Good and Evil are not absolute concepts. They are two ways of looking at the same thing.

For instance. Making money is good. Making it by selling your family's silverware is bad. Making it by selling somebody else's silverware is good business practice. Unless you are the person whose silverware has just been stolen.

From the perspective of our heroes- or one of them, at any rate [1] –what is about to happen is bad.

To the person who is making it happen, it is very good indeed. [2]

[1] The other one wouldn't really care either way. Which quite probably means he isn't a hero. Although, as he says, there really isn't any such thing.

[2] Actually, they would be quite offended to think of it as good. To them, it is very, very wickedly bad. Which is a good thing. Except that it isn't. [3]

[3] This is why you should never attempt to reason with evildoers.

The mansion house stood tall in the deep, black, night, a dark shadow against the dark sky. Works of Evil were being prepared against it in the dark, soulless storm.

It wasn't actually a soulless storm. It wasn't even storming at all. In fact, it wasn't really a very good night for Works of Evil. It was drizzling. But works of evil were damn well going to happen, thought the Evildoer, so the weather could do what it liked.

The drizzle became full on torrential downpour.

The Evildoer, who always capitalized Evil even in their head [1], gave up on the weather and began to Work Evilly.

[1] A sure sign of an unhinged, or at least slightly loose, mind.

The next day, the owner of the mansion was dismayed and horrified to find that the hideously expensive (and hideously hideous) statue he'd bought to annoy the neighbours and convince the Press that he Knew About Art was missing. His security system insisted it was still there. The police found no evidence of any kind of break in. It was just… vanished. Almost like magic. Except that, of course, there was no such thing.

Two beings several hundred miles away would have disagreed. They were, after all, in a position of some knowledge on the subject, being respectively a demon (albeit a rather refined one, who hardly ever ate souls and didn't hold much with brimstone) and an Angel (if a rather kindly angel, who hardly ever smote people). Not the most likely of flatmates, true, but then neither were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, as the mundane world knew Crowley and Aziraphale.

After the Apocalypse hadn't happened, Crowley and Aziraphale had gone their separate ways for a while. Crowley had holed up in his London flat, watching with trepidation for retaliation from Below regarding his, well, saving the world. [1] He was so busy keeping himself alive, he had rather drifted out of touch with Aziraphale, and after he began his career as Sherlock Holmes he found himself rather too busy to catch up.

Establishing himself as a Consulting Detective was, Crowley considered, an extreme stroke of demonic genius. [2] He was busily catching those of humanity displaying traits prized by Hell's short-term thinkers, preventing them from killing people before he could tarnish their souls, and at the same time was spreading a gentle soul-tainting wave of hatred and irritation amongst the entire Metropolitan Police Force.

[1] Not normally a cause for complaint, but as far as Demonic Actions go it was rather… well, Angelic.

[2] Although sadly, he knew that Down Below wouldn't approve. They were still at the mass-destruction phase.

He was thus quite surprised to find himself introduced to John Watson, MD, who he hadn't seen since the end of the universe.

Aziraphale had explained, over tea [1], that he had gone out to Afghanistan as a means of evading possible Divine Wrath for his part in the universe not ending, as well as to spread Hope. Divine healings, that kind of thing. He'd reluctantly left his shop in the reassuringly capable hands of Anathema Device, who hadn't really been doing anything anyway, having never had much of a career plan beyond the planned Apocalypse, and left to become a Doctor.

Eventually, of course, people began to get suspicious. Some of his healings were just a little too advanced for human medicine and anyway, a rather nasty demon [2] had hit him in the leg with a spell which damaged his spirit, although not his vessel, leaving him with a limp which had no apparent physical cause.

[1] The angel had only become more British over the last 30 years.

[2] Not that there was really any other kind. Crowley was a rare exception, not that he would have admitted it. He was too… civilized to be really nasty.

Invalided home, he had found young Anathema rather reluctant to give up his shop. In his thirty-year absence, she had turned his collection of antique books into an actual shop. Not that she'd dared sell any of his collection. Anathema was anything but stupid, and she knew better than to invoke the wrath of an Angel of the Lord, even a rather mild one. But nonetheless, he couldn't quite stomach the concept of owning an actual, commercialized, business and so was looking for temporary lodgings until he could find a new place to begin his collection again.

