Side of The Angels
Title: Side of The Angels
Author: Nakimochiku
Beta'd by: wordvagabond
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/ Pairings: Jim Moriarty/ John Watson, slight Johnlock, Lestrade.
Rating: M
Warnings: sex, dub-con, demons, religious issues. and a complete lack of knowledge concerning british landmarks.
Note: thanks also to exbex, the darling, who helped me fuss.
Wordcount: 7993
Summary: It's not easy being the guardian angel to a human like Sherlock Holmes. Especially not when a demon is trying to destroy everything you've ever worked for. The road to hell, after all, is paved with good intentions.
If John Watson was the good in Sherlock Holmes- and he had to be, he wasn’t third Captain in Michael’s Army for nothing- then Jim Moriarty was the sin. He stained the ground he walked on with his evil, his aura black as tar, enough to make John’s eyes sting.
It was all John could do not to pierce him straight through the heart with a holy arrow when he saw him on a near-empty Baker Street, strolling easily, the soles of his shoes crunching on the pavement. Jim wasn’t so low-level that it would have much effect, but it would be worth it just to see the look on the demon’s face. He was the only creature in the world that made John feel truly malicious.
He was almost intimately aware of Jim by now, on the edge of all his guardian assignments since John had earned his eagle wings. His mocking smile serrated with fangs, his tongue flicking over his lips, branded with the mark of the liar, was just as irritating now as it was five hundred years ago.
"So good to see you, Johnny. Have you finally earned your dove wings?" Jim began conversationally as they met in front of 221b, adjusting his tie and staring pointedly at the pearl white wings that fluttered beneath his attentions, as though his gaze were physical. Jim’s fingers brushed through the pure down feathers delicately when he was close enough, and John’s skin crawled in disgust as he jerked away. "They are so much more becoming than the barn owl ones. They make you look…pure."
John bristled, his feathers ruffling, all the while completely aware that Sherlock could be watching from the window, but hardly able to care. He didn’t want to turn his attention from Jim long enough for him to surprise him with an attack. He’d learned long ago to keep both eyes on the demon.
"Stay away from me. Stay away from my assignment." He called up a holy arrow between his fingers, drawing it back with his manifested bow. They both knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t shoot. But that didn’t make John lower the bow.
Jim simply laughed, tipping his head to the side in appraisal, dead black eyes glittering in approval and wanton lust, night breeze toying with black hair. Everything about him made John shiver in revulsion. "I only came to say hi, Johnny. Don’t you like seeing old friends?"
He pulled the drawstring back further in answer.
Jim hardly seemed fazed by the threat, tucking his hands into his pockets comfortably. "Alright. I’m going. But you know I can’t go a day without seeing your lovely face, all flustered." he blew a kiss, and John’s lips curled in a snarl. "Expect me sometime soon."
He disappeared in a whirlwind of darkness, leaving John standing alone in Baker Street with nothing but parked cars and flickering streetlamps.
Being a guardian angel wasn’t easy, John thought wearily as he climbed the steps to the flat he shared with his assignment. He had to be friend, brother, confidant and guiding light to Sherlock Holmes, who knew as much about righteousness as he did about the solar system. He was difficult, impulsive, and a self-proclaimed sociopath. But John wasn’t going to let that deter him.
"John." Sherlock greeted as he walked through the door, taking in his haggard expression and rumpled appearance with narrowed eyes. "What’s wrong? You look like you’ve been molested."
John couldn’t help but laugh weakly, slumping into his armchair and kicking off his shoes, grateful that he could already hear the kettle boiling. That was how he felt. Molested. He couldn’t tell Sherlock that, though; he was far too perceptive for an ordinary human.
"We have a new case," Sherlock said conversationally, bringing in a mug of tea and pushing it into John’s hands, sitting opposite him in his arm chair, sharp silver eyes watching him, deducing his every action. He hated it when Sherlock did that.
"Do we?" John asked and took a sip of his tea, careful to appear completely nonchalant, giving Sherlock a small half-smile. Sherlock grunted and tossed a file folder at him, adjusting his dressing gown and slouching back into his chair. John flipped it open, brows furrowing as he scanned the contents. "Missing children?"
"I’m still debating accepting. Moriarty is presumably involved." Sherlock said lowly. John took a sharp breath, a flicker of rage lighting in in his stomach. "He left me a message. Turn the page."
John did, reading the message scribbled on the wall of a school in the picture. His eyes narrowed at a smaller note in Enochian beneath it, swallowing hard.
"The first by their own suggestions fell, self-tempted, self-depraved: Man falls deceived." Sherlock recited gravely.
John looked at him sharply. "What’s that then?" he asked, wary of the answer.
"Milton’s Paradise Lost." Sherlock rested his chin on his fingers, eyes glazed over in that way that suggested he was thinking hard, the computer of his mind whirring at the speed of light. "But what does sin and temptation have to do with these children?"
"I don’t know." John murmured, feeling a sick swirl of fear and anticipation. He felt like Jim was calling out to him specifically rather than trying to taint his assignment, and he didn’t appreciate the change.
@
John looked up from his paperwork at the sudden dark swirl of energy, the sulfuric breeze rustling his office blinds and making his papers flutter. Jim stood in the office a moment later, his leathery black wings stretching before he folded them against his back, his horns receding back into his forehead, even his fangs and claws became duller as he pulled on his human façade.
He looked around the doctor’s office with silent half-amused appraisal, and John bristled. He didn’t need Jim to say anything to hear his mocking thoughts. Black eyes landed on him, smug and in control.
"Do you have nothing but feathers in that pretty little head of yours, Johnny?" Jim leaned casually against John’s desk. The angel’s jaw clenched in response. "Being a good little angel, helping other people, when I could be sullying Sherlock right now, and you wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. Cocky of you. I could be corrupting him as we speak." He played casually with the stethoscope lying coiled on the desk, and John briefly imagined strangling the demon with it.
"You wouldn’t, though." John grumbled moodily, snatching the equipment away. "Not unless you knew I knew. That’s the way you are."
Jim laughed cheerfully. "Yes, that’s true. Which is why I came to warn you. You’d never understand if I didn’t explain. Did you get my note?" He climbed onto the desk, his expensive tailored suit crumpling the pile of papers.
John pushed his chair back, jaw clenched firmly. He gave the demon a curt nod. The Enochian message was engraved in his mind, a threat that he could neither ignore nor forget.
"Come and play," he repeated. Jim looked delighted.
"Sherlock’s accepted a rather perplexing case, and everything you’ve been trying to teach him until now will be put to the test." Jim grinned deviously, leaning down so he was almost nose to nose with John. He could feel the demon’s breath on his cheeks, and growled warningly. His own angelic nature was peeking through his human façade with Jim so close to him, his halo glowing in his skin.
He tried not to get so angry he couldn’t think; he didn’t want to waste his few questions on something stupid. Jim was playing a game, whether John wanted to participate or not. He’d realised that the moment he’d read that message. Sherlock’s fate could depend on asking the right questions. Jim watched him, black eyes flickering over his face, reading him.
"What’s the outcome? Of all of this?" he asked at last. Jim smiled crookedly.
"Well. There are two. Death, and salvation. Sherlock will solve the case. That’s guaranteed." Jim rolled his eyes. "But the path he chooses to walk down is a different matter."
John studied Jim’s face, searching for a hint and finding nothing. "And what of the children? Where do they fit into all this?"
Jim shrugged. "I said two options, Johnny. He can let the children die, but capture me, his archenemy and greatest foil, or he can save them, but lose the chance of bringing me to justice." He grinned, as though he found the entire thing wonderfully clever. "One will force him down the path of sin, and from there it’ll be all too easy to drag him down."
"No." John said shortly. "No. That’s not what will happen. I won’t let it."
Jim laughed, just this side of condescending. "I was hoping you’d say that." He leaned forward just enough to kiss the tip of John’s nose before he could dodge him. "I’ll see you soon, Johnny. I’m a busy demon, you know. Souls to devour."
Jim disappeared, leaving John to his office and the ringing sound of his laughter. He sighed, organizing his mussed papers distractedly, mind whirling with questions. What did Jim want from him, precisely? Why on earth did he insist on bothering him? It stabbed John somewhere deep every time he forced himself to forgive Jim for his transgressions, as though he were simply a disobedient child.
The beep of an incoming text message broke into his thoughts, and he let out a tense breath, flipping it open.
I’ve taken the case -- SH
John bit his lip, thankful that Sherlock couldn’t see or hear his worry.
OKAY. I KNOW -- JW
He drummed his fingers against the desk impatiently as he waited for Sherlock to give him further details. He couldn’t tell Sherlock not to take the case. That wasn’t the right choice, the good one. If Sherlock didn’t take it, those children would die. But he didn’t want to give Jim a chance to corrupt him either.
One of the missing children will likely die tonight -- SH
John could almost hear the dispassionate way he would say the text verbally: like a robot, cold and heartless. It was already beginning. Sherlock was falling off the path of righteousness, and John would not let him go without a fight. He’d never lost an assignment to Hell, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Jim prance along and ruin his perfect record. He didn’t care if that was simply pride talking.
CAN’T LET THAT HAPPEN. BE BACK IN 20 -- JW
@
The black letters of the file folder seemed to glare at him, condemning him, damning him for not somehow having the foresight to prevent this, despite knowing there was nothing he could have done, no way he could have been aware. Katie Williams, Scott Andrews, Philippe Saint-Claire, Stacy Penner, Mark Grint. The names of children, all thirteen years old, all alone, hurting, in danger. Scared, and waiting for someone to save them. Waiting for Sherlock.
John examined the evidence. Sherlock had done so already, but John needed to keep his hands busy, even if he knew there was almost nothing John could notice that Sherlock hadn’t already seen, thought of, analyzed, deduced. But it made him feel busy, needed, as though he weren’t such a failure.
