Sherlock let John take a couple of days off after the exorcism before calling another meeting.

As soon as everyone was seated around the kitchen table at Baker Street (minus Irene, who was lounging against the counter) Sherlock dropped a stack of papers and news clippings in the center.

"What are these?" Lestrade asked, immediately digging through them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Moriarty's activities, of course. These are the crimes that Mycroft and I have been able to isolate. Now that we know he's active, it's been laughably easy to pick out anything that has his signature to it."

"What do you mean?"

"The bizarre, the unexplainable," Sherlock said. "The crimes that are almost too perfect."

"Sherlock, this one is from twenty years ago," John said, pulling up a newspaper clipping about a boy named Carl Powers.

"That crime was committed by Moriarty's cult," Sherlock explained. "They went underground for a couple of decades after he was captured. This was the first major crime committed after resurfacing. The boy was the son of an exorcist. Of course, before the Reveal no one took the man seriously, but he posed a legitimate threat to the mostly hidden demon community."

"I remember him," Irene said, wrinkling her nose. "Christopher Powers. He was tearing the London nest to pieces. I had to live on the continent until his son was taken care of and the man got the message."

"Alright," John said, putting the article aside. "But what about these?"

"The disappearance of Ian Monkford," Sherlock said, tapping another article. "A rental car was found abandoned, Monkford's blood all over the interior."

"And that's Moriarty?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"It was exactly one pint of blood," Sherlock explained. "It wasn't a real disappearance, it was staged. I did a little research. Monkford's father was a member of a secret demonic cult. Three guesses as to who they worshiped."

"So when Monkford wanted to disappear, he, what, called in a favor?" Lestrade said, skimming the article.

"Precisely," Sherlock said, sounding pleased. "We have Janus Cars to thank for handling all the details. And here, Connie Prince."

"Oh, I heard about this," Molly said, speaking up for the first time. "Some girls in the library were talking about it. She was that make over artist. I thought she died from tetanus?"

"You were trained as a pathologist. How can you tell if a wound was made post mortem?" Sherlock prompted.

"Oh, a couple of things," Molly said, thinking back. "How clean the wound is, if there's any bruising, if the cut bled at all…"

"Good," Sherlock said, nodding. "Mycroft sent a minion to take a peek at any corpses in the morgue. Connie Prince was murdered, the cut that the tetanus supposedly entered through was made after she died. The housekeeper, Raoul de Santos did it, slowly poisoning her with botox treatments."

"Good Lord," Lestrade muttered. He pulled out an article at random. "This one?"

"Alex Woodbridge, a security guard at an art museum and an amateur astronomer, murdered after discovering that the 'lost Vermeer' was forged. He was killed by the Golem, one of Moriarty's favorite pet killers."

"You've gone to the police to make sure that responsible parties are arrested, right?" Lestrade asked.

"No, that's your job," Sherlock said dismissively. "And here, Andrew West."

"Another murder, then?" Molly asked.

"Made to look like he jumped in front of the tracks. His soon to be brother-in-law accidently murdered him after being hired to steal some top secret missile plans from West. He was hired by the Cult of the Spider, which is, of course-"

"Moriarty's cult," John finished. "I see."

Lestrade gathered the papers. "I suppose I'm off to Scotland Yard, today."

"What's your plan, darling?" Irene asked, peeling herself away from the counter. "It's nice that you've tracked his activities, but do you know where he is? Do you know who he has possessed?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly. "Do you? I'm not hiring you to sit around look pretty. Where are the Priority One's I've asked you to trace?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "I'm doing the best that I can, Sherlock. Demons aren't stupid. We've noticed that someone is taking out our leaders. Every single one of them has thrown up their shields. They aren't trusting anyone. They aren't letting even their fellows get close to them. The perimeter that the angels set around the city has them terrified. I can't get anything from them like this."

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff of air. "Fine, but keep looking. There's only a few Priory One's left in the city. He's got to be there somewhere. Hiding in plain sight, knowing him."

Everyone got up, heading off to the tasks they had become familiar with. Sherlock to God knows where, Greg to Scotland Yard, Molly to the library, and John to speak to an angelologist.

Only Irene stayed behind, guarding Baker Street and looking for the psychopath in question.

… …

In retrospect, they probably should have seen it coming.

After all, they had not, in any way, been subtle.

And no one listens to Irene, do they?

It was their own damn fault, she mused, watching the fire men flail about, trying to figure out if there was going to be another explosion.

Gas leak, they said.

Fucking idiots.

Sherlock materialized beside her and Irene managed to resist the impulse to gloat. Instead, she simply said, "So Baker Street blew up a little bit."

Sherlock frowned at the tiny chaos in the street before them.

