Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

“There's a very peculiar feeling to this whole area. I'm astonished you can't feel it”, Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate said.

“I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary”, A.J. Crowley, serpent of Eden and one of Hell’s best (or worst) demons, replied.

“But it's everywhere. All over here.” He paused briefly as the shadow of a tall tree passed over the car, then continued: “Love. Flashes of love.”

The duo were currently driving through Hogback Wood, near Tadfield. Outside the 1933 Bentley’s windows, the sun had already set, and the narrow gravel road was lit only by the moonlight, the occasional dim streetlamp and the vibrant glow of the headlights. While Crowley didn’t need to use the lights, Aziraphale was more comfortable when they were on, and the demon did not necessarily want to damage his car.

“You're being ridiculous.” The redhead turned to look at his angelic companion, as the yellow glow of a roadside lantern illuminated his curly white hair, making it look like he was wearing a halo.

“Well, it is a quaint little village. I’m sure the inhabitants treat it with care.”

“Have you seen the roads? Dustier than the desert, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

They continued on in silence, both lost in thought. Though they didn’t talk, both knew what the other was thinking about – the result of a nearly 6000 year-long friendship. Also, it was the only topic on their minds as of late: the impending Apocalypse that was sure to wipe out humanity; the final battle between Heaven and Hell, and it was up to them to stop it.

However, they had lost the key to averting Doomsday, and, after watching over the wrong boy for years, now had to find the correct Antichrist before he came into his power – which had happened yesterday. So, it was all going as wrong as it could go.

Crowley broke the silence. “Last thing we need right now is-” A dull thud, a scream and a fast-moving shadow had him slamming his foot onto the brakes. Within seconds, the car came to a halt. Aziraphale glared at him. 

“You hit someone”, he accused.

“I didn't. Someone hit me”, Crowley clarified.

Rolling his eyes, the angel stepped out of the car. Crossing over to the roadside, he peered down into the ditch. Two shadows moved in the dark. Aziraphale sighed gratefully and snapped his fingers, saying: “Let there be light!”

A low baritone answered from the ground: “How the hell did you do that?”

A second, somewhat rougher voice answered: “I think I might have a concussion.”

Chapter Text

One hour earlier

The Hound growled at the small group gathered in Dewer’s Hollow. Its red eyes gleamed, saliva dripping out its mouth. John Watson’s revolver remained steadily trained on its heaving torso, though his heart was racing in fear. Sherlock had said that the Hound was an illusion. The drugs should have worn off by now. But why was he still able to see it?

“Oh my God!”, yelled D.I. Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes rushed up the slope, firmly convinced it was just an illusion. But if he was certain they’d all been drugged, and Lestrade hadn’t, how could he see it?

Just before the detective reached the top, the Hound snarled. It lurched forwards, its teeth only inches from Sherlock’s nose. Surprised, he lost his grip on the tree root, tumbling back down the steep hill. He rolled on, stopping only when he crashed into John’s legs. The latter gasped in shock, shortly losing his aim, but quickly recovered.

Growling, the beast advanced. The four men stared, frozen in shock.

Henry Knight was the first to move. He sprinted away into the forest, away from the Hound that had terrified him all these years.

Lestrade glanced down at the detective, who was still lying on the ground, and his companion, whose gun was still aimed at the snarling beast. Coming to a decision, he gripped his flashlight tighter and chased after Henry, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

Now, the Hound was climbing down the slope, finding footholds that shouldn’t have been able to carry its weight. Its red eyes glowed as its mouth frothed. Sherlock scrambled to stand up, gripping John’s arm, his flashlight illuminating the bony body coming ever closer.

“How-”, John started weakly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, John!”, Sherlock sputtered, panicky. He was sure that the drugs couldn’t be affecting them anymore.

The great dog had now reached the bottom of Dewer’s Hollow and stared at the pair. Fog partly obscured its torso, the eyes now as bright as the headlights of a car.

Suddenly, it jumped forwards with a large leap. John screamed.

Sherlock’s grip tightened on his partner’s wrist. He turned away, pulling the shorter man with him. Joined at the hands, they bolted up the slope, which was thankfully not as steep on the other side. Narrowly avoiding the trees, they continued through the forest, startling at every shift of the light. The ground was covered by fog, and they each stumbled more than once; the other always pulling them along. Away. They had to get away. It was true, why hadn’t Sherlock realised that? Of course it would be, who knew what they truly did behind those closed gates and high walls.

They ran for what felt like hours, not seeing any other people; the Hound still chasing them; fog still thick as a blanket.

John tugged Sherlock to the right, where the former could just barely make out a dim glow. It could be another evil creature, but the possibility of it being a street light was larger. And street lights meant a road, and roads meant civilization. Surely the beast wouldn’t follow them into a village?

They descended down the hill, slipping on the leaves and tripping over roots obscured by the ever-persistent fog. In front of them, a gravel road was just barely visible, with a narrow street lamp lighting it up. A brighter glow could be seen on the right, but the duo paid no attention, running towards the streetlight.

With a gasp, they broke free of the trees and thus of the fog, finally getting closer to the road. Sherlock glanced to the right, and had just enough time to give a surprised shout, before a sleek black something barrelled into them.

John grunted as his hand was ripped out of Sherlock’s, who flipped over the hood of the car – for it had to be a car, moving at such speeds – and tumbled down the other side of the road, John following close behind.

Sliding further down the roadside ditch, they slowly came to a standstill. John groaned, lifting his head in search of Sherlock.

Somewhere behind, a screech and dull thud sounded through the night. Then, a soft voice said something, and a glaring light shone down from above.

Sherlock groaned, the light burning through his closed eyes. “How the hell did you do that?”, he wheezed.

John’s voice replied from somewhere to the left, slightly slurred: “I think I might have a concussion.”

Chapter Text

Crowley snapped his fingers, successfully extinguishing the divine light. He leaned against the Bentley’s open door as the angel descended down the ditch, towards the two figures.

By now, John had sat up, and was crawling towards Sherlock. Upon seeing Aziraphale approach, he gripped his gun. The detective raised a flashlight, shining it right into the angel’s blue eyes. Aziraphale smiled in what he hoped to be a calming manner, squinting slightly.

“Be not afraid”, he said. “I apologize for my companion’s driving skills.”

John stared. Who was this man?, he thought, and grimaced as his head began to pound, the world shortly turning sideways.
Sherlock dimmed the light when he realized it was hurting his partner. “Who are you?”, he asked.

“My name is-”, Aziraphale began, but was cut off by Crowley.

“Are they alive?”, he called down, somewhat sarcastically.

“Yes. Miraculously, they’re not even injured.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why had the peculiar man dressed like a 20th century grandfather, who almost definitely had something to do with this whole incident, pronounced that so strangely? He immediately started noticing other things, like the golden chain of a pocket watch, a small gold ring around his little finger, and the tartan-plaid bowtie (who even wore that nowadays? Maybe he truly was a 20th century grandfather…). Also, his straight-backed posture indicated that he either held a position of power, or had to respond to high authority.
John groaned and stood up, extending a hand to help Sherlock up, all while keeping his gun trained on Aziraphale. When the angel raised a questioning eyebrow, he lowered it to his side; still wary, but not wanting to seem prone to violence. Sherlock’s arm wrapped around his lower back, steadying him.

Aziraphale turned towards the red-haired demon, then back around. “Is there anywhere we can take you? You seem in no condition to walk.” Crowley groaned.

“That would be appreciated”, John said slowly. “The Cross Keys pub in Dartmoor, please.”

“Oh, are you tourists?” He ignored Sherlock’s, ‘Not really’, and kept talking: “How lovely. Very well, then; come along!” With that, the blond led the way up to the Bentley, where Crowley opened the back door. When the other two had settled in and the door closed, the demon turned to his companion.

“Just to make this clear: we are not going to start helping random strangers. They’ll notice, down there.”

Aziraphale nodded curtly. “I know. But we can’t just leave them there. They looked like they’d been running from something.” His face lit up, and Crowley rolled his head back. He knew that look: the angel had just had an Idea. “Perhaps they’re criminals! If you told down below that you helped a pair of criminals – which is a very demonic thing to do, by the way – they can’t say anything!”

Crowley curled his lip. “This is a one-time thing, angel, alright? Now let’s go.” They got into the car, and the demon started driving in the general direction of Dartmoor. A quick calculation later, he told everybody to hold on tight. “We’ll be going slightly above the speed limit. Does anyone get motion sickness?” When everyone shook their heads, he pressed the pedal to the floor.

The Bentley lurched forwards, its speed dial going from 50 mph to 150 mph to 300 mph! Thankfully, the only other drivers on the road at 1 a.m. could be removed with a short demonic miracle. Aziraphale glared at him, but didn’t say anything. The humans in the backseat didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, and he preferred to keep it that way.

Chapter Text

They had returned to the pub sometime around three in the morning. Aziraphale stood in front of the Bentley, watching Sherlock and John approach the door. Crowley remained in the driver’s seat, glaring out the windshield.

“Can we get on, now?”, he groaned.

“Just a minute, my dear boy.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, which Aziraphale couldn’t see, since his back was turned and the demon wore his ever-permanent sunglasses.

Sherlock pounded on the door, with John wincing at every dull, yet loud thud. The detective’s arm was wrapped around his partner’s shoulders again, steadying him. 

The door creaked open. “Who the hell-”, the owner started to say, blinking at them with tired eyes, then stared. “What the hell?”

Sherlock cracked a smile, then promptly slumped against John. 

– – – –

Half an hour later – the Bentley had already driven off long ago – the two men sat in John’s room, a bowl of ice, two water bottles and multiple towels and bandages on the bed beside them. Sherlock had woken up shortly after entering, and now sat in the comfortable armchair next to John’s bed, on which the other man was perched, cutting up a bandage.

Sherlock pressed a cool cloth to his head, and took a painkiller, swallowing it swiftly with a huge gulp of water. He grimaced, and tilted his head back. Suddenly, he shot forwards, grabbing at another cloth. 

John jumped, then quickly moved to take the cloth off of Sherlock’s forehead, using it to wrap up a few ice cubes, then pressed it to the back of his neck, as the detective’s nose had started to bleed.

Once the curly-haired man was settled in, John also swallowed a painkiller.

A little while later, after both mens’ injuries had been tended to, Sherlock lay down on John’s bed as the latter went to grab some clothes – the detective’s usual attire was ripped in multiple places, and covered in dirt. John’s jeans and jacket were in a similar state, so he also grabbed his pajamas.

They changed, then lay down, back to back, on the bed, which was definitely too small for two grown men, but neither could be bothered to move.

When John’s quiet, deep breathing filled the room, Sherlock turned around and draped his arm across his partner’s shoulders, finally falling into an exhausted slumber.

However, their sleep was plagued with nightmares of a hellish beast, snarling and ripping bodies apart. Unbeknownst to them, these weren’t just dreams, but visions of a possible future, one that involved things that they couldn’t control, and that they were now a part of.

Chapter Text

Three weeks later

The flat was quiet, save for the soft tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. The fire crackled lazily, casting warm light over the room, but the weight of recent events hung between Sherlock and John like the thick fog rolling in from the Thames. The case had been solved, but the remnants of that strange night—especially the encounter with the strange pair in the Bentley—still lingered heavily between them.

Sherlock stood by the window, staring out at the rain-soaked streets of London. His sharp eyes scanned the passing pedestrians, but his mind was elsewhere, back in the Devonshire moor, racing through the fog with John, trying to outrun the beast that had stalked them.

John broke the silence, a tired sigh escaping as he flipped through the pages of a medical journal. "You ever think we should’ve been a little more worried about the car ?"

Sherlock glanced over at him, his mind returning to the moment they’d been nearly run down by that absurdly old Bentley. "I’ve been thinking about it. Quite a lot, actually."

John raised an eyebrow. "The car?"

"Not just the car," Sherlock said, walking back to his chair, his tone quieter now. "The people inside it. They weren’t… quite right. They seemed almost… too perfect."

"You mean the redhead and the blond?"

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, the intensity of his focus turning inward as he tried to piece together the mystery. "Yes. They weren’t just eccentric or odd. They were wrong . It wasn’t just the way they appeared—though that, too. The way they moved. The fact that they seemed… as though they’d never existed in the first place."

John shook his head, looking at Sherlock like he was seeing him for the first time. "We were being chased by a bloody hound that seemed straight out of a nightmare, and you’re obsessing over the car ?"

Sherlock’s lips curled into a small smile, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "I’m not obsessing over the car, John. I’m obsessing over the people inside it." He paused, his brow furrowing as he replayed the scene in his mind. "Do you remember how they didn’t really care? About the hound, about us being nearly trampled by them—sure, they asked if we were okay, but still. It was as though they had more important things on their minds."

John leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire for a moment. "I remember the look on their faces. They seemed distracted. It was like they knew that almost running us over wouldn’t really matter."

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. And then the way they left. The Bentley just… disappeared. I checked the driveway in the morning: no tire tracks, no sign they’d even been there. It was… unnatural ."

"You think they had something to do with the hound?" John asked, leaning forward.

Sherlock’s eyes glittered with an unusual intensity. "You’re getting better. Of course they did. That whole night… nothing added up. And they were an even stranger anomaly."

John rubbed his forehead. "But what exactly were they doing there? And why the hell were they in that car?"

Sherlock took a slow breath, as if weighing his next words carefully. "I think the car belonged to the redhead. But I don’t think they were there for us. I think we were… collateral damage. An afterthought."

John shot him a puzzled look. "Collateral damage? But they helped us, didn’t they?"

"They assisted ," Sherlock corrected. "But only because their interests aligned with ours for a moment. They were invested in something far bigger than we were. Something that had nothing to do with us personally."

John chuckled under his breath. "That’s one hell of a conspiracy theory, Sherlock. A couple of strange people show up, almost run us over, and it’s all part of a bigger plan? What are you getting at?"

Sherlock stood up again, pacing, his hands moving as if he were putting together a complicated equation only he could see. "Think about it. The hound was part of something designed. It wasn’t just an illusion, Lestrade could see it too. Yet it didn’t appear naturally—it had to have been created . And created by whom? Who could create something so terrifying, so unnatural, so… powerful?"