Five children, walking home from school, all of whom lived on the same street. No witnesses, a message written in Enochian on the wall, and the more noticeable John Milton quote. Was the quote a clue? Code? A message that held some deeper meaning that neither of them were seeing? John gave a rough sigh, rubbing his hand through his hair before resting his forehead against his propped fist, letting the papers in his hand flop back to the table top. It was littered all over with images, half-baked leads and thoughts. John smiled fondly as he pulled a copy of Paradise Lost closer. Sherlock had left it open on a page that was dog earred.
He flipped through the book absently, bottom lip caught between his teeth, hardly noticing when his skin split under his sharp worrying teeth. He couldn’t let Jim win. He couldn’t let him taint Sherlock with sin, turn him into a sinner past forgiveness. And he certainly couldn’t let the demon hurt those children. He landed eventually on the illustration of Lucifer being cast into Hell, and stayed there, lost in thought.
A sharp rap on the window drew his attention. His concern slipped like a cloth blown away on the breeze, replaced instead a fury that swathed him as Jim climbed in elegantly and lowered the window again.
"Out." John said firmly before Jim could say anything, careful not to raise his voice with Sherlock home, even locked away in his mind palace. "Out or I’ll shoot you down where you stand." He couldn’t make good on the threat, but he wanted to so badly his muscles thrummed with adrenaline. His fingers twitched, feeling for his astral energy, comforted by the swirl of purity around his wrist.
"You’re not a killing angel, Johnny." Jim observed, stepping around John delicately, careful not to touch him yet, when John was still so righteously angry, even though it made him all the more enticing. The way his power sang beneath his skin, mixing with his almost palpable hatred nearly made Jim giddy with glee. "I don’t know why you keep pointing that bow at me. You’re not an angel of vengeance. Haven’t got a wrathful bone in your body."
"One day," John vowed, purity glimmered around his hands, formless and powerful. "One day I will shoot. One day, I will burn you to a crisp, stand over your ashes and laugh." The malicious intent felt ugly inside him, foreign and sticky like tar poured over his heart. But Jim inspired hatred so easily. He made him so disgustingly, unforgivably angry.
Jim let out a little sound like a moan, wrapping his arms around John’s waist from behind and burying his face in his feathers, holding John there tightly.
"Johnny." he sighed breathlessly. "When you say things like that, I think I could fall in love with you." He let John shove him away with a quiet sound of disgust so pure it sent a shiver down Jim’s spine, his hatred a delicacy he intended to enjoy to the fullest extent. His chest sizzled where John’s hands had touched him, but he shrugged it off, his expression bereft of pain.
"You’re not capable of love." John retorted darkly. Jim shrugged again, tracing his fingers over the case files on the table, drawing John‘s eyes. "Where are they?" he asked, hoping against hope that perhaps Jim would tell him. The demon did no such thing. He merely smirked and held a finger over his mouth.
"It’s a secret!" he sing-songed cheerfully, skipping to the other side of the table, playing absentmindedly with more papers. He grinned when he saw Paradise Lost.
"If you’re not here to tell me anything useful, then get out. Your face makes me sick." John growled, taking a heavy seat at the table and pretending to look over a file, hyper sensitive to every molecule between himself and Jim.
"But I did come to tell you something useful." Jim sang, tone sinister and playful. "Sherlock told you I would kill one of those children?" John gave a curt nod, and the twisted smile Jim gave him made fear tangle coldly in his chest. "Right now, little Mark Grint is on the chopping block."
"Where?" John pressed, leaning forward in his seat, the chair screeching back as he pushed it away in his haste. Jim tsked teasingly at him. John shoulders slumped, casting around blindly for the right answer. "What do you want? What do I have to do?"
"Beg me."
John blinked at Jim slowly, blue eyes wide and purposefully confused. He did not want to understand that statement. He didn’t want to comprehend it or let it sink in. "What?" he asked reluctantly. Jim rolled his eyes at him, the action somehow fondly exasperated.
"Beg me, Johnny. Beg me for Mark Grint’s life, plead with me to spare him. Plead with me not to taint Sherlock, just this one time. Beg me." His words were low and whispered, but they echoed in John’s ears, seeping into his skin.
He watched Jim’s smug face blankly for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. He clenched his fists brows furrowing as he got down on his knees. "Please." He murmured, his tongue burning on the word. Jim put a hand to his ear and leaned forward, John wanted to kick him.
"Please." he said a little louder. "Don’t hurt that kid, please."
Jim hummed discontentedly. "Is that it?" he asked with a dismissive grunt. "I guess you don’t care all that much." He pulled out his cell phone, and started tapping away at the keys. John’s eyes grew wide in realization, cursing himself.
"Don’t!" he cried. "Wait. I’m sorry, just… Please! Please! I’m begging you, please." He grasped the hem of Jim’s blazer, head hanging low. " Please." the whisper sounded so weak, and he hated his own desperation, his own willingness to do anything, so long as he could keep Sherlock safe.
Jim lifted his face with his finger, his claw digging into the delicate skin at the underside of John’s jaw, thumb brushing John’s bottom lip fleetingly. He looked into his eyes, before smiling softly.
"Well." he purred thoughtfully as John flinched away from his touch. "Since you asked so nicely." He keyed another message into his phones and sent it with a cheerful little bing noise, and moved back towards the window. "Pleasure doing business with you, Johnny," he said with a backwards wink as he perched on the window sill. "Let’s do it again sometime." he stretched his leathery black wings, and swooped silently away.
John stayed there on the floor a while later, knees weak, pride bleeding, relief and despair at once making his cheeks pale. He breathed easier when Sherlock stepped into the room and cast him a questioning look. John simply shook his head.
"Moriarty has sent us another message." the detective informed him, holding up a file folder.
John took a shallow, ragged breath and sat up, easing himself back into his chair. He reached for the file folder Sherlock held out for him, ignoring the consulting detective’s intent stare. Inside, a single page was printed with a single phrase.
"I feel the link of nature draw me. Flesh of flesh, bone of my bone thou art, from thy state mine shall never be parted, bliss or woe," he read quietly. He sighed with relief at the next few words. "All five doing fine."
"He didn’t kill one." Sherlock mumbled. John let out another sound of relief, and with it went his tense fear. Sherlock’s brows knit together, his mouth a straight unhappy line. He thought that way for a long time before the expression smoothed out. "That quote is also from Paradise Lost, and somehow connects to this. Demons, perhaps? Sin?" he was thinking out loud, and John thought with him.
"That line suggests eternal love." He added. Sherlock glanced at him and smiled brightly, standing abruptly. The expression made John feel wary.
"You’re brilliant, John." Sherlock crowed, grabbing his scarf and coat from the closet, and tossed John’s Jacket at him as well. "I was focussing on the demon aspect of the story, rather than the angelic part. Quickly, what’s the most famous angel in London?"
"The Shaftsbury Memorial at Piccadilly Circus?" John hazarded, shrugging on his coat and following Sherlock as he stormed noisily down the creaky old stairs, throwing open the front door.
"Precisely. The angel represented on the statue is Anteros, brother of Eros, whose name means love returned. The quote, as you pointed out, was discussing love." Sherlock frowned a little as he held his hand up to hail the taxi the turned conveniently onto their street. "It’s not much to go on, but Moriarty’s made reference to lesser things until now."
"You’re going now?" John demanded incredulously. "It’s four in the morning! I have work, I can’t afford to sleep in the office anymore." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at him, unaffected by his plight, and climbed into the sleek black cab when it pulled up to the curb. John watched it pull away reluctantly, bit his lip, and went back inside to wait for the results of the lead.
@
It was mid-afternoon when John returned home, mind tired, body haggard, stressed from worrying about Sherlock. The worry he felt did not lighten when he returned to the empty flat. He didn’t know where Sherlock was, or what he had found at the Anteros statue, or where it had led him, and that made John anxious.
He tried to relax in his armchair, newspaper unfolded on his lap, the words all blurred and jumbled, blending together, becoming gibberish.
"Is Sherlock away then?" Jim asked as he paraded right through the front door, swinging the door chain from downstairs around his finger. John stiffened, letting the newspaper fall from his hands and standing. He didn’t like being on uneven levels with the demon. "Shame. Thought we might have all had a spot of tea. Had a proper chat." He shrugged and took a single cursory look around before his eyes landed on John and fixed there, piercing him.
"Get out." John hissed, watching Jim take a seat in Sherlock’s armchair, crossing his legs imperiously, cocking his head to the side. "I told you to stay away. Get out!"
He didn’t want to be too loud, in case Mrs. Hudson heard, but he could never be calm and in control when Jim was in his presence, everything about him riled him up. Especially when he remembered the events of the previous night, on his knees in front of the demon he despised more than any other.
"What are you going to do about it, Johnny?" Jim taunted, his eyes traveling the length of John’s body leisurely, as though he could see right through the fluffy white jumper. It made John squirm mildly, like a pinned butterfly. "Your God said you must love and forgive every creature in existence, Angel of Mercy. That applies to the lowest insect, a sinner, and to me." He laughed cruelly, and John’s fists clenched. "Must be frustrating, knowing you have to love me, of all things."
"For you I‘d make an exception." John growled, light swirling between his fingers to become a bow and arrow that he pointed directly at Jim, gazing hard and steady, the purity of the arrow singeing the skin of his forehead, leaving a night black burn. Jim tipped his head back, the little wound healed quickly. He parted his lips, panting audibly, as though John’s threats got him off. They did in a sick way, which served only to make the angel angrier. "I swear I will shoot you right between the fucking eyes. If that doesn’t work, I’ve got holy sounds I’ve been meaning to try out."
The wanton expression didn’t leave Jim’s eyes, it merely burned fiercer. His gaze felt sticky, oily and slick, clinging to John’s skin until he felt dirty. "Picking up human swear words, Johnny?" he teased softly, tone heavy and breathless. "What a delightfully filthy little mouth you have." He ran his branded tongue over his lips in that revolting way, all lust and open desire, unfolding his legs to open them provocatively, smirking. "The things I could do with that mouth."
"Get. Out."
