"Is it…such a terrible thing?" John asked, his quiet question sounding impossibly loud.
Sherlock gave him a helpless shrug. "It certainly doesn't appear to be good." His limp, ragged wings spoke for themselves.
"I don't understand…" John blinked rapidly, warring with the information in front of him and his own feelings on the matter. "I mean, it's love. It's can't be something awful." A thought occurred to him and he his spine went rigid. "Is it the gay thing? Is that the sin?"
Sherlock scoffed, sounding like himself for a moment. "Don't be ridiculous, John. It's the human thing. I am an angel. We do not hate. We do not love. We simply are. Love is a temptation." Sherlock looked up, his quicksilver eyes burning into John. "Desire is a vice."
They were still standing so close to each other. John easily reached across the distance and took Sherlock's hand in his own. The angel did not resist him.
"Sherlock," John started, not even sure where he was going to go with this. His feelings on the matter were so tangled and twisted with each other that he wasn't even sure what he wanted, what he needed. "Sherlock, I care for you a great deal. You know my mind, you know my thoughts. You know that I love you. You know that I want you." John cleared his throat and called upon all of his courage. He felt like a soldier making his last stand, and that was a comparison he could make with utter confidence. "And Sherlock, because I love you, we can't do this. I refuse to do this."
The silence was horrific.
"What?" Sherlock breathed, sounding shattered.
"You have to go back to Heaven," John said, his voice betraying him. His throat was closing up and his breath was starting to shake but he had to get through this. Goddammit, there was no way that he was going to let Sherlock throw away his Grace for him. "You have to heal yourself. You have to leave me behind."
"I can't," Sherlock said, gripping John's hand tighter, pulling him closer. "I can't leave you behind, John. You're my other half. I need you."
"You'll see me when I die, won't you? I'm already halfway done with my life here. Waiting a few decades should be nothing to you. I believe that I was promised a place in Heaven."
Sherlock's expression shuttered, his eyes dropping. "That's…not necessarily true."
That threw John slightly. "What?"
"Heaven is a very pretty lie we tell mortals," Sherlock admitted after a moment. "The truth is…whether you were good or bad, whether you prayed or not, no matter which religion you belong to…we all return to It. Some call It God. Some call It Nirvana. It is the essence of Divinity, and It is everywhere. Your soul remains your soul, but all your essence of self, everything that made you John…will be gone. I will not see you again. Not until you are born again, and then…it's so hard. And I've made that mistake too many times before."
John shook the revelation off as best as he was able. His faith in Heaven had been halfhearted at best, and hopefully it wasn't something that he was going to have to worry about yet. "Sherlock, if you destroy yourself and Fall, I would never ever forgive myself for standing by and letting it happen," John said, tugging out of Sherlock's hold. "The Fallen are…they are cursed and wretched things and I will not live to see you become one of them."
"John, please," Sherlock begged, tears escaping at last. "I can fix it. I can make it all okay. I swear to you, John. Please just…give me something to fight for."
"The only thing you can do to fix this is make yourself better. Please, Sherlock. Go back to Heaven."
"I can't," Sherlock said, his voice flat. "It's too late for me."
John's heart plummeted to the ground. He choked out a shocked, "What?"
"My wings aren't strong enough to take me there," Sherlock said, absolutely certain. "I don't have enough Grace to make it back inside. I would Fall before I got there."
John felt a wave of rather surprising anger.
"You idiot," he hissed, making Sherlock jump back slightly. "You've condemned yourself?!"
"Yes," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat ashamed. "But it's for the best, I think."
"How, Sherlock?! How has this been for the best?"
"This way I can finally capture Moriarty," Sherlock said. "And this way…I don't have to be numb again."
That brought John up short. "I don't understand."
"It's not that angels aren't allowed to feel, John. It's that we can't. All the sadness, the anger, the hate…all of that is worth joy and excitement and passion and love…" Sherlock reigned himself in slightly. "They are…terrifying and overwhelming, but they are so bright and so real and they make me feel like I am living and not just existing."
"But it's…Sherlock it's Divinity. It's Grace. It's perfection." John was genuinely confused. "Why would you give it up? It's what all of us on Earth are scrambling to catch a hold of."
"Some things are worth it," Sherlock said, fine tremors starting in his hands. "Some things are worth Falling for."
