(A/N: I'm sorry for the sudden absence. I was dealing with some health problems and was unable to write. I should be able to finish updating this story at my regular schedule.)

Mycroft found his brother catatonic on the side of the road.

He scooped the unresponsive angel up in his arms and took him somewhere safe.

Sherlock was lost.

There was nothing to do but wait for him to find himself again.

… …

Hello, the unnamed mortal soul said to the unnamed angel.

Hello, the unnamed angel said in response.

Have we just been born? The mortal soul asked.

I believe so, the angel responded.

Interesting, they both said at once.

There was a moment of mirth, of shared joy, of a connection that ran between the two essences of existence and then—

Then they were pulled away from each other.

They were placed into their bodies and everything began.

… …

John didn't see Sherlock for a couple of days.

The part of John's brain that made him a decent human was hoping that Sherlock took his advice and returned to Heaven. He was very worried for the angel, and wanted him to do what was best for himself. The idea of Sherlock Falling was terrifying. He would be lost to bitterness and hate. He would lose everything that made him, well, Sherlock.

The part of John's brain that was a horrible piece of shit was wishing that Sherlock stayed on Earth. There was a very small part of him that wished Sherlock would Fall. If he did, he wouldn't have to leave John again. Lately, it felt like a part of himself had gone missing whenever he and Sherlock were apart, and it was growing stronger each day. It would be a relief to rid himself of the feeling.

This was a very tiny segment of John's consciousness, but it still filled him with a great deal of shame. He did his best to shut it up and distract himself with the Work.

Just because Sherlock wasn't around didn't mean that Moriarty wasn't a problem anymore.

However, without Irene, he and Greg found themselves at a bit of a loss.

"Apparently there's a great deal of dark energy coming from this part of the city," Greg said, circling a portion of a map of London. The map was spread out on the kitchen table at 221B, held down with various objects that were lying around the flat. Neither of them were good with technology and preferred this method, although it took them an embarrassingly long amount of time to find a physical map of London big enough for their purposes.

"There are at least six demon dens in that part of the city," John reminded him.

"Well, that's probably where we would find Moriarty," Greg said. "If he were slumming there, looking for him would be like trying to find a needle in a hay stack."

"More like trying to find a specific piece of straw in a hay stack," John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "He can't even do us the courtesy of being a needle."

"We need help," Greg declared, slumping into a chair. "Irene's human and gone to America, Molly is still miserable over the whole Jim thing, Sherlock's gone AWOL…" Greg frowned. "Is this even our job anymore? Sherlock was our liaison. Without him we're out of our depth."

"I know," John said. "None of the other angels in the city will talk to me."

Greg looked surprised. "Really? They're always trying to offer me advice."

John frowned. "They disappear as soon as I get close."

"Mate, what did you do?"

"Nothing intentional."

… …

It started, of course, with a birth.

Most things do.

A soul was picked out of the field of divinity that comprised It and was molded by the angels.

It was carelessness, really, that caused the problem.

It happened occasionally, but no one liked to talk about it. An angel was distracted, or a little too forceful, and the soul ripped just slightly.

If it was an old soul, it was released back into divinity, and be allowed to merge with It until the end of eternity. But this was a young soul, brand new. There was only one thing to be done.

The soul was ripped in half and remolded into two souls. They were a little smaller than normal, to tell the truth, but they would function alright.

The only problem with twin souls is that they never actually come out identical. They come out in opposing halves, desperately missing the part of their essence, searching for the piece that would make them whole again.

In this case, one soul got the darkness, the other the light.

But the angels were crunched for time.

Those bloody isles in the rainy, heathen part of Earth needed their own guardian, not that their religion had sunk down its roots. That Watcher Mycroft refused to shut up about it. So they decided just to put the light half into the angel body and the dark half into a human and hope that it all worked out in the end.

No one ever figured out who switched the souls.

None of the angels would admit to the mistake.

