Small World: Overture
"Building Down"
by Nan00k

He began as a demon only to become the greatest human detective ever known. This is the beginning of a much larger story, one that takes us over time, space, and all the lives in between. Superwholock, AU. demon!Sherlock.

Here's the beginning of Sherlock's side of this insanely long series.

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Warnings: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, disturbing descriptive imagery, dark themes
Disclaimers: Supernatural © Kripke/CW. Good Omens © Pratchet and Gaiman. Doctor Who © BBC. Sherlock © Moffat/Gatiss.

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He was created to observe. To watch. To hunt. To seek out the weakest prey, ensnaring their minds, their emotions, their souls.

He was created to be ignored. He was the invisible watchman. He was the breeze, the touch of air, that invaded every space, untouchable.

He was Zephyr.

Mortal eyes could not see him, but could see them. He always could. He saw into their souls. They were bright, odd things to see after what felt like an eternity of darkness. Like miniature stars caught up in wet mud. The others, his brothers born in darkness, all said the souls were ugly things. He wasn't entirely sure if they were. They were just lights. Lights caught up in a dull, dull world.

He did what he was intended, after being created by their master, after the Fall. Zephyr was thrown into the newborn cradle of life on Earth, a place that was both his prison and sanctuary. He was ignored by the war of Heaven and Hell. He was ignored when their dark master fell and was trapped. He was ignored when the playing field was yet again prepped for another battle in yet another time, a long ways from now.

Zephyr kept to his wind and danced among the mortals he encountered, dragging darkness into their own lives, into their thoughts and minds. He observed them until he understood the nature of mankind, of humanity, even as they, like all other manner of creatures, ignored him in return.

He moved in the wind to all edges of the barely cooled world and did what he was made for—he had no other purpose.

He moved, and watched. Always.

0000

Mesopotamia

3400 B.C.

The humans moved, almost with as much ferocious intent as he did. They moved for sake of land and better prospects. And when they moved to newer parts of the untouched Earth, Zephyr followed. His place was with them, between them, and around them. They never knew, even as he worked in seeds of darkness into their minds with only whispers.

He didn't know what happened there, in that basin where civilization was beginning to take hold. Many things occurred, for them, as well as for him. He wasn't sure how it started. He wasn't sure what caused it.

The seed of his own misery.

As it turned out, perhaps it was the fault of another demon Zephyr had never met before. They ran into each other incidentally. Afterwards, for the rest of his existence, Zephyr never forgot who Crawly was. It was… unconceivable.

He sensed him before he saw him. It was almost possible to miss the lounging demon in the second floor window ledge, gazing out at the burgeoning metropolis that could only be doomed to fall later. The Serpent had lost his form he was known for and instead took up the guise of a human man. Zephyr edged closer warily; he did not want to startle a potential threat. Just because they were both from the darkness did not mean they were allies in the wilds of Earth.

Crawly stared him down, seeing him in a way none of the other mortals ever did. Zephyr felt a shrill feeling course down his incorporeal form. If he actually had a body, perhaps he would have felt fear. Or something akin to elation. He wasn't entirely sure he was capable of such a thing.

"You're a long way from the sea, Zephyr," Crawly said, breaking the silence. He waved his hand a little, sensing the other demon's question. "It's my job to know what's going on down here on Earth, including who's here on it."

"And you're Crawly," Zephyr replied, his whispering voice just whispered of air. Crawly wrinkled his face; how human. It was odd.

"Please. I go by Crowley now," Crawly said, settling back into his seat. He kept his golden serpent eyes on the street below, but Zephyr knew he was watching him carefully. Crawly—or rather, Crowley—was always a smart creature. "What are you doing here?"

"I follow the mud creatures," Zephyr replied. He drifted to observe the other demon closer. "They're moving around so much now. I have to move with them."

He had to in order to do his job, which was to ruin their lives in whatever ways he could think of. The wind could be a benefit to them, but not while he was there. He drifted where they went and whispered dark things while they slept. It brought him directly to Crowley, and Zephyr wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing.

"You're always a part of wind, are you?" Crowley asked suddenly.

Zephyr felt a twinge of confusion. "What else do I have?" he asked, whipping around in demonstration, only managing to flutter the dark locks above Crowley's tanned brow. "I am not to interact with the mortals like you. I corrupt them from within, not destroy them."

Crowley smirked. "Oh, there's more to it than that," he said. He held up a hand, admiring it with half-lidded eyes. "It's quite enjoyable."

"Inside a mud creature?"

"This is my own body," Crowley pointed out irritably. He gestured at his frame, as if it were supposed to be impressive. "You could probably get away with possession. No one downstairs would ever care if you did or not."

Zephyr couldn't care less for the politics it would involve to get his own body. Possession was easy enough, he supposed. "No reason to," he said.

"It's a delightful experience. Take my word for it." Crowley finished off his human drink, his face making it seem like he enjoyed it. He threw the cup aside and stood. "Or don't."

Zephyr had no intention to. It was ridiculous. Foolish.

He had people to watch; he didn't need them to watch him back.

"Better keep moving, West Wind," the Serpent told him before exiting the house. "There's an angel not too far from here."

A dangerous threat, one that Zephyr would not ignore. Even he did not drift into areas where the feathered monsters existed. They could snap him into oblivion.

For that, he had decided to follow Crowley's example and leave the city. Or at least, he had thought he was following the other demon's trail to safer havens. No sane demon would ever go near an angel without a Duke backing them up.

Zephyr was sincerely disappointed when he found Crowley. Because Crowley was not alone.

It was not to last, but it was enough that Zephyr remained where he was, horrified and filled with utter confusion, as he watched Crowley engage a real angel in combat.

A combat with knives. Insults were thrown. But the angel did not blow Crowley into oblivion. He took to the knives just as readily as Crowley did, and was just as ready to throw words like the humans did in their scuffles.

A loose stone sent the angel down, and without prompt, Crowley slit his throat. Red sprayed out into the air and Zephyr felt the particles fly through him like rain.

Angels bleeding. It was a strange world.

All at once, Zephyr descended upon Crowley, who only then noticed the other demonic spirit.

"Why?"

"Why, what?" Crowley demanded, barely glancing back at Zephyr.

The wind blew harder. "You could have destroyed him. You just killed his flesh. He will return." Only if an angel's grace was destroyed, or a demon's essence obliterated, would either Crowley or that angel would actually die. This angel was still alive, doomed to return to the Earth if he was sent back by his superiors.

"Not point, really." Crowley didn't even seem concerned. He stood, stretched his mortal frame, and made is if to leave the room. "Sooner or later, they'll just send another. Might as well keep your enemies familiar rather than new."

"Crowley," the other demon tried, not understanding.

Crowley sent him a glare. "Do your own work, Zephyr. I can do mine just fine."

Zephyr billowed and blustered, now utterly at his limits for comprehending. He didn't understand. Any of it.

"Familiar," he said out loud. Crowley stopped and gave him a moment longer to speak. "I do not know this."

He didn't know faces that mattered. Names had no point to his memory. All mortals were the same, and it wasn't like there were immortals around long enough to matter. For the next few thousand years, Zephyr would be alone. Until the End, at any rate.

Familiar just didn't work.

"I suppose you don't," Crowley replied. His eyes narrowed into just two flashes of gold. "I'm just unlucky enough to know from experience."

He didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Crowley was a demon. He was no different than Zephyr.

Except for familiarity. Perhaps that did matter.

"…It's not entirely awful though," Crowley admitted without warning. He did not look at the dead angel. He stared out at the door instead.

Zephyr could not shake the unease he felt at the depth of his self. "I wouldn't know," he said.

He did not understand what that would matter, to him or anyone else.

"Maybe you should," Crowley told him, without explaining why. He turned and left.

Zephyr left soon after. Dead angels did not sit well with him.

He remembered the conversation for decades later, however. It never left him even while the rest of the world spun on without him.

0000

He stole a human's body seventy years later. It was almost a spontaneous choice. Zephyr never made many of those in his lifetime, mostly because he had never had many choices to make.

This time, he did have a choice. It haunted him ever since running into Crawly and seeing what it was like for one of his own kind to parade around in mortal flesh as if they belonged there.

It was like diving low—low into the dirt. Mud creatures. Made of mud and dirt and solidness of mountains. Zephyr could not stand it at first. It was a cage, that flesh. He was the wind, a tamable, untouchable force. A body was nothing like the air. He should have rejected it all and forgot what Crawly promised.

But then…

Then…

He realized.

Lifting his head—such an odd, odd thing to do after eons of never having one—Zephyr saw into the eyes of other humans, who had no idea what had just occurred. They stared at him as strangers, companions, perhaps family.

