As God Intended

The Advantages of The Living

It was only a shot of whiskey that settled his shaking body, and it was the second that was able to calm his mind. Sherlock was unable to think of anything else except that fateful encounter for the entire day, and it was only once the sun set that he had given up trying to be strong and facing up to the memories he thought he had shoved away for good. What was it about this investigation that kept resurfacing his past traumas, memories that he had stored away intentionally? As darkness settled over his lonely house he was able to look through the window up at the church, which was radiating soft orange light through the tall stained glass windows. So the Watsons were home, undoubtedly living their carefree, entitled lifestyle. And here Sherlock sat, alone with his glass of whiskey, still feeling the ghosts of hands easing their way up and down his body. He shivered; shaking his head again and trying focus on something else, something that would lighten his mood instead of darken it. It was far too late at night to be considering demons, especially if he was getting too personally close to one of them. He better just sit back and try to enjoy his night, drinking away his childhood and watching TV. With a struggle the priest was able to find the remote hidden between two of his couch cushions, and he settled back to watch some of the local news as his mind settled. The whiskey was still burning within his stomach, though it was an appreciated feeling. To focus on the pain within his body gave him the ability to forget about the pain within his mind. The drawing voices of the newscasters were able to take his brain away, focusing not on himself but instead on the victims of the gas station robbery, the witnesses of the car crash, and the parents of the missing girl. It was a terrible day for news, as were any days in this terrible town, and at long last Sherlock figured he better put on something a bit more cheerful. Well, the only thing he could really concentrate on was Judge Judy, and as she wailed on and slammed her gavel he began to drift to sleep, buckling below his own weight and falling headlong into the couch. He slept undisturbed for some time, the ticking of his grandfather clock allowing his heartbeat to steady and his dreams to remain uninterrupted. He was happier when he was asleep, for his tired brain never could figure out the difference between his ideal world and his imagined one. His most favorite dreams were ones of normality, the ones where he was a suburban man living an average lifestyle. These were the most unexciting dreams he has, for they only included a barbeque, perhaps a soccer ball, perhaps a Labrador retriever. But they were the ones he woke up most upset about, always waking from a mundane lifestyle into a dying art, preaching his values from a book that was long since forgotten by the general public. He couldn't explain his subconscious mind's obsession with normality, nor did he want to think too deeply into the failing psychology of it all. Perhaps deep down he really did want to live a life of suburban domesticity, though he was in no position to change that now, whether in his dreams of even in reality. Tonight's dreams followed along a more interesting line, including himself delivering a sermon that he had not prepared in front of an audience of his fellow priests, all faces which he had seen at one time or another. As he stood shaking in front of the audience he could determine Bishop Moran, some of his old professors, and even Mr. Watson dressed in a clergyman outfit. And here he was, stumbling over his words like a fool! It was one of the dreams he was happy to wake out of, though with a jolt he ended up fallen over onto the floor, with the eyes of five saints staring down at him accusingly. Sherlock breathed thankfully, happy to recognize his own darkened ceiling that was flashing with the colors of the infomercials which were running upon the television, monotonous voices going on about useless products with as much enthusiasm as the hosts could manage. At least he had woken into a more favorable reality than the one he had been awoken out of. But what did wake him, if not the infomercials which did not change in octave? Sherlock groaned, just about to heave himself off of the floor when he heard it again, a quick and frantic car horn, followed by a blinking of aggressive lights through his window curtains. Someone was beaming their high beams into his house, here at the ungodly hour of one o'clock in the morning! Sherlock's exhaustion melted away, now wholly replaced by fear. What kind of emergency could bring a car to his house, what sort of foul deed? Was he about to be murdered, or robbed? Were these arsonists, announcing their presence and their ambitions? Sherlock jumped to his feet frantically, running towards the window with one hand clutched around his rosary and the other feeling for the curtain. He