Heart and Soul - Supernatural/Sherlock BBC - Act Three

[rattyjol]

| Masterpost |
<-- Act Two |

Act Three: In which Sherlock Holmes has a Choice.

Five years ago

"Robyn's Rathskeller, Mom? Really?"

"What? It's a perfectly legitimate name for a business establishment." Robyn Warner grinned at her daughter, climbing off the stepladder and striding back to admire her handiwork.

"I know we're in England now, Mom, but that doesn't mean everyone's a walking dictionary. How many people do you think know that a rathskeller is 'a bar or restaurant in a basement'?"

"Wales."

"What?" Clara laughed. "What do whales have to do with anything?"

"Wales, Clara, we're in Wales. Not England."

"Ah, whatever." Clara shrugged and stepped through the doorless door frame, passing beneath the newly hung sign. She leaned over the bartop and spent a moment rummaging around under the counter. "Hey, where'd you put the glassware?"

"In the back," Robyn replied as she passed, carrying the stepladder inside.

"Right." Clara slid with agility over the counter and stepped into the back room, where an astonishing number of unmarked cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling. "Dammit, Mom, ever heard of a label?" she muttered under her breath. She flicked out her pocketknife and slit the packing tape on the nearest box.

"Books," she announced to no one in particular, and went to open another box. "More books." A third box and, "Even more books." She stuck her head out into the main room. "Mom, exactly how many boxes of books did you pack?"

"They're spellbooks, honey, leave them be. Cups are in the first stack on your left, third box from the bottom."

"How do you even," Clara said, shaking her head. She cut open the box Robyn had indicated and yes! Cups! She brought them out into the bar -- all right, rathskeller -- together with one of the crates of beer that had been delivered earlier in the day. She had just figured out how to hook up the beer to the tap when a tall, broad-shouldered young woman stepped through the doorless entryway.

"You open yet?" she asked, taking a seat on one of the shiny new barstools.

"Near enough," Clara said with a smile.

"Right then, I'll have a glass of your best single-malt whiskey, fresh out of the bottle, with ice, a lemon, and a green drink umbrella." The customer's eyes sparkled with mischief.

Clara laughed and reached for a glass. "One warm beer, coming right up."

"Ooh, beer. Hey John!" she spun on her stool to yell out the door. "They've got beer!" She came back around in a full 360, pulling herself to a stop by grabbing the bar. "I'm Harry," she said, watching Clara's struggle with the tap mechanism with some amusement.

"Clara. Aha!" she said triumphantly as amber liquid began to pour from the spout. "Damn," she added as it missed the glass completely.

"Not Robyn, then?" the man called John asked, stepping inside just in time to witness the disaster. Rather than following the example of Harry -- who was almost certainly his sister, despite the height difference -- and laughing uproariously, he limited himself to a stifled smile and passed over the stack of napkins that had been placed at the end of the bar.

"No, that's my mom." Clara grinned too, despite herself, and laid out the napkins to soak up the worst of the spill. Careful to place the cup better this time, she poured a glass of lukewarm beer for Harry and then two more, one for John and one for herself.

"Cheers," Harry said with a wink, lifting the glass. "You sure you're old enough to be serving this stuff?"

"I'm twenty-two, thanks." Clara rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"So," John said, "I couldn't help but wonder -- what's a rathskeller?"

"See, Mom!" Clara yelled out the door triumphantly. "I told you!"

*

One year later

"Clara, listen to me." Robyn planted her hands firmly on the bartop and leaned across it to glare at her daughter. "Hunting is-- it's difficult, okay? It's a lonely job."

"I'll ride with Harry." Clara folded her arms, returning an identical glare. "Doesn't sound too lonely to me."

"Forever? Clara--" Robyn stepped out from behind the bar. "It's a dangerous job. People get hurt."

"You think I don't know that?" Clara growled, voice sharp and bitter. "I grew up watching you pretend you weren't hurt. Pain herbs can only do so much."

Robyn winced. "And that was me with twenty years of experience. Clara, you've hardly been on the right side of a gun in your life, and Harry is--"

"What? Psychotic? Suicidal?"

"Hotheaded." Robyn shook her head. "I was going to say hotheaded. John is more sensible, but he can't always keep her under control--"

"She doesn't need control, she's perfectly fine--"

"--and sooner or later she's going to do something so reckless that she'll end up badly hurt, or worse, and--"

"Stop it, Mom."

"--and I won't let her take you down with her. Do you hear me?"

"Just -- SHUT UP!"

The faint echo in her voice was magnified a hundred times by the small stone room. Robyn's mouth snapped shut.

"Oh God." Clara slapped a hand over her own mouth. "God, Mom, I didn't mean to-- Sorry, sorry, I--"

"Peek-a-boo!" A grinning man appeared just behind her mother's shoulder, black eyes glittering.

"What--" Clara began in surprise, but Robyn, still speechless, burst into action, pivoting on the spot to punch the demon's lights out.

Or that's what she tried to do. He held up a hand and her fist stopped dead, still six inches away from his jaw. Black gaze still fixed on Clara, he flicked his fingers lazily, sending Robyn soaring across the room.

"Mom!" Frozen to the spot, Clara's horrified eyes tracked her mother's movement, right up until the moment she crumpled against the far wall. Clenching her trembling fists, she turned back to the demon, who was casually glancing around the rathskeller as if he'd come only for the novelty of it.

"Go away," Clara said, putting all the force she could muster behind the words. She was pleased that her voice hadn't shaken, but she had been hoping to use her voice power, whatever it was.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Clara." The demon smiled. "You've been a very bad girl, hiding from us all this time. England, of course, how clever. No one suspected Robyn Warner would return here, of all places."

"Wales."

"Excuse me?"

Clara gritted her teeth. "We're not in England, we're in Wales."

The demon gazed at her for a moment, a faint smirk playing around the edge of his mouth. "Are we."

"Who are you?" Clara asked, a little bolder now.

"Name's Moriarty. Hi!" He waggled his fingers at her sarcastically. "Yellow Eyes would send his regards, only, ah-- he's dead."

"You work for Yellow Eyes?" Clara didn't know much about the mysterious demon, only what Robyn had told her -- and Clara was sure there was more, though she'd never confronted her about it -- but what she knew was more like a fairytale villain than a real force of evil. "What does he-- do you want with me?"

"Nothing, anymore." Moriarty shrugged. "Game's over, you missed the call. Very disappointing; you could have given that Winchester boy a run for his money. It would have been the most delicious fight." He sighed, shaking his head. "Used to be you were off limits -- boss's orders. But now -- ding dong, the witch is dead!" He laughed. "Not literally, of course, Yellow Eyes wasn't so fond of witches. Although--" He cast his eyes, now returned to the host's usual deep brown, towards Robyn's prone figure across the room. "But, point is, I could kill you right now, if I wanted to. I could punch through your chest and pull out your warm, beating heart for you to see." He leaned closer, dark eyes mesmerizing and sharp on his pale face. Clara felt frozen, heart beating in her throat.

