As God Intended

Born To Be Unholy

"You said it's going to look like a bathtub?" called out John's voice from the shadows, the light of his flashlight penetrating through the back end of the basement as he searched through all of the church's old junk. Sherlock sighed in exasperation, emerging from the dense grove of plastic Christmas trees in his search for the familiar font.
"No, it's more like...more like a large pedestal." Sherlock described. "It'll look like marble but I think it's porcelain."
"And why is it so special?" John wondered, his flashlight steadying upon the priest and blinding him in the midst of the darkness. The lightbulb that usually aided in basement adventures had failed them only five minutes into the initial search, leaving them to be hunting around in a much more haunting situation than either would prefer. Even though Sherlock hadn't seen proven evidence of this new ghost he couldn't help but believe there was a strange spirit accompanying these walls, and the last thing he wanted to do was confront it in the shadows of the basement.
"The baptismal font is a sacred item, blessed by the bishop of the diocese and essential for introducing the child into the church of our Father!" Sherlock growled, waving around his flashlight in an almost childlike defense.
"So sacred that you've lost it, I imagine?" John chuckled.
"It's not lost." Sherlock defended, turning back to his search out of pure spite. "Perhaps misplaced."
"That's more like it." John agreed. For a while longer they searched, examining anything that was hidden under white cloths or stored within large cardboard boxes. When the church had moved out it seemed that they covered their valuables, making everything all the more impossible to relocate! While some of this stuff was admittedly junk, Sherlock found some irreplaceable treasures within the hoard, such as miscellaneous pieces from their Christmas nativity, some old song books that seemed to date to the church's fist years, and even a set of rusted golden chalices that must have been replaced for shinier ones in use on the altar. They must have sifted through ten minute's worth of garbage until finally the sound of toppling crates interrupted Sherlock's search of one of the back most bookshelves (okay, so he was distracted) and brought his attention towards the far back corner where John was currently exploring. The crash sounded as if something had been broken, hopefully old wood rather than the poor man's bones, and when Sherlock came rushing towards the opposite side if the room he found that John still had not gotten to his feet, as if he was paralyzed by injury or shock. The man was still upon the cement floor, his fingers gripping at the dust as he stared through the shadows, his gaze following beam of his flashlight where it just happened to land in the midst of the commotion. Around him lay scattered wooden crates, some of which must have been damaged in the fall, having been toppled from their unusually high stack.
"John, are you alright?" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing towards the man's side and squatting down to retrieve him. The priest settled his hands upon John's shoulder, trying to announce his presence without the sole use of words.
"See that, Sherlock?" the man mumbled, not sounding pained but rather confused. Sherlock hummed in some confusion, though finally found the sense to follow the reach of John's eyes rather than stay preoccupied with the state of his current health. It was not until after Sherlock followed the beam of the light that he realized why John had refused to rise, seeing as though there was something much more interesting lying upon the floor than anything within his usual eye level. It was upon the ground that John could get a better look upon his discovered treasure, in fact Sherlock almost considered dropping to his knees to better inspect what he had accidentally discovered. But of course it was less of fascination that began to sink into the priest's bones and more of a deep seated fear, and before long he took to wondering if he wanted to stare at the object just to avoid inspecting it from a closer angle. Finally the priest went after the item more agressivley, shifting away the crates that seemed to have been arranged around the thing in a particular pattern, a deliberate mirage. Sherlock tossed the boxes off to the side and dove onto the ground to retrieve what seemed to be a charred wooden bowl, one which felt much heavier in his hands than it ought to. A darkness settled about the bowl, as if the shadows were collecting to shield its contents, though as Sherlock shifted back into the middle of the basement he was able to get John to shine the flashlight into the deep recesses of the burned thing.
"It's some sort of offering." Sherlock declared at last.
"Old, right?" John insisted a bit nervously, the beam of the flashlight shaking as they examined the charred remnants of the bowl's contents. There seemed to be a pile of ash, unidentifiable save for some strange objects poking up, some that looked suspiciously like animal bones or something equally grotesque. Sherlock pulled up some of his fingers, demonstrating that the ash was still able to cling rather effortlessly to his fingers. While this wasn't a sure sign, he took it as a warning that this may not be as old as John would hope.
"I'm not sure. For all I know it could have been from last week, or perhaps last month." Sherlock admitted nervously. "You've not been down here, right?"
