AN: Hey guys! I found a new game, it's called How Long Can I Delay Adding a New Chapter Before I Lose Readers and/or Am Murdered Brutally? It's quite fun, I suggest it if you aren't very fond of your hides.

Anyway, my editor (who I neglected to credit for the first chapter) Martha was unable to edit this for a while. Now she has her game on again and hopefully I'll be on mine as well and we can churn this puppy out! Also, love Martha, she keeps me sane (quite literally, my therapist is my editor 0.o) and she makes sure my grammar and spelling isn't atrocious!

Also, rubymoon84 I believe that the answer to your question is in this chapter! Woot!

NOTE: I would suggest that you read my companion to this story, How Morons Caused WW2 and Holmes Ended It, or How Holmes Became Satan. It makes a few things clearer and provides a bit of a back story. If you read it you'll understand a thing or two more clearly, or at least understand the references that I put in there, however it is not required to understand this story. Just thought you guys would like a heads up!

Anyway, this goes without saying but I do not own Sherlock or the characters thereof, those rights belong to BBC and ACD.

Without further delay, here is your second chapter! Hope you guys like it!

~Kiro

Chapter 2

Greg woke to pain and nausea and the kind of grogginess that only comes with narcotics. He groaned and tried to go back to sleep but, unluckily for him, someone noticed that he was awake.

"Greg! Dear, are you okay?" It was a feminine voice that Greg really was not looking forward to hearing, coming from about a meter away. Sighing, Greg reluctantly opened his eyes to fluorescent lighting glaring off a blue-and-white curtain that cordoned off his bed.

As he had guessed, about a meter away sat Jenny, his ex-wife, wearing a forced pout of concern on her attractive features. Her deep brown hair was swept back in a ponytail and she wore a casual blouse and blue jeans. Greg sighed and pulled himself up with his uninjured arm to have a better look at this woman he had once loved.

"What are you doing here, Jen?" His voice sounded resigned and tired even to his own ears, even quite a bit irritated. Jen's response to this was to turn defensive, glaring at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

"The kids wanted to see you. We heard you'd been shot on a case. Still risk taking I see?" That had been one of the many points of contention between the couple- "risk taking" as she so called it. Never mind that she had known he was a police officer when she married him and had known that he was likely to have long hours and job-related incidents. Greg let out a frustrated sigh.

"It's my job, Jen, I was catching a murderer. If you brought Tammy and Sage then where are they? Speaking of people, where's your boyfriend? David I think you said his name was?" Greg really should not have been picking a fight right now but he couldn't bring himself to care. His voice was hard and challenging, looking for a fight to get his frustration out. Thankfully that was when the kids entered, squealing as they ran to hug him, an amused David trailing along behind.

"Daddy!"

"Dad!"

"How are you?"

"Are you okay?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Did you catch the guy?"

The ten- and thirteen-year-old brunettes hugged onto Greg, pulling on his hospital gown and narrowly avoiding his wound in their excitement. He grinned and pulled away, trying to slow the barrage of questions.

"Hey girls! I'm fine, thank you, the meds are doing their job. I don't know if we caught the guy, but from the way my colleague was chasing him it looked like he was done for." He grinned at his daughters and they beamed back. It had been at least a month since Greg had seen his offspring, the "shared custody" turning out to be more of a "you get to keep them every second weekend if we don't have something planned" custody.

"How've you two been?" Greg slightly regretted the question as Tammy erupted into a long-winded story on the monkey bars and her friends at school, her older sister somehow managing to fit in a couple of lines on her violin recitals and the new author she'd discovered. Eventually, after an hour of questions and answers and catching up with his daughters their mother broke in with a "Got to go, kids, David's got to get to work in the morning."

Greg was sad to see them go but was slightly relieved when his ex-wife left, giving him room to breathe. He was now thoroughly exhausted, the Spanish inquisition and ranting of his kids had taken a lot out of him.

During their conversation, all Lestrade could really think about was how differently his daughters' lives would have been if he had died in that alleyway. Had that man, the ever-mysterious Mycroft not appeared then where would his kids be? He doubted that his ex would be disturbed, more likely she would have been self-righteous in having her "what if you get shot?" argument proved correct. His coworkers would grieve, probably, but they were policemen, people on the force died every day. They would get over it. Sherlock, well, Sherlock would find a new DI to torment. Probably Dimmock, seeing as the two had worked together before. In fact, Greg really only had one person he could remotely call a proper friend, and that was only because sometimes John called him up to complain about Sherlock over beers. Fuck, he needed a social life.

He groaned and slid down in his bed, quickly falling asleep.

Greg awoke to the banging of doors nearby and a quite loud baritone telling someone that "This is urgent! It's to do with a case, very important, even your tiny brain must understand."

