A/N: tw: suicide. Much darker than my previous fics but I'm really interested to know what you guys think. A great big thank you as well to my darling beta, scarletcourt! Enjoy!

"Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light."
John Milton, Paradise Lost
-

"Fuck."

His head is spinning, his throat dry and as he clutches his hair, he feels his body shake. He screams, punching into the mattress. Beads of sweat trickle onto his shirt, and quickly he sits up and pulls out the small sachet from his shirt pocket, emptying the contents on his bedside drawer. He takes a piece of paper from under his lamp and attempts to roll it. With trembling hands, he brings the roll to the powder and blocks his other nostril as he snorts hard on the substance. When he's done, he reaches into his drawer and takes out a nasal spray bottle and shoves it into his nose, sprays, grateful that he filled it with water.

When he crawls back into bed, his nose dripping and his eyes burning, he finds himself craving sleep, waiting for the violins to replace the growling voice in his head.

It's been a while since she was human.

But now that she is - at least, mostly – she takes in all the senses that her body had long forgotten. She closes her eyes and feels the sunlight prick her skin, sparks of electricity coursing through her. The sounds of London surround her – truck horns, bird squawking, phones ringing but her favourite sound is that of children laughing. When she opens her eyes, she finds them everywhere in the playground, running around with grins on their faces and dirt on their clothes.

Her feet dig into the woodchips, and slowly, she begins to gain momentum while she holds onto the metal chains of the swing set. She moves her body forward, then backwards, repeating the process until the tips of her toes no longer reach the ground and she is in the air.

She keeps her eyes open, watching while London moves before her. She feels her hair dancing in the breeze and she decides to take a risk, spreading her arms out as though she were a bird. When the swing slows down and she finds herself back on the ground, she sighs. She wonders when she'll get her wings. She's been a Guide for nearly a hundred years now, guiding humans into accepting death. It's been a blessing, she admits, to be given the chance to help people even after her death and she shakes her head, wondering why she suddenly feels selfish.

When she leaves the playground, the sun has set and while she strolls through the streets, listening, she thinks back to the London that she remembers. For years now, she had purposely avoided coming to England. Whenever they needed her to do an assignment, she choose far off places – Russia, Brazil, Thailand, anywhere far from home.

Only this time, things were different.

It had been an assignment in Ireland. Yes, Ireland, the closest to England she had been but she had taken it, willing to help an elderly man accept death. When he had passed on, she stayed in Dublin, still emotional even after all these years, and it was one morning when she sat inside St Therese's Church that she heard the woman in the front pew praying.

"Help him," the woman mumbled. "Good Lord, I don't know what to do. He's my boy, my Tommy, and he needs help. Kieran tells me that he's in a dark place and I need to know that you're looking out for him when I can't."

The plea was genuine, so filled with desperation that she couldn't help but follow the woman back to her home. Knowing that the Irish woman couldn't see her, she stepped inside the quaint apartment and felt the warmth fill her like sunlight on a spring day.

On the bookshelf were photographs and as her eyes flickered over them, it was the image of a young boy that stuck out to her. He sat on a stool, a book in his hand and he scrunched his face at the camera, his blue eyes barely visible. Instantly, she knew he was Tom and it saddened her that the young boy in the picture was out there, lost and broken.

Every fibre in her being was telling her that she shouldn't be there. After all, it was against the rules for her to interfere with the lives of humans unless she was assigned to them. People had their lives written in the stars and heaven would only intervene, if Fate told them to.

Fate. Despite how many times, Fate had been right, there were also various instances when the woman had been wrong.

When she touched the frame of the photograph, she remembered her first assignment. Fate had sent her to a middle-aged woman in China. Only what she hadn't foreseen was that the woman would kill herself, her soul attacked by the darkness.

"Why did you send me to her if that was going to happen?" she asked Fate while they stood at the highest peak of China's great wall, surveying the gentle land before them.

"Despite what I am, humans still have free will. I can only foresee their final destinies, I don't determine them," Fate said, her white hair blinding as the morning fog began to settle in. "A person can choose how they live but when their time comes, it's their actions and their choice that will determine how they leave this earth."

"And so what I am supposed to do?"

"You guide them to the light."

"But that woman. I tried too, but she still …" she paused, unable to finish the sentence when she remembered the pool of blood circling the woman's head.

"There will always be darkness out there. We can't change that because it's part of the grand design but what we can do is to help those who are trapped in that darkness to find the light. There will be times when we will lose people like what happened today, but so long as we keep doing our duty, then there is always hope."

While her fingers lingered on the image of the young boy, it was then and there that she realized that her mind was made up. She knew what she had to do and even if she had to resort to her human form, she would find him and hell hath no fury like an angel on a mission.

She finds the apartment block just off the centre of London and while she climbs up the stairs, she can feel her senses tingle. There's nothing friendly about the building since the walls are tattered and the stairs creak under her.

When she walks through the hallways, the doors scratched and the wallpaper peeling off, it's the last door that has her feel queasy. She can sense him already. Sense the darkness surrounding him. She knocks on the door but when there's no reply, she closes her eyes and centers herself, tapping into the angel in her so that she can teleport into the apartment.

When she opens her eyes, she's not surprised. No, she's saddened. The living room is a mess with clothes strewn on the floor and pizza boxes on the table. A foul stench surrounds the room and as she kicks aside an empty beer can, she hears a whimper.

She follows the sound into the bedroom and when she enters, she lets out a gasp and heads straight to the bed. The man – Tom – lies still, his breathing slow. His lips are blue and as she tries to shake him, she can feel him move slowly under her.