"No, of course not. This place freaks me out, even without obscene witchcraft." John admitted. Quickly he settled a small table of wooden crates for them to place the cursed thing upon, shining the light as Sherlock prodded around the inside of the bowl with one of the broken pieces of plywood. There were indeed small bones, objects which were so disturbing that neither man wanted to comment directly on their discovery. Instead John seemed more focused with a small corner of white paper, one that must have avoided the blaze enough to be recognizable. For a moment the man fumbled in his pocket, at last retrieving his wallet from the folds of his jeans and matching the small white piece of paper to the empty plastic section, one reserved either for driver's licenses or photos of loved ones. As he compared the paper to the background the man's face fell into deep concern, and for a moment he insisted Sherlock prod around in the ashes to find anything more. When this search came up empty Sherlock at last examined the ground, finding that only a thin layer of dust had accumulated within this corner of the basement, whereas other sections were almost filled with a deep layer. This alluded to a recent affair, as if someone had been poking around here in the past year, well within the time that the Watsons had been present within the church.
"What have you found, what's that paper?" Sherlock asked at last, getting back to his feet and brushing off his examined dust from the knees of his pants. John sighed heavily, scratching the back of his head as if to avoid talking for a moment longer.
"I might be wrong...in fact I hope I am." John began miserably, tossing the small corner of paper back into the bowl where he had found it. "But that paper resembles the photo I had of Mary in my wallet, a photo that I lost right after we moved in."
"Of Mary?" Sherlock confirmed anxiously, looking anxiously upon the man as if to search for any telltale signs of deceit. If Sherlock wasn't mistaken this was some sort of offering, some sort of ritual, and the target of Mary Watson may very well illuminate his prime suspect.
"It's just as crazy when you say it, but I wouldn't lie about this sort of thing." John admitted, holding up his hands in stark defense as if to demonstrate his hopelessness in the matter. Sherlock nodded nervously, craning his neck up towards the ceiling as if to spy upon the mother as they stayed hidden downstairs.
"You don't think she's ever experimented with dark magic?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively, feeling a bit silly for recommending such an obscure theory. John didn't look offended, in fact he looked more thoughtful than Sherlock would have expected out of such a ludicrous suggestion.
"I don't think so. She doesn't seem the type." John admitted at last, having taken a considerable moment to decide upon his final answer.
"Well, my only other suggestion would be Hamish. But he doesn't seem the type either." Sherlock admitted with a little chuckle. John's smile mimicked his, though as Sherlock's mind really wandered he began to consider another possibility, something much less probable but much more sinister in nature. As Sherlock thought harder about the occupants of their little church group, well the company spanned from all different buildings in the complex. After eliminating the Watsons and furthermore deciding it was not himself who had done it, well there was only one man left. One man who had been bound and gagged, though who still might've had the potential to escape in the night and wreak havoc upon his unsuspecting human neighbors. Sherlock's blood ran cold; suddenly he took a step back from the bowl and stared at it with a newfound distrust. Could this be worse than black magic, could this be some sort of demon conjuring, some sort of devilry? Suddenly his hand clutched at his rosary, the only weapon he felt he had against a force to awful and uncontrollable. Could it be that Victor Trevor was only pretending to be securely bound; all the while he had the power to come and go as he chose?
"What's that change of attitude for?" John commented, realizing that Sherlock's face had fallen into a deep, worried frown.
"I'm just...well I'm thinking." The priest admitted.
"God, about what, Vietnam?" John suggested with a chuckle. The priest shooed his questions away, staring down upon the bowl and trying to trace its origins, and its probable master, to what the demon could possibly want. Was there some sort of vendetta against Mary Watson, a ploy she had not been aware of? Had she been cursed from the beginning of their move here, and had fallen into a demonic trap without realizing it?
"John, is your wife baptized?" Sherlock asked at once, turning to face the man with all the seriousness he could muster into his usually docile eyes. John hesitated, thinking for a moment before shaking his head.
"Neither of us are." He admitted at last. Sherlock groaned, realizing there was a repeating trend of religious neglect within the Watson family.
