It took a week to learn the Latin, though Sherlock may have been dragging his feet some while in an attempt to spare himself of the trouble which was yet to come. These past few nights had been rough for poor Hamish, and as Sherlock stagnated with his due response the poor child had taken down the curtains across his window and splintered the door throughout his powerful dreams. The nursery was becoming something more of a warzone, and this was even before the baby new of his abilities! What kind of child would he grow to be if he was able to control them to do his bidding? Might they accidentally raise a criminal, one who was not so used to getting denied? Sherlock knew that the time was approaching, especially since the scene was cleared of any unnecessary players. With Mary Watson still hiding in her parents' house it was safe to proceed with whatever plans he was hatching, in fact every day they wasted had the potential to be their last. It would be impossible to go about his preferred plan with that woman in the way, meaning that tonight may undoubtedly be the night. The exorcism was memorized to perfection, and while Sherlock now kept the book of demonology in his jacket at all times he wanted to be able to recite it line from line, just in case he was separated from his spell. For now the man had to prepare himself not for his most immediate actions, but also the consequence of those which were to come. He knew that tonight may amount to be the most eventful of his entire life, holding both love and Lucifer, though the aftermath had the potential to bring each attribute of his new life crashing down. Sherlock knew that whatever gifts this demon had granted would be expelled when he banished him back into the underworld, and the very temptation of this was undoubtedly why he had been gifted his youth in the first place! Sherlock found it difficult to so freely give away his new good looks, especially when he considered the divide it would put between himself and his newfound love interest. If this blessing wore away he would be left in the shriveled shell he had originated in, that wrinkled old man who had not a week left of life expectancy! He couldn't expect John Watson to love him in such a form, in fact he could hardly justify spending time with the Watsons as if nothing had changed at all! His life would have to be uprooted, and at what cost? Oh but one step at a time, one step at a time! For now the priest had to prepare for the tip of the ice burg before he dove into the dark, icy depths to examine the rest. He had to accustom himself with what he was going to do next, and in doing so he felt that he needed to become comfortable in a more vulnerable form. Sherlock stepped into his personal bathroom, the one inside of the rectory which was shielded with patterned curtains and secured with a lock on the door. He almost felt silly as he examined the room for weaknesses, though it made him feel better to know that not even the squirrels on the tree would be witnesses to his rather obscure actions. At first Sherlock examined his face under the electric light, feeling along the smooth ridges of his face and touching the perkiness of his lips. It was a strange thing to be staring at his reflection in the mirror, something he never focused on with too much concern in his priestly days. Admiring yourself was linked to the sin of pride and was not widely regarded within the church. In fact there were hardly any mirrors in the seminary at all! Priests were supposed to take their appearance as God's will and trust him to keep it presentable, and above all else they were not allowed to value their good looks as a part of their character or capabilities. Sherlock had always been blessed with beauty, though it had only been in these recent weeks that he had come to appreciate it. Perhaps this had been the help of John Watson, for as that man started to realize it, so too did the oblivious priest. John's admiring eyes and careful words had giving Sherlock the self confidence boost he had needed, and so today in the mirror he felt more radiant than he ever had before. Perhaps this was simply because he knew he was allowed to appreciate himself, for his mind had been separated by the strange rules of the seminary for some time now. Oh but besides that, besides the admiration of youth! Sherlock was here not to poke at his face but to undress, which sounded like a rather simple task that one might take for granted. Well of course the priest had taken showers before, though aside from that he had never been caught in his naked form, especially without water or steam to hide himself from even his own eyes. Sherlock had never been presented in front of an audience before, and if he truly wanted to take a large step in the direction of John Watson, well he would have to prepare himself for the humiliation that would have to come along with the pleasure which followed. He would have to prepare himself for an audience, and in that he had to make sure that he could stand for more than thirty seconds undressed in the open air. Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as his fingers found the first button of his shirt. Oh it was silly to be so afraid, for he had made sure he was alone and unwatched within this small bathroom! Though his intentions were to get his nerves out now, and so while his fingers were shaking he figured they might be still later tonight, if ever his intentions became reality. Slowly he worked his way down the button down shirt, revealing his glistening white chest to the mirror as he hastily worked the white collar away from his neck, setting it upon the porcelain sink and shimmying his arms out of the fabric which enclosed them. the priest's shirt fell to the floor all the white his wooden rosary remained about his neck, a small garment which he found nearly impossible to take off. It may be silly, though the weight of the cross against his now bare chest gave him some security to proceed the rest of the way. He felt as if he was being comforted by a God who did not yet understand his intentions, though nevertheless was there to support him along the way. Now would be the hardest part, in this bathroom and in that bedroom, the only obstacle that manifested in a solid, almost unbreakable fashion. His belt. Sherlock had spent much of his life fastening the thing tighter and tighter across his waist, so much so that the very idea of unfastening it and loosening the leather almost made him sick. It was the only definitive action he remembered from his interaction with Father James, the only motions that he could recite from memory. While he knew what followed next, it was more of a blur in his mind, perhaps his brain's way of shielding him from the trauma exact memory might produce. But the belt, the unclasping and unraveling of his small black belt inside of that office, well that memory was crystal clear. Even as his own fingers reached for the brass buckle he could almost see those aged hands reaching, and as he steadied his grip across the strap he could remember the words which were accompanying the motions.
