Chapter Title: All the Queen's Men
Chapter Rating: M
Chapter Length: 4,247 (gah, sorry for such a long chapter :/)

Warning(s): Violence and gore guys, and Lucifer doing questionable things? (even I'm not too sure what he's doing)

Pairing/Characters: John, Sherlock, Lucifer/Octavious shows up, Lestrade and some Sally and Anderson as well as a few unnamed police officers and unnamed victims, and some more Moriarty/Michael and Moran

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.
A/N: I am SO sorry guys for the late update. I had a huge psych paper due at the beginning of the month and then this week is final's week so I've been stressing and crying and flailing over that so I haven't had time to post, but I made time because damn it's been like a month since I last posted, and that's just wrong of me. So here's the next chapter for you guys as reward for being so patient. I'm working on chapter 11 now, I wanted to finish it before posting chapter 9 but I wanted to make up for my long absence so here is this guys, again, sorry for the really long update. Anyway, hope you enjoy, drop a review and let me know what you think, what you liked, what needs to be fixed.


Sherlock leaned over the body, staring into the lifeless face, his pocket magnifying glass doing very little to help him. He'd never seen this before, had never read any medical books with an explanation of the condition the body was in. She was in her early thirties, a teacher, from the state of her blouse and chalk residue on the inside of her pockets. Primary from the discount on her shoes, but a recent wealthy boyfriend indicated by the new haircut and the diamond earrings. All irrelevant, all boring dull people related things that even Lestrade probably saw first glance and John would have been able to understand.

But if that's all this had been, the dead body of some school teacher, the DI wouldn't have requested Sherlock with the infinitely enigmatic "you'll understand when you see for yourself." And he did understand, far more painfully obvious then if he'd seen whatever had killed her. God, right now more than ever did he wish he had. He knows with absolute certainty no one could have stopped it. Not Mycroft, or John, or Lucifer.

Her eyes were open, her expression devoid of emotion, her skin a colorless grey but not because she was dead. It was as if the life had been ripped from her, her soul dragged out with it leaving her an empty shell of a Human body. Her iris' were empty of color as well, a shade neither white nor grey. Her shirt fluttered slightly in a soft breeze, the tear down the front catching the air and flapping the unstained fabric around the gaping chasm nestled between her breasts. It was hollow and empty inside as if someone had reached into her chest, rummaged about and ripped everything but her skeletal structure from that small hole. Sherlock's logical mind told him, though, that when Molly completed the autopsy all organs would be accounted for except the heart. But he couldn't help the unease that was settling around him. Maybe it was her unseeing gaze, maybe it was the pigment of her flesh. Maybe it was the odd spider webbing around the cavity in her chest. Silvery web like tendrils that pulsed with a hidden light in the cells that had come in contact with whatever had ripped into her chest without leaving a single drop of blood on her body despite the cavernous wound.

They weren't as prominent as the ones received from John's encounter with the tip of a Holy Lance. But looking into that vacant part of her chest he had the memory of white feathered wings, an Angel drawing its arm back preparing to ripe the heart from John's chest. He wonders if John had been human if this is what would have become of him. A soulless broken vessel. Despite the noise Lestrade makes, Sherlock reaches forward, gloved fingers touching to her eyelids and sliding them closed. Donovan blinks at him, Anderson smirks, and the way Lestrade looks at him when he stands gives away what they are obviously thinking. But it isn't out of sentiment, or shock, or melancholy for the dead. No, it was out of discomfort and, dare he say, a shadow of dread. He couldn't stand those eyes. So empty and dull. So inhuman. A churning in his stomach as he turns to Lestrade, the idea of John looking like this body unsettling him more than the body itself.

"So?" Lestrade asks, a little less forceful than usual, a comforting gesture, but Sherlock really doesn't need it.

Instead of stating so, he snaps a picture of the body with his phone, sending it to John. "I need to speak with John." He leans forward snapping a picture of the void in her chest.

"What for, why didn't you just bring him along like always?" Anderson folds his arms over his chest, glaring at Sherlock. John is considerably nice to all of them, but really, it's in Anderson's job description to check over the body, not that he does a good job at it. But he's paid for it, not Sherlock or anyone else, but him. With a defeated sigh, Sherlock looks to Anderson with pity.

"Isn't it obvious? I am no medical professional, despite my extensive research and knowledge. John, however, has the necessary skills and insight. Besides I'm sure he will have more to say on this then I." He knelt again, watching the pulse in the spider tendrils around the wound.

