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. 

There was shouting from the opposite room, emitting from under the door and making Sherlock rather nervous to get his turn. In his hands he clutched the demonology book, though he dare not show it to the bishop unless he was taken seriously upon his entry. It was no secret that the two didn't get along; in fact they had never seen eye to eye for as long as Sherlock had been under the bishop's domain. Perhaps it was the fact that Sherlock was so popular with the parishioners, that they found him easily approachable and pleasant to be around. It wasn't his fault that the bishop acted as if he was impaled in a particular place for the whole of his lifetime. Even as Sherlock sat within the small waiting room he knew that his questions would not be answered, though it was worth a try if he was going to make any moves towards the demon which infected the Trevor boy. It was his duty now, to protect the boy at all costs. He was vulnerable, was he not? A tortured soul, suffering either from his own malfunctions or perhaps from an external source. Either way Sherlock had been tasked to save him, and it would be a terrible waste if he allowed the case to go unsolved and the victim to go unprotected. He had to try everything, and usually doing anything required getting guidance from the man who should know all of the answers. That is, if he could ever stop sneering. When at long last the bishop's current guest was given permission to leave, what turned into a frantic old nun whose face had grown to be a dark, enraged crimson, Sherlock was called inside. He allowed the nun to storm out, pushing on a coat rack to try to have at least part of the last laugh. When the thing didn't budge, however, the woman merely slammed through the door and continued her way out of the holy office building. Sherlock hesitated outside of the door, already feeling the hostile energy dripping through the wood. He took a deep breath, his stomach pressing upon his tightly drawn belt, and with a leap of faith he turned the knob and stepped inside.
"Bishop Moran, very good to see you." Sherlock exclaimed, bowing and getting a very good glimpse of the bishop's holy carpet, the same drab texture that one might find in any other office building in the world. The one thing that brought Sherlock pleasure was the fact that the bishop, who should be ranking higher than all of them, was in fact suffering in worst conditions than most. Since the diocese was losing money at a rapid rate, the bishop's unnecessary glamor had been stripped away to save the churches (which didn't work out so well, after all) and left him working like any other nine to five personnel. It was, in all honestly, a joy to watch him suffer.
"Father Holmes, always such a pleasure." The bishop sighed. "Close the door." Sherlock obeyed, easing the door shut behind him and finding his way to one of the chairs set up for guests. He sat down rather nervously, staring at the old bishop across from the organized and fairly empty desk that sat between them. Bishop Moran was the head of the diocese in their area, which was usually a very important role in the community, that is if the community cared about religion at all. Now that the funding was down and the participation in the toilet, the bishop was only a glorified priest who sat in an office instead of a rectory, wearing a priest's collar overtop of any other cheap black suit that the average worker would wear. His face was worn with the years of his stress, managing money more than religion, and what was left of his hair was always covered under an aged fedora. He was unyieldingly grumpy, in fact so much so that he made Sherlock looked generally reasonable. There was some pride in that, but also much intimidation. Even now the ever confident priest's hands shook, trying to conceal the book that might give away his position before he had a chance to explain himself.
"What brings you to my office today?" asked Moran, leaning back in his chair and tipping the brim of his hat back so that he could maintain his intimidating eye contact.
"Sir, as you know I have been keeping in contact with my parishioners, and one of them approached me with a curious case." Sherlock began. "They claim that their son has been acting irrationally, and...well they accredit it to a demon possession."
"Certainly not." Moran sighed, spinning slightly in his chair and shaking his head in disagreement.
"That's what I figured as well. Demon possessions are most always an issue of mental health, though they convinced me to come and meet the boy myself. He was quite disturbed, Bishop. He had scratched his walls in claws of three, killed the family cat, and...well he claims that he was trying to seduce me." Sherlock admitted at last. The bishop let out a laugh, this time completing a full circle in his rotating chair before settling his eyes upon Sherlock at last. The priest's face had now grown red, worried that he had made an utter fool of himself once again.
"Seduce you? Then I'd say it has to be a problem of the mind!" Moran laughed, to which Sherlock barred his teeth and was silent. Certainly he was more beautiful than Moran, even at this stage of their lives! He had started off better looking and aged at a much better rate, so how dare that wrinkled old bishop insult him? Besides, Moran must be pushing seventy by now, a wrinkled prune if ever there was one!
