"How will we go about catching it?" Molly asked over the phone.

"That's my job," Greg reminded her. "You've done your part. You don't need to worry about me now. I'll need a little bit of time to figure out how I'm going to hunt it down, but once I do we're good to go. Can you call John and give him the status update?"

"Of course," Molly assured him. "Be careful, and good luck."

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll be fine."

Greg hung up the phone and stared up at the sky, wondering how the hell he was supposed to do this. Hopefully he would manage to keep from getting himself killed, but in all honesty he didn't have too much confidence in himself.

… …

"Lovely," John decided, looking at the relatively clean space. "I mean, it still needs some work, but it will do for now. Sherlock, I'm heading off to my supplier. I need to stock up on a few things."

Sherlock waved him off, staring off into space. "Go on. We'll be fine without you for a while."

"Well, goodbye then-" John frowned as the ringing of his mobile cut him off. He thumbed open the lock screen and saw that Molly was calling him. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Molly. Greg asked me to give you a status update."

"Yeah? How's it going?"

"He's working on a plan to track the demon. After that he's bringing it straight to the chapel."

"Awesome," John said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I'm just popping out briefly, but I'll be here by the time we're ready to start."

"Alright, I'll be heading over myself in an hour or so. Sherlock wanted me to observe the exorcism."

"Did he?" John shot Sherlock a look. "Look Molly, the exorcisms can be extremely dangerous for civilians-"

"Sherlock said he'd keep an eye on me," Molly continued in the tones of the hopelessly besotted. "He said he'd make sure that I wouldn't get hurt."

"That's…lovely Molly, but understand that I'm still worried for your sake."

"I'll be alright," Molly said confidently. "I'll let you go now. I need to do a little bit more research myself."

"Sure. Just-" John sighed and gave up. "Ask Father Murray, he's at the main church, to bless you before you enter the chapel." The blessing would be flimsy armor, but it would be better than nothing.

"I will," she agreed enthusiastically. "Bye-bye!"

"Bye."

John hung up and felt old. "It's on your head if she gets hurt," he told Sherlock sternly, who ignored him completely. "Right. I'll just do the shopping then."

John left to do the shopping.

… …

Greg would have liked to pretend that it was due to his own tenacity and cunning that he found the demon, but really it was because he got into the cab.

He figured that he would head back to Baker Street, read a bit about this particular kind of demon, and sketch out a plan of attack before he ran headlong into the demon underground, hoping to find the bastard he was looking for.

Apparently the bastard in question didn't take too kindly to being hunted, and decided to be proactive about the matter.

Fortunately, Greg hadn't survived being a demon hunter this long without having some really top notch instincts. So as soon as he sat down in the back seat, he knew that something was wrong.

Demons are…difficult to describe. There's something about them that feels wrong. Greg had always compared it to leaving a crowded, busy room and returning a moment later to find it empty and dead silent. There was an absence to them, a dark threatening absence that made you both want to investigate like an idiot or turn around and run away as fast as humanly possible.

So he knew as soon as he had gotten in the cab that he had fucked up as hugely as he was capable of fucking up.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked in a rough accent, surprisingly calm and pleasant.

Greg decided to play the idiot. "221B Baker Street," he responded carelessly, pulling out his phone and pretending to pay attention to anything but the man in front of him.

The cab started moving and Greg sent a quick text.

May have made a mistake. Backup? –Lestrade

There was a response an instant after the text was sent.

You're an idiot. –SH

… …

John packed up his newly acquired supplies with the sense of content satisfaction that accompanies the completion of any task.

Then he felt his phone buzz and all his happy feelings when away.

Lestrade has found the demon. Pursuing now, prepare for exorcism. –SH

It was from an unknown number, but the SH cleared quite a few things up. John ignored the fact that he had never given Sherlock his mobile number, nor had he ever seen the angel pull out a phone. John simply filed the incident under a mental list titled "Sherlock's Stupid Angel Shit" and headed back to the chapel.

He hoped Molly remembered to get the blessing from Father Murray. He also hoped that Greg would be alright. He sent out a quick prayer to whatever deity may be currently listening and hoped that everything would work out alright.

… …

"So Greg's in the cab with him?" Molly asked Sherlock, her voice high with panic and concern. He rolled his eyes privately but nodded.

"Yes. That is what I explicitly told you moments ago. I can't directly interfere or else the demon will vanish and go deep underground." Sherlock gave her a level look. "The deepest underground."

