(I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural.)

"We've obtained the location, sir."

"Location?" Mycroft looked up from his phone, a bit irritated to be interrupted from his argument via text messages with his brother.

"Of the angel located in London? We believe we've finally located him," the Man of Letters agent, British division, placed a thin file on Mycroft's desk, "we've got our men in place, Mr. Holmes, and all we need is your approval."

Now that was worth his attention; Mycroft set aside his phone, ignoring the text alert as Sherlock sent an angry reply, "good. Your organization is getting lazy if it has taken this long. I thought you said you were certain no monster was able to get into the U.K. I trust the bullets are made from melted down angel blades?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Mycroft picked his phone back up, already texting a reply to his younger brother, "leave the body when you're done. I don't want America's infestation spreading to Britain, and this will leave a nice message to all monsters, especially angels, that Britain is not to be trifled with."

"Will do," the agent nodded, "do you want us to get him while he's in his residence or out on the street?"

"Does his vessel live with anyone?" Mycroft didn't even glance up from his phone, hitting send. Sherlock's angry response didn't take too long to show.

"He's home alone at the moment."

Mycroft nodded, barely glancing up as he typed, "good, less chance of an innocent in the crossfire. Take care of it now."

She nodded, speaking quickly into her earpiece as she exited the room, sending out confirmation for the kill.

Mycroft hit send on his reply, rolling his eyes at his brother. How hard could it possibly be to figure out which store to get milk at? If Sherlock had listened to him in the first place, he could have completed the shopping by now, but no! He had to argue with every single suggestion and point that Mycroft made! It wasn't Mycroft's problem that the closest market had rats, or that the workers at the second closest always were too slow loading the milk from the cold truck to the fridges! And yet it was he that his brother was complaining to!

Irritated, Mycroft turned his attention away from his phone and to the file, wondering what poor sod had been convinced into being an angel's meatsuit. Mycroft turned his bored gaze to the file as he flipped it open, eyes scanning past the name and address without really paying attention to them. It wasn't until he started shifting through the pictures that it really registered. His heart nearly stopped and he quickly turned his attention back to the name and address, hoping that he was mistaken, attention now irrevocably caught.

Mycroft lunged for his phone so fast that he nearly missed the device altogether; there was no time for a text and he tapped onto the needed contact and hit call immediately. Mycroft paced the room as it rang... and rang... and rang. He backed out quickly when it went to voicemail, having to search for the text message icon quickly as he brought up the needed number, typing out his message and hitting send.

No response.

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, refusing to believe that he was losing his composure, and turned back to Sherlock's contact. His brother rarely answered when he called, so he hit the text symbol.

He'd barely typed out 'Where' when his secretary buzzed in.

"Sir, message from Men of Letters?"

"What is it?"

"Target's been neutralized."

He'd spent yesterday morning cleaning, checking and rechecking his weapon; the rest of yesterday and the early morning today going over every detail in the plan, every scenario that could pan out, everything that might go wrong. So many things could go wrong when hunting such a creature- no, not hunting. That made him sound more like one of those things they have in America, those crude American Hunters. No, he was a professional, a member of the Men of Letters. He was... neutralizing a dangerous animal. Yes, that sounded much better.

Much better than letting it register that the creature was using an innocent person as a vessel, but that wasn't his problem and it couldn't be helped. The vessel would just have to die along with the angel, if the poor person was even still alive, that is.

He took a deep breath and clicked off the safety once he had his weapon ready and on its stand. Beside him, his phone buzzed, and he spared a glance at the screen. A text message showed at the top of the screen from Mycroft Holmes.

DO NOT FIRE ON THE ANGEL OF 221B BAKER STREET

He'd already been debriefed by his superiors; though Mycroft was superior to his superiors, he had already been warned that Mycroft might allow himself to be biased for this mission. He had been ordered to ignore all attempts at a call-off by Mycroft Holmes.

He turned his attention back to his scope, steadying his breathing as his target stepped into view.

The angel stifled a yawn, cradling a mug in his hands as he glanced out the window with a sense of boredom on his face, unaware of the looming danger. He took a sip from his cup before placing it on the mantle and looking towards the table, where a laptop lay. He took a step towards it, unknowingly stepping right into the line of death.

The agent took a deep breath and lined up his shot.

The angel turned, eyes in his direction in the building across the street, as if sensing him, butt it was already too late.

He pullled the trigger.

I had been residing in his vessel for a while now. For many years, by this point, I supposed. It hadn't been until I had lost the original owner to a bullet wound in the shoulder that I'd actually had to hop into the driver seat, but I had been honorably discharged shortly after the wound. My Grace was weak from being cut off from Heaven.

I had figured that no one would think to look for me in a Londoner. Who expected a wounded army doctor to smuggle an angel into London? The British Men of Letters kept everyone else out, and I was safe.

