Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t ask you.”

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

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

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

“You hit someone”, he accused.

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

One hour earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How-”, John started weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

“Can we get on, now?”, he groaned.

“Just a minute, my dear boy.”

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

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

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

Sherlock cracked a smile, then promptly slumped against John. 

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Three weeks later

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

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

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

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

John raised an eyebrow. "The car?"

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

"You mean the redhead and the blond?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonderful! Is the body still there?”

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

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

“I was just waiting for you to ask.”

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one interpretation,” Crowley remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It never is,” Sherlock replied.