"Molly must be asleep by now; it's been about an hour." John guessed, checking the clock on his phone before pushing it away carelessly.
"I can only assume. I hope she is a deep sleeper, I would hate to wake her up with our meaningless conversations." Sherlock muttered, sipping the last bit of coffee from the bottom of his mug.
"I don't find our conversations meaningless, quite the opposite actually." John admitted. Sherlock just laughed in a sort of relieved way, even if he thought John was just trying to but his self-consciousness at ease.
"Well then, maybe they're not, who knows?" he wondered. "I don't like talking just to mask silence."
"What are conversations that interest you then?" John asked curiously, his eyes glowing bright even in this dimly lit living room. Sherlock just shrugged, setting his cup back onto the coffee table and hugging his knees to his chest.
"Oh, I don't know. I like those conversations where you just talk and talk, where you just admit things dispute the consequences." Sherlock admitted. John just laughed, nodding in agreement while his cheeks turned a different hue, as if something about admitting things disturbed him.
"Yes I agree, those late night chats. Who have you talked like that to?" John asked. Sherlock tried to think for a moment, but really only one name ever came up.
"Victor." He admitted. "Victor knew everything about me."
"Well that's because you were in love. How long were you two together?" John asked, trying to keep his tone casual while his eyes flicked nervously around the room.
"About two years." Sherlock said regretfully. "I only wish I knew more about him so that I could've prevented his death, maybe talked some sense into him."
"If he were still alive do you think you would still be together?" John asked curiously. Sherlock looked up at him quickly, not only had that question startled him but the very fact that he didn't know the answer startled him more. Just when he thought he had pondered everything about Victor Trevor, here was another question sprouted from the brain of another beautiful man.
"I'm not sure, I haven't thought about that." Sherlock admitted, leaning his right shoulder against the couch and gazing at John through the multicolored light of the television.
"If he had continued down that path I think you would've found him rather incompatible." John guessed, sounding a bit hopeful.
"And what do you know about my taste in men? Maybe I find dark magic...attractive?" Sherlock said in all seriousness, just to try to scare John a little bit. Of course there was nothing attractive about dark magic and necromancy, but John didn't know that, at least not yet. John looked up at him with a rather nervous look, as if trying to figure out if he were lying or not. But Sherlock had perfected his poker face over the years, and John's fears weren't subsided just by observing Sherlock's face.
"Well I mean, I guess it's whatever you're into...I'm not going to judge." John admitted nervously, avoiding Sherlock's eyes at all costs. But finally Sherlock just let himself laugh, giggling to himself quietly while John tried to figure out just what he found so funny.
"Oh so you were lying?" John clarified, sounding annoyed yet relieved.
"Well of course I was! As someone who wallows in death their whole life I hardly find dark magic acceptable, much less attractive." Sherlock assured. John took a deep breath of relief, nodding a little bit with a rather small smile.
"Good, I kind of thought you were crazy for a moment there." He admitted heavily.
"Well no one said I was sane." Sherlock shrugged, waving his white hand through the air carelessly.
"That's a matter of opinion I suppose." John decided, his brown eyes focusing on Sherlock once more, focusing with a glare that refused to subside.
"What do you think of my sanity, Mr. Watson? Surely a man who walks in the paths of the dead can't be altogether there?" Sherlock wondered curiously, his eyes sparkling in an almost flirtatious manner. John just shrugged, a small smile appearing on his lips dispute there being no reason to smile.
"I think that every man is different in his own ways, and you are no exception. Sanity isn't a true form of the human brain; it's what's considered normal. If your mind works a little bit differently than someone else's then you are to be considered insane, maybe because you can just think broader than the masses." John guessed. Sherlock could only laugh, shaking his head a little bit in awe.
"The wisdom of a doctor, truly remarkable." Sherlock admitted with a smile.
"I don't think I'm that remarkable." John defended. Sherlock looked at him with some pity, not because he thought John wasn't spectacular but because John surely couldn't realize just how spectacular he was.
"Well then maybe you should take a moment to look at yourself through my eyes." Sherlock suggested. John just raised an eyebrow in curiosity, as if he were wondering just what that meant.
"I could be wrong; Sherlock, but I might consider that as a sort of pick up line." John decided, laughing a little bit while his cheeks flushed.
"I hate to correct you then." Sherlock muttered. John's eyes studied him for a moment, and Sherlock watched him just as intensely. For a moment then it didn't seem to matter who they were or whether or not one of them wore a ring on their finger, for just that brief second as they observed the other they seemed to be somewhat compatible, somewhat united. Sherlock had the strangest urge to ease himself closer to John, he wanted to be with him in a way he knew he shouldn't. There was a strange energy radiating off of the two of them in the lamp lit darkness, but nothing became of it that night. No matter how personal their conversations became or how long their eyes were focused on one another, they didn't make any sort of move to initiate anything. That was for the best, of course, but now John wasn't just repressing an invading soul he was also repressing thoughts, feelings which he couldn't explain. Maybe it was just the caffeine pumping through their veins, or possibly the darkness taking its final toll on their mental states. Or, quite possibly, it was simply the act of repressing that made them more and more desperate for the other. Maybe it was there mere consideration that there were undesired feelings that sparked more and more temptation. And yet, nothing became of it. 