They saw him.

They saw him.

All at once, it was obvious. He was enraptured. He was seen. He was noticed. Eyes, so many, passed his form day by day, innocently, on purpose—they landed on him. They found him in the crowd. He was granted reality after so many centuries of being whispered or being fantasized.

He was real now.

He barely paid heed to the screaming human mind that was along for the ride. It was unimportant, especially over the years, when it finally faded out, an extinguished flame. It was irrelevant.

This was perfection.

0000

France

1506 AD

He was in an inn just south of Paris a few hundred centuries later. A new body, a new town. It was a regular routine, considering human bodies never lasted as long as he would ever need them to.

It was an odd change of time perception, however. Zephyr had always lived in a whirlwind of change—humans lived, died and more replaced them at a consistent rate. What decent species only lived a hundred years? It was pathetic.

But once he was living that century, Zephyr was startled when he began to notice time slowing down. When had ten years felt like a century? Or a century like a thousand? It was odd and disorientating. He didn't like it at all, but all things just needed time to adjust to, he had learned.

He was proud of his learned knowledge, even if it was centered around the human race. They were intriguing up close. He had thought he had seen everything he had to know about them from watching at a distance; he now knew that living as one of them gave him an even clearer perspective of their meek little lives.

That's what had brought him to that inn, a speck on the roadside. He didn't enjoy human drink, but he enjoyed the noise that followed. He got lost in the chaos of interaction. He didn't mind sitting out on the noise; he liked to watch. He always liked to watch. Sometimes he was watched back, of course, which he enjoyed just as much.

Sometimes, humans singled him out. Zephyr glanced to the side as a bald man with a long face and nose slid into the seat across from him.

"Hello there, mate," the man said, all too cheerful, flashing bold white teeth.

It was not French, nor German, or any language Zephyr was used to hearing while he took up his role as an ordinary French traveler. It was English, the language of the Britons across the sea. What was a Briton doing here?

His clothing was odd. Very tight fitting and his coat was short, made of an odd, shiny material like a fabric made of metal. Everything about him was odd.

Especially his two heartbeats.

The man noticed the silent treatment he was receiving and his smile turned hesitant. "Just curious. You don't happen to know what the date is, do you?" he asked, abruptly in French. He probably thought Zephyr couldn't understand him. The stranger continued to ramble, unperturbed by Zephyr's staring. "Ran into a bit of trouble long the way. You know, lost track of the day."

Zephyr placed his flagon on the table and examined the creature closer. "What are you?" he asked, using English. He knew all the languages of man at that point.

The man froze. "Eh?"

"You are not human." Zephyr's eyes narrowed as he took in the odd clothing, the odd manner of speaking. "You are not from Earth."

There was no manner of creature like this, with two hearts and colder flesh. He stank of something else, something that had only recently come to the water world of Earth. He was not a demon, nor an angel, nor any monster that Zephyr knew of. He was old, however. Very old.

This was not of Earth, whatever this creature was.

His table companion visibly faltered at the question, but unlike a normal human, he did not refute the accusation. "…Uh… okay… you got me there," he said. Abruptly, his smile returned and he leaned on his elbows on the table, intrigued. "How'd ya tell? I'm not that differently dressed than the rest of you lot. Maybe a little cleaner."

This was the first time Zephyr had had the chance to speak with a creature that wasn't human in the last millennia. It was surreal. "I can…" He stopped himself. He had no reason to reveal his own secrets to a stranger. "Never mind. What are you?"

"Time Lord, at your service," the creature replied, just as cheerful as before. "Name's the Doctor."

Zephyr observed his mannerisms carefully. The creature had a soul, but it wasn't like a human soul. "…You are old," he accused. He stared pointedly at bizarre clothing. "And this is not your time." The question was how he got to this particular point in Earth history. Were angels involved? Zephyr hoped not.

The Doctor's eyebrows were raised high on his face. "You're good…" He abruptly peered closely back at the demon, obviously ignorant to what he was staring down. "What are you, if I may ask?"

If he wasn't of Earth and wasn't an angel, perhaps there was no harm in conversation. "I am Zephyr," the demon offered, picking up his flagon.

"The West Wind?" the Doctor exclaimed, startling Zephyr.

"I…" Zephyr glared, uncertain. Not many in this era knew that title. "Yes?"

"Sorry, the name, and all," the odd creature replied, shrugging. His eyes were bright. "Wait, are you really the West Wind?"

Weighing his options, Zephyr nodded stiffly. "Yes."

That earned him an impressed look. "Very solid looking," the Doctor offered, eyes appraising Zephyr's form.

Zephyr returned to his drink. "Not my body."

The brightness shone brighter in those beady eyes across from him. "Ohhh. That explains it," the Doctor said. He paused. "Well, that's mighty awkward."

No, it wasn't, or at least, it wasn't to Zephyr. It didn't bother him. He wondered if he stopped talking, the alien would leave. Zephyr was not about to get involved with a creature that stood out this much. He wanted the attention of humans, not his bosses or the angels, after all.

"Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Zephyr. You live around here?" the Doctor continued, ignoring the silence. He gestured at Zephyr with his eyes. "I mean, you're the wind and all. Does your body live here?"

The body was French. "Yes. I travel."

"Very interesting." The Doctor wore an odd expression and he tilted his head as he continued to stare down the demon. "Where'd you get the body?"

Zephyr glared at the questions. This creature's interest was now very much unwanted. "None of your business."

"Huh." The intrigued expression did not fade. It did take on a jaded concern that did not sit well with Zephyr's instincts. "That's a human in there, isn't there?"

"Yes," Zephyr drawled, challenging.

The Doctor's eyes changed with a flash of concern. "That's not right," he said, as if that meant something to a creature like Zephyr.

A growl built up in Zephyr's mortal gut and he glared as he leaned over the table. "Mortal, you cannot possible begin to understand what I am, nor what is right concerning my actions," he said, knowing the threat was all too clear in his words and posture. He would not tolerate a mudcreature lecturing him on anything.

Annoyingly, the Doctor was not intimidated. He did raise his hands in apparent surrender. "No, I wouldn't be able to. You're a real force of nature," he said with a calmness that Zephyr didn't understand. "But it's still not right."

"I don't care," Zephyr replied, sitting back, his glare permanent.

"I mean, you get to see the world, maybe, but what about them?" the Doctor continued, insisted. "They don't get a chance to see anything."

This creature wasn't even human. Why did he care? "They're not harmed. I possess the young and release them at old age," Zephyr replied. He paused; why was he explaining himself?

"That's their whole life, though," the Doctor complained.

Zephyr clenched his fist around his drink and glared the alien down. "I don't care."

Why should he care about the creatures he possessed? They were everywhere. It wasn't like they were rare or special. The human he was possessing now would have been dead by thirty on his own, a farmer. A useless life.

He was practically doing humanity a favor, giving at least one of their kind a real use.

Silence fell between them, and he could sense the Doctor wanted to say more. Perhaps he did have a sense of self preservation, and didn't want to anger the demon more. Wise creature. Zephyr peered up at his companion, meeting the intense stare calmly now.

"What are you doing here?" he asked at length, eyeing the alien carefully.

The Doctor perked up, the previous tension disappearing like a mist. "Like I said, just ran amuck the wrong time," he explained.

There was much to learn from that statement. "Time traveler?" Zephyr prompted, intrigued again. Not often did mortals have the ability to travel though time. This was the first time he had ever met one personally.

The mortal nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. I'm the last of the Time Lords." The flash of grief that resonated in his soul did not show on his face.

"I have never heard of your race," Zephyr admitted at the repeated name. Only Earth-based life had ever mattered.

"We're from a long ways away," the Doctor replied with a laugh. He glanced around the room. "Earth's a great place though. So much to see and do."

After spending millennia there, Zephyr had to agree. "Indeed."

"But there's a lot more out there. A lot more worlds. Some are just starting," the Doctor continued with the same gusto. He waved his hands. He was a very energetic human, which grated Zephyr's patience. "Kinda like this place, but at least the humans have finally evolved and all. Some places? They're just a speck of life in the whole cosmos. They're fantastic."

Zephyr had been there on Earth during those beginning stages on this planet. "Yes. I suppose they would be." Not as interesting as the ages that followed, however; sentient creatures would always be more important to him.

"Want to come?" the Doctor abruptly asked, making Zephyr pause. "You say you're a traveler. I travel, too. It's my thing, you see." The alien grinned at Zephyr's surprise. "It does get a bit lonely. Maybe a fellow traveler would appreciate the travels, you know?"

