There was ash strewn across the sky, the crackling of a fire that was too large to be safe. The woods were light with the orange glow, but the black smoke settled over the tree line so that the starts didn't shine. Sherlock pulled his shirt over his mouth to try to filter in fresh air, but he still ended up coughing. Nevertheless he ran towards the house, ran towards the flames. He heard screaming from inside, screaming from a voice he didn't recognize. It wasn't any of the Trevor family, he remembered their screams vividly, this was new. Sherlock ran up the porch, the charred wood decomposing as he trampled over it and into the house. The flames were everywhere, erupting from the floor, clinging to the walls and hanging on the ceiling, the floors above were collapsing in spots, making the whole house a minefield of fire and destruction.
"Victor!" Sherlock screamed desperately, coughing violently but forging deeper into the house. It was only a dream, it didn't mean anything.
"Victor!" he called again. There was a blood curling scream next to him, and Sherlock turned to see Victor standing above him, his body ablaze. He was twice as large as he had been in life, and the fire didn't appear to be hurting him. On the contrary, it seemed to be empowering him, his burning skin seemed to turn into armor, and on his smoldering head he wore a crown of yellow flames. Sherlock scrambled back, falling into an unrecognizable man, a short blonde man, who was cowering in the corner as well, trying to pat out the flames that were catching onto his jacket.
"He's the Devil." The man whispered fearfully, shaking in horror.
"No he's not." Sherlock assured. "He's just a man."
Sherlock woke up with a scream, sitting up in bed violently and seeing that the blankets had been strewn across the dark room. He was covered in a cold sweat, he was clammy and afraid, and he kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting Victor's lost spirit to be standing there behind him. He had never dreamt of that night, not once, so why now? This was what going home would cause him, more horrible recollections of that tragedy, he could never do this! But then again, to leave the town alone with whatever was haunting them, it would be almost inhumane. They were probably just as scared as Sherlock was, maybe worse. They had never seen the dead, they weren't used to this. Could Sherlock really submit all of these people to the same fear he suffered every minute of his life? And besides, there was money involved, and he didn't have to spend much either. He couldn't make excuses for the rest of his life; there was only one move here.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called through the darkness. As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson materialized next to his bed, as if she were waiting for his call.
"Yes dear?" she wondered sweetly, looking around at the mess Sherlock had made of his bedroom.
"Mrs. Hudson. I'm leaving." Sherlock said flatly, and with that he got out of bed to call Molly.

               Entry #2, October 22nd 2017: It was entirely Mary's idea to hire the investigator, or psychic, or whatever he wanted to be called. I thought it was a terrible idea, but then again, I didn't know what was going on. I was asleep for most of it, but she said that I did things...said that I scared her. It was about a week in until she finally got the guts to contact her friend, someone who had grown up around here. Molly Hooper helped us out tremendously, since we weren't locals she was able to get in touch with someone she remembered from growing up, some sort of crazy guy named Sherlock Holmes. I thought it was a terrible idea, not only were we making a big deal about nothing but we were also paying some fake to come and mutter gibberish, what a waste of time and money! I now know that I was half right. We definitely should've hired someone, but it shouldn't have been Sherlock. We never should've called him.

               Four Weeks Earlier: Sherlock really hated to pack up his things and leave. He really hated having to dig around in his closet for that ratty old suitcase and stuff what little possessions he had inside. He packed his clothes, his Bible, his rosary and holy water and cross necklace, all necessities for trying to face a spirt alone. Everyone thought he was so much more suited to take on the paranormal because he could see what he was facing, but in reality he thought he was the worst man to do such a job. People who couldn't see through the veil weren't as afraid of their attackers as Sherlock was, they didn't care what they looked like, so they were able to read through whichever exorcism they chose and send the spirit off of the face of the earth.  Sherlock, however, couldn't read Latin. He couldn't speak it either, and he was terrified of the dead that wandered in and out of his sight. He was the worst man for the job, and yet here he was, dropping everything to head back to the very place he said he would never return.
"How long will you be gone?" Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly, standing near the closet and watching as Sherlock neatly folded his shirts into his suitcase.
"Not long, a week, maybe more. I'm sure this whole thing will be rubbish, who knows; maybe it'll only take a day. Then I'd make Molly take me to the beach or something, just so she doesn't waste my time." Sherlock decided with a shrug.