"This is what Moriarty wants," John reminded him, grasping for something, some piece of logic that Sherlock would be able to appreciate. "He wants you to Fall from Grace."
"He wants me to plummet into Hell," Sherlock corrected him. "I don't intend to Fall that far. Hopefully I'll be able to redeem myself before it's all over."
"Redemption," John huffed with a small laugh. "That's the big promise, isn't it? That we all have: the chance to redeem ourselves."
"We have to hope that's the case," Sherlock said. He caught John's hand again and brought his fingers to his lips. He didn't kiss them, he just brushed his lips across the knuckles lightly, fleetingly, dropping John again before he had the chance to react. "Although I'm not innocent when it comes to succumbing to temptation."
"Sherlock-" John started again.
"I know your mind, John," Sherlock reminded him. "I know that you're stubborn and noble and good, and I know that you mean it when you refuse me." Sherlock drew himself up straight. "And I accept that."
"Sherlock-"
"But hear me on this, John Watson," Sherlock said, leaning in close. "I will fight for you. I will fight long after I am stripped of my Grace and my wings fall to shreds. You may have been the soldier, but I was—I still am—an archangel. I know how to go to battle and I will never, ever give up on you." Sherlock drew back again and offered a bitter smile. "I let you go again and again and again over the centuries, and I refuse to do it once more. You are my other half and I am so very tired of being incomplete."
John was overwhelmed, and stared at the beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely mad creature in front of him with something akin to awe.
"This is my vow," Sherlock said solemnly. "You have returned to me so many times and I promise that I will now return to you."
He stretched out his pathetic wings, flickered for a moment, then vanished from existence.
John's legs slowly gave out and he sunk to the floor, staring at the pile of pitch black feathers. He picked one up and watched numbly as it crumbled to ash in his hands.
… …
Moriarty was tired.
He was tired of waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to return to Earth. Waiting for a chance to escape his prison. Even now, he was waiting on the roof of a hospital for that bloody angel to find him.
Not that he would get the payoff he had wanted. That stupid exorcist was ruining all of his carefully laid out plans.
Sherlock wasn't supposed to Fall like this. He was supposed to Fall to temptation, just like the countless of his kind before him.
Just as that beautiful woman did, so very long ago, when he suggested that she take a bite of a crisp red apple.
Just.
One.
Bite.
"I owe you," Moriarty said quietly when Sherlock staggered into existence behind him. "I. O. U. I promised you a Fall, Sherlock. But I never wanted it to happen like this. It's that Watson fellow's fault. I tested him a few years back, you know, once I realized that he had been reborn. All I did was have one of my minions nudge a bullet a few inches to the left. But did he succumb to bitterness? To darkness? Nearly," he said, turning around to face the ragged angel. "But the man's soul is incorruptible. It's my fault, I suppose, for switching the souls, but we can't really anticipate all the outcomes of our actions, can we?"
"Let's just end this," Sherlock said, sounding weary. "I'm tired, James. I can't do this anymore."
"No, you can't, can you?" Moriarty said, but there was no joy there. "But I don't think that you'll ever join me, not even if you Fall all the way to Hell. You're too good. You're made of darkness and yet you are so pure." He rolled his eyes as he sauntered forward. "Saint Sherlock the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of that nasty old devil. May God rebuke him, we most humbly pray-"
"Moriarty, I'm tired of these games."
"—And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, cast in to Hell, Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about this silly little world world…"
Moriarty stood just in front of Sherlock. "Seeking the ruin of souls. Amen." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out what Sherlock was planning. It wasn't like him to rush in headfirst without any backups in place. "I tried to ruin your soul, Sherlock, I really did. I tried to do it so many times. But I couldn't do it, in the end. The honor wasn't mine to have. In the end, Saint Sherlock was ruined by love." Moriarty sneered. "What a fucking disappointment."
"Make no mistake, Moriarty," Sherlock said, his expression dark. "I may be an angel, but I am by no means a saint." There was a calculating moment of silence before he quietly uttered, "Lazarus."
"Lazarus?" Moriarty asked incredulously. "That poor sod who was returned from the dead?"
"Redemption," Sherlock said simply. "Rising again. Proving yourself. Receiving forgiveness. They're common themes in this little religion of ours. And I know someone who has been waiting for redemption for a very long time. Isn't that right, brother?" Sherlock said just over Moriarty's shoulder.
