Set during "The Reichembach Fall" and just after "The Man Who Would Be King."

"You told me once… that you weren't a hero," the small man began painfully, directly addressing the reflective marble headstone. "Um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but lemme tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human… human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's so. There." He spat out the last word, and almost walked away. But, there was one more thing he needed to say, and he turned, walking up to touch the rough edge of the stone slab as if it were its owner's shoulder, as if to make sure that he heard and understood. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." Once again, he almost walked away, turning and walking to the edge of the reddish patch of disturbed soil before spinning around to nearly shout at the gleaming marble, as if it were his best friend sitting in his favorite chair in their flat. "Now please, there's just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle for me, Sherlock. Don't… be…" John Watson was almost physically unable to squeak out the last word, feeling, in a way, that if it were said, it would be true, that his friend would truly be "…dead. Would you… do that? Just, for me? Just stop it. Stop this." That was the last straw for the already broken doctor, and he closed his eyes, letting his head droop and the tears begin to well up and fall. The graveyard was silent as, well, a tomb; Mrs. Hudson had taken her cab back to her flat at 221A Baker Street, leaving John completely alone in the expansive stretch of weathered grave-markers. After a moment, he sniffled, composing himself. He straightened so he could take one last glance at the name carved in the mirror-like marble of Sherlock Holmes' headstone. To his very great surprise, a man sat atop the memorial. A glare of extreme disapproval had him back on his feet, shrugging in sarcastic apology.

"Wait a minute… You weren't there just a second ago… how did you… what are you even doing here?!" John demanded angrily, already hating the man. When he stood, his unbuttoned knee-length black coat billowed out behind him, serving as an excruciating reminder of a certain absent detective.

"Relax, John," the strange visitor murmured in his gravelly British drawl. "I am here to help."

"I don't want your help! Who are you anyway, one of Mycroft's people?!" the army doctor spat.

"What? Who's Mycroft?! No, John Watson," chucked the man all in black. "The name's Crowley. I heard you ask for a miracle, and I am here to grant you one, if you like."

"Sher- Sherlock's d-"John stammered, unable to get the words out.

"Yes, well, I can fix that."

"I'm sorry. You're completely mad!"

"Oh, come now Doctor Watson! It's very simple. I snap my fingers, you get little Sherley back for ten whole years!"

"Wait…. what happens after ten years?"

"Well, then your soul is mine to cast into the pits of hell, but hey, ten whole years with Sherlock Holmes! Isn't it worth it, Johnnyboy?"

"Well… I…" As John fumbled for an answer, there was a sound like the flapping of enormous bird's wings, and a gust of wind that sent the newly fallen snow swirling around the feet of the man, the demon, and the newly arrived angel.

"Crowley," boomed a seething voice from inside a glowing flurry of stirred-up snow. "I said get out of my sight." Within the blink of an eye, the demon was gone, leaving only footprints. As the bright light faded and the snowflakes drifted back to the ground, into view came what looked like a dark-haired man in a navy blue suit and beige trenchcoat.

"Now, who the hell are you?!" the overwhelmed doctor demanded.

"I am Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"Okay… Castiel, what the hell are you doing here?!"

"Calm down, John. I thought you might like a little help with Crowley… and I wanted to offer some advice, in exchange for your advice. You took that very well, by the way. Most people call me crazy at least once before believing me."

"Well, most people haven't just watched their best friend... you know. Thanks with the… Crowley guy, by the way. Why do you want my advice, though?"

"John Watson, you are very close to Sherlock Holmes?" the angel began abruptly. John didn't have the heart to correct his tense. Sherlock was dead.

"Yes, I a- was." he managed. The two began to stroll through the crooked lanes of gray tombstones, coming to sit on a relatively dry wood-and-iron bench about five meters from a weather-beaten mausoleum.

"John… I want you to understand that I am here because no one else will talk to me. You seem to have a predicament of a generally similar nature, so I hoped you could help."

"Well, I'll do my best… I mean, how often does a person get to talk to an actual angel?"

"Thank you, John." Castiel was silent for a long minute. "Sherlock… how did you feel about him?" The human took his time before answering. He hadn't planned to tell anyone… but an actual angel? He supposed that was okay.

"I… well, I loved him. I don't care what you're gonna say, that Gd hates-"

"John, that isn't even remotely true. Gd has no opinion on homosexuals other than wishing you humans would stop terrorizing each other over them."

"Oh... good. Okay. So…. yeah. I loved him. The stupid man never remotely noticed and definitely didn't care the same, but I was still absolutely in love with him."

"Good."

"Really?"