"Not so fast, Johnny. I have a warning to issue first." He leaned back in his chair, the ugly aspects of his nature forced to emerge due to the proximity of John’s holy arrow, fangs sharper, claws curled into the upholstery, his voice dropping to a mocking tone. "You’ve noticed already haven’t you? Sherlock’s changing, and it’ll be all too easy to topple him."
He grinned as John’s shoulders squared, brow furrowing. "If you don’t back off, I’m going to make Sherlock Holmes pitch black. He’ll be cruel, evil, a demon in a human body. And when he’s dead, I’ll drag his soul to the deepest, hottest, darkest pit in hell. Cause that’ll be the only place fit for him. You don’t want that to happen, do you?" Jim smiled, and easily dodged the arrow John released with shaking fingers, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The little scrape on his cheek sizzled and smoked.
"Next time I won’t miss." He promised, voice steel. "Get out." he repeated in a low whisper. "Get out before I actually kill you." he backed away just enough to let Jim stand, never untraining the arrow from his head.
"Remember my warning, John. Don’t you already love him too much?" Jim prodded with one last jagged smirk, before slipping out the door just as an arrow landed in the wood with a resounding thunk. He could hear Jim laughing all the way down the stairs trailing after him like the remnants of a nightmare.
When he was sure the demon had gone, he let his bow dissipate with a glimmer, slumping back into his armchair tiredly. There was a hole in Sherlock’s chair, and the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His nerves thrummed, his body thumping with adrenaline. Jim had set him on edge.
Jim didn’t ever make empty threats. And he knew John was well and truly stuck. He was bound by his capacity to love, nurture and protect unconditionally. It was why in five hundred years of needling, John hadn’t killed Jim. It was why John ensured all his all his assignments went to heaven when their time came. It was why Jim had been dancing around him for the past five centuries.
If one thing was certain, it was that Jim couldn’t ever be allowed to corrupt Sherlock. John couldn’t afford to lose him.
When Sherlock got in, John was still reclining in his chair, brow furrowed and glaring at the hole in the chair opposite him.
Sherlock sniffed the air and frowned. "Have you been playing with my chemistry set?" He asked dubiously, slinging his blazer carelessly over the arm of the sofa.
"What?" John mumbled distractedly, shaken. He took a deep breath and tried to control his voice. "No. Why?"
"Then why does it smell like sulphur in here?" He sniffed again, frowning at the room. "And a touch of cologne if I’m not mistaken." He wasn’t. The air smelled just like Jim, down to the characteristic stench of his aura, an alluring scent to human sense but toxic to angels. John didn’t say anything in response, merely cracked open a window.
"What’d you find at the statue?" he questioned quickly, leaning slightly out of the window to catch the cool night breeze and breathe the clean air deep into his lungs. Anything would do, so long as it pushed the scent of Jim out of his nose, out of his mind. Tarmac and petrol had never smelled so good.
Sherlock let out a sight of pure irritation in answer, jumping onto the sofa with cat-like grace and stretching out fully, kicking off his shoes as he went. Between his hands was a torn sepia-coloured photograph. John waited for him to speak with a raised eyebrow, focussed only on breathing fresh air. "This is a photo of the Victoria Memorial when it was first erected in 1911. There’s been a recurring theme of angels and hell. But what does it have to do with the children?"
Rather than think too hard on the topic, John puttered about the kitchen, fixing toast with jam and butter, setting two mugs on a tray as he waited for the kettle to boil. "You went to the Victoria Memorial too, right?" He called from the kitchen.
Sherlock grunted. "There wasn’t anything there. No clues, no hints. Nothing to say I was even on the right track." He shook his head at the plate of toast John offered him, sipping his tea pensively and slapping a nicotine patch on his arm before slouching back into the sofa with a discomforting sigh. "He’s certainly not making this an easy round."
"Round?" John repeated incredulously, blinking owlishly at him. "Round? Are you still treating these types of things like a game? Children’s lives are at stake!" Sherlock’s head tilted in his mocking way, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Lives, Sherlock. Families torn apart."
"Yes." Sherlock responded blithely. John felt his mouth go slack, any words he wanted to say were completely loss in the face of his disbelief. "I’ve told you before, John, caring clouds my judgment. It doesn’t help me, and it won’t help them."
Sherlock had told him that before, so many times, every time things didn’t exactly go according to plan. But it hadn’t mattered so much then as it did now, with his very soul on the line. He felt a seed of despair prick his heart. Sherlock made it so bloody hard to save him, so bloody hard for him to do his job, he felt like screaming in frustration or punching Sherlock until he understood.
John bit his bottom lip and stood, grabbing his jacket as he went to the door. "No." He responded bitterly. "It doesn’t help you. But it does make you human."
The door slammed behind him as he left, his breaths coming out in angry puffs. He didn’t know how he was going to win against Jim when Sherlock was making it so easy to corrupt him.
John didn’t know where he was going. His anger had taken him straight across the street, through a short cut, and turning onto another street, pace purposeful and quick. He had no real destination, he just needed to cool his head, unwind. He knew there was no point getting angry with Sherlock, it was wasted energy on him. He wasn’t built like other people. He didn’t understand their boundaries, didn’t understand their codes, rules and morals. And even though it was John’s job to teach him those things, it was proving difficult to the point of hopelessness.
He stopped at a 24-hour convenience store, picking up a cup of crappy coffee and a carton of ice-cream, hoping the caffeine would do something for his nerves. He turned into yet another shortcut to Baker Street, starting his trek home, sipping his coffee with a grimace.
He didn’t sense Jim’s incoming presence until he was upon him, blocking the mouth of the alley with his outstretched wings. The lamplight in the next street over gave him a shadowy halo. John dropped his coffee, letting it splatter on the cement as his stance changed, knees bent and ready for a fight if it came to one. Jim smiled, taking slow steps closer. John’s ears pricked, anticipating the sound of each foot fall, completely aware of the gap between them shrinking.
"Evening, Johnny. As flustered as ever, I see," he greeted, taking a step right into John’s personal space, pleased when he didn’t react or flinch away.
"Where are the children?" John shot back, unfazed by Jim’s scare tactics, too annoyed to let it bother him. He wanted answers, results. He wanted the case over and the children back in their respective homes. He wanted Jim locked in the deepest pits of hell.
"Sherlock’s starting to get on your last nerve, hmm?" Jim snorted with amusement.
"You’re the one on my last nerve," John snapped, lips curled in a snarl. Jim twiddled his fingers dispassionately at him.
"You realize, if he lets those children die, it’s my win, right?" He whispered teasingly into John’s ear, fingers playing along the edges of John’s wings with his claws. "I’ll give you a hint, Johnny. He already knows where they are. He’s just waiting for my next mood, hoping to catch me in a trap."
John wondered why he kept getting himself into places Jim could target him, why he kept taking shortcuts down dank alleyways that just begged for him to be cornered and taunted.
"Why do you insist on tormenting me?" John asked, shaking his wings away from Jim’s exploring fingers, the base of his spine cold as the demon chuckled, the ghost of touch lingering long enough to make his wings quiver. The question had come to him thousands of times since he’d first met Jim, since he’d first started unwittingly dancing in the palm of his hand. It was only now that he honestly wanted to know the answer.
"Tormenting you?" Jim repeated, laughing in amazement hand clutching his stomach. "Tormenting you?" He wiped a nonexistent tear of mirth from his eye, chuckling darkly. "Johnny, I’m not tormenting you," he reassured smugly, a hint of humour in his tone before it went low and threatening. "When I torment you, and I will, you’ll be screaming ‘til your voice breaks and begging for mercy on your knees, with tears in those pretty blue eyes of yours."
John forced himself not to shudder, holding his ground and pretending to be unfazed by the demon’s sick fantasies as he circled him like a stalking wolf, eyeing him ravenously.
"I’m not tormenting you." he repeated. "Not yet."
"Then what do you want?" John asked wearily. He considered burning Jim with a blast of holy aura as a warning to stay out of his space, but he needed Jim to talk. He needed answers. He needed to get into the demon’s head.
"You’re abnormally thick," Jim drawled. "I’m trying to drive a point home. Slam it right into your pretty little skull." He made a show of examining his immaculate claws, his leathery black wings stretching behind him, before he was suddenly pressing too close again, crowding him into the crumbling brick alley wall, his claws scraping the delicate skin of John’s throat. His flesh split as easily as fruit, the sound almost audible. "I want you to know that only you can prevent it. The fall. Sherlock’s fall."
"He’s not going to fall," John retorted sharply, eyes clenched shut against pain, tipping his head back as Jim pressed closer, his claws digging in and drawing blood that he lapped at eagerly. He could feel Jim’s scalding tongue licking along his adam’s apple, burning like hellfire before placing a sharp nip there. "Not so long as I’m his angel. I won’t let him."
"So long as you’re his angel, his fall is guaranteed," the demon whispered hotly, a hand curling around John’s hip. Their bodies crushed together. "Don’t you understand yet, Johnny? I’m not letting you win this one. You’re both his salvation, and his destruction." Jim’s chuckles sent vibration thrumming through John’s skin, rippling all over. "Sexier that way."
"Get off me, freak!" John growled, shoving him away roughly. Jim stumbled back a few steps, and straightened his suit, licking his lips of the last traces of John’s blood.
"Make your decision Johnny, very carefully. If you feel like saving his soul, you know where to find me." Jim smirked and disappeared in a fierce whirlwind of demonic energy that John shielded his eyes from. He leaned back against the brick wall, feeling lost.
As he looked to the sky, he closed his eyes, and recited the codes of a Guardian angel, finding comfort in the rules instilled in him before he had his wings. "I have to do what’s best for my assignment. I have to lead him from temptation, deliver him from evil, lead him in the paths of righteousness." he opened his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, knees weak with genuine fear. "If this is what I gotta do, then it’s okay." He nodded to himself and started on his way home.
He told himself that he wasn’t giving up. That he’d found a better, easier solution. Something that would lead to the best possible outcome. Even if he was the one who had to be sacrificed. That was nothing new to him, it seemed.
