(A/N: This story will not be updating for a few weeks. I'm going on hiatus while I start my freshman year of college. I'll be too busy to write. I shouldn't be gone more than two or three weeks. You can check my tumblr-link at the bottom-in the meantime for any updates or information about when I'll be back.)

The sleep was blissful. Now that the more pressing needs had been met, John's body was ready to power down until it caught up on nearly a week of over exhaustion. He knew that he had pushed too hard. He used to be a doctor, after all, and he recognized where the human body set its limits. But now there was nothing to worry about. He could simply sleep and rest, build his strength back up until he was needed once more.

He slept peacefully, free of worry. He didn't know the chaos of the hunt had already begun again.

… …

"Can you pinpoint the location of the demon?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer to the question. He really wasn't sure why he bothered to ask.

"Of course," Irene responded. "Would you like me to write down the directions?"

"Give them to Lestrade," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Are we hunting it down now?" Lestrade asked, shutting his book and getting to his feet.

"We might as well prepare," Sherlock huffed. "But John won't be able to do anything with it for another day at least. God, you pathetic little mortals and your needs."

"Thanks," Lestrade sighed, "for that. I'll do some basic reconnaissance. Don't lose your trace on the demon."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Irene hissed, rubbing her temples.

"Do you know what sort of demon it is?" Molly asked. She was already digging through her piles of books, trying to determine what would be the most helpful.

"Not yet," Irene muttered. She opened her eyes, fumbled around for a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbled an address down for Lestrade. "Somewhere around here. It's associated with crime. I'm not sure what kind yet."

"I can help with that," Sherlock assured Lestrade. "I'll ask Mycroft if he's seen anything unusual in that area."

Sherlock released his wings and left.

… …

Mycroft could see everything and nothing.

That was his curse.

He had decided to play it safe during that very first war. He stood against the archangels when it became clear that they were keeping things from their lower kin. But he did so quietly. A sympathizer in the shadows, trying to keep his reputation clean and his name free of any implication with the rebellion.

When the rebels lost, when they were stripped of the wings and they Fell, Mycroft tried to resume his place in Heaven like nothing had happened. He tried to pretend that he hadn't been playing for both sides all along. He believed he had gotten away with it, that his older brothers had not noticed his duplicity.

How very foolish he was.

Mycroft, and all others like him, who tried to crawl back to Grace, were bound to Earth and blinded as punishment. He had kept his wings, but they were clipped, so to speak. He was still powerful, still strong, but he would never be allowed back into Heaven again.

And even if, someday, he was, he would never gaze upon its beauty.

He wondered what was crueler: the clean break given to the Fallen, or the tantalizing promise of forgiveness daily ripped away for the Watchers. It might be a draw.

Mycroft was blind.

But still he Watched.

He watched over everything he could, keeping order, never putting a toe out of line, doing his duty and keeping his head down.

All for the distant, unobtainable hope of forgiveness.

No, he reflected, his punishment was definitely worse.

There were some things he didn't mind, he had to admit. His opinion was still taken seriously by the archangels. If nothing else good had come from that bloody war, he had at least proved to his older brothers that he was very intelligent and resourceful.

So when, several hundred years ago, his assigned civilization was in need of more guidance, the archangels took his request for a new guardian seriously. Not long after, It gave birth to beautiful creature with hair like spun gold and eyes like silver.

Mycroft named his younger brother Sherlock, and was assigned to care for him.

Sherlock was kind hearted, gentle. Mycroft made sure that he used his intelligence and his power to his advantage, to notice every detail and draw the proper conclusions. Sherlock, in turn, helped his people with that awareness. It was still a struggle, as their religion slowly seeped into a land where it was not necessarily wanted, but Sherlock and Mycroft helped them become a great civilization.

But somewhere along the line, Sherlock changed.

His wings were tainted until they matched his eyes, his hair turned black. His smile became empty and forced. He cut himself off from the emotions angels could feel when they were on Earth, and kept himself in the same state of unfeeling Grace for hundreds of years.

Of course, Mycroft had not literally seen this. He had felt it. And he didn't know what had happened.