"It was essential to my plan that you cared so for him."

"Why?"

"Because I think I may have found myself in a minutely similar situation… and John, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do."

"Well, you've helped me out a good deal already, so I'll try to help the best I can, but I'm warning you, I'm no expert."

"Thank you, John." Castiel offered hesitantly.

"Welcome. How can I help?"

Cas began slowly, nervously. "I… there's a friend… well, slightly more than a friend of mine, Dean. I… I think I'm… in love with him."

"Good for you, Castiel! What's the problem with that?" John asked kindly.

"Well, recently I betrayed him rather badly. There is a civil war being fought in Heaven over whether I or the archangel Raphael should take charge in our father's absence."

"Gd's not in Heaven?"

"No, no one knows where he is. He has been gone for some time, so someone needed to take charge. I just want to win because Raphael wants the apocalypse."

"Okay, but how does this concern… Dean?"

"I thought that I could win if I had the help of that demon, Crowley. He is the King of Hell, and he has great power at his disposal. My angels plus his demons could have won the war by now. But… Crowley is a double-crossing cheat. Dean and his brother Sam disagree with Crowley, and they were suspicious of my dealings with him from the start. See, they didn't know for sure, but Sam and their friend Bobby were convinced that I was. Dean stood up for me the whole time. He begged me to come tell them that it wasn't true, but in the end they trapped me, and… Dean begged me to tell them that I wasn't working with Crowley, but… I couldn't. Now I think he hates me, and… I still love him. All I want is to redeem myself, but I don't know how."

"Wow… Castiel, you really have got yourself a problem. Why would you work with that Crowley anyway? It sounds like you hate him!"

"I do. I despise him. But, if it's the only way to win the war…"

"No, Castiel," John insisted firmly. Cas turned to look at him with one eyebrow raised. "I fought in Afghanistan. Worse, Sher… Sherlock and I got caught in this rivalry with an awful, awful man that ended up getting him killed. I know how war works. Everyone says 'oh, it'll be okay if we just win the war,' but it won't. Everyone who died will still be dead. If you're in charge during a war, your goal should be to end it as soon as possible while saving as many lives as possible. No one else has to die, Castiel! The best way to redeem yourself with Dean is to end the war and right whatever small wrongs you can. Take it slow, do the small things first. When it's all over, if you've earned it, Dean will forgive you." Cas just sat, staring blankly at the snow for a moment.

"Thank you, John," he murmured, turning to look at the army doctor. "I cannot possibly repay you for helping me like this. I know it's not the best of times, and I'm sorry."

"It's okay," John laughed weakly. "I loved him, but he was a complete bastard." Castiel frowned, giving a quick glance over his shoulder that John didn't see.

"Don't say that. I'm sure he had his reasons. John," the angel put a hand on the human's shoulder. "Sherlock… was a very clever man. He knew what he was doing. In this case, I'd advise you to think of what you told me, in a way. You told me to redeem myself slowly. Give Sherlock a chance. Don't be angry with him." A rather confused (but now hopeful) John agreed, wishing the strange angel luck and thanking him for everything, telling him that if ever he wanted to talk again, they could. Castiel stood, starting to walk away, but stopped, turning back to his newfound confidante.

"Thank you so much for everything, John Watson." John nodded, giving the best attempt at a smile he could manage under current conditions. He could have sworn that the angel almost smiled as well, but when he blinked, he was gone.

What John Watson didn't know for the next three years was that as he stood and left the graveyard, a brokenhearted Sherlock Holmes hid in the trees surrounding the old mausoleum and watched him leave through twin waterfalls of tears flowing freely over his sculpted cheekbones.

Five years after Moriarty, the Fall, and the day in the graveyard, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat in their favorite spot at Angelo's. As per usual, Sherlock wouldn't eat on a case and John was trying to make him (to no avail.) This time, however, they did it with a smile. Also, neither corrected Angelo when he referred to John as Sherlock's date, and when the two stood and went to leave the restaurant, they did so hand-in-hand. When they were almost to the door, though, John pulled Sherlock a bit off course so that he could touch the trench-coated shoulder of a dark-haired man sitting at a nearby table. The man looked up, recognizing him immediately.

"John Watson," he acknowledged him, smiling slightly as he noted the army doctor's hand entwined with the tall detective's.

"Thank you, Castiel," John murmured gratefully, turning and leaving with his still-sociopathic fiancé. The angel's own squeezed his hand from where he held it on the table.

"What was that, Cas?" Dean asked curiously, running his thumb over the golden ring identical to his own.

"That," Cas sighed, "was John Watson, the best advisor I ever met."