"That's not good John, not good!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing quickly to where their excess bottles of holy water had been stored conveniently in the basement cabinets. Thank god for his excess supply, now when they needed it the most! With a plastic, waterlogged Mother Mary in his hands Sherlock raced up the steps, knowing that he would find Mary Watson tending to Hamish somewhere within the upper floors. For the moment he feared not only for the woman but for the child as well, seeing this as a complicated plot that even he could not understand just yet. Demons worked in mysterious ways, what could Victor Trevor's main goal be if it involved so much time bound and gagged within the walls of the schoolhouse? What sort of agenda did he have for that woman, and how sinister were his main intentions?
"Mary, Mary!" Sherlock called through the lobby just as soon as he emerged onto the ground floor, summoning the woman just as quickly as he could manage. Who knew how much time they had to spare, and if the demon's plans would only begin to unravel when the plot was discovered by the desperate and rather slow priest. When finally he flung open the doors to the church he heard the flying footsteps of Mary Watson coming down the steps, as if she was responding to the call of the urgent priest. From the upper balcony Hamish could be heard crying, as if he was upset by all of this sudden screaming and the intensity that had risen like a thick fog within the high sloping walls of the church.
"What's wrong, what's going on?" Mary asked anxiously, stopping abruptly in front of the priest as her husband flung through the double doors, just as curious to see what the matter was as his wife. Both of the Watsons did not know the entire situation they might have found themselves in, for neither knew of their unholy neighbor stored inside of the schoolhouse. Should they have caught themselves in a demonic plot the fault would fall entirely upon Sherlock, as he neglected to warn them of the danger they were in and the proximity they shared with something so evil. Anxiously the priest unscrewed the plastic top of the holy water, surprising Mary by drenching nearly half of the bottle upon her head in his maddened desperation. Had there been a demonic curse she would have reacted adversely, though for the moment her screams were only ones of shock and utmost exasperation. Holy or not, that water was still quite a nuisance upon ironed work clothes.
"Father, what on earth!?" the woman shrieked, shivering as the water ran down the length of her spine. Sherlock hesitated with the rest of the bottle, wondering if he should drain the whole figurine atop of the woman just to make sure the holiness had not separated to the bottom of the plastic flask. Mary's angry reaction steadied his hand, and instead of finalizing his decision the priest hesitated a bit nervously, as if he was ready for his scolding and felt that he deserved it.
"I'm sorry, but I had to be sure." Sherlock admitted at last, replacing the cap upon the bottle and looking between both Watsons nervously. "I think we are dealing with something a bit...well a bit out of our depths."
"What do you mean by dealing?" Mary confirmed. "I think all we're really dealing with now is a change of clothes!"
"We found a bowl downstairs, some sort of burnt offering. I think it had your picture in it, Mary. The picture I lost from my wallet." John admitted.
"Which means it's recent, at least since the two of you moved in." Sherlock added, wanting to emphasize the time frame of this new development. And while Sherlock already suspected this was the doings of his newest and most unwilling neighbor, he had to watch the woman's reaction to search for the appropriate guilt. Of course he hadn't expected anything, and her face read of the purest, unsuspecting surprise. The baby continued to scream from the upstairs balcony, as if he was utterly dissatisfied with his neglect. Hamish had hardly ever been left alone, especially when the tension was rising like the heat on a summer's day.
"What, like a witch or something? A witch in our basement?" Mary confirmed, her face white and stark.
"Something like that." John agreed hesitantly. "You've not been down there, right?"
"John, I'm not a witch." Mary growled, looking towards Sherlock with a newfound concern. Sherlock tried to distinguish her gaze, before finally he realized it wasn't just answers she looked for, it was guilt.
"Don't look at me!" Sherlock exclaimed at last, realizing that Mary's gaze was suddenly mimicked with her husband's.
"You've got a key." Mary pointed out.
"And you had that demonology book." John agreed, obviously searching his memories back for anything the least bit incriminating. Sherlock trembled, half prepared to drench himself in holy water just to prove his own good intentions.