When she turns him so that he's lying on his back, she presses her ear to his heart and she can hear it beating soft, like the feet of a cherub dancing on a cloud. She presses her hand over his chest, and she feels a jolt and the room seems to grow colder. The lights crackle overhead and just as she's about to raise her hand, his own hand grabs her wrist, his fingers icy and stiff. She jumps and tries to pull her hand away, but try as she might, his grip is strong and when she looks up at him, she realises why.

"He's not yours, angel," his mouth says, but she knows the cruel voice doesn't belong to him. His lips curl like licorice and as he opens his eyes, all she sees are black orbs. "He belongs to me."

"You've been corrupting him," she says, angry with herself that she hadn't noticed the demon's presence the second she had entered the room.

Tom – or rather, the demon – sits up, still holding onto her. "I prefer the term influencing."

"This is wrong," she says. "He can change. I can sense it in him."

The demon snarls. "You're pathetic, you angels. Thinking that you can save everyone."

"Get out of him," she says forcefully. "Or so help me."

"I could kill him right now." The demon licks his lips. "I could reach in and crush his heart and how would you feel, angel, to know he died in your hands?"

She gulps. "You can't kill him. You kill him and he goes straight up to heaven."

He growls, "I'll tell you what's more fun." He brings his face close to hers, and into her ear, he whispers, "The death of an angel." With his free hand, he trails his fingers down the side of her cheek until he reaches the crevice of her neck. "Have you ever wondered what hell is like?"

She glowers at him. "I don't need to know. I died in it."

"Oh," the demon says coolly, "a war angel." He raises his eyebrows. "We always get so many new friends from war. We probably have some of yours down there, men who died in battle for their country. Pathetic."

"I'm done with your games. You leave him now," she says.

"Why should I give him to you? You don't know him. I listened to him for months. 'Kill me. God, just kill me'," the demon mimics in an Irish accent. "And now, I'm helping him. This is all he's wanted. Why are you taking that away from him?

"Stop it. Just stop it." She shakes her head and says sadly, "He's about to die. I can feel it. You can feel it too. I know you can but you can't be inside him when he dies. You know the rules."

The demon lets go of her hand, realising what she's saying. "You think you can win?"

She says nothing. God, she's in trouble. "He has a minute," she says.

With a smirk, the demon lies back, and while he looks at her, he says smugly, "Game on."

She lowers her face while the demon blows out from Tom's body, a black swirl of smoke rolling in the air. Instantly, she shakes Tom since she can hear the demon's chants.

"Oriens splendor lucis aeternae. Et Lucifer justitae: veni. Et illumine sedentes in tenebris. Et umbra mortis."

"Don't listen to him," she cries out. "Listen to me. Listen to my voice, Tom. Your mother is in Ireland and she loves you. She wants you to live, Tom. She wants to see her son again."

"Your mother never cared for you. Why isn't she here if she did? This is what you deserve. It's time to die, Tom. Time to die."

"No!" she says, "No, you can do this, Tom. I know you can. I've seen death and this isn't your time."

"And his last breath shall be of darkness, as of darkness he becomes. "

She presses her hand to his cheek and says softly, "There is still light in you," but when she does, she can feel his body betray her words and she knows that she's lost him.

"I suppose you're happy," she murmurs, shaking her head. She doesn't let go of his hand but she can feel the demon disappear from the room, the darkness gone.

Her first thoughts are of Maggie Branson back in Ireland, still praying for him. She thinks that if she had found Maggie earlier, she may have been able to save her son, but she can only blame herself for having wondered around London rather than find him first. Tears she didn't know she was holding in, start to slide down her cheeks and when she lets go of his hand, ready to disappear, his body jerks. He coughs violently and opens his eyes, crystal blue staring straight at her.

She freezes. This has never happened to her before and just as she's about to speak, his eyes close. She holds her hand in front of his mouth and she can feel his faint breath tickle her palm.

"Thank you," she says softly, grateful to whomever is watching. "Thank you so much."

Even though, she's always grateful about the lives she saves, there's something about him that makes her feel that this was truly a miracle. She's not quite sure what it is, but all she knows is that this feels rights. For years, she had celebrated her achievements as an angel of the Lord, bound by duty and faith, but while she sat at his bedside through the night, she knew she was watching over him as simply Sybil Crawley.

He wakes up with a jolt, gasping for breath. There's a throbbing ache in his head, but as he covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes begin to water and he realizes that he's alive.

And something in him is grateful for that.

He runs to the bathroom and throws up the vile into the sink, trying to avoid looking at himself in the mirror, since he knows that he must look like death. He tries to think back to what happened last night but while he does, he becomes aware that the only voice in his head is his own, and his thoughts are clear as the water running over his fingers.

When he returns to his bed, he's about to crawl back in but he stops himself as he notices a photograph on his pillow. That wasn't there before. No, it was most certainly not as he knows perfectly where it should be. He picks it up and lets out a sob, shaking his head as he sits on his bed and rests his body against the wall.

Picking up his phone, he begins to dial and as he listens to the dial tone, he closes his eyes and a cloudy image comes to his mind, a pair of eyes staring at him, blue eyes, and a voice telling him to find the light. He shakes his head, out of his reverie. It was a dream, he tells himself. Just a dream, but God knows, how he can still clearly see those eyes, shining like stars on a midsummer night.

His palms begin to sweat and he holds his breath as he hears the phone connect.

"Hello, Maggie here."

His voice falters as he tries to speak but no words come out.

She repeats, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

He can tell that she's about to hang up and so with all his might, he whimpers, "Ma…it's me. It's Tommy."