Leave? Leave Earth? Zephyr just stared at the creature in open surprise, not caring if he was exposed like that. It could not be that simple. Earth was the center of all the trials of Heaven and Hell. A creature like Zephyr was created to creep all the ends of the globe—and no where else. Unless, of course, he broke the rules that defined him.

He was stuck on Earth, even if he did steal a body that could go elsewhere. Taking the Doctor's form could potentially lead him away from this planet. Perhaps there were only things to see.

But there would not be humans. Zephyr felt a twinge of unease at the thought of not watching them anymore. Or not interacting with them. Age upon age he had spent there on Earth… all around the humans.

The humans… were not something he felt comfortable existing without. It would practically nullify his purpose, after all.

"…No, thank you." Zephyr rested his hands on the edge of the table, meeting the time traveler's eyes readily. "I must remain with Earth."

There was no other place in the universe he belonged, honestly.

The refusal didn't bother the Doctor in the slightest. "Not a problem," he replied pleasantly. He clapped his hands together. "Well, thanks for the chat. I need to get moving. The TARDIS should be done fixing up that little glitch."

Zephyr arched an eyebrow. "TARDIS?" An odd name.

"My ship," the Doctor told him, beaming proudly. "She's a real beaut. Maybe, if we run into each other again, I can show you her."

There was no way they'd meet again, at least, not in the long term. Zephyr took a long drink. The creature might not have been human, but he was certainly mortal.

All mortal things died, leaving him behind.

The Doctor stood up. "See you around, Zephyr," the alien said, sounding as if he actually meant it. His grin was as wide as ever. "Hope you find some spectacular stuff."

He left the inn and Zephyr, who remained in his seat. The demon mulled over the creature's words and was discomforted by the fact the unexpected encounter had left him uneasy.

The Doctor had taught him something incidentally, something that didn't leave his consciousness for some time after their meeting. All mortal things died in such a short amount of time. It was only logical that his presence did not take up too much of one particular lifespan. He was able to see more that way.

That night, he left his host to find another, one younger. Between burgeoning adulthood and middle age—that surely left him enough time with each host. A compromise he found easy to accept.

It made sense, that, after awhile, and when something made sense, even Zephyr could not argue with it.

0000

London

1940

The smell of burning brick and mortar was pungent in the hazy air. The bombings had finally stopped that day, leaving large portions of London in gray and fire. Even in the last few minutes of night before dawn, the smoke hung like clouds.

Zephyr sidestepped a rushing policeman and stared up at the lightening sky. He couldn't see much of it. The Luftewaffe had continually dropped bombs on the city for the last seven nights. He didn't have much to fear from the bombing; even in a country in the throes of the incessant aerial attacks brought on by those bloody cretins across the Channel.

He had come to England nearly three centuries ago, and he hadn't found a reason to leave yet. The Germans wouldn't chase him out either. Neither would their blitzkrieg.

Most of England went on sleeping, but those in lower London had never slept. The bombs had taken out whole strips of shops and houses. Zephyr could smell the dead. He wrapped a scarf up over his aging face, hiding a grimace.

A few brave souls crept out of the Underground, where the police had tried to herd as many civilians as possible down to eight hours ago, when the bombings had started up again. Women did their best to turn the communist-built structures into homes for their scared children; their husbands were off fighting in the War, or already dead. Zephyr kept his distance while in the tunnels. He listened to the explosions, counting the time between them.

He never thought to intervene, though he could have brought the planes down if left his host. That wasn't his place. He lived as human as any human could. Pretty soon, however, he'd have to find another host. This one was nearly fifty. He didn't want to pick a younger man next, though; being drafted and sent back over to the mainland Europe would have been irritating.

Stepping out into the smoke-ridden air, however, Zephyr was lost in the thoughts of just what was happening. The world was changing radically. He was fascinated. How quickly the humans turned on each other. This was nothing like the wars he had seen ages ago, in China, or the Middle East. It was all so different.

He wondered at how it was worse. He didn't expect himself to judge one human massacre as worse than another. Where had that judgment come from?

Children escaped their mothers' clutches, and the boys rushed up the stairs to get to the streets. They wanted to observe the damages.

"Lookit it all," a tall boy said, gawking at the fires.

Zephyr tuned out the chatter. He thought about getting something to eat. His own apartment had been destroyed three days prior. Luckily, he wasn't sentimental about property. That was impossible after living for millennia—

The four boys who had started to poke through nearby piles froze at the same time he did when the air raid siren went off again unexpectedly. Dawn was almost upon them, but the night still promised dangers. Zephyr could hear the telltale buzzing getting closer.

"They're coming back," the smallest boy next to him gasped.

Zephyr hid a snarl.

"Go down," he said, without another thought. He grabbed two of the boys by their collars, and threw them back at the stairs. "Go, move!"

He ducked his head when the shriek of a plane was followed rapidly by the explosive power of hundreds of pounds of bombs slammed into the already dilapidated street. The boys yelled and dove toward the safety of the dark stairs. Zephyr hauled the smallest boy over the last step and shoved the four back once they were clear of the opening.

The walls shook and smoke billowed down the stairs like water. Gravel and glass were shot around and the distant sound of men shouting told them that some had not gotten back to the shelter in time.

Zephyr waited, tense. Eventually, the bombing stopped. Like always.

Quiet, harsh breaths behind him slowly became the dominant sound, other than distant yelling.

"Is it over?" the nearest lad asked, peering out behind his shadow.

Zephyr scoured the skies and felt confident the danger had passed. "Yes." He let go of the boy's shirt—when had he grabbed it?—and pushed the boy away with his friends. "Go. Find your mothers."

0000

London

1959

"Small world, isn't it?"

Zephyr didn't look up from his newspaper. His entire body was tenser than a coiled spring. He ignored his coffee on the table and focused on the black and white words in front of him, trying desperately to ignore the demon who had chosen to sit directly behind him.

"Crowley," Zephyr replied. He turned a page and tried to keep calm. "You are still with the angel."

He had felt the angel first. The blond haired man was like a beacon in the night, worse than any air raid siren. With the end of the war now decently behind them, Zephyr had no way to ignoring something as poignant as an angel moving into his hometown.

What was worse was the fact that the angel was not alone. Crowley showed up, almost in the angel's shadow.

Troublesome, Zephyr thought through his haze of panic.

"Yes," Crowley replied. There was a clinking sound as he moved his own cup of coffee around on the café table. "Problem?"

That wasn't a question, as much as an offer. Zephyr knew that making it a problem was now an option, not a guarantee.

He decided not to make it a problem. "…None at all," he replied smoothly. "England is nice." Well, it was nicer now that the Blitz was over and done with.

Crowley hummed. "I think so," he agreed. "Better than a lot of other places I've been."

There was a few minutes of silence between them. Zephyr realized that Crowley had shown up to see if Zephyr was any threat to him. It didn't make Zephyr relax much, but he was glad that most of the danger was gone.

Crowley didn't leave immediately. He drank his coffee quietly, and Zephyr did the same with his tea.

"…You've heard the news, I take it?" Crowley asked, abruptly.

Zephyr hid a flinch. "What news?"

"How much contact do you have with our lovely overseers?" Crowley asked dryly.

Overseers? He must have meant Dukes or the lords of hell. Zephyr paused. How much contact did he have with them? In the last two millennia?

Absolutely none, but that was a bit too much to reveal. Zephyr arched an eyebrow at his newspaper. "Not enough apparently."

He heard Crowley shrug. "We've got a few more years," the Serpent replied. "Maybe twenty if we're lucky."

"Until?"

"You know how it ends."

All at once, Zephyr froze. The open-air café they were alone at seemed colder and emptier as Crowley's simple words sunk in.

Yes. They all knew how it Ended.

"…So soon?" Zephyr managed to ask. His voice betrayed flood of fear he was feeling.

"It came up fast, didn't it?" Crowley asked, sounding winded. "I'm doing my best not to think of it right now, honest."

"Why?" Zephyr asked, frowning. He slowly put his paper down, staring out at the air intensely. "This is your destiny. All of ours."

The world was going to end according to the Plan. Whether their side won, or the angels won, was irrelevant.

All of that was before them now…would end. There was no avoiding it, not even in thought.

Crowley was silent for a moment. "I suppose it is," he agreed at length.

The only thing that fell between them after that was the distant sound of random construction on the street behind them. People seemed absent all of a sudden. Zephyr couldn't believe the claustrophobic shroud that fell over them.

It truly was an unpleasant train of thought, to think about the End.

"…I don't think they have cafés in hell, though," Crowley said abruptly.

"No." Zephyr gazed upwards. "And no sky." Oh, what a horrible thought.

"No wind," Crowley replied.

Without thinking, Zephyr added, "No angels."