@
Sherlock burst exuberantly into the flat just as John had started folding his cardigans into a duffle bag, already half full with some of his things. Whatever he’d been saying as he walked in died on his lips, quicksilver eyes taking in the chaos of the living room, the folded pairs of pants and shoes. "Will you be gone long?" Sherlock asked, tone subdued with hurt.
John froze, clutching one of his shirts. "Yeah." he said at last, carrying on with his packing, examining the little knickknacks he’d picked up living with Sherlock, useless little human things that he didn’t need, but had somehow grown attached to. "Yeah. A very long time."
"Is this about Moriarty?" Sherlock persisted, stepping closer, studying John’s back thoroughly. His lack of answer said enough, and he wearily put down the scarf Mrs. Hudson had knit him. "I’ll beat him, you know," he assured. "You don’t have to leave. I’ll beat him."
"No. I definitely have to leave." John turned away from him, afraid that if he looked Sherlock in the eye, he would reveal too much.
"Sometimes, though, Sherlock, things aren’t always about winning," he said, imparting the only wisdom he could. "Sometimes, it’s about coming out the better man." He zipped up his duffle bag, and turned back to Sherlock, who was too stunned to really know what to say. "Promise me you’ll come out of this the better man?"
He patted his shoulder fleetingly, heavy with guilt and doubt, but managed a weak smile. He slung on his coat, and grabbed his bag, flinging open the door.
"John." Sherlock called faintly, standing stock still in the living room, the remnants of his life scattered around him. "John!"
But the angel didn’t look back.
He left his duffle bag in the alley across the street. Where he was going, he wouldn’t be needing it. With one last heavy sigh, and a glance back at 221b, John spread his wings and flew to where he knew the demon was waiting for him.
@
"Knew I could count on you to give in, Johnny." Jim smirked, reclining in a chic arm chair in an upscale apartment. He didn’t move when John entered. "Knew you loved far too much."
Jim stood easily, approaching John with a predatory gait, making him back away until he was against a wall. "But that’s the thing with you angels. So full of love."
"What do you want?" John grunted, squirming under Jim’s hand on his belly, pinning him as his fingers played through the soft down of his wings. "What was all of this for?"
"500 years and you still don’t get it, Johnny? You’re denser than I thought." Jim laughed, his hands sliding up and down over John’s thighs, his hips and waist, his touch burning through his clothes. "You. I want you. I wanted to prove you were human, drag you through the mud. Paint you black." He whispered the words almost breathlessly, moist against John’s jaw. He rained open mouthed kisses along his jaw, cheek, the corner of his lips, stubble grazing skin roughly.
"You’re sick," John grumbled, turning away from Jim’s searching mouth. The demon chuckled, grasping his hair and forcing their lips together. The kiss tingled and burned, just the pressure of damp skin, the slide of a branded liar’s tongue along the seam of his lips, sucking the soft flesh into his mouth and nipping.
"Don’t make me force you. I don’t want to force you." He tugged John’s shirt out of his jeans, tearing at the button and going straight for his cock, stroking unevenly. "I want you to give into me. Prove you’re as human as I thought." Jim’s tongue swiped against his jugular, and vulnerability fluttered in the pit of his stomach. John let out a quiet moan as he bit his neck, sharp fangs puncturing skin with ease, fumbling eagerly with his jeans.
"Shut up. Shut up." John hissed, fingers curling on Jim’s shoulders as his hips jerked up into his hands, closing his eyes to deny everything, letting his body move on autopilot. He could obey if it would save Sherlock. He could let himself fall to temptation if it would save Sherlock.
He returned the next kiss hesitantly, their tongues meeting in a wet tangle. He could taste his blood in Jim’s mouth, could feel the raised edges of his brand and explored it thoroughly, nails scraping the soft black hair at the nape of Jim’s neck.
"Eager, aren’t we?" Jim suggested deviously, hands slipped down to curve possessively on his ass, kneading relentlessly.
"Shut up." John repeated sharply, his own fingers tracing experimental circles underneath Jim’s suit jacket before reaching up to pull it from him, letting it fall in a crumpled mess on the floor.
Every brush of lips and fingertips and skin burnt with sin, making him writhe in a mix of pain and almost pleasure. Their kisses were fire, drawing blood and licking it away, wrenching each other’s hair, nails digging into exposed skin. Jim tasted like ash and something sticky sweet, something between revolting and delicious. His hips rolled into Jim’s hands when he fisted his cock, biting his lip and tossing his head back, a strained moan caught in his chest.
He hated Jim, hated him with all the fires of hell itself, and I made his skin flush with want. He kissed Jim back just as feverishly, stroking the straining bulge in Jim’s tailored pants through the fabric, giving a thin-lipped smile when Jim groaned, his claws digging into the skin of John’s wrist. It burnt, but the pain heightened the pleasure.
Jim bent him over the kitchen counter, heated skin cooled by the hard marble beneath his scrabbling fingers, struggling to brace himself.
"Wait," he whispered when Jim wrenched at his pants. "Wait!" he gasped desperately, reeling as the consequences came crashing into him. This was too much, too fast, too good, and the tingling burn of pleasure he felt wouldn’t go away.
"Won’t wait. Wanted this too long." Jim’s voice was dark and gravelly against his shoulder, fangs grazing the sweat-slicked skin, pressing delicate kisses and sucking marks on the nape of his neck. Everywhere he kissed was like a tag. He’d been there, he’d touched, and all of John was his property. He wasn’t even sure if the inaudible noises he let out were of revulsion of pleasure. "Sorry this won’t last long." Jim whispered, tugging hastily at his belt buckle. "But we’ll have all of eternity to do this properly."
John sucked in a shallow gasping breath as Jim pushed in, neither gently nor lovingly, stretching his tight muscle almost painfully around him, forcing him open. He let out a short cry, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead against the marble, hands held in fists so tight he thought his knuckles might shatter.
"Jesus," he hissed out, moaning lowly when Jim rocked their hips together, steadily picking up pace.
"You feel so good inside." Jim murmured against his shoulder, thrusting hard and drawing another shout from John, his own breath ragged and loud, hot against the nape of John’s neck, his pace punishing. Heat flushed through to his toes each time Jim pushed in, and bit his knuckles to keep from crying or moaning or both. "Next time, I want you to wrap your legs around me." Jim whispered breathlessly, groaning as John’s muscles clenched around him, fingertips gripping John’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, claws pricking little cuts.
John could feel Jim’s length throbbing inside him, and shuddered at the first hot spurts of his seed, arching into Jim’s hips. The demon grabbed a fistful of his feather as he rode out the last of his orgasm and tore at them brutally, pulling a long scream from John that bordered on inhuman, pain radiating to his core. "I can’t wait to hear that noise again." He promised viciously, pulling away and tossing the shredded feathers at him. John collapsed against the kitchen counter, his wing pulsing with agony as his feathers floated around him.
"You’ll leave him alone, right?" John croaked, weakly pulling his cardigan straight, delicately examining his wing with his fingers, his whole body sore and burning, leaving him weak-kneed. He knew he looked pathetic, ashamed, wanton. His cheeks were still flushed, his pants still around his knees, the proof of what he’d done smeared on the insides of his thighs. But none of it mattered. His fingers curled in the soft wool, expression close to pleading. "Sherlock. You’ll leave him alone?"
Jim looked at him a long moment before he laughed. He laughed so hard he bent over, grasping the marble counter top. "You didn’t get that either, Johnny." he chuckled when his mirth subsides, black eyes glittering deviously. "I don’t need to do anything to Sherlock. You were his goodness. Now that I’ve taken you, I don’t need to do anything to him." He stroked a finger beneath John’s chin, mouth curved into a smug smile. "He’ll fall all on his own."
John’s eyes widened, processing what Jim said with embarrassing slowness, the words thick and terrible. He might have started yelling, cursing himself for ever believing a demon with a liar’s brand, he might even have knocked Jim right in his smug smiling face, punching until his fangs fell out. He might have broken down and sobbed. All those reactions were forgone for the burning pain boiling him from the inside out.
He clawed at his chest in agony, squirming and writhing violent as Jim watched on, eyes gleaming with familiar wantonness.
"What did you do?" he whimpered hoarsely, feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin, raw and red from the heat of hellfire within, blisters springing up and peeling skin back.
"The road to hell is raped with good intentions, Johnny." Jim chirped, leaning back to watch as John’s wings caught fire, whistling with appreciation. The pure white feathers shrieked, black and ugly, falling away from him. John let out a pained whimper, collapsing entirely onto the floor, flames engulfing him. His hair smoked and it poured out of his mouth, stinking of sulphur.
"You’ll make such a beautiful demon," he praised maliciously.
"Not on my watch he won’t!" A glowing wave of purity swept over him, putting out the hellfire, soothing the mottled burns and blisters, leaving him sizzling. He panted roughly against the tiles, his whole body weak and the ruins of his wings twitching. Lestrade stood in front of John’s hunched form, wings spread as far as they would go to shield him.
Jim looked delighted, bouncing on the balls of his feet, unashamed of his rumpled appearance. "Lieutenant Colonel Lestrade? Two high-ranking angels, for one human? Have you really deemed him that important?" Lestrade’s face was stone and Jim hummed with amusement in response. "I should have known."
"Leave," Lestrade barked dangerously, a sword forming in his loose fist. "I’m two ranks higher than John. I have the means to maim you. Unless you want to lose your horns, leave."
Jim pulled a face and shrugged, looking past Lestrade to John, who flushed in shame, arms wrapped protectively around himself. He smirked, satisfied, and gathered himself up regally. He flashed his brand, running his tongue over his lips as though savouring the last of a scrumptious dessert. John shivered, and Lestrade moved defensively in front of him.
"Fine then." Jim sighed, taking the hint. "I can always come back and play with you later, Johnny."
Both angels watched the demon disappear, John with an unmistakable sense of dread. Jim Moriarty had managed to become the sin in him. And he wasn’t sure what he hated more: that he was hardly surprised, or that it made sense.