 "Well good morning you two sleepy heads!" Molly exclaimed at around seven in the morning, walking down the stairs in her bathrobe and laughing when she saw them sprawled out on the floor. John was lying on the carpet and blinking rapidly while Sherlock's head had fallen onto the wooden coffee table with a sickening thunk. But dispute their misery neither had fallen asleep, and so they were feeling worse than they ever had before. 

"Put me out of my misery." Sherlock groaned, pulling himself to his feet and wobbling dangerously, grabbing onto the couch so that he didn't fall over. There was a terrible throbbing in his head and he felt as though he were hallow, his bones so paper thin and his muscles unreliable. Sherlock was sure he wouldn't make it to the kitchen without support.
"Well we did it, didn't we? No spirit!" John exclaimed, pulling himself onto the couch but making no moves to get to his feet. Obviously he was a bit smarter than Sherlock, who was lumbering around on the hardwood floor like he had never walked before.
"That's just night one. What do you expect to do from here, just not sleep for the rest of your life?" Molly asked doubtfully.
"Father Franklin said that you could sleep a little bit, just in short bouts and in broad daylight." Sherlock said simply.
"That doesn't sound difficult at all." Molly said sarcastically, yawning very widely dispute her solid eight hours of sleep.
"No, it doesn't." John agreed in all seriousness. Sherlock looked at him with very tired eyes, seeing that John was in danger of passing out on that couch right now.
"Get up John; come on, no getting comfortable." Sherlock instructed loudly, walking swiftly over and tapping John lightly on the forehead.
"Just ten minutes Sherlock, honestly I'm sure I'll be alright." John assured lazily, sounding like a teenager arguing against their wakeup call.
"It's too risky John, come on, wait another hour." Sherlock insisted. John groaned loudly, but nevertheless he let his eyes flutter open, staring up at Sherlock, presumably seeing him upside down. Nevertheless a slight smile appeared on John's face, a smile that couldn't be explained platonically at all. Sherlock pretended to ignore it; after all, John was riddled with sleep deprived hysteria. Molly made a nice big pot of coffee, but Sherlock doubted that all of the caffeine in the world could keep him awake. His eyes were slowly starting to shut while he sat at the counter, wobbling dangerously on his stool to the point where Molly kicked him out of the kitchen. She sent Sherlock up to her room and let John sleep in the guest room, ignoring all of Sherlock's warnings of waiting an hour for the sun to rise completely. Sherlock wasn't conscious long enough to make sure that the curtains were open and that the lights were on in the other room, as soon as he stumbled into Molly's room and collapsed on the disrupted sheets he was out like a light, sleeping so heavily that he really couldn't tell if he was dead or not.

He was going up the driveway once more, but this time he was running. He knew that there was something waiting for him in that house, something more than just the ash strewn remains of what used to be his entire life. He heard the screaming before he got into the house, but it was there, it was a voice he's been hearing a lot of, it was John once more. Sherlock ran up onto the porch, pulling on the door to find that it was locked. He tugged and tugged at the iron handle but the wood didn't even budge, leaving Sherlock searching desperately to find a way inside. Sherlock ran alongside the outside of the house, finding a window that was low enough to the ground for him to crawl inside. The screaming just kept coming, pained screams, terrible screams, John was in trouble. Sherlock grabbed a large rock from the edge of the forest that surrounded him, heaving it up in his raw hands and throwing it with all his might into the glass. Except it didn't shatter, in fact the rock bounced right back at Sherlock, forcing him to jump away to avoid getting his foot crushed.
"SHERLOCK!" screamed the voice from inside. John knew he was out here, he knew that he was coming to save him.
"John it's alright, I'm coming John, I'm coming!" Sherlock exclaimed, pounding on the glass with his bare fists, not sure what he was going to do if it actually broke.
"SHERLOCK HELP!" John screamed.
"I don't know how, I can't get in!" Sherlock insisted, ducking away from the window and running his fingers anxiously through his curls.
"SHERLOCK!" John's voice screamed again, except this time it was close. Sherlock looked at the window once more, and jumped back in horror when he saw John's face pressed up against the glass, blood streaming from his eyes as if they were about to pop out of his head.
"He's coming Sherlock." John whispered, his voice so low yet Sherlock could hear him so vividly.
"John open the window!" Sherlock demanded, running up to the glass and pressing his hand against it, right over top of John's lips.
"Sherlock you've got to help me." John pleaded, more tears of blood erupting from his eyes.
"I can't John, I don't...I don't know how." Sherlock whispered.
"SHERLOCK HE'S COM..." John's words were cut off when he was dragged back, his entire body getting thrown away from the window violently. Sherlock stumbled backwards in horror, tripping over something that lay hidden in the grass as he saw the house erupt once more into flames. The smoke choked him and the ash stung his eyes, but he kept them open, watching as the already charred house was burn to rubble, leaving John trapped inside with the Devil. 

