A/N: This was so. Much. Fucking. Fun. FFFFFFFFFFFFF. You have no idea. I got the idea in a sudden epiphany while driving back home from the river with my BFF dogzrule333 in the passenger seat. She had the exact same epiphany. All I had to say was "Crowley. Aziraphale. Sherlock. John." and she was all "FUCK YES."

Disclaimer: I own neither Good Omens or BBC Sherlock.

It's All Good Fun, Love.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other as they waited for judgment to be passed. It had long gone past the point of fear and was now at the point of almost intolerable boredom. Crowley sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Aziraphale braced himself for another round of complaints.

"Bored." he groaned, arms hanging listlessly at his sides, "Bored. So bored. Bored."

"Yes dear, I know." Aziraphale said, desperately resisting the urge to steal the sword from the professional looking guard. It would not make his case any better. Then again, could it get any worse?

"They took my sunglasses. Why would they do that?" Crowley moaned, blinking in his despair.

"Because you don't need them here." Aziraphale replied levelly, physically restraining himself by gripping the seat beneath him.

"But I like my sunglasses." Crowley sighed, rubbing his face. He wasn't too concerned about the sentence; he was already damned, what else could they do? Aside from torture. But even then.

Aziraphale had actually gotten an inch off his seat when the huge double doors opened, revealing a squadron of intimidating looking angels. Right after them were about three intimidating looking demons.

Demons weren't known for enjoying these types of things. They just enjoyed hearing the sentence after the fact. Attending the judgment was dreadfully boring.

The angels loved it, though. Made them feel all important and business-y, and angels liked feeling business-y.

"You have been summoned." the head angel's voice rang out, authority lacing it's way into each syllable as he addressed Aziraphale.

"Come on, dipshit, time to go." one of the demons told Crowley, grinning evilly. Then again, demons could rarely grin any other way.

The angel's looked slightly annoyed, but were too well trained to let it show on their faces too much.

Aziraphale walked obediently behind the head angel, his head hanging. He heard a scuffle behind him and realized that Crowley wasn't being so obedient. This hypothesis was proved to be a fact when Crowley was carried past Aziraphale, tossed over the largest demons shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Aziraphale restrained himself from smiling at Crowley's face. It was a mix: indignant because he had been taken down so easily, furious because the demon carrying him was also unintentionally groping his ass, and triumphant because he wouldn't have to walk in and that was a form of rebellion. Technically. Sort of. In Crowley's mind it was, at least.

"Angel Of The East Gate, Aziraphale." the Metatron said, his face blank, "The decision has been made. Unable to make a decision the usual way, since this is an exceptional situation, we converted it into a mathematical formula. The results were…disturbing. Apparently, your good actions equal with that of your rebellion."

The Metatron stepped back and allowed Beelzebub to step forward.

"Crowley, because we really didn't want to waste anymore time on this than we had to, we decided to use the same formula. And say we created it." Beelzebub stopped here to give a small, triumphant glare to Metatron. Metatron sniffed and turned his head the other way. Beelzebub grinned. He loved plagiarism. It was so fun. "Amazingly enough, your good and bad actions are the same amount too." Beelzebub looked disgusted. Like the look one gets on one's face when one realizes that while one was away, flies decided to converge on one's barely started meal.

"This impasse is unacceptable. But God has decided to grant you mercy, Angel Of The East Gate, Aziraphale." the Metatron announced, stepping forward once again.

Beelzebub shoved past him.

"Crowley, you're such a stupid shit. Do you have any idea how annoying this is? The solution was fucking 666=666. Fucking serious?" Beelzebub griped, his hands on his hips.

The Metatron cleared his throat, giving Beelzebub a look that clearly said "If this wasn't temporary neutral ground and if I wasn't the Spokesman of God I'd totally use my Divine Wrath to mop the floor with your blood." But Metatron was the Spokesman of God, and he would never do such a thing.


"Angel Of The East Gate, Aziraphale; God has decided to let you live a second life, as a human. He has decided to grant you a clear record, so that you may be judged without the interference of past transgressions." The Metatron said in a clear, authoritative voice.

Beelzebub grinned as he shoved past the Metatron again, and leaned in close to Crowley's face.

"And because we hate your ass so much, we're making you go with him." he crowed, poking Crowley in the forehead.

Crowley still hadn't been let down. He was starting to feel uncomfortable. He gaped at Beelzebub's announcement, before realizing something. Beelzebub's grin was of the specific type he used when performing plagiarism. And that judgment was far too light for Hell.

"….Adam had something to do with my sentence, didn't he?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. Which looked really strange, as his top half was still upside-down.

Beelzebub's grin turned into a frown and he turned away, muttering about spoiled brats and Daddy's influence and stupid threats to give Earth to Heaven if his instructions weren't carried out to the T. Crowley, apparently satisfied with this, went back to being bored. He was really beginning to hate being bored.

"May I ask when we are to start?" Aziraphale ventured, trying to be as polite as possible when he asked. The Metatron looked at him.


Aziraphale only had time to think 'But I need to settle the ownership of the second-hand bookstore! And who will look after my books?' before his surroundings faded to black. Crowley only had time to think 'I really hope we aren't reincarnated into the 14th century...'

*~A Couple of Decades Later~*

Mycroft Holmes, or Adam to his friends, watched as Azira-no. It wasn't Aziraphale anymore, was it? It was John now, Mycroft/Adam mused as he watched the ex-angel walk into the car with…oh, what was Pepper calling herself? Anthea? Yes, Anthea, that was it.

It had been ridiculously easy to twist reality, just a bit, to become Crowley's-no, Sherlock's-older brother. Normally, he was against interfering with peoples lives, but the thought of Crowley as a human…that was enough to make anyone worry.

So it was only natural that Mycroft/Adam would become a large figure in politics, with Anthea/Pepper as his assistant, and assign Lestrade/Brian and Anderson/Wensleydale to the Scotland Yard to keep an eye on the wayward ex-demon. Mrs. Hudson/Madam Tracy, after finding out what had happened (the moment she laid eyes on Sherlock when he came to help convict poor Shadwell-who hadn't been as sane as they had all thought-she had known. Sharp, clever woman, she was.) had happily volunteered to help out. Stamford/Newton had, upon hearing it from Mrs. Hudson/Madam Tracy, also volunteered to help out in a different way.

So, Mycroft/Adam had sent Stamford/Newton to meet up with John/Aziraphale in the "Good Old Days", and they had, somehow, become acquaintances. Anathema had showed her support, but she hadn't wanted to interfere directly.

None of them had been expecting John/Aziraphale to get shot, and Mycroft/Adam had been very pissed, and a few weeks later the unfortunate Taliban who had shot John/Aziraphale had died in an unfortunate occurrence, a very painful unfortunate occurrence, and John/Aziraphale had been invalidated home, thus putting everything into motion.

Sherlock/Crowley had always behaved better with John/Aziraphale around.

Mycroft/Adam smiled.

This was going to be fun.