Chapter Title: The Company Which You Keep
Chapter Rating: M
Chapter Length: 3,859

Warning(s): Use of actual dialogue from the episode The Hound of Baskerville so umm if you're reading this for some reason and haven't seen the second season, spoilers? Um other than that just Lestrade guessing at things, Sherlock being stupid, and my crap writing?

Pairing/Characters: John, Sherlock, Lucifer/Octavious shows up, Lestrade, Henry Knight and Dr. Frankland, as well as mentions of Mycroft and probably some other people I don't care to go looking for names of at the moment (I'm horrible, I know).

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 really don't have an excuse this time around for not posting a new chapter. I should have done this ages ago but I have been having such a slow run with this story up till now. I really got into the arc that comes after the Hounds Arc which is what we are on now. I didn't particularly like this one which is probably why I've held off on it, but I want to get on with the new arc I'm working on and I can't believe I've waited this long to update for you guys. As an "I'm sorry please forgive me" gift tomorrow between classes I'll post chapter 11 as well. Because it needs to happen and might as well get the Hounds arc out into public view. I'll also drop a link to my tumblr account as well as my AO3 account at the beginning of chapter 11 for any of those interested in following me on tumblr, or checking out Hellfire on AO3. I occasionally post my own art on tumblr as well, David commissioned an artist to draw characters from Hellfire as my Christmas gift so I'll be posting images of those up once I get them which should be in January some time. And let me tell you, she is amazing and has really nailed the image that I've had of most of them. Well, without further comment, hope you enjoy, drop a review and let me know what you think, what you liked, what needs to be fixed.

Sherlock had, at some point, fallen asleep within the time John had laid with him. When the sun rose the next morning John stumbled from the bed, leaving the detective to get much needed sleep. Under the sheets the tall man curled in on himself, seeking the burning heat John had taken with him. At the bottom of the stairs John stopped. Someone was in the living room, though the door was mostly closed and he couldn't see who, he could sense them beyond the wood. He reached his senses a bit further, feeling for the body to get an idea of what they were before entering. There was no Holy light surrounding them, but no dark aura. They were completely and ordinarily human. But if John had learned anything on this stint to Earth it was that even humans can be surprisingly dangerous. Staying in the shadows he pushed the door wide and let it creak open. Lestrade was lounged out on the couch, one of Mrs. Hudson's teacups on his knee and a few case files spread on the coffee table and one in the hand not curled around the stem of his cup.

"Glad to see you alive." Lestrade said to the open room before him, giving John a side long look as he sipped at the steaming cup. "There was so much blood, I thought we were going to have to demand Sherlock hand over your body." He leaned across the space in front of him, resting his cup on the saucer that was half hidden under a folder of papers. He turned to John completely, resting his arm against the back of the couch and pulling his leg up to cross his ankle over his knee. He gave John a once over with narrowed eyes. In the glare of the morning sun John was half shrouded in shadows from where he stood.

"It wasn't mine." John tried, it sounded confident enough but Lestrade snorted, readjusting his position into something more comfortable.

"Bollocks. We both know when that sample comes back from the labs it's gonna be yours." John was silent and Lestrade sighed. "Look, I don't know what exactly is going on. But I'm a detective John, I know when Sherlock is hiding something from me. And I thought out of the two of you, you'd tell me when something is up." John didn't answer, but he didn't move either , a chill running down John's spine. The silence was tense, and was making Lestrade uncomfortable. Another sigh issued from the overworked DI as he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "John, you know you can trust me." And the look he gave John was so exhausted and tired John almost felt like telling him. But the bones under his skin and the new glowing scar on his back made their protest then, and he's sure his eyes flashed orange because Lestrade was off the couch and staring wide eyed at John. Intent and uncertain, trying to figure out if it was a trick of the early light or real, he smiled at the suddenly tentative Yarder and moved into the kitchen through the door in the hall to start some breakfast and the kettle. His favorite cup was chipped, he noticed, thumbing the cracked piece, listening to Lestrade's heart rate return to normal obviously deciding it was a trick of the light. As he filled his mug with water he felt the chill run over his spine again. Nearly dropping his mug, John realized he was still wearing the ruined remains of his jumper from yesterday, throwing it under the table he snatched one off the back of a kitchen chair, having left it there earlier in the week when Sherlock spilled coffee on it. When he entered the living space Lestrade, having settled himself back on the couch, case file still in hand, raised an eyebrow at the change in jumper but didn't say anything on that subject.

"And what about all this mess then?" Lestrade tossed a picture onto the table as John drew closer. When he picked up the image he saw the pile of clothes Moriarty left. Lestrade tossed another one down and this one was a pile of crushed stone, rulers set around it for size relation. "Guess you're going to tell me it's nothing too. What's going on John?" Sipping at his own scalding drink, John handed the pictures back. He could tell Lestrade, get laughed at, and being insisted at that there had to be some logical explanation, and then of course he'd have to show off his wings and then Octavious would show up and probably molest the DI if yesterday had been anything to go off on Lucifer's thought of the human. And that would involve Greg, and really, that would just paint a larger target on the back of his head than there already was. Best keep it safe. He opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock had run through the door snatching up the pictures.