Moriarty tried to turn around, but he was locked in place.
"Oh, for God's sake," he started before the sound of Mycroft's voice drowned him out and sent him into darkness.
Fuck.
… …
"Was that satisfying?" Sherlock asked Mycroft wryly once Moriarty vanished.
"We could have done this weeks ago," Mycroft sighed. "And then we wouldn't be in our current predicament."
Sherlock shrugged one shoulder weakly. "This was inevitable, brother. I am not angel material." The last few feathers were drifting slowly off his wings. "I don't have any time left. I don't know what will happen to me now."
"Neither do I," Mycroft admitted. "An angel has never Fallen in love before."
"At least I'll set a precedent," Sherlock said, trying to smile. "And I can't believe you just made a pun."
"A lapse in judgment," Mycroft said drily. He cleared his throat. "How did…how did John react? When you told him?"
"Like you don't know," Sherlock scoffed. "You See everything. He rejected me, which wasn't surprising."
"If you really think that's what happened, then I weep for your powers of observation, brother," Mycroft said, giving Sherlock a pitying look.
"There's hope then?" Sherlock asked, not daring to let himself feel it.
"You promised to fight for him," Mycroft reminded Sherlock gently. "I wouldn't go back on that just yet."
… …
Moriarty opened his eyes to a dark room in an unfamiliar place.
Where…?
He tried to take a step forward, but his movements were sluggish, that he was wading through molasses.
Consecrated ground.
Great.
… …
Molly didn't really know what to do with herself anymore.
She had really, really screwed up with Jim. She didn't trust herself with the investigation anymore, despite the reassurances of John and Greg.
She also couldn't abandon the endeavor entirely, though. So she tried to make herself useful in more subtle ways.
Today she was going to clean out the chapel. John would need everything neat and organized when he finally took on Moriarty.
She opened the door to the chapel and stopped dead in her tracks.
Jim stared back at her.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
"Well, hello my dear."
… …
John was sitting on the floor of his flat, staring at a pile of ash, and willing everything to go back to the way it was three weeks ago.
When he just had an unrequited crush on Sherlock.
When he took the exorcisms as he got them.
When he had never heard of the demon Moriarty before.
But no matter how much willpower you have, you can't do something like that.
Everything had gone to hell so quickly. For all he knew Sherlock had already Fallen, Moriarty had gotten away, and everything had been for nothing.
His mobile started to ring and for a few moments he considered switching the damned thing on silent.
But no, he still had his obligations. Under everything else, John was still a soldier in the end, and duty took precedence.
He answered the phone and immediately pulled it away from his ear, unprepared for the shrieking that followed.
"What did you say?" he asked Molly. "Repeat it please, as calmly as you can."
"Moriarty is in the chapel," she said breathlessly. "I went there to clean up and I saw him standing there and I turned around and got the hell out of there because I'm not an idiot. Then I called Greg. Now I'm calling you. I can't reach Sherlock, although I'm sure he had something to do with Moriarty getting there in the first place."
John let out a thin sigh of relief. Maybe everything wasn't as bad as he thought it was. They had Moriarty on consecrated ground and Sherlock was still in the game. Or, at least he had been long enough for John to finish the job.
"You've done well, Molly," John assured her, getting to his feet. "Do not go back into the chapel without Greg or me. Go to the main church and get a priest to bless you. Have Greg do the same when he gets there. Moriarty is too powerful to take chances with."
"Roger that," Molly said. "I'm heading over to the church now. I'll tell Greg to do the same. He should be here in twenty minutes. Can you give me an ETA?"
"Not sure what traffic's like," John said, moving around his flat and gathering his equipment one handed. "I'll try to be there in twenty, might take a little longer. But I'll be there as soon as I can. It's time to finally take care of this son of a bitch."
… …
"What will you do now, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, standing by his brother's side.
He looked so small, and so exhausted, the burden of the last few weeks weighing heavily on his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged one slumped shoulder in reply. The remains of his wings hung dead and limp at his sides.
"I'll manage," Sherlock said at last. "I'll bother John, most likely. He can't turn me away forever. Eventually he'll get over the anger or guilt or whatever it would be that he's feeling." Sherlock paused for a moment. His expression vulnerable. "I'm still not used to emotions, and I can't guess how he'll feel but…he will get over this, won't he Mycroft? He'll forgive me for this one day?"
