Irene walked into the seedy pub with as much confidence as she could.

She usually hated places like this. They were hotbeds of possessions. She wasn't fond of demons that couldn't produce a corporal form on Earth. It was too easy to be lured in by a false face.

Appearance was important to Irene, it was how she figured people out, how she knew to play them. Possessions took that advantage away from her.

And so she hated demon pubs.

But all of her other contacts had vanished on her, probably keeping their heads down with the increase in the angelic population in London. She didn't blame them, she would have done the same thing if she hadn't gotten herself tied to Sherlock.

She reminded herself for the millionth time that she was getting a clean slate out of the deal.

Not that she would really use it to her advantage, it would just be nice to relocate to a different city for a while without Heaven's warriors trying to send her back to Hell.

Not a nice place, Hell. Not nearly enough places for her to get a decent meal.

The pub was smoky and sticky and smelly. Demons weren't really worried about the quality of the establishments they frequented. The owners of the pub didn't bother with upkeep if the clientele didn't care.

She had only taken a few steps in when she realized that something was wrong.

Now, Irene wasn't a high priority demon. She didn't own the respect and obedience of every demon she saw. But damn it, she had done her fair bit to earn that respect. The hard way. Normally, there would be a few faces turned to her as soon as she entered the room, lower demons eager for a chance to impress.

But here, every head was turned away from her. No one made eye contact. No one even acknowledged her presence.

She changed tactics and approached the bar tender. He was wiping down the counter and didn't look up, even with she carefully sat on the disgusting stool.

She cleared her throat, and the bartender finally lifted his gaze.

His eyes were blue, no trace of the black from possession. No trace of the soullessness from a demon in their corporal form. He was a human, working a demon bar.

And yet he still seemed to know who she was.

"I willna be servin' ya," he said, in heavy highlander dialect. The Scot only met her eyes for a second before looking down again. "Yer nah very welcome here."

"Excuse me?" Irene said icily, tapping her claws on the counter.

"Aye," he said. "Jus followin' orders."

"Orders?" her voice went a bit shrill and she forced herself to calm down. "From who?"

He refused to answer. "Jus get. It isna safe fer ya here." He kept his eyes fixed to the counter.

Irene got to her feet and looked around the bar desperately, pleading silently that someone would meet her eyes. Anyone.

Everyone kept their eyes fixed to their drinks, or to their table. No one was saying a word. No one was moving. The pub was deathly silent.

Finally, someone took a step forward.

It was a corporal low level demon, a girl with white hair falling in perfect ringlets. She may had been beautiful, had her eyes not been gaping bloody holes.

"Moriarty knows you work the angels," she said in a voice belonging to a much younger girl. "He says we aren't to help you, and we aren't to hurt you." She smiled, revealing very sharp teeth. "He wants you unharmed. He has something planned for you."

Irene tried to stamp down on the panic rising in her. "That's it then? And no one's to speak to me?"

The girl confirmed that by melting back into the crowd, leaving Irene standing alone in the crowded pub.

"Alright, then," Irene said, offering them her best smile. "We'll just see who comes out on top, when all of this is said and done."

She turned and left the pub with as much dignity as she could. Which wasn't, she had to admit, very much.

She walked quickly, unsure, for the first time in a long time, of what to do.

It was too late to turn back now. She would no longer find solace with her brethren. She was stuck, for better or worse, with Heaven now.

Irene wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry. Perhaps the hysteria would kick in and she would do both.

God damn you, Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't even help himself. How was he supposed to help her? When all was said and done, Sherlock would either return to Heaven out of necessity, leaving her and his precious mortals unprotected with Moriarty running loose, or Moriarty would be behind bars and Sherlock himself would Fall into damnation.

She was, of course, under no illusions to that inevitability.

Sherlock was shedding more and more Grace by the day.

Anyone could see it.

Since the encounter with Moriarty, it had only gotten worse.

He had retreated inward for a few days, but soon gravitated back to John.

John. Irene sneered. The exorcist was Sherlock's black hole. Pulling Sherlock apart piece by piece, atom by atom, until there was nothing left.