Molly looked at him blankly.

"I mean Hell, Molly," Sherlock clarified.

"Well, that would be a better place for it than London, wouldn't it?" Molly asked reasonably.

"Considering the demon isn't Moriarty, no." Sherlock continued before Molly could ask questions. "Moriarty isn't a suicide demon. I knew it wasn't him as soon as we linked the serial killings to Priority One activity. He might, however, have information. That's what we need. I can interrogate him as soon as John forces him from his corporeal body. If he gets nervous and runs to hide in Hell, we lose any information he might have."

"So why are you talking to me then?" Molly interrupted. "If Greg is with the demon, why aren't you detaining him?"

"Because I can't imprison him until he's incorporeal," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "If I show up, he'll run. I just said this, Molly."

"How am I supposed to help?!" she snapped back. "All I'm good for is flipping through dusty old books and taking notes, I can't help trap a demon."

Sherlock smiled. "But I know who can."

"Then why don't you go to them?"

"Because he'll likely tell me to piss off, he's already got himself a job. He won't do it if he's ordered to, he'll do it because he knows it's the right thing to do. But I know him, and he'll need to come to that decision on his own."

Molly was silent for only a moment. "You're talking about John Watson, aren't you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I am." Sherlock handed her a small case. It was black and smaller than a post-it note. "I'm going to need you to be a bit manipulative, Molly."

Molly shook her head violently. "I'm no good for that, Sherlock. You know I couldn't lie convincingly to John. He's seems like a sweet man."

"You've fallen for his trap, then. You don't become known city wide as The Consulting Exorcist for being a sweet man. That case I just handed you? I was going to give that to Lestrade, but he's gotten himself snapped up in the web quicker than I anticipated. I have the feeling that John will need it now if we're going to take down Hope."

"Hope?"

"The demon," Sherlock said, smiling in appreciation of the irony. "I'm familiar with him. The name makes sense when you see how he tricks his victims. He gives them something very dangerous before he kills them."

… …

The demon wasn't even being subtle about deviating from the route he was supposed to take. Consequently, Greg didn't bother to call him out on it. He just let the atmosphere in the cab grow both simultaneously more tense and awkward before the demon finally spoke.

"So, you'll be knowing who I am, then," he finally ventured.

"I have a general idea, yeah," Greg responded, wishing he was being intentionally vague instead of just genuinely confused about the details.

"The name is Hope," he introduced himself. "Because that's what I'm going to give to you right before you die."

"Er."

"I think it's kinder, honestly; to die with hope alive in your heart instead of desolate and hardened towards your fate without the barest glimmer of reprieve. I don't see myself as a bad guy. I give people much better deaths than they were probably going to have anyway. I can't understand what all the fuss was about."

"Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was still murder?" Greg suggested a bit roughly.

Hope just shrugged. "It isn't really murder if they kill themselves now, ain't it? I don't force them to do it, really. I just talk to them, and they kill themselves."

"Forcing someone to commit suicide is murder."

"But I don't force," Hope repeated, still cheerful. "I'm not even violent. I just—you know what, you'll see soon enough."

… …

"John?" Molly stepped tentatively inside the chapel.

"Right here!" John called from behind some boxes. "I'm just fortifying this place a bit better." He held up a bottle of holy water as proof. "Can't really overdo this, to be honest."

"Right…" Molly gave up any attempts at manipulation before she started and decided to give honesty a shot. "John, there's a problem."

"What's wrong?" John came over, looking deeply concerned.

"It's Greg…I uh…he's, um, having some issues with the demon?"

"Molly," John's voice became much sterner. "You're going to have to explicitly tell me what's going on."

Molly took a deep breath. "Greg got into the demon's cab," she started. John's eyes went wide and Molly knew that the truth would be the best tactic here after all. "The situation has gone completely out of our control. Sherlock can't intervene, or else we'll lose the demon, and no one…none of us can…"

"Molly, calm down," John ordered her. "What has Sherlock said?"

She reached into her pocket and took out the small black case. "He gave me this," she said. "Right before he ran off to do 'damage control,' whatever that means. Apparently he was going to give it to Greg, said that it was necessary for trapping the demon, but Greg got caught up by the demon before he was prepared and…"

"Why didn't he give this to Greg in the beginning, then?" John asked, accepting the case even though he was confused.