Somewhere along the chain of command, a rumor surfaced that a demon had put the dark soul in the angel and the light soul in the human.

They decided to blame the snake.

This kind of shit was his fault often enough anyway.

And It didn't seem to concerned.

So they left it how it was.

Mycroft liked the dark little angel anyway. He was a pretty, golden haired little cherub that the humans promptly dubbed Sherlock.

They kept an eye out on the human.

When he was born, he was as warm and open as the angel Sherlock was cold.

The angels in Heaven liked this little child.

He'd probably become a saint or something.

And molding a saint always led to a promotion.

But still, no one would admit to making the switch.

And in Hell, the snake laughed and laughed and laughed.

… …

"You're going to summon an angel?" Greg asked incredulously.

"Well, we need help," John reasoned, opening the old book and trying to decipher which language it was written in. It looked like a bastardized mixture of Latin and Hebrew. "And Mycroft was involved with this job, so he'll be able to provide the most assistance. And maybe he'll tell us what happened to Sherlock."

"Hopefully the son of a bitch went back to Heaven," Greg said. "He was tearing himself to shreds down here. Do you have any idea what happened to him?"

John's heart skipped, a mixture of anxiety and guilt settling in his stomach as he recalled Sherlock's confession.

"No idea," John lied, wondering if he would ever forgive himself for pulling Sherlock down.

Well, wondering if he would ever forgive himself for being so selfishly glad that Sherlock cared for him as much as John cared for Sherlock.

"Hm." Greg didn't sound convinced.

"I think this is it," John said, trying to distract the hunter. "This makes almost no sense. God. Okay, I think we're going to need some blood. And we're going to need to draw some sigils on the ground and-"

There was a flash of light and Mycroft appeared in the room, grey wings standing out proudly. He folded them back into non-existence.

"I am a Watcher," Mycroft reminded them. "I know everything. Were you really going to try and acquire two gallons of blood just to call me?"

"Is that how much we needed?" John asked, peering at the text. "Huh. Yeah."

Mycroft regarded John for a moment with blank eyes. Eventually he held out his hand. John shook it after a moment's hesitation.

"John Watson," Mycroft said. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced in this life."

"Ah, no," John said. "Past lives, then?"

Mycroft smiled. "You really have no idea, do you? I wonder what my brother sees in you."

"Pardon?" John took a little bit of offence to that.

"Never mind," Mycroft said, shaking Greg's hand as an afterthought. "I see you two are still looking for Moriarty."

"Well," Greg said, "with Sherlock back in Heaven, we figured that we might as well continue where he left off."

Mycroft smiled a polite, cold little smile. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Lestrade. My brother has not returned to Heaven."

Greg looked surprised. John fought warring halves of anger and joy.

"What's he doing then, abandoning the search?" Greg asked, getting more annoyed the more he thought about it. "We've been bumbling around for days while Moriarty runs wild!"

"Sherlock's a bit preoccupied, at the moment," Mycroft said. John could tell that the angel would not be elaborating further. "I'm trying to convince him to return to Heaven, though. Hopefully I will be successful soon. Until then, he is still assigned to the Moriarty case, and will not be replaced. Since you two have admirably chosen to continue putting yourselves in the line of fire, I will assist you. Hopefully we will make some progress."

"Thank you," John said sincerely, although his mind was somewhere else entirely.

What was Sherlock thinking?

And what did Mycroft mean, he was preoccupied?

… …

Angels, on occasion, get lost.

They get lost in memory.

They get lost in their centuries and millennia of existence.

They forget nothing. They observe everything.

And sometimes it overwhelms them.

It can come from nowhere.

A tiny trigger will open the gates and drown the angel in recollection.

A particular bird song.

The sun hitting the petals of a rose in just the right way.

One tiny memory that causes the rest to pour forth.

For Sherlock, he trigger was always John.

A hundred times over, John.

Because with every life, with every face, there were some things about him that remained the same. The way that he smiled. The way that he ducked his head a bit when he was embarrassed. Even the lives when John was born a woman held similarities to his lives as a man.

