-No. You're boring. An angel.
-That may be, but don't think for a second that I am like the rest of them. You want me to go with -you now, I shall. Do whatever you like with me. But you will leave them alone.
-For now. We'll see how….interesting you stay.
-Let me…let me say goodbye. I'll go with you.
-Hurry then.
-John. John, this….this is my…note. That's what people do, is it not? Leave a note... It's…true. I'm a fraud. A…a fake. Everything the papers said is true… I…invented Jim Moriarty. I…Goodbye, John.

The warehouse was decrepit. Sherlock hadn't even known it existed. On the outskirts of the city, near the Thames, the abandoned building was well removed from everything. "And don't think screaming will help you. I've warded the place. Even your true voice won't alert the humans, should any happen by." He shoved Sherlock into the warehouse. There was a twinge inside him, a dull thumping and a pain in his chest. Moriarty was grinning at him. He said a few words, too low and fast for Sherlock to hear them, and suddenly, the pain was intense. He fell to his knees, gasping. It hurt. Sherlock was a bit too stunned to even really feel the pain at first. "Isn't that something?" gloated Moriarty. "I've learned things. Very interesting things, when I fell. I've just muted your grace," he laughed. "You will feel everything by your human vessel. What I do to it," he backhanded Sherlock across the face, snapping his head to one side and leaving a red mark, "you will feel. I've tied you in and trapped you." He grinned. "But your grace isn't gone. No. Because then, I wouldn't be able to do this" and with a flick of his hand and a few new words….words Sherlock didn't understand, there was a terrible ripping and tearing, and he screamed as his wings were made to manifest. He hadn't even known that was possible. Apparently it was. He writhed on the floor, tearing at his back. His shirt was torn where the wings had been forced through it, hanging off his back in shreds. He managed to push himself to his knees, when he noticed a large black blur heading for him. Then everything went dark.

When he woke he was in a large cage, wrists shackled, the chain stretching to the wall. His feet were bare and his shirt was gone. Moriarty stood grinning at the door. "I've taken your phone," he said. "And I've warded the place carefully, as I mentioned before. So your prayers won't work. I said I was going to ruin you. And I aim to do just that." He tapped the crowbar against his hand. "The nice part about simply muting your grace and not getting rid of it entirely or….ripping it out, is that I won't kill you by accident." He grinned. "I have a lot of toys Sherlock. A lot of helpers. This is going to be fun.
Sherlock snapped his wings proudly behind him, still visible. His feet were beginning to cramp, which confused him. That was new. Feeling cold. It was near winter, and the windows were all open or broken. He didn't take his eyes away from Moriarty. The Fallen angel grinned at him and threw the crowbar like a javelin. Sherlock managed to duck it, but that meant that he missed the knives thrown just after he ducked, thrown at an inhuman speed that Sherlock was currently incapable of. The end result was a knife plunged hilt deep into each wing, pinning him to the wall, mostly crouched on the floor. He screamed. The blades were some sort of angel blade though they burned like nothing he had ever felt. "Angel blades, tempered in hellfire," said Moriarty, as though reading his mind. "They'll poison you quick. Bet you don't like them." Sherlock managed to stand, tried to lunge for Moriarty, but the blades stopped him. They were far enough apart from each other that he couldn't even pull them out of the wall. He didn't try to lunge again, though he stood, watching the Fallen angel through furious eyes. "Not uncomfortable, are we Sherlock?" he sneered. "We're just getting started."