"But I won't." The demon pulled back, breaking the moment. "I'm just so changeable, after all. Have a nice day, my dear. We're going to have such fun." With an icy smile, he disappeared.

*

"Why does he keep doing this?" Clara's voice was nearly a shriek, fingers tangled in long auburn hair. "Why won't he just leave me alone?"

"Clara." Harry pushed her forcefully down onto the motel bed and gripped her wrists tight, pulling them down into her lap. "We'll figure something out, okay, I mean it. He can't keep this up forever. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" Crouching in front of her, Harry carefully peeled back Clara's ruined sleeve to reveal the long gash along her forearm.

"Why not?" Clara wailed. "We can't stop him. He's been after us for weeks -- he killed my mother!"

"I know." Harry looked her squarely in the eyes. "Honey, I know. We will work it out."

"He's toying with us, that's all." Grimly, John passed over the med bag. "He'll get bored eventually. Do you want me to--?"

"No," Harry said firmly. "I'll do it." She looked up at her brother, whose brow was furrowed in concern. "Could you go get us some coffee? Decaf for Clara here, I think she's got all the stimulants she needs."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." John backed out of the room, pocketing his wallet on the way.

The door had hardly clicked shut behind him when Clara burst out, "I can't take this much longer, Harry, I haven't slept in days and he won't stop and I can't--"

"I know," Harry said again, but all the care was gone from her voice, and a wicked grin crept across her face. "Trust me, I know," she repeated, eyes flickering black.

"Oh God--" Stomach turning to lead, Clara scrambled backwards on the bed until she hit the headboard, as if the space between provided some sort of protection.

The demon -- Harry -- the demon considered for a moment. "Not quite."

Clara suddenly felt very small and very tired. Looking at not-quite-Harry's twisted face, she felt something fragile deep within her simply fall limp.

"What do you want?" she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. "I'll do anything, just -- just leave us alone, all right?"

The black eyes were gone now, but the coldly calculating look seemed wrong on Harry's face. "Anything," Moriarty said thoughtfully, mouth curving in wicked glee. "Just to leave you alone?"

"Yes." Clara nodded fervently, resolve built of desperation. "And -- you can't get any other demons to come after us either. You -- want my soul, right?"

"Your soul?" Moriarty smiled. "That old thing. How cliché. No, I don't want your soul."

"What, then?"

"Oh -- well, it's a little unconventional, I know, but I think we can make this work out. At some point in the future, I'm going to come and . . . ask you to do something for me. Just a small thing, a quick favor. And you'll never see me again."

"You won't -- ask me to hurt anyone?"

Moriarty looked slightly offended. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Clara took a deep breath. "Right, then." Looking uncertain, she held out a wavering hand to shake.

"Oh no, Clara. Demon deals are never sealed that way. It's far too easy to forge loopholes. How about a kiss?" Without waiting for consent, Moriarty swooped in.

For all that there was a demon in there, it was still Harry's body, and Clara found herself momentarily disappointed when the kiss quickly ended. The demon pulled away and Harry's mouth dropped open, allowing the demon to stream out in crackling black smoke. It vanished, and Harry crumpled.

"Harry?" Clara asked, though it came out more like a croak. "Harry," she repeated more loudly, heart squeezing in worry. Muscles unfreezing, she scrambled to the floor to kneel at the hunter's head. Shallow breath warmed her hand, but she hovered anxiously, not sure what to do.

"What--?" John stood at the door, cardboard tray of coffees in hand. Harry stirred, probably roused by the sharp scent.

"It's over," Clara murmured, turning wide eyes on John. A tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed that she had just made a deal with a demon. "I . . . I exorcised him. Sent him back to Hell. Moriarty is gone."

*

Present day

Clara finished speaking and finally lifted her gaze from the floor, allowing her eyes to dart around the room and gauge the group's reactions. John was slumped in an armchair, looking like this was the icing on a triple-tier cake of a very long day. Sherlock stood behind him, looking as though he was making enormous effort not to hover anxiously. Harry was in the other armchair and listening intently, looking as if she could jump up and run a marathon at a moment's notice, even though Clara was positive she had seen her badly injured, or worse, on the warehouse floor not an hour previously.

The apparent reason for that, Gabriel, was across the room leaning casually against the wall, paying more attention to the ice pop he had materialized out of thin air than to her story.

"No."

Everyone, including Gabriel, turned to look at Sherlock, who had stepped out from behind John's chair.

"What?" Clara asked, feeling exhausted.

"I said 'no'." Sherlock looked a little angry. "This is insane. You can't--" He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, standing and putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "If Clara says . . . what she says, then I'm sure she's not lying." But the doubtful look he cast in her direction seemed to slice straight to Clara's soul. She deserved it. She'd just proven she'd been lying to him, and to Harry, and to everyone, the whole time.

"No!" Sherlock insisted, pulling away from John. "I've been extraordinarily accepting of all this, and given what I've witnessed today I'm fully prepared to regard it as fact that demons exist -- and angels, apparently --" He cast a doubtful look towards Gabriel, who was down to the stick on his ice pop and carefully licking around it. The angel paused to wave cheerily. Sherlock turned back to Clara. "But you can't seriously expect me to believe in mind control through voice!"

"Hey," said Harry, rising from her own seat and stepping between Sherlock and Clara. "I don't give a crap about what you expect me to expect, I just want you to not get us all bloody killed because you don't know what you're facing!"

"No, please," Clara protested. She couldn't believe Harry was still defending her. She edged over on the couch to look up at Sherlock. "You want proof, science boy? Real, incontrovertible proof?" There was a raw edge to her voice, part shame, part exhaustion, and part just being fed up with the whole damn world.

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, fine then," said Clara. She closed her eyes, letting her anger well up and trying to remember the feeling she hadn't had in almost four years. "Then SIT DOWN."

"See, I told you there's no such thing," Sherlock started to say, still standing defiantly in the middle of the room. But he was interrupted by the soft thump of Harry collapsing onto the couch. He glanced behind him, to where John was quivering with the strain of keeping his knees locked, grabbing onto Sherlock's wrist so hard it almost hurt.

Gabriel vanished his popsicle stick with a flick of his fingers. He met Sherlock's confused glance with one raised eyebrow and shrugged. "The girl's got talent."

"STOP IT!" Clara cried, and this time Sherlock could hear a faint echo in her voice. "Stand or sit or . . . whatever!"

John actually fell forward, like a tug-of-war player whose opponent abruptly stops trying. Sherlock caught him, and absentmindedly settled him back into the armchair. Harry sprang to her feet, staring at Clara, but Sherlock beat her to the punch.

