(A/N: In this story, I've made up the demons and researched the deities, so you might recognize some of the names mentioned. Also, I know fuck all about exorcisms, so that's entirely made up. Sorry.)

"Greg's right behind me," John announced, throwing the door of their commandeered chapel open. "Molly, tell me that you got blessed by the priest."

"I got blessed by the priest," she said, putting on a pair of leather gloves and tying her hair back. John nodded in approval.

"Sherlock, get out of my way for now. Remind me to punch you in the face later. I've told you time and time again that I'm not a hunter. Do not put me in that position again."

"I never meant any harm," Sherlock said sincerely. John ignored him.

John shed his jacket and tossed it to the side, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. He dragged an old wooden chair to the center of the small room and brought his supplies closer.

"Molly, I need to know what religion we're dealing with."

"Uh…" Molly looked nervous. "Pagan. Of the mostly Celtic and Gaul persuasion."

John froze and rolled his eyes. "Of course we bloody are. Sherlock, dig through my bag. Try to find my cold iron. The belladonna wouldn't hurt either. Do you know what you're going to do with him once you've got him? He's almost as far out of your jurisdiction as you can get."

"Pagans and Christians have more in common than most would think," Sherlock assured John. "Don't worry, I'll have a strong enough hold on him. If not, I'll ask an old friend for help."

"Which old friend?" John asked flatly.

Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Esus."

"No," John refused. "Nope. Not that one."

"He's not as bad as you think," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "And he's owes me. I've scratched his back-"

"Well, disinfect yourself and forget it," John ordered. "Esus will not be making an appearance in my chapel."

"Don't be so closed minded, John," Sherlock scoffed.

John crossed his arms. "Bring in Dagda or Epona or even bloody Cernunnos for fuck's sake, but don't bring Esus into this."

"Just because his temples occasionally practiced human sacrifice doesn't mean he's a bad deity himself. We may need him."

Sherlock wasn't budging.

John refused to give in. "We aren't stringing anyone up for his sake, end of discussion. Did you find my cold iron?"

Sherlock tossed John the manacles just as Greg threw open the chapel door. Hope was half draped over Greg as he brought him in.

"Set him in the chair," John ordered, moving to help Greg. "Then get out of here and get blessed by the priest before you get anywhere near this chapel again."

"No worries, I'm out," Greg said. "I've had my fill for the day. I need to get some sleep."

"I envy you," John grumbled, thinking longingly of the bed he was pulled out of after only a few hours of sleep. "I've gotten nine hours of sleep in the past three days."

"Good luck mate," Greg said, sounding like he most definitely did not envy John in return. "Oh," Greg paused for a second. "Hope said his vessel was dying. I don't know how much faith we can put into the word of a demon, though."

John groaned. "Molly, see if you can have some paramedics on standby."

"No need," Sherlock assured him, his wings sliding into existence for a moment. "My brother Mycroft is watching. He'll make sure the vessel is either saved or ferried to heaven."

"Good," John sighed.

"Call me if you need me," Greg said as he departed. "Please don't need me."

John took a breath and got moving again. "Right, Hope will wake up any second. I need some sage. I'm totally unprepared for dealing with pagans."

"You can do it though, right?" Molly asked, sounding nervous as she fished through her bag. "I've got some sage incense here. My flat's haunted," she said, by way of explanation. "I have to purify it regularly, ever since the Reveal woke the spirits up."

John pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the sage when Molly handed it to him. "I can do the exorcism, in theory," he answered her, after a moment. "I've practiced it, but I've never done it for real. I know who to invoke—NOT ESUS—and what to use. A crucifix is useless against this guy. Salt with sting like a son of a bitch. Holy water won't purify, but sage will."

"If you need any help-" Sherlock started.

"Not Esus," John interrupted. "Couldn't you have befriended any of the nice Gaul deities?"

"They don't like me."

"No one does," John muttered, tensing up as Hope began to stir. "Alright. Places people, it's show time."

