As God Intended

Hear Your Fathers

Sherlock was able to get the door to the schoolhouse opened quite quickly, though upon entering the building the men found it to be almost deadly silent. For a while their breath was the only sound echoing across the emptied walls, there was no Latin chanting, no demonic laughter, no baby crying. None of the sounds you might expect when trying to find the location of a satanic ritual.
"He's loose, the door is open. I had him in that classroom, on that chair!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing to the spot of interest and inspecting the pile of ripped leather that lay in shreds on the floor. A shiver rushed down John's spine, though all he could do to protect himself was shine the dull light upon his phone, scanning the hall and trying to loosen the shadows that clung so tightly to the peeling paint.
"Where would he be?" John whispered nervously, half expecting the demon to creep up behind him on this ironic cue.
"We'll try the basement. If I was trying to summon Satan that's where I would do it." Sherlock decided at last, rushing off down the hallway without so much as a light to guide him. Perhaps the priest had been here when the building was alive with good Catholic children, when school bells rang and drama was shared, the clicking of polished heels drowning out what now became a deafening silence. He knew his way without guidance, though John had to stumble along to follow in his wake, surprised by every turn and ducking nervously past every open classroom door. Finally the men found themselves descending a staircase, and even before they had reached the first landing John could tell that they were on the right track. He could sense something, a feeling more potent than fear. It was a sort of evilness that was meant to shut a body down, the sort that was supposed to seep into the bloodstream and paralyze the victim with hopelessness. In the wake of this thick fog John should have been crippled; though Victor Trevor apparently didn't know what he was dealing with. Had this ritual contained a sacrifice of a chicken or a goat perhaps John would have been halted at the top of the stairs, not brave enough to go any farther. But it was Hamish down there, Hamish past the blanket of fear, Hamish past the flickering light of flames! John couldn't simply stop, he had to press forward, he had to fly! The man took the last couple of steps in a leap, landing catlike upon the cement floor and staring up at a Hellish scene painted before him. In the middle of the floor there was an old teacher's desk, though the thing had been draped with a white cloth and covered in strange bowls and candles, painted in Latin and decorated with symbols that must have been Satanic in origin. The entire room was flickering back and forth with the light of the flames, and as the shadows danced so too did John's head, still recovering from his trauma and having trouble focusing on the man in front of him. Nevertheless John was able to raise his flashlight to face his opponent, raising the light across the long, tall form that used to be Victor Trevor. Though what he saw before him wasn't human, and the black eyes which shone from behind those thick lids was enough to validate his suspicion. The boy was tall, taller even than Sherlock if the two were compared side by side. He couldn't be older than thirty, as there was a youthful look to his face, though his eyes were so worn they seemed to have outlived the earth itself. Certainly that was the soul of the demon materializing itself through the shell of the young man, only further demonstrating the disconnection between host and occupant. The boy looked starved, his clothes were hanging loosely around his skinny fame and his hair was uncombed and falling out in large chunks, as if he had taken to yanking it in frustration until his scalp began to bleed. He was unwashed and sickly, though his eyes shone with renewed strength and unstoppable force. John was helpless to face this creature, though nevertheless he stood his ground and bore his teeth, like a small dog ready to take on a bear.
"Victor, give us the child!" Sherlock demanded, appearing at John's shoulder and reaching out his hands entreatingly, as if a simple offer would be enough to dissolve this situation. John only now realized that there was a bundle clasped underneath the demon's arm, carried so carelessly that John had hardly noticed the child's presence until now. Now he could make out limbs hanging from the blankets, and while they were moving ever so slightly back and forth he could not hear a cry emitted from the baby's lips, as if Hamish was too disoriented to cry about it. That or...well John didn't want to think of the alternative just yet. In front of the demon there was a large bowl, a thick urn shaped construction that seemed to be made from a volcanic rock. It was black and charred, bearing strange encryptions around the rim in a language lost even to the most renowned priests of the day.
"I hope you don't think it'll be that easy?" Victor chuckled, waving a careless hand towards Sherlock and sending the man flying back from an unseen gust of wind, flying towards the staircase they had just descended and falling heavily against the jagged wooden steps. This was enough for John, who was feeling so much adrenaline pumping through his body he might have been able to take on Satan as well. He lunged at the demon, trying to grab his child from the filthy creature's hands before anything worse could befall the poor boy. John had managed to tangle his arms around the demon's waist, though with a simple tap from his opposition the man found himself crumbled once more to the floor, rolling upon the cement as his muscles seemed to melt within his skin. Suddenly he was helpless but to writhe, unable to support himself, unable even to keep his head raised up from the floor.