He might have gone too far. But there was silence following his comment.

"…No," Crowley agreed quietly. "None… at all."

Zephyr gripped the side of his table as all of those thoughts resounded in his mind. His borrowed flesh felt cold.

Since when had this mattered? He wondered. Ever since he was given existence on Earth, he had anticipated the End. It could have only been years away. Decades, maybe. What would London be like a few decades?

Would the streets be rebuilt then? Would he still be there?

Zephyr couldn't shake those thoughts, even when Crowley got up and left him there. He couldn't shake the traitorous feeling of disappointment he felt.

He couldn't shake the overwhelming sense that this wasn't fair.

He wasn't like Crowley, or any of the demons he had ever met. They all had been to Hell. Some had even come from Heaven, like Crowley had. They knew the consequences of the outcome from the End better. They knew what good or bad could come from it.

Zephyr…only knew Earth. He had only known humanity and all of its quirks.

He didn't belong to Heaven, or to Hell, Zephyr realized reluctantly.

So the End…was just as much the End to him as it would be Earth.

And perhaps, he reasoned, that was acceptable.

Coffee forgotten, Zephyr forged a sense of strength from that realization. He stood and brushed off his sleeves, as if shrugging away those last dredges of claustrophobic doubts.

He was no demon. He was a spirit. A monster, perhaps, but no more a creature of Hell.

He was, by all means, a creature of Earth.

The End would claim him, as it would any other mortal or immortal, soon enough. He couldn't fight it. He was just as helpless as a human.

It was alright by him, that.

Somehow, it was just alright.

0000

Birmingham, England

1976

He found the phone box first, parked outside of a bar. It wasn't a real phone box, but he was probably the only creature in that area who would have noticed the difference.

The time traveler was back.

The bar was bustling with all sorts of patrons, but Zephyr easily found the man he was looking for. It was odd—this time, the Doctor wasn't in the same form. It was the same body, but it was utterly different. This time he had tall brown hair and was wearing a blue suit under a dark over coat.

Zephyr wondered how the time traveler could change his form like that. Was his race prone to shape shifting? All that mattered in the end was what was on the inside, however. Zephyr could see that it was the same creature. How fascinating.

The Doctor was seated at a table, looking around the room excited to just be there apparently. Zephyr sat down opposite of him when he was looking the other way. An oblivious creature, he noticed.

"Hello, again," he said.

The alien turned and stared at Zephyr blankly. "I'm sorry, have we met?" the Doctor asked after a moment, his eyes squinted in a futile to see him better.

Zephyr frowned. "…I am Zephyr." Apparently the alien could not sense him like he could the alien.

"…what the…?" The Doctor blinked and then smiled broadly, ultimately unaffected. "You really aren't human, are you? I'll be. It's been at least four hundred years."

"Yes."

The Doctor grinned and sat back against his chair. "So, how are you? I bet you've seen a bunch of interesting stuff, even just on this planet alone."

"I suppose I have," Zephyr admitted. He peered closer at the alien's flesh. The soul was the same, but the body… "You've changed form as well."

"Time Lord," the alien replied, shameless. "I, ah, ran into the need to change my face up a bit. I'm also a guest in this time, in case you didn't guess." Grinning again, the Doctor pointed across the tavern at a blond woman talking animatedly with the locals. She almost fit in, but just by associating with the alien, she was different. "See her over there? I'm showing her the universe."

A bold statement. Zephyr observed the alien. "I see."

"And what about you?" the Doctor asked. He leaned closer, eyes again squinted. "Where'd this body come from?"

"A banker," Zephyr replied, honest.

There was an odd hesitance that entered the alien's face. "…Oh." Slowly sitting back, the Doctor peered at Zephyr. "Still, ah, possessing people?"

The judgmental tone did not escape Zephyr's notice. "I have no choice. I have no means to make my own body." He frowned at the Doctor's unease. "I don't kill them."

"Still," the Doctor insisted, worried. "You're taking somebody's life away, mate. That's no good."

Zephyr glared. "What would you suggest then, Doctor?" he demanded. "You may live longer than other humans, but you are still mortal. You don't understand what I have to endure just in order to live among things like you."

"Why do you do it then?" the Doctor prompted.

"Why?" Zephyr sneered. "You know why."

"Because you're lonely?"

An absurd suggestion. "Because—" Zephyr stopped. He felt his borrowed skin crawl. "How… would anyone see me? I live to watch and understand the world, but the world will never see me in return. I have no interest in fading into the shadows like before."

It didn't make any sense logically. He was beyond man. He might not have been a proper demon by birth, but he wasn't human. He couldn't be, not like this. He could have stayed in the body until its death, but he wouldn't die with it. He was trapped on the Earth, to wander forever.

And… that scared him. He had only recently understood that it scared him, that fate.

He didn't matter. He would never matter. The only time he ever did were those in between lives he managed to live in borrowed bodies, where eyes could finally see him.

He needed to be seen. He needed it, even if it managed to destroy him.

"You don't need to, Zephyr," the Doctor replied, looking sad. "But there has to be a way to give you what you want without ruining it for others."

Zephyr felt defensive. "I have no desire for your technology, or your schemes."

"Can't you just keep looking for a body that won't be stealing?" the Doctor asked. He didn't sound like he was trying to bully Zephyr, but his insistence was grating.

"What? Steal from the dead?" Zephyr scoffed. That was impossible; the body would just rot. He'd never blend in that way. "That won't work. Besides, I am not desperate."

The Doctor averted his gaze, tone sarcastic. "I wouldn't say that…"

Zephyr glared. The sudden wind that shot through the bar startled the patrons, including the Doctor's blonde friend, and sent the window glass and beer mugs rattling. The Doctor froze and then looked back at Zephyr. He seemed more surprised than afraid. Of course.

"I forgot you had a temper," the Doctor said, bemused now.

"You do not know me, alien," Zephyr snapped. He went to get out of the chair. While a familiar face was oddly comforting for a creature like himself, he did not appreciate this creature's arrogance to correct him.

The Doctor waved his hands, trying to get the other being to stay. "I might not, but I'm still here to look for options," he said hurriedly. "If I ever find something, I'll let you know."

"Why?" Zephyr demanded, incredulous.

"Why, what?"

"Why would you help me?" The alien had zero logical reason to want anything to do with the spirit, to help or hinder.

"Because you're not a bad guy. You're just in a rotten situation. I can understand that." The Doctor smiled. "You don't want to hurt people, do you?"

Wanted? Zephyr wasn't sure he wanted anything, other than to be seen. Anything else was morally irrelevant.

"…I would prefer…" he began, not sure how to reply. "To avoid it."

Because it was easier not to. Only that. That was the only answer that made sense.

"Then, I have all the reason to help you then," the Doctor said, so surely and confident, it was unreal.

Zephyr glared. "I don't want your help."

The Doctor nodded. "Then help yourself."

"How?"

Teeth brilliant white, the Doctor grinned at him. "Find your own life."

How could he say that so simply? Zephyr stared at the time traveler, unsure if he felt angry or just… helpless.

Find his own life? What did that even mean?

Was that… even possible for a creature like him?

"You make… it sound so easy…" There were rules. So many rules. Hell would not bother with a specter like him. He was nothing compared to real demons.

"Maybe… maybe that's what you need," the Doctor said, smiling gently. He tapped the table in front of Zephyr matter-of-factly. "You just need a chance of your own, Zeph. So don't stop looking for it."

Life was not going to drop down in front of him. He had no way to create a body or a life that was solely his own. He was Zephyr. He might not have been a true demon, but he was still a supernatural being. He wasn't human. He never would be.

No matter how much he tried, Zephyr was the wind. He could never be what he wanted to be, no matter how pathetic his desire.

He would never be human.

The Doctor stood up and towered just barely over Zephyr as they both stood by their chairs. He seemed cheerful, oblivious to Zephyr's despair.

"I need to get going. Places to be, things to see…" the Time Lord said. He pointed at Zephyr and shook his finger at the spirit. "But if you ever change your mind, just give a holler."

The gall and ridiculousness of his comment made Zephyr snort. "And how would you know where to find me, time traveler?" he asked, shoveling aside his discomfort to dwell on later.

"I'm the Doctor," the alien told him with far too much confidence. "I always find a way."

He walked around the table and patted Zephyr's shoulder as he would any close friend. Zephyr watched as the Doctor met up with his female companion and escorted her back outside. Perhaps they would go to another time, or another world. They could live as many lives as Zephyr could…

But at least they were themselves.

Zephyr remained in the bar, staring at the door long after they had left.

His own life.

That was a dream he couldn't help but dream.

