As God Intended

The Devil And His Accomplices

Sherlock POV: For a while after the Watsons left, Sherlock sat staring at their empty wine glasses upon the table. He sat straight up in his wooden chair, with his feet planted firmly on the ground, holding posture and composure as he maintained constant eye contact with the remnants of their presence, until at long last their voices had melted away from the echoes in the walls and their shadows were overrun by the light above the kitchen table. It was terribly strange to have talked to people, and not just spoken, but actually talked. Had a conversation, revealed a piece of himself, made himself vulnerable to questions which were prying not only within his heart but within his soul as well. It had been so long since anyone cared to ask him a question. The concept of friendship was such a foreign thing to the poor priest, considering Sherlock hadn't had a friend since his brother's more approachable years, back when Mycroft would offer a shoulder to cry on and a logical voice to talk to, rather than a brick wall and a heart of lead. It was strange to be met with such compassion again, even if it was in the form of a strange, invasive questionnaire. The Watsons might actually find him entertaining, they might find him pleasant! It was strange, undeniably strange, and at long last Sherlock had to get up out of the dining room chair to face a different problem than his loneliness. There was still the issue of Victor Trevor, that strange boy hidden away in a farmhouse. What was to be done with such a specimen, considering the diocese could not get involved without concrete evidence and a valid concern? There was nothing from yesterday that would make it seem like a legitimate demonic possession, despite the feelings Sherlock got and the words of the boy. Yes, he was rather bold, and yes he did know a little bit more about Sherlock than he should have, but none of these were sure signs that he was being possessed by a demonic force! It was too early to jump to conclusions, and while Sherlock felt a psychologist would be a better step for everyone involved, he nonetheless sunk down upon the couch with his book of demonology in his hands. It was a general guidebook, one that the priests kept on hand just in case emergencies such as this came up. In all of his years at the church Sherlock had never seen one person pick up this particular volume, though he had always known it was waiting downstairs if ever it could come in handy. It was a small book, leather bound and soft to the touch, able to bend at the spine but still too dark to be read without a powerful lamp aimed upon the pages. It discussed all of the basics of demons, their motivations, their creation, their powers, and even how to exorcise them. Though what Sherlock was most looking for within the book was the exact characteristics of a possession, he wanted a complete guide of what to look for and how best to go about his ultimate diagnosis. This instruction manual, however, was nowhere to be found within the chapters. He looked over once and twice for good measure, his eyes scanning all sorts of information that may come in handy farther down the line if he was unlucky enough to be dealing with such an entity. Though by the time he was finished with his second reading the priest was still not sure whether to go about blessing the boy or sending him off to the nearest loony bin. It was a case that must be handled delicately, a case that had a family poised at the top of a steep precipice. Sherlock did not want to be the one to send them over the edge in either direction, taking their only child with them in the process. Could it be that the boy was under the influence of a demonic entity, not speaking with his own voice or in control of his own actions? It was hard to believe that a boy such as Victor, who the parents described as a superb child and an excellent student, would want to scratch his walls or kill the family cat. It wasn't within the nature of young men, even if they had just been released from grad school! Perhaps his mental stability had crumbled under the academic pressures, and he had lost his mind while caught up in his grade point average? And besides, his brief hallway conversation was enough to chill any man to the bone. He spoke of seduction, certainly a method that would not be considered by anyone who had their heads screwed on right! What sort of creature, human or otherwise, had it in their mind to seduce an old priest? It was the most disturbing part of his visit, and one of the main details that got Sherlock hung up in the whole case. Everything else might be able to be explained by madness... There was only one other time when Sherlock had seen a man succumb to unnatural sexual desires, only one other man who had been torn down by demonic suggestions. This very demon had infected the man's workspace, his home, his brain, but never his body in total. No, Father James had never been possessed, so to speak, though he was disturbed in the most criminal way. Could there be a connection, a sort of devilish suggestion that turned men against what should be their normal romantic preferences? Could there be a force that turned their eyes towards forbidden parties, or was it simply another deep psychological trauma? Sherlock had heard it all before, the sort of repression that turned good men into maniacs. The sort of withdraw that was not natural for body or soul, though which suited some more pleasantly than others. If a priest fell, he fell far, though if an innocent farm boy fell, just how long would it take before he hit the ground? Sherlock turned the ideas over in his head, sinking farther and farther down into the cushions of the couch, trying to block certain faces from memory and focus on the facts alone. None of this boy's behavior was natural, but what was his next step? Certainly Sherlock couldn't exorcise Victor Trevor himself, but he would need help to deal with the situation. He would need to go to the higher powers, to ask them for advice. Oh but that meant...Sherlock grumbled, sliding upon the couch until at last he could settle his head upon the armrest, with his feet extended all the way out to the other side. The bishop. Ugh. The priest let his head sink farther back, dangling his neck from the couch and closing his eyes gently, clutching the book of demonology in his hands and losing his thoughts once more, losing them to memories, to traumas, and to past relations. Before long he could see the world from a closer perspective, standing just four feet with his awkwardly long legs and his pointed knees. He could feel the starched collar of his jacket cutting into his neck, a more familiar feeling as he progressed through his faith. He could feel the solid wooden floor at his feet, and buckled realistically under the weight of his heavy backpack. He was a younger boy, with a face full of ambition, a smaller child, not yet understanding how the world could be so foul. And he clicked his heels together, sitting upon the bench outside of the priest's office, waiting for his turn to be called. For a moment it was silent, the school had been cleared for the day. Sherlock had remaining business with the priest, a special invitation, and he was quite excited. It might be an academic award, considering he scored the highest in his class in the spelling bee. Or perhaps it was praise for his religious dedication, seeing as though he was one of the only boys in the third grade who could say the rosary without getting out of breath. And he could recite the Bible fairly well, also. All in all Sherlock was sure he was being set up for a congratulation from the priest, and was watching that door with all the excitement in the world. He knew that when it was opened he would be praised, and that was exactly the appreciation he was hoping for. At long last his wait was over, now about a half hour after the halls had been cleared for the day. The door opened quietly, and the shaved head of Father James emerged from his office.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm very happy to see you." The priest said quietly, keeping his voice down so as not be overheard by anyone still wandering the halls. Sherlock got to his feet happily, standing as tall as his little head could stretch.
"Thank you Father!" he declared in a loud, proud voice.
"Shh, keep your voice down." the priest insisted. "Come inside, Mr. Holmes, but promise me that this will be our secret. I won't want your classmates to be jealous."
"Of course, Father James." Sherlock agreed with a grin. The priest returned the smile, looking up and down the hallway to scan for onlookers before at last opening the door wider, admitting the boy into his office and shutting the door with a snap behind him.