"Our little secret." Sherlock whispered to himself, wincing as he took the clasp in his hand and ripped the belt from its restraints. Slowly he pulled the thing from its loops, allowing it to fall to the tile floor along with his shirt. The priest took a deep breath, telling himself that he was the only one, telling himself that his own hands did not mimic those of that twisted old man. He was in control, and he was alone. Carefully the priest discarded the rest of his clothes to the growing pile, pulling his legs from his trousers and finally standing naked in the bathroom but for the rosary which still hung undaunted across his chest. For a while the priest was unable to stare at his reflection, he was much too afraid to find any flaw within his reflection, anything which might be considered ugly in the eyes of John Watson. He did not like to see himself in this way, and as the cold air pressed upon his skin he felt more vulnerable than ever in his life. The slight breeze from the struggling air conditioner mimicked fingertips across his stomach, the touch of the floor froze his bare feet, and in such an awkward position he could hardly let his hands fall anywhere but at his sides! Sherlock struggled, though at last he opened his eyes once more to examine his reflection in the poor bathroom mirror. He looked upon himself, now in his most natural form, and wondered just how he might be presented to a different set of eyes. He grimaced at himself, though slowly leaned forward and settled his hands upon the sink, leaning the whole of his weight as he stared more intently at his face upon a set of bare shoulders. He was beginning to grow used to this situation, this nakedness within a setting of complete privacy. The open air did not sting as he expected it to, nor did any insects on the wall suddenly fall over and die at the shock of it. It confirmed his theory and strengthened his mindset knowing that he had the potential to stand unclothed within complete stagnation. Though he was still not sure of his most pressing question, one which may not be answered from his own perspective. Yes, he could be naked, but more importantly, could he be beautiful? 

The two men dined separately that night, though Sherlock found himself back within the church around eight o'clock, calling to take over Mary's position in the baby rotation. John needed a break with Hamish now more than ever, and Sherlock was ever so happy to use the boy as an excuse to get closer to his intended prey. Without the birth of Hamish their bond never would have grown so strong, and so it was ever so fitting that their final platonic hours should be filled with the normal nanny activities. John was changing Hamish upon the floor of the church while Sherlock heated the bottle on the stove top, watching the milk intently to make sure it never bubbled into a boil. It was a precise science, for he wanted Hamish to enjoy a warm bottle all the while making sure the poor baby didn't burn his mouth on the formula. While this night was beginning as a normal evening it seemed as though both men understood it would not end as such, and while they went about such duties as they would in any other situation, tonight they could not find a word of conversation to break the silence between them. For some reason Sherlock felt that tonight was the unofficial end to this chapter in their lives, and whether or not he was successful in his ambitions may not even have anything to do with what came next. Perhaps the demon would be unleashed with the morning sun whether they planned it or not? It felt like an ending, now more than ever, and perhaps John too felt that something was approaching the horizon in an unstoppable manner. Perhaps that was why he was also silent. Sherlock arrived back into the church to find Hamish in a clean diaper, looking quite indifferent as he stared towards the church ceiling with those large blue eyes, the most obvious trait that he had inherited from his true father. Sherlock had read somewhere that baby's eyes were commonly blue but will change in the coming weeks, and at first he had accredited the baby's irises to such a theory. It only made sense now that his eyes would not be changing away from that vibrant shade, that which had been passed along from Victor Trevor and his own shade of electric blue. Sherlock lingered closer to the pair, holding the warm bottle in his hands and looking down upon John with a soft though nervous expression. It was strange to see the man here in such a normal setting, the beginning of a night that may amount to be groundbreaking in both of their lives. He was beautiful, undeniably so, and for a moment Sherlock was lost for the proper introduction back into this scene. For a moment he wanted to stand there, he wanted to admire John when the man did not notice his staring, though his intentions were interrupted when John lifted his head and gave the priest one of his softest smiles.