"I don't think I even need to make any suggestions about who's behind this," Irene said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Moriarty is sending us a little warning."

"Perhaps we should keep our heads down for a little while?" Irene suggested. "I certainly would like to fall off the grid until this all calms down."

"That's not an option," Sherlock scolded. "The longer we wait, the more people that will die. He needs to be brought to justice."

"Well, your friends are mortal," Irene reminded him gently. "John is mortal. They could have gotten hurt. There's still a chance that they could get hurt. You're bringing them into something they don't need to be a part of."

"I trust them," Sherlock said shortly, ending the conversation. "And they are safe for now. You act as though I haven't had Guardians assigned to them since we started."

"I havent' seen them," Irene said, surprised with that information.

Sherlock shrugged. "They've been discreet."

"Mycroft then," Irene sighed. "Has he talked to you about this, Sherlock? You're…well, you're changing, to be honest."

"I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, irritably. "I'm under control. And I would appreciate it if everyone kept their opinions to themselves."

"Darling, if we kept our opinions to ourselves, you would have Fallen decades ago. It would do you good to listen to us now." Sherlock didn't respond and Irene gave it up as a lost cause. She turned and walked down the street in search of a meal, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

They were going to fall apart if he didn't get his act together. At first it had been funny, watching the untouchable Sherlock Fall.

Now it was just terrifying.

… …

"Thanks for meeting with me, Doctor Sawyer," John said, shaking the woman's hand. "I hope I won't take up too much of your time."

"Oh, call me Sarah," she said, sitting down and gesturing for John to do the same. "I'm an angelologist, not a surgeon. And thank you for contacting me. I've heard about Sherlock before, but I haven't had the…experience of meeting him. I think that it's amazing you work in such close quarters."

"Well, he likes to handle things directly," John explained. "A human acts as a liaison with the rest of the population. He's not great with social skills."

"And yet he seems to be getting a firmer grasp on emotions?" Sarah asked.

John nodded. "Yes, that was the reason for my…concern. In the past, angels that have embraced human emotion have been punished for it. I'm afraid that Sherlock has been out of Heaven for too long with this job. He's getting sentimental, attached. He's acting a little bit strangely at times, protecting me one moment and forcing a gun into my hand the next."

"Good Lord, a gun?"

"Well, you can see my cause for concern."

Sarah looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, we do have some records of angels Falling, however most of them exist in fictional format. I don't think that Milton's Paradise Lost can help us with this. There are some records made after the Reveal, and one of them details an angel that lost her Grace to drinking and seducing mortals. Does Sherlock seem like he's giving into the, er, more sinful bits of humanity?"

John thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No, not stuff like that. Not drugs or drinking or sex or anything of that nature. Just…feeling things. Good things, like affection and concern."

Sarah hummed, tapping a pen to the top of her lip. "I don't think that there's any precedent for this. Or, if there is, there just aren't any significant consequences to it. Maybe this happens now and then, but isn't necessarily a bad thing. He might not Fall at all."

John let out a breath, feeling a little bit relieved. "Thanks, it's just that I worry about that great idiot, you know?"

Sarah nodded, understanding. "Angels are…amazing creatures. It's hard not to get caught up in all their glory. I'm sure he appreciates that you worry about him, but so long as he doesn't give into temptation, it's alright that he feels it. I think he'll be fine, you'll just want to keep an eye on him."

"Don't worry," John promised. "I will."

… …

Sherlock found him.

Or, at least, he thought he did.

It wasn't difficult to find him, once he knew where to look. The pool where Carl Powers was killed had been abandoned years ago. Now it served as a meeting place for the Cult of the Spider. All Sherlock had to do was show up that evening, then this menace would finally be taken care of.

He didn't tell anyone where he was going.

Irene was right, they were mortal.

He had been foolish for endangering up until this point.

… …

Greg stepped into 221 B, ignoring the blown in windows and the noise from the street below. "Have you seen John? He's not answering his phone."

Molly looked up from her book. "No? He said he was going to visit an angelologist friend, but he should have been back by now."

Greg had a bad feeling about this. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

Molly shook her head. "No, he was mumbling to himself about an hour ago, then he just up and left the flat. I don't know where he was going."

"Have you seen Irene?"

"Earlier," Molly said, shrugging. "She told me that something was off and then left without an explanation. I'm trying not to think about it, to be honest."

There was a pause.

"Do you have the feeling that we're being left out of something important?" Greg asked at last.

"Yes," Molly sighed. "What else is new?"

… …

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Sherlock said, stepping out of the darkness of the swimming pool. "I know you're here, Moriarty. Moriarty." Sherlock drawled the name. "From the Latin mori¸ meaning: to die."