… …

Sherlock was beginning to give Mycroft an enormous headache.

He was a nuisance to watch during the best of times, but whenever he decided to gallivant about Earth with all of his little friends, he made Mycroft's job more difficult than it was worth.

Though if Sherlock was the price that Mycroft had to pay for leniency in his crimes, it was a price worth paying. After all, there was something oddly…lovable about Sherlock, once you broke through all of the prickly, abrasive behavior and general dislike for sentient creatures as a whole. And he was definitely the most interesting brother to be assigned to.

But still, Mycroft had a headache.

He delegated some of his other duties and settled back into his seat.

He was going to have to keep a close eye on this one.

… …

"Sherlock," John asked, eyeing the stirring demon with a fair amount of trepidation. "Which of the Celtic gods is your equivalent?"

"I've already told you that I've worked with-"

"NO ESUS. C'mon, Sherlock is a Celtic name. If humanity named you there, you've got to have an equivalent. And no evil human sacrifice god."

John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. "As if good and evil were so black and white. Fine, my counterpart is Brighid."

"Counterpart?" Molly asked.

John answered quickly. "Archangels have their specialties. Were the Christians inclined to believe in more than one God, the archangels would be their demigods. For example, Saint Michael the Archangel is the number one warrior guy, his counterpart might be Aries. Gabriel the Archangel is the trumpeter of the Lord, he often acts as a messenger, his counterpart would be Hermes. Sherlock, in addition to being the patron saint of enormous dickheads, is the archangel of knowledge, and strangely, addiction."

"Drug addiction, specifically," Sherlock supplied cheerfully. "And you're wrong. Raphael is the archangel of knowledge. We don't get along very well."

"Ah yes, I apologize," John, heavily sarcastic. "Sherlock is the archangel of observation and deduction. So when I say counterpart, I mean whichever deity represents the most similar things. You said—what did you say?"

"Brighid."

"Something I can pronounce, please."

"Brigit. Called Caridwen first."

"Thank you. Anyone else?"

Sherlock smirked. "The closest thing to a god of vice is Cernunnos."

John threw his hands up. "Yes, great. Let's bring the half-stag sex god into all of this. If this hell spawn here doesn't have any good information, I'm going to punch you in the face, Sherlock. Twice."

"Dissention in the ranks?" a rough voice asked.

John turned back and faced a conscious and irritated Hope.

"Not yet, but give it time," John said earnestly. "I've only had to deal with him for a day."

"I know you, Sherlock," Hope said, looking through John and to the impassive archangel. "You come from my world."

"Not really," Sherlock said, wrinkling up his nose. "Definitely under the authority of the one God and all that. And It doesn't appreciate you laying a claim on It's things."

"Ah, but you know there are so many gods out there," Hope said, dreamily. "We have a mutual friend in Esus."

"Fucking told you," John muttered.

Sherlock ignored John. "I was born during that chaos in Gaul and on these isles. I am not from them."

"An angel is born when needed," Hope corrected. "And these people, our same people, needed you to guide them. You were born for then. You were born from this chaos and for this warzone. You and I…we aren't all that different. We both get inside people's heads. We both know how they think."

Sherlock just flicked his head towards John, telling him to get on with it.

"Let's get you into something a little less comfortable," John said kindly, locking the cold iron manacles around Hope's wrists before unlocking the special demon-proof handcuffs. Hope sagged under the weight, crumpling slightly as the iron affected him.

"Sher-lock," Hope sounded out. "Sher-lock. Sherlock. Means fair haired, you know."

"I'm well aware," Sherlock said dryly.

"Change it up? Get yourself some L'Oreal? Did you decide that you were worth it?" Hope cackled. "Or did you just change? How did the golden haired angel, bringing self-awareness to the people and guiding them out of the darkness of ignorance, end up chasing around old, washed up demons like myself? What happened to you, Saint Sherlock?"

"I'm not a saint," was all Sherlock said, before turning away. "Begin, John. We don't need to draw this out."