"A new case for me?" He didn't sound the least bit tired which must have been a special gift of his, but it gave John time to slip away and send a message to Mycroft. And if the British Government couldn't get the DI out of the flat, he fortunately had a card to contact the King of Hell with. John heard Sherlock scoff from the other room and tell Lestrade the case was boring and before the inspector could argue his phone rang and he was forced to gather his papers and rush out of 221B.

It wasn't until later, week or two (John is never sure when it comes to time) that he wished he would have said something to Lestrade sooner. It wasn't really like it would have changed anything, everyone else of importance knew already, and it might have helped Lestrade cope a bit better, if nothing else.

Baskerville was a disaster, to say the least. He could feel the excitement rolling off Sherlock's shoulders, causing his own body to tense. Whenever the detective was this excited something dangerous and bad, and usually involving Michael occurred. And he really didn't need that, not now. Not in front of all these people. He may have helped Sherlock get into the complex but it didn't mean he approved. He tried to not pay too close attention to his surroundings, only keeping a close eye on the people, sensing their power, focusing on their humanity. He let Sherlock do the talking, and kept to himself. There was something about the complex that made him uncomfortable, made him weary, but with all the strange smells and of chemicals and cleaners he couldn't pinpoint what it was. He was extremely grateful for Dr. Frankland's help in escaping Baskerville without getting caught. From there he thought things were going to be a bit smoother. A quick walk through the moors at night, disprove the hound, return to the inn for a fitful night sleep, go back to London the next day and continue Sherlock's bored streak.

Or that was John's plan, but he wasn't a genius, and he didn't have the power of clairvoyance like a few of the Angel's did. And Sherlock had the ability to lose John at will. He should have ignored the light to begin with, it wasn't a lead, and Sherlock probably knew it, which is why he ignored it. Or maybe for once John had seen something Sherlock had missed and he should just feel proud of that fact. But despite everything Sherlock was his charge and he shouldn't have left him alone with an ordinary human, or expected Sherlock to stop when John had fallen behind. He'd been wandering on his own when he heard the sound. He thinks he understands a bit, in hindsight, what he'd heard but it still confused and shocked him then.

The sound of howling, overlaying the sweet music of Heaven's trumpet's calling.

He doesn't remember hearing the sound stop, or even knowing which direction the sound came from, but he does know his heart was pounding in his ears. And Hellfire gathering in the veins of his palms, ready to tear any creature of Heaven apart that dared touch Sherlock as his feet started carrying him as fast as they could towards the detective. He almost grabbed Sherlock and forcefully shook him when he saw the man with Henry trailing closely behind. Sherlock rushed past him, ignoring his questioning looks and the annoyance that was radiating from his skin. He continued brushing him off all the way back to town and with a flick of his hand told John to walk the shaken lad home. He'd have argued insistently, if the kid didn't look so scared. With a gentle grasp that any good doctor (no matter the time period) knew how to accomplish, John led Henry home by his elbow.

The poor boy was so traumatized that he wondered if the sleep aids he was going to give him would even work. He still sat with him, handed them to him, and watched him chase them down with the glass of water he'd passed over. He waited until Henry's eyes began stooping with fatigue before patting his shoulder and leaving to find Sherlock.

At the small dining room leading in from the pub, Sherlock had sat himself at the fire and was staring into the blazing embers. To accomplish what, John wasn't sure. There was something in the tremble of Sherlock's body, the thrumming tension that the Fallen could tell wasn't the normal excitement that ran through the detectives veins. It was adrenaline alright, but the same adrenaline that John had felt flow through his once human veins a century ago when faced with your own near death. It could get to a man. So he started calm and slow, thinking that a rational thinking would draw Sherlock from his quivering shell. But he was claiming fear, and John knew, from every time he'd run out with Sherlock that a Holmes did not show fear, let alone feel it. Sherlock had faced Moriarty, had survived Michael, sat in the same room as Lucifer, learned he was more than just a man, and ran with a Fallen every day, it took a lot to rattle Sherlock's cage.

"Just take it easy. You've been pretty… wired lately." He tried to keep quiet, and gentle, choosing his words with the utmost care. He'd never encountered Sherlock showing this much emotion, never, not even the one night they had shared raw and open with each other, he'd never been so forthcoming with his thoughts or feelings. "You know you have. I think, you just got yourself a bit worked up." He'd obviously said something wrong, because Sherlock jumped on it immediately.

"Worked… up?" John clenched his fists and pursed his lips, he tried an excuse instead, which was probably a worse idea.