Author: Nakimochiku
Beta'd by: wordvagabond
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/ Pairings: Jim Moriarty/ John Watson, slight Johnlock, Lestrade.
Rating: M
Warnings: sex, dub-con, demons, religious issues. and a complete lack of knowledge concerning british landmarks.
Note: thanks also to exbex, the darling, who helped me fuss.
Wordcount: 7993
Summary: It's not easy being the guardian angel to a human like Sherlock Holmes. Especially not when a demon is trying to destroy everything you've ever worked for. The road to hell, after all, is paved with good intentions.
If John Watson was the good in Sherlock Holmes- and he had to be, he wasn’t third Captain in Michael’s Army for nothing- then Jim Moriarty was the sin. He stained the ground he walked on with his evil, his aura black as tar, enough to make John’s eyes sting.
It was all John could do not to pierce him straight through the heart with a holy arrow when he saw him on a near-empty Baker Street, strolling easily, the soles of his shoes crunching on the pavement. Jim wasn’t so low-level that it would have much effect, but it would be worth it just to see the look on the demon’s face. He was the only creature in the world that made John feel truly malicious.
He was almost intimately aware of Jim by now, on the edge of all his guardian assignments since John had earned his eagle wings. His mocking smile serrated with fangs, his tongue flicking over his lips, branded with the mark of the liar, was just as irritating now as it was five hundred years ago.
"So good to see you, Johnny. Have you finally earned your dove wings?" Jim began conversationally as they met in front of 221b, adjusting his tie and staring pointedly at the pearl white wings that fluttered beneath his attentions, as though his gaze were physical. Jim’s fingers brushed through the pure down feathers delicately when he was close enough, and John’s skin crawled in disgust as he jerked away. "They are so much more becoming than the barn owl ones. They make you look…pure."
John bristled, his feathers ruffling, all the while completely aware that Sherlock could be watching from the window, but hardly able to care. He didn’t want to turn his attention from Jim long enough for him to surprise him with an attack. He’d learned long ago to keep both eyes on the demon.
"Stay away from me. Stay away from my assignment." He called up a holy arrow between his fingers, drawing it back with his manifested bow. They both knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t shoot. But that didn’t make John lower the bow.
Jim simply laughed, tipping his head to the side in appraisal, dead black eyes glittering in approval and wanton lust, night breeze toying with black hair. Everything about him made John shiver in revulsion. "I only came to say hi, Johnny. Don’t you like seeing old friends?"
He pulled the drawstring back further in answer.
Jim hardly seemed fazed by the threat, tucking his hands into his pockets comfortably. "Alright. I’m going. But you know I can’t go a day without seeing your lovely face, all flustered." he blew a kiss, and John’s lips curled in a snarl. "Expect me sometime soon."
He disappeared in a whirlwind of darkness, leaving John standing alone in Baker Street with nothing but parked cars and flickering streetlamps.
Being a guardian angel wasn’t easy, John thought wearily as he climbed the steps to the flat he shared with his assignment. He had to be friend, brother, confidant and guiding light to Sherlock Holmes, who knew as much about righteousness as he did about the solar system. He was difficult, impulsive, and a self-proclaimed sociopath. But John wasn’t going to let that deter him.
"John." Sherlock greeted as he walked through the door, taking in his haggard expression and rumpled appearance with narrowed eyes. "What’s wrong? You look like you’ve been molested."
John couldn’t help but laugh weakly, slumping into his armchair and kicking off his shoes, grateful that he could already hear the kettle boiling. That was how he felt. Molested. He couldn’t tell Sherlock that, though; he was far too perceptive for an ordinary human.
"We have a new case," Sherlock said conversationally, bringing in a mug of tea and pushing it into John’s hands, sitting opposite him in his arm chair, sharp silver eyes watching him, deducing his every action. He hated it when Sherlock did that.
"Do we?" John asked and took a sip of his tea, careful to appear completely nonchalant, giving Sherlock a small half-smile. Sherlock grunted and tossed a file folder at him, adjusting his dressing gown and slouching back into his chair. John flipped it open, brows furrowing as he scanned the contents. "Missing children?"
"I’m still debating accepting. Moriarty is presumably involved." Sherlock said lowly. John took a sharp breath, a flicker of rage lighting in in his stomach. "He left me a message. Turn the page."
John did, reading the message scribbled on the wall of a school in the picture. His eyes narrowed at a smaller note in Enochian beneath it, swallowing hard.
"The first by their own suggestions fell, self-tempted, self-depraved: Man falls deceived." Sherlock recited gravely.
John looked at him sharply. "What’s that then?" he asked, wary of the answer.
"Milton’s Paradise Lost." Sherlock rested his chin on his fingers, eyes glazed over in that way that suggested he was thinking hard, the computer of his mind whirring at the speed of light. "But what does sin and temptation have to do with these children?"
"I don’t know." John murmured, feeling a sick swirl of fear and anticipation. He felt like Jim was calling out to him specifically rather than trying to taint his assignment, and he didn’t appreciate the change.
@
John looked up from his paperwork at the sudden dark swirl of energy, the sulfuric breeze rustling his office blinds and making his papers flutter. Jim stood in the office a moment later, his leathery black wings stretching before he folded them against his back, his horns receding back into his forehead, even his fangs and claws became duller as he pulled on his human façade.
He looked around the doctor’s office with silent half-amused appraisal, and John bristled. He didn’t need Jim to say anything to hear his mocking thoughts. Black eyes landed on him, smug and in control.
"Do you have nothing but feathers in that pretty little head of yours, Johnny?" Jim leaned casually against John’s desk. The angel’s jaw clenched in response. "Being a good little angel, helping other people, when I could be sullying Sherlock right now, and you wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. Cocky of you. I could be corrupting him as we speak." He played casually with the stethoscope lying coiled on the desk, and John briefly imagined strangling the demon with it.
"You wouldn’t, though." John grumbled moodily, snatching the equipment away. "Not unless you knew I knew. That’s the way you are."
Jim laughed cheerfully. "Yes, that’s true. Which is why I came to warn you. You’d never understand if I didn’t explain. Did you get my note?" He climbed onto the desk, his expensive tailored suit crumpling the pile of papers.
John pushed his chair back, jaw clenched firmly. He gave the demon a curt nod. The Enochian message was engraved in his mind, a threat that he could neither ignore nor forget.
"Come and play," he repeated. Jim looked delighted.
"Sherlock’s accepted a rather perplexing case, and everything you’ve been trying to teach him until now will be put to the test." Jim grinned deviously, leaning down so he was almost nose to nose with John. He could feel the demon’s breath on his cheeks, and growled warningly. His own angelic nature was peeking through his human façade with Jim so close to him, his halo glowing in his skin.
He tried not to get so angry he couldn’t think; he didn’t want to waste his few questions on something stupid. Jim was playing a game, whether John wanted to participate or not. He’d realised that the moment he’d read that message. Sherlock’s fate could depend on asking the right questions. Jim watched him, black eyes flickering over his face, reading him.
"What’s the outcome? Of all of this?" he asked at last. Jim smiled crookedly.
"Well. There are two. Death, and salvation. Sherlock will solve the case. That’s guaranteed." Jim rolled his eyes. "But the path he chooses to walk down is a different matter."
John studied Jim’s face, searching for a hint and finding nothing. "And what of the children? Where do they fit into all this?"
Jim shrugged. "I said two options, Johnny. He can let the children die, but capture me, his archenemy and greatest foil, or he can save them, but lose the chance of bringing me to justice." He grinned, as though he found the entire thing wonderfully clever. "One will force him down the path of sin, and from there it’ll be all too easy to drag him down."
"No." John said shortly. "No. That’s not what will happen. I won’t let it."
Jim laughed, just this side of condescending. "I was hoping you’d say that." He leaned forward just enough to kiss the tip of John’s nose before he could dodge him. "I’ll see you soon, Johnny. I’m a busy demon, you know. Souls to devour."
Jim disappeared, leaving John to his office and the ringing sound of his laughter. He sighed, organizing his mussed papers distractedly, mind whirling with questions. What did Jim want from him, precisely? Why on earth did he insist on bothering him? It stabbed John somewhere deep every time he forced himself to forgive Jim for his transgressions, as though he were simply a disobedient child.
The beep of an incoming text message broke into his thoughts, and he let out a tense breath, flipping it open.
I’ve taken the case -- SH
John bit his lip, thankful that Sherlock couldn’t see or hear his worry.
OKAY. I KNOW -- JW
He drummed his fingers against the desk impatiently as he waited for Sherlock to give him further details. He couldn’t tell Sherlock not to take the case. That wasn’t the right choice, the good one. If Sherlock didn’t take it, those children would die. But he didn’t want to give Jim a chance to corrupt him either.
One of the missing children will likely die tonight -- SH
John could almost hear the dispassionate way he would say the text verbally: like a robot, cold and heartless. It was already beginning. Sherlock was falling off the path of righteousness, and John would not let him go without a fight. He’d never lost an assignment to Hell, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Jim prance along and ruin his perfect record. He didn’t care if that was simply pride talking.
CAN’T LET THAT HAPPEN. BE BACK IN 20 -- JW
@
The black letters of the file folder seemed to glare at him, condemning him, damning him for not somehow having the foresight to prevent this, despite knowing there was nothing he could have done, no way he could have been aware. Katie Williams, Scott Andrews, Philippe Saint-Claire, Stacy Penner, Mark Grint. The names of children, all thirteen years old, all alone, hurting, in danger. Scared, and waiting for someone to save them. Waiting for Sherlock.
John examined the evidence. Sherlock had done so already, but John needed to keep his hands busy, even if he knew there was almost nothing John could notice that Sherlock hadn’t already seen, thought of, analyzed, deduced. But it made him feel busy, needed, as though he weren’t such a failure.