"If not this life, then the next," Mycroft reminded him gently. "The Fallen are still immortal, Sherlock. You'll have time to find him again."
"I don't want to find him again," Sherlock said. "Why can't this life be good enough? Why can't the current life ever be good enough?"
"I don't know," Mycroft said, unable to comprehend his brother's turmoil. He could only help where he was able. "Would you like me to…finish it?"
After a beat, Sherlock nodded, squaring his shoulders. He stepped up onto the edge of the hospital roof to give Mycroft better access.
"Make it quick, brother dear," Sherlock asked with a small sneer.
Mycroft saw right through his brother's attempts to regain his normal self, but he didn't say anything. It was kinder just to get this business over with.
He gripped the last shreds of the wings by the base and pulled.
Sherlock Fell.
… …
John arrived at the chapel breathless with anxiety and anticipation. He texted Molly and Greg and they met him at the door. Greg was armed to the teeth and Molly was clutching a book on demonology and trembling.
"I stopped by 221B," Greg explained. "Brought Molly the book with the most information on Moriarty. And I got some extra toys," he said, holding up his various demon hunting weapons with a sheepish smile. "This guy's been built up so much, I figured that having all of this wouldn't hurt."
John gave both of them a nod. "Alright," he said, taking a breath and turning to the doors. "Let's end this."
… …
Moriarty sat in the rickety wooden chair set in the center of the room.
They would bind him soon enough, after all. There was no point in resisting it.
No, Moriarty was done resisting.
His fun had been spoiled, after all.
He'd honestly prefer to go back to Hell, at this point.
… …
They opened the door and confronted Moriarty warily.
He was sitting in the chair, relaxed, his legs crossed. His hands were up in a gesture of surrender and he was smiling at the group in real enjoyment.
"The gang's all here," Moriarty said in his disturbing singsong voice. "What a pleasure it is to finally meet all of you at once."
John didn't waste any time. He tossed his duffel on the ground, rifled through for his Bible, and started to pray.
Molly opened her book to a marked page and started muttering under her breath.
Greg gave Moriarty a good dousing with holy water, which made the demon flinch but did little else, and tried to bind him to the chair.
"You don't really have to bother, Mr. Lestrade," Moriarty said, still smiling. "I'm on consecrated ground. I'm not going anywhere."
"For my own peace of mind, then," Greg said, cuffing Moriarty to the chair.
"Amen," John finished. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I bind you here."
"Good luck, Dr. Watson," Moriarty said with a smile. "We're both trapped here until you complete the job or keel over from exhaustion. I wish you the best."
"I call upon the power of the Father," John continued, ignoring Moriarty. "I call upon His glory and His perfection. I call upon Him to judge the creature before me and send him into Hell. I call upon the power of the Son. I call upon He who loved us and sacrificed his life on the cross for us sinners. I call upon the power of the Holy Spirit. I call about Him to fill me with the strength to send this demon back into Hell. I call upon Holy Mary, the Mother of God…"
John continued for a long time. For a monotheistic religion, there was a freaking lot of figures to call upon.
Eventually, he stopped summoning, cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and began.
… …
Greg watched the Latin pour from John's mouth with fascination. The complicated words that sounded almost, but not quite, like English were effortlessly incanted by the exorcist. John, in this state, was a force to be reckoned with. Power practically poured off of him as he called upon powers that Greg never fully understood or believed in.
And yet, Moriarty just sat there and smiled.
John went at it tirelessly, but the demon didn't budge. Everything John did or said washed over him like water. He just made himself comfortable and stared back at John without ever wavering.
It didn't even look like Moriarty was pushing back, not the way that Shan had to Greg. He was simply watching the show, looking greatly entertained by what he saw.
It was unnerving to say the least.
But John didn't give an each either. He didn't pause for rest, he barely paused to take a breath. He just kept going, kept chanting, kept begging God or whoever was listening for assistance, kept pushing at the demon for all that he was worth.
Greg didn't know what he could do to help.
He just closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started to pray.
He really hoped that someone was listening.
… …
Molly had watched enough exorcisms to know that this one probably wasn't going well. Jim—Moriarty—wasn't reacting to anything. There were no cracks in his composure. Even the holy water barely made him flinch.
