John POV: Even after his wife's final declaration the words didn't make much sense, and as she ran down the wooden stairs John was just watching her, holding onto his child and listening to the screams of his wife intermix with the everlasting distress of the poor baby. Still her announcement was processing, though as the time ticked and her footsteps disappeared out of the front door of the church it began to sink farther into his brain. The son of a priest, she claimed. The son of a priest. Well, he only knew one priest around here. Slowly John's attention shifted onto Father Holmes, the man standing just about as stock still as one who had been sharing a quick glance with Medusa. His skin, though already pale, had turned sickly, and for a moment neither man could find a word to say. Sherlock's eyes managed to focus upon John's, and within them he recognized the same sort of shock and fear that was resonating within his own mind. Though it must be different, there must be a sense of guilt, a sense of disgust, buried deeper inside of that twisted man's mind! If it was not for Hamish still cradled within his hands John might have immediately gone for the priest's neck.
"So, that makes it interesting, doesn't it?" John clarified at last, the only words he could manage to say without blowing the top of his skull right off of his head. The priest looked dumbfounded, at last holding his hands upon his chest and gasping for air, seeming to be searching for the correct response.
"I...I never, I couldn't, I wouldn't!" he exclaimed at last, each denial blurring into the next and making the entire statement sound riddled with falsehoods and fabrications. John hesitated, digging his fingernails rather involuntarily into this child within his arms, one which grew to look more and more indistinguishable by the day. And whose child was it, really?
"All that about morals, all that about God. Who's side are you really on, Sherlock, if not your own?" John scoffed, huffing his disappointment and staring the priest up and down with the proper amount of force. Sherlock was trembling, though there seemed to be a more dedicated side to his utmost emotions. He was ready to fight, even when trapped within a corner.
"I didn't sleep with your wife!" Sherlock defended at last, pouncing upon the man and grasping his shoulders with utmost urgency.
"What proof do you have, with your word against Mary's?" John growled, trying to not to stare too deeply into the transfixing eyes of the man he so desperately wanted to believe. He felt the familiar grip of his priest digging into his shoulder blades, clinging for dear life and searching desperately for an ounce of forgiveness and understanding.
"I've not told you everything, not shown you everything!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Don't go pulling that one now. You can't just seduce me and expect to get away with it." John growled.
"Not...not that! John, no. There's something here, there's a demon on the grounds of the church. He's responsible, he must be responsible! He's manipulative, he could take different forms, speak in different voices!!" Sherlock insisted, his complex eyes now filling with tears of desperation. John's brain couldn't take all of that in at once; he couldn't entirely process what he thought he was hearing. There was no such thing as demons, of that he had once been sure! How dare Sherlock speak of such ridiculous things, now when he most needed a scapegoat! Though as John examined the options, as he measured each of these obscure possibilities against each other, well he was beginning to see a pattern. Each one was impossible in its own right. Somewhere deep inside he knew that Sherlock was innocent of this charge, somehow he knew that the priest would never sleep with his wife! If Sherlock could deny John's advances, those they both knew he wanted, then how could he agree to Mary? He was a complicated creature, a struggling one at best, and in John's heart he realized that beyond that confusion there was an innocence, one that would not be so easily tempted even in the most desperate of situations. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, those windows that he so often chose to avoid, and he saw what he could only describe as utmost truth. John's shoulders relaxed almost involuntarily, and for a moment he stood breathing heavily, still holding Hamish tightly against his chest and squeezing out the wailing cries he still felt were necessary. Ever since the holy water had been poured he was crying, by now his tear ducts had dried and the poor baby was just gasping at air.
"A demon?" John clarified at last, hesitating to wholly agree to this new plan. So perhaps there hadn't been an affair between his wife and neighbor, but that didn't ultimately prove the counterargument! How could they be a creature from hell within this church without his knowing about it?
"I can't imagine what his plan is...I couldn't dream of it." Sherlock admitted at last, finally releasing John's shoulders to take a quick turn across the balcony, staring off of the edge towards Mary had last been seen. "And your wife will know more than I."