John went to his bag, opened up a bottle of normal water, took a sip, and began. He wafted the still-burning sage through the air (which had been temporarily set aside to smoke on the ground) and started to speak.

"I ask for Danu, the Great Mother, to bless this place. I asked that she smile upon our efforts to rid this evil from her blessed Earth."

"Fancy," Hope said scornfully, blowing a cloud of incense out of his face. "I hope you don't think that will make much of a difference. I'm not a particularly religious man."

"I ask that Dagda, the father, protect us in this battle. I ask that he smite down this foe, and restore life to one who has had it stolen from him."

"Sure, Dagda will help," Hope laughed. "If you can get him to stop fucking around long enough to do it."

John grit his teeth and ignored the demon. If the fiend was being snippy, then John was on the right track. "I ask that Brigit, called Caridwen on these isles, wisest of bards, give my voice the strength I need to perform this task, and cast this creature of darkness from this child of man."

Hope just rolled his eyes.

John took another deep breath. "In the name of Sherlock, in service of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I ask assistance from Brigit, goddess of learning, and Cernunnos, god of vitality and revelry, to assist your brother in this task."

"The pagan gods don't take kindly to the Christians," Hope warned. "They're still a bit bitter about the whole persecution thing."

"Brigit was adopted into the Christian religion!" Molly called out from the end of the chapel, where she was taking notes. "So she shouldn't be too upset."

"Saint Bridget," John addressed, "worshipped first under Caridwen, thousands of years ago, then as Brighid," John really hoped he didn't trip that pronunciation, "in service of Danu, and now as Saint Bridget, in service of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"Deities don't really mind adoption," Sherlock added, smiling at something the rest of them couldn't see. "Cernunnos isn't feeling it today, but good old girl Brighid has come out to play."

John felt the small rush of power, similar to stepping under a spray of hot water, wash over his body. Sherlock was right. Brigit had joined the party.

Hope finally looked nervous.

"I am John," John announced to the deity present. "Named from the Bible, from the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But I am John, in the service of All. And I beg your assistance in purging this evil."

"I know," Sherlock addressed to no one visible. "We should have invited Esus. But John makes the rules, it's his exorcism, after all."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John called. The sage burned out and he tossed it at Hope's feet. The demon was beginning to struggle against the cold iron. It was working.

"The power of Brigit binds you here," John commanded.

Hope slammed against the chair, rooted in place.

"And the power of Danu shall cleanse your darkness from her blessed Earth. You are not welcome in that host. You will be forced from it. You can leave now, if you wish."

"Danu isn't here," Hope pointed out. "The domain of the Great Mother has been ripped to pieces. She has no power anymore."

"I'll take that as a no," John said softly. "The power of Brigit as Caridwen, the power of the bard, rips your voice from your throat."

Hope let out a gasp and a strangled sound, unable to speak.

"You shall not speak," John continued, struggling to remain standing tall. "You shall not fight. And for now, you shall sleep."

There was another rush of power and Hope slumped forward in the chair.

There was a moment of silence before Molly spoke. "Is it over?"

John laughed. "That was the preparation. If an exorcism was a five hundred page book, that was the three page prologue. We aren't even close to being done."

John sat heavily on the ground and started guzzling his water.

"What makes it so tiring?" Molly asked.

"Willpower," John responded. "For every word that leaves my mouth, Hope is trying to use demonic influence to shut me up. Every sentence is a battle of wills. The higher the priority a demon, the stronger their influence is. I'm not usually this out of breath after binding the demon. He's going to be a very tough one."

"At least Brighid is here," Sherlock pointed out cheerfully. "That will help."

"She cut a lot of the bullshit," John admitted. When Molly gave him a confused look, he elaborated. "When any of the summoned deities fail to provide any power or assistance, I have to resort to incantations to achieve the same effect. Had Brigit not bothered, I'd still be at it."

Molly shifted. "Let's hope she stays around."