"For Hamish?" the man assumed, holding out his hand for the warmed bottle. Sherlock blinked in response.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed at last, suddenly thrown from his thoughts and emerging back into the world of the conscious. John chuckled as the bottle was passed along; their fingers just brushing each other's as John reached and Sherlock withdrew. Hamish seemed very pleased to receive the bottle, for the boy began to coo with excitement to see it approaching his lips. Sherlock decided to rest nearer to the pair, and so as Hamish took his first sips of formula the priest settled himself onto the floor beside John, watching with the same fascination as Hamish's fingers struggled to grip upon the wide brim.
"Our little antichrist." John muttered, though despite the hesitation in his voice he seemed to find some amusement in the word. At the moment Hamish didn't seem much like a demon, in fact with his soft skin and his wide eyes he looked more like an angel than anything! Such a frightened creature, caught up in a world he did not yet understand.
"Not for much longer." Sherlock promised.
"Oh yes? You've memorized your Latin then?" John presumed, his words struggling to keep his expectations at bay. Sherlock could hear the hopefulness in his voice, the very anticipation that kept the priest along his original trajectory. He may be reaching too far when he expected John's cooperation, though it was moments like these that made him suspect he was not the only one harboring nearly impossible desires. Could it be that tonight would appeal to both of their interests, now when they decided to go against their Father?
"Yes, I believe I have. If Victor...if the demon gets out, I should be able to handle him." Sherlock agreed with a slight nod of his head.
"With due assistance of course." John added. "Father James specified that God's help will surely be needed."
"He'll be here." Sherlock agreed quickly. "I um...well I'll make sure of that."
"You have a plan?" John presumed.
"Yes I have." Sherlock murmured, feeling his cheeks begin to glow. It was not the time and place for this conversation, oh how could he expect to spell out his intentions if Hamish was sitting so innocently by! It was something of pity that stayed the priest's tongue, as he was much too afraid that little Hamish would pick up on some language he did not understand. Well of course he wouldn't understand a single word, though it felt wrong to seduce his father right before his little eyes. Sherlock would need to be more discreet about this topic, and so for now he remained quiet, hoping that John's brain was churning just as fast as his. The hours passed in minimal conversation, for John was rocking Hamish to sleep and the priest was sitting rather agitatedly on the leather couch, keeping his knees drawn closer and balancing his chin across the top. He felt more protected in this position, though half the reason he maintained it was due to his expectations of being more vulnerable than ever in the coming moments. This silence was beginning to bear down upon him like a weight, and before long the priest almost considered getting to his feet and leaving for the night. Perhaps he had misjudged John's attitude, maybe the man was giving him the silent treatment in an attempt to thwart his coming plans! Could it be that John wanted nothing to do with Sherlock's sinful extravaganza? Before long the clock had struck ten, and by now Sherlock's eyes were sagging and his head was rocking back and forth upon his shoulders, sometimes free falling off of his right shoulder and other times squishing into the leather couch in an attempt to find some stability. Exhaustion was overwhelming him, though it was John's voice which eventually dragged him back into the waking world. So often had he heard that voice in his dreams, though tonight even his sleepy brain could determine the reality of the words. John Watson was speaking to him, and he ought to be awake to hear it!
"Falling asleep so soon?" John chuckled as he finally got to his feet, carrying the quiet baby within his arms carefully so as not to wake him with any sudden movements. Sherlock blinked for a while, the weight of his exhaustion suddenly flinging away from his shoulders when he noticed John's hazel eyes staring so intently at him.
"Sorry...sorry just resting." Sherlock said abruptly, jumping to attention and scrambling almost hopelessly to his feet.
"It's ten o'clock, you're allowed to sleep if you want to." John chuckled. "But perhaps not on that silly couch."