"You need to be careful Sherlock, I don't think this is just some mindless spirit, I think this is worse." Mrs. Hudson insisted, pulling on her sweater sleeves anxiously.
"Well it's not like I've got anything else to do, right?" Sherlock wondered, tucking whatever cash he had on hand into his pocket, hoping that would be enough for gas money and all of that.
"Just be careful, know what you're up against before you start wandering around spewing holy water." Mrs. Hudson suggested. Sherlock just smiled reassuringly, zipping up his suitcase finally and dropping it to the floor.
"Oh come on, when am I not careful?" Sherlock wondered sarcastically.
"You're never careful. And I'm not going to be there to help you." Mrs. Hudson pointed out.
"Oh well, I'll get by without you. And I'm sure you'll be just fine here, watch over the house and all of that." Sherlock shrugged. Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily, as if that were too much to ask for.
"And no boys."She said flatly. Sherlock's smile dropped, and he looked at her curiously.
"And why not? I'm working, I need something of a distraction." Sherlock insisted.
"Someday, Sherlock, you're going to get robbed, or killed, or get some sort of disease. You really need to pick your choice of partner wisely!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, going back onto her favorite subject, taking all the fun out of life.
"I chose them just fine; I like them, they like me, what could go wrong, right?" Sherlock wondered with a laugh. Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily, but she knew well enough not to argue.
"Just behave yourself Sherlock Holmes, that's all I'm asking. And be careful." Mrs. Hudson insisted, following Sherlock as he carried his numerous bags down to the front door.
"I will Mrs. Hudson, I will." Sherlock assured. She smiled at him, but they both knew they couldn't hug goodbye or anything like that. So he just smiled back, nodding his goodbye and walking out the door. He wish she could come, eh really did, but there were limits on how far a spirit could leave their place of haunting. She could only go a couple of miles or so, and so she had to stay behind. Sherlock really was going out into the real world alone; for once he was going to have to fend for himself.

               The ride over was long and tedious, it was rather pleasant until he went too far away from his town, then the radio stations changed and he couldn't find the pop hits anywhere. In the end he just drove in silence, staring out the window and hating his very existence. It was about two hours before he started to recognize things, little roadside diners, gas stations and signs for local attractions. He knew that he was going home; there was a little tugging sensation in his stomach that was drawing him ever closer, something he had managed to forget in his nearly seven years away from home. He drove into the town not thirty minutes later, all of these landmarks and storefronts making his stomach rumble uncomfortably. He was seeing his entire world from a new angle, the town he had thought he was trapped in for the rest of his life going by in his rearview mirror. He remembered happy memories here, of course, these stores in which he had wandered in his free time, the ice cream shop he went to as a child, the bookstore he spent aimless hours in. The fancy restaurant on the corner where he and Victor had spent a couple of dates, dressed up like want to be adults and spending all of their allowance money together. Back when Sherlock was sure he had some sort of future with that boy. Back when they were both, for the most part, perfectly sane. Sherlock knew that his parents lived somewhere out here, a couple of blocks away from town, unless they moved. Mycroft probably lived around here as well, same with Eurus, his whole family who he hadn't talked to in a good seven years, they were all within a mile away. But he wasn't going to see them; he wasn't even going to tell them that he was in town. He wished that no one would recognize the town freak as he made his way down the streets in his junky old car; he wished that no one even remembered him for who he was in high school. Maybe he looked different; maybe he was more mature looking. Who knows? It was the hair that would probably give him away, the hair and the ability to talk to the dead. Sherlock read the little piece of paper on which he had scrawled Molly's address, some sort of apartment in the middle of town. It was an excellent place, really, and he even found a good parking spot right out front, presumably for the residents of the apartments and their guests. Sherlock sighed heavily, not yet willing to get out of the car and accept that he was really here, in the place where his nightmares had brewed. Sherlock fixed his hair in the mirror before finally pushing open the door, stretching out his poor aching legs and grabbing his suitcase from the back seat. A couple of people walked by, but to be honest Sherlock couldn't tell if they were living or dead, they just looked at him and kept walking, their eyes looking him up and down judgmentally. They didn't say anything, to themselves or to him, so they just kept on their way, and Sherlock ignored them as well. He walked up to her apartment, observing the nice little potted plants and the freshly painted door. This was so typically Molly, she always was so organized and neat. Sherlock knocked nervously, knowing that as soon as she answered the door that he would be trapped into this whole thing for good.Unfortunately the door swung wide open, so agressivley in fact that Sherlock nearly dropped his suitcase in shock.