0000

England

1981

In the middle of London, he found a hospital. His last body had finally reached its limits and he abandoned the flesh with reluctance. He had never felt guilt over taking them before, but there was something wrong that time. He felt… ill once he stepped out of it in his true form. Almost like if he attempted to do it again on another, it would get worse.

It made him doubt he would ever again choose to possess a body. The words of the Doctor rang in his mind. He didn't want to steal flesh. He wanted his own. He needed it; he'd go mad without being able to be seen by the world he always, always watched. The rest of the world would only see the body he stole—never him. It wasn't fair.

He found himself ghosting through the hospital, hoping to find something—someone—useable. If he just did it without thinking it over too much, maybe it wouldn't be bad. Maybe he could ignore the fact that this repeated gesture on his part was theft—murder, even. He didn't care about those mortal lives. It was just…

Why couldn't he be better than this?

And then, he found a room that changed everything.

It was a small, obviously well-to-do family. He had no interest in the quietly crying woman, or her stone-faced husband. Their eldest son was a sullen lad, staring at the wall above the hospital bed that held the smallest human in the room, who did ensnare Zephyr's interests almost immediately.

It was a young boy, stricken with a horrid fever that ravaged his fading body. He couldn't have been more than five years old. There would be no recovering from this. Zephyr stood back and watched as the doctors tried and failed to save the doomed life. By the time Zephyr dared to move in close, it was too late.

The child's body lived, but soul could not hold on; it slipped away like a quiet sigh. Zephyr dared to move into the room, sending the bed curtains flopping slightly in the breeze he brought with him. The parents didn't notice. They wept, oblivious as any other mortal. The other son, most likely in his teens, left stiffly, his eyes betraying his heartbreak.

Zephyr turned his attention to the body, more a corpse than alive. It was connected to all sorts of wires and machines. He listened to the mechanical breathing and strained to hear any other signs of life. The human inside of it was utterly gone. The soul…

The mother cried, for good reason; her child was dead. Zephyr watched for a long moment.

"Maybe… maybe that's what you need. You just need a chance of your own, Zeph."

A chance? A chance for what—he still didn't understand. He didn't want to. He wasn't like Crowley, who desired companionship. He wasn't good at heart like the Doctor had foolishly pleaded he was; he didn't even have a heart.

But…

Zephyr floated above the bed, staring down at the closed eyes and gaunt, abandoned flesh.

If it were his, the eyes of the parents and the brother—plus the eyes of the rest of the world he experienced—would know him. He would be seen. And not just as a demon possessing some innocent.

This… this would be his and his alone. There was no wrong here. It was a free chance. His single chance, to become one with the world like Crowley had praised, to be his own flesh and blood in the world of the humans—in a world Zephyr had finally accepted as what he cherished over all else.

He took the chance. He dove into the body, reveling in its emptiness. He was the only presence. The body was his now.

He wondered what the Doctor would say. Would he praise Zephyr's decision to help the family? Would he chide him for his selfish reasons for doing it? It didn't matter now. Zephyr opened his stinging eyes to a wall of human faces as the doctors scrambled to figure out why the boy before them was suddenly alive.

From now on, he was no longer what he had been for millennia. He was the boy. He was this single life.

"Sherlock?" the mother asked, tears spilling over her cheeks. They splashed onto his own face, the impacts like that of gunfire.

Zephyr blinked, everything so small now to his gaze. But he could see. He could feel.

"Yes," he said, rasping with lips he could finally call his, using a voice that was so human and yet so miraculous.

Sherlock.

His name was Sherlock; it was to be his own.

0000

When he actually had to try to be one, he was not a good human, let alone a good child. He spoke too harshly to Mummy. He made her cry. He made Father angry. He made Mycroft cry, too. He never cried himself, not even when they took to disciplining him. He was a poor example of a son.

Sherlock learned quickly, as he always had, to act appropriately. He minded his parents, spoke when spoken to, and used smaller words after the first few years of realizing being himself was wrong. He was just a boy in this body; he could not jeopardize his own position among them by acting as himself: a being far, far older.

In time, it worked. His Father still thought him odd, with his quietness, and Mummy was always too easy to upset, but they stopped staring at him as if he weren't supposed to be there. They accepted him as their son. It was exactly what he had wanted. Not their coddling, or the inane familial responsibilities he had now, but the position. He needed a place, a reason for being. This was acceptable.

The only one who didn't accept him was Mycroft. He was always sullen when Sherlock looked his way. He kept dark, judgmental eyes on Sherlock all the time, as if waiting for something.

"He's not normal," Mycroft complained to their mother, when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear. Sherlock—Zephyr—always heard. "Mummy, he's always acting older than he is. It's not normal. He always sounds like Grandfather."

"He's just trying to be a big boy," Mummy had replied, indifferent. She went back to her tea and paper, ignoring the plaintive stare her eldest and truest son sent her. "Don't whine, Mycroft. It is unbecoming."

Mycroft was smart. Very, very smart. Not as smart or as observant as something of Sherlock's nature was, but the human was clever enough to never trust Sherlock fully. He saw the differences. He feared them. Sherlock at first tried to convince Mycroft of his harmlessness, acting more childish in his presence, but that didn't work. At a loss, Sherlock reverted to ignoring the other boy; as long as the parents believed him, Mycroft was irrelevant.

Boarding school was one disaster after another. Sherlock did not like being away from the house; the important thing was to build relationships with those he'd be stuck with in this body's natural lifespan, wasn't it?

But that didn't work out either. Mummy disproved of dialogue between them. Sherlock tried to act more boyish, but she didn't want any of that, either. She scolded him when he played ball in the house. He stopped trying to be a little boy after that. He stuck to books, and Mummy seemed to accept that—granted that he brought home acceptable grades.

Father was always distant, but Sherlock saw he was like that to everyone, including Mummy. They only saw him at dinner, sometimes, when the children were home from school. Sherlock didn't know if Father actually liked him or not. He was tempted to listen in on his parents' conversations in the later hours of the night, when they thought he would be unable to hear them…

But he didn't. His abilities had not waned in the slightest since choosing this body. They wouldn't, naturally. He could have spied on the whole estate. He was still Zephyr, underneath the shell of Sherlock.

But he didn't. He felt odd using his abilities now. This body…went deeper than his normal hosts had. Without a soul in the way, Sherlock went all the way down into the body. He had a heartbeat. He breathed. He didn't have to, but without a soul or life support, it was him that kept Sherlock Holmes alive physically.

He sort of enjoyed that. In a horribly disturbing way. He was certain that any other demon would be appalled at his quiet enjoyment that came with that realization; Sherlock didn't care what they would say, however.

He started to listen only with his ears, to see only with his eyes, and to do only what a boy's body could do. He became human through choice. It was the logical maneuver, to better fit in, after all.

When Mycroft was finishing mastering the piano, their parents handed Sherlock the violin. The instrument was intoxicating. Never had Sherlock attempted to learn music in any of his previous human lives, but after trying it in this one, he felt like he had been missing a whole aspect of the universe. He tended to his studies—which he learned as a human, no matter how frustrating it was—with great care.

The sound carried through his body like a low wind. He felt like the rocks he had blown against all of his lifetime while a spirit. It rocked him gently and took him into torrents of feeling. Music made him feel tremendous things and yet cleared his mind like nothing else ever would.

His interest in music somehow made things easier with his relatives. They accepted his skills with the bow as an excuse for his odd behaviors. His mother said it explained it all; he was just a savant, or perhaps autistic. Sherlock just ignored those comments and plowed through concertos and Stravinsky.

Pretending to be human was always easier when no one was looking. Even if he hadn't had things to hide, however, Sherlock preferred to be away from bustling activity. While he certainly enjoyed the company of humans—which was why he had chosen this life—he didn't like having to talk with the stupid ones. He liked to observe them from a distance.

When times did press him to become reclusive, it was always because of too many humans. Like when his parents had parties at their estate. There were always too many people then, talking and gorging themselves. While the parties were nothing compared to what Bacchus used to throw, the ignorant minds that collected there to discuss politics and paintings were too much to bear.

Sherlock took refuge upstairs whenever he could slip away from his mother's grasp. She knew she could only introduce him twenty or so times before he would disappear. That night, there were too many people. It felt claustrophobic in their mansion; that was not an easy atmosphere to create in the hollow building.

He found his mother's study empty and he slipped inside. If she tried to retrieve him to force him to meet more idiotic guests, he would hope going to one of her rooms would delay her finding him.

The office was colder than other parts of the house, but Sherlock did enjoy the space. It had a large window overlooking the back lawns. The bookshelves were glistening white and held many older books. He wasn't allowed, as a child, to touch them, but he would often sneak one away to read when he could. He had especially enjoyed the first edition Kant; he had lived a few doors down from the philosopher when that book had been written.