"Ahh, so even the great Sherlock Holmes can't make heads or tails of this, eh?" The man looked far more smug than he had any right to, and Sherlock knew the poor sod couldn't help that he was so pathetically stupid.

"I have at least two hypotheses, which is two more than you could come up with that tiny brain of yours alone. But John will be able to confirm one or both of these scenarios." Thinking of John, he hadn't responded to Sherlock's text yet. Odd. It had been about three minutes give or take twenty seconds. If John really was at the surgery he'd have responded at least two minutes ago stating he was with a patient. If he were at home, he'd have answered immediately that he was hailing a cab. John only ever didn't respond when he was with Mycroft, in danger, or taking a shower. He never took a shower at this time of day, and Mycroft would have irritated Sherlock with a case before resorting to kidnapping or (dare he try) asking John, so danger seemed like the highest possibility at this time. He stood once more just as a scream ripped through the bustling crowd of constables. Making his way over as quickly as the mass of bewildered people allowed, with Lestrade and Anderson at his heels, they found Donovan comforting a shaking female officer. The girl was clutching at the Sergeant like her life depended on it, sobbing hysterically into the darker skinned woman's shoulder.

Sherlock pushed past the two to make his way to the rail of the bridge. Any color that had been in his face, from the cold or natural pigment felt as if it washed away with the river. The tide had pulled out, revealing the banks. The banks and the bodies. Hundreds of them washed up on the rocky edges of the river. Men in ties or jeans, dressed for a day at the office or out to the shops, eyes soullessly peering up at the clouded sky. Women in their heels or t-shirts, out for a coffee break or on a morning walk, gaping holes in their chests. Children on their way to school, or cradled in their mother's arms, or hands gripped in their father's their skin dull and sapped of existence.

"Dear god." Lestrade whispered behind him. Sherlock gripped the rail under his fingers tightly, turning the knuckles white with anger or shock, or maybe to keep from the anxiety lurching his stomach, even he wasn't sure.

"God has nothing to do with this." Sherlock gritted out turning away from the scene and texting Mycroft. But he might as well have, he left unsaid. No need to confuse the poor idiotic detective with something so blatantly satanic from an atheist man. Not that what he had said was any better, but Lestrade couldn't have asked if he wanted to. Just as the 'send' on his text had been jabbed Lestrade's phone rang. He picked it up and instantly his face twisted and he tossed the contraption at Sherlock who barely had time to catch it.

"For you." He stood impatiently close, wanting to know the details but not wishing to talk to the man on the other end of the wire.

"Oh sweety, you rang?" A voice soothed from the small speaker. There was a fiery twinge to the voice Sherlock had come to know as Octavious'.

"Octavious, where is John?"

"Why, Sherlock, it almost sounds like you're worried about the dear boy! And here I thought you had faith in the boy's power." Sherlock rolled his eyes, never going to admit to such feelings. A muffled scream came from somewhere on Octavious' end, only to be quieted by the sound of a whip cracking and flesh tearing. "You did catch me at a rather off time dearest. New Unholy soul to train, you see."

"Time is an abstract where you are, and your business is not my concern. John is, and if he's with Michael-"

A sharp static rush filled his ears. "Shush, don't be obscene!" He hissed at Sherlock but from the way he snarled he could have easily been shushing himself. It didn't seem to matter which, seeing as it had the desired effect. The line went quiet. There was a long stretch before his voice filled Sherlock's ear again, as if he were standing with the detective then who knows where in the world (or underworld) he actually was. "John accepted Michael's invitation. Why would he so soon? Dear me, he can be so slow sometimes…" The name stung Sherlock's nerves as Octavious' words filtered into background noise. His body was alight in a rush, in a need to run. Whether to or away from wherever Michael was, he couldn't be sure.

"Sherlock, my darling boy? Sherlock. What do you think you are doing? Sherlock! Respond to me now." He hadn't realized his feet were moving, until Lucifer's voice forced him to stop. Lestrade wasn't too far behind, face twisted in confusion from what he could hear of Sherlock's side of the conversation.

"What have you sent John into?"

"Nothing he wasn't expecting or prepared to face."

"Octavious…" Sherlock warned. A melodramatic sigh crackled from the phone, whether distorted by the phone or Octavious Sherlock didn't care.