For a long time these memories were colorless. They were just recollection. Details. They were not tainted with feelings, with emotions.

But now, Sherlock was not just feeling the present.

He was feeling all the emotions denied to him over the centuries. He relived each memory with love, with anger, with frustration.

With agony.

Because each life always ended the same.

John always died. He almost always returned to It.

Sherlock always chased after. He always tried to get ahold of that soul. To bring it within him before it got away again.

He needed it, the other half.

He needed it so badly he could scream.

… …

The young boy looked up at the brilliant being with a smile.

"Are you an angel?" the six year old asked innocently.

"I am," the angel replied, gazing down at the young boy with curiosity.

He felt nothing, looking at the tiny human before him, and yet…

"Do you want to play with me?" the boy asked. "No one else does."

"Alright," the angel agreed. "What should I call you?" he asked.

"Jon," the boy replied. "Are you Michael the archangel?"

"No," the angel said, "I've met him though. He's very impressive. He has a sword. I am Sherlock."

"How old are you, Sherlock?" Jon asked.

"Seven," Sherlock answered honestly.

Jon's eyes lit up. "You're so old! You're a whole year older than me!"

"We are quite young," Sherlock corrected. "Although there will be a time when both of us are old indeed."

"Yeah but that's forever away," Jon said sagely. "We can play right now. What do you want to play?"

"You choose," Sherlock allowed, feeling very generous for it.

… …

"Patrol this area," Mycroft had said before he sent them off. "There's a Priority One lurking. It's not a possession but it's dangerous. It might lead us to Moriarty."

But of course it didn't.

Of course it turned out to be a hellhound.

"What the bloody fuck is a hellhound doing in London?" Greg yelled as they ran.

"I don't know, but it's faster than we are!" John said. He glanced over his shoulder and wished he hadn't. The massive hound was black as coal, with glowing red eyes and very sharp teeth.

Mycroft had given him a blessed bullet just before he left, but he only gave him one.

He had one chance to make this shot.

John pulled out gun, stop running, watched the hound approach him rapidly, and took aim.

If I die, John told himself in the last second, and Sherlock is not in Heaven waiting for me, I'm going to resurrect myself so I punch him in the face.

… …

Hello, the soul said when Sherlock caught up with it. Haven't we met before?

Yes, Sherlock said. I am the angel that played with you when you were six.

Oh yes, the soul said. That was when I had just started being Jon. That was a good life. Shame it didn't last very long.

Jon had died by drowning, although he had saved his daughter's life in the process.

You are returning to It, Sherlock said. You will soon forget that life.

That's alright, Jon's soul said. It was just temporary anyway. Won't you be coming with me?

No, Sherlock said, a bit regretful.

Why not? Jon asked, sounding genuinely confused. You're my other half.

I know, Sherlock said, wondering if this was what sadness felt like. It happens occasionally. Souls split. We don't like to talk about it. The halves usually find each other again, when they return to It.

But that won't happen to us? Jon asked, sounding devastated.

No, Sherlock said, knowing for certain that this what was sadness felt like. I do not die. My soul will never be released.

That's not fair, Jon's soul insisted. I don't want to be a half.

I will find you in your next life, Sherlock promised.

I will be born as soon as I can, Jon said, sounding determined even as he faded away. So we won't be apart for too long.

Sherlock found himself alone in divinity.

The feeling of sadness faded as soon as it had come. He wished Jon the best and continued with his duties. He had a civilization to protect, after all.

… …

Thank God that John was a good shot.

Greg disposed of the body, having dealt with hellhounds in the past.

John returned to his flat, intent on washing off the sweat and dirt from the hunt and getting some sleep.

He wasn't expecting to see Sherlock.

… …

"Hello," Sherlock said, feeling a spark of what might be hope.

The young woman looked up from her garden warily. "Hello," she said, looking over her shoulder. Her father was chopping wood a few feet back and she relaxed slightly. "Do I know you?"