"That's how they gave me the name," said a terrifyingly familiar voice in a dull monotone.

Sherlock whirled around to see John step out of the shadows, looking tired and wearing a rather ridiculous parka.

"A long time ago, when I was first born from Hell, I would kill anyone who stood against me," John continued, his voice flat. "I still do."

"John…? What the hell?" Sherlock stood, utterly numb. Could it have been possible that this entire time John had been possessed? Had Moriarty really become that powerful, that Sherlock hadn't even been able to sense his presence in his only friend?

"Well, well, well, Sherlock," John said. "This is quite the turn up. I bet you never saw this coming."

Sherlock was frozen.

John pulled the front of the parka away, revealing a vest of Semtex strapped to his chest. "What would you like me to make him say next?"

Relief clashed with terror as Sherlock understood. John wasn't Moriarty, but he was still being used as a puppet.

"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer," John chanted, looking like he was ready to punch something—anything—that got within his reach.

"I'd rather speak to you in person, if you don't mind," Sherlock said, taking a few hesitant steps toward John.

The exorcist widened his eyes, trying to shake his head from side to side. Sherlock stared, uncomprehending, until fiery pain shot through his foot.

"What-?" Sherlock looked down and groaned. He had activated a Seraph Trap, circles of black magic drawn on the ground, designed to trap an angel in its confines.

"Well, well, well!" a voice sang from the other side of the room. Sherlock looked up and saw a dark haired man with a nice suit and a deranged smile emerge from the locker room. "It has been a while, hasn't it, Sherlock?"

The smile got impossibly wider as Moriarty's glamors dropped. His eyes when from brown to black, his skin went from pale to translucent.

"Jim Moriarty," he said cheerily, offering a little wave. "Hi!"

"Jim, now? It was James before."

"Adapting to the times, my old friend," Moriarty said with a wave of his hand. "James sounds like a stuffy old Uni professor. Jim sounds fun!"

Sherlock glanced at John, who was glaring at the Seraph Trap with a calculating gaze.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted after a moment of silence. "You have me trapped? What are you going to do with me now?"

"Oh, I don't know," Moriarty sang with uncontained glee. "I have so many plans for you, Sherlock. And we have all the time in the world."

"A circle outside then, to keep my brothers and sisters out of here?" Sherlock asked, wanting his suspicions confirmed. "No angels get in, no angels get out?"

"Bingo!" Moriarty cheered, looking very pleased with Sherlock. "I'm so glad that you've caught on to my little game. Although, I'm a bit disappointed in you that it took so long. I've been dropping you hints for a long time, waiting for you to catch up. I even stayed in London for you!"

"Yes, why?" Sherlock asked. "Why stay here? Why in my jurisdiction?"

"Well, that should be obvious, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his smile never wavering. "I wanted to see you again. We're made for each other. You're the light to my dark, the yin to my yang. Don't you realize everything we could accomplish together? We could be brilliant, you and I." Moriarty took a few steps closer, and John took the opportunity to act.

He threw himself down at the Seraph Trap and smeared the critical binding rune. The fire in Sherlock's legs abated. He was free.

"Run, Sherlock!" John screamed, but Sherlock merely stepped out of the trap.

"Oh, very nice Mr. Watson," Moriarty chuckled. "Or is it Captain Watson? Doctor Watson? You wear an awful lot of hats. However, I think you've rather shown your hand. Both of you."

A red dot appeared on John's chest as he slowly got to his feet. It was soon joined by several others.

Snipers.

Trained on John.

"Besides, weren't you listening?" Moriarty scolded. "There's a circle around this building. No angels in or out."

… …

"Why do you think they're here?" Molly asked Greg, looking at the abandoned pool with suspicion.

"Because Irene texted," Greg answered simply. "She said that a circle of demonic energy designed to trap angels was activated here."

"So what do we do?" Molly asked, clutching a bottle of holy water closely to her chest like a security blanket.

"We go hunting," Greg said with confidence he didn't feel. "Let's go."

They hadn't taken a single step forward when a man with an umbrella suddenly appeared in front of them.

"Jesus Christ!" Greg exclaimed, jumping back.

"No, I'm afraid not," the man—angel—said dryly. "He doesn't usually make house calls anymore. I am Mycroft. I'm-"

"The Watcher," Molly finished. "Sherlock's mentioned you."

Mycroft smiled, turning to her with milky white, unseeing eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. It's for Sherlock's sake that I'm appearing before you now." Mycroft used the umbrella as a cane, tapping out a path in front of him until he stood just before the chain link fence surrounding the pool. "There's a barrier here."