That terrified him, the not knowing. Mycroft saw everything and nothing, the fact that something happened outside of his knowledge terrified him.

But he managed.

He stayed there with Sherlock during the darkest of times, receiving neither thanks from Sherlock nor praise from the archangels.

But that was alright.

Mycroft did it out of love.

Love?

Did he really just say love?

Good Lord, Mycroft had been on Earth for too long. He'd never get his Grace back if that human notion of love kept getting in the way.

… …

Sherlock hated asking Mycroft for favors, but he did it anyway.

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock greeted, materializing in Mycroft's office. "I need to ask you something."

"You're looking for that Priority One in the smuggling ring," Mycroft said, knowing already. He lifted his head, his blank, colorless eyes. "That Lestrade fellow of yours won't know where to start on his own. Mortal law enforcement can't even track down the human operatives. You'll need divine intervention to find Shan."

"Well, Lestrade is good at what he does," Sherlock argued, feeling absurdly possessive of his mortal. "He manages fine."

"He found the cabbie on accident," Mycroft pointed out. "You can hardly expect him to unravel an entire criminal organization alone. You'll need to help him."

"I intended to," Sherlock sniffed. "Really, Mycroft. You act like I can't do anything for myself."

"You sure seem to behave like you can't, little brother," Mycroft said with an empty smile. "You can identify a demon on sight, yet you drag in a timid demonologist to work hours in order to accomplish what you can do in a fraction of a second. You draft a succubus to focus on energies you can trace in your sleep. You enlist a hunter who takes three times as long to do the same job as you. The only person on your team that makes any sense if that exorcist of yours, and he's the one that started this problem in the first place."

"What problem? What are you talking about, Mycroft?"

"You, brother, will Fall unless you keep those emotions in check. Affection, friendship, loneliness, God forbid, will drag you down. Take it from someone who knows."

"I'm not growing attached, Mycroft," Sherlock protested, furious. "I simply find it more efficient to work in a team."

Mycroft stared blankly at Sherlock for a long time before letting out a long breath of air. "You're looking for the Black Lotus gang. Their leader has been possessed by Shan, a demon of Chinese origins that evidently didn't want to move too far away from its roots. She's a nasty one, be careful. You'll be able to connect her to an international smuggling ring and two murders that occurred over the last few days. Be careful, Sherlock. She has a frightening ability to find someone's weakness and exploit it."

"I'll be alright, Mycroft," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I'm an archangel, remember? I don't have a weakness."

… …

Greg was trying to get a feel for the area where the address was located. He found himself staring up at a Chinese souvenir shop, wondering how his life managed to get to this point.

A guardian angel passed him on the street, an older black man who stopped to stand next to him. His wings weren't out, but he was emitting the same warm, if slightly disconcerting, energy unique to angels.

"Hello," Greg greeted politely, learning from experience that it was always a good idea to start by being respectful to the angels. You could be a dick to them later, once they've pretty much made the decision not to smite you, but before then it was safer to err on the side of courteous.

"Hello," the angel said, looking up at the shop. "About time someone decided to take care of Shan," he said, frowning at the merchandise in the windows.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're working with Sherlock, right?" he asked, meeting Greg's eyes for the first time. "The Guardians have been on high alert for his little team. The demons went batshit insane when they realized that the most powerful were being taken down quickly. And the Protectors set up a perimeter around the city. No more demons are getting in or out."

"I—oh," Greg stuttered. "I didn't realize. That so many angels were, um, involved in this."

The angel raised an eyebrow at him. "You're kidding me, right? This is Moriarty we're talking about. There's not an angel in Heaven that isn't desperate to get him back under lock and key. I just hope that Michael knew what he was doing, sending Sherlock."

Greg was still a little overwhelmed by the conversation, but he kept up the best that he could. "Why? Don't you think he can do it?"

The angel looked uncomfortable. "Sherlock's a brilliant angel. He's an archangel, after all, and he wasn't born one. He earned his standing. His issues with Moriarty run deep, though and he's been…off lately."

"Meaning?"