John was quiet for a moment, absorbing Sherlock’s words. "You think they created the hound?" The very idea seemed impossible, in his eyes.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "But I think they were there to stop it. To contain it. Whatever it was, it was never meant to be unleashed. And when we—" he stopped mid-sentence, a spark of realization flashing in his eyes. "John. They only helped us because they knew what we’d been running from. So either they wanted us to interact with it as little as possible, or they wanted to contain it themselves, but I’m very sure that they have something to do with the hound.”

John leaned back in his chair, a slow exhale escaping him. "Well. That’s… certainly one way of looking at it."

Sherlock turned to face him. "That’s the only way to look at it. I’ve met very few people—even in dark forests—that leave an imprint like that. They don’t just vanish into thin air like that without reason."

"And what’s the reason, then?" John asked, his tone skeptical but intrigued.

"I don’t know," Sherlock said quietly, his gaze now distant. "But I’m going to find out."

John shook his head with a grin. "You’re mad, you know that?"

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a wry smile. "You’ve told me that before."

The fire crackled in the hearth as they fell into a thoughtful silence, the case now over, but the questions about that night only just beginning to take root.

Chapter Text

The doorbell to 221B rang, followed by a frantic set of footsteps running up the stairs. Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was reading, and, in one swift motion, moved to the door and opened it.

John stood there, his arm poised to knock. His eyes were wide, and he was slightly out of breath. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Just got a call from the hospital: one of their patients was found dead in an abandoned tube station, covered in blood. The police haven’t touched anything, so they don’t know the cause of death. The patient has no criminal records, and, according to the police, no enemies.”

Sherlock grinned. “So no obvious physical harm was done. Which tube station?”

“Like I said, it’s not being used anymore and was shut down about 50 years ago, but it’s on Villiers Street. Across from Starbucks.”

“Wonderful! Is the body still there?”

“Yeah, they didn’t move anything. I hope.”

Sherlock was already at the door, then turned back and grabbed his coat. He looked at John. “You coming?”

“I was just waiting for you to ask.”

– – – –

Sherlock and John stepped out of the cab at the coffee shop. The detective started off across the road, leaving the doctor to pay. They rejoined in front of the Embankment Park gates.

The brick building next to the park was surrounded by police officers who were keeping away the tourists and citizens wanting to get a glance behind the yellow police tape. Sherlock raised said tape, letting John pass before he also stepped onto the crime scene. He was greeted by Sergeant Donovan, who reluctantly opened the green metal door. A faint musty smell alerted them to the presence of a body.

“It’s been here for a while, but not too long. An hour, maybe two”, John said.

They descended down the iron steps, nodding to the officer at the foot of the stairs. John opened another door, and immediately stepped back, covering his nose. “Perhaps a bit longer than an hour, then.”

Sherlock stepped through, his face covered by his turned-up coat collar. Pulling on a pair of blue surgical gloves, he walked around the room, observing and analysing. John immediately went over to look at the dead person.

They were dressed all in white and light grey: white shoes, white pants, a light grey waistcoat and a white blazer. Their blond curly hair was cut short, in a sort of bob. Because they were lying face down, John couldn’t see their expression.

Sherlock nodded every once in a while, muttering things like ‘interesting’ and ‘that’ll do’. He then proceeded to move to the body, examining every inch of the back.

Together, the duo flipped it over, and stared. The eyes were open, revealing the brightest blue irises: so blue, they were almost white. The pupils were comically large, their face frozen in a shocked expression. The victim had most likely been poisoned, because they were frothing at the mouth, white foam covering perfectly shaped pink lips. The only thing that indicated that they had fallen forwards (and not set down in that position, as John had been suspecting) was the bruised nose, bent slightly to the right.

But the most striking thing was the halo, still faintly glowing like embers, floating an inch above their head, and the wings, white as snow, but charred at the tips, that had unfurled when they’d flipped the body over.

– – – –

The buzzing fluorescent lights of Scotland Yard hummed above Sherlock’s tousled head as he pored over the crime scene photographs for the third time. John leaned on the desk beside him, arms crossed, his hair still slightly damp from the persistent London drizzle.

“Underground station,” John muttered. “Abandoned since the '60s. And yet someone—or something—killed a being in there. Left it arranged like some sort of… offering.”

Sherlock didn’t look up. “An angel. Wings outstretched. Feathers singed at the edges. You saw it too.”

“I saw someone with some very convincing prosthetics and a lot of bad luck.”

Sherlock spun the photograph around. “Burn marks on the stone. No source of ignition. No signs of forced entry or exit. No CCTV, of course. The place is a blind spot in the city’s eye.”

Lestrade had called it “bloody weird” and then immediately passed it off to forensics. But Sherlock wasn’t letting this one go.

“I think I need some air,” John said, pushing off the desk. “Come on, we’ll walk. You can rant to the ducks.”

– – – –

St. James’ Park wore its early autumn coat—leaves the colour of rust and gold lined the paths, but a few trees were still green. The two men walked in silence at first, the weight of unanswered questions hanging between them. Then, facing the pond, they spotted a peculiar pair seated on a wooden bench.

The one on the left was a pale, bow-tied man in a cream coat, hands folded primly in his lap. The other lounged beside him in head-to-toe black, boots scuffed and sunglasses firmly in place despite the overcast skies. The two were talking quietly, but as Sherlock and John approached, both turned in perfect unison.

“Lovely weather for something ominous,” the red-haired one said, smirking.

The blond man looked mildly apologetic. “Sorry. My associate is… fond of melodrama.”

John offered a polite greeting, but Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Do we know each other?”

“We’ve crossed paths,” the man on the left said. “Once. During the Incident. You may not remember. My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened as he shook their hands. “The Accident. Dartmoor. The hound.”

Aziraphale’s smile twitched. “That was… tangentially related.”

Crowley chuckled. “You could say it was part of a larger pattern. One you’re starting to see, detective.”

John glanced between them. “Wait, are you saying there’s a connection between… the Baskerville thing and what we found in the Underground?”

“Nothing is ever truly isolated,” Aziraphale said softly. “Everything touches everything else.”

Sherlock crouched down in front of them. “The ‘offering’ in the station—wings, scorched stone, the look on the victim’s face. Like they’d seen God.”

“That’s one interpretation,” Crowley remarked.

“You know what it was,” Sherlock said. “You’re not just theorizing.”

“We’ve been around a long time,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley gestured with his hand. “Let’s just say we’ve got good instincts for when the End might be nigh.”

John snorted. “You think this is another Armageddon?”

Crowley gave a sharp grin. “You only get so many dress rehearsals before someone forgets to call curtains.”

Sherlock stood abruptly. “You’re not normal.”

“Well… no, but we try to pass,” Aziraphale said, standing too, brushing off his coat. “Quite successfully, if I may say so.”

“Come to 221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said. “Both of you. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you’re… not being cryptic. I have questions. A case.”

Crowley raised a brow. “And here we thought this was just a social visit.”

“It never is,” Sherlock replied.

Chapter Text

The door to 221B creaked open with a theatrical slowness that Sherlock found immediately suspicious.

“Evening,” Crowley drawled, stepping in first. He pushed his sunglasses farther up the bridge of his nose as if the dim hallway light might still offend him. Aziraphale followed, clutching a faded green, leather-bound book that seemed both old and recently dusted.

John rose from his chair by the fireplace, mug in hand. “Glad you could make it. Tea?”

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Wine?” Crowley asked hopefully.

Sherlock, who had been seated in his thinking chair, hands steepled and eyes closed, spoke without opening them. “You’re not human.”

Crowley arched a brow. “We’ve been over this.” He rested his arm on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“No, you claimed that. I’ve deduced it.”

John returned from the kitchen, handed the angel a mug of tea, and gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Claiming is bravado. Deducing is evidence. For example: your pulse, Aziraphale, is inconsistent with any known human rhythm. Too steady. Too… eternal. Your pupils react to no change in light. Your footsteps make no sound. And you smell faintly of parchment and ozone.”

Aziraphale’s expression turned sheepish. “I do own a bookshop”, he feebly offered an explanation.

“You are, for lack of a better term,” Sherlock continued, eyes now open and gleaming, “too angelic.”

John choked on his tea.

“And you,” Sherlock turned his gaze to Crowley, “are trying very hard to seem otherwise.”

Crowley smirked. “Can’t fault a demon for sticking to the brand.”

Sherlock rose slowly, pacing. “The body in the station. The wings. The fire. Either someone’s sending a message, or something went very wrong. You—” He pointed at Aziraphale. “—radiate a kind of… guilt.”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. “I do not radiate anything.”

Sherlock turned on Crowley. “And you’ve got the look of someone who’s recently made a mess and doesn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed.”

“I always look like that,” Crowley said, flopping onto a chair.

“You’ve done something,” Sherlock insisted. “Something that—”

“Oh, come off it,” John interrupted, walking between them. “Look, Sherlock. I know you’re running on adrenaline and paranoia, but use that brilliant brain for a second. If Crowley did something terrible, do you really think he’d be this obvious about it?”

Crowley gave a little two-finger salute.

John gestured at him. “He wants to be bad. He leans into the image. But you saw how he watched Aziraphale. And how Aziraphale watches him back. That’s not evil. That’s two people—uh, celestial entities—trying to do their best for each other.”

Aziraphale looked flustered. “Thank you, Doctor Watson. That’s… very kind.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So he’s not evil. Just playing the part.”

Crowley tipped his head. “Bit of both. Depends on the day.”

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Fine. Let’s say—for argument’s sake—you didn’t cause what happened. You still haven’t told me what did.”

“We don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. “That’s the truth. We came because… well, you’re a specialist in strange puzzles.”

Crowley stood. “And if someone’s staging angelic corpses in the Tube, we figured it was time to get the brainiac involved.”

Sherlock looked unconvinced. “You’ve still told me nothing useful.”

“Isn’t that what your job’s for?” Crowley said with a smirk.

John moved to the door. “Alright, I think that’s our cue. You’ve got what you came for—or at least dropped enough mystery dust on us to chew over for a while.”

Crowley sauntered to the stairs. “Pleasure as always.”

Aziraphale paused before following. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Holmes. If… things get worse.”

“I expect they will,” Sherlock said softly.

The door clicked shut behind them.

– – – –

For a long moment, silence. Then John walked back to the fireplace, tossing another log on the embers.

“They’re not lying,” he said. “Not really.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He stood near the window, eyes scanning the street like he expected the pair to dissolve into smoke.

“Sherlock?”

“They’re not human,” he muttered. “That’s obvious. But there’s something else. Something neither of them said.”

John sighed. “You haven’t slept in two days.”

“I’m aware.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking this.”

Sherlock turned back, his eyes shadowed. “Or maybe I’m not thinking hard enough.”

John raised his mug. “Try sleeping first. Think later.”

Sherlock gave a vague, distracted nod. But even as he finally sank into his chair, fingers steepled, his mind was racing. There was something off about both of them—something not just supernatural, but ineffable.

And Sherlock Holmes hated not knowing what game was being played.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was organising a shelf of ancient-looking volumes when the door to his bookshop creaked open. Crowley sauntered in, his sunglasses perched firmly on his nose despite the overcast sky.

Aziraphale didn’t even look up, though he could tell the moment his companion entered by the way the air seemed to grow warmer and the faint scent of burnt rubber followed him inside.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed in his usual soft voice, “must you be so dramatic every time you walk in?”

Crowley grinned. “You know I enjoy it. Keeps things interesting.”

Aziraphale set a particularly large volume in its place and then turned to face him. “What’s troubling you now?”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and perched them on the desk, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, nothing much. Just thinking about that bloody detective.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes? You’re thinking about him?"

“Of course I am.” Crowley shifted, running a hand through his wild hair. “He’s figured us out, you know. He knows there’s something off about us. I can feel it. The way he looked at us in that park, like he was piecing us together in a way even I can’t make sense of…” Crowley clicked his tongue in irritation. “He’s not an idiot, you know. Far from it.”

Aziraphale, who had been carefully shelving a new batch of books, paused for a moment before replying. “I had a feeling he might be a bit too observant for his own good.”

Crowley let out a low sigh, his lips curling slightly. “You think? I’m starting to think it might be the start of a big problem. What if he starts poking around too much? Sherlock seems like the type who doesn’t stop until he has all the pieces. And we... well, we’re hardly normal people.”

Aziraphale smiled faintly, a flicker of something warm in his eyes. "No, we're not. But I don't think Sherlock will figure it out completely. He’s clever, yes, but there are certain things even he can’t see. He’s a man of logic, after all. And we don’t quite fit into that world, do we?"

“Sure, that’s why I spent most of our meeting trying to resist the urge to drag him into a new timeline where everyone’s a goldfish and can’t remember anything.” Crowley chuckled dryly, pushing himself away from the desk. “But... you're right. There’s something about him, Aziraphale. He’s more aware than most. And when he said that thing about you being too angelic...”

Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly, the slight smile fading into something more reflective. “Yes, I noticed that too. He’s not wrong. He’s far more perceptive than I thought.”

"Then why didn’t you say something?" Crowley snapped. "I mean, really, you could have made us seem just a bit more… you know, earthly. All that talk about angelic and demonic images—" He made a vague gesture, his hand flailing in the air like a mad conductor. “It was enough to make even me squirm.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I was doing my best to remain—" He hesitated, glancing up at Crowley. "—discreet."

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Well, your discretion didn't work too well, did it? I could see it in his eyes. He knew something wasn’t right. He’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to figure it out. He will put the pieces together, and when he does…” Crowley trailed off, his voice growing a little more serious.

Aziraphale sat down at his desk, smoothing the pages of an old book. "Then we deal with it, I suppose." He said it as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “If it comes to that.”

Crowley bent over him, resting his hands on the chair’s armrests. “You always have the answer to everything, don’t you?”, he remarked sarcastically.

Aziraphale gulped and leaned his head back slightly. “I don’t have an answer, Crowley. But I know one thing—Sherlock Holmes is going to be a big problem for us if we let him dig too deep.”

"Do you think he'll do anything about it? If he does figure us out?" Crowley asked as he stood up, his voice lowering slightly, the usual sarcasm replaced with a strange uncertainty.

Aziraphale put the book down and gave Crowley a long, almost concerned look. “I don’t know. But if he does…” He paused, turning away slightly as if to shield himself from some truth he wasn't quite ready to confront. "I don’t think he’ll be able to stop what’s coming."