pulled it back, squinting against the bright lights to see a familiar blue car sitting in the parking lot, the windows heavily shadowed behind the high beams of the headlights. His heart sank when he recognized the vehicle, finding that this visit was not to do him harm, rather to seek his help. He would almost rather be robbed, considering he wouldn't be expected to do anything about it! But here were the Trevors again, expecting the impossible! All the same, Sherlock was obviously much needed in this situation. He grabbed his Bible from the coffee table and unlocked his door, racing out with bare feet into the slightly damp parking lot, figuring there must have been some light rain fall in the time he had fallen asleep. The car was rocking back and forth, as if the vehicle itself had fallen into desperation, and from the side windows he could see what looked like Marie Trevor in the driver's seat, screaming as her husband was dangling across into the backseat, trying to restrain something wrapped inside of a white sheet. Sherlock ran towards the car, pulling open the front door and allowing the frantic woman to fall into the parking lot with shaking legs, her skin having turned white as a ghost and her tears joining the rain water onto the damp pavement. With the wife's removal, Mr. Trevor was able to get a better grip upon the struggling creature in the back, kicking his feet upon both of the seats and using this as leverage. Sherlock stood frightfully in the darkness, helping Mrs. Trevor onto her feet and staring helplessly at the struggle going on within the car.
"What's happening?" Sherlock exclaimed desperately, pulling Mrs. Trevor closer as his contribution to the protection effort.
"Victor's gone mad, Father! We woke to him inside of our bedroom, dragging the kitchen knife through the carpet!" Mrs. Trevor exclaimed in a wail.
"Is that Victor under the sheet?" Sherlock presumed in a weak, terrified voice.
"It was our only method of containing him." the woman admitted fearfully. "He means to kill us."
"What do you want me to do about it?" Sherlock wondered anxiously, stepping nearer to the vehicle and watching as Mr. Trevor wrestled with a bare, exposed arm from the mess of sheets. From what Sherlock could tell the possessed boy was wrapped in a bedsheet and fastened with belts, a makeshift straight jacket. Though the fabric was now ripping, and the Trevor's design was failing under the boy's dedication to escape.
"We cannot handle him, we hoped that you could put him somewhere until the exorcism can be arranged?" the woman insisted, pulling Sherlock away from the car as if trying to protect him from the struggle going on within. Sherlock shook her hand away from his arm, frightened to feel such a frantic touch, and gave her a curious stare.
"Why wouldn't you take him to a jail?" he insisted, figuring this boy needed some iron bars instead of a rosary and a blessing.
"You're the only one we know who will help." the woman whispered desperately, cupping her hands together in an entreating way. Sherlock hesitated, wondering if he had the capabilities of handling a demon on his own. Certainly there had to be a place that would work well enough for a dungeon? Sherlock glanced towards the church, figuring that was off limits territory now that the Watsons were inhabiting it. And his own rectory, well he certainly couldn't house a homicidal demon within his own living quarters!
"The school, we'll put him in the school!" Sherlock declared at last, untangling a key ring from his jacket pocket and going through the keys frantically. Yes, it would be suitable for containing the creature. It was abandoned, secure, and was old enough to be made of solid stuff, cinder blocks and bricks! It would be suitable, at least for now. Sherlock thrust the keys into the woman's hands, with the one for the front door exposed and now clutched within her forefingers.
"Mrs. Trevor, go unlock the front door and find the nearest classroom. I will help your husband get Victor inside." Sherlock instructed, pushing her in the right direction and watching momentarily as the woman clambered up the steps to follow her orders. Sherlock took a deep breath, approaching the car and wondering if any part of him was ready for a battle such as this. He was neither strong nor durable, and could break with any impact. Was it really smart to try to restrain a demon, especially one trapped within a strong young man such as this? Sherlock really had no choice, for he could see that the tear in the sheet was getting larger, now exposing the whole of the boy's shoulder, creeping up along towards his face. For some reason Sherlock knew they could not allow his face to emerge, they could not allow his eyes to gauge the situation. He was fighting blind, which may be the only advantage the living had over the creature. And so Sherlock yanked open the door of the car, pouncing upon the boy and restraining his legs in a tight, secure hold.