John was the best of the best, but this was too much for him. Moriarty was too ancient, too powerful. He made the other Priority One possessions look like benevolent hauntings by comparison.
She briefly considered getting out of there.
She thought about leaving the chapel, about going back to her flat and hanging out with her cats and the occasional spirit that haunted the building.
But those thoughts didn't last long.
John trusted her. He had trusted her this far, even though she had been the one had gone and fraternized with the enemy. Greg trusted her too, though God knows why. The man was slow to rely on anyone, but he was ready to drop everything and come to the church without questions, just because Molly had asked him to. They were a team, the three of them.
Well, they were the remains of a team. With Irene gone and Sherlock…
What had happened to Sherlock?
He had Fallen, or he was Falling. That much was obvious to Molly. She had researched angelology as much as she had researched demonology, after all. But what Molly couldn't place was why. Fallen angels are victims of sin and temptation.
All Sherlock had done was love a human.
There was nothing she had come across in her research that ever mentioned an angel becoming a Fallen for love.
But Sherlock was fairly unique.
If anyone would Fall for an unprecendeted reason just to be contrary, it was him.
Molly wished him the best, wherever he was.
He couldn't help them now. They had to rely on themselves.
And John was struggling.
Taking, a deep breath, Molly gathered her courage and closed her eyes. She prayed that John would take whatever strength, courage, and loyalty she had left to give.
… …
At some point, the demon just stopped fighting back.
John couldn't explain it, didn't want to voice it, but he knew in his gut that Moriarty wasn't fighting him. He wasn't struggling, he wasn't pushing, he was just sitting there and smiling at John at the incantations slowly snipped all the strings that tied him to his host.
This scared John more than any attempt of resistance would have.
Why was he doing this? It was essentially suicide, to just sit back and let an exorcist do their worst. A novice would be able to cast out Moriarty like this. The demon may as well have just shot himself in the head, for all the effort he was putting towards his continued existence.
After five hours, John was nearly there.
"I guess this is goodbye, then," Moriarty said softly, jolting Molly and Greg from their silent prayer. "I hope you three had a good time. I know that I thoroughly enjoyed watching Sherlock rip himself to pieces."
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," John said in a shaky voice, "I cast you from here."
"I'm happy to go," Moriarty said. "I could use some time to make some new plans. Once I do though…" Moriarty laughed. "Well, I'll just see you soon."
Black smoke erupted from the host's mouth, pooling at the ceiling of the chapel.
"Our father, who art in Heaven," John began. "Hallowed be thy name."
The smoke twisted on itself before being sucked through the roof of the chapel.
"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."
… …
There was a long silence before Greg finally found his voice. "What the bloody hell just happened? I thought…well, I thought you weren't doing too well, to be honest."
"The spitting, the twisting, the screaming," John said. "All the signs of a progressing exorcism mean that the demon is fighting back. From the first prayer, Moriarty just sat there. He wasn't reacting because he wasn't fighting."
"Why would he do that?" Molly asked. Greg nodded, seconding the question.
John shrugged. "He'd had his fun, I guess," he said. The man slowly slumped in on himself, looking like he had rapidly aged over the last few hours. "He didn't need to play anymore."
"So he just…killed himself?" Molly asked incredulously.
"Essentially," John said. "More like he turned himself in. Heaven will take it from here."
A silence fell upon the group.
"So…" Greg started, saying what everyone else was thinking. "Do you think that Sherlock is okay?"
"No," John said simply. Without another word, he packed up his things and walked out of the chapel.
Greg and Molly watched him go.
"Do you think…" Molly said. "Do you think that he should be alone right now?"
"I think that he should mourn," Greg said. "We all should. He'll do it in his way. And I don't know about you, but my way is going to involve some alcohol."
"Oh, God yeah," Molly sighed.
"Can I buy you a drink then?" Greg asked, picking up this things.
Molly offered him a small smile. "Yes."
… …
There was a flash of blinding pain, and then darkness.
Sherlock didn't want to wake up from it.
He curled up on himself, willing away all the agony and regret pelting him like raindrops.
Oh, wait.
He was wet.
Those were actual raindrops.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing but a sky grey with clouds.
On their own accord, his eyes closed once again.
For a long time, he was aware of nothing else.