And the man had no idea. He didn't have to faintest clue that he was corrupting one of the most distant, one of the most untouchable archangels that Heaven had to offer.

It was making her feel sick inside and Irene didn't even have a soul or conscience.

She wondered what would happen if she told John what his effect was on the angel. Would the exorcist cut himself off from Sherlock, in an effort to save his friend? Would he grow sick with guilt, and be unable to continue this work? Or would he be selfish, like so many mortals that Irene has come to know over the years? Would he wish for Sherlock to Fall, so he could be with the creature he loved?

Irene didn't know. She didn't know John well at all. She had been avoiding him since she realized his soul was bound to Sherlock. She thought he would be pathetic, sad to watch, pining over something ethereal, something that wasn't made for this world. The bond wasn't going to go both ways, and it was just going to destroy the sad little man in the end.

But she was wrong.

She had been so very wrong, about so many things.

And now look at her.

Cast out from her own kind, relying on her sworn enemies for her continued survival.

"Irene," she muttered to herself as Baker Street came into view. "This is a new low, even for you. Nice going, bitch. You've earned this."

… …

Sherlock listened to Irene's account of everything that happened with a growing sense of dread.

With Irene unable to use her demon contacts, with her shut off from most of the demon energies it the city, she wasn't going to be any help in finding Moriarty again.

And, God, this was his fault, wasn't it? Wait, was it? Sherlock wasn't used to guilt yet. He wasn't sure if he deserved this one or not.

"It's too late for you to get out of this," Sherlock said when he was finished. "It would appear that the damage is done."

"I just don't know what to do now," she finally said. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know that you weren't keeping me around for my pretty face. Without my connections, I'm useless to you. And I know that I haven't exactly earned my eternal rewards," Irene attempted to inject some sarcasm, but it fell flat. She swallowed, looking scared for the first time since Sherlock had known her.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Sherlock said smoothly, getting to his feet. "I'll ask Mycroft to call in a few favors. We might be able to salvage this yet."

There was a flicker of something on Irene's face. Had that been hope?

She snorted. "Yes, call big brother. See if he can't find a way out of this mess. Speaking of," she said, giving Sherlock an appraising look, "you're in quite a bit of trouble yourself."

Sherlock immediately closed off, turning away from Irene. "I'm fine."

"Really Sherlock? After all this time, you think you can still lie to me? I'm a demon, darling. I live and breathe lies. I can see right through them." She took a few steps forward. "And I can see right through you. You're shedding your Grace like a cat sheds hair."

"I will last," Sherlock said stubbornly. "I will last until Moriarty is back where he belongs. That's the most important thing."

"And an eternity of damnation is something to just brush aside?" Irene asked, her voice filled with real concern. Sherlock smiled a little at that. It appeared he was not the only one beginning to succumb to humanity.

A small idea sparked up in Sherlock's mind. It might not turn into anything, but…

He might solve Irene's problem.

"An eternity of damnation is something I can live with," Sherlock answered. "It can't be much worse than the hell I'm already living."

"Oh, Sherlock," Irene sighed. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? Outcasts from our little families. Spots of grey in worlds of black and white."

"It isn't nearly so poetic," Sherlock protested.

"Nothing really is, when it sucks this much," she agreed. "Well, worse comes to worse, we can be outcasts together. I'll even let you bring John along if you like."

…. …

Molly was sitting quietly in the kitchen, staring blankly at the cup of tea in her hands.

She had been doing that a lot since John finally got up the nerve to tell her about Jim.

John watched her with quiet concern, wondering what was going through her mind. She was wrecked with guilt, he knew. And she kept going over everything she knew she told Jim, everything she thought she might have told him, and everything she was afraid she had told him. Every couple of hours she jumped up with a new, "What if…!" What if she had accidentally revealed a weakness is John's exorcisms? What if she had talked about Greg too much, and Moriarty figured out a way to avoid the hunter? What if she revealed one seemingly insignificant detail about Sherlock that ruined everything?

Once they heard about Irene, Molly almost collapsed in guilt. She knew for a fact, that was her fault. She remembered 'Jim' seeming really surprised when she said that there was a demon helping them. He had been intrigued and asked a lot of details.