"You can't kill your own son!" John managed with a growl.
"My own son? Oh Mr. Watson, this is not my son. This is the spawn of Victor Trevor, a man whose offspring I do not hold any particular regard for." The demon chuckled. Suddenly he grabbed Hamish more securely with his hands, clenching the boy by the back of his neck like a mother lion might do to her cubs, holding the baby up as if to demonstrate him to the failed defenders. Hamish looked around the room with large blue eyes, staring upon his fathers as they struggled against the wrath of the demon.
"Lord...Lord hear my prayer." Sherlock began to whisper from behind, straining against the staircase as he tried to position himself in a more intimidating position. "Look upon your servant, and see that I have strayed!"
"Your God is dead, Father Holmes." Victor chuckled, throwing Hamish carelessly down upon the table and chuckling with his own success. The baby looked confused, though his hands were beginning to wave, his fingers clenching into small and helpless fists.
"Father, hear me!" Sherlock yelled again. "Give me your hand, help me..."
"Shut up!" Victor demanded, clenching his fist and silencing the priest for the time being. Sherlock's mouth was shut as if by an opposing hand, his jaw clenched together and his teeth barred unintentionally. John growled, rolling upon his back with what strength he could summon and staring upon his child, only peering upon the boy's feet as they waved over the end of the table.
"Hamish..." John whispered in a failing breath. "Hear your Father. Help your fathers."
"Both of you speak to ears who do not comprehend! Can you not see that this world has degraded far beyond a God's love? Can you not see that the withered old man has finally disintegrated into the dust he was made from? Now is the time of fire, suffering under the reign of Satan himself! Satan and his most trusted confidant. His most faithful servant!" Victor exclaimed in excitement, striking his fingers against the bowl and igniting flames within the basin. John winced to watch the fire shoot towards the ceiling, erupting with an audible burst and illuminating the darkened basement. Sherlock could be heard whimpering from where he lay on the stairs, his lips unable to open and his voice unable to annunciate proper words. No Latin rituals would be spoken unless the demon's spells could be undone, though with the combined power of the two men it would seem that their defensive line was proven all together worthless. John lay helpless, Sherlock lay silent...and the flames which were to consume their child roared more powerfully than ever. Victor's pleased face was lit with a bright orange light, his dark eyes sparkling with the enthusiasm mounting within his chest. He would summon his master; he would be the second in command. It would seem as though this plan played out perfectly, a flawless beginning cumulating into an effortless conclusion. It seemed as though there was not a man here to oppose him. It would seem as though the servants of God had failed once again.
"God...Lord..." John breathed, falling upon his back and staring up at the ceiling. "Can you not hear me?"
"Don't make me silence you as well, Mr. Watson." Victor chuckled, planting a rather unnecessary kick to John's already shattered frame. The man winced in pain, though he could not clutch to the wound nor subside the pain in any way. He was helpless but to feel it, feel the burning presence of those lingering toes, helpless but to continue muttering what scraps of religious messages he knew.
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned." John began again, this time following along with the rather familiar phrase that had been forced upon him in those confessional meetings with his priest.
"It has been...three months since my last confession." He continued on. John's muttering was met with Victor's own voice, this time contorted into a strange tongue that was not even recognizable to John's trained ear. It was not Latin, nor any language known to common man. It was a strange language, hissing and spitting more than articulating, and for a while it sounded like Victor was having a coughing spell above rather than beginning his satanic chant.
"I have lied, cheated, fallen prey to lust and pride, led a servant away from the light, disregarded the feelings of my wedded wife, and had some of the most impure thoughts of them all!" John exclaimed, his voice trembling as he spilled out whatever catholic sins he could remember. "Father, forgive me! Show me you're there!" There was more muttering from above, along with some of the strained and incomprehensible screeches from Sherlock's closed mouth. Hamish was being raised into the air again, this time he was supported on his stomach with his head dropping down towards the ground, his large eyes meeting his father's as the two lay in their helpless positions. He looked confused, those sparklingly blues darkened with the shadows collecting on his face, his little lips pursed. John took a deep breath, forgetting the continuing lines of his silly confession. He was quite sure that this was Sherlock's time to take over, his own words falling short. This was when the holy figure came to play, though it would seem as though the suffering men were left alone once again.