"Bishop Moran, the boy is deeply disturbed. I was wondering if there was a way to get a higher power involved, perhaps a representative from the diocese to examine his state." Sherlock admitted at last, trying to ignore that last comment.
"What proof do you have that it's worth my time? Other than your personal opinion? Have you any evidence that would prove the Devil's work?" Moran wondered.
"I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for. I figured the violence and the irrational behavior is justified for at least a second glance." Sherlock pointed out, to which the Bishop nodded and was silent. Sherlock dropped his gaze back to the book; wondering if now would be a good time to introduce his studying.
"I've found many ways of exorcism within this book." He added quickly, holding up the volume so that the Bishop could glance over the title.
"A book of fairytales?" the man presumed.
"Of course not! A book of faith, and science." Sherlock defended starkly, his eyes narrowing as he reconsidered the battle he was fighting. "Bishop, do you believe in demons?" he asked at last.
"Father Holmes, I find it highly improbable that the Devil has accomplices on this earth." The Bishop admitted at last.
"But it's written in the Bible, cited in literature!" Sherlock defended at last.
"There are ways to interpret the Bible that are differentiating, Father. I believe that these fallen angels are contained in Hell, unable to show their face lest they be destroyed by the real powers of our world. God watches over us, and protects us from these lesser minions of Satan." Bishop Moran insisted. Sherlock sat for a moment, dumbfounded by the Bishops' lack of true belief. Was it possible that he was now helpless within his situation, facing the head of the church that wouldn't believe even what the Bible had written?
"Do you have any contacts who share my way of thinking?" Sherlock asked at last, figuring it was no use trying to convince this Bishop not only to deal with a demon, but to believe in them as well. The man sighed, fingering through a rolodex and glancing lazily at some of the names listed.
"I've only met one man who seemed acquainted with the art of demonology, but he ended up with excommunication and a prison sentence." Bishop Moran admitted at last, sighing as if this was more of an inconvenience than a relief.
"Had this anything to do with his studies?" Sherlock asked anxiously, worried now that he would find himself with the same charges if he lingered too much into the works of the Devil. The Bishop laughed, shaking his head doubtfully and kicking his feet together under the desk.
"No, Father. He got caught up in some trouble with children; in fact I doubt he's even still alive." The Bishop admitted in regret. Sherlock's face began to pale, wondering if there could be any connection between his old Catholic school teacher and this demon expert. Suddenly his hands began to shake, his head began to hurt, and he remembered the words of that man again inside of his ears, he could see that demented smile...Sherlock closed his eyes in a long, exaggerated blink, feeling that the room had dropped many degrees in the time that he hesitated.
"What was his name?" Sherlock managed. Bishop Moran hummed for a moment, as if the name was escaping him at the moment. All the while Sherlock sat in agony, wondering if this mission was going to make him confront not only the demons inside of Victor Trevor, but the demons which had haunted his own past.
"Father James, I believe." The man declared at last, snapping his fingers through the air in self-congratulation. Sherlock winced, crossing his hands instinctively around his waist and locking his fingers into the belt loops. The Bishop's eyes widened in curiosity, finding this to be a strange reaction to a simple name. For a moment the man did the math in his head, counting the years down from Sherlock's supposed age all the way towards the excommunicated priest's final days.
"Father Holmes, dare I ask, but where was it you went to school as a child?" Bishop Moran wondered. Sherlock got to his feet hastily, catching the book just before it fell from his knees. If there ever was a time to excuse himself, this would be it.
"I'm sorry Sir, but I just remembered an important meeting I have scheduled." Sherlock exclaimed at last, trying to play it off like there was anyone in this town more important than the man he was meeting with now. Bishop Moran looked rather disappointed, as if he was proud to have rattled Sherlock's bones and was hoping to continue with the torment. Nevertheless, what could he do except approve?
"Certainly, Father. But remember, I am still looking for reassignments for you. Do not get too friendly with the new neighbors. You have the potential to be relocated any day." The Bishop warned.
"Yes sir, I understand." Sherlock agreed, dropping into a makeshift bow and leaving with a quick jolt, shutting the door behind him so that the Bishop would not witness the desperate dash he made for the elevator.