That night, he was feeling like Clausewitz. Sherlock stared up at the shelves and frowned when he realized that it was on the top shelf. His body was almost eleven now; it was a pity human bodies grew so slowly.

He could have just brought the book down with his powers, but he didn't think of it. He instinctually grabbed the back of the desk chair and brought it over to the shelves. It took longer, but this was what humans did.

He didn't even think to do it any other way at that point.

Sherlock placed his feet on the arms of the chair, giving him just enough height to grab for the book. It was just inches from his grasp when—

He gasped instinctively when the book knocked into the books in the row next to it. The domino effect would have ended with the books simply piling up at the end of the shelf, but there was something sticking out from the books. A blue, glass crucifix Mummy had kept out of children's hands wobbled and then was pushed into the air.

The crash made Sherlock wobble and jump down from the chair. He spun around, surprised more than anything else. He hadn't even tried to catch it, and while it would have been cheating with his powers, he realized in hindsight that that had been a moment where using his abilities would have been acceptable.

The blue artifact had belonged to Mummy's father—his grandfather, long since deceased. It was a family heirloom, and thus, irreplaceable.

Oops.

The glass had gone everywhere on the wooden floor. Sherlock froze. He considered his options; fetching a maid would result in Mummy finding out, and the sculpture would be lost without hope of repair. He wondered if she would be upset. Most likely.

With a quiet sigh, Sherlock grabbed up the pieces that cut into his hands. He waved his hand and the tiniest shards flew up in the air, and he caught them. On the desk, he dumped the bluish glass together and carefully recalled what the crucifix had looked like to try to fix—

"Ow!" he yelped, dropped a large chunk of glass, which flew across the desk. Sherlock looked down at his palm, where the cuts had already healed; the white skin was inflamed from something else.

Hissing, he flexed his hand. His eyes must have flashed black and he tried to put distance between himself and the broken crucifix. Normally, such things didn't affect him; he hadn't been created in Hell, after all. But this thing—it must have been blessed years prior. Now that he focused, it still stank of holy water—

A stifled gasp; Sherlock froze.

It wasn't one of his parents. The voice was too soft and too young. He knew who it was before turning his head to face the doorway, where sounds of the distant party filtered in from a distance.

Mycroft was standing there in his party attire, halfway to the desk, caught in a mid-step. He was staring at Sherlock in open shock. Horror tinged his expression, but for a long moment, the human was struck speechless from surprise.

Sherlock stared back. He couldn't move or speak either.

Oh, no.

For all of his unwarranted self-importance, Mycroft was just another human. He was just a boy. He had the emotions of one and the fear in his face wasn't going away. The seconds ticked by in the cold office.

Gradually, Mycroft started to tremble.

"…What are you?" the teen asked, eyes wider than they had ever appeared on the morose boy's face.

He must have seen it—the wind? The smoking crucifix? The dried blood on his hands but no cuts to have caused it? He must have seen one of those things—or all of them. It was over.

Sherlock almost couldn't speak. Nothing ever made him speechless. "I'm…" He struggled under Mycroft's intense gaze. "I'm Sherlock. I'm…"

Mycroft's eyes flashed with hurt. Fear. "Not human."

Lying never went well for him concerning his older brother. Sherlock weighed his options and knew that honesty was his only option. The teen had seen too much.

"No, I am not," Sherlock admitted at length. He gestured at his chest. "But in body, yes. In body, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"…In body," Mycroft repeated. He was shaking. "But what else are you?"

What could he have said? "…I am… a spirit," he said, struggling. He couldn't tell Mycroft everything .That was impossible. He could only—

"A demon," Mycroft snapped, eyes brighter than before. They went down to the desk and the shattered glass. "You can't touch the crucifix."

"No." Sherlock clenched is fists nervously. "I mean… yes. I am… that. But I was."

Mycroft's eyes shot up to Sherlock's face and the fear was replaced with anger. "Get out of him," the teen ordered. "Get out of my brother."

A strange sense of drowning filled Sherlock's chest. "I am… your brother," he said. "There has never been anyone else."

Once, a long, long time ago, there may have been… but nothing that would matter to the humans. They had never gotten the chance to know the human that was once Sherlock. They only knew of the false-one who replaced him.

The taller boy in front of him stared in anger, as if wanting to accuse Sherlock of more things. But Mycroft believed his statement, not because he accepted Sherlock's presence. Simply, this justified his suspicions and doubts he had had toward the younger boy Sherlock's entire life.

"You killed him," Mycroft said, startling Sherlock. The older teen was almost emotional, his eyes shining with odd intent. "You killed Sherlock, didn't you? You're the one… who made him sick."

"I am Sherlock," Sherlock replied. He felt his human heart race. In this body, all the functions were his.

"No. My brother. You murdered my brother to take his place," Mycroft accused. His anger grew. "Didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say at first. He shook his head. "No. I did not." He didn't know how to explain the truth; it would most likely be rejected anyway.

"Liar." Mycroft shoved him further away, barely moving the false-human. Mycroft's face grew red and he stumbled back. "Monster."

The sane thing would have been to kill Mycroft. Or to leave this shell Sherlock had taken. There were other bodies out there. He could have become anyone.

But he remained where he was. Sherlock did not leave. He didn't try to stop Mycroft from leaving. He…

Staring up at Mycroft, Sherlock felt small. For the first time since he was created eons ago, he felt small.

"I won't tell Mummy. What you are. What you did," Mycroft said, voice shaking. His anger was ever present in his face. "Because she loved Sherlock. She always has. I can't tell her he was never there in the first place."

That wasn't true. It wasn't. Sherlock struggled against feelings that he shouldn't have had. "I'm…"

Mycroft made a bitter smile. "You are. You are Sherlock. All that we've ever known, isn't it?" he asked, voice stinging. "Let Mummy think she has a son. I know the truth."

Sherlock watched him, at a loss. "…Why not just make me leave?" he asked quietly. He could have run for their parents, or a priest or—someone. Normal humans would have fled in terror.

"Because you're my brother," Mycroft said. His words were piercing. "God help me. You're my brother."

The whole world felt off its axis. "Do you really believe that?" Sherlock asked, dreading an answer.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" Mycroft asked, pained. "You took that choice from me. From all of us."

He turned to leave. Sherlock found himself frozen next to the desk.

He wanted to stop the other boy. He wanted to scream at him. He was Sherlock. He—it was all he had left. He had given up nearly everything else to become this human life.

It wasn't fair.

"Mycroft," he called out, stopping the other human in his tracks.

Mycroft turned and stared at him from the doorway. His eyes were still alight with grief and anger. All human emotions. Sherlock kept their gazes equal, despite his growing sense of despair rising in his own chest. So oddly human.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice hollow, to his brother. "For what it's worth."

"You're a monster," Mycroft spat. "What do you know about apologies?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, because he honestly didn't know what to say to that. He knew forgiveness. He knew mercy. He knew of reasons why to apologize—eons upon eons of watching murderers, backstabbers, liars, and thieves who recanted had taught him that—but he never once apologized for something himself.

He said nothing. Mycroft left him standing there alone. Part of Sherlock was filled with irrational fear that the human would tell someone, but the other part of him was grateful the older boy would not be around the home much longer.

Standing in silence, Sherlock stared at the wall, ignoring the over familiar wallpaper, and saw a myriad of stoic family portraits staring back at him. He saw the lives he had accepted as his kin, his family, plus his own face. His face, the one he had stolen from a dead child.

He wasn't sorry. That was why Mycroft never forgave him, even years later; because he had known he wasn't.

0000

University was both a blessing and curse. Sherlock enjoyed learning, though much of the material he had been given in primary he had already known. He didn't like the school itself. Boarding school had been a disaster for his parents, though that one brief semester in public had been even worse. Sherlock desired to leave the Holmes homestead once Mycroft had graduated and visited Mummy more often. He had gotten a superb job at the capitol building, Mycroft had said, brimming with narcissistic pride that made Sherlock's skin crawl.

Politics had been a possibility Sherlock had considered—once. Back when the world hadn't changed so terribly and he hadn't attempted to make peace with his host family. Crowley had warned him to keep low after The Incident, however, and after living with humans for so long, the desire to rule over them faded tremendously; they were bad enough to be around as it was, he didn't want to be responsible for any of them. Father encouraged banking, or financial studies.

Sherlock chose chemistry. He had no desire to teach or to be an actual chemist, but he certainly did not want to become Mycroft. He chose roads that lead away from the elder Holmes brother, who's cold glare rarely faltered. Neither did Sherlock's in turn.