"Hamish." John whispered again, hoping that by now the child would understand he was being addressed directly. The boy cooed, a small little gurgle that was almost drowned out by similar sounds emitting from the demon. It was enough to show John that he understood the situation, enough of a communication as the little child could manage. But it was enough, and with that small little noise, a simple syllable, for suddenly silence befell the room. Victor's voice was eliminated, though John could still see that his lips were moving, as if he was trying to speak but finding that his voice was not cooperating. Every word was lost within his throat, perhaps building up and damming up whatever else he felt the need to mutter. The demon's influence, if only for a moment, seemed to be masked by another power, a stronger power. That deep seated fear that had been settled inside of them was replaced instead with strength, a calm collectiveness flowing over the men like a wave of cold, sacred water. Suddenly John felt that his fingers could clench, and before long he was using his arm to steady himself against the concrete, pushing himself up into a sitting position and staring at the demon as he stumbled backwards, forming words that would not obey as his black eyes grew wider. Hamish was still clutched within his hands, though from what John could make of the scene it looked as if Victor was trying to drop him, shaking his hands up and down and trying to force his hands to unclench. Despite his efforts it seemed as though the baby had exerted some influence even upon the forces of evil, for he was held fast within the demon's hands and bouncing up and down with glee. As John recollected himself so too did Sherlock Holmes, and by the time John could make it to his feet the priest was already beginning to chant the Latin ritual he had committed to memory. He spoke without a book of reference, without any lines to read in this darkened place. From his mouth he emitted Latin that John could not understand, speaking with a power that was audible not in vocabulary but instead with brute force. The way his tongue curled upon the ancient texts sent each syllable flying through the air like a whip, and the deep octave he forced his voice into beat like a bass drum against the cracked and abandoned walls of the school's foundation. As the demon stumbled about with Hamish he was beginning to grow weaker, John could see the exorcism affecting him. The darkness of his eyes was beginning to fade; the strength within his limbs was beginning to buckle. Suddenly the demon fell to the floor, his knees cracking against the cement as his hands were still occupied with trying to fling Hamish away. John felt that there was nothing he could do but watch, though even that simple task was becoming more difficult. The room was beginning to glow, and at first John suspected the fires upon the table to be the ultimate culprit. Though as he strained his eyes through the light he could see no more flames than there was before, in fact some of the candles were beginning to extinguish, as if there were unseen fingers snuffing them out, one by one. Sherlock's voice was growing louder and more powerful than John had ever heard him before, growing in strength as if he was feeding off of the white light that was beginning to penetrate every corner of the room. John was unsure if Sherlock was creating that light or rather feeding off of its power, bowing from the vibrancy as it shone now too bright to look upon. John shielded his eyes, cowering back until he felt his back hit the wall in firm confirmation. There was nowhere else to run, though by now he was not afraid. In fact the light's influence was beginning to power him as well, it was beginning to offer him newfound encouragement, as if it really was a symbol from the Heavens. The ritual was growing so loud that John wondered where Sherlock was summoning these octaves, though as he listened (now his only available sense, considering John kept his eyes shut tight with his hands covering the exposed lids) he was able to make out another voice, one which was too familiar to be disregarded. It was his own voice, mirroring what Sherlock Holmes was saying. In some way he found this to be impossible, as he had never so much as looked at the exorcism they were supposed to be uttering. He didn't know Latin and he certainly never practiced annunciation, though somehow he felt his lips moving and his tongue swaying, keeping right on pace with Sherlock even in such a stooped and vulnerable position. There was a straining in his heart, a sort of tugging that felt like he was being pulled about on a ventriloquist's strings and conducted according to a strict, ancient production. By now the light was so powerful that he could hardly stand it, and before long John had to curl into a ball upon the floor, keeping his face pressed against the warm cement and scraping his nose against the granulated surface. He was wincing, feeling the heat cutting into his skin and soaking through his frame, penetrating every pore and filling his body with a pure, clean vibrancy. For a moment his skin shone from the inside out, and John felt like he had been struck with a soft, gentle bolt of lightning. Just as the luminance was