"Once she responds, she's as bound as Hope is," John assured her. "It's why deities often declined. An inexperienced exorcist can get them trapped in a limbo for weeks or years or even centuries, until someone frees them. Brigit's putting some faith in Sherlock, that he won't misrepresent her."

"Or no, she doesn't care about me," Sherlock said dismissively. "She's putting all of her faith in you. I wouldn't mess it up quite yet. It wouldn't do to have the pagans angry with you."

… …

Seventeen hours later, Sherlock took over for John.

Sherlock, as he explained to Molly—yet again—couldn't perform the exorcism himself. He could, however, anchor the demon here. Keep a lid on the situation, so to speak. John needed to sleep for at least three hours before he would be able to continue.

He hadn't wanted to stop, but Sherlock had forced him when he'd nearly lost to Hope.

Molly was nursing her third cup of coffee and watching Sherlock stand vigil over the demon, who appeared to be sleeping. Sherlock knew he was just playing possum, though. He was waiting for one of them to do something.

"So, what is it really, with you and John?" Molly finally asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Not the time, Molly."

"Because you don't act like friends," she continued. "Or even brothers. And not like any flatmates I know. Or at least, not the ones who weren't dating."

"I'm not sleeping with a mortal," he assured her. "If that's what you're even implying. I'm not sure he would survive it."

Molly blushed crimson. "I'm sorry! Not what I was implying!" She frowned. "Wouldn't that be sinful anyway?"

"You seem to be under the impression that I do not sin," Sherlock said wryly. "And yes, technically premarital sex is a sin. Some louder people in this religion might say homosexuality is as well. But love who you want, fuck who you want, in my opinion. Life is short, you are transient and impermanent. Live this life the way you feel you are meant to. Otherwise, I don't have a viewpoint. It doesn't concern me. I'm an angel. I don't feel that way."

"But the Fallen…"

"The Fallen have the flesh of man," Sherlock sighed. "They have the desires of the flesh. They must eat. They must sleep. And yes, they fuck a bit. Their offspring are a bit of a headache for those of us still in Heaven. But I still have my wings. I don't have real flesh. You can feel me, I'm corporeal, but the only desire I feel is mental. I desire to complete my task. I desire to fix problems. I desire to serve It to the best of my abilities. That is all."

"But John is your friend," she continued.

"You seem stuck on the notion," he pointed out.

"It's just…"

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, and then regarded Hope, who was definitely listening.

"His soul is a young one," he said. "Compared to a lot of souls in the universe. All the religions share the pool of available souls, did you know that?"

Molly shook her head.

"Every religion," he continued. "In the universe, not just this tiny planet. Every soul for every life on every world.'

"There are other worlds out there?" she asked, eyes wide.

"It would be selfish to think that you are so special," Sherlock said, rather coldly. "Divine energy is constant in the universe. It manifests differently in every world, sometimes in multiple ways. Earth is a divided place. Humans needed so much guidance, so much more than other planets, and so many gods and goddesses and other beings of power were born as needed. Souls are too. John's soul is a newborn, compared to the creation of most beings. Yours is even younger."

Molly absorbed this information. She furrowed her brow. "How does the age of John's soul relate to your relationship with him?"

Sherlock grinned. "We were born on the same day. His soul and mine. We were different kinds of souls, of course, but we were both born into the same conflict. Every angel starts out as a guardian and John's soul was my first assignment. We've always been drawn together, in his subsequent lives."

"I see," Molly said, sounding satisfied. She smiled. "So, you're soul mates?"

"That is most certainly not what I just explained to you."

"It is," she said, sounding giddy. "That's absolutely adorable."

Sherlock officially gave up. "You know what, Molly? It's none of your business. Now, tell me. Do you think that Hope has nearly been exorcised?"

Molly glanced down at her notes, biting her lip. Eventually, she shook her head. "No, I don't think that we've made much progress at all, actually," she said, sounding disappointed. "We've still got ourselves a very long way to go.

"That's most certainly true," Sherlock said in approval. "Let's hope that John is managing to get some sleep."