Crowley gave a quiet laugh, though it didn’t sound entirely amused. "No, I suppose not. No one can stop it, can they?"

Aziraphale turned back to him sharply. “Don’t say that. You know we’re not—”

Crowley’s lips twitched upward, but his eyes were far too serious. “No. I know.” He crossed his arms. “Armageddon. It’s coming. Whether we like it or not. And the more we try to stop it, the more it seems to drag us in.”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, fingers slowly drumming against the wooden desk. "Yes. But I wonder… if he will be part of it, somehow. Sherlock Holmes. He’s always looking for the truth, isn’t he? And what if he sees what’s coming? What if he’s a piece of this grand puzzle we’re all trying to avoid?"

Crowley didn’t respond immediately. The weight of Aziraphale’s words hung in the air like an unspoken truth neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Armageddon was looming—like a shadow they couldn’t escape, no matter how many times they tried to outwit fate.

After a long pause, Crowley spoke, his tone unusually quiet. “Maybe. But that’s something we’ll have to deal with when the time comes, right?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, but even he could feel the unsettling truth of Crowley’s words. Armageddon was a certainty. The only question was: When?

Chapter Text

When Lestrade had wheeled the body into St. Bart’s morgue, Molly Hooper hadn’t thought anything would be out of the ordinary. However, after she had peeled back the cover and looked into the being’s pale face and bright blue eyes, with the still slightly glowing halo and the singed wings, she had immediately called upon the only one who she knew could make sense of the situation, not knowing that he already had looked at the bizarre phenomenon.

Now, Sherlock stooped over the body, using his magnifying glass and a surgical knife to examine it even closer. John and Molly stood off to the side, the former flipping through medical journals, and the latter clutching a cup of now-cold coffee.

“What did he mean when he said that he hadn’t seen everything?”, the young surgeon asked.

John glanced over to the raven-haired man, who was now clipping feathers from the wings. “Well, it was found in an abandoned tube station near Villiers Street. We’d already looked at it, but there’s only so much you can do in public, especially without precise tools. So, he’s looking at it closer now.”

Molly nodded, though she seemed slightly skeptical. “Won’t he take off the glowing headband?”

“Oh, he tried. Turns out it’s a real halo; he couldn’t even touch it without ‘feeling the fading spark of something unnatural’, in his words.”

“So, that’s… a real angel?”

“Until we find a different conclusion, yes.” During their conversation, the retired army doctor had set the journal down, and was now scrolling through yesterday’s digital ‘London Times’.

“Got it!”, he suddenly exclaimed. Sherlock rushed over to stand behind him, looking at the article over John’s shoulder.

“Tuesday, 7 September 2013
Manchester hit by bizarre sleet storm in early autumn

Manchester faced commuter chaos yesterday after a sudden, unexplained sleet storm iced over streets in the early hours—despite forecasts predicting mild autumn weather.

No warning was issued before temperatures plummeted below freezing, leading to travel delays and dozens of minor and major injuries. The Met Office is calling it a ‘climatic anomaly,’ while social media swirls with theories ranging from ‘mini ice age’ to ‘celestial mix-up.’

CCTV captured two mysterious figures strolling calmly through the worst of it—one in all black, the other suspiciously overdressed for fall. Authorities declined to comment.

Locals say they’ve never seen anything like it. ‘It felt... deliberate,’ said one witness. ‘Like someone up there missed a deadline.’

The Met Office will be on the lookout for further unusual occurrences. Until then, any and all explanations are welcome.”

Sherlock looked up. “Well, those two figures certainly sound like our acquaintances, don’t they?”

John nodded. “They do, actually. Do you want to talk to them?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it’s no use. I doubt they’ll be any more open than last week. We’ll wait and see if any more strange phenomena happen, maybe even near here. Then we’ll visit them, see what they have to say. Meanwhile, I’m not quite finished with our little friend here…” 

Still muttering something about ‘unreliable sources’ and ‘why do I have to do everything around here’, the consulting detective moved back to pace around the angel, leaving John and a very bewildered Molly, who had read the article over John’s other shoulder, to share a look.

“Well, at least I’m not the only one who doesn’t always understand him”, Molly quipped.

“Yeah, he’s a bit extra. But you also don’t have all the facts, and as much as I’d like to tell you everything, I believe he’d behead me.”

Molly cracked a smile. “Sure. Well, if you’re staying here with him, I’ve got another, hopefully normal, body to examine.”

With a wave, she exited through the morgue’s swinging doors, leaving the doctor alone with his partner, who had now turned the angel over and was investigating their back.

Chapter Text

A knock on the door alerted Sherlock to the presence of the demon and the angel whom he had invited. John opened it, letting them in with a nod of his head.

Crowley and Aziraphale sat down on the couch that Sherlock pointed them to, as the doctor moved to the kitchen to heat the kettle.

Sherlock stood up and moved to look out the window. He studied the street silently, his lips pursed.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a glance. The detective surely had questions, so why wasn’t he asking them?

John returned and placed a mug of tea on the table, then stood at the fireplace, facing them.

“You’re… not going to talk?”, Crowley broke the silence. No reaction. Sherlock shifted his weight into his left foot.

“Right. Well, guess we can go, then.”

John moved to the door, leaning against it. A clear sign , thought Aziraphale.

“Um. If this is about the dead angel, I can assure you, we have nothing to do with it. And nothing with the weather, either.”

“Well… the weather may be partly my fault”, Crowley admitted. “They’re not too fond of me right now, down there.”

“But we don’t know anything about the angel. It wasn’t someone I know- knew.”

The only reaction they got was John throwing Sherlock a glance, but the two men remained silent.

Minutes passed and the flat was quiet. No noise came up from the streets.

Aziraphale stood up. “Right. This is silly. We’ve both got better things to do than sit around in silence all day.”

He made to walk to the door, when Sherlock spoke up.

“Was it a warning?”

“Wot?”, Crowley asked.

“The angel. Was it a warning?”, Sherlock repeated.

“No? At least, we don’t think so.”

“Right. So the whole thing—the strange weather, the dead angel—has nothing to do with your comment about the ‘ End times ’, Crowley?”

“Wha- but- n-no”, the demon sputtered. “That was- that was a sarcastic remark!”

He looked at Aziraphale, who mouthed something that looked like ‘discreet’ . Crowley nodded. 

“I was… feeling a bit under the weather that day. I’m not usually so… what’s the word? Melodramatic.”

Aziraphale coughed, though it sounded a lot like ‘ yes, you are ’.

John looked at the angel. “And you certainly don’t know anything about Armageddon?”

“Why would I?”, he smiled in a way that was supposed to look calm and reassuring, but had the opposite effect, making him look stressed.

“Because someone saw you in your bookshop, talking to the exact angel, just a day before it was found dead.”

Chapter Text

“How did they know I’d been talking to that angel last week?” Aziraphale paced through the bookshop, his hands clasped behind his back.

Crowley lounged on a winged armchair, holding a glass of Bordeaux wine. A second glass stood untouched on the angel’s desk. “Did you make sure no one was around?”, the demon asked.

Aziraphale looked at him. “Of course! The only way anyone could have seen us talking would have been through the back door, but I’d pulled the blinds down!” He paused. “Well, at one point, I realized I’d forgotten to close the curtains on the front door, but why would anyone want to look through the window of a clearly closed bookshop?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Because humans are curious and always want to investigate things?” He leaned forwards and placed his glass on the desk. “Also, if our dear friend Mr. Holmes employed someone to spy on us, I don’t think closed curtains would keep them out.”

Aziraphale stopped pacing, and leaned against a bookshelf. He nodded slowly. “Right. So you’re saying someone followed me here, watched me talk with Sauriel, and reported back to Mr. Holmes.”

Crowley nodded. “Yep.”

“Right. Remind me: exactly why do humans have to be so curious?”

“Why does Armageddon have to happen so soon?”

Aziraphale’s answer came quickly: “Because neither of our sides can influence it.”

“Well, they could. Ya know, Heaven could just call off the war. Hell’d be really happy if they didn’t have to fight.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. It’s been prophesied for centuries: the final battle between Heaven and Hell will come.”

“Yes, but does it have to happen now?” Crowley stood up and gestured wildly as he continued. “They’ve had—what? Decades?— to prepare for this. We’re immortal, for Satan’s sake! Time doesn’t matter to us! But it does matter to the humans. So why not wait a few more decades? Then the nosy detective will be gone, no one could interfere, and it would all go according to plan! Or, as well as it can go. So, please! If you desperately want that war; if you want to fight for a side you don’t know if you’re really on—oh, don’t say anything, Aziraphale! I’ve spent more time with you than all of the angels together. I can tell when you don’t agree with something. So please, there’s no way you’re still blindly following them!

“Anyways, my point is: if you want that war so badly, fine! So be it! But I am not fighting in it.”

Crowley stood in front of the window, his chest heaving. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and now glared at Aziraphale, who stood with his mouth agape and eyes wide, hands fidgeting restlessly by his side. He coughed.

“Crowley, please. I know you’re worked up—“

“I’m worked up? Aziraphale, you should listen to yourself!”

“Yes! Please, Crowley, just let me talk, alright? This is stressful for all of us. But Earth has always been doomed to die out. And if God feels like now is the right time, then we need to go with it!”

“You—,” Crowley swallowed forcefully. “You still blindly trust Them, even though They’ve never given you anything? That’s like— that’s like following a stranger you met on the internet, hoping they’ll lead you to a safe place! Aziraphale, it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Right. Well, I guess demons and angels can’t work together, then.”

Crowley froze, a cold shiver running down his spine. “What?”

“We have completely different principles! It doesn’t work!”

Crowley shoved his glasses back onto his nose. “Fine.”

He started towards the door. “Fine”, he repeated. “I’ll see you on the battlefield, then. Good luck stopping Armageddon on your own.”

“Likewise.”

The door slammed shut behind the fuming demon, leaving Aziraphale alone in his shop.

Chapter Text

The rain hammered down as John stepped out of the grocery store. He swore as he pulled his hood up, holding the bag of groceries in his other hand.

Starting off across the street, he narrowly avoided being drenched by a car passing through a puddle.

Suddenly, he doubled over in pain, the groceries spilling from their bag. Cars honked at the man kneeling in the middle of the road.

A tall figure loomed over John, shielding him from the rain and oncoming cars.

“You okay, mate?“, the man asked with a Cockney accent. When he got no response except for John clutching his head tighter, he tapped him on the shoulder. “Can I help you?“

John looked up. “221B“, he gasped.

The stranger looked around and spotted the glossy black door with the gold door knocker. Gently, he settled John‘s arm around his shoulders and picked up the plastic bag. Meanwhile, other passersby had stopped the cars, allowing the two men to safely cross the road.

The door to 221B opened and Sherlock rushed out, Mrs. Hudson close behind him. Together, they all managed to carry John, who was now unconscious, up the stairs and settled him on the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson hurried off to prepare tea and get the first-aid kit, while the stranger stood around awkwardly.

“Er- will he be alright?“, he asked.

Mrs. Hudson had returned during Mr. Young‘s introduction and now fussed over John, while Sherlock tried to wake him up.

“Thank you for your help, sir“, he said without looking up. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Is there anything else I can help you with?“

“Uh, no, not really. It was all just a coincidence, you see.”

Sherlock glanced up. “Are you superstitious?”, he asked.

The man was taken aback. “Well, I- sorry, what?”

“Do you believe in fate, spirits, that kind of thing?”

“Ah. No. I mean, there’s always a scientific explanation to all those supposed sightings, is there?”

“Mhm. Yes.” Sherlock stood up. “Well, once again, thank you.”

The man nodded and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Can I help you in any way?”

"Oh, no, thank you. We’ll be alright. Good day!”

The man nodded and exited the flat.

“Well, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of taking care of John on your own. I promised my niece I’d visit today, so I do need to get going.” Mrs. Hudson left through the kitchen door.

– – – –

John’s eyes blinked open. Slowly, the ceiling swam into view, as the last remnants of his nightmare throbbed in his head. He’d been crossing the street when everything went black, and he started dreaming.

He was in a dark, cold room, tied to a hard-backed chair. A cloth over his lips gagged him. Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps and the flickering of fluorescent lights came from behind. Two men and a woman came into view. The two men wore dark suits that consisted more of patches than anything else, and one had an oddly-shaped hat on his head that resembled a frog. The other wore a fishnet mask over his face, and he hissed at the sight of John.

The woman wore a dark blue military uniform, with a brown sash across her chest. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and the lights made her skin look pale green. Her face seemed to have scales, and her eyes were dark and malicious. She stared at John, who glared back.

“Look, I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, but can we speed this up a bit? I’ve got more important things to do than to be tied to a chair.”

The woman smirked. “Sure. Like… stopping Armageddon?”

John froze. “What?”

“You heard me. Now, let me tell you that I had my work cut out for me. But then you and your meddlesome friend show up and make everything go all off script!”

“Off script?”, John repeated.

“Yes. The Apocalypse has been scheduled for millennia. We can’t have you messing this up!”

“Okay, wait. The Apocalypse is coming?”

“You really are slow, aren’t you?”

John chuckled, then winced. “It’s just a bit difficult to grasp, is all.”

“Yes, for a human mind. Now, I believe we all have better places to be. Ligur–”, she turned to the man with the toad hat “--go find that troublesome demon and make sure he cooperates. Take Hastur with you.”

She turned back to John. “And you can go back. Give Sherlock Holmes my best regards and tell him: He’s risking everything he cares about if he continues investigating. I’ll see you again very soon.” 

She snapped her fingers, and John’s world faded to black.

The first thing John noticed when he awoke was the ceiling, which was immediately obscured by Sherlock’s face as he leaned over him.

“What happened?”, he asked, compassionate as always.

“Well, I was just crossing the street–”

“No. While you were gone.”

“How did you– was I twitching?”

“No, no. But your breathing was panicky, and your hands were sweaty. Typical signs of a nightmare, but you collapsed in broad daylight. So, with the current events going on, you must have had a vision. What was it about?”

John smiled. “You really are brilliant, you know that?”

“Get on with it..”

“Right. Sorry.” John recounted his kidnapping. When he’d finished, Sherlock stood at the window, staring out onto the street, hands clasped behind his back.