"That's--"

"Impossible," Clara breathed, finishing Sherlock's sentence. They stared at each other. "Why didn't you sit?"

"Why did they?"

"Because," said Gabriel, stepping forward with an impressive eyeroll, "she drank demon blood as a baby, and he's--" He stopped abruptly, looking as though a sour taste had crept into his mouth.

"He's what?" demanded John.

Gabriel's mouth contorted silently. Then he grimaced irritably and took a moment to suck on a newly-manifested lollipop. "I can't say."

"Why not?" Harry demanded, in exactly the same tone of voice as her brother. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noted the slight twitch of her fingers towards the place where her hip flask used to hang. An automatic reaction to stress, he presumed.

"It's the Rules," explained Gabriel unhelpfully. "I can't-- any supernatural being can't, literally can't, tell--" He broke off again.

"Could you write it down?" Sherlock inquired logically.

"No," said Gabriel shortly. "You muttonheads don't get it, I can't tell y--" He paused, and began choosing his words more carefully. "You know most of it already. Mycroft, your brother, is the vessel of an angel -- Adriel, specifically, who's like, well, like the Mycroft Holmes of Heaven. He usually doesn't like to get his wings dirty, which is why it caused enough of a stir that even I heard about it when he--" He stopped again, shaking his head in frustration. "Moriarty is a demon, a powerful one. He was second-in-command to Azazel, who was the interim King of Hell up until a few years back. After that he went under the radar. The point is, they're here because . . . look, you know what angels and demons typically fight over, right? Biblically?"

"Human souls," replied Sherlock promptly.

Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, then just nodded.

"And they're fighting over me?"

The angel pointed his lollipop at Sherlock in triumph. "Tell him what he's won, Bob."

A downcast sort of silence settled over the group as they digested the new information. From outside the door, there was a clatter and a short knock. Without waiting for a response Mrs. Hudson bustled in, setting her tray of tea and biscuits down on the coffee table. "Just call if you need anything else, dears," she said kindly, noticing with no small concern the dispirited looks on all their faces. Except for the man leaning against the wall, at whom she shot an admonishing glance and warned, "And don't eat all the biscuits yourself, Gabriel. You need to learn to share sweets." Then she left, calm as if she addressed archangels as five-year-olds every day.

John looked up, curious despite himself. "When did you meet Mrs. Hudson?"

"Um . . ." Gabriel took the lollipop out of his mouth for a considering moment. "1963? She's a great old dame."

*

John was halfway out the door when Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him back, letting Harry and Clara file out ahead of them. Gabriel raised an eyebrow and vanished, presumably to wait on the street outside.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock's expression was a mixture of anger and betrayal.

John looked confused for a moment, then sighed. "Because I knew I would have a hard time convincing you. And because it's dangerous, Sherlock! Look what's happened already!"

Sherlock scowled. "Since when has danger ever stopped us?"

"Harry nearly died, Sherlock, and that's not unusual. I lived that life for twenty years, and now I'm out, and I'm not too bloody keen on dragging you, of all people, back into it!" By the end, John's voice had raised into a shout.

"'Me of all people'? What do you mean by that?"

"You have absolutely no common fucking sense, that's what!"

"I do, too!"

"Sherlock, you summoned Death. Bloody Horseman of the bloody Apocalypse capital-D Death."

"That was different. You were in danger!"

There was a brief period of awkward silence, during which John seemed to deflate. "Oh," he said quietly.

Gabriel suddenly appeared between them. "You two knuckleheads done having angry sex yet, or should I tell them to wait a little longer?"

John shook his head and turned away, shooting Sherlock an unfathomable look as he stomped out the door.

*

The cab ride to St. Bart's was a short one -- about fifteen minutes in light traffic -- but to Harry the awkward silence seemed to drag on forever. Sherlock seemed perfectly comfortable to stare out the window in silence, but Harry quickly began to wish she had made Clara escort him to look at corpses, rather than letting Gabriel whisk her and John off to God only knew where to gather information and supplies. No, scratch that, Gabriel didn't seem the type of angel to let his Father know where he was going.

"Is he okay?" she asked finally, shattering the silence like glass. "After the army, I mean, I haven't had a chance . . . " She trailed off, finding it was easier than continuing to trip over her own tongue. Sherlock turned his head to look at her, seeming satisfied by what he saw.

"He's handling it," Sherlock said, but now looked as though he had a question of his own squirming in his gut. "What was . . . I thought, I thought I knew everything important about him, his past. And, I don't, and I need." He stopped, looking raw and open.

"I think," Harry said slowly, even sympathetically, "I think there are some things he needs to tell you himself."

For the rest of the ride, the silence was a little less awkward.

*

"Molly, I need to see the Ripper bodies."

The pathologist looked startled, and busy, halfway between a body and the scales with a human heart in her hands. "What, all of them?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, all of them, and quickly, if you could."

"I thought you weren't on the Ripper case." She placed the heart carefully in the scales and made note of the reading. "I'm almost done here, could you wait a minute?"

"Fine," Sherlock complained, barging out of the autopsy room.

A few minutes later Molly came hurrying out, clipboard in hand. "They're down this way," she said, as if he needed directions around Bart's. Her eyes fell on Harry with curiosity and a hint of something else. "Who's this, then?"

"I'm Harry," the hunter introduced herself as they hurried after Sherlock. "John Watson's sister."

"Oh, yes, he's mentioned you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Has he?"

"Not really." Molly laughed nervously and held open the morgue doors. "Go on in."

Three bodies were already laid out on slabs, draped with the conventional white sheets. Molly began pulling out select morgue drawers. Harry felt cold, and not just from the refrigeration.

"These are the bodies from the third attack," Molly said. There were ten in all, three on slabs and seven in their drawers. "They all have these squiggles cut into their lower abdomens. It's like a code, I guess, but they're no characters I've ever seen." She carefully folded one of the sheets back to reveal one of the symbols, carved into the bloodless skin with wide, sure strokes. "They were definitely post-mortem, though."

"Yes, thank you, Molly." Sherlock waved her away impatiently, leaning in to more closely examine the cuts. Molly came to stand by Harry, looking resigned to Sherlock's ingratitude.

"Where is John, anyway?" she asked.

"Oh, he's." Unable to come up with a decent lie, Harry waved a hand vaguely. "Out. I thought I'd tag along, but being third wheel to a corpse isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Yes, he gets a bit into things. We'd best leave him to it."

"I'm starved. Is there a place to eat around here?"

Molly looked surprised. "You still have an appetite after that?"

Harry shrugged, smirking. "Let's just say we Watsons have strong stomachs."

"Right." Molly smiled a little, looking marginally less jittery. "Cafeteria's this way. I'll take you."