"It was dark and…"

"Me? There's nothing wrong with me." John shook his head, he knew this wasn't going to work, he really should have stopped himself from trying. He was more stubborn then an old dog, John should have waited till morning to deal with the overly emotional, and yet somehow lacking, detective.

"Sherlock?" He tried, reaching for the other man, touching his arm gently, hoping to stop this before it got farther out of hand. Maybe if he suggested him to go lie down, anything to help his partner. "Sherlock-"

"There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand!?" He heard the dining room go quiet, the flames in the fireplace having flared in response to Sherlock's anger. "You want me to prove it, yes?" He shook John's hand from his arm as he quickly flew into a rambling rant, filling in John's part with a mocking tone that he should have felt more offended at. But watching his friend, and charge fly apart at the seams actually scared him more then it hurt him to be insulted. When it had died down, and he was no longer snarling at John like a wounded tiger, John shifted in his seat.

"Yea…" He cleared his throat, unable to keep from moving in the chair he was occupying. "Ok… ok…" He paused, taking a breath to calm himself. "Why don't we go sleep on it, yea?" Sherlock made a scornful noise, a sneer crossing his face as he looked away. "Sherlock…" John sighed. "I just want to make sure you're alright…"

"Yes, I'm alright, John." He snapped. "Congratulations on a job well done, now you can rest better knowing you did a great service to my father."

"Of course…" He should have let it be, should have let it go. But Sherlock had actually managed to wound him, and he couldn't help but bite out: "You know, why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have friends."

"No…" He shouldn't have let it get to him, but it was Sherlock, and as much as John tried he cared about the other's opinion. "Guess not."

The fresh air was sharp in his lungs, chilled and stinging for reasons he couldn't explain. He glanced up at the stars and was sure that if Michael were watching right now he'd be laughing. Their room was at the inn so it's not like he was going to turn around and try and sleep his frustration off. Glancing off towards the hills the light he had seen the other night was visible from where he stood. Couldn't hurt to check it out.

Climbing the hill to find the source of the light was long and pointless, and more than a little disturbing. His stomach rolled. There was seriously something wrong with everyone who lived around here. He sighed, defeated, and feeling rather stupid. He wasn't a Sherlock, or a Mycroft, or a genius, of course the light had meant nothing. What had he been thinking? And wondering off so far from his charge after promising Lucifer (and seeing as the last time he wandered off on his own had ended so well). Even if he had a… he wasn't really sure what it was, but it still didn't give him good enough reason to leave the Holmes' unprotected. He groaned and began walking back to the inn. The sound of his phone distracted him a little from berating himself further, bringing back a little frustration from the text.

Henry's therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub

S

John glared at the screen, punching back a response.

SO?

He didn't bother putting his phone away, knowing Sherlock would respond with lightning reflexes.

Interview her?

WHY SHOULD I?

If asked, he'll say he went because she was pretty and seemed like, from one doctor to another, an interesting conversationalist. In truth he went because he couldn't say no to Sherlock, and never would be able to. Even if Sherlock wasn't his charge, he'd have gone, because it would make the detective happy.

Even so, it's not like it helped any, he didn't get much information out of her, and it didn't help that Dr. Frankland had slid in and made it off like him and Sherlock were a couple. Which wasn't entirely false. But it wasn't necessarily true, either. John didn't really know what they were. Not friends, obviously.

He didn't see Sherlock that night, not that he expected to, or necessarily wanted to after their domestic, but he was supposed to keep an eye on him, and not even knowing where he was at the current time meant he wasn't really doing a bang up job.

It was a small town, with a lovely little cathedral, and a quiet cemetery, which was on the way from Henry's mansion to the center of town, so he was bound to run into Sherlock at a decent time if he just waited. And John was always a patient man, chiefly with Sherlock. Plus, he'd woken to the unusual text of: Dearest John, Cemetery, 11:30 sharp, dress nice, see you there OV6. When he'd arrived, at 11:29, he'd expected something more sinister, then the slight breeze and fluffy clouds over head, and the almost uneasy comfort that fell around him being so close to the dead. He'd wandered among the crumbling, carved, tablets and whispers of long lost souls. Close to one of doors was a monolith with a row of decent sized steps, perfect for sitting and waiting. Perching upon the second one he glanced at his phone. He didn't have to wait long. Despite the button up, and the lightweight jacket, he could feel the heat of the hand as it slid up his spine, circling around the spot over his new scar, before smoothing its way back down over the bones of one of his wings.