 Sherlock woke up with a scream, finding himself sprawled out on the carpet next to Molly's bed. He groaned loudly, feeling a horrible pain in his back as he let his head fall to the side, seeing two curious yellow eyes staring back at him in the darkness under the bed. At first Sherlock thought that the Aspiration was hiding there, waiting for him to wake, but he knew better. It was Helen; of course, the closest thing there was to a cat demon. 

"Don't look at me like that." Sherlock scoffed, rubbing his eyes and finding that his head no longer throbbed. He seemed to have slept well, dispute the horrible dreams that plagued the inside of his skull. Sherlock pulled himself roughly to his feet, finding that he must have kicked and fought a lot while he was asleep, the blankets of the bed were strewn wildly about, and there were a couple of pillows missing from the usual mound Molly kept. Sherlock winced as he saw sunlight streaming in from the open curtains, his eyes not yet adjusted to being open. He stared at the clock from across the room; it was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. Now that's what he called a good nap. Sherlock meandered out into the hallway, yawning widely and finding that the guest room door was closed. John was probably still in there, probably still asleep. Sherlock didn't want to disturb him of course, but nevertheless he willed himself to open the door as quietly as possible. Thankfully the room was filled with sunlight, but when he looked into the room he saw that John was in the bed, sitting up against the headboard with his eyes closed. A rather odd way to nap... Sherlock looked closer, and when his eyes finally adjusted to the harsh sunlight that was streaming in, he finally saw what looked to be a black smoke surrounding John's skin, floating around him as if it were keeping him in this sort of trance. Sherlock gasped, closing the door with a snap and leaning against the wood, breathing heavily in horror. John was possessed; the Aspiration had taken control once more. Sherlock decided that it was best not to make a fuss, if he wasn't doing anything then there really was no harm done. So Sherlock grabbed the desk chair from Molly's office and propped it up under the handle, that way the door would open even if the Aspiration tried to get out. With that Sherlock made his way downstairs, not wanting to mention what he had seen to the two women sitting in the living room, chatting idly.
"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, getting to her feet as if she were relieved to see him conscious once more.
"Molly, Mary, how long have I been sleeping?" Sherlock wondered, yawning once more yet trying to look well rested all the same.
"A couple of hours, but I heard screaming upstairs, is everything alight?" Molly wondered, walking over to Sherlock and pressing the back of her hand against his forehead, as if she were checking if he had a fever. Sherlock just smacked her hand away irritably, collapsing onto the couch with a loud sigh.
"I had a nightmare, it's alright." He assured glumly. There was a very lazy feeling in the air, and he was sure that everyone felt it. Being this sleep deprived really was a terrible thing.
"And John?" Mary wondered nervously. Sherlock looked over at her in pity, knowing that her husband's soul was now dormant in his own body.
"He's asleep." Sherlock lied, curling into a little ball near the end of the couch so that Molly had plenty of room to sit back down. She remained over by the steps however, and Sherlock wished she would join them once more. He didn't really like to be this close to Mary, especially when Mary was feeling rather...protective of her husband. She was acting almost defensively, like an animal protecting its territory.
"Did this whole thing work, did the ghost take hold?" Mary wondered, looking a bit worried that this had all been for nothing.
"No, it didn't. At least not last night." Sherlock admitted, thinking to the smoke that now clung to John's skin like dew.
"That's good, then it worked. It was worth it." Molly agreed, finally walking back over to the couch and sitting down between the two. Sherlock could breathe just a bit easier now.
"Yes well, I think we'll need to take turns. I can't stay up this long for two nights in a row, I'll die." Sherlock decided, yawning once more and leaning so that he rested his head against Molly's shoulder. Molly sighed heavily, but obviously she couldn't say no to a pouty, cuddly Sherlock. She wrapped one arm around him and Sherlock just frowned, wishing he were back curled up on the rug in her room.
"So are you two like, together?" Mary wondered, looking nervous, like she wasn't allowed to ask such a thing. Molly just laughed and Sherlock cracked a smile, and Mary just looked between them in confusion.
"No, we're just good friends." Molly assured. Mary hummed doubtfully, but never in a million years would either Sherlock or Molly tell Mary what was really keeping them apart. It was, of course, the pure fact that Molly was a woman, and Sherlock was the gayest of the gay.
"Pretty good friends." Mary decided. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, about sick of the heterosexual screen over everyone's eyes. Couldn't two platonic friends, a man and a woman, invade each other's personal space once and a while without being in love? It was just rather sad.
"When do you think John will wake up?" Molly wondered, obviously trying to change the subject as quickly as possible.
"Just let him sleep, he needs it." Sherlock insisted.
"I'll stay with him tonight; if the demon really doesn't take control while he's awake then I'm sure I can take him back to my house without it being a problem." Mary decided, casting a rather defensive look in Sherlock's direction. Maybe she didn't like the idea of her husband staying up all night with the suspiciously feminine stranger that talks to the dead. Can't imagine why she would be apprehensive, however.