"Swear to me, Sherlock." John demanded, at last settling Hamish down on the mattress far enough from the shards of glass so that he could have a one on one conversation with his new suspect. The priest gripped onto the railing for a moment, summoning the necessary strength to look back into the eyes of this jealous husband. His curly head was bent, revealing his white neck outstretched from the visible white collar of his shirt. A collar that he had lived by, one that he respected. Sherlock Holmes was not so easily tempted, especially not at the hands of a woman. John knew it in his heart; he remembered the words nearly coming out of Sherlock's mouth. He wasn't interested in the other half of humanity; in fact he seemed only interested in one person in particular. And that interest, that loyalty and love, was what made him turn around in the end. His shoes shuffled upon the hardwood floors though his face was stiff in resolve, showing a face of bare truthfulness that could not be so easily disputed. John clenched his fists, trying to summon at least some of the anger that had been flaring red hot a moment ago. Though when Sherlock was so vulnerable, when he was so fragile, it was hard to feel anything other than admiration.
"I swear to you, John, swear on the Bible, on the Lord...on your child. I did not have any relations with your wife, sexual or otherwise!" the priest declared, pressing his open palm against his heart as if to take it within his fingers and present it as collateral. John faltered for a moment, looking within the priest's eyes and seeing the truth that he could respect, a truth that could not so easily be denied. John nodded his head, figuring that one step had been taken in the right direction. The end result would be some version of the truth, though they were so far now that John could hardly see what he was fighting towards. The newest question remained within his mind; one that spurred off of Sherlock's convincing confession. If the priest hadn't slept with Mary, then what made the woman so sure that he had?
"Sherlock, what were you talking about before? What about a demon? Was he the one who burned that bowl downstairs?" John clarified anxiously, taking a step towards the priest which was countered on the other end with a graceful step back. Perhaps now was not the time for closeness, though with every passing moment John began to feel more and more exposed. He longed to be closer to the man, within the span of his breath, within the heat of his body. If there was a demon lurking about then the shadows offered refuge for the evil, a loosed creature that could pounce when his back was turned.
"John, I feel as though I have involved your family in a plot I could not have predicted." Sherlock admitted at last, his voice heavy with worry as his eyes wandered away from John and back towards his godchild, the baby he loved as his own. Though his eyes were slanted, his face sagging with worry and deep concern.
"That's my baby?" John clarified, matching Sherlock's stare upon the child who had finally shut his mouth and was cooing quietly towards the ceiling. "That's mine, right?"
"I cannot be sure." Sherlock admitted at last, lunging upon the child and scooping him up into his arms. The priest held Hamish up by the armpits, steadying him in the air and examining every inch of his face. "I don't know." He said again, studying the child as if he was looking for something specific. John quivered where he stood, staring at the priest and looking for anything sort of explanation that would lead them closer to the truth, or at least closer to the same page!
"Sherlock, can you please explain to me what the issue is?" John pleaded, folding his arms over his chest and shivering as if he had caught a chill. The priest sighed, cradling Hamish within his arms once more with a renewed gentleness, as if even he couldn't distrust the child while he was so quiet and innocent. Surely he was born into this mess, quite literally.
"The issue is there is a demon here, a demon locked in the schoolhouse. If your wife thinks she slept with me I have no doubt it was him, wearing a different face as he often does. And if this has occurred, and if this child I'm holding is the direct spawn of Victor Trevor, then I cannot imagine his purpose or ultimate plot." Sherlock admitted at last.
"What do you mean demon? Like...like one of those little red men you see on cartoons?" John clarified nervously.
"I mean an influence, a possession. There's a farm boy bound in belts in one of the classrooms, delivered to me by his desperate parents. He's been overtaken by an entity, a demonic one at that." Sherlock muttered. John clenching his fingers to the brim of his nose, shuttering as he tried to comprehend every word just delivered so casually. Could there be truth in this ludicrous story, one that delved farther than just ghosts, but now into Heaven and Hell?
"What is Hamish then, some sort of antichrist?" John demanded, gesturing to his son who sat so innocently within the priest's arms. He didn't look like the spawn of Satan; he looked just like a regular child! What evidence did Sherlock have to prove he was involved in any of this, when Mary could just be on some hallucinogenic drug and Hamish be biologically the spawn of his parents?
"John, I'll tell you answers as they come to me! As of now that is all I know! We need Mary to come back, we need her story!" Sherlock demanded, cursing mildly under his breath as he paced across the balcony's floor space. John waited impatiently, his curiosity rising like hot steam and slowly filling the whole of his brain. He didn't want to wait around for answers, even if they were answers the priest couldn't supply him with! There had to be an answer, there had to be some explanation that would be easier to swallow!
"Can you take me to see this demon?" John suggested, wanting to glance upon the creature with his own eyes to validate the priest's story. For a moment Sherlock hesitated, as if he was considering that question deeply in his head.
"No." he said at last. "No, I don't want you exposed to his influence. You'll have to trust me on this one, John, like you have before."