The angel waved it off. "It's probably just his rebellious teenage phase. If he were human, he'd be dying his hair black, getting piercings, sneaking off to light up with unsuitable friends. He's only a few centuries old, it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Greg snorted, all too easily capable of imagining Sherlock as a surly, combative teenager. "So this Shan…that's the Priority One possession?"

"Yep," the angel said. "We sent a request in to the Archangels almost a week ago, when two mortals were killed because of her. I guess they've been too busy with Moriarty to deal with her, but I'm glad Sherlock's sent you along to help deal with it."

"Yeah, Sherlock wants to interrogate the possessions," Greg explained. "I'm just meant to bring them it, but it will be John that really handles it."

The angel nodded. "John Watson. Good man, good exorcist. I've met him before, in one of his past lives. Sherlock always manages to find him, no matter the incarnation. And you don't work in London long without having to deal with Sherlock at some point, so it was sort of inevitable that we cross in at least one life."

Greg didn't really know what to make of that.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," the angel said after a second. "Thanks again for what you do for this city. We are extremely grateful for your help."

"Er, it's no problem," Greg said, flushing slightly. It was always nice to be appreciated.

"Oh," the angel said, right after he released his snowy white wings. "I don't know if it will help at all, but you might want to check out the circus tomorrow night. I've heard Shan hangs around."

… …

Irene refused to leave the flat.

There was a bad stirring in the demon community. Word of Hope's exorcism had gotten around, and somehow Irene's fellow hell spawn figured out that Shan was next.

And the Goddamn angels set a bloody perimeter around London. That was as subtle as a gunshot. Irene didn't know what they were thinking. Of course the demons would be on edge. They always are when they're cornered.

She knew that they should have been more subtle about this. She told Sherlock. Moriarty wasn't someone you could flush out. He always knew when you were looking for him.

And he always made sure to find you first.

… …

Someone is doing your job for you. –Lestrade

What do you mean? SH

I mean that I made a new angel friend. –Lestrade

He told me where to find Shan. –Lestrade

He was, over all, much more agreeable than you ever are. –Lestrade

I don't aim to be agreeable. SH

I aim to get my job done. SH

Which I have been doing. SH

I can connect Shan to a gang, a smuggling ring, and two unsolved murders. SH

So there. SH

I know exactly where to find her. –Lestrade.

So there. –Lestrade

… …

"How do you feel about the circus?" Sherlock asked John an hour after he woke up, appearing in his flat in his usual ray of heavenly light.

"Go fuck yourself, Sherlock, Greg already called me." John turned right around with every intention of going back to sleep.

"Okay fine, I won't make you hunt the demon," Sherlock sighed.

John gave him a weird look. "I will never understand your obsession with trying to make me hunt."

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable. "So…have you been preparing for the exorcism?"

"Not yet," John sighed, turning to go to his kitchen instead. He was hungry again. "I don't know as much about Eastern religions. I know an expert in East Asian studies at the museum, though. I'm going to give her a call after I eat and then Molly and I are going to talk to her as soon as she gets the time. I know Greg is going to the circus tomorrow, so I'm preparing to do the exorcism at some point the day after." John was digging through his fridge, trying to find something that probably wouldn't kill him.

"Alright," Sherlock sighed. "I guess you don't need me, then."

"Are you pouting?"

"No."

"You're pouting."

"I'm really not."

"Can angels even pout?"

"I'm not pouting, John!"

"Right."

… …

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a headache.

He tried not to watch Sherlock's private interactions. He wanted to give his younger brother some sort of illusion of privacy when he was on Earth. Why? He didn't know. It was plainly a bad idea. Giving his brother the idea that he can have a personal life just feeds into the corrupting notion that Sherlock has humanity.

Which he doesn't.

Or, well, he shouldn't.

Not if he wanted to stay immortal.

Not unless he wanted to Fall.

Sherlock was heading down a dangerous path. He was running out of time to turn around, he was running out of time for mistakes and regrets.

It was just a simple interaction.

Just bickering between friends.

But Mycroft could see it for what it really was, or, at least, what it was becoming.

Sherlock was falling in love with John Watson.

And there was no doubt in Mycroft's mind that Sherlock would be destroyed by it.

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