“I guess the ‘End Times’ are coming, then.”

John sat up and nodded. “And there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

Chapter Text

Part II

Her arrival had long been announced and awaited. And yet, as she climbed out of the truck, her shoulder-length flaming red hair tied back in a braid, nobody knew what to do at first.

She smirked, smoothing down her camouflage-style denim jacket. “Don’t mind me, gentlemen. Carry on.”

The others in the tent–three politicians and their respective bodyguards, as well as dozens of witnesses–exchanged looks. The oldest politician shrugged and picked up the pen to sign the peace treaty. 

“Well, someone’s gotta start. Might as well be the man with the most work experience.”

Before he could sign, however, the youngest politician took the pen out of his hand. “Sorry, but I think I should sign first. That way, you could both still back out”, he declared.

The third politician, a native man in his mid-thirties, glared at the woman watching them. “This has been my tribe’s land for centuries. I should sign first!”

Before anyone could react, he grabbed a pistol from his bodyguard’s belt and shot the first politician in the head, causing chaos to erupt.

The tent, which was supposed to have been a place of peace, now turned into a warzone. Amidst it all, the redheaded woman stood and walked to her truck. She chuckled to herself as a grenade exploded behind her. Picking up her phone, she dialled a number she hadn’t called in years

“Hello there. Prepare the mounts. Expect us at sundown.”

With a final glance in the rearview mirror at the destruction she had caused, War sped off.

~~~~

The paramedics rushed by, rolling a stretcher along. The patient’s heart monitor was beeping rapidly as a doctor fussed over her arm. The team moved past the dark-skinned man sitting in the hospital lobby, who grinned.

The man regularly sat in the lobby, watching patients come and go. The hospital had tried to get the police to throw him out, but, as he wasn’t bothering anyone, they could only tell him off.

The man was tall and impossibly thin, and wore a tailored black suit. His hair was cropped short, and a full beard covered his lower face. He lounged on one of the hospital’s plastic seats, and chuckled to himself as he marked something in a glossy black notebook. This was the third person for that day to show signs of malnutrition. His sleek black phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and raised an eyebrow at the name on the display. He stood up and answered it. 

“Hello, old friend”, he greeted.

“The time has come. Meet us at the garage.”

The man nodded. He exited the hospital and walked to his car. “See you at sundown.”

Famine placed his phone back in his pocket and sped off.

~~~~

Pollution groaned as they adjusted their tie in the elevator mirror. As much as they loved the industrial revolution, and all of the grime and smog that came with it, they gladly missed every company meeting they could.

The elevator dinged and they stepped out, walking briskly down the corridor to the oaken double doors. They swung open, and Pollution walked around the table, taking their place at the head. They folded their hands in front of themselves and sighed.

“So, big meeting today. Please, act as if I’m not here.”

Their employees exchanged glances, then started the meeting. Pollution gazed out the window, admiring the grey skies and tall smokestacks. They played with the cuffs of their dirty-white blouse.

Suddenly, the sound of a train whistle startled everyone. Pollution chuckled. “Sorry, forgot to turn my phone off.”

They glanced at the number on the display, then smiled at the humans in the room. “I need to get that. And you don’t need to wait for me, I won’t be back.”

They answered the phone while exiting the stiff atmosphere of the room. “Hello?”

“It’s time. Meet us at the garage.”

Pollution grinned wickedly. “Roger. You just got me out of the most boring meeting. See you at sundown.”