The spark died, and Sherlock felt nothing once again. "My name is Sherlock," he said, wondering why he was wasting his time here.

"I'm Jane," she said. She ducked her head. "Do you need some help?"

"I'm just looking for an old friend," Sherlock said. "I suppose he isn't here."

"Well, what's his name? I can ask my father," Jane offered, giving Sherlock a shy smile.

There he is, he thought feeling content. "No need," Sherlock said. "It's no longer necessary."

… …

"You should have gone back to Heaven," John said before Sherlock had a chance to talk over him.

"I couldn't," Sherlock said, sounding utterly defeated. "I couldn't do it anymore."

"Sherlock?" All the fire burnt out. John couldn't lecture Sherlock when he was like this.

Sherlock looked sick. There were bags under his eyes. He hadn't de-manifested his wings, and they hung limp and shredded and black as pitch.

"The goodbyes are fine," Sherlock started.

… …

Where am I? Jane's soul asked when Sherlock caught her.

You died, Sherlock said. You killed yourself.

Of course I did, Jane said. I remember now. What happens next?

You will be reborn immediately, Sherlock replied. As punishment, you will not be allowed to return to divinity. Your next life will be a difficult one, filled with hard work and bitterness.

I don't get to stay? Jane asked, sounding scared. But I killed myself so I could be with the angels. I wanted to stay with you.

That was a mistake, Sherlock said sadly. You should not have done that.

You should not have made me fall in love with you, Jane said angrily. Do you know what you do to us mortals? Every year you visited my village, and every year we all fell in love with you. With your perfection. It was agony, every day you weren't with me I wanted to claw my eyes out of my head.

I'm sorry, Sherlock said. I will not bother you in your next life.

No! Jane's soul was panicked. Don't do that! Please, see me again. But don't see me in your perfection. I can't take that again.

Promise you will never kill yourself again and I will.

I promise, Jane's soul, Jon's soul, vowed.

… …

"The goodbyes are hard but I can deal with them," Sherlock mumbled.

John closed the distance between them and gripped Sherlock's arms. "Sherlock, Sherlock look at me."

"I can't take another hello," he said wretchedly. "I can't do that again."

… …

Dozens of hellos.

Every time, there was a spark of hope.

"Hello," Sherlock said, staring at the unfamiliar face with the familiar smile.

The seventeen year old boy gave him an annoyed glance. "We've closed for the night, milord. And I'm just the apprentice, the blacksmith will be back in the morning."

"I'm here to see you," Sherlock said.

The boy finally met Sherlock's eyes. "I don't think I know you, sire," he said.

… …

Sherlock stared at the stain glass window. Being in the church calmed him.

Father Stamford reentered the church, having gone to bring in an exorcist. And behind him—

Sherlock hid a smile.

After all these lives of Sherlock finding Jon, Jon finally found him. Maybe this was the life. Maybe for once, Jon would remember.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

"You're an archangel, Sherlock. Stop looking for excuses to play with human technology," Father Stamford said, although he was already digging through his pockets to fulfill the angel's request.

Jon looked at Sherlock with fascination. "You're an archangel?"

"And you're an exorcist," Sherlock said.

Jon smiled. "Here, you can use my phone." He passed the device over and met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock held his breath, the ever present spark of hope flickering back to life.

"John Watson," the exorcist introduced himself, devoid of recognition.

"Sherlock," the angel replied, feeling that spark of hope die again.

He was pretty sure it had gone out for the last time.

… …

"Talk to me, Sherlock," John said, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock looked down at him, seeing a gaze full of recognition, full of love.

He needed that, he needed that so badly. He couldn't live without it.

"Hello," Sherlock said, almost numbly.

"Yes, we've met," John said impatiently. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I'm love with you," Sherlock said with such heartbreaking honestly he was amazed his wings didn't fall off then and there. "I'm in love with you, John. And there's nothing either of us can do about it."

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