And now Irene was paying the price for that.

John understood Molly's guilt, but it was eating her alive. He wished he knew the words that would wipe it away. Or if it was even possible for such words to exist.

He knew that there was nothing to say or do, though. They just had to keep carrying on.

That was all they could ever do, in this world that they lived in, in this war that they fought in: do their best and carry on.

The past happened, and couldn't hurt anymore. The future quickly settled into the present.

And the present…

Well, the present stung like a mother fucker, but they were surviving it.

And with every passing second, it became the past again.

They were living

They were breathing.

They were moving on.

… …

Sherlock stood before Mycroft and watched his brother think.

"I believe that would work," Mycroft said at last. "If she wants it, she can have it. It wouldn't keep her safe from Moriarty, of course. This will only help her if you capture him."

"I will," Sherlock said, utterly confident.

"You should have done so by now," Mycroft admonished. "Sherlock, you should have caught him at the pool, if not much earlier."

"If I had acted at the pool, the risk to John would have been-"

"Tragic but necessary," Mycroft interrupted. "He's a mortal, Sherlock. We do what we can, but they're such fragile things. And John is an Old Soul. If he was lost, he'd just be reborn again in a few decades."

"But he wouldn't be mine anymore," Sherlock protested, not realizing what he was saying until it was already said.

The brothers froze.

Sherlock's breathing quickened, realizing the utter enormity of what he had just said.

He was so bloody terrified of losing John. He had lost him so many times before, in all of his previous lives. He had watched every memory of their time spent together wiped away by death. And the idea of it happening again, the idea of it happening in this life, scared him to his very core.

And then he figured it out.

Everything suddenly fell into place with such stunning clarity that Sherlock was ready to start sobbing out of hopeless desperation.

Because it was far too late for him. It had been too late for him for a long time.

"I was afraid of this," Mycroft said sadly.

"I don't…" Sherlock's voice was weak, and tears burned in his eyes. (He must not let them fall. Angels did not cry. Angels could not cry.)

"You've fallen in love with him," Mycroft said.

The words seemed to shatter something in Sherlock. His knees gave out and he sunk slowly to the floor, his breath shaking out of him like sobs.

"No," Sherlock protested weakly. "No, I can't."

"He loves you, too," Mycroft said, as though it was supposed to be reassuring. "Or at least, his soul does. It's why he keeps finding you, life after life. I don't know if this body has recognized it yet."

"He barely knows me," Sherlock whispered. And God, did that admission hurt. This incarnation of John barely knew Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, had John memorized.

Mycroft approached his brother slowly and voiced Sherlock's thoughts. "But you know him. You've known him since the day you were born. You've met him and learned him and befriended him over dozens of lifetimes. And now you've fallen in love with him."

Sherlock curled in on himself. "I can't love."

Mycroft put a gentle hand to Sherlock's horribly frayed wings. "I think you can."

… …

Irene returned to 221B with a smile on her face.

A genuine, normal smile.

John wasn't sure what to do with that.

Then he noticed that was dressed like a normal person.

And that she didn't have talons anymore.

"What…?"

Irene nodded. "I struck a deal with Mycroft," she said. She held out her arms and twirled around. "In return for services rendered, I've been given humanity. I've been given a soul." Her eyes were shining bright with unshed tears of joy.

"You've been…" John didn't even know such a thing was possible.

"They said I could start completely over, a brand new life, but I wanted to finish this one out first." She shrugged. "It might be interesting, growing older. Maybe I'll fall in love. Maybe I'll have children." Irene swallowed. "And maybe I'll atone for some of the things I've done."

"Wow, just…wow," John finished lamely. "Welcome to mortality."

Irene smiled again. "It's strange, knowing that I'm going to die. It might be a blessing, in the end. I've been around for far too long."

"Is this the last time I'll be seeing you, then?" John asked.

Irene nodded. "I want to leave London. I'll find a new life somewhere. I haven't been to America, yet, so that's where I'll start, I think."

"I wish you the best of luck, then," John said, holding out his hand.