Five children, walking home from school, all of whom lived on the same street. No witnesses, a message written in Enochian on the wall, and the more noticeable John Milton quote. Was the quote a clue? Code? A message that held some deeper meaning that neither of them were seeing? John gave a rough sigh, rubbing his hand through his hair before resting his forehead against his propped fist, letting the papers in his hand flop back to the table top. It was littered all over with images, half-baked leads and thoughts. John smiled fondly as he pulled a copy of Paradise Lost closer. Sherlock had left it open on a page that was dog earred.
He flipped through the book absently, bottom lip caught between his teeth, hardly noticing when his skin split under his sharp worrying teeth. He couldn’t let Jim win. He couldn’t let him taint Sherlock with sin, turn him into a sinner past forgiveness. And he certainly couldn’t let the demon hurt those children. He landed eventually on the illustration of Lucifer being cast into Hell, and stayed there, lost in thought.
A sharp rap on the window drew his attention. His concern slipped like a cloth blown away on the breeze, replaced instead a fury that swathed him as Jim climbed in elegantly and lowered the window again.
"Out." John said firmly before Jim could say anything, careful not to raise his voice with Sherlock home, even locked away in his mind palace. "Out or I’ll shoot you down where you stand." He couldn’t make good on the threat, but he wanted to so badly his muscles thrummed with adrenaline. His fingers twitched, feeling for his astral energy, comforted by the swirl of purity around his wrist.
"You’re not a killing angel, Johnny." Jim observed, stepping around John delicately, careful not to touch him yet, when John was still so righteously angry, even though it made him all the more enticing. The way his power sang beneath his skin, mixing with his almost palpable hatred nearly made Jim giddy with glee. "I don’t know why you keep pointing that bow at me. You’re not an angel of vengeance. Haven’t got a wrathful bone in your body."
"One day," John vowed, purity glimmered around his hands, formless and powerful. "One day I will shoot. One day, I will burn you to a crisp, stand over your ashes and laugh." The malicious intent felt ugly inside him, foreign and sticky like tar poured over his heart. But Jim inspired hatred so easily. He made him so disgustingly, unforgivably angry.
Jim let out a little sound like a moan, wrapping his arms around John’s waist from behind and burying his face in his feathers, holding John there tightly.
"Johnny." he sighed breathlessly. "When you say things like that, I think I could fall in love with you." He let John shove him away with a quiet sound of disgust so pure it sent a shiver down Jim’s spine, his hatred a delicacy he intended to enjoy to the fullest extent. His chest sizzled where John’s hands had touched him, but he shrugged it off, his expression bereft of pain.
"You’re not capable of love." John retorted darkly. Jim shrugged again, tracing his fingers over the case files on the table, drawing John‘s eyes. "Where are they?" he asked, hoping against hope that perhaps Jim would tell him. The demon did no such thing. He merely smirked and held a finger over his mouth.
"It’s a secret!" he sing-songed cheerfully, skipping to the other side of the table, playing absentmindedly with more papers. He grinned when he saw Paradise Lost.
"If you’re not here to tell me anything useful, then get out. Your face makes me sick." John growled, taking a heavy seat at the table and pretending to look over a file, hyper sensitive to every molecule between himself and Jim.
"But I did come to tell you something useful." Jim sang, tone sinister and playful. "Sherlock told you I would kill one of those children?" John gave a curt nod, and the twisted smile Jim gave him made fear tangle coldly in his chest. "Right now, little Mark Grint is on the chopping block."
"Where?" John pressed, leaning forward in his seat, the chair screeching back as he pushed it away in his haste. Jim tsked teasingly at him. John shoulders slumped, casting around blindly for the right answer. "What do you want? What do I have to do?"
"Beg me."
John blinked at Jim slowly, blue eyes wide and purposefully confused. He did not want to understand that statement. He didn’t want to comprehend it or let it sink in. "What?" he asked reluctantly. Jim rolled his eyes at him, the action somehow fondly exasperated.
"Beg me, Johnny. Beg me for Mark Grint’s life, plead with me to spare him. Plead with me not to taint Sherlock, just this one time. Beg me." His words were low and whispered, but they echoed in John’s ears, seeping into his skin.
He watched Jim’s smug face blankly for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. He clenched his fists brows furrowing as he got down on his knees. "Please." He murmured, his tongue burning on the word. Jim put a hand to his ear and leaned forward, John wanted to kick him.
"Please." he said a little louder. "Don’t hurt that kid, please."
Jim hummed discontentedly. "Is that it?" he asked with a dismissive grunt. "I guess you don’t care all that much." He pulled out his cell phone, and started tapping away at the keys. John’s eyes grew wide in realization, cursing himself.
"Don’t!" he cried. "Wait. I’m sorry, just… Please! Please! I’m begging you, please." He grasped the hem of Jim’s blazer, head hanging low. " Please." the whisper sounded so weak, and he hated his own desperation, his own willingness to do anything, so long as he could keep Sherlock safe.
Jim lifted his face with his finger, his claw digging into the delicate skin at the underside of John’s jaw, thumb brushing John’s bottom lip fleetingly. He looked into his eyes, before smiling softly.
"Well." he purred thoughtfully as John flinched away from his touch. "Since you asked so nicely." He keyed another message into his phones and sent it with a cheerful little bing noise, and moved back towards the window. "Pleasure doing business with you, Johnny," he said with a backwards wink as he perched on the window sill. "Let’s do it again sometime." he stretched his leathery black wings, and swooped silently away.
John stayed there on the floor a while later, knees weak, pride bleeding, relief and despair at once making his cheeks pale. He breathed easier when Sherlock stepped into the room and cast him a questioning look. John simply shook his head.
"Moriarty has sent us another message." the detective informed him, holding up a file folder.
John took a shallow, ragged breath and sat up, easing himself back into his chair. He reached for the file folder Sherlock held out for him, ignoring the consulting detective’s intent stare. Inside, a single page was printed with a single phrase.
"I feel the link of nature draw me. Flesh of flesh, bone of my bone thou art, from thy state mine shall never be parted, bliss or woe," he read quietly. He sighed with relief at the next few words. "All five doing fine."
"He didn’t kill one." Sherlock mumbled. John let out another sound of relief, and with it went his tense fear. Sherlock’s brows knit together, his mouth a straight unhappy line. He thought that way for a long time before the expression smoothed out. "That quote is also from Paradise Lost, and somehow connects to this. Demons, perhaps? Sin?" he was thinking out loud, and John thought with him.
"That line suggests eternal love." He added. Sherlock glanced at him and smiled brightly, standing abruptly. The expression made John feel wary.
"You’re brilliant, John." Sherlock crowed, grabbing his scarf and coat from the closet, and tossed John’s Jacket at him as well. "I was focussing on the demon aspect of the story, rather than the angelic part. Quickly, what’s the most famous angel in London?"
"The Shaftsbury Memorial at Piccadilly Circus?" John hazarded, shrugging on his coat and following Sherlock as he stormed noisily down the creaky old stairs, throwing open the front door.
"Precisely. The angel represented on the statue is Anteros, brother of Eros, whose name means love returned. The quote, as you pointed out, was discussing love." Sherlock frowned a little as he held his hand up to hail the taxi the turned conveniently onto their street. "It’s not much to go on, but Moriarty’s made reference to lesser things until now."
"You’re going now?" John demanded incredulously. "It’s four in the morning! I have work, I can’t afford to sleep in the office anymore." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at him, unaffected by his plight, and climbed into the sleek black cab when it pulled up to the curb. John watched it pull away reluctantly, bit his lip, and went back inside to wait for the results of the lead.
@
It was mid-afternoon when John returned home, mind tired, body haggard, stressed from worrying about Sherlock. The worry he felt did not lighten when he returned to the empty flat. He didn’t know where Sherlock was, or what he had found at the Anteros statue, or where it had led him, and that made John anxious.
He tried to relax in his armchair, newspaper unfolded on his lap, the words all blurred and jumbled, blending together, becoming gibberish.
"Is Sherlock away then?" Jim asked as he paraded right through the front door, swinging the door chain from downstairs around his finger. John stiffened, letting the newspaper fall from his hands and standing. He didn’t like being on uneven levels with the demon. "Shame. Thought we might have all had a spot of tea. Had a proper chat." He shrugged and took a single cursory look around before his eyes landed on John and fixed there, piercing him.
"Get out." John hissed, watching Jim take a seat in Sherlock’s armchair, crossing his legs imperiously, cocking his head to the side. "I told you to stay away. Get out!"
He didn’t want to be too loud, in case Mrs. Hudson heard, but he could never be calm and in control when Jim was in his presence, everything about him riled him up. Especially when he remembered the events of the previous night, on his knees in front of the demon he despised more than any other.
"What are you going to do about it, Johnny?" Jim taunted, his eyes traveling the length of John’s body leisurely, as though he could see right through the fluffy white jumper. It made John squirm mildly, like a pinned butterfly. "Your God said you must love and forgive every creature in existence, Angel of Mercy. That applies to the lowest insect, a sinner, and to me." He laughed cruelly, and John’s fists clenched. "Must be frustrating, knowing you have to love me, of all things."
"For you I‘d make an exception." John growled, light swirling between his fingers to become a bow and arrow that he pointed directly at Jim, gazing hard and steady, the purity of the arrow singeing the skin of his forehead, leaving a night black burn. Jim tipped his head back, the little wound healed quickly. He parted his lips, panting audibly, as though John’s threats got him off. They did in a sick way, which served only to make the angel angrier. "I swear I will shoot you right between the fucking eyes. If that doesn’t work, I’ve got holy sounds I’ve been meaning to try out."
The wanton expression didn’t leave Jim’s eyes, it merely burned fiercer. His gaze felt sticky, oily and slick, clinging to John’s skin until he felt dirty. "Picking up human swear words, Johnny?" he teased softly, tone heavy and breathless. "What a delightfully filthy little mouth you have." He ran his branded tongue over his lips in that revolting way, all lust and open desire, unfolding his legs to open them provocatively, smirking. "The things I could do with that mouth."
"Get. Out."