"I could take the other, if you'd prefer." Sherlock assured quickly. "I should be here again, for Hamish of course."
"Of course." John agreed, his smile glistening with all the understanding in the world. Oh so maybe Sherlock wasn't the best at seduction, but that didn't make John any less competent in the subject. He seemed to know exactly what Sherlock was trying to say, and somehow he had a way of filling in the gaps where Sherlock's lips fell short. "But I feel bad letting you sleep on these couches again. Why don't you join me upstairs? There's been a recent vacancy."
"John..." Sherlock whispered, beginning to form a protest before he realized that this was the exact invitation he had been waiting for. It would be silly to dispute such a thing, even if most of his common sense debated it! Some part of his mind had expected their actions to be shared upon the couches, a place of common ground that had not yet been used by Mary Watson. It would make Sherlock feel a bit more comfortable if he was not tangled within that woman's bedsheets, though he found his head nodding in agreement all the same.
"Yes, yes alright." Sherlock agreed at last, all the while he felt the color begin to flush into his cheeks and his knees lose most all of their natural support. The nerves were taking over, though tonight he felt as though it was a natural and necessary process. He was going to be a little bit nervous; perhaps it was better to get it all out now within the official invitation. John gave him another smile but was silent, finally beginning the way up the staircase and allowing the priest to follow in his wake. The last thing John did before ascending was brush his fingers across the wall, finding and flipping the lights for the downstairs church, momentarily leaving the three in darkness. John proceeded up the steps until he found another switch, this time illuminating only the soft orange light which was positioned at the top of the staircase, one designed to make sure no one found themselves in complete darkness while embarking between floors. It was light enough to ascend by, though its illuminance was limited on the balcony itself, so much so that Sherlock almost had trouble finding his way around the small balcony. Perhaps this had been a choice of John's, oh but he hadn't even thought of that! Who would consider such trivial details like lighting when preparing for a night of passion? For a moment Sherlock lingered next to the mattress, one which seemed a bit difficult to descend onto. He had never been invited onto the thing; he had only seen it from different angles, though he knew which side he would be expected to lay on. He had seen Mary Watson many times on her expected side, the one which was to be occupied now not only by John's wife but his lover as well. Sherlock took a deep breath, touching his finger across his belt buckle in some hesitation as he stared upon the mattress with deep distrust. He had such hesitations for taking Mary's spot, not only in her bed but also in her husband's heart! Could he disrespect the memory of that woman even in the wake of her own missteps?
"I'll just be a moment." John promised, holding Hamish in one hand and clicking on the lamp inside of the nursery, filling the room with a soft glow while Sherlock stood alone in his own pocket of darkness. The priest hesitated, though finally he decided he could not make himself comfortable without a more direct invitation. He felt as if there were eyes on him in this moment, not only from God, not only from the Devil, but from Mary Watson as well. The woman was probably asleep, and in her dreams she watched her competition as he lingered near her bedside, still so afraid to take her place. And so he decided to go to the window, figuring there was more to be seen outside than in. Slowly Sherlock proceeded to the glass, warm and fogged from the springtime humidity, and gazed into the illuminated parking lot below. The street lights were on tonight, throwing beams of electric light onto the pavement and showing each of the cracks and divots that had riddled the parking lot over the less fortunate years. From this angle Sherlock could see the silent rectory, its lights extinguished and its door locked for the evening. And he could see the school, sitting in its normal and expected silence. If he didn't know what lurked inside he would never have suspected it to be occupied, as he never gave Victor Trevor the privilege of a reading light. Perhaps hiding the demon from the Watsons was his most dire mistake, considering the damage it had done during their obliviousness. If only Mary had understood there was a shapeshifter upon the property, then she would undoubtedly have picked up upon its deceit! Any sort of logic was more probable than the idea that Sherlock would want to sleep with her, even the prospect of a demon to a nonbeliever. Sherlock watched the outside world for a while, though when he noticed motion in the reflection of the dark glass he shifted his gaze, staring at the approaching man who was silhouetted now against the nursery lamp. He was moving ever closer, the shadow of John Watson, and as Sherlock concentrated upon the approaching figure he failed to notice the parking lot grow dim. As the nursery light was obstructed the street lights blinked, threatening to go out. It was a promising sign, though all together ignored by the now preoccupied priest.