"Mr. Trevor, we'll get him inside the school! Help me carry him!" Sherlock demanded in a shout, trying to steady Victor's legs as they kicked against his strength.
"Of course!" the man agreed, sounding relived to be presented with an actual plan. The man abandoned his mission of restraining, letting Victor's exposed arm fall out of his grasp as he scrambled out of the driver's side door, come to assist Sherlock in heaving the young man's body through the parking lot.
"Father Holmes!" cried that disembodied voice from behind the sheet, distorted and inhuman. Sherlock paused for a moment, staring upon the boy who had now fallen completely still.
"Victor." He whispered in response. The boy laughed, heaving and contorting at strange angles so as to better demonstrate his humor.
"So good to hear you say my name." Victor cried in that deep, raspy voice.
"Don't let him distract you, Father. Come on, pull him out of there!" Mr. Trevor insisted, prompting Sherlock to give a rough yank to the boy's body, sliding him out of the car without any resistance at all. In fact, Victor was still laughing. All the way through the parking lot he was amused, with Sherlock's arms wrapped around his ankles and his father supporting his shoulders. Together they marched across the wet pavement, stumbling through the darkness with the weight of their load and heaving the boy's limp body up the stairs into the school. Sherlock was thankful that Victor had fallen still, for this job was already difficult with his weight alone. If the boy had been struggling it would have been virtually impossible. As they passed into the musty hallways of the old school building they had much more trouble navigating, for the lights of the car had fallen away and were blocked by the walls. The electricity of the school had been cut long ago, and for now Sherlock was moving upon memory alone, trying to navigate the tile hallways that had not seen foot traffic in over ten years.
"In here George!" called Mrs. Trevor's voice, motioning for the two to heave the boy into the nearest available classroom. Sherlock knew that the rooms had locks, not very sturdy ones but enough to hold the boy for now. Through the lights of the windows he could make out Mrs. Trevor's silhouette, motioning for the men to bring the limp body inside and settle him on a desk chair. Victor allowed the men to position him onto the chair, lolling his head back and forth as they took a break and gave their trembling muscles time to relax.
"Have you got any rope?" Sherlock wondered hopefully, still trying to regain his breath as he looked down upon the captured creature.
"No, but there are belts around him that we could use." Mrs. Trevor suggested. Sherlock hesitated, not overly enthusiastic about having to let the sheet fall away. It was much easier to look upon a blank white fabric and see evil than it would be to stare into those blue eyes once again. When there was a human face in front of him, Sherlock had no choice but to feel pity. However they needed to restrain him, one way or another, and if using these belts and revealing his face was the only way from keeping him from harming others then it was what would have to be done.
"Alright then. Fasten his arms first, then his legs if you can." Sherlock instructed, standing guard over the boy, ready to pounce upon him if he should make a move. The Trevors obeyed, Mrs. Trevor trying to secure the boy while her husband began to unfasten the belts from around his body. The sheet began to slacken, his shoulder now wholly revealed and his chin beginning to poke through the fabric. As Victor began to breathe fresh air he began to smile, and with such a joyous mood his tongue suddenly loosened behind his lips.
"Is this your way of restraining me, Father?" Victor chuckled.
"It's our only choice!" Mr. Trevor insisted.
"Not you, swine!" The boy growled, smacking one of his loose arms across the man's back and sending him collapsing to the ground. Mrs. Trevor whimpered, applying more pressure to the boy's shoulders as the while trying to keep herself as far away as possible.
"What would you have me do instead?" Sherlock wondered, figuring that he was the only other Father within the room. Victor's smile broke away from the sheet, the brim of his nose now making an appearance as well. Mr. Trevor worked to secure his feet, contrary to Sherlock's instruction, though since he was already on the ground he figured he ought to make the best of it. Sherlock kept his hands behind his back, running his fingers along the rosary and staring at the face which was slowly being revealed. He was terrified for the final outcome, wondering why this demon was being so cooperative.