They hung up and walked to their car, headed for the final meeting.

~~~~

War grinned as Famine and Pollution pulled into the old hangar. Before cars came, it had been a horse stable, but one had to go with the times.

The three greeted each other.

“Lovely to see you both”, War said.

“Likewise. I was dying of boredom in that room.”

Famine grinned. “Well, you weren’t the only one dying today. Do you know how many people were brought into that hospital today?”

Pollution smirked. “I guess our fourth friend was working overtime today.”

War glanced around. “Speaking of, where is he?”

Famine shrugged. “He’ll come.”

“We’ve still got time.”

A shadow passed along the wall. “I’ve always been here”, a voice spoke. It came from all around them, but also from nothing. “I’ve been here, there and in between. I’m never late nor early, and some await my arrival.”

A breeze blew through the garage. War’s smile had faded, and Pollution tugged their jacket tighter around themselves.

Suddenly, the tense atmosphere was broken by the sound of a doorbell. Famine walked over to the entrance of the garage. On the threshold stood a mail carrier, who looked thoroughly confused as he looked at a piece of paper. “Delivery for… the Horsemen?”, he read out.

“More like Horsepeople. Times change. But thank you!” Famine grabbed the package with more force than necessary, causing him to stagger backwards. The door closed on the mail carrier.

Pollution cut the tape on the box, then reached in and pulled out a silver crown, which rusted immediately at their touch. Famine greedily grabbed his scales, holding them aloft. War raised her sword.

A fourth hand reached down and pulled out the black scythe. The other three turned to stare at the cloaked figure behind them.

“What? I did announce my presence”, Death said.

War grinned. “Welcome back, Death.”

Famine walked over to the motorbikes and mounted a sleek black one. Pollution climbed onto an old, grey motorbike and revved the engine. War mounted a bulky red bike, and Death moved over to an old Harley. He looked around and grinned.

Together, the four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse wheeled their bikes to the entrance of the hangar.

Pollution glanced at their companions. “We ride at dawn”, they said.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes slammed the door of the cab shut and marched ahead. John Watson followed him, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”, Sherlock replied, not looking back. They had now almost reached Aziraphale’s bookshop, A.Z. Fell & Co., to further investigate John’s strange dream.

“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

Sherlock raised his arm to knock on the glossy, burgundy red wooden door. “Ah.” He paused and turned around. “Because it would have just been a nuisance to carry. Also, it’s not raining heavily.”

“Yeah, for now. But later–”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m telling you, John, it won’t get worse.”

“Still, your clothes will get wet.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “They’ll dry.”

“I– You never do listen, do you?”

“I’m focused on the case, John. You should be, too.” 

The door opened and Aziraphale peered at them. He closed the door again, unbolted it, then let them in.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson”, he greeted. The three men shook hands. “Have you found something?”

John tensed up. “You could say that…”

“Oh, dear. I guess all bad things happen at once, don’t they?” He chuckled, though it was obviously a forced attempt to lighten the mood. “Anyways, please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just water, please”, John said, while Sherlock politely declined.

Aziraphale went off into the back of the shop to fill up a glass of water. All of a sudden, the front door opened again and an elderly man with grizzled hair stepped in. For some reason, he wore an old, beige military uniform. A patch marked him as a Sergeant.

“Who are ye?”, he barked.

“I’m John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes”, John responded.

The man raised a bushy eyebrow. “The detective from the papers? Where’s yer hat?” This he directed at Sherlock. 

“My… hat?” Sherlock said. 

“Aye,” the Sergeant said with a smirk. “The funny one.”

“I have never worn a funny hat,” Sherlock said icily. 

John begged to differ. He could think of at least three times when Sherlock had worn someone’s strange-looking hat to solve a case. The more eccentric the hat, the more of the wearer’s personality shone through, John supposed. 

The man snorted, but dropped the subject. “Wot are ye doin’ here?”

At that moment, Aziraphale came back. He placed the glass of water on the desk and turned to the newcomer. “Ah, I see you’ve met Sergeant Shadwell.”

John raised an eyebrow. They knew each other? Sherlock eyed them both, taking in Shadwell’s overall grubby appearance and Aziraphale’s fastidious tidiness. 

“He is an old associate of mine,” Aziraphale continued with a smile. “Here to settle matters of his payment, I presume.”

“Aye,” Shadwell growled. “I’ve sent my best platoon to investigate that wee witch of yours.”

“Witch?” John asked, taking the glass of water from the desk and having a sip. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, fully prepared to say “there’s no such thing as witchcraft,” but he changed his mind at the last second. Nothing about Shadwell looked like he would listen to common sense, and after all Sherlock had seen recently, he wasn’t so sure in his unbelief either. 

“Oh, there’s a witch, all right,” Shadwell said gleefully. “They’re all around us, practicing their wicked arts and calling their cats funny names. There’s a right powerful one down in Tadfield, so this here Southern Pansy tells me.” He pointed to Aziraphale, who smiled sweetly. 

From his waistcoat pocket, Aziraphale produced a manila envelope and handed it to Shadwell, who stuffed it into the depths of his coat. 

“What does a witch have to do with anything?” John asked, mostly to Sherlock and partially to Aziraphale. “With the hound, and the body of the angel in the tube station?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m afraid it’s complicated, gentlemen.”

“Isn’t it always?” Sherlock said drily. “Get to the point.”

“As Crowley and I have told you already, Armageddon is coming,” Aziraphale said. 

In the corner, Shadwell perked up. “Armageddon? Like in the Bible?”

A strange expression flitted across the angel’s face. Annoyance? Anger? No, guilt, John realized.

“Yes, like in the Bible.”

“But why a witch? I thought only angels and demons were involved in the Apocalypse.”

“Why do you think witches used to be burned? They were seen as demons.”

Sherlock tilted his head in Shadwell’s direction. “Does he know about all this?”

Aziraphale hesitated, glancing towards the supposed Sergeant. “No. And I’m terribly sorry, Sergeant Shadwell, but I’m afraid these are private matters.” 

Muttering to himself, the man made his way towards the door. 

“There was something else we wanted to talk to you about,” John said, remembering the reason they came here in the first place. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale said, leaning down and moving a beige rug out of the way. 

Underneath the rug was a chalk circle drawn on the hardwood floor, marked with arcane symbols. Staring at them, Sherlock didn’t recognize them from any ancient language he’d ever seen. 

“I believe…” John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly at him. “Well. I think I had a vision.”

Aziraphale looked up, his brow furrowed. “Tell me more, Doctor.”

John related what he had seen, with a few snarky additions by Sherlock. As Dr. Watson spoke, Aziraphale lit several candles and placed them at equidistant points around the circle, clearly listening even as he worked. 

“It sounds as if you were threatened by several high-ranking demons,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’m terribly sorry, Doctor. I can give you a blessing to discourage further contact from them, if you wish.”

“No, I think I’m alright,” John said. 

Some corner of John’s mind noticed the stench of a cigarette, but he assumed Sherlock must have found the ones he and Mrs. Hudson had hidden behind the refrigerator. 

“Is there anything we can do to stop the apocalypse?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t sound desperate—Sherlock Holmes was never desperate, John thought—but he was close. 

Aziraphale blew out his match and carefully placed the last candle, stepping back from the circle. “I’m afraid I don’t know. However, as an angel, I am able to take it up with a Higher Authority.”

“You mean… God?” John said incredulously. 

Sherlock almost said “religion is a farce,” but he thought better of it. The answer was a reflex, he was staunchly agnostic; but after these past weeks, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

“Hopefully,” Aziraphale said with a tired smile. “Now, step back, gentlemen. You might want to be out of sight for this, just in case.”

“One more thing,” Sherlock said. “Your friend. Crowley. Can he help us?”

Aziraphale’s expression turned brittle and heartbroken. “He has chosen his side. If you two insist on contacting him, he has a flat in Mayfair.” 

“His address,” Sherlock insisted. At John’s glare, he added, “Please.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, then handed Sherlock a slip of paper. “Here. Now, please step back or leave my shop entirely.”

Sherlock would rather let Mycroft win at Operation than leave A.Z. Fell & Co. without seeing how this ended. When he didn’t move, John grabbed his arm and guided him behind a bookcase, where they could still watch but were mostly hidden. Even after John let go, Sherlock pretended to himself that he could feel the phantom contact. He would analyse why he missed John’s touch later.

Absently, he fingered the slip of paper with Crowley’s address, his eyes on Aziraphale. 

“Did you have a cigarette today?” John asked Sherlock quietly.

“No, but I did find the ones you hid behind the fridge,” the other man replied. 

John sighed. “Then where is that smell coming from?”

Sherlock paused. Aziraphale didn’t smoke, that much was obvious. So what was the source of the stench?

Back by the chalk circle, the angel had started to pray. John and Sherlock stared as the chalk circle began to glow with an unearthly light. 

A shout from behind made the two men whirl around. 

“Demon!” Sergeant Shadwell exclaimed, pointing at Aziraphale with a lit cigarette. 

Sherlock blinked. “No, you idiot, he’s an angel. Obviously.” 

Aziraphale turned to see Shadwell stalking toward him. Blue-grey eyes going wide, he held up his hands to stop him, backlit by the glowing chalk circle. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” John said, rushing forward to try and grab Shadwell. 

“I’m exorcizing a demon, that’s wot I’m doing,” Shadwell barked, shaking off John’s grip and moving closer to Aziraphale. 

“Don’t come any closer,” Aziraphale warned, taking a step backwards. “The circle, it’s still charged up!”

Shadwell started to say something about Aziraphale seducing women (unlikely; even Sherlock, for all his obliviousness regarding romance, could tell that Aziraphale swung the other way), but both John and Sherlock grabbed him this time, stopping him in his tracks. 

But it was too late; Aziraphale had crossed into the still-glowing circle. 

John and Sherlock froze, while Shadwell sneered triumphantly. 

Aziraphale looked up and met John’s eyes, his expression one of pure horror. The angel’s body started to glow, overwhelmed by the rush of power from the circle. And for the first time in his long, long life, Aziraphale swore. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

With that, he rose in the air as if lifted by marionette strings and burst into shards of light. 

Chapter Text

“It’s a deerstalker, John. What do they expect me to do with a deerstalker?”

John grinned at the detective’s voice, tinny and dry, coming out of the phone’s speaker. The detective was referring to a newspaper article that featured a picture of himself in the deerstalker he’d gotten as a thank-you present from Scotland Yard for helping solve a complicated case. Shadwell had called it a ‘funny hat’, questioning why Sherlock wasn’t wearing it. Was he supposed to wear that thing out in public? Never in a million years. 

“Well, you could go hunt criminals…”, John suggested sarcastically. He could practically hear Sherlock’s responding smirk.

“Yeah, right. Because I need to attract attention and fame while being undercover and looking for England’s most dangerous criminals.”

“Speaking of… do you know what happened with Aziraphale?”

“No. But my best guess is that he was called back to Heaven, when he stepped into that circle.”  He paused. “Is Shadwell with you?”

John glanced over at the clearly empty seat next to him in the cab. “No, he seemed pretty shaken up, but he left before I could talk to him. I’m guessing he went back to wherever he lives.”

“Good; at least he’ll be out of the way. Where are you?”

“Almost in Mayfair. Crowley’s flat is just up the street.”

“I’m almost at 221B. However, it seems Mrs Hudson has a guest.”

“Oh? Also, about the deerstalker again… It’s not just a deerstalker anymore. It’s a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ hat. Sherlock, you’re famous now!”

“Ah, yes. That does complicate things a little.”

“Yeah, it does. Well, I’m in front of the building now. I’ll call you back when I’ve talked to Crowley.”

“Do that. See you then.”

“Yeah. Bye.” 

The line disconnected, and John stared up at the plain white facade of the building. Stepping up to the door, he read through the names on the wall, stopping when he got to a plaque saying A. J. Crowley. He pushed the doorbell. 

No reaction. Maybe Crowley wasn’t home? But Aziraphale had said he was…

Suddenly, the door opened and an elderly lady shuffled out, carrying a handbag. She looked at John in surprise.

“Oh, hello, dear. Can I help you?” 

“Um, yeah. I’d like to see Crowley? I’m a… colleague.”

“Mr Crowley has a colleague? I didn’t know he even had a job. Where does he work?”

John smiled thinly. “Um, it’s not really my place to say.”

“Oh, are you a secret agent? No wonder he seemed off!”

John grimaced. “I can’t tell you, but he’s most definitely not a secret agent.”

The lady shrugged and gave John a knowing wink. “Alright. But if you want to see that depressed scrawny lad who yells at his plants, just head up to the fourth floor. It’s the second door on the left, the one with the silly snake door knocker. You can’t really miss it.”

She shuffled off, leaving John behind, confusedly muttering the words yells at his plants? What was up with that?

He shook his head and stepped inside, slowly walking up the stairs to the fourth floor.

– – – –

John gripped the handle of his gun when he noticed the raised noises coming from Crowley’s flat. He seemed to be arguing with someone who had a voice like nails on a chalkboard. Suddenly, there was a shout, then silence.

Cautiously, John approached the door. It was open, and there was a puddle on the floor made of water and… mud, maybe? Whatever it was, it didn’t look sanitary. 

He stepped over it, walking further into the scarcely furnished flat. The walls were painted grey, and the kitchen was state-of-the-art.

He walked past a room with an enormous flat-screen TV, then did a double take, walked back, and pushed the door open, staring at the large gold and red throne in the center. He raised his eyebrows. It seemed Crowley was more eccentric than he thought.

He came into the office. It was empty; only the ansaphone sat blinking on the mahogany desk. But no trace of Crowley, or whoever he was arguing with. John sighed, and had just wrestled his phone out of his pocket when the ansaphone beeped. A second later, Crowley stood in the room, beaming triumphantly at the black plastic. 

“See ya later!”, he yelled, then seemed to notice John. They stared at each other, then attempted to break the silence at the same time.

“How did you–”

“What are you–”

Crowley nodded for John to go on, his smile long gone, replaced by a look of slight panic.

John cleared his throat. “Did you just come out of the phone line?”

Crowley nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Space doesn’t really apply to demons, and I had to get rid of a… friend of mine.”

His tone suggested that his visitor was anything but a friend, but John didn’t pry. He just nodded. “Right. So he’s stuck in the ansaphone now?”

“Yep.”

A sinking feeling settled into the pit of John’s stomach. “Was your… friend called Ligur or Hastur, by any chance?”

Crowley paled. “How do you know their names?”

John briefly recounted the strange vision he’d had, which had led him to Aziraphale, where they’d met Shadwell.

“Yeah, Ligur is the pile of goop you probably stepped over while coming in. He had an unpleasant run-in with Holy Water. And Hastur is now trapped in the phone line”, Crowley explained.

John nodded. “Alright. But I haven’t told you why I’m here.”

Crowley furrowed his brows above his ever-present sunglasses. “I thought Aziraphale sent you? But why would he? I mean, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, and he’s petty enough to attempt to solve your game of riddles on his own.”

John offered a comforting smile, like he knew how hard his next words would affect the demon. “Aziraphale was communicating with Heaven via a magic circle. And Shadwell… attempted to ‘exorcize him’, thus pushing him into the circle. I can’t really explain what happened next, other than saying that Aziraphale was called back to Heaven.”

Crowley’s face fell. He raised a trembling hand to his glasses, then seemed to remember something and quickly lowered it. His bottom lip trembled, and he visibly had to hold back tears. “Damn it”, he whispered, then whirled around to the door. “DAMN IT!”

– – – –

John followed the demon through his flat, out the door, down the stairs and to his Bentley, which caused John’s back to twinge painfully when he remembered the night this all had started, when Aziraphale and Crowley had crashed into Sherlock and him. However, seeing Crowley’s panicked expression, he got into the passenger seat and barely had time to buckle his seat belt before the car shot out of the parking space, accelerating to 125 miles per hour within seconds. The outside world became a blur as they drove past St. James’ Park. Crowley snarled at anything that tried to get in his way, and John pulled his phone out of his pocket, punching in Sherlock’s number.

“Hey, so, I told him everything. We’re on our way to the bookshop now; maybe he can do something?”

“Good. I talked to Mrs Hudson’s guest; she seems to know Shadwell. I asked her about his strange antics, and she said he’s a witchfinder. I guess he thought Aziraphale was a witch.”

“He called him a demon.”

“Well, witch, demon, same thing to Shadwell. Anyway, I hope Crowley can help out.”

The line buzzed from an incoming call on Sherlock’s end, and he ended the call with a quick, “Good luck”.

As soon as the call ended, they arrived at the bookshop. Or, rather, what was left of it. Crowley threw open the door and stormed out, the line of his shoulders hunched and panicked. 

John put the phone down and got out of the car, immediately surrounded by thick, black smoke. He glanced around for the source, then saw multiple firetrucks in front of the burgundy exterior of A.Z. Fell & Co. A fireman turned to them and spoke to Crowley, asking if he owned the shop.