At the time, he had felt lodging with Crowley was an excellent idea. He would be able to search for a more permanent home, catch up with his old friend, and, should it prove necessary, be able to prevent Crowley from anything too demonic.

A few months later, he would change his mind.

Crowley stood in the untidy living room, surveying his visitor blankly.

|you shall cease to operate|, it hissed mentally.

'Really now. Who sent you?'

|i have no master|

'I haven't time for this,' Crowley snapped. 'Who sent you?'

|why are you not cowering| Crowley sensed the creature's puzzlement.

'We'll do a deal.' Crowley smirked. 'I'm rather known for those. You tell me who sent you, and I'll answer your question.'

The thing considered. |they said you were human|

'They were wrong. Who are they?'

|the ones who you seek to destroy|

'Narrowing it down to most of London's criminal populace.'

|the servants of the great darkness|

Crowley tapped his chin. 'Hold on a moment… the ones with the plot to destroy the government? Or the ones trying to summon a Kraken to eliminate the Navy?'

|they will overthrow this puny mortal kingdom|

'Ah, so the ones trying to overthrow the government.' Crowley stretched. 'Amazing how many Servants of the Great Darkness there are in London.'

The thing wavered uncertainly.

|what are you|

Crowley smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. 'Sherlock Holmes, to you.'

|what|

Crowley blinked slowly. When his eyes opened, his usual icey blue contacts had been vaporized. [1] Instead, his irises were a bright, golden yellow, with slit pupils which belonged to something that slithered. Crowley allowed the creature a moment to process it.

'I'm ssssure you can work it out for yourssself,' he added for good measure.

The being hovered for a moment.

'Didn't you have a messsssssage for me?' Crowley prompted. It would. They always did.

|i was given something for you|

'Well?'

|a warning|

'Hand it over.'

The warning was produced.

'On second thoughts, just… ah… put it down. Actually. Put it in the fridge. I'll work out what to do with it later.'

[1] It was a neat trick, but he didn't use it much. Contacts were more convenient than sunglasses, but also more difficult to remove for dramatic effect. He'd have to buy a new pair.

Aziraphale came home that afternoon, carrying the grocery bags. He ignored the demon with his feet on the sofa in the living room, and took the food through to the kitchen.

'Crowley.'

The demon opened one now-blue eye.

'Why is there a severed head in the fridge?'

The eye closed. 'Not guilty.'

'Crowley.'

'Seriously, not guilty.' The demon sat up. 'I find your lack of faith in me disturbing.'

'It would be more disturbing if I, an angel, did have faith in a demon.'

Crowley shrugged. 'It was a warning.'

'A warning?' The angel seemed shocked. 'Who from?'

'The last lot of Servants of Darkness.'

'Again?'

'It's a popular name for Satanists.'

'They call this a warning?'

'I suppose it's a bit late for whoever they caught. But for a human detective, it would be a pretty effective deterrent.' Crowley accepted the mug Aziraphale handed him.

'We have to catch them.' The angel's blue eyes were earnest.

'Why? They'll never amount to anything much.'

'They killed somebody!'

Crowley took a sip of the tea, then spat it out. 'What is this, angel?'

'Tea.'

'No it isn't.'

'It should be.'

'You didn't use the teapot, did you?'

'It's conventional.'

'That's for making potions with. If I wasn't immortal, I'd be dead.'

'You should clean up.' Aziraphale put his mug, untasted, on the table gingerly.

'Busy.' Crowley sniffed at the tea in his mug.

'Busy with what? You just refused to track down a killer!'

'I don't need to bother. The Yard will manage it.'

'I thought your job was to help them.'

Crowley laughed.

'I know you pretend to be trying to destroy humanity, Crowley, but you aren't fooling me.'

'I'm a demon. I don't help humans.'

'No?' Aziraphale picked up the condemned mugs and carried them through to the kitchen. 'What are you doing posing as Sherlock Holmes, then?'

'Spreading hatred and despair throughout the police force. What did you think?'

'You certainly appear to be helping catch criminals.'

Crowley waved a hand. 'A by-product. In any case, I hardly wish innocent humans to die.'

Aziraphale's face appeared around the door, mouth open to respond.

'-before I can corrupt them,' Crowley hastily added.

Aziraphale gave him the kind of look which spoke volumes. Volumes of rare and antique books, knowing the angel.