They chatted comfortably as they walked, which stood in sharp contrast to the cab ride over. The cafeteria was empty when they reached it, the food laid out behind angled spit-guard plastic in a self-serve buffet. Harry took one of the grungy plastic trays and a slightly less grungy plate and helped herself, loading generous portions when she realized that her last meal had been picking over cold leftovers for breakfast while they waited for John to return their calls that morning.

"Is this place usually this empty?" Harry wondered, coating her spaghetti liberally in sauce.

"There's a bigger cafeteria on the ground floor and another on the third. Only us pathologists use this one." Molly laughed nervously, helping herself to a small portion of some unidentifiable meat-like substance that Harry had skipped altogether. "Too close to the morgue for everyone else."

"Three cafeterias for one hospital? Don't you think that's a bit-- whoops!" Turning away from the counter, Harry had accidentally elbowed the tray of salt and pepper shakers at the end of the line, sending them spilling all over Molly and her food. The pathologist leapt back with a cry of surprise.

"Sorry," Harry started to say, then realized the cry had been more pain then shock. Her knife was out and against the pathologist's jugular before she had even fully registered the steam rising from Molly's arms.

"Go ahead," Molly spat, doing a full one-eighty personality-wise in about three seconds flat. "Slit the pretty little pathologist's throat." Her eyes flickered black, and she actually leaned forward into the knife a little, so the finely-honed blade pressed into her skin but didn't draw blood. "What's it to you, just one more death." Demon-Molly grinned. "Oh, but you like this body of mine, don't you? I know you've been craving more than Clara can give ever since she made you quit drinking. Go on, have her. I won't stop you. It's not like you and Clara are exclusive or anything; where's the harm? You can do whatever. You. Want."

Very slowly, Harry lowered her knife. "Here, catch," she said suddenly, tossing it handle-first. Catching it reflexively, the demon immediately let it clatter to the floor with a snarl of pain, palms blistering.

"Iron-plated hilt," Harry said by way of explanation, and punched her in the jaw. Demon-Molly staggered, catching herself on the buffet counter, and Harry took the opportunity to begin muttering an exorcism under her breath. The demon shrieked in protest and lunged towards her, but was repelled by a well-aimed saltshaker to the face. Harry finished off the exorcism breathlessly and the demon threw her head back, opening her mouth in a silent scream as black smoke rushed out of her throat and vanished through the cracks under the door. Now demon-free, Molly collapsed.

The first thing Harry did was check for a pulse, thick fingers fumbling on the pathologist's neck. Molly looked very small now, Harry couldn't help but notice, weak and pale and vulnerable on the cafeteria floor. "Come on, please," she muttered out loud, and finally -- yes! -- felt a weak, thready pulse under her fingertips. "Thank -- whoever," she said to empty air, standing. She threw open the door and yelled, "What does it take to get a bloody doctor in this place?"

Figuring that should get the attention of someone, at least, she pulled out her phone and dialed Sherlock's number before remembering John mentioning that the arse never answered phone calls. She texted him instead.

> Cafeteria. Molly. Emergency.

A moment later:

> Busy. SH

> Stop wanking over dead bodies
> and come help your friend who
> has just been dispossessed of
> a demon, you prick.

*

With a sigh, John shut off his mobile -- no longer broken, thanks to Gabriel -- and slid it away. "I've got nothing," he said ruefully. "Not many London contacts to begin with. You?" He looked hopefully at Clara, who shook her head.

"No one I can get in touch with has even heard of Moriarty. I even tried some of Mom's old contacts; no one's come across him in America either."

"No one who's lived to tell about it, anyway," John said gloomily.

"Shut up, John. Pessimism gets us nowhere."

"Yeah." John shook his head. "I've got a couple London addresses. It's been a while, but there might still be someone home."

"That's more like it." Clara grinned, pulling out a jangling keyring. "Harry left us the car; we can--"

"Nope!" Gabriel appeared suddenly in the middle of the room, swinging Clara's keys around on his finger. "Sorry, change of plans. Hang on tight, kiddos, it's gonna be a bumpy ride." He stepped forward and touched two fingers to each of their foreheads--

John stumbled, wondering how the ground had just slammed into his feet when he'd never lifted them off it in the first place.

"Whoa," Clara said. "Isn't that a rush." She paused. "Where are we?"

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota," Gabriel announced. "Home of the Hillbilly Hunters and also some people who don't know I'm alive, so keep it down."

They were in the middle of the road outside a scrap yard -- Singer Salvage, according to the sign. There was a house just in view behind stacks of smashed-up cars.

"I've been here before," Clara said slowly, but her look around was interrupted by Gabriel vanishing and then reappearing on the back porch of the house, waving impatiently for them to get a move on. The hunters exchanged a look and hurried to catch up to Gabriel, who already had the door unlocked and opened by the time they arrived.

"What took you so long?" he said, shooing them inside. The back door opened to a kitchen that looked like it hadn't had a decent scrub in about a decade, but if the ancient books left abandoned on various surfaces were any indication was probably very well-stocked with salt.

"What are we looking for?" John whispered, but before Gabriel could answer there was the ominous sound of a shotgun being pumped.

"I'm warnin' ya, I ain't afraid to blow your fool heads off," came a gruff voice from behind them. "Now turn around real slow."

"Bobby!" Gabriel exclaimed with mock enthusiasm. "How long's it been, what, three years? Missed you in Indiana last year. Boys and I had a killer time."

"Gabriel." The man called Bobby lowered his gun with some reluctance. "How many times you gotta be killed 'fore you stay dead?"

John still had his hands up, eyeing the shotgun with some trepidation, but Clara was studying Bobby's face, recognition dawning.

"I know you," she said, taking a step forward. "I'm Clara Warner."

"Oh yeah, Robyn Warner's kid. Ain't heard from her in five, six years now. Heard she moved to England." Bobby seemed marginally less hostile, shooting an amused look at John. "You can put your hands down, son. I ain't gonna shoot you." John did.

"So, Gabriel." Bobby returned to glowering at the angel. "You ain't here for fits 'n' giggles, so what exactly do you want?"

"Your demon knife. The kiddos here are having some trouble back in good ol' London town." Gabriel inclined his head in John and Clara's direction.

"What kinda trouble we talkin' here?"

"Aah, Apocalypse-level? Give or take."

Surprisingly, that didn't seem to phase the veteran hunter at all. He crossed his arms. "What's stoppin' you from zappin' it outta our hands?"

"Can't get a fix. It's those sigils Castiel burned on your boyos' ribs. Gotta hand it to the little bro, he's one clever sonouvabitch."

"Which is why you came to me."

"Well, no." Gabriel held up an open book that had just spontaneously moved from the table to his hand. "Says here the boys are hunting a wendigo. There's only one wendigo feeding right now, in the woods in West Virginia. Problem solved, no help needed."