"Not so fast, Johnny. I have a warning to issue first." He leaned back in his chair, the ugly aspects of his nature forced to emerge due to the proximity of John’s holy arrow, fangs sharper, claws curled into the upholstery, his voice dropping to a mocking tone. "You’ve noticed already haven’t you? Sherlock’s changing, and it’ll be all too easy to topple him."
He grinned as John’s shoulders squared, brow furrowing. "If you don’t back off, I’m going to make Sherlock Holmes pitch black. He’ll be cruel, evil, a demon in a human body. And when he’s dead, I’ll drag his soul to the deepest, hottest, darkest pit in hell. Cause that’ll be the only place fit for him. You don’t want that to happen, do you?" Jim smiled, and easily dodged the arrow John released with shaking fingers, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The little scrape on his cheek sizzled and smoked.
"Next time I won’t miss." He promised, voice steel. "Get out." he repeated in a low whisper. "Get out before I actually kill you." he backed away just enough to let Jim stand, never untraining the arrow from his head.
"Remember my warning, John. Don’t you already love him too much?" Jim prodded with one last jagged smirk, before slipping out the door just as an arrow landed in the wood with a resounding thunk. He could hear Jim laughing all the way down the stairs trailing after him like the remnants of a nightmare.
When he was sure the demon had gone, he let his bow dissipate with a glimmer, slumping back into his armchair tiredly. There was a hole in Sherlock’s chair, and the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His nerves thrummed, his body thumping with adrenaline. Jim had set him on edge.
Jim didn’t ever make empty threats. And he knew John was well and truly stuck. He was bound by his capacity to love, nurture and protect unconditionally. It was why in five hundred years of needling, John hadn’t killed Jim. It was why John ensured all his all his assignments went to heaven when their time came. It was why Jim had been dancing around him for the past five centuries.
If one thing was certain, it was that Jim couldn’t ever be allowed to corrupt Sherlock. John couldn’t afford to lose him.
When Sherlock got in, John was still reclining in his chair, brow furrowed and glaring at the hole in the chair opposite him.
Sherlock sniffed the air and frowned. "Have you been playing with my chemistry set?" He asked dubiously, slinging his blazer carelessly over the arm of the sofa.
"What?" John mumbled distractedly, shaken. He took a deep breath and tried to control his voice. "No. Why?"
"Then why does it smell like sulphur in here?" He sniffed again, frowning at the room. "And a touch of cologne if I’m not mistaken." He wasn’t. The air smelled just like Jim, down to the characteristic stench of his aura, an alluring scent to human sense but toxic to angels. John didn’t say anything in response, merely cracked open a window.
"What’d you find at the statue?" he questioned quickly, leaning slightly out of the window to catch the cool night breeze and breathe the clean air deep into his lungs. Anything would do, so long as it pushed the scent of Jim out of his nose, out of his mind. Tarmac and petrol had never smelled so good.
Sherlock let out a sight of pure irritation in answer, jumping onto the sofa with cat-like grace and stretching out fully, kicking off his shoes as he went. Between his hands was a torn sepia-coloured photograph. John waited for him to speak with a raised eyebrow, focussed only on breathing fresh air. "This is a photo of the Victoria Memorial when it was first erected in 1911. There’s been a recurring theme of angels and hell. But what does it have to do with the children?"
Rather than think too hard on the topic, John puttered about the kitchen, fixing toast with jam and butter, setting two mugs on a tray as he waited for the kettle to boil. "You went to the Victoria Memorial too, right?" He called from the kitchen.
Sherlock grunted. "There wasn’t anything there. No clues, no hints. Nothing to say I was even on the right track." He shook his head at the plate of toast John offered him, sipping his tea pensively and slapping a nicotine patch on his arm before slouching back into the sofa with a discomforting sigh. "He’s certainly not making this an easy round."
"Round?" John repeated incredulously, blinking owlishly at him. "Round? Are you still treating these types of things like a game? Children’s lives are at stake!" Sherlock’s head tilted in his mocking way, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Lives, Sherlock. Families torn apart."
"Yes." Sherlock responded blithely. John felt his mouth go slack, any words he wanted to say were completely loss in the face of his disbelief. "I’ve told you before, John, caring clouds my judgment. It doesn’t help me, and it won’t help them."
Sherlock had told him that before, so many times, every time things didn’t exactly go according to plan. But it hadn’t mattered so much then as it did now, with his very soul on the line. He felt a seed of despair prick his heart. Sherlock made it so bloody hard to save him, so bloody hard for him to do his job, he felt like screaming in frustration or punching Sherlock until he understood.
John bit his bottom lip and stood, grabbing his jacket as he went to the door. "No." He responded bitterly. "It doesn’t help you. But it does make you human."
The door slammed behind him as he left, his breaths coming out in angry puffs. He didn’t know how he was going to win against Jim when Sherlock was making it so easy to corrupt him.
John didn’t know where he was going. His anger had taken him straight across the street, through a short cut, and turning onto another street, pace purposeful and quick. He had no real destination, he just needed to cool his head, unwind. He knew there was no point getting angry with Sherlock, it was wasted energy on him. He wasn’t built like other people. He didn’t understand their boundaries, didn’t understand their codes, rules and morals. And even though it was John’s job to teach him those things, it was proving difficult to the point of hopelessness.
He stopped at a 24-hour convenience store, picking up a cup of crappy coffee and a carton of ice-cream, hoping the caffeine would do something for his nerves. He turned into yet another shortcut to Baker Street, starting his trek home, sipping his coffee with a grimace.
He didn’t sense Jim’s incoming presence until he was upon him, blocking the mouth of the alley with his outstretched wings. The lamplight in the next street over gave him a shadowy halo. John dropped his coffee, letting it splatter on the cement as his stance changed, knees bent and ready for a fight if it came to one. Jim smiled, taking slow steps closer. John’s ears pricked, anticipating the sound of each foot fall, completely aware of the gap between them shrinking.
"Evening, Johnny. As flustered as ever, I see," he greeted, taking a step right into John’s personal space, pleased when he didn’t react or flinch away.
"Where are the children?" John shot back, unfazed by Jim’s scare tactics, too annoyed to let it bother him. He wanted answers, results. He wanted the case over and the children back in their respective homes. He wanted Jim locked in the deepest pits of hell.
"Sherlock’s starting to get on your last nerve, hmm?" Jim snorted with amusement.
"You’re the one on my last nerve," John snapped, lips curled in a snarl. Jim twiddled his fingers dispassionately at him.
"You realize, if he lets those children die, it’s my win, right?" He whispered teasingly into John’s ear, fingers playing along the edges of John’s wings with his claws. "I’ll give you a hint, Johnny. He already knows where they are. He’s just waiting for my next mood, hoping to catch me in a trap."
John wondered why he kept getting himself into places Jim could target him, why he kept taking shortcuts down dank alleyways that just begged for him to be cornered and taunted.
"Why do you insist on tormenting me?" John asked, shaking his wings away from Jim’s exploring fingers, the base of his spine cold as the demon chuckled, the ghost of touch lingering long enough to make his wings quiver. The question had come to him thousands of times since he’d first met Jim, since he’d first started unwittingly dancing in the palm of his hand. It was only now that he honestly wanted to know the answer.
"Tormenting you?" Jim repeated, laughing in amazement hand clutching his stomach. "Tormenting you?" He wiped a nonexistent tear of mirth from his eye, chuckling darkly. "Johnny, I’m not tormenting you," he reassured smugly, a hint of humour in his tone before it went low and threatening. "When I torment you, and I will, you’ll be screaming ‘til your voice breaks and begging for mercy on your knees, with tears in those pretty blue eyes of yours."
John forced himself not to shudder, holding his ground and pretending to be unfazed by the demon’s sick fantasies as he circled him like a stalking wolf, eyeing him ravenously.
"I’m not tormenting you." he repeated. "Not yet."
"Then what do you want?" John asked wearily. He considered burning Jim with a blast of holy aura as a warning to stay out of his space, but he needed Jim to talk. He needed answers. He needed to get into the demon’s head.
"You’re abnormally thick," Jim drawled. "I’m trying to drive a point home. Slam it right into your pretty little skull." He made a show of examining his immaculate claws, his leathery black wings stretching behind him, before he was suddenly pressing too close again, crowding him into the crumbling brick alley wall, his claws scraping the delicate skin of John’s throat. His flesh split as easily as fruit, the sound almost audible. "I want you to know that only you can prevent it. The fall. Sherlock’s fall."
"He’s not going to fall," John retorted sharply, eyes clenched shut against pain, tipping his head back as Jim pressed closer, his claws digging in and drawing blood that he lapped at eagerly. He could feel Jim’s scalding tongue licking along his adam’s apple, burning like hellfire before placing a sharp nip there. "Not so long as I’m his angel. I won’t let him."
"So long as you’re his angel, his fall is guaranteed," the demon whispered hotly, a hand curling around John’s hip. Their bodies crushed together. "Don’t you understand yet, Johnny? I’m not letting you win this one. You’re both his salvation, and his destruction." Jim’s chuckles sent vibration thrumming through John’s skin, rippling all over. "Sexier that way."
"Get off me, freak!" John growled, shoving him away roughly. Jim stumbled back a few steps, and straightened his suit, licking his lips of the last traces of John’s blood.
"Make your decision Johnny, very carefully. If you feel like saving his soul, you know where to find me." Jim smirked and disappeared in a fierce whirlwind of demonic energy that John shielded his eyes from. He leaned back against the brick wall, feeling lost.
As he looked to the sky, he closed his eyes, and recited the codes of a Guardian angel, finding comfort in the rules instilled in him before he had his wings. "I have to do what’s best for my assignment. I have to lead him from temptation, deliver him from evil, lead him in the paths of righteousness." he opened his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, knees weak with genuine fear. "If this is what I gotta do, then it’s okay." He nodded to himself and started on his way home.
He told himself that he wasn’t giving up. That he’d found a better, easier solution. Something that would lead to the best possible outcome. Even if he was the one who had to be sacrificed. That was nothing new to him, it seemed.