"Sherlock!" Molly cried in glee, jumping out onto the stoop to trap Sherlock in an obnoxiously tight hug. Honestly Sherlock didn't know what was so great about seeing him; it wasn't like they were inseparable in their time together. But nevertheless he hugged her back; just to make her satisfied enough to release him.
"Hi Molly...nice to see you again." Sherlock muttered, clearing his throat awkwardly as Molly finally released him, smoothing out her neat red sundress and beaming.
"It's excellent to see you as well Sherlock, I'm so happy you were able to come down." Molly said with a smile. "Here come in, come in, I can take your suitcase."
"It's alright, I've got it." Sherlock assured, taking the suitcase by the handle and carrying it into the house. The inside was just as clean and tidy as the outside, with pictures on the red walls, potted bushes in the corners and jazz music playing from an unseen speaker. The floors were hardwood, as were the stairs, this apartment reeked of luxury, and of money. How girl out of college could afford such a place Sherlock had no idea, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. He was sure he'd be very happy here for the week.
"Your bedroom is upstairs, I'll show you up." Molly decided with a smile, leading the way up the staircase and into the second floor. Sherlock's room was the last room on the right, made up all nice with white blankets and black pillows. There was a large dresser and a mirror hanging on the back of the door, a couple of tacky pictures of wildlife and sunsets hanging around, but not much else. Obviously Molly didn't have many guests.
"This is wonderful, thank you." Sherlock muttered, setting his suitcase down rather awkwardly next to the bed.
"No problem, it's the least I could do. Mary and John are practically dying to see you, they said that it happened again last night." Molly said with a rather shameful sigh.
"What do you mean? What is going on?" Sherlock wondered. Molly looked down at her feet, looking as though this wasn't her story to tell.
"I don't know enough to tell you the truth, to be honest Mary's only said about as much as you already know." Molly admitted.
"They claim that he's possessed?" Sherlock wondered curiously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other just to give himself something to do.
"Yes, well, that's what Mary claims. They haven't been too specific to be honest." Molly admitted.
"And Mary is this man's wife?" Sherlock clarified.
"Yes." Molly agreed. Sherlock frowned a little bit, but nodded.
"I've got to be honest Molly; I've never seen a proper possession. It takes some serious ghostly mojo to even attempt something like this." Sherlock admitted.
"Yes but it is possible, is it not?" Molly wondered, pulling her long brown ponytail over one of her shoulders, presumably for something to do with her fidgeting hands.
"Well yes of course, but it takes a lot of energy, like, a jet engine's energy, maybe more. To put it in perspective it takes about a year of practice just to will yourself to become solid for a short amount of time. My landlady died two years ago, and even she's not able to do much else than shove boxes off of shelves or put the dish towel back on the rack. To possess someone for this long, that's serious. That's evil." Sherlock muttered, sitting down on the bed thoughtfully.
"But you can do something about it, can't you?" Molly wondered nervously, obviously not wanting to submit her friend to a rein of paranormal evilness. 
"I can try of course; maybe scare the spirit into finally giving our poor victim up." Sherlock shrugged.
"You don't sound too sure of yourself." Molly observed, looking nervous to put her faith in him.
"Well I've never done this before, if it gets really bad we'll have to get a priest to do an exorcism, and I don't want to have to go through that trouble." Sherlock admitted.
"You really think that's necessary?" Molly asked worriedly. Sherlock groaned, what was this, twenty questions?
"I don't know Molly, I don't know." He admitted. Molly nodded, going silent once more. Obviously she could tell that she had annoyed him, and being the polite person she was she ended the conversation where it was.
"Well, I'll be downstairs getting lunch ready if you need me, the Watsons are expecting us at one o'clock this afternoon. There are towels in the bathroom for you if you need to freshen up; feel free to spread out as much as possible really, this whole space is yours." Molly said with a kind sort of smile.
"Thank you Molly, your hospitality is wonderful." Sherlock said, beaming at her encouragingly. Molly just blushed a little bit, nodding nervously and looking down at her feet. Oh ya, he had forgotten about that, Molly's hopeless little crush on him back in high school. Obviously that embarrassing little thing had lasted seven more years.
"Alright then, I'll just get out of your way." She muttered, sliding out ofview and closing the door quickly, leaving Sherlock alone in the room.