"Boy, you ain't been in touch with anythin' lately, have you?" Bobby snagged the book from the angel's hand and put it aside. "They ain't comin' to me with research these days. Dean's out, an' Sam's got new partners. I was gonna put Garth on the wendigo, but if you're volunteering--"

Gabriel rolled his eyes and flickered out of view, reappearing not a moment later a few feet away from where he'd started. "Some campers are gonna have a roaring bonfire tonight," he said, popping a toasted marshmallow into his mouth. "So, where is it?"

Bobby snorted and unstrapped the knife from his own belt, offering it hilt-first to Clara. "Don't lose it, hear?" he warned. "I'm gonna be needin' that back eventually."

"Got it." Clara smiled in thanks, tucking the knife safely away under her jacket. "Hey, have you ever heard of a demon called Moriarty?"

Bobby thought for a moment. "Can't say I have. Someone who might, though: demon named Crowley. King of the Crossroads, wily little bastard. Not someone you want t' get on the wrong side of, but he generally ain't too fond of Armageddons. Might be willing to help you out. I bet your ma taught you a summoning spell or two?"

"Yeah, loads. Thanks a lot, Bobby."

"What I'm here for. Say, you Brits need any help over there? My résumé in Armageddon-snuffing is chock-full."

"Hello-o, archangel over here." Gabriel waved in annoyance.

Clara ignored him. "Thanks, Bobby, but we'll call if we need anything."

"Right. You take good care of that knife, now, and try not t' end the world."

"Will do." She looked expectantly at Gabriel, who reached out and--

"Jesus," John grumbled, slumping into the nearest armchair. "Still not used to that."

Clara had the knife out again, examining the engravings with interest. "What's this for, anyway?"

"It's a demon-killing knife. Kills demons." Gabriel pulled a paper bag out of nowhere and held it open to them. "Jelly baby?"

*

"Molly? Really?" John shook his head. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah. She's still unconscious, probably possessed for a while now, but I don't think the demon ever brought her to the front lines, thank-- uh, someone." Harry looked sideways at Gabriel, who shrugged indifferently.

"Don't look at me, I ain't getting all high and mighty about taking Dad's name in vain. He never really gave a vamp's ass about it either, by the way. That was all you guys."

"Right. Well, hopefully she'll keep the whole thing quiet when she wakes up. Maybe we'll even get some intel out of her."

"I still can't believe -- Molly, really." John sighed. "Poor thing. How did you figure it out?"

"I, um." Harry looked sheepish. "I knocked a tray of saltshakers into her."

Clara laughed, clapping her partner on the shoulder. "Good old Harry. You can always count on her to save the day by being clumsy."

"Yeah, good thing you wormed your way out of dance class when we were little, eh?"

"Shut up, John. So, what have you two been up to? Exorcised any demons lately?"

"Better." Clara pulled out Bobby's knife and set it on the coffee table between them. "Kills demons. Poof, gone."

"You're joking." Eyes wide, Harry picked it up with no small amount of reverence, and held it up to the light. "The hell'd you find this?"

"Hunter in South Dakota lent it to us."

Gabriel cleared his throat pointedly, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Gabriel helped."

"Think he's got any more demon-killing weapons stashed away somewhere I could use?" Harry wondered, setting it down carefully as if afraid it might break.

"I dunno, but you keep that one. I've been practicing." Clara tapped her temple with a wink.

"Really?" Harry leaned forward eagerly. "Can I see?"

Clara looked sideways at Gabriel, who waved a hand lazily. "No statute of limitations from me, sweetheart."

"Right then. Here goes nothing." With an anxious grin, Clara turned to narrow her eyes at the small side table by the sofa. A minute ticked by with no effect.

"Sorry," she muttered, readjusting herself in her seat. "I just have to get a grip on the -- ah!" Without warning, the table suddenly zipped sideways and crashed into the wall, shattering the lamp it held. "Damn it, sorry--"

John grinned. "No, it's all right. Never liked that lamp anyway. I'll get the dustbin." He started for the kitchen, but Clara held him back.

"Wait, let me." With a flick of her eyes, the shattered pieces lifted off the floor and dropped themselves squarely into the bin.

"Fascinating." Alerted by the noise of the table, Sherlock emerged from his room just in time to catch the second demonstration. He had locked himself in there along with his mobile and John's laptop upon returning from Bart's,. "The excess kinetic energy must be coming from somewhere, some sort of fuel, a mineral perhaps--"

"No, it's just willpower. If I believe I can do it, then I can." She shrugged. "According to Gabriel, anyway."

"That is the most idiotic premise I have ever encountered," Sherlock declared, then spun dramatically on his heel and locked himself into his room again.

John frowned. "It's all a bit much for him, I think."

Gabriel got to his feet and clapped his hands sharply. "Come on, kiddos, let's get this show on the road. It's demon-summoning time."

"What?" Harry was startled, though she got up and began helping John clear the desk. "We're not summoning Moriarty, are we?"

Gabriel snorted, and Harry raised an eyebrow. "Something to say, angel face?"

"No, no. I was only thinking that summoning Moriarty here for a final showdown would only be slightly less incredibly dangerous than what your brother and girlfriend are insisting we do." He smiled sardonically and vanished, reappearing a moment later at the back of the room. "But don't let me stop you. Crowley's only the King of Hell."

"Who is what now?" Harry turned to glare at Clara, who shrugged and began pulling candles out of a bag. She also fished out two pieces of chalk and tossed one to John, who knelt to lay a Devil's trap on the hardwood.

"Bobby gave us the name. Says he's anti-Apocalypse, and we need intel. Anyway, Gabriel can handle him, right?" She directed the last words at the angel himself, though she didn't look up from the chalk lines she was sketching between the candles.

"I warned you against this," Gabriel drawled. "He goes hellfire on your asses and I'm not lifting a finger to help you."

"Uh huh." Clara found a bowl and began to measure out herbs and incense, layering them carefully.

"Yoo hoo." There was a sharp rap on the door and Mrs. Hudson peered inside. "Are you all quite all right, dears? I heard a crash, and -- ah." Her eyes fell with mild displeasure onto the thick lines John had just finished chalking onto the floor. "I do hope you're planning to clean that up, Dr. Watson. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

John winced. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson."

"Very good, dear." The kindly old landlady smiled. "And do be careful, will you? Tricky business, this black magic." She backed out of the flat, shutting the door behind her.

"Right," Clara said, making the executive decision to ignore the interruption. "I think we're about ready. Harry, have you got any matches?"

"Ah - yep." Harry dug around in her pockets for a moment before coming up with a matchbook she'd swiped from a motel counter somewhere. "Here."