"Sherlock, you are his only priority, your life is all that matters to him. He marched in there knowing full well he could die today. Do not go chasing after him without knowing what you are getting into."

"Moriarty is nothing new, Octavious. He's more human than he likes to think. His actions prove it." There was a long, thoughtful pause from the other end.

"Oh." Octavious was light and airy, almost breathless in euphoria. "Oh, Sherlock. I could kiss you. That, I can work with that. I'll send you a picture of the location the two of them are at, and I'll meet you there." Sherlock tossed Lestrade's phone over his shoulder before Octavious even finished hanging up and was moving towards the DI's vehicle.

-v-v-

A pain was blossoming in his chest, just from the touch of Holy power against his heart. The muscle quivered in the gentle grasp Michael's hand had on the muscle. John could feel the walls of his heart constricted by the small cage of Holy flesh and bone. He was immobilized with pain, from his shoulder, his back, his heart. Everything hurt.

"Is there anything that you would like me to tell Sherlock before I kill him? I am not so cold hearted as to leave you without final words." John felt he was going to be sick, he was afraid of pulling his teeth from his lip to speak only to empty blood and bile onto the floor. Wouldn't be a very frightening sight, unless Michael's shoes were close by, but that would just get him killed sooner. At some point Moran had stood, injured wrist cradled to his chest. John could tell by his breathing, it was painful but the human was ex-military so something like this wasn't going to keep him from leaving the side of the Archangel. Michael shifted over John bringing the Fallen back to the problem and the pain. The arm twisted slightly into a more comfortable position, more comfortable for Michael that is. Another jolt of pain went through John's system as his broken ribs moved aside for the Angel's arm.

When he didn't respond, Michael sighed. Like winds through leaves or a love lost or relief that a long war was over. Fingers clutched at his heart, a palm pressing into his shoulder to gain the proper leverage to start pulling. Muscles and veins stretched, straining to keep themselves together, he could practically hear the arteries groaning in discomfort. The air shifted somewhere close by, but John's senses were going haywire, he couldn't tell which way was up anymore let alone what that wiggling sensation somewhere in his conscious was.

Whatever it was it kept Michael from ripping the Fallen heart from his chest. In fact it kept him from moving at all. A pair of rather nice Italian leather shoes came into John's blurred view, and despite his skewed perception he knew those shoes could only look good on someone of Octavious' position.

"Michael, dear brother mine, it's been so long. Why don't you crawl out of the mud you've dragged yourself through and give me a hug?" His voice was silk and velvet and clouds to John's ears, his body relaxing at the all too familiar presence. The tension seemed to seep out his blood and permeate into Michael's skin, his body stiffened painfully over John. Octavious leaned closer, and under his breath whispered to Michael, in a lover's croon, or in a killers smile. "One may indulge in a sin or two. Trust me, I know that line. And you are enjoying this far more then you should, even if it is in the Lord's name." He straightened, rocking back on expensive heels and no doubt looking down his nose at Michael where he kneeled in the dirt and John's blood. "Wraith, I understand. Pride, that I get too. But why the Envy? What could one so high and mighty possibly hold in spite? And what's this Greed I smell? Do you really think that you can covet all of God's love with this mission? Wait!" He clicks his shoes back to the ground, a hand to his lips tongue darting out to lick the tips of fingers and he shudders with a soft moan. "Is that… oh, Michael. Is that Lust I taste? What naughty deeds have you committed? So much sin in so little time. What's next, Sloth? Gluttony? Oh dear me, you are just working your way up the list, aren't you?" The way his voice echoed in the empty building stated that Octavious had won, won this battle at least.

And even if he hadn't, Octavious had been spending years honing his powers, and gaining new ones, on par to be God's own adversary, Michael was no longer on the same level as Lucifer. The hold on John's heart had loosened drastically, to the point where the Holy Pulse that had crippled him had ebbed into a dull ache. Using the distraction to his advantage John concentrated on the Hellfire that kept his heart pumping, and lay quiet in his blood. It grew boiling hot and oozed out his veins surrounding Michael's arm where it had penetrated his back. The Angel was off him in a second, flicking the blood from his arm before it could burn.