Lestrade barely had time enough to open his eyes before a tall, pale figure in his signature Belstaff coat burst into the room, already spouting off complaints.

"Lestrade, you must come back, I've been forced to go to Dimmock, Dimmock of all people, he's even more of an idiot than you-" He cut off his lightning fast speech as he looked at Greg. He blinked, then his face took on a highly annoyed slant. He turned and pushed a chair in front of the door, which John had been about to enter, and ignored his shouts of protest.

"Mycroft, I imagine? Did he send his pretty little assistant or did he just send one of his minions, surely he didn't- Oh, no, nonono that is unacceptable. You are my detective and he can not seduce you- I've got to work with you!" Sherlock began to pace in front of Greg's hospital bed, back and forth, hands clasped in his prayer-like "thinking pose."

"What do you mean he-" Greg was quickly cut off by an almost-snarl from the vivid detective, who then turned and went back to pacing.

"This is unacceptable, completely unacceptable, I must do something- no, dull, not drastic enough, would never work, boring, already did that, impossible, dull, John would be mad, UGH!" Sherlock turned, his Belstaff billowing out behind him dramatically as he leaned over Greg directly into his personal space.

The consultant's face was mere inches from Lestrade's, bearing a snarl that would send children screaming. For an absurd moment Greg even thought the man would go so far as to literally bite his nose off, but then Sherlock spoke in a low, deadly tone.

"If you ever so much as think of hurting or even touching my brother in any way I will murder you and no one will find any sign of your disappearance. While I cannot prevent you from engaging in any abhorrent and lewd acts, I can and will drag you down to Hell if you harm him in any way." His slate-colored eyes stared deep into Greg's soul as he nodded stoically.

Sherlock stood, his face now completely missing any sign of the feral being he had been a moment before, a smirk peeking itself out onto his features. He turned to yank the chair from in front of the door, easily catching the John that had been attempting to shove it open. Ignoring the doctor's pinkish face, he hauled the man by the biceps out of the room and down the hall.

Greg figured himself in shock. His brain just simply would not work. It kept running over and over the same happenings over and over. Sherlock. Sherlock snarling. Sherlock smirking. Sherlock threatening his soul and life and... everything. Sherlock's words: "he can not seduce you!" Then there was Mycroft. Mycroft. "Mycroft Lucifer Holmes, King of Hell, Devil, Satan, and underground ruler of Britain." Mycroft's honeyed voice. Mycroft's smirk. Mycroft's neck meeting a starched collar, "...you are definitely one of the more pleasant people I have had to kiss...", Mycroft's pupil-engulfed eyes.

These thoughts filled Greg's mind to bursting. His mind wasn't capable of rational thought anymore, much less observations. At least this was what he told himself when it took a hand on his shoulder and a loud, stern "Gregory" to bring him back to reality.

Greg shook himself and looked up to see who had disturbed his thought process. On his left stood Mycroft, wearing a new black pinstripe shirt, red silk tie tucked into his waistcoat. A gold pocket watch chain glinted in the fluorescent light and his dark red hair was slicked back. His eyebrow was raised in sardonic curiosity, but his eyes were lined with concern. Lestrade just about jumped out of his skin.

"My-" his voice broke and he coughed to clear his throat, "Mycroft? What are you, uh, doing here?" He was instantly mortified at his voice's betrayal, his lack of words, the stupid phrasing, the obvious question, his rumpled appearance, the thin hospital gown, and his reddening cheeks. Really, he was mortified at his entire life right now, but it all was worth it when Mycroft smirked at him. Well, sort of. He now wanted to either punch the expression off or snog it off. He wasn't quite sure which at this point.

"I am just checking up on you, Gregory. I would be mortified if the person whom I saved simply died a time afterwords of an infection." Mycroft swung his umbrella in his grip, caught between feigned nonchalance and a knowing smirk. Greg snorted.

"Yeah, because the almighty King of Hell has so much spare time to pop in on friends. What is it really, Mycroft?" He raised an eyebrow at the daemon in front of him, daring him not to answer. With a light sigh, Mycroft looked him in the eye.

"I believe that my brother has visited you this morning, Gregory. I was hoping to get more information as to how he had affected you, what he had said to you, so on and so forth." His look of sharp curiosity did not turn out nearly as sharp as it was meant to be and Greg snorted.

"Actually, the entire thing would be quite entertaining under other circumstances. He came in to complain about Dimmock then turned his complaint speech into a you-hurt-my-demon-brother-I-drag-you-into-the-dept hs-of-Hell speech." Greg raised a sardonic eyebrow at the suited figure in front of him. Mycroft winced visibly, his hand tightening on his umbrella.