"Uh, the fence?" Greg suggested.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, not the—well, I mean, yes, I suppose the fence, but that's not what I'm talking about. There's a barrier of demonic energy around this building. Nothing of Heaven can pass it." Mycroft turned back to them. "But mortals can. We're going to need you to break it down from the inside."

"Right, well, we were going in anyway," Greg said. "How are we supposed to break it down?"

"Find the energy source and cut it off," Mycroft replied. "It's simple. You're likely looking for a group of acolytes chanting. Disrupting them will be enough to let us in."

"Right," Molly said, nodding fiercely. "Let's do this. Sherlock needs us."

"Do be careful," Mycroft said as he released his grey wings. "My little brother has grown rather fond of you."

… …

"I won't be joining you," Sherlock said, trying to think of a way to get John out of harm's way.

"I thought so," Moriarty sighed. "What if, in exchange for your immortal soul, I let your little pal Watson survive?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, just long enough for John to speak up in his place. "No deal, Moriarty."

"Not your choice," Moriarty said, his gaze never wavering from Sherlock. "And our dearest angel is very conflicted. Wow, Sherlock. Uncertainty? Sentiment? Dare I say, love? Those are some very…human emotions, aren't they?"

"No deal," Sherlock said, although it hurt his chest to say the words.

"Oh, no," Moriarty said, looking very disappointed. "Well, you asked for this, Sherlock."

… …

"If I were a chanting cult, where would I be?" Greg muttered, sneaking around the building with Molly at his side.

"Um, a basement?" Molly suggested.

"Works for me," Greg said with a shrug. "Let's find the basement."

They moved quickly and stayed low. Greg was familiar with the stance, but Molly looked like a confused turtle. Over all, they weren't the most intimidating pair.

They finally found a door to the basement. Greg picked the lock and they went down. Molly was right, there was a faint sound of chanting coming from deep within the basement.

He put a finger to his lips and Molly nodded. They moved as quietly as they could.

When they came upon the cult, Greg had to admit he was slightly disappointed. They weren't even in hoods. It was just a bunch of normal looking people, standing around a really creepy looking symbol on the ground and chanting a bunch of words in an unfamiliar language.

Greg took out a bottle of holy water made from delicate glass. He stood up, ran forward, and before anyone could react, shattered the bottle of holy water on the symbol.

There was a loud hissing sound and the room filled with dark smoke.

Then all the cult members turned to Greg with murder in their eyes.

He hadn't thought this part through.

… …

No sooner had Moriarty finished speaking when he froze, a furious look passing over his face. "Those idiots!" he hissed.

Sherlock felt an oppressive energy lift.

The circle had been broken.

"Love to stay and chat," Moriarty said quickly, clapping his hands together, "but I have to leave now. Say hello to Mycroft for me. Ask him how he's enjoying his eternal punishment."

Moriarty vanished, and the atmosphere seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as he left.

John immediately starting taking deep cleansing breaths, going shaky with relief.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed. He rushed over, shed the parka from John's shoulders and ripped off the Semtex vest. He tossed it as far away as he could and John slowly collapsed onto the ground.

"Oh my God," John said, his voice shaking with relief. "Thank God Irene didn't see that. I wouldn't have been able to live that down."

"What, being captured?"

"No, you ripping my clothes off in an abandoned swimming pool."

That startled Sherlock with a laugh and after a moment, John joined in.

They were interrupted by the sound of something tapping against the tiled floor.

… …

Before anyone could move, there was a flash of bright light. Greg took a few startled steps back as several angels appeared between him and the cultists.

A beautiful woman with skin the color of cinnamon took his arm and pulled him back. "Hello," she greeted in a soft, soothing voice. "I'm here to take you and Miss Hooper back to your homes. You've done Heaven a good service this evening, and it will be remembered."

"Well," Greg said, bashfully. "All in a day's work, you know."

Molly let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh as the angel led them back up the stairs.

… …

Mycroft entered the room, tapping his umbrella and looking very annoyed. "Sherlock, I can't believe you let him get away."

"I had the situation in hand," Sherlock protested, although it was a blatant lie.

Mycroft didn't even dignify that with a response. "We'll be taking Mr. Watson home now. He's been through a lot tonight. Please report to my office in an hour. We have things to…discuss."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and released his wings, pausing when John gave a shocked gasp.

Sherlock looked back at them and blinked back tears at what he saw.

His wings were a deep, dark, charcoal grey. And they were shedding so badly he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to fly.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said, very, very sadly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied, his voice thick. "I'll be seeing you soon."

He closed his eyes and prayed he would still be able to fly.

He flapped them once and was gone.

He landed in Mycroft's office and let out a breath.

He hadn't completely lost them yet.

That was something, at least. Although he didn't have the faintest idea how much time he had left.