"You were lucky this time, brother." He practically ripped the word from his mouth and ground it to dust with how much hatred was concentrated into just that one word. "My Lord has only granted me a sliver of my full strength while roaming in a human body. To contain all my power in one vessel could destroy it. But you should know something about that. Your face is already crumbling." Octavious just smiled at Michael, simple and almost pitying, a few flakes of his skin dissipating into the air around him. "Next time, your little pet will not be so lucky, and neither will that disgusting bug you call a son."

"Michael, you really shouldn't be so rude." Octavious took a step back, dissipating into ash, only to reform his body behind Moran. His arm wrapped around the man's waist digging claws into his hip. His free hand snaked up forcing the human's head back, nails scrapping the delicate skin. "Ah, I can taste it much clearer now. Is this him? The one your Lust has found root in?" He made a tsking noise, like a parent disciplining a child. "Michael, didn't Father teach you anything? Altering a human's life, killing or letting them live, was alright as long as we didn't interfere with the course of life. And look what you've done, taken a human lover. And a sinner at that. He's killed people, because you've asked. Murdered innocent human's, stained his hands red, and look what you've let happen to him." He held up Moran's corrupted hand. "You know, if he dies, his soul is mine." He whispered, his teeth scrapping over the human's left ear, fingers tightening around his throat eliciting a gasp from Moran, lashes fluttering as he gazed at Michael through them.

A flash of light and fire, ash settling amongst the concrete and shattered pieces of light. Michael had Octavious' hand in a harsh grasp, would have snapped the wrist bones like twigs if this were an average Angel's wrist. The glint of a dagger at the Archangel's throat would have been of little concern, but the blade was a blood red Obsidian, a warm heat somewhere in the center radiating a strong demonic aura. Neither moved for several minutes still as statues, fighting an internal battle of power and wits. Octavious' wrist began to crumble and sizzle from the prolonged exposure to Holy power, while the slightest edge of blade touched to Michael's throat, turning the skin surrounding it black. Michael's hand shook before he dropped the other's wrist, jumping back and grabbing Moran by the waist and dragging him close, a protective display if there ever was one. The low warning growl wasn't much help for his case either.

"I still have a mission, your son will die, Lucifer. Just accept it."

"No way in Hell is that going to happen."

With a powerful flap of his golden wings, Michael vanished into light and feathers, leaving nothing but the clothes he'd shed earlier as proof he'd been there.

"Next time, warn me before you go off to meet with Michael. You'd almost think you actually wanted to die." Octavious flopped down next to John, legs sprawled in front of him and leaning back on his hands. He blew some smoke from between his lips, the side of his face was beginning to fall apart more rapidly. "But then again, I guess you were hoping you could reason with him, huh?" Dusty fingers brushed through his ash blonde hair, coating it with dirt but still soothing John of his pains. "Unfortunately for you, Sherlock is almost here, I'll meet you at the flat, yea? Fix up that gap in you, and those tags." Though reluctant, he stood quickly, brushing off his pants and fiddling with his cufflinks. "It's still daylight, so be careful about being seen." If John had been able to muster the energy, he'd have questioned why Octavious didn't just poof them both back to the flat. But at the moment he was tired and in pain, and really, just wanted a cup of tea and sleep.

He was lucky that Octavious wasn't closer, having bits of obsidian and ash in his wound didn't sound pleasant at all. His arms shook as he tried to push himself into a sitting position, but all it did was help him in toppling onto his side. The door behind him creaked, hesitant footsteps moved closer. Familiar footsteps, in spite of their lack of excitement at the endeavor. He hadn't realized his eyes had closed until a gloved fingers brushed his neck, over his pulse. Opening his eyes was harder than closing them had been. Sherlock was crouched next to him, a clinical eye running over the line of his arm and legs, over the wrinkles in his jacket and jeans, the mud on his shoes, the blood on the floor.

"I'm gonna need your coat." John said in greeting, turning his palm up to show the broken chain being unable to move his wings and unsettle the ash that was camouflaging them. Sherlock nodded in understanding but still didn't speak. He fingered the hairs at the base of John's skull, they were a bit longer since when he first arrived on Earth. It was nice to know his body was only slightly affected by the passage of time, even if he was never going to get any older. The thought had him speaking one that hadn't fully formed yet before it was already out his mouth. "Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock shifted, helping John sit up when he motioned for him to. He groaned, feeling horribly sick as blood sloshed around and out the hole in his back. When he swayed, Sherlock pulled him close, avoiding the void in the Fallen's back and letting his head rest against his thin chest. He stayed as still as possible while Sherlock slide free of his coat and wrapped it around John's shoulders, covering his wings and the wound in his back.