"Thanks." Clara grinned a little giddily, like she always did just before performing a spell or doing something incredibly dangerous. She closed her eyes and began to chant in smooth, rapid Latin, moving so quickly that the only word of it Harry could catch was the demon's name, inserted several times into appropriate places in the ritual. She paused briefly to slice her palm with a penknife, letting a few drops of blood dribble onto the herbs. "Et ad congregandum eos coram me," she finished, dropping a lit match into the incense bowl. It flared briefly, emitting a cloud of smoke, and when it had cleared, there stood a well-suited man with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Bugger," he swore. "Where in the name of Satan's hairy bollocks did you lot get my name from?"

"Are you Crowley?" Clara was cautious, eyes flickering down to the chalk lines at the demon's feet.

"Yes, darling, I am. Do you know what else I am? The bloody King of Hell!" he roared, surging towards them before noticing the chalk lines at his feet. "Bollocks."

"We need information," John said, stepping forward. "About a demon called Moriarty."

"Yeah? I'll tell you where you can stick that information, mate."

There was a sudden, amplified clang as Gabriel dropped his pie fork on the floor. "Sorry," he said with a wicked grin. "Go on."

Crowley glowered, but seemed more subdued. "Funny, you don't see many archangels hanging about your type these days," he commented to Clara, putting on a more causal air.

Harry's shoulders tensed in anger, but Clara met his gaze evenly. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, please. Even if I couldn't sense all the power packed in that pint-sized noggin of yours, old Yellow Eyes' scent is all over you. I'm not a black-eyes fresh off the rack; I can put two and two together. What do you want with Moriarty?"

"That's none of your business," John snapped. "What do you know?"

"I know he's been a pain in my arse ever since I took charge. He keeps roping my demons into his little schemes, getting them sent back below in tatters. It's ages before I can use them again. He's been planting demons around your little friend there--" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door to Sherlock's room "--for years now."

"We noticed," Harry muttered darkly.

"So I'll ask you again: what do you lot want with the little bastard?"

John and Clara exchanged a look. She shrugged. "He's going to let Lucifer out of his prison," John said to Crowley.

"He's still doing that? But -- bollocks!" he swore again, realizing that he was still trapped. "Would you mind letting me out now?"

"Do you know where it's going to happen?" Harry pressed, stepping a little closer. The demon knife in her hand glinted dully.

"All right, fine! The Cage might -- might -- open at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, at Trafalgar Square. Happy?"

Clara nodded at Harry, who reluctantly smudged the chalk line with her boot. She blinked, and the demon was gone.

*

Sherlock would never again admit it -- later, he would vehemently insist that John had slipped sedatives into his tea -- but that night, he fell asleep with no urging or nagging from anyone at all.

The trouble with sleeping regularly, he reflected, not yet caught up in the black water already swirling through the more rickety halls of his mind palace, was that it allowed for his subconscious to remain active enough to attempt to drown him in dreams. This REM cycle was no exception, and as the water level rose and the surface finally closed above his head, he didn't even bother to hold his breath.

A moment later, long fingers closed over his upper arm, and he was pulled out of the water to be suspended over the dark surface with inhuman ease.

"So this is what you dream about," Mycroft said, swinging Sherlock easily into the little wooden boat. "Fascinating. Even asleep you continue to be unusual."

"And even when I'm asleep you continue to be an overbearingly interfering cherub."

"I see the truth hasn't made you any more disposed towards liking me."

"Did you expect it to?"

"I find that often, Sherlock, you will do exactly the opposite of what I expect."

They didn't speak for a while, as the fragile old dinghy bobbed at its own leisurely pace down flooded corridors and through rooms awash with information misplaced by the tide.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "It won't work, you know."

The angel didn't blink. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I won't join you. Humanity may be nothing but a crowd of idiotic sheep, but I am, loathe as I am to admit it, one of them." His eyes narrowed. "As was my brother, once. May I speak with him?"

Not-Mycroft contemplated him calmly for a moment, hardly reacting as the boat tipped over the steep incline that had once been stairs. "I believe you misunderstand my intentions. Heaven is not out to destroy humanity. We are trying to save them."

"You're avoiding the question," said Sherlock firmly, as the little rowboat bobbed down the hall and washed out the door. Rare London sunlight glinted off the brass-plated numbers as the door swung shut behind them.

"Your brother," the angel said, tapping the floor of the boat with his umbrella tip, "is, for lack of a better word, damaged. His consciousness has been tied to my Grace for three decades. The human mind can not imagine the implications."

"And you want me to accept the same fate for myself," Sherlock remarked. "For the sake of a battle that isn't mine."

"If there is one thing I've learned about you, little brother, it's that you very rarely fight battles that are your own."

In silence, they turned off Baker Street, though neither was steering.

This was a dream, after all, though, and the boat wafted into the flooded Trafalgar Square what felt like moments later. It bobbed to a stop beside Nelson's statue on its submerged pillar. "I believe this is your stop, Sherlock." The angel raised an eyebrow pointedly and Sherlock stood, stepping out of the dinghy as if there were a solid wooden pier beneath his feet. The soles of his shoes rested an inch above the surface as he turned to watch the little rowboat float away. It was only seconds before it disappeared into the distance, but as it did the force holding him up seemed to vanish with it, and he plunged feet-first into the cold, swirling water of his dreams.

*

April 4 - End.

"We all ready?" Harry asked, slamming the trunk shut.

"As we'll ever be." John exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock across the car roof. "Demon knife?"

Harry touched her jacket pocket. "Got it. Clara, how's it coming?"

"I've got more control now," Clara answered absently, pulling the car door open with a twitch of her finger. She twisted her wrist and it slammed shut again. "Precision." She looked up. "Where's Gabriel?"

"He's meeting us there," Sherlock said dismissively, sliding into the driver's seat. "Keys." He held out a hand. Harry didn't look happy, but handed them over without vocalizing her complaints.

There was no traffic at all, which was unprecedented for a Saturday morning in Central London, and they made it to Trafalgar in record time. Sherlock swerved into a parking spot half a block up the Strand that, by all rights, shouldn't even have fit the car, and they piled out onto the sidewalk. Harry pulled the duffel bag out of the trunk as they turned to look at the Square, which was packed end-to-end with what looked like people. Nelson's Column bordered the southernmost edge of the crowd. They stood in an almost perfect circle, with a narrow passageway splitting the crowd into two halves. Those lining the aisle bristled at the closeness of their opposites.

"Look," Harry said, pointing at the passersby. "No one's noticing anything." It was as if Trafalgar had ceased to exist.

"Moriarty's got some skill in that area," John said, gaze sweeping the space. "Okay, I think the east half is the demons. We have the knife, salt, holy water; if we move fast enough we should be able to cut our way through."

"For the record, I maintain that this is the worst plan ever," Clara remarked grimly.