'Are you going to hang around long?' Crowley enquired.

'Until I find a better place to stay.' Aziraphale gave him a severe look. 'Although, from what I've seen, you could benefit from me being around permanently.'

'I really don't think that's a good idea, angel,' Crowley began. A knock sounded on the door, interrupting him. Crowley's expression turned to one of mild consternation. 'Quick, get into the kitchen.'

'Why?'

'I haven't introduced you to my landlady yet.'

'You have a landlady?'

'Shut up.'

Aziraphale darted into the kitchen, still looking inquisitively at his friend.

'Come in, Mrs Hudson,' Crowley called genially.

'Hullo, dear,' Mrs Hudson breezed as she waltzed in, carrying a tray. 'The door wasn't locked, you know.'

'What a pity,' said Crowley insincerely. He didn't really feel locks were necessary for a flat in which resided a demon of the darkest pits of Hell (even if he hadn't been back there in ages) and, temporarily, an angel of the Lord.

'I just came to bring up some tea,' Mrs Hudson said kindly. She put down the tray on the table, carelessly dislodging a piece of parchment with a sigil inscribed on it. Crowley lunged to catch the scroll before it hit the ground and triggered the incendiary charm he'd been sent by a… acquaintance. Of the violent sort. 'Of course, I wouldn't normally, dear, I am your landlady not your housekeeper, but I felt that your guest might appreciate some tea.'

Aziraphale poked his head around the kitchen door. 'Very kind.'

'Oh, you're welcome deary,' Mrs Hudson smiled warmly as Crowley facepalmed. 'I know Sherlock here can be a little… careless with food and so on. Oh, no.' She spotted the mugs Aziraphale had put on the side in the kitchen. 'I see you already found out about the teapot. Sherlock could really use somebody else about the place, couldn't you?'

Crowley, his face buried in his hands, nodded slightly.

'What's your name, young man?'

'Er… John. John Watson.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Mr Watson.'

'It's Doctor, actually,' Aziraphale mentioned as he came into the room and began to pour the tea. 'How did you, ah…'

'I saw your coat hanging on the wall,' Mrs Hudson dimpled. 'Sherlock here rather rubs off on one.'

Crowley mumbled something as he moved his head from side to side, still buried in his hands.

'Will you be staying, dear?' Mrs Hudson cheerfully enquired, arranging a plate of biscuits on top of a Book Of Ancient Darkness.

'If Mr… Holmes' contract doesn't allow-' Aziraphale began.

'Oh, no, dear, it's perfectly fine. He has a second bedroom anyway. If you'll be needing it.'

Crowley choked on the tea he'd been sipping. Aziraphale's eyes widened. 'Yes, I think I'll take the second bedroom. Thank you.'

Mrs Hudson smiled indulgently and Crowley nearly choked again. Nevermind immortality, the shock was enough to make him want to die, or at least sink back to Hell.

'I'll only be staying for a while, until I can find another place,' Aziraphale said in a tone of almost-discomfort.

Mrs Hudson's smile widened. 'You're welcome to stay as long as you like, my dear. It's lovely to see Sherlock finding friends.'

'Of course,' Crowley muttered.

His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. 'Excuse me a minute.' He went into the kitchen and answered it.

'Holmes.'

The voice sounding through the speakers was nothing more or less than human. Lestrade was his principle contact at the Yard and Crowley felt some satisfaction at knowing he had suffused the man with enough irritation to put him on Hell's shortlist unless that angel managed to get there first.

'We have a case for you. Your kind of thing.'

'Well?'

'Theft.'

'Boring.' Crowley made to hang up. Thefts weren't his things.

'No evidence. No traces of entry. It's just gone. As if by magic.' Lestrade spoke quickly, knowing it would hook him.

Crowley froze. 'Nothing?'

'Nope. This statue- the famous one, the Chinese Goddess- it just... vanished.'

Crowley tilted his head. 'The Chinese Goddess? Jade, statue of Amaterasu, Japanese sun figure? Sold recently for over half a million?'

'That's right.'

'I'll take it.'

Crowley hung up without further ado. The Chinese Goddess was something he'd had his eye on since it had come up for auction. It appeared to be harbouring some considerable powers and he wanted it in safe hands. Its "magical" theft sounded like his kind of problem.