"Securing the area around the building, police work. We have ten minutes in which to leave. Lestrade, in his inevitable blindness may have missed a cab that conveniently decided to wait behind the building." He spoke quietly, helping John to stand. "I think he knows." He sounded uncertain, and slightly annoyed that he was. John chuckled into his jacket, letting the lanky detective wrap an arm around his waist and begin slowly walking him to a door on the other side of the warehouse. "However, I don't think he knows." John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock meant, but he'd ask. Later, he'd ask later. He often didn't know what Sherlock was saying.

The cabbie didn't look back at them as they climbed in, and he didn't ask their destination. Nor did he seem to pay attention when Sherlock forced John to lie down, despite the cramped space and the way it twisted his body. It still felt like a relief on his wary limbs and slow mind. Structures flashed by, London building and falling apart as they drove past. He blinked, resting his eyes for just a moment lasting only seconds (or hours or days) and for a moment Earth seemed as timeless as Hell. Baker Street was inching past them, and 221 was rolling to a stop. Sherlock tossed some money the driver's way, checking the street was empty before bustling John inside, up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could even make it to her door, and into the sitting room. Letting John fall onto the couch he closed both doors leading into the flat, locking each before returning to where he'd left John. Octavious had appeared from some deep corner, or maybe the fireplace (or maybe he had been there the whole time but both had missed him in their hurry), to seat himself at the coffee table in front of John.

"I apologize for cutting it so close." He sighed quietly, helping John shed Sherlock's coat, his own Jacket and ruined shirt. John shifted, resting his right shoulder against the back of the sofa. A gentle hand moved his left wing, a body sliding under and settling behind him. Sherlock shifted somewhere to the left of him as Octavious inspected the wound up close. John didn't need to see the detective's face to know he had reacted in some way, just by the shift in the pace of his heartbeat. Fingers touched the edge of the gap, skin crumbling under their touch. "This is a lot worse than I thought. He did a number on you." He almost sounded upset, or maybe sympathetic. Fingers touched a collapsing part of his wing, smoothing over and correcting the indents that Michael had left as souvenirs.

"I'm sorry John, this is going to hurt." Was his only warning before fingers plunged into his back. His own clawed hands dug into the cushions, ripping at the fabric as his teeth found purchase in his lip once more. It somehow hurt more than when Michael had first broken through. A high pitched whimper made its way through his throat as fingers moved and adjusted his broken ribs, reconnecting them to his spine with what felt like hot brands. He hung his head, touching his forehead to the back of the couch as Octavious continued fusing muscle and bone together before pulling black stained fingers from the wound, healing flesh, suturing the skin together. In between his shoulder blades, surrounded by black crumbling skin was now a patch of smooth black, surrounded by gently pulsing white, similar to the scar tissue at his shoulder, but the webbing was much thinner, more fine and delicate, running and blending into fissures and crevices in the charred crumbling skin. A final testament to what occurred at that warehouse.

It wasn't till fingers gently pulled the chain from his grasp that John noticed Octavious was done healing his wound. Metal hissed as it merged together once more. Sherlock finally stepped forward, extracting the tags from the hands of his father. John could hear the metal catch dips and crevices of Sherlock's fingerprints as his fingers ran over the newly mended chain. Octavious made some sort of noise and moved back to sit at the coffee table, sucking on his blood stained fingers in an absent minded way, as if his hand was coated in honey rather than blood. Gentle fingers touched John's shoulder in warning as Sherlock dropped the tags around John's neck. He was so exhausted he barely felt the pain of his wings twisting into the human flesh of his back, or the arm that slipped around his waist and dragged him to his feet. Octavious had removed any trace of John's blood from his fingers, having found interest in the cold cup of tea John had left him earlier, sipping at it delicately, moving it aside after every sip to avoid getting ash in his drink. With a nod in Octavious' direction as a form of dismissal, Sherlock unlocked the door and lead John to his bedroom. Up the stairs, and between the soft, warm, comforting covers. It took him a moment to catch up with the events. He was stuck somewhere, between the warehouse and 221B he thinks. Heat radiated over his back and from his back as Sherlock lay across his flesh, fingers tracing the new scar tissue in slow curious patterns. And from somewhere in the dark, before he closed his eyes to sleep, he heard a whispered, quivering voice.

"Go to sleep John."