Sherlock scowled at the aerosol can of holy water he'd been given. "I feel like a child."

"Near enough," John joked, taking one of the salt guns from Harry. Clara took the other. The long-barreled shotguns weren't very discreetly concealed beneath their coats, but no one passing by seemed to notice. With all the nonchalance of a group of people trying and failing to be nonchalant, they sidled towards the Square, until they were practically breathing down the outermost demons' necks. The whole crowd was turned towards its center, so intent on what was happening that not a single demon stirred as they approached.

"Right, then." Drawing the demon knife, Harry squared her shoulders. "Let's get this over with."

"On my count," John said under his breath, eyes fixed on the demons. "One. Two."

"Whoa, whoa." A sandy-haired man stepped out of the crowd, hands in the air. A sniper's rifle was slung across his narrow back. "Let's just take a minute here, right?"

John faltered. "Moran?"

Sebastian Moran grinned, eyes briefly flickering black before returning to their usual green. "Hey, bud! Sorry about the other night, boss' orders, you know. But between you and me--" he winked and lowered his voice conspiratorially, "--I think you were supposed to escape."

"Get the fuck out of him, you bastard," Harry growled.

"And look, it's Harry! Clara! Gang's all here?" His gaze fell on Sherlock and he smiled. "Hope you know it's a real honor to meet you, Sherlock. It's all your choice, of course, but just you remember who's giving you the better deal. Yeah? Good luck in there." With a nod, Moran stepped backwards to be swallowed by the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and then the demons directly in front of them began to push together like oversized sardines, opening a narrow passageway through to the center. Some turned, but not one spoke.

John cleared his throat. "Er . . . Shall we?"

Sherlock briefly studied the swath cut through the ranks, his face expressionless, and then raised his chin and stepped forward, sweeping down the passageway. The others followed, guns cocked.

The empty space in the middle was perfectly circular, ringed by angels with vacantly obedient looks on their faces and demons who seemed almost bored. All eyes were fixed on the glistening red Seal, painted onto the bricks in what looked very much like fresh blood. It crackled with short bursts of energy.

Moriarty and Adriel-as-Mycroft stood on their respective sides, about as far apart in the circle as it was possible to be without actually being part of the crowd. Up until a moment ago, they had been very determinedly not looking at each other. Now they had turned towards Sherlock, each shifting to expressions of anticipation and perhaps even greed as they looked at him, though of course Mycroft hid it better.

"Right on time, Sherlock," Moriarty said with a wide grin, just as Big Ben began to chime the hour. When the bells had died away, he continued, "Eleven o'clock, on the dot. I knew you'd make it."

"Welcome, little brother." Mycroft smiled serenely, extending a hand. "Come. The angels will protect you."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Don't bother, featherbed. Sherlock here doesn't need protection, do you, Sherlock? I promise you, if you come with me you'll never be bored again."

Mycroft shot the demon a hard look. "Demons are not to be trusted, Sherlock."

"No more than angels," Moriarty said, glaring back. "I never back down on a deal. Angels have no such reservations, believe you me. All you have to do is agree to a small favor. Then, all the excitement you could ever want."

Sherlock very nearly heard the click of pieces slotting into place in John's head. "Sherlock," he blurted, seeming to forget for a moment where they were. "Sherlock, you're the Antichrist!"

Sherlock didn't turn around, his eyes flickering between the demon and the angel. "Yes, John, obviously," he drawled. "And you're the Heart. Haven't you been paying attention?"

Mycroft looked, just for a moment, well and truly shocked. Sherlock felt a brief flash of satisfaction. "How do you know about the prophecy?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please," he said, in his special talking-to-idiots tone. "'Come the Heart, come the Choice, come the End.'" He gestured impatiently towards the demon. “He left it all over the murder scenes. One letter on every body, how dull. He even laid them out in the right order. Honestly, it’s as if he wanted me to figure it out.” Moriarty looked vaguely guilty.

Mycroft frowned. "That was in Enochian."

"It's just a code," Sherlock sighed. "Phonetics. Each letter is represented by a symbol carved onto a different body. Twelve people were killed at the first scene, thirteen at the second, and ten at the third. It obviously translates into English, because these murders - and this message - occurred in London, where people speak English. 'E' is the most common letter in the English language, as well as the most common letter here, so the symbol representing 'E' is obvious. It's a logical assumption that the letters were laid out in the correct order, because whoever placed them did so for a reason. From 'E', I followed the assumption that the second word was 'the' in every case. I then had 't' and 'h'. From there, it was simple systematic elimination of possibilities, and then determining the most sensible solution." He paused for effect. "Simple.

"Of course the meaning was even simpler, with the acceptance of the existence of the supernatural. The End is the Apocalypse, obviously, though changes have been made from the original. Both of you have been trying to get me on your sides for several days now." He glared at Mycroft and Moriarty in turn. "And I had it on good authority that demons and angels were fighting over me, specifically, so the Choice must be mine. I'm anything but a Heart, so -- something else, something that's come recently into my life." He paused, for so brief a moment that no one but himself would have noticed, then added, "Something that's made me better."

Sherlock refused to turn and look at John's expression. It wasn't part of the plan.

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Moriarty stepped forward, unperturbed. "Fine," he said indifferently, "so you know everything. Hugs and kisses and congratulations. What'll it be?"

"Pardon?"

"Michael or Lucifer? Angels or demons? Make your Choice, Sherlock. Who are you with?"

Sherlock gestured casually at empty air. "Oh, I'm with him." With a loud noise, Gabriel appeared just where Sherlock was pointing.

"Oh, hello everyone!" The archangel grinned widely. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch, you know." He waved cheerily to both sides and, amusingly, a couple from each side waved back.

For a moment Mycroft looked incredibly smug, the sort of look that nearly begged to be punched away. While Sherlock was sure that that would not be conducive to his plan, Gabriel seemed to have the same notion. He turned to Mycroft.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, little brother, but if he's with me . . . I'm with the humans."

The priceless look of confusion on Mycroft's face filled up nearly every brotherly feud endorphin receptor in Sherlock's body. He nodded appreciatively to the archangel. "Could you give me a lift?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Sure." With a snap of the angel's fingers, Sherlock was suddenly perched securely atop Nelson's Column. Its previous occupant, a larger-than-life sandstone statue of the monument's namesake, seemed to have temporarily taken a leave of absence.

From his vantage point, Sherlock could see the whole of the square. Most of the demons as well as John, Harry, and Clara seemed briefly confused by his sudden translocation, but they soon caught on and within a few moments the whole crowd had turned in his direction.

Sherlock's gaze darted around the crowd. It was startling, the variety of people the demons and angels were using as bodies: here was a lawyer, there was a homeless man (though not one of Sherlock's), that woman was obviously an accountant, and that man was a travel journalist . . .