University had given him access to new people and new minds. He enjoyed it for that reason. He met interesting but average minds in his classes, like a jolly man named Mike Stamford who often tolerated Sherlock's oddness in exchange for lecture notes over tea.

Sherlock had discovered that the outside world knew little of intelligence. It was baffling as well as ego-boosting to deal with average minds. Most scorned him for his ability to trump them in everything they did or said, but some enjoyed his presence simply for what he was able to think of that they could not. It didn't make them like him, but Sherlock soon learned that he enjoyed making the average human stare at him in awe.

He didn't know if it was the social power or the adrenaline rush—but making others seem stupid or awing them with wicked fast quips and statements made Sherlock feel alive. He enjoyed the outside world far more than inside the Holmes household. This was what he had been missing: all eyes on him. If he had to pose as a reclusive genius to get that, that was all too simple a request.

He didn't last in university any longer than he had in lower level education. This time, however, his parents could not force him to remain in school. They still argued about it and, much to the elder Holmes' shock, he left.

Leaving home felt bitter and all at once a fresh breath of air. Sherlock enjoyed his identity, but remaining under a roof where his brother was constantly watching him with paranoid eyes was too much.

He had enough wealth stashed in various bank accounts all over London (and all over the world) to last him multiple lifetimes, so finding the finances to live on his own wasn't difficult. Making it legitimate was harder. He had little credit to his current name and that was only a human problem. He had other problems that were more pressing.

Calling the angel for help… it made his skin crawl, but after what Crowley had told him about lying low, perhaps it was time. The Holmes estate had been plastered with wards after the 1990s and what it had brought to London had passed, so now that Sherlock wasn't living there, he had to find a new base of operations. He had limited resources when it came to that.

Mummy, naturally, tried to drag him home with incentives of money and apologies. It was unlike her and had baffled him for several weeks until he finally understood why she was so desperate to get him to come back.

She had never lost someone, Sherlock realized. She had lived a perfect life free of loss.

It reminded him of when she had lost the original Sherlock. He had never seen the sobbing, broken woman she had been in that hospital room after he had gone home with them. That had been the closest she had come to losing one of her own.

Whether she realized it or not, that made Sherlock uneasy. He didn't feel guilty. He couldn't have. He was doing nothing wrong, except look out for himself.

He didn't go home that first year. He barely answered her calls. Once, his father had called, but Sherlock had pretended to be an answering machine. The message his father left was devoid of anything serious. Sherlock didn't hear a word from Mycroft.

And then, one day, he spontaneously did answer their calls, and it was Mummy.

He listened to her whole message, because she had been crying. She had good reason to, Sherlock decided, sitting numbly on his couch as he listened.

Montgomery Holmes had been sixty-two at his passing. The elder Holmes had been the family patriarch and had been a strict father. Sherlock had been incredulous at the thought of his father being felled by cancer. He hadn't sensed anything wrong with the human before.

He learned that the cancer had struck swiftly and without much warning. It had been a matter of weeks. The strong, proud man had died just when treatment had finally been attempted. He died surrounded by his wife and eldest son. Sherlock hadn't sensed anything wrong simply because he hadn't been around in that year's time to notice.

Sherlock attended the funeral. It felt odd to be back near his family, especially the extended one. They didn't have too many cousins; only one aunt and one uncle on opposing sides of the family. He couldn't not go, however. Mummy had begged him once and he had agreed without complaint. It felt odd to be there, but it would have dragged him into the dirt if he hadn't gone. He wasn't sure why.

Death was a part of his existence. He had seen the rise and fall of generations, of empires. One death meant very little on that scale. He couldn't tell that to anyone else. He watched them lower his father into the earth and wondered just what sort of paradise his father had for himself in the heavens above.

Quietly standing by the grave after it was finished, Sherlock hoped the man enjoyed it.

The ceremony was quick and indifferent. Mummy was no longer crying. She clung to Sherlock's arm the moment he arrived and he let her sink her fingers into his arm like claws. She stood firm and strong as ever, however, during the funeral and afterwards at the gathering. Her face was like stone; she was a strong woman. She always had been.

Once they were back at the house, Sherlock was grateful she had others to rely on. He wanted space. He found himself wandering his old home. Everything felt the same. Only small things were visually different.

He found his bedroom. It was untouched. All the books he had left behind and the lamp were in the same positions. The bed was made neatly. There was no dust anywhere on the desk or the window sill. Naturally. Mummy would have made sure the maids kept it clean, if only out of image purposes.

The floorboards creaked and Sherlock felt Mycroft enter the room. There was a short pause. Sherlock could hear Mycroft breathing quietly; he could feel the older man's hesitance.

"Sherlock," the taller man began. He had gained a bit of weight since the last time they spoke.

Sherlock turned around. "Yes?"

His brother looked as grim as ever. "I know we've not been on best of terms," he said. He kept his hands behind his back primly. "Sometimes I regret that."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Regret what? Your dismissal of me, or simply the fact our familial bonds are lacking?"

"Both." Mycroft tilted his head and said abruptly, "You had been crying."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, surprised. He hadn't.

"Your eyes were red," Mycroft continued. "Back at the cemetery, after the burial."

Sherlock wasn't sure why that mattered. "And?"

Mycroft smiled faintly. "You were alone."

That made Sherlock stop. He stared at Mycroft, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock… had no idea why any of this mattered. He…

Yes, he had been upset. His father had always been a difficult man, but…

Wasn't this normal? Sherlock had lost his father.

Wasn't grief something all manners of men felt?

"I would not think… I did not think this would bother you," Mycroft said, sounding amused. He wasn't in reality, but his method of dealing with stress was bad humor, after all.

"Our father is dead," Sherlock replied shortly. He felt a strong unease in his gut over this conversation. "I would think it normal that a son mourns his father."

"But you aren't…" Mycroft stopped himself. He chuckled and looked away. "Right."

"What's right?" Sherlock demanded, bitter. He stepped closer and glared at his brother. "If you're so convinced I am a monster, why remain silent? Why not get rid of me?"

Tense, Mycroft stared at his younger brother. Sherlock could see he was making the human uncomfortable. Even now, after all this time.

Sherlock smirked nastily.

"I can't tell if you're simply weak, or a liar," he whispered harshly, edging into Mycroft's space. "I can't tell which I despise more."

He pushed the stunned man aside and left.

0000

London

September 2009

Finding himself in a sea of humanity was more difficult the longer he was out in the world. Being Zephyr and being out in the world had been easy. Being Sherlock Holmes, a mere human, had been harder. He wasn't good at making friends. He had no real constants. All he had were strangers to bemuse or irritate. Sometimes that was enough.

But when being cooped up with Hudson was too much, or when the coffee shop owners impatiently kicked him out for harassing other patrons, Sherlock was left to wander. He had seen all of London's streets, so nothing was new or exciting to him besides the people. Even the people were getting dully familiar.

Disasters made things more interesting, but they were rare and in between. Sherlock sighed at the thought of another average fall day to suffer through.

He thought about getting a job. They were so boring and working in a lab would result in—well, monotony. Nothing was exciting. Nothing was changing. People were always changing, but they weren't a job.

Sherlock thought he had gotten lucky when he saw a crowd of people lingering at the mouth of an alley he knew held nothing of importance. They were concerned, excited people. That usually meant something out of the ordinary happened.

The police barriers were also a big indicator of something new happening. Sherlock squeezed in as far as he could go. He stared out at the alley, which was covered in police officers. The other side of the alley had also been closed off, with more people watching from the other side.

It was a crime scene of a murder. A woman was lying dead under a white sheet. The police were doing their best to keep pedestrians at bay, but Sherlock could easily see the edges of her denim jacket peeking out. The puddle of blood beneath her, the position of the limbs—clearly a stabbing. She had been young.

The crowd murmured lowly around him. Sherlock ignored the chatter and pondered over what was before him. He had seen plenty of crimes and crime scenes. He had never bothered to watch one in great detail. It seemed routine enough.

Murder.

Murder was… exciting.

Sherlock gazed across the crowd slowly.

The victims would change. The evidence, the clues, the chase—

It was certainly better than wandering the streets.

He pondered his choices. Police weren't always working on murder cases or cases that deserved his higher thought processes. It was a crass job, anyway. Mummy would kill herself if her son ever put on one of those pathetic uniforms. He wasn't an honorable creature anyway.

He saw the police talking amongst themselves. They were grim and uncomfortable. Didn't they see how lucky they were with this case? It was something extraordinary compared to theft or petty crime. They should have been grateful—

Sherlock froze when he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He looked to the opposite side of the barrier he was at. He saw a stout man with beady eyes rubbing a piece of denim fabric in his hands. Sherlock easily saw the speckles of blood on it.