"You think he'll try to possess me?" John clarified nervously, scanning the room once more for any uninvited guests.
"No, I think he'll try to gain your trust. He's manipulative, and if you don't know exactly what you're fighting it's easy to fall under his spell. It's happened to me....many times." The priest admitted grimly.
"You're a priest, why don't you just say some prayers and make him go away?" John demanded, as if it really was that easy to banish the souls of the undead. Sherlock gave him a quick smile, though the priest seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, wandering farther and farther away from John's unintelligent questioning.
"I'm not licensed." The man admitted at last. "I cannot perform an exorcism."
"Well then find someone who can! Surely someone can tell you what to do?" John insisted, finding it rather silly to be minding the church's rules at a time of such dire crisis. Surely Sherlock could ignore regulation long enough to free them of this everlasting pestilence? This question seemed to erupt a newfound concern within the priest, and for a moment his hands gripped towards his stomach, his fingers clenching as if he was trying to fight an urge that had become almost reactionary. John had noticed it before, the way he tugged at his belt when he was upset with a particular memory... Finally Sherlock sunk into one of the armchairs which had been lugged up into the balcony, pulling his knees to his chest and staring blankly down upon the hardwood. John didn't even have to question what was concerning him; certainly it spanned all the way back to his school years, though he could not imagine the connection between that cruel Father James and this demonic situation they were now facing.
"I asked the Bishop the same question, before I realized he didn't believe a word I said." the priest admitted starkly. "There's only one expert on demonology within the diocese."
"It's him?" John clarified nervously, walking slowly up towards the priest and sinking onto his knee by his side. Sherlock's eyes were wide, unblinking and straining at the spot he had first settled them upon. From what John could tell from this angle they were beginning to fill with tears, as if the man was suddenly realizing what sort of pressure this situation had placed upon him.
"I cannot go to him, John. I cannot look at him again." the priest declared quietly. "Rotting in a prison cell, with the very hands which..."
"Don't think about it." John declared, catching Sherlock's hand as it began to writhe upon his knee, clutching it closer as if to protect himself from any ghostly arms which were weaving their way through his blockade. John's fingers clutched onto Sherlock's palm, steadying the man and finally calling him back to reality with a soft squeeze. For a moment the priest continued to shutter, though finally his fingers came alive, slowly curling across the back of John's hand with a weak, stuttering strength.
"Not all hands are used for evil." John promised in as soft a voice as he could manage, nearly pressing his chest against the arm of the chair in an attempt to get as close as he could manage to the trembling priest.
"He's our only hope for answers, this isn't...this isn't something we can find on the Google." Sherlock whispered. John winced at his old man talk, the only remnants of his sudden change, the only memory still left of his ancient form.
"I can go if you'd like." John offered. "I can go in your place."
"You wouldn't know what to say." Sherlock whimpered. "It has to be me."
"I'll go with you, then. What man would I be to make you face your demons alone?" John insisted.
"Poor choice of words." Sherlock whispered, though a smile flickered upon his lips before falling back into its usual orientation. John merely smiled, trying to bring some life to the pale, sickly complexion of his friend. Sherlock looked rattled to the core, as if the very memory of Father James had forced upon him a fresh wave of trauma and horrors. He turned Sherlock's hand over in his own, admiring the lines on the man's palm and the bends in each one of his knuckles. The priest was silent as John hummed his admiration, and for a moment they sat within the other's proximity in a calm stillness, appreciating the company and the silence that they felt comfortable within. 