"It's quite nice out here, isn't it? Lovely scenery, and the smells…" A deep breath was inhaled as Octavious leaned his side against John, laying his head on the Fallen's shoulder. "So fresh, I can't even smell the after effects of death here. But enough about nature, my skin is starting to burn being on such hallowed ground." He began turning his head to look at Octavious, but the man gently turned John's head away. "No darling, I am not fit for viewing. Important things need to be discussed. I came to warn you, this isn't your typical mystery, and definitely not your typical dog. I don't care what it's about, or what you have to do, but get back in Sherlock's good graces, he can't be running around on his own anymore. It's too dangerous right now, Michael is about, and I can't pinpoint where. So please, it's not time for Sherlock to die, it can't happen by any supernatural hand, you understand?"

John nodded, preparing to speak, but a hand ran over his lips, silencing him. "Shush, my dear, we can't talk right now, they are looking for me. I'll be in contact soon." He whispered into the skin at John's jaw before his hands left John's face, and the heat left John's side. When he turned a small pile of dirt lay on the ground behind his seat.

The gate would catch his attention only minutes later

"So… you, uh, get anywhere with that Morse code?" No formal greeting, no need for it. They both knew it was somehow going to lead into some form of apology, even if it didn't sound as such. He stood from his seated position, standing awkwardly in front of the detective.

"Nah." John looked away, shaking his head slightly, wanting to forget the whole business he pulled away from Sherlock, embarrassed over his mistake, and still rather frustrated at the detective.

Sherlock was following him for once, close on his heels, showing off his capacity to remember even under stress.

" A…" He repeated it again, slower, as if tasting the word, trying to figure out the meaning from the way the letters sounded alone.

"Nothing, look, forget it, I thought I was onto something, I wasn't." He hid his blush by keeping at his steady fast pace.

"Sure?"

"Yea"

"How about the therapist, did you get anywhere with her?" It was obvious now that he was desperate to keep the conversation going on a path that would keep John responding.

"No." Sighing to himself he slowed minutely, not enough for Sherlock to say anything about it, or to interpret as something it wasn't.

"Too bad, did you get any information?" One could almost hear the hint of a smirk on his lips and John had to snicker back. How could someone so intelligent not realize that John was only letting Sherlock continue talking to him because he didn't fancy the woman he'll forever say he was forced to talk to? That he fancied the man that made him interrogate her over dinner.

"Hmm, you're being funny now."

"Thought I might break the ice, a bit…" Awkward and slightly unsure, he wanted John to tell him if he was socially doing alright, but he couldn't when it was John he was trying to entice rather than a Yarder or a victim's family member.

"Funny doesn't suit you." He tried to keep it sounding less fond, but he was starting to lose his edge, his frustration with Sherlock. It was hard to stay angry with the man, he felt his wings shift as if to remind him why he was here, not to get sidetracked by emotions.

"John."

"It's fine." And really it was, if he as honest he hadn't been upset since last night.

His hand was warm on John's arm when he tugged him back. "Wait. What happened last night? Something happened to me, something I've not really experienced before."

"Yes, you said fear, you got scared." He tried for casual, to let Sherlock really know it was ok.

"No, no no, it was more than that John, it was doubt, I felt doubt, always being able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of beast." You've witnessed Angels and Devils, you can't possibly be scared of this need not be said.

"No, I can't believe that, but I did see it, so the question is 'how, how?' Is this one of heaven's tricks? Or is this something else?" He looked upon John intently, eyes strong and determined, his hand gentling its touch, rubbing the fabric of the sleeve between his fingers.

"Yes," he had to look away, to stop Sherlock from looking at him. "Yea right, good, so you got something to go on then, good luck with that." He knew for sure the detective was finally down to what he really wanted to say and let himself start walking away.

"Listen," John smiled at being right, but schooled his face to turn and look at Sherlock. "What I said before John, I meant it, you aren't my friend, I don't have any." He stopped, rolling the words around his head several times before saying softer "I have something more." He was confident and resolute and he wanted John, the fallen could taste the change in the air.

"Right." He snorted, keeping in his laugh as he turned away. Couldn't let Sherlock know how giddy the words had made him. He'd just played the detective, and he really couldn't let the egoist know.

"John? John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!"

"Yes, alright, don't have to overdo it." He smiled softly at the sounds of footsteps catching up to him.

Not that it was going especially well before, but it seems Sherlock apologizing does weird things to the universe and it decided to fall apart on them. Lady Fate must be in league with the powers of Heaven. At least that's what it felt like. Lestrade showed up, the one place he shouldn't be, not with some unknown creature out to eat Sherlock for breakfast, and probably anyone in the general vicinity of the human.

A/N: Thanks for reading everyone! Sorry again about the late post and if you have reviewed the story I'm sorry it's taken me so long to acknowledge you. Once I post chapter 11 with a link to my tumblr, feel free to follow me there and bug me. I'm on there almost everyday so I'll see it more often. Thanks for any reviews you might leave me or even just fav's! You guys are amazingly patient and I'm sorry I suck so bad at this whole posting business. Hope everyone has a great day, and I'll be talkin to ya'll in a bit!