"I've got a lot of things I might have you do." The demon chuckled. "Poor Father Holmes, aging within his shell."
"Age is natural, Victor." Sherlock assured.
"I know what goes on inside of your head." the demon snarled. "I see what you really want in the world. What you've always wanted, but steered so far away from. Scared of your own ambitions, scared of what you might become. You're lucky, aren't you...lucky to have your wrinkles as an excuse."
"What do you mean?" Sherlock wondered weakly, curious as to what the demon might've seen inside of his head that he had missed. The boy was talking in riddles, creating an enigma that Sherlock was hopeless to solve. Had he some secret ambitions that he was so far unaware of?
"Don't want to end up like him, do you Father? You've seen what lust will do to a man, how the wings of an angel can so easily be clipped." Victor chuckled again. His cheekbones were now visible, so close now to letting the demon observe the room. Sherlock collected his courage, not daring to glance down upon the progress of Mr. Trevor. He surely hoped that the belts would be secure when it came time for the eyes to fall open.
"Demons often lie." Sherlock said confidently.
"That's only what weak men claim, to protect themselves from what they don't want to know!" Victor declared. "You're one of them, Father Holmes, a weak man, content with aging away from everything you've always wanted! Content with dying without knowing what it felt like, dying without satisfying your one, aching desire."
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Sherlock exclaimed truthfully, brandishing the cross now in front of his chest in an effort to still that forked tongue. Victor began to laugh, his smile opening to display browning teeth between those cracked, dry lips. He laughed as the sheet began to slide, now coming up and over his head to settle upon his hairline, masking him in a veil as his blue eyes pierced into his victim. Sherlock was paralyzed, staring within those eyes as if they had thrown him into a trance, seeing pure evil looking back. But what was more frightening was the hold the demon already had upon him, and how anxiously he wished to know! What was it, this secret of his, what did Victor know about Sherlock's desires that the old priest did not?
"What is it that I want?" Sherlock whispered at last, the rosary slackening from his fingers as the cross fell heavily. The chain caught around his fingers weakly, unintentionally, and for a moment his Faith hung in the balance. Victor's smile slackened, his eyes grew more serious, and for a moment there was silence. Even Mr. Trevor, who had succeeded in fastening one of the boy's ankles to the leg of the chair, paused his work to listen to the answer.
"The love of a man." Victor breathed. As soon as the words left his lips he pounced, using his available limbs to push his mother aside and catch his father off guard. All he needed was a moment; all he needed was that split second, the element of surprise. Sherlock wasn't prepared to fight him; he didn't even has his arms up as the boy came flying at him. Suddenly the Father's head was caught between two rough, clawed hands, the long and unkempt fingernails digging into his curls and nearly impaling his ears as they steadied his head upon his neck. He was helpless in that moment, all he could do was let out an exclamation as his lips were silenced quite effectively. It was a feeling that he had never experienced before, or rather a gesture that was completely foreign to him. It was the feeling of lips upon his own, another mouth taking the breath from his lungs and containing the words from his throat within their own. It was a foul tongue, scraping along the inside of his teeth, and hot breath as it forced its way into his wind pipe. It was a terrible feeling, an invasive feeling, an aggressive feeling, and as the boy was at last pulled off of his own Sherlock could only stumble away, wondering why anyone would voluntarily seek such a thing out. He felt lightheaded, his feet stumbling underneath him and his knees wobbling. The dark room was spinning, the demon was laughing, and his eyes were drooping heavily. There must have been poison in that breath; there must have been dark magic in those lips... Sherlock didn't hear anything more, though he could see in blinking, flashing shapes that the struggle continued. He was falling, falling though he couldn't remember hitting the ground. His consciousness left him before the impact, and before the darkness had taken on its appropriate shapes it suddenly consumed him.