He shook away the irrelevant details and drew himself up to speak. He hardly had to raise his voice; the square itself provided satisfactory amplification for the whole crowd to hear.

"Can anyone tell me why, exactly, this Apocalypse has to happen?" he demanded, addressing the crowd at large. "Not you, Mycroft," he added as an afterthought, pointing at the angel.

One particularly courageous angel stepped into the open, head craning back to look at Sherlock on his lofty perch. (She was wearing a housewife. Sick husband, two -- no, three children.) "Because it's written," she volunteered boldly. "The prophecy must be fulfilled."

"Because it's written? Is that the only reason you're going to destroy half the world, because it's written?"

The angel seemed marginally less sure of herself now. "We must carry out God's Will."

"Lucifer will rise!" a demon yelled from the midst of the crowd. "He will destroy God's Creation and He will be King!" There were scattered shouts of agreement from the demon side.

"Michael will triumph," the housewife-angel predicted. "He will slaughter your kind and the wicked, and the seas will run red with your blood." Answering cheers from the angel side as well.

"Don't you all see, don't you get it?" Sherlock waved an arm in frustration, his amplified voice recapturing the crowd's attention. "If this was planned out from the beginning, then the outcome is predetermined anyway and there's no rational reason to see it through. You see, this is why I never follow orders; it rots your brain. Five thousand years of it and you're all practically mindless slugs. Now, I suggest that before you lot make any more world-ending decisions, you angels go back up to your great fluffy cloud-palace in the sky and have a nice long think about your truly impressive daddy issues. You demons, go kick a puppy or whatever it is you do to blow off steam, or find a nice S&M club; I'm sure they'd love to have you. You're all just a lot of puffed-up dolts with delusions of grandeur and IQs lower than most of the humans on this planet, which is really quite an accomplishment. So go home, all of you."

No one moved. Several hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on Sherlock; several hundred mouths hung slightly open in shock. Feeling that he was on a roll, Sherlock offhandedly added, "And if the last few minutes are any indication, God left because he couldn't stand the whining."

There was a sudden ripple of shock from the angels. Only Mycroft stood impassive.

"You didn't know?" Sherlock was, despite himself, faintly surprised. "It's obvious, really. The lack of control, the disjointedness of the planning. God, if there even is a God, hasn't been in charge for a long while, has he? This isn't the first try at the Apocalypse. And if Heaven's top warrior is locked in a Cage with the Devil, well, something's off there, isn't it?

"And while we're on the topic of the Cage, when designing the prison for one of the most powerful beings in the universe, next time, make it a little bit more difficult to break into, please. Half the Seal in demon blood, written by an angel. Half the Seal in angel blood, written by a demon. An angel and a demon working together -- but it always comes down to the blood, doesn't it? I wonder what it would take to fuse the lock." He shot John a meaningful look. "Following the pattern, there's angel and demon, of course --" Gabriel appeared beside Clara "-- pure human --" Harry quietly reached into her pocket "-- the Heart --" Sherlock nodded faintly at John "-- and, of course, me." With a flourish, Sherlock whipped out a pocketknife from beneath his coat and opened his hand, slicing a shallow cut across his palm in one swift movement. He turned his open fist downwards, letting the blood fall -- fall -- stop.

Clara had her telekinesing face on, staring intently at the blood droplets as they hung in midair. All at once, they flew across the square to join the blood pooled in her hands, donated by Gabriel, John, Harry, and Clara herself. Before the crowd around them could react, she stepped forward and opened her hands over the Seal.

The moment the new blood spattered over the complex design, the whole Seal began to glow, the energy crackling from it growing taller and hotter. There was a sudden flash of white light, briefly blinding the whole crowd, and then it vanished. When Sherlock blinked his eyes open again, the entire Seal was gone. He clenched his fist, feeling the warm wetness on his palm.

"The Apocalypse is over," Sherlock said firmly to the motionless crowd, holding up his bloody hand. "Go home."

Silently, one or two angels flickered out of view. A few demons threw back their heads and abandoned their hosts, roaring black clouds swirling into the London sky. Then a few others from each side, and then more, angels and demons fleeing the scene of the failure. Within a minute, the square was empty save for those that had been in the center as well as the former demon hosts, all unconscious or worse.

Moriarty grinned at Mycroft. "Well, Adriel. I think that went well, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he vanished.

His angelic counterpart turned towards Nelson's Column, meeting his vessel's brother's eyes. Without a word, he too disappeared.

"Gabriel," Sherlock said, his amplified voice seeming louder than it had been a moment ago. The archangel vanished for a moment, and when he returned he had Sherlock by the shoulder. Struck by vertigo from his sudden altitude change, Sherlock stumbled a little. John caught his arm.

"Is it over?" Harry asked, still eyeing the place where the Seal had been with some mistrust. "Did we do it?"

Gabriel nodded, looking as pleased as if he had done the task single-handedly. "Me: two. Universe: zero."

"What about them?" Clara looked with concern at the semicircle of unconscious demon hosts.

"They'll be fine." Gabriel shrugged, waving a hand. "They'll stumble home on their own, won't remember a thing."

A sudden wave of elation swept over the group, born mostly of the post-adrenaline "I-can't-believe-we're-still-alive" rush. "Jesus, Sherlock, you stopped the bloody Apocalypse!" John exclaimed, throwing his arms around the taller man in an unexpected hug. After a moment's surprise, Sherlock hugged back.

It was a very brief hug and they broke apart quickly. Harry and Clara also had their arms about one another, but had gone a bit beyond hugging. Gabriel was watching them with some interest. Noticing the kissing going on next to them, Sherlock and John exchanged awkward glances and edged quickly away from each other.

When they returned to the flat, Mrs. Hudson had tea and biscuits waiting.

*

April 5 - Begin.

All was quiet on Baker Street, save for the quivering strains of what John thought was Mozart floating from the open windows of 221b.

"Sherlock," John said. There was no response, but he knew Sherlock was listening. "You never did explain how you knew about the blood."

Sherlock set down his violin and strode over to the window. "I didn't," he agreed.

"Care to enlighten me?"

Sherlock turned from the window, a wide, familiar grin stretching across his face. "Shot in the dark. Come on, there's been a murder." Tossing John's jacket to its owner, he began to pull on his own coat and scarf.

"What -- a shot in the dark? You risked the entire planet on a guess?"

"Not a guess, John, I never guess."

"Yes you do," John insisted as they rattled down the stairs. "You guess all the time. And how do you know there's been a murder?"

Before he could answer, Sherlock nearly ran into the man emerging from 221a.

"I'll see you next week, Mrs. Hudson," Gabriel said with a cheery wave. "Thank you for the tea."

end.

| (an end is just another word for a beginning) |