"I'm innocent." He promised, though his words were lost just as soon as they met the open air. The octaves of Hamish's screams had been climbing as of late, and with his last shriek there came the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. And unless Hamish had been practicing his opera in the past weeks of his life, well Sherlock suspected that there might be another bout of supernatural activity within the illuminated balcony, even now on this peaceful Sunday afternoon. All three of the parents reacted immediately, their feet flying in the direction of the staircase and battling for which would be the first to ascend the narrow passageway. Mary was able to wrestle her way to the top, and within the clamor of footsteps and shouting all three of them burst through to find the baby wailing miserably upon the mattress, his hands and feet smacking against the sheets upon the broken shards of the burst lightbulb. For a moment the parents were too shocked to rescue him from this situation, straining their eyes to see what remained of their ceiling light, at least seven feet above the child's head. It was as if a small explosion had rocked within the wiring, shattering the glass and leaving the child rained upon with jagged edges and unexplainable danger. John was the one to scoop the child into his arms, cooing Hamish back into complacency and trying to ease his crying with coos and cradles. In the meantime Sherlock took to searching through the shards of glass, looking for anything which could explain the sudden explosion.
"How could that have happened?" Mary asked anxiously, checking her son for any signs of physical damage.
"It couldn't have. Not naturally." Sherlock declared at last.
"Then it's the ghost." John grimaced. "The ghost here, in broad daylight!" Sherlock's brow deepened, and as he felt along the smooth edge of a piece of the lightbulb he began to construct a bulb of his own within his head, one that was sputtering to life but slowly beginning to shed light upon the situation. What would a demon want with Mary Watson, especially in the weeks she had moved in? What would a demon summon, what would a demon have to gain? He was convinced there could not be two evils haunting this church, not when one was so conniving and seemingly uncontainable. There were no ghosts when Sherlock knew the church, nor any while the Watsons were beginning to live here. All the occurrences here, within the unmonitored hours of the poor baby. What was the common denominator, if the idea of a ghost was erased completely? There could be no foul play, no human interaction of any sort. And when disregarding the supernatural, or at least the manifestation of souls, there was only one explanation which could fit. Sherlock dropped the glass upon the bed, unscrewing his bottle of holy water for the second time this afternoon and proceeding to drizzle a steady stream upon the quiet baby's forehead. It felt as if the water fell for longer than usual, as if gravity had slowed just for the dramatic effect. Sherlock watched each of the droplets as they fell towards Hamish's exposed forehead, and he watched as the first one splashed upon his skin, dampening the crease of his nose and seeping within the wrinkles of his shut eyes. And the baby, once so calm and collected, suddenly reacted with a ferocity that neither parent could have predicted. It was a madness that Sherlock had never seen within Hamish, a panic and a series of shrieking that didn't sound like mere inconvenience, they sounded as if he was suffering pain. He wailed as one might after they were burned upon a hot stove, with tears forming with his eyes and limbs flailing this way and that. His voice reached a height never before experienced by the adults, and for a moment John was ready to toss Hamish out of his arms and let the wild child fend for himself. He was squirming in such an erratic fashion that it was almost impossible to contain him within the arms of even his strong, diligent father. Sherlock took a step back in amazement, his hands shaking as they held onto the rest of the holy water. He saw within that child the very pain he wanted most to avoid, the very reaction that would incriminate the child as an accomplice to an unavoidable and rather unforeseen agenda. He was, in some aspect, unholy.
"What's happened to him, what did you do?" Mary demanded, rushing towards her child and trying to wipe the water away from his face the best she could. Sherlock struggled to find a response, something that might validate the reaction of Hamish and put his parents at ease. There was no easy way to put this, was there? No easy way to say it.
"The holy water burned him, it....it pained him." the priest muttered, screwing on the cap of the bottle and throwing it meaninglessly upon the bed.
"And what does that mean?" John demanded, holding Hamish closer to his chest and trying to speak overtop of the baby's panicked yells.
"It means he's unholy! Somehow he's been marked, cursed...he's impure." Sherlock announced apprehensively, looking towards both parents with a look of utmost concern upon his face.
"How could he be impure, he's only a month old?" John demanded, prodding at his son with an outstretched finger, as if trying to introduce the madness of Sherlock's words onto their very speaker. All the while Mary stayed very silent, lingering at her husband's side as her face paled with the realization of the situation.
"Of course he is." Mary whispered at last, voicing her opinion before the priest could probe her upon the situation. All eyes met her own, though the woman continued to stare down at the ground, huddling her arms around her chest and wincing.
"What do you mean?" John demanded. "He hasn't sinned, not yet!"
"His very existence is a sin! Of course he would be born unholy!" Mary exclaimed, throwing her hands onto her face to hide her shame. "He's....he's the son of a priest!"