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?”, Crowley snapped, then, resisting the people trying to hold him back, ran into the burning shop.

The fireman turned to John. “Your boyfriend is crazy”, he declared. John blushed.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” John protested. This again? He wasn’t gay, he just… he wasn’t. “I’m… his colleague.”

A woman spoke up behind them. “That’s right; these two aren’t together. I run the coffee shop over the road, so I’ve seen the goth one and the bookshop owner around quite a bit.  The guy who just ran in is the bookseller’s boyfriend. Or fiancee. Come to think of it, they could be husbands… They certainly spend enough time together.”

Had they ever mentioned being in a relationship?, John thought. On the other hand, it is fairly obvious… 

“Look, can we stop speculating about his relationship with Aziraphale? The bookshop is burning.”

Suddenly, a beam in the shop fell, causing another burst of fire to spurt through the windows. With every second that passed, John had less and less hope that Crowley would make it out. Fire was his natural element, being from Hell and all, but he might still lose the body he was currently in. Could he get a new one? John had no idea. 

The woman gripped John’s arm, evidently trying to support him. He pulled his arm out of her grip and called Sherlock. The phone went to voicemail, and he left a message summing up their current situation. 

The firemen had just started rolling out the hoses when a figure emerged from the smoke of the shop. 

Crowley held a dark green book in one hand, and pulled his glasses off with the other, staring into the bright glow of the flames. For a second, his eyes looked yellow when he turned to go to the Bentley, but John put it down to a reflection of the fire. He got in on the other side, looking at Crowley sympathetically. The demon looked broken: bent shoulders, frown lines etched on his forehead, staring down at the book in his lap. He already wore another pair of glasses.

Then, he threw the green book into the back seat and pulled away with a screech of tires, as John called Sherlock for the fourth time that day.

Chapter Text

One hour earlier, Sherlock raced down the street, hailing the first cab he could see. 

“Wait, Sherlock—” John yelled from in front of the bookshop. But the other man was already climbing into the cab. 

“Baker Street,” Sherlock told the driver, paying him accordingly and already pulling out his phone. 

As the cab started down the road, Sherlock dialed John’s number. 

“Why didn’t you just talk to me in person before running off?” John said tiredly. 

“There’s no time, John,” Sherlock replied. “I have a plan. You’ll go to Mayfair and find Crowley, and I’ll head home.”

“Alright, I can go to Mayfair, but why are you going home?”

“I need you to trust me,” Sherlock said quietly. 

John was silent for a moment. “Fine.”

Sherlock hung up before he could have second thoughts. Consulting detectives, especially not high-functioning-sociopathic consulting detectives, did not have second thoughts about doing what needed to be done. 

Swallowing, Sherlock looked at the text he had received while he was inside of A.Z. Fell & Co. He hadn’t noticed it in all of the chaos Shadwell had caused, but now he couldn’t look away. 

From an unknown number, the text read: Did you really think I wouldn’t come back, Sherlock darling? - JM <3

– – – –

Before the taxi had slowed to a halt, Sherlock threw his door open and jumped out onto the Baker Street sidewalk. Briefly glancing down the street, he noticed a baby-blue scooter parked in front of the door to 221B. From the pink flowery helmet on the seat, he deduced that it most likely belonged to a woman. He shrugged and pulled out his keys, walking to the door.

Stepping inside, he heard voices coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat. He peeked his head in and greeted her with a nod. She nodded back and gestured to the other woman who was sitting at her table. She must have been the owner of the scooter, as she was dressed in a similarly colorful style. 

The stranger, introduced by Mrs Hudson as Madame Tracy, smiled at Sherlock. He waved back and sat down, remembering John’s words to ‘socialize’ more. Ew. 

It turned out that Mrs Hudson’s friend was good company. She even laughed at some of the jokes Sherlock made, and mentioned knowing Shadwell. When Sherlock recounted what had happened in the bookshop (leaving out the part that Aziraphale was an angel), she told him that this was just normal Thursday behavior for the man. 

After a few more minutes of casual conversation, Sherlock left the lower flat, heading up the stairs.

When he stepped inside the living room, a man sat in his armchair. He wore a grey tweed suit and was holding an apple. He smiled when Sherlock came over to him, his gun cocked and extended.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock. Don’t you look good. That job you have really seems to work out for you.” He spoke with an Irish accent.

Sherlock smirked. “Long time no see, Jim. I was starting to think you’ve forgotten me.”

Jim gasped. “I could never forget you.”

“Well, neither have I. Say, what is it you do these days?”

“Same as you. Just for the other side.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They pay more.”

“Right. It’s about money, then.”

“No! Not all of it! But just imagine all the adventures I get to go on, places I get to see… Better than staying in stuffy old London.”

“Mhm. What do you want?”

“Put your gun down and sit down like a civilized person. I won’t hurt you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down in John’s chair, placing the gun on the armrest. “What do you want?”, he repeated.

“I want you to do something for me, Sherlock.”

“And what’s that? Mind you, I’ll say no anyway, but it can’t hurt to ask.”

“I want you to leave me alone. You will let me do what I want, with whom I want, and you will not interfere.”

“Ah, I can’t do that. It goes against my morals.”

“And you know what else goes against your morals? Your friends dying when you know you could save them.”

A cold shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine. He leaned forward. “What did you do to them?”, he demanded.

“Oh, nothing. Yet. So think about it: you could save them.”

“Who’s them?”

“Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Aziraphale. Crowley. And John, of course.”

“You can’t kill Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“I know. But I can banish them back to where they came from.”

Sherlock raised his gun and pointed it at Jim’s head. “No. I can’t do that.”

Jim calmly picked up his phone and punched in a number, putting it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Seb. Are you in position?”

“Yep. I’ve got eyes on the doctor. And my gun, too.”

“Good. I’ll give you a countdown. Five. Four. Three.” He looked Sherlock in the eyes. “Two-“

Sherlock groaned. “Fine! Stop! Stop it now! I’ll do it, I’ll let you go!”

Jim smirked. “Look at you. Playing nice just because your boyfriend is in danger.”

“He’s not my— oh, fuck it. I said I’ll let you go.”

“Seb? You still got eyes on John?”

“Yeah. Awaiting further orders."

“Let him go.” Sherlock let out a breath he’d been holding. “Aim for the demon, instead. And shoot when you feel like it.”

“Got it.”

“You can’t do this. Please, it’ll just end in a huge massacre! You’ll be dead, too!” Sherlock pleaded.

Jim smiled. “I was smart. I made a deal. They’ll let me live.”

“They’re demons. You can’t trust them!”

He cocked his head. “Who said I made a deal with a demon? No, no. I believe their name was Uriel.”

“An angel helped you?!”

“Oh, yes. They seem to think you’re interfering too much with the ‘divine plan’.”

“I— I'm trying to save humanity!”

“And I want you to leave me be. Just do this one small thing, and we’ll all be much happier.”

“I already said I’d leave you alone? What else do you want?”

“I want a guarantee that you won’t try to stop me.”

“I promise. Happy?”

“No, I want something more permanent. Something… deadly certain.”

Sherlock stared at Jim. Suddenly, the tension was cut by a song playing. Jim looked around. “Your phone, I believe. Also, don’t mention this little deal of ours. I need to go, but I’ll call you soon. Bye!”

With that, he disappeared from the room, and Sherlock answered the call with shaky hands. “Hello?”

“Hey, so, I told him everything. We’re on our way to the bookshop now; maybe he can do something?”

“Good. I talked to Mrs Hudson’s guest; she seems to know Shadwell. I asked her about his strange antics, and she said he’s a witchfinder. I guess he thought Aziraphale was a witch.”

“He called him a demon.”

“Well, witch, demon, same thing to Shadwell. Anyway, I hope Crowley can help out.” His phone buzzed with an incoming call. He pulled it away from his ear and paled when he recognized the number. “I need to go. Good luck!”

He hung up on John and accepted the new call. “Yeah?”

“Meet me at St. Bart’s in ten minutes. I have a little surprise for you.” The line beeped before he could reply. 

Sherlock grabbed his gun and raced out the flat, throwing a quick, “Goodbye, nice knowing you!”, through the door to Mrs Hudson. Then, he bolted out into the street, hailing a cab. He got in and told the driver to go to St. Bart’s as fast as possible.

The cab screeched to a halt and Sherlock sprung out, raced up the stairs, and paused, panting, before the door that led out to the roof. He took a deep breath, then turned the doorknob.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s phone rang just as he stepped onto the roof. Looking around, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. John.

“Hello? It’s kind of a bad time right now–”

“The bookshop is burning. Why won’t you answer your phone?”

“Ah. I’m kind of busy. Shadwell must have knocked a candle over. Is the fire department already there?”

“Yeah, they were there. But Aziraphale is gone. I’m with Crowley, and he seems to have found this old book in the shop. It’s called ‘ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch ’. Didn’t we say that witches didn’t exist?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Witches exist, alright.”

“Okay then. And you think this Agnes Nutter can see the future?”

“More like could , seeing as she’s probably dead. Anyways, where are you going now?”

Sherlock could hear a brief muffled conversation on John’s side, then a sigh. “To Crowley’s flat. He needs to get some things. Where are you?”

“Um–” He looked down the side of the hospital. “St. Bart’s. I needed… to speak to Molly for a case.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Bye.” The line disconnected. 

Sherlock felt a presence behind him and turned around, not even bothering to exchange his phone for his gun. “What do you want from me?”

Jim Moriarty stood behind him, grinning. “Hullo, Sherlock. I see you’re one for surprises.”

“I’m not. Just answer my question. Please .”

“Mhm, I will. Soon. First of all, though. I have a question for you: How did you get involved in this whole Apocalypse thing?”

“We ran into– Or, Aziraphale and Crowley ran into us while we were on a case.”

“Right. So, pure coincidence, then?”

“Yes? What are you suggesting?”

Moriarty walked around him to the front of the building. He stared out at London’s skyline. “I think this is all part of a plan.”

“You do? Never took you for a believer.”

“I’m not. I’m just smart enough to see that there are larger forces at work here. Forces we can’t control. And I believe that Heaven isn’t what people say it is. Why else would they be communicating with us ‘filthy humans’, huh? See, Sherlock, Armageddon will come. You can’t stop it. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before, when John told you about his nightmare. Heaven and Hell, they don’t care about you. You’re just collateral damage.”

“Because you’re so different to us.”

“Actually, yes. You get rewarded for doing your job and reporting bad behavior to the higher levels.”

Sherlock froze. “You’re conspiring with Heaven.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it conspiring, more like… working together”, he said. “And they like me. Not you. Me . Now, I wanted  reassurance that you’d leave me alone. And a promise isn’t enough. How often do people break promises? More than they make ‘em.”

Realization dawned on Sherlock’s features. “You want me to kill myself. You want me to jump off the hospital.”

“Correct! You get 100 points!” Moriarty became serious again. "It' s for the greater good.”

“I won’t do it. And even if I do, John will come after you.”

Moriarty grinned and pulled out his phone. “Hello? Do you still have eyes on Watson? Uh-huh, great. Okay, well, keep him in view. Perfect. Bye!” He faced the detective. “Remember my sniper? He’s still out there, and won’t hesitate to shoot John. So I suggest you play along.”

Sherlock walked over to the edge, his hands in his pockets. He peered down. “Quite a drop.”

“I know. It’s supposed to KILL YOU! Now jump.”

“Actually, I don’t think I will.” In one fluid motion, Sherlock pulled his gun from his pocket, aimed it at Jim’s torso, and cocked it. 

Moriarty gasped in mock surprise. “I didn’t think you’d do that! It leaves me no choice, then.” He stepped forward, until his nose almost brushed Sherlock’s. The mouth of the gun dug into his sternum, right above his heart. “Shoot me”, he whispered.

“What?”

“You heard me. Shoot me,” he repeated. 

Sherlock’s hand shook. Yes, he was dealing with London’s most dangerous criminal mastermind. Who was willingly positioning himself so the bullet would definitely hit his heart. Sherlock was many things, but not a killer. If he absolutely had to, he pulled the trigger. But not when someone was offering themselves to him. That was just cruel. And what would John— No. Don’t think about John. Not now.

Jim smirked. “I knew you didn’t have it in you.”

And with those words, he closed his hand around Sherlock’s and pulled the trigger for him. 

Blood spattered across the rooftop as the lifeless body of the world’s only consulting criminal fell backwards, landing spread-eagled as the tiles turned crimson. Sherlock dropped his gun and put his finger on Moriarty’s pulse. Nothing.

He stood up. “Fuck! Fuck you, Moriarty!” He exhaled and stepped closer to the edge, just in time to see a sleek black car pull up in front of the hospital. Even from the roof, he easily recognized John. And the head of shocking-red hair next to him had to be Crowley. 

But if John was here… Sherlock looked around, trying to spot the shadow of a marksman in one of the windows. Not seeing anything, he sighed wearily and pulled out his phone, dialing John’s number.

– – – –

30 minutes before

John raced back to where Crowley was sitting in the bar. The demon looked up tiredly when he came to a stop at the table. “I traced Sherlock’s phone.. He’s on St. Bart’s.”

“The hospital? Didn’t he say he was there for a case?”

“Yes, but he’s– Crowley, I think Sherlock is on the roof of one of the tallest buildings in the area! I don’t think this has anything to do with the case anymore!”

“Right.” Crowley stood up and started walking to the exit. “Let’s go.”

“You’re willing to take me there? After everything that happened?”

Crowley stared at him over the top of his glasses. His shockingly yellow eyes were bloodshot and exhausted. “Aziraphale’s death was not your fault. I may be a demon, but I don’t hold grudges against innocent people. And if your partner is in danger, of course I’ll help you. It’s what Aziraphale would want— ngk. Now come on.”

John followed him out, his leg protesting as he walked faster than normal to keep up with Crowley’s long strides. Within minutes, they were speeding down the street in the Bentley, almost running over pedestrians when they passed cars on the sidewalk. However, John didn’t say anything, his hands restlessly fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket.

They pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance. John got out before Crowley had even put the car in park and ran up to the building, looking up at the roof. He could vaguely make out the shape of someone standing on the roof, facing down. No, John thought, his heart seizing in his chest. The wind blew through curly dark hair, revealing the figure’s identity: Sherlock Holmes was on the roof of one of London’s tallest hospitals, preparing to jump.

– – – –

John ran up to the hospital entrance. His phone rang. He answered it with shaky fingers. 

“John.” 

“Sherlock! Are you ok?”

“Walk over to the other side of the street. It's a bit tricky to explain.” 

“What?” 

“I’m alright. Just do as I say.” 

“I’m coming up.”

“No. Please. Just this once. Do as I ask.”

Reluctantly John crossed over the street, away from the hospital.

“Stop there.” 

“Sherlock–”

 “OK. Look up. I’m on the rooftop right above you. I can’t come down, but I wanted to see you, so we’ll have to do it here.” A crowd of doctors started gathering below.

“What’s going on?” 

“Well, an apology.” A beat. “It’s all true.” John’s world suddenly froze over. He found it hard to even speak. “We can’t stop the Apocalypse.” 

“Why are you saying this?” 

“It’s out of our control.”

“Don’t. Please.”

“Every case. All those deductions. The newspapers were right. Tell Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell everyone who will listen. I am weak.”

John didn’t know how to reply. “When we met - the first time we met. You knew all about my sister. The alcoholic. Remember? She’s not weak. And neither are you.”

“I researched you. Before we met. I discovered what I could to impress you. It’s a trick, John. Just a magic trick.” 

“Stop it!” John instinctively took a step onto the road.

“Don’t. Don’t move. Stay right where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me. I need you to do this for me.”

“Do what?” 

“This phone call. It’s my note, in a way. You have to write a note.”

“Write a note… When?”

“Goodbye, John.” And with those words, Sherlock threw himself off the building. 

“Sherlock!!!” Down, down, down he falls. Crashing to the ground. No one could possibly survive an impact of that magnitude. John rushes across the street - and a blinging flash of light knocks John unconscious for a few seconds. Then Crowley’s there, shaking his shoulders. He extends a hand to help him up. John feels like he’s underwater. Sound, images, all distorted. People try to help him but he pushes them away. Everything is in slow-motion. Cars and cyclists and pedestrians get in his way as he runs across the road, Crowley close behind. It seems to take him an age to reach the bruised and broken body of his friend. Finds him on the pavement, battered and bleeding, surrounded by doctors. One of them is taking a pulse in Sherlock’s neck. He shakes his head. John falls to his knees and presses his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist. No pulse. Nothing at all. Utter despair and desolation. His best friend is dead. He tries to cradle Sherlock’s dead body in his arms. But too soon a gurney arrives and the doctors whisk the body inside.

“Please… Please, he’s– he’s…” 

The gurney is taken into the hospital. A young doctor is talking to him but John doesn’t take in a word he’s saying. And across the street, an assassin is watching John through the crosshairs of a rifle. He lowers the gun as John collapses into Crowley’s arms. They’re both crying, hard, and they hold each other upright. Both have lost a loved one today.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Watson, get out of the car,” Crowley said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He stood on the sidewalk, holding the passenger door of the Bentley open. The demon’s hands trembled, John noticed distantly. “Watson,” Crowley repeated. “Car. Out. Sidewalk. Flat.”