Molly shrugged. "Said he hadn't had the chance to. Knowing Sherlock, though, he was waiting for the most dramatic moment possible so he could get a chance to sweep in as our savior. I guess the moment got away from him."

"That does sound like Sherlock," John said ruefully. He hesitated for a moment before opening it up. He swore rather loudly when he saw the contents.

"What is it?" Molly asked, burning with curiosity. She had resisted and temptation to open it on the way over and was dying to know what could be so important.

John showed her. Lying in the center of the case, in a nest of velvet lining, was a single gleaming bullet.

"Is that a Blessed Bullet?" Molly asked, her eyes wide. Those were…those were beyond rare. Molly never thought that she would see one. She had though that the demons had done their best to eradicate them from existence.

John nodded. "Silver melted in Angel Fire. Molded and blessed by priests, cooled in holy water. This will utterly destroy most demons. Not a Priority One…but it would hurt like hell and trap him in his corporeal body. I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had this one made for this exact task."

"I guess…Greg was supposed to shoot the demon?" Molly suggested, hoping that question was enough to get John's thoughts headed down the right path.

The man nodded grimly. "Looks like someone else will have to do it now."

John closed the case and shoved it in his pocket. He turned and headed over to a duffel bag tossed carelessly on the ground. He dug through it and pulled out a handgun, the sight of which made Molly jump.

"It's the right caliber," John said thoughtfully. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Sherlock pulled some sneaky angel bullshit so I'd have to be the one to fire this bullet."

"Why would he do that?"

"Fuck if I know," John shrugged. "I gave up trying to understand angels a long time ago. Or at least I gave up trying to understand Sherlock. Do you have any idea where Greg is headed?"

Molly shook her head. "But Sherlock will. I don't know where he went, but he'll get in contact when he's needed."

John rolled his eyes. "I swear to God," he looked skywards. "Yes, You. I swear, if You do not put that idiot on a leash, I will."

… …

Hope led Greg through the abandoned building at gunpoint. Greg wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this one alive. He had a few escape plans set up, but the biggest issue would be getting away without scaring off the demon. The last thing he wanted was for the bastard to get nervous and take off back into the depths of hell.

He wondered at the demon's choice of host as well. Oftentimes, the fiends chose a body that suited them. The possessed the powerful and the wicked. They possessed the weak and the scared. A shabby looking cabbie with tired eyes didn't fit the usual bill.

"He's dying," Hope said, either guessing or outright hearing Greg's thoughts. "I'm the only thing holding this body together. It would be better for me to just kill him, really, save him the pain of his natural death."

"That wouldn't be God's plan," Greg pointed out. He didn't see Hope roll his eyes, but he had the sense of it happening.

"A religious one, are you? Great. You lot are the worst."

Greg was surprised. "Kind of hard not to be religious when you deal with angels and demons on a daily basis."

Hope scoffed. "Do you know how many of these people genuinely believe in any deity? Not nearly as many as those who claim they do. Besides, I'm not even a Christian demon. Your God doesn't mean much to me."

"I don't think we're here to debate theology," Greg pointed out as Hope sat them at a long table, facing each other. "You're supposed to be trying to convince me to kill myself."

"No. You've got it wrong," Hope said with a kind smile. "I don't convince you to do anything. We talk for a bit, then we play a game. So, tell me about yourself. I know you're a demon hunter, and you've been asking about me."

Greg acknowledged the accuracy of the information with a slight tilt of his head. "My name is Greg. I used to be a police officer. After the Reveal, I thought I could be of more help if I went after demons. I trapped them for a bit, gave them to the angels and they provided food and shelter for me in return. After about a year ago, I came across a demon I had trapped before. I found out that most angels didn't kill demons, just punished them and freed them again. So I decided to take matters in my own hands. Started hunting." He shrugged.

"You're a good hunter," Hope said, sounding like he genuinely meant the praise. "But you don't intend to kill me tonight. You intend to trap me."

Greg was happy he spent years as a cop. His interrogation face gave nothing away.

"I want to know why," Hope murmured, leaning back in his chair. "I want to know what changed the pattern."

"I was hired to do a specific job," Greg said, affecting a careless tone. "I didn't ask for too many details. I just have to trap you."

"You don't have too many supplies on you," Hope continued thoughtfully. "I know you have those bloody handcuffs the demonologists hand out like party favors. I know you've got holy water. But I also know that you have nothing on you that could keep me down long enough for you to get the cuffs on me. I snapped you up too quickly."