"Ah, yes, my brother does tend to be so very dramatic. I apologize for any... inferences he has made about our relationship as of yet." He gave an apologetic nod in Greg's direction, eyes cast on the far wall with a pained look about them.

"Ah, well, I did think it a bit odd. What was all that about, anyway? And, come to think of it, who is he to drag me into Hell anyway? You're Satan so who in Hell is he?" Greg set a pair of warily curious eyes on Mycroft, quickly changing from the awkward subject.

Mycroft pulled an exasperated face, looking first to Lestrade then to the window, moving back to Lestrade after a moment.

"First I must provide you with some background knowledge. There is no longer any paternal lineage for Satans, not since the last king died without any heirs. The policy might change back if I have offspring, though I have always thought the practice to be a bit barbaric. No, I was chosen when the last Satan was destroyed. As Sherlock is the brother of a king, he is a part of the royal house. He is, technically, I suppose, a prince. The Virgin Prince of Hell, ironic, is it not?" Mycroft provided a self-deprecating smirk in Lestrade's direction. Lestrade shook his head in disbelief and a bit of amusement, perhaps even a hint of fear. It did seem, after all, that Sherlock's threats were not unfounded.

"What's the kid doing here, then? I mean, he's got all of Hell to keep him interested, he's a prince for God's sakes! Why isn't he ordering around the damned or something?" Greg looked Mycroft in the eyes, amused but more than a bit serious.

"Ah, my brother the anomaly. He never did like Hell. I suspect he found it too tedious in its chaos, that controlled chaos is much more interesting. After a while even chaos is predictable, after all. And then, of course there is the heat. The heat drives one insane, and Sherlock was never quite patient to begin with. He used to spend hours conducting cooling experiments until he was permitted access to the middle realm, Earth." Mycroft cast an amused smile, his eyes gaining a far-away look before once again focusing on the DI in front of him.

Lestrade shifted on the cot, smoothing the thin sheets beneath his hands. Mycroft held his gaze with a determined yet cautious stare. The man was striking, Greg decided. Striking in the way of a beaked falcon, with the sleek self-assurance of a politician and the hard, schooled features of a peregrine. He truly looked like a king. Like he could sit tall on a throne with a mantle on his shoulders and a crown atop his receding hairline, or sit behind an imposing hardwood desk to discuss foreign policy. He was handsome in the most powerful manner, a statue of import.

For a few moments the Satan looked as if he was going to say something, but then his lips pursed and he again shut his mouth, eyes flicking to Greg's shoulder then back to his face.

"Look, I know you didn't simply come here to spy on your brother. What is it?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes into his no-nonsense look, usually used on uncooperative rookies, and cast it onto Mycroft. The daemon raised an eyebrow, but his eyes flicked to Lestrade's injury once more and he sighed silently.

"I had, in fact, come to offer the mark of our mutual agreement." His titanium eyes focused on the deep brown of Gregory's irises. His tone was firm and unshaking, but not quite harsh. Greg sank into the cot, eyes flicking away to the wall and back again.

"It's not as if I have much of a choice, do I?" The only response was a raised eyebrow.

With a sigh, Greg nodded and looked at the Satan.

"Yeah, find, I'll take your mark. Now what?" He raised an eyebrow in question at the devil. Mycroft simply stepped closer, reaching out a hand and resting it atop Lestrade's injury.

Greg gasped, eyes blowing wide when the Satan's hand hit him. Except it was no longer a hand, but felt like an icy appendage cold enough to cause frostbite at a touch. It was shocking and near-painful, so cold that it stung with a fire unknown to the human before that moment. Scratch that, it was painful, a sensory overload, yet Greg just couldn't hate it or wish it would end or even simply... dislike it. It was like a wonderful, sweet pain, contact with something so beautiful that the mental and emotional overload caused pain. But the experience, the contact with that wonderful consciousness, was so sweet and beautiful and utterly, totally right that it was worth it, the pain was worth it, and he felt whole for a split second.

Then, it was over. Mycroft drew back, eyes widened slightly in shock, but Greg didn't notice. All he could think was nothing, a sense of overwhelming wholeness that was left as a residue. Yet he felt this deep yearning and all he could feel was want for more contact. His vision swam and he didn't notice Mycroft dash out of the room in a barely-controlled sprint to the lobby. All he felt was bliss and yearning and home.

It took Greg an entire hour to get back to his senses and realize that his shoulder no longer pained him. He tugged down the hospital gown and pulled back the bandages, revealing his wound. Or, at the very least, what used to be his wound. The flesh was still swollen and pinkish, all except a large elegant hand print over the wound, of which all that was left was a puckered pinkish scar. The flesh surrounding the print was pink and swollen, but there above the bullet's scar was a hand print, stark against the reddish shoulder. The print was cool and completely healed, owning a shimmery quality, like a coating of new ice.