John stared at him, trying to process what he’d said. The only thing in his mind was the endless echo of Sherlock is dead no he can’t be dead no no no Sherlock is dead— 

“John,” Crowley said. Now his voice was tight, like he was holding back more tears behind his sunglasses. “I know it hurts, I do. But if you come inside, we can get drunk enough to pretend it doesn’t. How does that sound?”

“That much alcohol is bad for you,” John heard himself say. 

Crowley groaned, then hauled him out of the Bentley onto the Mayfair sidewalk. John stumbled, his legs weak from the long, long day. 

The journey up to Crowley’s flat passed in a blur. Crowley stalked ahead, going straight for the wine cellar that existed outside of normal space-time limitations. If he was going to get drunk, he might as well do it properly. 

Crowley returned to the front room, wine bottle in each hand, to see John hadn’t crossed the threshold into the flat. The Doctor stood, silently staring at the smoking remains of Ligur. 

“Oh, don’t mind the corpse,” Crowley said. “It won’t hurt you.”

“These are clothes, not a body,” John said, his voice quiet. Crowley saw that the man’s eyes were red-rimmed, having finally run out of tears to cry. 

“Demon corporation kinda melted. Holy water, y’know. Now, come on, you don’t want to keep standing out there,” Crowley coaxed.

Finally, John stepped over Ligur’s remains and into the flat. He sat down on the sharp-looking black couch, barely registering when Crowley handed him a glass of red wine. Crowley drank straight from the bottle, his eyes distant even with his sunglasses. 

John realized the reason his vision was going dark was because he had been holding his breath. He exhaled, feeling as if his world had been ripped apart, then drank his wine in one gulp. 

The two men were silent for a moment. Glancing over at Crowley, John saw that there were tears running down his face that matched John’s own. 

“Is there anything we can do?” John asked weakly. 

Crowley stared at the ceiling. “We’re doomed. One bright spot for you, though—once you get killed in the war between Heaven and Hell, you can see your sociopath boyfriend again.”

The mention of Sherlock made John stop breathing again. For once, he didn’t argue and say that he and Sherlock weren’t together. 

“What about you?” he asked Crowley, pouring himself more wine. “Aziraphale isn’t really gone, is he?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, his voice small. He dragged a trembling hand down his face. “Even if he isn’t—isn’t gone, it’s not like our sides will ever let us see each other again. And if he is gone, what am I supposed to do without him?” The demon’s voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, angel—”

And then both he and John were crying again. 

Trying to find something, anything to distract himself from his pain, John’s gaze latched onto a half-burned green shape on the coffee table. He picked it up, wiping away ash and dust from the leatherbound surface to reveal a book. He could just barely make out the words The Nice And Accurate Prophecies Of Agnes Nutter, Witch embossed on the cover in faded gold. Had it been there before? 

Silently, he opened it, blinking when half a dozen loose papers fell out onto his lap. He picked one up, scanning the bullet-list written in neat cursive handwriting. 

“The Antichrist is in Tadfield,” he read aloud. 

Crowley stared at him. “What?”

John repeated what he’d said, then added, “And Armageddon is happening at an air base.”

“Hand me that,” Crowley said, his glasses slipping down his nose to reveal his wide yellow eyes. 

John complied, taking a different piece of paper, this one folded into a little heart. “Wait, this one has your name on it,” he said, giving it to Crowley. 

Crowley unfolded it with the utmost care, tears blurring his vision once again. Letting them fall freely down his cheeks, he drank in every word written in that achingly familiar cursive. 

My dearest Crowley, I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things. I hope you’re alright, though if you’re reading this I’m probably gone. Did you go to Alpha Centauri? I hope it’s nice there. But in any case, you must go to the Tadfield air base and try to stop the Antichrist. I wish you the best of luck. No matter what happens, I will come back to you. - Aziraphale

Crowley took a shuddering breath, fresh tears stinging his eyes. Breathing is what humans do, he thought. It’s got to be good for something. Just breathe. 

Oh, angel… Aziraphale couldn’t be gone. Crowley would feel it. Still, his optimism was having a hard time struggling back up after this blow. 

He supposed that if his better half really was gone, then he had better make sure that Heaven and Hell both regretted what they had done. 

“Right,” Crowley said, standing and ignoring his sudden headache. “We’re going to Tadfield.”

– – – –

If John had found Crowley’s driving terrifying before, it was nothing compared to when the demon was on a mission. 

“Where are we going?” John said, bracing himself on the door of the Bentley as they took a sharp turn. The old car didn’t have any seatbelts, not that it seemed to bother the demon driving it. 

“The M25,” Crowley replied, his teeth bared in a manic grin and his yellow eyes glowing slightly behind his sunglasses. 

John just wondered if closing his eyes would be better or worse than seeing Crowley’s driving. 

Thank God, they made it to the M25 without incident, and for a few hundred metres, they could actually move. Then they reached the congestion and came to a screeching halt. John smelled burnt rubber even with the windows up. 

“No, no, no,” Crowley growled, honking his horn. “Move, you idiots.” He started leafing through the book of prophecies, muttering something John couldn’t make out.

A high, choking laugh interrupted John’s thoughts. He whirled around to see a man sitting in the back seat of the Bentley, wearing a dingy trench coat and what appeared to be a toad on his head. He reached over and pulled off Crowley’s glasses, shattering them in one hand.

“You’ll never escape London”, he growled. “Nothing can.”

Crowley glared at him. “Hastur! I see you got out of voicemail.”

“Very funny. Joke all you like, Hell won’t forget or forgive. You know where the real Antichrist is, don’t you?”

Crowley sighed. He and John shared a look as Hastur continued gloating. 

“You’re done, Crowley.” He pointed out at the traffic jam, and a wall of fire that was slowly growing taller. When had that happened? “Think you’ll get across that? There’s nowhere to go.”

Crowley gripped the steering wheel tightly with one hand, shoving a cassette into the player with the other. “Hold on tight, Watson, and don’t scream. It’ll distract me.”

“What?” John said. 

Thunder rumbled as the car sped up again, passing all the others. Hastur glanced at him in shock. 

“Why– why are you driving? Stop this thing.”

“You know what I like best about time? It takes us further away from the 14th century,” Crowley growled. “I really didn’t like the 14th century. You’d have loved it, then.” Hastur groaned as the Bentley sped ever closer to the fire.

“They didn’t have cars back in the 14th century. Clever human people had to invent cars, and motorways, and windscreen wipers. You gotta hand it to them.”

John stayed silent as the two demons continued bickering, with Hastur screaming every now and then. Why was Crowley still driving towards the wall of fire?

“You’re doomed, Crowley. You hear me? Doomed!”

Crowley grinned with a kind of maniacal glee you only get when you’ve got nothing left to lose. “See? This day’s already got better.”

A song started playing that John recognized as Queen’s ‘I’m in love with my car’. Hastur moaned as they drove into the fire, the temperature in the car immediately rising to extreme heat. Yet it wasn’t uncomfortable, as though the car was protecting them.

Crowley cackled. “If you’ve got to go, then go with style!”

Flames rose up around the toad-headed demon. With a bright burst, he vanished, leaving John alone with Crowley. They kept driving through the fire, the red-headed demon offering affirmations to his car. He even stopped breathing, so great was his concentration. But the flames never touched either of them. 

They exited the burning barrier and passed a police car. John waved at them and grinned, his grief momentarily forgotten in the absurd situation. 

Together, they drove on to Tadfield, determined to make their friends’ deaths mean something.

Chapter Text

A week ago, and about 20 miles west, a young boy played in the woods with his friends. The boy’s name was Adam Young, and he and his friends called themselves the Them, since most people in the village referred to them as such. Adam also had a loyal companion: a dog, whose name was Dog. Easy to remember, a name like that. Adam was born twelve years ago, coincidentally in the same convent as Warlock Dowling, the boy Aziraphale and Crowley had been watching over for the past 12 years.

The Them often played in Hogback Woods, and Adam (as their leader) often came up with fun new games for them. On that very day, they had been playing “Spanish Inquisition”, with the extremely important task of finding and getting rid of all witches in Tadfield. This they did by torturing them on their deadly tire swing, until they promised not to be a witch anymore. At that moment, Adam’s friend Brian had been on the swing, being pushed by Pepper.

“Can I have a go now?”, Adam’s third friend, Wensleydale, had complained.

Adam had thumped his staff, a tall, knobbly stick, on the ground. “No, you’re not a witch.”

“But neither is Brian.”

“We don’t know that. He needs to tell us first.”

“Fine, I am a witch!”, Brian had pitched in.

“Alright. Then we– What do we do now, exactly?”

Pepper spoke up. “Just… stop being a witch, I guess?”

“Alright.” Brian hopped down from the swing. “Wensleydale, you can go.”

“Thanks.” He climbed up, and Pepper pushed him.

Suddenly, a rustle had sounded from the bushes behind Adam. He’d turned around, and was met with a peculiar sight: a young woman, dressed in a woolen dress, with large glasses. She held a stack of cards and a strange glass pendulum, while staring  at the four kids.

“Hello. Who are you?” Pepper had questioned. Adam had glared at her for daring to speak first, then redirected his attention back to the strange woman.

“My name is Anathema. I recently moved into the cottage on the edge of the village.”

“Hi, Anathema. Are you a witch?”, Brian said.

Anathema blinked.  “Sorry?”

“We’re playing Spanish Inquisition. It’s our job to make sure Tadfield doesn’t have any evil witches.”

“Right. Well, I can assure you, I’m not an evil witch.”

This was true. Anathema may have been an occultist, but she definitely wasn’t an evil witch. There was a very significant difference.

“Oh. That’s alright, then,” Adam said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, uh… just going for a walk.”

“With those cards?”

“Yes. I’m studying for something important, and these cards help me.”

“Alright. Do you want to join us?”

“No, I really need to get going”, she’d said, for she had sensed a strange aura around Adam. It felt incomplete somehow, like she wasn’t able to get the right scope of it. (This was also true. She was only able to see a tiny fraction of Adam’s continent-sized aura.)

“Goodbye, then.” The Them had waved as she left, then turned back to their game.

– – – –

On the current day, Adam sat in his chair in the clearing they’d made into a camp. Suddenly, he heard voices whispering all around him. He looked around, expecting to see his friend playing a trick on him, but saw no one. The voices kept talking, getting louder and louder; harder to ignore.

Eventually, they got so loud that he cried out in pain, falling from his chair  and curling up on the ground. His friends rushed over, bending over him.

“Adam! Adam, are you alright?” Pepper asked.

Suddenly, he stilled, then sat up, staring at them. He radiated pure calmness and confidence, even more than usual. His irises glinted strangely. “I am now.”

He stood up, and the others backed away instinctively. Something was very wrong. “I know how to fix everything.”

“What, you mean fix the things between us and Greasy Johnson?” Brian said cautiously. Greasy Johnson was the leader of the Them’s rival gang, and a deep hostility rested between the two groups.

“No, I said everything. I can fix the world, like how we’d been talking about. In fact, I know some people who can help us.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. They’re my friends.”

“I thought we were your friends!”

“You are! But so are they.”

“Who are these people?” Pepper said, trying to suppress the fear rising in her stomach.

“They’re not people, not really.” With that disconcerting statement, Adam began to float off the ground, and Pepper noticed with a horrible sinking feeling that her friend’s eyes had turned bright red. “Don’t worry, they won’t replace you. Our gang will just be eight instead of four.”

“I don’t want any more people in our gang,” Pepper said stubbornly. 

“Four—” Wensleydale squeaked. “Four is a good number, actually, better than eight—”

“BE QUIET!” Adam yelled, his voice like a thousand overlapping screams. With barely a thought, he sealed his friends’ mouths shut. “My friends are coming,” he repeated, “and you are going to get along with them. We’ll remake the world, make everything better than before. And then we’ll rule it.”

We don’t want to rule the world, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian thought with tears running down their faces. We just want our friend back. 

Even Dog was scared now, running so he was in between his former master and the other kids. Dog growled at Adam with Hellish instincts he hadn’t known he still possessed. A small corner of Adam’s mind was screaming that if his own dog was scared of him, something was very wrong indeed. 

Adam rose higher still, until he was above the tallest trees in Hogback Wood. From below, his friends watched, silent and frozen in place by Adam’s power. The clouds darkened around him, wind whipping through his hair. Suddenly, he let out a scream that reverberated through the entire world; a scream of pain and need, calling to those who had long awaited it. “Come to me!”

He sank back down and smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cold and distant. “They’re on their way,” Adam said. “And then the real fun can begin.” 

The rest of the Them seemed to be trying to scream without mouths. They stared at Adam in fear, locked in place by his power. “We’ll rule the world”, he said. “Wensleydale, you can have America, Pepper will get Asia and Russia, and Brian can have Europe and Africa. Dog… You can rule Australia.”

Pepper found enough courage to speak up. “But what about you? Which part will you get?”

Adam blinked. “What?”

“We all have parts of the world to rule. What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll be here, in Hogback Wood. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

“It’s our Hogback Wood, too”, Wensleydale threw in. “We don’t want to rule Asia, or America, or Australia.”

“Yeah. I mean, if a bunch of adults mess up the world, then we should fix it, not burn it all down.”

“You know what? You’re free to go. You can leave, I don’t care.”

Brian and Wensleydale looked at Pepper. She glared at Adam, then turned on her heel. “Goodbye Adam.”

The other two followed her, with similar words. Dog ran after them.

“Dog! Come back! Give me back my dog!” Adam shouted.

Pepper stopped. “He’s not your dog. And I don’t think he likes you very much.”

They ran off, and Adam rose back above the trees, following them through the air. He descended on a large cricket field. “Stop.”

Pepper shook her head. “No, Adam. You’re not yourself. We won’t listen to you. You’re not our friend anymore.”

Adam threw his head back and let loose a scream that rocked the world to its core. All around the globe, people looked for the source of the scream that conveyed so much pain and sadness. In a cabin on the edge of Tadfield, a young witch and her companion, a young witchfinder, looked away from the bulletin board covered in maps and newspaper scraps. Crowley and John looked to the sky, and for a moment, the Bentley burned white-hot. Then, the demon focused again, and it stayed intact. 

The scream ended as abruptly as it had begun. Adam sank back down and fell sideways onto the grass. For a second, the others hesitated, then ran over, though Brian picked up a cricket bat. Dog started licking Adam’s face.

His eyes blinked open, and he stared at the other Them. Then, he sat up. “I’m really sorry, guys. I wasn’t– I don’t think I was thinking straight. But I am now.”

Pepper helped him up, then surveyed him coldly. “Don’t ever scare us like that again. Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now what are we going to do?”

“We need to get our bikes. We’ll meet back at the crossroads in ten minutes.”

“And then? Where are we going?”

“The end of the world. It’s not far.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, the Bentley hadn’t exploded yet. John thought he was probably a little in shock from the surreality of it all, and his grief for Sherlock certainly wasn’t helping his grip on reality. 

“Come on, just a little farther,” Crowley coaxed the Bentley, his teeth bared in a manic grimace. “You are my car, you will not burn!” 

John barely heard him over the crackling of the engine and the electric guitar solo in Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. 

“Are you sure we can’t get out yet?” John asked as the air base came into view. (Well, he assumed it was the air base, but the smoke and flames made it hard to tell.) 

“We’ve gotta arrive in style,” Crowley said. 

John shook his head, fighting a grin off his face. Crowley didn’t seem the type to obey common sense. 

The brakes squealed as they pulled to a stop in front of the airbase’s main gate. A sergeant was sitting at the gate, reading a thick novel. He looked up, then did a double take, staring at the smoking car in disbelief. He hopped down from his stool and approached them, his rifle hanging at his side. “Um.” There were many things he could have said, and many more he could only think. So, he settled for the best, and easiest option. “Do you have permission to enter the airbase?”

Crowley, whose hair was still slightly smoldering, chuckled. “I’d say the end of the world counts as permission.”

The sergeant grimaced. Great. More crazy people who seemed to think the Apocalypse was happening now. “Sir, I meant Army permissions.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, from which he took his Army license that marked him as a doctor and soldier. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusilier regiment, sir.”

The sergeant knocked his heels together and saluted. “Sir. This is an American airbase, sir. I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

John stepped closer. He stared down the sergeant as he spoke in a low and dangerous voice. “I outrank you. We are here on business that could save the entire world. If you don’t let us in, you’ll spend the last 30 minutes of your life painting the sidewalk.” He stepped back. “Now, permission to enter, Sergeant?”