becoming too much to bear, when each one of his cells was tingling and threatening to burst, the light suddenly went out. As if a switch had been flipped suddenly the room fell into its usual darkness, each one of the candles having been extinguished and the fire in the large urn died back down into the embers it had begun as. John trembled for a while longer, keeping his head protected within his outstretched arms for a moment of caution, just in case they were now being faced by a more powerful presence than the demon. Perhaps that had been the hand of God, though it could also have been the arrival of the Devil. He trembled for just a moment before a familiar cry brought him back to the present moment, kicking the cowardice from his system and alerting every paternal instinct he had ever harbored. It was the cry of a baby, the whining of his child, coming from some corner of this darkened room. John jumped to his feet, his eyes still adjusting to the thick shadows as he wandered blindly through the darkness, feeling his way past the altar and onto the body which was still warm, the struggling form of Victor Trevor. John disregarded the boy for a moment, harboring enough distain for even the sight of the farm boy that he ignored him for the time being, feeling his way until at last he made contact with the small, wailing form of his child. Hamish sounded distraught, though as familiar hands scooped him up his cries began to calm, turning into sobs rather than screams. He felt safe for the time being, perhaps, but was still recovering from what he had experienced throughout the night's occurrences.
"Get Hamish away." came Sherlock's voice from behind, speaking in raspy tones as if the screaming had left his voice exhausted. John obeyed, remembering the general layout of the basement and fleeing towards the stairs, hobbling up carefully with his arms wrapped so tightly around his baby that the child may very well suffer asphyxiation by the end of the night. Thankfully the door at the top of the stairs was left open, making it only too easy for John to scurry into the main hallway of the school and collapse upon the tiles, wincing and blinking as the bright light of the street lamps illuminated through the dingy, dusty windows that hung sturdy in their frames. The ever present wailing of Hamish was enough to show that he was still alive, perhaps traumatized, perhaps spiritually reconstructed, but all together alive. John laughed in relief, feeling an unexpected joy bubbling within his throat as he arranged himself against the wall of the schoolhouse, pulling Hamish back into his arms and smiling down upon the baby, safe and sound where he belonged all along. Who knows what had happened downstairs, who knows who was responsible for the salvation that befell them all? Hamish may have used his gifted powers to break the momentum of the demon; Sherlock may have used his sins to summon a more powerful God. Perhaps the demon was still present, still locked within the frame of Victor Trevor, though that didn't bother John in the slightest. What mattered was his child, safe again within his arms, and never to leave them until all signs of the devil were erased from the proximity of their new home. John breathed a sigh of relief, letting his head fall onto the wall behind him as he heard the approaching footsteps of his priest, struggling down the hallway as his shoes scuffed against the dust accumulated upon the floor. John was not surprised to see the silhouetted figure of Father Holmes clutching onto another body, the limp and dangling form that must have housed a demon for these past couple of months. Victor Trevor was dumped upon the ground in the aura of the street lamps, his eyes shut tight and his mouth lolling to form words, incomprehensible and interrupted by the steady stream of saliva issuing from his lips.
"He's alive." John muttered in disappointment.
"Yes." came Sherlock's voice from above, struggling to form such a simple word with the wall of emotions built up within his throat. For a moment John was wondering how the priest might want to celebrate their victory, he was picturing fountains of champagne and perhaps a public shame of their ridiculous Bishop. He saw only glory for the pair of them, up until the point he noticed the pair of wrinkled hands which still cradled Victor Trevor's head as gently as could be managed. John's breath caught in his lungs, and for a moment his heart might have stopped to realize the consequences of their evening battle. There was no mistaking it, the hands that were emerging from those familiar black sleeves were aged, with layers of skin sagging overtop of the other and blue veins emerging ever so visibly from the paper like skin. John was almost too afraid to look up; he didn't want to stare upon the face he now only vaguely remembered, a man from his past, like a distant memory he was supposed to have forgotten by now.
"John, I'm afraid we have not won on all fronts." Father Holmes muttered, a voice that was not worn by overuse. No, it was a voice John had heard before. A voice he had been greeted with upon his first entry within the church grounds. He dared his eyes to rise towards the face of the priest, though by now he knew to expect the face of the old man.