Well, I guess the bullet in my chest had an argument on the matter of how safe I was. The bullet was unmistakably made from an angel blade, and with my weakened Grace it might just kill me.

The work of a high powered gun, no doubt; it had gone right through my chest and into the wall, splattering the wall with brand new blood paint. My Grace surged from the wound, lighting up the room before I managed to drag it back in, but the wound didn't heal up, the front and back of my shirt already warm with blood. The only reason I was still alive for the moment was because it had missed anything major.

I didn't move where I had fallen and my (well, my vessel's, I guess) blood was already starting to pool.

The worst part was that, when an angel is dying, their Grace flares for a moment. Great for getting somebody to come rescue you, bad when you're trying not to be noticed. If they came for me, the angels would have no trouble dragging me up to Heaven and handing me to Naomi to be brainwashed again. Few have been through it as many times as I have, but the only one who had me beat would be Castiel.

But I had just been shot with a bullet made from an angel blade. It wouldn't be too far off to assume that the angels had already found me.

There was a window in my room. The shooter might be focused on the window they had shot through. They were probably already running before the cops showed. Somebody had to have heard the shot.

Hopefully.

Unless everyone's too used to Sherlock shooting the wall when he was bored to know that somebody may have actually been shot.

I took a deep breath before finally daring to move. Another shot didn't come, so I figured the shooter had gone.

I nearly slipped in my own blood as I pulled myself into a better position, making sure not to get to my feet just in case the shooter showed back up. I shifted and couldn't help the gasp that escaped me as a spike of pain went through me. Right, got shot. Dying.

What a wonderful start to my day.

Despite everything in me telling me not to, I used my chair to painfully pull myself to my feet. My vision shook, but I knew that if I could get to my room, I could grab my gun. I had bullets, not from my own sword, but from blades I had filched off of the occasional angel I'd run across. Unless Michael or Raphael came for me themselves, I could handle whichever angels they send to drag me in until I run out of bullets.

I managed about halfway up the stairs before I crumpled and had to crawl the rest of the way.

I grit my teeth and used my wings to help me crawl along with my arms. It seemed like an eon by the time I got to my room and got the gun out of my drawer. I unloaded the normal bullets and filled it with the angel blade bullets I kept under the false bottom I had put in before leaning against the wall for a quick break.

I heard shouting downstairs and I snapped my fingers. The door slammed shut and locked itself, the handles on both sides still bloody from my hands. Just in time, for only a couple heartbeats later somebody was trying to turn the knob.

Still holding onto my gun, I stumbled over to the window, having found an extra burst of strength to help me escape. I had just barely gotten it unlocked when the door was kicked down and I raised my gun to my head.

They can't take me to Naomi if I'm dead.

"Not another step," I said calmly, even though their faces were swimming in and out of view, but always blurry. There were two of them, and I felt that I should know them. Not a moment had passed before the second, shorter one, came skidding to a stop next to the first.

"John," the taller one said slowly, taking a step forward, "John, put down the gun."

"Stay where you are!" I snapped, having to lean on the windowsill as my legs began to give out. So much for escaping then. I allowed myself to slowly sink down onto the ground, leaning against the wall under the window but still holding my own weapon to my head, "you can't torture me if I'm dead!"

I was confused to feel a large mix of relief and fear and worry radiate off of them.

"PTSD. He must be having a psychological reaction to the gunshot," the tall one said quietly to the other, and there was something familiar about the way he spoke, besides the slight waver in his voice.

"Do you know how to snap him out of it?"

"Absolutely no idea, but I'll try. I mostly left this sort of thing to John and deleted what I didn't need," the tall one said, and I could feel the tall one's attention focus sharply on me, though I couldn't make out their face, "John, we are not the enemy. You are safe now and in severe need of medical attention. You are in 221B Baker Street. I am-"

"I know where I am! You don't want to help me, you want to take me to Naomi to be tortured!" I accused, "you'll have to take me dead, because I will not go with you while alive!"

"-Sherlock Holmes."

I stayed silent for a minute before finding the strength to speak, "Sherlock Holmes... what do you want with Sherlock Holmes?"

The tall one didn't miss a beat, "if you don't drop that gun we'll take Sherlock Holmes instead and give him to Naomi."

The second one elbowed the tall one, but the tall one merely shushed him.

"I... I don't care about Sherlock Holmes," I attempted, but my voice wavered and even a human child could have seen that I was lying. I clicked the safety on and held the gun out to them, "... I surrender."

"Oh, thank God," the shorter one said, while the tall one immediately rushed to my side.

"Sherlock," the short one said to the tall one as more people rushed in, making me tense, "Sherlock, make room for the paramedics."

The tall one moved only a little bit.

"Sherlock?" I wheezed.

"It's me, John," a hand found mine, giving a small hesitant squeeze as if trying to make me feel better but not sure if that was how it was done, "I'm Sherlock. And I promise you, whoever this so called Naomi is, I will not let them hurt you."

And I believed him.