@
Sherlock burst exuberantly into the flat just as John had started folding his cardigans into a duffle bag, already half full with some of his things. Whatever he’d been saying as he walked in died on his lips, quicksilver eyes taking in the chaos of the living room, the folded pairs of pants and shoes. "Will you be gone long?" Sherlock asked, tone subdued with hurt.
John froze, clutching one of his shirts. "Yeah." he said at last, carrying on with his packing, examining the little knickknacks he’d picked up living with Sherlock, useless little human things that he didn’t need, but had somehow grown attached to. "Yeah. A very long time."
"Is this about Moriarty?" Sherlock persisted, stepping closer, studying John’s back thoroughly. His lack of answer said enough, and he wearily put down the scarf Mrs. Hudson had knit him. "I’ll beat him, you know," he assured. "You don’t have to leave. I’ll beat him."
"No. I definitely have to leave." John turned away from him, afraid that if he looked Sherlock in the eye, he would reveal too much.
"Sometimes, though, Sherlock, things aren’t always about winning," he said, imparting the only wisdom he could. "Sometimes, it’s about coming out the better man." He zipped up his duffle bag, and turned back to Sherlock, who was too stunned to really know what to say. "Promise me you’ll come out of this the better man?"
He patted his shoulder fleetingly, heavy with guilt and doubt, but managed a weak smile. He slung on his coat, and grabbed his bag, flinging open the door.
"John." Sherlock called faintly, standing stock still in the living room, the remnants of his life scattered around him. "John!"
But the angel didn’t look back.
He left his duffle bag in the alley across the street. Where he was going, he wouldn’t be needing it. With one last heavy sigh, and a glance back at 221b, John spread his wings and flew to where he knew the demon was waiting for him.
@
"Knew I could count on you to give in, Johnny." Jim smirked, reclining in a chic arm chair in an upscale apartment. He didn’t move when John entered. "Knew you loved far too much."
Jim stood easily, approaching John with a predatory gait, making him back away until he was against a wall. "But that’s the thing with you angels. So full of love."
"What do you want?" John grunted, squirming under Jim’s hand on his belly, pinning him as his fingers played through the soft down of his wings. "What was all of this for?"
"500 years and you still don’t get it, Johnny? You’re denser than I thought." Jim laughed, his hands sliding up and down over John’s thighs, his hips and waist, his touch burning through his clothes. "You. I want you. I wanted to prove you were human, drag you through the mud. Paint you black." He whispered the words almost breathlessly, moist against John’s jaw. He rained open mouthed kisses along his jaw, cheek, the corner of his lips, stubble grazing skin roughly.
"You’re sick," John grumbled, turning away from Jim’s searching mouth. The demon chuckled, grasping his hair and forcing their lips together. The kiss tingled and burned, just the pressure of damp skin, the slide of a branded liar’s tongue along the seam of his lips, sucking the soft flesh into his mouth and nipping.
"Don’t make me force you. I don’t want to force you." He tugged John’s shirt out of his jeans, tearing at the button and going straight for his cock, stroking unevenly. "I want you to give into me. Prove you’re as human as I thought." Jim’s tongue swiped against his jugular, and vulnerability fluttered in the pit of his stomach. John let out a quiet moan as he bit his neck, sharp fangs puncturing skin with ease, fumbling eagerly with his jeans.
"Shut up. Shut up." John hissed, fingers curling on Jim’s shoulders as his hips jerked up into his hands, closing his eyes to deny everything, letting his body move on autopilot. He could obey if it would save Sherlock. He could let himself fall to temptation if it would save Sherlock.
He returned the next kiss hesitantly, their tongues meeting in a wet tangle. He could taste his blood in Jim’s mouth, could feel the raised edges of his brand and explored it thoroughly, nails scraping the soft black hair at the nape of Jim’s neck.
"Eager, aren’t we?" Jim suggested deviously, hands slipped down to curve possessively on his ass, kneading relentlessly.
"Shut up." John repeated sharply, his own fingers tracing experimental circles underneath Jim’s suit jacket before reaching up to pull it from him, letting it fall in a crumpled mess on the floor.
Every brush of lips and fingertips and skin burnt with sin, making him writhe in a mix of pain and almost pleasure. Their kisses were fire, drawing blood and licking it away, wrenching each other’s hair, nails digging into exposed skin. Jim tasted like ash and something sticky sweet, something between revolting and delicious. His hips rolled into Jim’s hands when he fisted his cock, biting his lip and tossing his head back, a strained moan caught in his chest.
He hated Jim, hated him with all the fires of hell itself, and I made his skin flush with want. He kissed Jim back just as feverishly, stroking the straining bulge in Jim’s tailored pants through the fabric, giving a thin-lipped smile when Jim groaned, his claws digging into the skin of John’s wrist. It burnt, but the pain heightened the pleasure.
Jim bent him over the kitchen counter, heated skin cooled by the hard marble beneath his scrabbling fingers, struggling to brace himself.
"Wait," he whispered when Jim wrenched at his pants. "Wait!" he gasped desperately, reeling as the consequences came crashing into him. This was too much, too fast, too good, and the tingling burn of pleasure he felt wouldn’t go away.
"Won’t wait. Wanted this too long." Jim’s voice was dark and gravelly against his shoulder, fangs grazing the sweat-slicked skin, pressing delicate kisses and sucking marks on the nape of his neck. Everywhere he kissed was like a tag. He’d been there, he’d touched, and all of John was his property. He wasn’t even sure if the inaudible noises he let out were of revulsion of pleasure. "Sorry this won’t last long." Jim whispered, tugging hastily at his belt buckle. "But we’ll have all of eternity to do this properly."
John sucked in a shallow gasping breath as Jim pushed in, neither gently nor lovingly, stretching his tight muscle almost painfully around him, forcing him open. He let out a short cry, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead against the marble, hands held in fists so tight he thought his knuckles might shatter.
"Jesus," he hissed out, moaning lowly when Jim rocked their hips together, steadily picking up pace.
"You feel so good inside." Jim murmured against his shoulder, thrusting hard and drawing another shout from John, his own breath ragged and loud, hot against the nape of John’s neck, his pace punishing. Heat flushed through to his toes each time Jim pushed in, and bit his knuckles to keep from crying or moaning or both. "Next time, I want you to wrap your legs around me." Jim whispered breathlessly, groaning as John’s muscles clenched around him, fingertips gripping John’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, claws pricking little cuts.
John could feel Jim’s length throbbing inside him, and shuddered at the first hot spurts of his seed, arching into Jim’s hips. The demon grabbed a fistful of his feather as he rode out the last of his orgasm and tore at them brutally, pulling a long scream from John that bordered on inhuman, pain radiating to his core. "I can’t wait to hear that noise again." He promised viciously, pulling away and tossing the shredded feathers at him. John collapsed against the kitchen counter, his wing pulsing with agony as his feathers floated around him.
"You’ll leave him alone, right?" John croaked, weakly pulling his cardigan straight, delicately examining his wing with his fingers, his whole body sore and burning, leaving him weak-kneed. He knew he looked pathetic, ashamed, wanton. His cheeks were still flushed, his pants still around his knees, the proof of what he’d done smeared on the insides of his thighs. But none of it mattered. His fingers curled in the soft wool, expression close to pleading. "Sherlock. You’ll leave him alone?"
Jim looked at him a long moment before he laughed. He laughed so hard he bent over, grasping the marble counter top. "You didn’t get that either, Johnny." he chuckled when his mirth subsides, black eyes glittering deviously. "I don’t need to do anything to Sherlock. You were his goodness. Now that I’ve taken you, I don’t need to do anything to him." He stroked a finger beneath John’s chin, mouth curved into a smug smile. "He’ll fall all on his own."
John’s eyes widened, processing what Jim said with embarrassing slowness, the words thick and terrible. He might have started yelling, cursing himself for ever believing a demon with a liar’s brand, he might even have knocked Jim right in his smug smiling face, punching until his fangs fell out. He might have broken down and sobbed. All those reactions were forgone for the burning pain boiling him from the inside out.
He clawed at his chest in agony, squirming and writhing violent as Jim watched on, eyes gleaming with familiar wantonness.
"What did you do?" he whimpered hoarsely, feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin, raw and red from the heat of hellfire within, blisters springing up and peeling skin back.
"The road to hell is raped with good intentions, Johnny." Jim chirped, leaning back to watch as John’s wings caught fire, whistling with appreciation. The pure white feathers shrieked, black and ugly, falling away from him. John let out a pained whimper, collapsing entirely onto the floor, flames engulfing him. His hair smoked and it poured out of his mouth, stinking of sulphur.
"You’ll make such a beautiful demon," he praised maliciously.
"Not on my watch he won’t!" A glowing wave of purity swept over him, putting out the hellfire, soothing the mottled burns and blisters, leaving him sizzling. He panted roughly against the tiles, his whole body weak and the ruins of his wings twitching. Lestrade stood in front of John’s hunched form, wings spread as far as they would go to shield him.
Jim looked delighted, bouncing on the balls of his feet, unashamed of his rumpled appearance. "Lieutenant Colonel Lestrade? Two high-ranking angels, for one human? Have you really deemed him that important?" Lestrade’s face was stone and Jim hummed with amusement in response. "I should have known."
"Leave," Lestrade barked dangerously, a sword forming in his loose fist. "I’m two ranks higher than John. I have the means to maim you. Unless you want to lose your horns, leave."
Jim pulled a face and shrugged, looking past Lestrade to John, who flushed in shame, arms wrapped protectively around himself. He smirked, satisfied, and gathered himself up regally. He flashed his brand, running his tongue over his lips as though savouring the last of a scrumptious dessert. John shivered, and Lestrade moved defensively in front of him.
"Fine then." Jim sighed, taking the hint. "I can always come back and play with you later, Johnny."
Both angels watched the demon disappear, John with an unmistakable sense of dread. Jim Moriarty had managed to become the sin in him. And he wasn’t sure what he hated more: that he was hardly surprised, or that it made sense.