Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t ask you.”

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

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

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

“You hit someone”, he accused.

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

One hour earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How-”, John started weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

“Can we get on, now?”, he groaned.

“Just a minute, my dear boy.”

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

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

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

Sherlock cracked a smile, then promptly slumped against John. 

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Three weeks later

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

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

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

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

John raised an eyebrow. "The car?"

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

"You mean the redhead and the blond?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonderful! Is the body still there?”

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

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

“I was just waiting for you to ask.”

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s one interpretation,” Crowley remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It never is,” Sherlock replied.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Wine?” Crowley asked hopefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John choked on his tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crowley gave a little two-finger salute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I expect they will,” Sherlock said softly.

The door clicked shut behind them.

– – – –

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

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

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

“Sherlock?”

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

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

“I’m aware.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, that’s… a real angel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. Well, guess we can go, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it a warning?”

“Wot?”, Crowley asked.

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

“No? At least, we don’t think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

Crowley nodded. “Yep.”

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

“Why does Armageddon have to happen so soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Likewise.”

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

John looked up. “221B“, he gasped.

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

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

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

“Er- will he be alright?“, he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man nodded and exited the flat.

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

– – – –

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

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

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

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

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

John froze. “What?”

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

“Off script?”, John repeated.

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

“Okay, wait. The Apocalypse is coming?”

“You really are slow, aren’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I was just crossing the street–”

“No. While you were gone.”

“How did you– was I twitching?”

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

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

“Get on with it..”

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

“Hello, old friend”, he greeted.

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

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s time. Meet us at the garage.”

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

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

~~~~

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

The three greeted each other.

“Lovely to see you both”, War said.

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

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

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

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

Famine shrugged. “He’ll come.”

“We’ve still got time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

War grinned. “Welcome back, Death.”

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

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

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