She clasped it firmly in her own normal, pink, human hand.

"I hope you have a good life," John said sincerely.

Irene smiled so wide it must have hurt. "I hope so, too. Take good care of Sherlock for me, John. And tell him that I wish for his happiness as well."

"Alright," John said, a bit perplexed at how empathetically she said that. "I will. Bon voyage, Irene."

"Adieu," she bid, turning and walked out of 221B for the last time.

… …

That night, when John went home to his flat, Sherlock, as usual, appeared. He had been doing that the last few days. When everything winded down for the day, John usually found himself with Sherlock at his side. Most nights the angel didn't say anything. They just existed together.

Tonight, though, Sherlock's landing was sloppy. He lost his balance as he materialized. And he didn't put his wings away soon enough. John saw with a stab of fear that they were losing even more feathers.

"Sherlock," John said as soon as Sherlock righted himself. "Sherlock, you've got to fix that."

"I can't," Sherlock said stubbornly. "If I try to get my Grace back, my brothers and sisters won't let me leave again. They'll keep me there for a few centuries, try to drain the humanity from me."

"Would that be so bad?" John asked, his voice gentle. "Would it be so bad if you let another angel chase after Moriarty?" His heart hurt at the thought of never seeing Sherlock again, but it didn't compare that Sherlock would join the ranks of the Fallen and let himself be twisted by anger and hate.

Sherlock just shook his head. "You don't understand, John. I can't leave. Not for that long."

"Is Moriarty really so important to you?" John asked, an unexpected flash of anger stealing over his words. "Are you two really so star crossed that you feel the need to play this game with him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not like that, John."

"What is it like then?" John asked, striving for calm but ending up with frustrated. He realized with no small amount of disgust that he was feeling jealous of Moriarty. "What is it that makes Moriarty so damn special that you're throwing everything away to chase him?"

"You don't understand, John-"

"Then tell me!" John exclaimed. "Tell me because I feel ridiculous here, watching you waste away without being a damn thing because you're so…so…obsessed with this madman!"

"It's not about Moriarty!" Sherlock finally snapped. "It was never about Moriarty! I could have caught Moriarty weeks ago!"

"Then why haven't you?!" John yelled back, absolutely incredulous.

"Because then I wouldn't have needed you!" Sherlock's voice broke. "I wouldn't have needed you all this time. I wouldn't have had to speak to you. To see you. I needed to need you, John. I needed an excuse for you."

John…didn't really know what to do with that. "What?"

"You don't understand," Sherlock said, sounding manic. His hands were fisted tightly in his hair, and John was afraid that he was going to start pulling it out in clumps. "You won't ever understand, John. Because you don't remember. You don't know me and you don't know yourself and you'll never understand this, John." Sherlock looked up with eyes rimmed with red. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've dragged you into this. You didn't ask for it. The last thing I want to do is hurt you."

"Sherlock," John started, his heart pounding. He took a step forward, but stopped when Sherlock backed away. "Okay, right, yes, fine. I don't understand. And I'm not going to understand unless you explain it to me."

Sherlock just shook his head. "I can't," he said. And when he looked at John, he looked so broken. "I can't explain it to you. I'll never be able to. Not properly."

"Well, then I'm not sure what to do right now," John finally said. "I want you to help yourself, Sherlock. So let's just…cut all the bullshit and catch Moriarty, alright?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "John, if you had to choose between saving yourself or being with someone you cared for, what would you do?"

John felt like the floor had disappeared from beneath him. Sherlock couldn't be implying…could he? The way he was looking at John made him think that he could. But John squashed that down, he refused to give himself hope.

He knew what answer he should give Sherlock, but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? And Sherlock said a long time ago that he could see into John's mind.

He had to know, then, about John's stupid crush.

Well, much more than a crush, at this point.

He had to know, and he had to be rejecting it.

"Take care of yourself, Sherlock," John finally said, no matter how much it hurt him to say it. Because he loved Sherlock. Because he would give up their happiness in an instant if it would keep him safe.

But Sherlock just closed his eyes, nodded, and vanished.

He left a pile of freshly shed feathers behind.