Denim. Blood. Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued. The man hastily shoved it back into his pocket when the police moved in front of them. He kept his hand in his pocket with the fabric; his hungry eyes were on the body.

Oh, humans. Sherlock smiled. So predictable.

Reaching out, Sherlock stopped a familiar gray haired police officer in front of him. Greg Lestrade looked up in surprise.

"That man," Sherlock said simply, pointing at the stout, hungry man at the end of the row of observers. "That's the man who killed the woman."

"Wh-what?" Lestrade sputtered. He looked at the man, who hadn't noticed their conversation, and looked back at Sherlock, stunned. "Are you a witness?"

Lying would make the human believe him quicker. Normally, he'd like to drag this out, but Sherlock had plans that could only begin after this case was settled. "Yes. I saw the man put a bloodied piece of fabric into his front left jacket pocket, taken off the dead woman."

Lestrade gaped at him dumbly, but unlike his fellow police officers, he was quick. Sherlock waited patiently as the detective slowly turned and located the murderer. He slowly walked away from Sherlock and approached the stout man. The murderer only then noticed the detective's approach and tried to back away, but Lestrade was quick to alert his officers to intervene before the murderer got far. People yelped and got out of the way as the stout man started to shout back at Lestrade.

Sherlock felt a small thrill go through him as the shouting resulted in the stout man getting pinned against the wall, the denim fabric hauled away as evidence. This would be so simple to get involved with. Lestrade would trust him easily, as he had years ago with the angel and Crowley, and the result…

He had certainly found a job that paid with entertainment, Sherlock mused. Mycroft would be so displeased.

He lingered as the crowd was pushed back out of fear and loud alarm; they hadn't realized they had been so close to the real murderer. That was their excitement for the week. He waited patiently for Lestrade to finally break away from the handcuffed murderer, leaving him in the hands of another officer so he could spin around and find Sherlock.

"You," the police officer said, pointing at him. "You, what's your name?"

Sherlock observed the man carefully. Apparently, Lestrade really didn't recognize him.

"…Holmes," Sherlock offered. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade nodded. "You're going to need to go to the station to give us a full report on what you witnessed."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied coolly, at Lestrade's surprise. He ignored the gesture to follow him to a police car. "I prefer taxis. I'll be right behind you."

While hesitant, Lestrade seemed to accept that. "Right. Ask for me, alright? My name is—"

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted. He shrugged at the curious look he received. "I read the papers."

Lestrade paused and gave him an odd look. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, eyes blearily seeking out something familiar in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock smiled thinly. "I doubt it," he said coolly. Of course they had. It was many years previous, but he had been just a boy then, Lestrade not that much older. Aziraphale might have altered some memories, but Sherlock supposed he was just a difficult creature to forget.

Lestrade wasn't convinced, but said nothing. He turned and went after the other detective hauling the killer away. Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and watched silently.

Maybe.

Maybe, he had just found something interesting.

He caught up with Lestrade easily, surprising the gray-haired man by the side door of his car. The D.I. stared up at the taller man in surprise.

"Do you need a lift after all, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, eyebrows going up.

Sherlock tilted his head. "No." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small notepad. He scribbled numbers down quickly. "But I do have an offer. My phone," he said, offered Lestrade the paper. He smiled again, just as faintly. "I would like to offer my assistance."

"You already have," Lestrade said, still confused. "We'll still need you down at the station to take your full statement, but—"

"No." Sherlock leaned a little closer, knowing his smile had become a smirk. He saw the confusion in Lestrade's eyes progress into a more pronounced unease. "I want to offer my assistance as a detective. A consulting one. I can help you solve the crimes you can't solve." Which he assumed were many.

Lestrade hesitated. "You mean… a private eye?"

"No." Sherlock suddenly didn't fight the urge to smirk openly as the idea firmly took hold in his mind. "A consulting detective, if you will."

"There is no such thing," the human said, bewildered.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Now, there is."

Neither of them knew where this would take them, but Sherlock felt for the first time in years a sense of excitement.

Perhaps… this would be what he needed after all.

0000

London

January, 2010

The park was emptier on the colder mornings in January. He enjoyed the loneliness sometimes, despite his ever present need for eyes to be on him. The case he had just solved the previous night had been an overwhelming experience—he had loved every single moment of it. Danger, thrills, unknown motives—he was obsessed and he knew it.

Lestrade was still working on convincing his co-workers on the merits of allowing Sherlock into police business, but Sherlock would have been there with or without the detective's permission. He couldn't stay away now.

He had been going over the details of the murder and relishing that special moment of realization he always received when he finally figured out the crime when no one else did. That was why he hadn't noticed Mycroft's car or presence until the man had stopped short of the park bench Sherlock was sitting on.

"My, it's a bit cold for a walk in the park," the older Holmes said conversationally.

Sherlock didn't spare him a glance. "I am not walking. I am thinking."

"I noticed." Mycroft shifted under his coat. "For one of your cases?" Of course, Mycroft would know about the cases.

"Perhaps."

His curt replies didn't deter his brother, as expected. Mycroft sat down on the opposite side of the bench and Sherlock quietly grit his teeth. There went his train of thought.

"Mummy said to say hello," Mycroft said abruptly. "She is dreadfully upset you stopped calling."

"I stopped calling back in university."

"Oh, yes, she noticed."

Sherlock glared at him. "She's not dead or dying. I have other things to attend to."

"Yes, your own life," Mycroft agreed with a quiet sigh. "She knows, as do I."

"That doesn't stop you from prying."

"Someone has to pry if you're not calling, Sherlock."

Arrogant as always. "Hmph."

They sat on the bench for several more tense minutes. Sherlock thought about leaving, but whatever had dragged Mycroft out of his shadowy tower of power in the capitol building would linger. If it would keep his brother from prying into his life anymore than he had to bear, Sherlock could tolerate infrequent set ups like this.

"What do you think of us?" Mycroft asked. "I've always wondered."

He was asking him as a supernatural entity, not as a man. Sherlock stared out at the grassy knoll.

"You're human," he replied simply. "Ignorant, stubborn, most of you unintelligent." He watched as a bird took off into the air from a tree's highest branch. "Dreadfully interesting."

"I suppose that's good," Mycroft replied, amused. "I had always thought you saw the world differently. Even as a human, you'd see the world in a very different shade."

Sherlock withheld a shrug. "Perhaps."

Silence fell again. Mycroft stood up after a few minutes and seemed intent to stand there, waiting for the proper time to say whatever he had wanted to say. Sherlock waited it out; he knew his brother's idiosyncrasies all too well.

"I never did thank you," the eldest Holmes brother said.

"For?"

Mycroft looked at him with an odd expression. "Giving mother and father peace."

Sherlock kept his glare level. "I distinctly remember you saying I had stolen from them, and from you," he replied coolly.

"I was a boy. An angry, scared boy, who was too foolish to see the truth," Mycroft replied. He shrugged faintly. "That you were a son to them, when all they ever wanted was that son."

The wind blew harsher for a moment. Sherlock watched as Mycroft looked at the ground and then back up at him. He seemed older. He looked like their father.

"You are my brother," Mycroft said. "I can only hope you see me as the same."

Sentimentality was not a Holmes characteristic. Mycroft was cold and indifferent, as was Sherlock.

Some things just needed to be finished, however. Sherlock didn't know if it was finished, what was between them, but he did know what had been settled.

He had settled it a long time ago, he realized.

"Only a brother would be as insufferable as you are, Mycroft," he replied simply as he stood up from the bench.

That made Mycroft's tenseness fade, just slightly. "Sentimental as always," the taller man said, smirking.

Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets. "I've learned from the best," he replied calmly, turning away without another thought.

Leaving Mycroft there to his own thoughts, Sherlock walked back toward the city. He brought his scarf closer, shielding himself from the wind, which he was once a part of so completely.

With Crowley off in America now, Sherlock would take the angel up on his offer after all.

But first… he would need a roommate.

.

End Building Down.

.

Next, John meets Sherlock. John learns about the supernatural. John is not very happy about one of these things.

A/Ns:
-As for Sherlock's origins as Zephyr… it took me awhile to decide on his exact nature, going for not-exactly-evil but still inhuman and indifferent to morality as a whole.
-Zephyr is a reference to the Greek mythological figure, who was the western wind.
-Yes, Lestrade and Sherlock have met before in the 1990s. You'll see that when we get to Crowley and Aziraphale's bigger moment, aka "The Apocalypse That Never Was." Yes, Good Omens happened in this universe.