"That you did," Greg conceded. "My contact said that he had something for me, but he didn't get the chance to hand it over. I'll freely admit that I'm not quite ready to face you. But," Greg pressed his palms flat on the table. "I think we've talked for long enough. Let's play your game."

"Eager are we?" Hope rummaged through his pockets for a moment before pulling out two glass bottles, each containing a single white pill. "These are the game pieces."

… …

John got in the cab. His pocket buzzed as soon as he sat.

There was another text from the unknown number, containing only an address. John read it back to the cabbie and tried to relax in his seat.

He was going to murder Sherlock.

He didn't know how he was going to do that, as angels are a little bit immortal, but he was going to figure something out and then he was going to kill him.

… …

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," Hope explained. "You choose one."

"That's a fifty-fifty chance," Greg protested. "How have you murdered so many people on chance?"

Hope looked disappointed. "It's not chance, it's chess. I'm a demon, I know how people think. I know your hidden vices and your hidden desires. I know the things you pray for and the things you fear. I know how every little thought in your head connects and I know exactly what. Makes. You. Tick." He punctuated each word with a tap on one of the glass bottles.

Greg crossed his arms over his chess and absorbed that for a moment. "No…no that's still chance."

"Chess," Hope repeated insistently. "And here is my move."

He slid one of the glass bottles in front of Greg. "Did I just give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle?"

"You are aware that I've seen the Princess Bride, yeah?" Greg looked at the bottle disdainfully. "I know not to go up against a Sicilian when death is one the line and all shit. Both of those pills are poison."

"No—no they aren't." Hope sounded genuinely exasperated. "What is with everyone and that movie? I mean, almost every single person I've played with has tried to pull that." He leaned forward. "I take the pill that you don't take. We both have to take our medicine."

"No, yeah. I've still seen the movie. Either you've got an immunity or you're just holding off the effects. You're a demon! You can't get poisoned."

"Look, either you play my game and have a fifty-fifty chance of survival, or I shoot you in the head."

"Ha! You said chance! I told you it wasn't chess."

Hope slammed his hand down against the table. "Just take the bloody pill!"

… …

Two buildings. Of course there were two bloody buildings. John looked frantically between each one for a moment before giving up and picking on at random. It was a fifty-fifty chance, and he hoped that luck was on his side.

… …

"That's not even a real gun," Greg protested, hoping that if he delayed long enough Sherlock would figure something out. "That's a lighter. I used to be a police officer, I know what a real gun looks like."

Hope looked so ready just to break Greg's neck and move on. "Look, either I'm going to kill you and you have no chance of survival, or you play my game and hope to win." He pushed the bottle even closer to Greg. "Choose. You have thirty seconds."

Have faith, Greg reminded himself. Sherlock will figure something out. If not, I'll follow him around in Heaven and try to drive him mad for the rest of eternity.

He unscrewed the cap with steady hands and dumped the pill into his palm.

"Interesting choice," Hope said, sounding pleased. He unscrewed his own bottle. "Well, bottoms up."

… …

John pulled out the pistol, happy he had loaded it with the single bullet before he left. He had exactly one shot with which to pull this off.

He just wished he had picked the right fucking building.

He watched the scene play out, looking for a clear shot. He took a deep breath, aimed the gun, and fired.

… …

A gunshot sounded close by and suddenly Hope wasn't standing in front of him. He was knocked back on the ground, clutching his shoulder and whining in pain.

Greg reacted quickly and pulled his special handcuffs out of his coat pocket. He leaned over Hope and got him restrained.

The he wondered how the hell a bullet wound actually hurt a demon.

Greg had heard of Blessed Bullets, but…

Also, where did that shot come from?

Greg went to the window, saw the bullet hole, and saw the open window from the next building over. That was nearly an impossible shot. He smiled. This had Sherlock written all over it. He pulled out his phone.

Got him. Thanks for the divine intervention. –Lestrade

Don't thank me. Thank John. –SH

Greg blinked, wondering what that meant. Had John…? Greg shook his head. No, couldn't be. The man dressed like a teddy bear.

… …

John ran to the street and took several deep breaths. It had been a long time since he fired a gun, and the relief of making the shot nearly brought him to his knees.

He felt like he was about to have a heart attack, while simultaneously feeling more alive than he had in ages.

This was what happened every bloody time he worked with Sherlock.

The bastard better not have been lying about that place in Heaven. At this rate, John was going to need it.