, before it twists in on itself and transforms into a shiny golden revolver.

A golden British Army Browning L9A1.

"We like to modernize things."

And with a crackshot's perfect aim, he shoots Alistair straight in the head, between his horrified devil's eyes.