He saluted again, and was about to grant them permission, when something over John’s shoulder caught his eye. He gaped, and John turned around.

Approaching them at a speed definitely not normally possible for such an old vehicle, was a powder-blue scooter. On it sat a woman in a flowery dress and matching helmet, behind her an old, scruffy man: Sergeant Shadwell. John groaned as he caught sight of the man, but Crowley seemed to only have eyes for the woman, which John found strange until she spoke. With Aziraphale’s voice. “Hello, Crowley! It’s so nice to see you here!”

Crowley grinned shakily. (John would have bet his blog that there were tears in the demon’s eyes.) “Hey Aziraphale. Nice dress. It suits you.”

The lady got off the scooter. “Why, thank you! It is rather nice. Now, shall we– oomph!” He was cut off as Crowley enveloped him in a hug. She patted his back. “Thank you, dear.” The demon let go, and she turned to the sergeant at the gate. “May we enter, please?”

The sergeant turned to John, looking helpless. “They’re with me,” he said. The man nodded and opened the gate. Before any of them could step inside, the sound of bicycle bells rang out from behind, and four kids pedaled into the base. The American looked after them. “Hey! Hey, you can’t just– Get back here!”

The other four exchanged glances, then quickly entered the base. Aziraphale giggled. “Let’s go lick some butt!”, he cheered. 

Crowley groaned. “Kick butt, Aziraphale. It’s kick butt, for God’s sake. Ugh, I can’t believe I just said that.”

John chuckled. “Care to introduce me to your new clothes, Aziraphale?”

“Oh, yes.” The angel looked down. “John, Madame Tracy. Madame Tracy, this is John.”

The woman spoke in what John assumed was her normal voice. “Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands. 

Sergeant Shadwell growled. “Enough, yeh Pansies and yeh Jezebels.” (Was he… calling John a pansy? I’m not gay! he thought automatically. The lie burned his heart.) “Can we get on with the Apocalypse now? There’s a witch nearby, I can smell it.”

Madame Tracy giggled. “Oh, Mr S, I’m sure it’s just a normal woman.” Aziraphale continued. “But we really do need to hurry. I believe the Antichrist is here.”

The four beings made their way across the large forecourt, towards the four children’s bikes parked outside the control building. The owners of the bikes were nearby, along with a little dog. 

From where he was lurking over Aziraphale/Tracy’s shoulder, Crowley pointed and said, “That’s him; the curly one.”

John’s eyes went wide, and his hand went to his gun. “He’s just a kid! For God’s sake, they’re all just kids. You can’t kill them— I won’t let you.”

“The witch— why, he’s just a wee bairn,” Shadwell said, equally horrified. “No, Yer Honor, I can’t do it.”

Crowley, too, looked as if he were having second thoughts. “Angel,” he began.

But Aziraphale was having none of it. “I’ll do it, then,” he said, grabbing the tuba-gun-thing from Sergeant Shadwell. 

“NO!” John yelled, running forwards. If Aziraphale killed him, at least he would die protecting these kids. He would try to save someone this time. 

Just as Aziraphale squeezed the trigger, Madame Tracy’s arm jerked up, and the shot went wild. “I’m sorry,” Tracy said, breathing heavily, “but I will not be responsible for murdering children.”

John’s heart raced, though the rest of him was numb with relief. His eyes darted over to the group of kids, who had come closer sometime during the spectacle. “The curly one,” as Crowley had called him, filled John with an odd feeling he couldn’t name. The eleven-year-old Antrichrist gazed at each of them in turn. The rest of John’s ragtag group fell silent, and John found himself holding his breath. 

“You’re two people,” the Antichrist finally said, looking at Tracy/Aziraphale. “Go back to being two people, please.”

Immediately, Aziraphale’s spirit separated from Tracy’s body, and a second later he was corporeal again. Crowley devoured the sight of his angel, taking in every inch of him until he was sure this new body was still him. Aziraphale met his eyes and smiled a little. 

“Ooh, that felt tingly,” said Madame Tracy. She looked the angel up and down. “Oh. Somehow, I thought you’d be younger.” 

Crowley glowered at her. My angel is gorgeous and perfect and I will beat you to death with my tire iron if you ever imply otherwise, he thought forcefully. Madame Tracy gave no indication she noticed his reaction. 

Aziraphale looked around. “Well, that’s over.”

“No,” said Crowley. “It’s not. At all.”

Chapter Text

Clouds turned around the horizon overhead. The sky was still clear, the air torn by nothing more than a light breeze, but it wasn’t normal air. It had a crystallized look to it so that you might feel that if you turned your head, you might see new shapes. It sparkled, and if you had to find a word to describe the word thronged might slip insidiously into your mind. It thronged with substantial beings, awaiting only the right moment to become very substantial.

Adam glanced up. In one sense there was just clear air overhead; in another, stretching off to infinity, where the hosts of Heaven in Hell, wing tipped to wing tip. If you looked really closely and had been specially trained, you could tell the difference.

Silence held the bubble of the world in its grip.

The door of the building swung open, and the four Horsemen stepped out. There was now no hint of humans about three of them. Now they seem to be humanoid shapes made up of all the things they were or represented. They made Death seem positively homely. His leather coat and dark visor helmet had become a robe, but these were mere details. A skeleton, even a walking one, is at least human. Death of a sort lurks inside every living creature.

“The thing is,” said Adam  urgently, "they're not really real. They’re just like nightmares really.”

“But we’re not asleep,” said Pepper.

Dog whined, and tried to hide behind Adam.

“That one looks as if they’re melting,” said Brian, pointing at the advancing figure, if such could still be called, of Pollution.

“There you are then,” said Adam encouragingly. “It can’t be real, can it? It’s common sense something like that can’t be really real.”

The four halted a few meters away.

It has been done, said Death. He leaned forward a little and stared at Adam. It was hard to tell if he was surprised.

“Yes, well the thing is I don’t want it done. I never asked for it to be done.”

Death looked at the other three and then back to Adam.

I do not understand, he said, surely your very existence requires the ending of the world. It is written.

“I don’t see why anyone has to go and write things like that,” he said calmly. “The world is full of all sorts of brilliant stuff and I haven’t found out about all of it yet, so I don’t want anyone messing it about or ending it before I’ve had a chance to find out about it, so you can all just go away.”

Death stared at Adam.

“You are part of us,” said War between teeth like bullets. 

“It is done. We make the world anew,” said Pollution, their voice as insidious as something leaking out of a corroded drum into a water table. 

“You lead us,” said Famine.

And Adam hesitated. Voices inside him still cried out that this was true, and that the world was his as well, and all he had to do was turn and lead them out across the bewildered planet. They were his kind of people.

In tiers above, the host of the world waited for the word.

Dog began to growl and Adam looked at the Them. They were his kind of people too. You just have to decide who your friends really are.

He turned back to the four. “Get them,” he said quietly.

The slouch and slur was gone from his voice. It had harmonics no human could disobey.

War  laughed and looked expectantly at them.

“Little boys,” she said, “playing with your toys. Think of all the toys I can offer you. Think of all the games.”

She laughed again, but the machine gun stutter died away as Pepper stepped forward and raised a trembling arm. It wasn’t much of a sword, but it was about the best you could do with two bits of wood and a piece of string. War stared at it.

“I see,” she said. She drew her own blade and brought it up so that it made a noise like a finger being dragged around a wine glass.

There was a flash as they connected. Death stared into Adam‘s eyes. Then there was a pathetic, jingling noise.

“Don’t touch it,” snapped Adam without moving his head.

The Them stared at the sword, rocking to a standstill on the concrete path. “Little boys,” muttered Pepper disgustedly. Sooner or later everyone has to decide which gang they belong to.

“But– but she sort of got sucked up in the sword!” said Brian.

The air between Adam and Death began to vibrate as in a heat wave.

Wensleydale raised his head and looked Famine in the eyes. He held up something that with a bit of imagination could be considered to be a pair of scales made of more string and twigs. He whirled it around his head.

Famine stuck out a protective arm.

There was another flash, and then the jingle of a pair of silver scales bouncing on the ground.

“Don’t touch them,” said Adam.

Pollution had already started to run, or at least to flow quickly, but Brian snatched the circle of grass stocks from his own head and flung it. It shouldn’t have handled like one, but a force took it out of his hands and it whirred like a discus.

This time the explosion was a red flame inside a pillow of black smoke, and it smelled of oil. A black and silver crown rolled out of the smoke and then spun around with a noise like a settling penny.

At least they need no warning about touching it. It glistened in a way that metal should not.

“Where did they go?” asked Wensley.

Where they belong, said Death still holding Adam’s gaze. Where they have always been. Back in the minds of man. He grinned at  Adam.

There was a tearing sound, and Death’s robe split. His wings unfolded: angel’s wings, but not feathery. They were wings of night, that cut through the matter of creation into the darkness underneath in which a few distant lights glimmered. Lights that may have been stars, or may have been something entirely else.

But, he said, I am not like them. I am Creation’s shadow. You cannot destroy me; that would destroy the world.

The heat of their stare faded. Adam scratched his nose. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “There might be a way.” He grinned back.

“Anyway, it’s going to stop now. All the stuff with the machines. You’ve got to do what I say, and I say it’s got to stop.”

Death shrugged. It is stopping already, he said. Without them, he indicated the pathetic remains of the other three horsepersons, it cannot proceed. Death raised a bony hand in what might’ve been a salute. They'll be back. They’re never far away.

The wings flapped just once like a thunderclap, and the angel of Death vanished.

“Right then,” said Adam to the empty air, “all right. It’s not going to happen. All the stuff they started, it must stop now.”

Chapter Text

“You see,” said Crowley, his voice leaden with fatalistic gloom, “it doesn’t really work that simply. You think wars get started because some old Duke gets shot, or someone cuts off someone's ear, or someone cites their missiles in the wrong place. It’s not like that. That’s just… well, reasons which haven’t got anything to do with it. What really causes wars is two sides that can’t stand the sight of one another. And the pressure builds up and up and up and then anything will cause it. Anything at all. What’s your name, boy?”

“That’s Adam Young,” said a young woman with long, wavy brown hair as she showed up with a man trailing after her. Crowley and Aziraphale stared at the lady.

“You’re the one we hit!” Crowley pointed. 

John gaped. “You hit someone else with that mental car of yours?!”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “I have been telling him to stick to the speed limit.”

“That has nothing to do with anything. She came out of a side street.”

The lady extended her hand. “Anathema Device. And this is Newt Pulsifer.”

John shook her hand. “John Watson.” He looked at Crowley. “Is she the one you got the book from?”

“The book? Oh, right!” The demon pulled the green, leather-bound, charred book from his pocket. “Here ya go, Book Girl!”

Anathema snatched it out of his hands. “Thank you! I thought it would be gone forever!”

“Well, there it is.” Aziraphale pointed. 

Madame Tracy chuckled. “So you’re the Antichrist?” she asked Adam.

“That’s right,” said Adam.

“Good effort. You’ve saved the world. Have a half-holiday,” said Crowley, “but it won’t really make any difference.”

“I think you’re right,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure my people want Armageddon. It’s rather sad.”

“Would anyone mind telling us what's going on?” said Anathema sternly, folding her arms.

“It’s a very long story,” Aziraphale began.

“Go on then,” she said.

“Well, in the beginning, I was technically on apple tree duty, and he was a very wily serpent–”

Crowley made a shushing motion.  “Angel. They don’t need to know all that.”

“But I like telling it,” Aziraphale complained, frowning at him. 

For a second, John thought the demon’s willpower would crumble, but Crowley shook his head. 

John found himself very curious to know what was going on (and dying to know what Aziraphale had been doing while he was technically on apple tree duty). 

However, before anyone could ask Aziraphale or Crowley anything, a pillar of light descended from the pink-and-orange sky, accompanied by a sound like a harp. Simultaneously, a grubby-looking hole opened in the ground. Before John knew what was happening, a man with a punchable face and a person with a hat that looked like a fly stood before them. 

“Oh, shit,” Crowley muttered. 

Aziraphale plastered a fake smile on his face. “Ah, hello, Gabriel.”

“That’s the Supreme Archangel Gabriel to you, sunshine,” the man said in a self-important American accent. (Of-bloody-course he’s the Biblical angel Gabriel, John thought.)

“Demon Crowley,” the fly-person said. “Why izzzn’t the Earth at nuclear war?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a Look. (They really are married, John mused.) 

“Um,” said Crowley. “Well, Lord Beelzebub, we just… uh… you see, the humans don’t want to go to war.”

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly at him; John just sighed. 

“Well, they get to go to war,” Gabriel sneered. “It’s not like they have a choice.” He laughed, as if this was the funniest thing imaginable.

“Since when do we not have free will?” John said before he could think better of it. “Isn’t that the whole point; that we get to choose and we’ll end up going to Heaven or Hell based on our choices?”

Gabriel seemed at a loss for words. Beelzebub just studied their fingernails, looking vaguely bored. 

Crowley grinned at John. “Exactly. And the humans chose not to go to war.”

“But why—” Gabriel whined.

The Antichrist spoke up. “Because I don’t want the Earth to be destroyed,” the boy said simply. “And you can’t make me.”

Beelzebub and Gabriel stared at each other for a moment.

“You see,” Gabriel said, walking over to Adam and crouching in front of him. He scrunched up his face in what was probably meant to be a smile. “You’ll get to lead the armies of Hell. Won’t you like that?”

“No,” Adam said flatly. 

Beelzebub tried next. “You can rule the Earth after we’re done with it,” they said. “It izzz written.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “The Great Plan is written, yes. But is the Ineffable Plan written?”

“Izzzn’t that the same thing?” Beelzebub said tiredly. 

“No,” Crowley said, grinning. “The Ineffable Plan and the Great Plan are completely different.”

John had no idea what they were talking about, but he figured he’d better play along. “Great is one thing, but Ineffable? Ineffable is a whole other magnitude.” And if he was thinking of what Sherlock would say if he were here, and if his eyes were stinging just from thinking about Sherlock, well, no one had to know. 

The Supreme Archangel and the Prince of Hell looked troubled. Gabriel muttered something to Beelzebub, grabbing their arm and stepping away from the rest of the group. John watched the mismatched pair talk animatedly for a moment, wondering why they seemed so familiar with each other. All demons were angels once, so they could have known each other long ago, but there was something more going on between those two. 

“Reckon you’ll have to go all Avenging Angel on them?” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale, who just shook his head nervously. 

Soon enough, Beelzebub and Gabriel came back over to the rest of the group. 

“It appearzzz we won’t be waging war after all,” Beelzebub said, a glower on their lips. 

John nearly melted with relief. Maybe the Earth would survive after all! (Only, what good is this world if your favourite person in it didn’t survive? a sharp piece of John thought. He shoved it away to think about later.) 

“Ugh,” Gabriel grumbled, his unnatural violet eyes glaring daggers. “At least we know whose fault it is!” 

This, he directed at Crowley and Aziraphale, who gave him cheeky grins and little waves in response. With Adam standing between them, John thought to himself that they looked an awful lot like the one gay family at the reunion. 

“Well, I hope I don’t see you later,” Beelzebub said to Gabriel, before jumping into a hole in the ground that John was sure hadn’t been there before. Gabriel left a second later in a pillar of light. 

“Is it over?” Madam Tracy said hesitantly, still clinging to Sergeant Shadwell’s arm. The so-called witch hunter looked suspiciously happy from her presence. 

John glanced at Aziraphale and Crowley, who seemed uncertain how to answer Tracy’s question. Just as he was starting to hope that he could go home to Baker Street (and cry his eyes out, most likely), the ground started to shake violently, like the whole world was going to explode. 

John instantly positioned himself near Aziraphale and Crowley, pulling his handgun from his pocket. Unsure of where to aim it, he let it hang by his side, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. 

“What’s going on?” Anathema yelped. 

“It’s a volcano,” Newt said, eyes wide behind his thick glasses. 

“England doesn’t have volcanoes!” 

The four kids huddled together for support, looking braver than John felt. Tracy and Shadwell looked ready to collapse as the ground continued to quake beneath them. 

Crowley had fallen to his knees. “Oh no oh no oh no,” he said in a panicked growl. 

“What the hell is happening?” John exclaimed. 

“They’ve told the boy’s father.” Crowley’s voice was deathly serious. “He’s coming.”

John felt a chill. “You can’t mean—”

“I’m afraid we do mean Satan is coming, my dear doctor,” Aziraphale said hopelessly. “Crowley, you must do something!”

“Wot am I supposed to do?” Crowley snarled. “We’re fucked!”

“I said, do something!” Aziraphale cried, raising his sword. 

Crowley’s yellow eyes went wide. 

“Or—or I’ll never talk to you again,” the angel finished, letting his sword slip from his fingers to clang on the tarmac. The look in his eyes was painfully desperate. “Please, Crowley.”

If that wasn’t gay, John didn’t know what was. 

Crowley’s mind flooded with thoughts of save him save him he’s in trouble save him I have to SAVE MY ANGEL. With a wordless shout, he lurched to his feet and flipped his middle fingers towards the sky, and everything went white.