ConsideringSherlock could hardly sit still within his seat it was John's task to drive,though he had to admit that he was getting clammier as they approached thecement walls of the prison. Their appointment had been booked abruptly, thoughthe prison warden seemed to understand that they had some urgent business toattend to, even without their specifically detailing their troubles. FatherJames was kept in the local penitentiary, one which was constructed for thecontainment of nonviolent prisoners like himself. There were no murdererswithin the local prison, no one who had pulled a trigger. These were all thesame caliber criminals as the priest, cowardly men, twisted men, half belongingin prison and half belonging in a mental ward. John didn't like the look of theplace as it rose into their horizon, perched atop of a hill and stationedagainst the afternoon sun like a deep, disturbing shadow. Sherlock stared uponit with distrust, the man sinking deeper down into his seat until only his headand shoulders could be seen over top of the dashboard. It was as if he wasshrinking back into his perspective from those days, reducing his size until hewas staring upon the world like that innocent eight year old, the one who methis teacher within his office with all the confidence and trust in the world.John reached his hand over the console, waving it within range of Sherlock totake if he wanted a trusting hand to hold. It was no surprise when John felthis fingers being clutched, and before long his hand was enveloped within bothof Sherlock's, held closely like one might a struggling bird. John smiledsoftly to himself, though neither spoke. Slowly Sherlock edged himself backinto a normal sitting position, keeping his eyes down upon his shoes and tryingto avoid the prison as it neared ever closer. He tried not to think of everyoneinside of it, all of the men who were facing the same charges as his attacker.John drove the car one handed all the way to the entrance of the prison,entering through a traffic stop and a large gate which separated the barbedwire fence from the inside world. They showed their IDs and were allowed toproceed to the visitor's parking lot, where both men stumbled out onto thepavement into the almost mocking sunshine. For some reason this blinding lightwas nearly unbearable, as if the world was producing its most pleasant day indirect spite towards their dark and gloomy moods. This wasn't even John'strauma and he was still afraid, still with that irrational fear of beingadmitted into a prison and never being allowed back out. Besides, inside ofthose walls was the only thing which made poor Father Holmes afraid. This manmay very well face off with demons in his free time, and yet this fifty yearold memory was enough to throw him to his knees! Anything so vile made John'sskin crawl, and it was all he could do but clutch to Sherlock's arm and leadthem both with reluctant steps towards the entrance to the prison. It was ableak building, made entirely of cinder blocks in a strange rectangularfashion. The roof was flat at the top of nearly three stories, and the entirebuilding was surrounded with a thick fence topped with barbed wire, with watchtowers scattered about the perimeter. John could feel the eyes of the guards ashe walked towards the front door, whether through binoculars or over thecameras which were pointing in every direction throughout the parking lot.Theirs was not the only car present, and so it wasn't as if this prison was notexpecting guests! Either way it was not a warm welcome, and as they passedthrough multiple checkpoints it felt as if they were being led to their ownsentences, rather than to a visitor's conference room! The halls were long andwhite, separated with gray gates which protected the separate corridors fromeach other. While the prison was illuminated brightly it still felt dark, as ifthere was a shadow hanging about the walls that could not so easily beextinguished. The two were being led down a hall lined with plain, windowless doors,undeniably a space for meetings just like the ones they were about to have.Nevertheless John felt as though there was a criminal perched behind each oneof them, ready to pounce when he was least expecting it! And considering thelikes of criminals they kept here, well what would happen if they got theirhands on him would not be entirely pleasant. 

"Here to see a fellow Father?" the guard chuckled, noticing the collar prodding from Sherlock's shirt. The priest's hand clutched even tighter into John's, having been clasped within the familiar fingers throughout the whole of their walk through the prison. It was reassuring to John to be some sort of safety net, a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on whenever needed. The very fact that Sherlock trusted him in this way, not only with his investigation but also with his past fears, was enough to confirm a certain kind of love. Perhaps Sherlock had never kissed him, nor ever would, though this little touch of intimacy was enough to open his heart in a new way, a passionate way. A way which would never disrespect his God, all while keeping John close as he possibly could. Finally they were led to one of the farthest rooms, one which had a typical door like the one found on their church's bathroom. John was half expecting to have been led across a moat and into a locked tower, or perhaps through iron bars into the very cell that the priest was occupying. To be led to such a typical place was almost disappointing, as if this situation was not being taken seriously enough by their hosts.
"You'll find him in there." The guard assured, patting on the door but staying quite fixed in the hallway.
"You're not coming inside?" Sherlock clarified anxiously. "What if...what if he jumps us?"
"Then it would be a medical miracle." The guard chuckled. "That man hasn't taken a step in ten years, I'd be surprised if he could look you in the eyes for more than thirty seconds."
"Is he paralyzed?" John wondered a bit hopefully.
"No, he's just ninety." The guard sighed. "Oldest one in the whole prison."
"What a shame." Sherlock whispered.
"No, we treat him alright." The guard assured.
"What a shame he's still alive." Sherlock finished, bringing his eyes to meet the guard's with all the vileness that could be summoned within his usually docile eyes. "He should've died the day he turned his eyes towards children like me."
"Like you, sir?" the guard muttered in some doubt.
"I'm older than I look." Sherlock promised, straightening his posture and clutching onto John's hand with unexpected urgency. "Let me see him."
"Alright then, but I'll remind you that we're watching and listening through cameras. Don't touch the prisoner, don't give him anything and don't receive anything from him. He's handcuffed, but either way I'm sure you'll find he's no trouble." The guard assured, pushing open the door and waving the two into the dark, secluded interrogation room.