"Well don't you look fancy?" Molly teased, walking into Sherlock's temporary room as he combed out his hair a little bit more. He had retreated from the Watson household in shame, but when he got back to Molly's he took the first shower he's had in a good three days, so he was feeling just a little bit better. He was expected at the church at two o'clock and being that it was now one thirty he knew that he had to get a move on.
"I always look like this Molly; I've just been a wreck for the past couple of days that you've neglected to notice." Sherlock muttered, smoothing out his jacket so that he looked prim and proper.
"Taking John with you?" Molly wondered.
"If he agrees to come with me." Sherlock agreed. Molly sighed, leaning up against the doorway in her red sweater and frowning.
"What happened?" she wondered. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head and grabbing his trench coat from the end of the bed.
"Oh nothing, a little disagreement this morning." Sherlock said with a shrug, as if this was really just some irrelevant matter.
"Well I hope everything is alright between you two, I hate it when friends fight." Molly muttered.
"We're not really friends. To be honest, I don't think he can stand the sight of me." Sherlock admitted.
"He's not really a warm person, but I think he likes you. Or at least he appreciates what you're trying to do." Molly guessed. Sherlock just laughed doubtfully, pulling on his coat with a smirk.
"That's not what he made it sound like this morning." Sherlock admitted. Molly shook her head, gazing at Sherlock wondrously. Sherlock could only pretend to ignore her; she knew that he wasn't available, at least not to a woman.
"You look tired." Molly decided at last.
"Yes well, I am tired; I didn't get any sleep last night." Sherlock admitted, pushing past Molly and starting down the stairs. She followed obediently, looking as though she was expecting to go with him.
"What happened, John didn't do anything, did he?" Molly wondered.
"He just came in and stared for a moment, nothing much, nothing shocking." Sherlock admitted.
"You need proper sleep tonight Sherlock, I don't want you to get sick." Molly insisted.
"I won't get sick Molly; I just need a night to myself." Sherlock decided.
"And how do you characterize that?" Molly wondered. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head guiltily.
"A night spent with someone else." He decided with a smile. Molly muttered a little 'oh' and looked a little bit ashamed for even asking.
"Well then, I best be off, I need to go convince Mr. Watson to get in my car." Sherlock decided.
"You be careful, alright? And don't bicker; I really don't like it when you bicker." Molly insisted.
"We'll be fine, I'll see you when I get back." Sherlock insisted. Molly nodded, muttering out a weak little goodbye before Sherlock walked out the door, pulling the door shut behind him and heading for his run down little car. Sherlock arrived outside of the Watson house not five minutes later, standing apprehensively on the welcome mat but not feeling very welcome at all. In fact he was almost reluctant to ring the doorbell. But nevertheless he pressed the little button and heard the telltale ringing inside, and not a moment later the door was opened by a very grumpy looking John.
"Hello Sherlock." John muttered, pulling on his coat as if he knew he was expected to go.
"Hello Mr. Watson." Sherlock said with a kind smile, trying to force some of his happiness down at the grumpy man before him.
"Mary I won't be long!" John called into the house, and with that he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
"Well I guess I don't even have to ask." Sherlock muttered, stepping aside for John to march down the porch steps and pull open the passenger seat door.
"Course not, you never do." John agreed, seating himself in the car and pulling the door shut very agressivley. Sherlock stood for a moment on the porch, taking a deep breath and wondering just what he had gotten himself into. But in the end he walked down and got into the car as well, sitting very awkwardly next to John and turning the car on.
"I guess I should apologize." Sherlock muttered as they made their way down the road.
"Apologize for what?" John asked, his fingers tapping against his leg irritably.
"Well, for not being as useful as you expected me to be." Sherlock muttered. John sighed heavily, but he just shook his head, and Sherlock couldn't help but glance at him for the smallest moment.
"You don't have to apologize for me Sherlock; you're not doing anything wrong. It's me, I'm irritable, I'm mean, I just...I want this thing out, and I'm taking it out on you. Obviously we need you, obviously you're the only person in the world who can help us and will help us. And maybe you're not, maybe you're not the man best qualified, but I doubt there's anyone else on this earth who would try as hard as you are to sort this all out. I've been angry towards you and it's been uncalled for, and I apologize." John muttered. They sat in silence for a moment, and Sherlock was trying to process all of that. Of course it was what he needed to hear, of course that's the truth, but it was still rather hard to accept that John was apologizing for something like that. He didn't seem like the apologizing type.
"Well, thank you Mr. Watson, that means a lot." Sherlock muttered, the only thing he could think to say.
"Just because I apologized doesn't make you special." John murmured, as if he felt like he had to clear that up.
"No, of course not." Sherlock agreed with a little smile. He looked over at John, who was obviously having a very hard time keeping his frown on his face. John looked up hastily at Sherlock, found him glancing at him, and broke into a very guilty laugh, a small little laugh that just escaped his lips without warning.
"What are you looking at me for?" John asked defensively, sitting up taller in his seat as if he felt the need to look important.
"Nothing, I'm not looking at you." Sherlock lied, keeping his eyes on the road and hearing John laughing a little bit more in the seat next to him.
"You were looking at me you bloody liar." John muttered. Sherlock broke into a small fit of giggles as well, and soon the two of them were laughing quietly to themselves, undeniable smiles on their lips. For once Sherlock actually felt happy, he felt...appreciated.
"Now you're laughing at me." John muttered.
"You're a very funny person." Sherlock defended.
"I know I am, keep driving." John snapped. Sherlock just shook his head, trying and failing to wipe the smile off of his face.
"As you wish." Sherlock muttered, and he did just that. He kept driving. They pulled up outside of the church a good ten minutes later, and Sherlock checked the clock on the dashboard, they were just in time. This had to be the church, it seemed to be the only Saint Mary's around, and it seemed to be deserted as well.
"Are you sure this is the right church?" John wondered, getting reluctantly out of the car and looking up at the building above. Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet, slamming the door shut, and locking the car tight. There were no cars outside, no people milling around, it didn't even look like there was a light on inside. But he didn't really care about the church itself, he was more concerned about John, and what was inside John. He didn't look panicky, he didn't look worried. John looked rather relaxed, staring at Sherlock from the sidewalk with a very puzzled look on his face. Irene wasn't acting up, at least not right now she wasn't. Sherlock was curious to see how she would react when John walked her inside the threshold.
"This has got to be it." Sherlock assured, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and walking up the stone stairs that led to the magnificent wooden doors. It was a lovely church, made entirely out of stone with bright multicolored windows decorating the outside. It almost looked like a medieval castle, with a large spire stretching to the sky. John followed Sherlock closely, and together they reached the wooden doors, unsure what to do now.
"Do we knock?" John wondered, and Sherlock just shrugged, looking around to see if someone knew what to do in this situation.
"I guess we should." He agreed, and slowly Sherlock raised his fist to the wood. Before he could do anything, however, there was a large creaking groan, and slowly the door started to swing open, revealing a magnificent entry way decorated with statues of holy figures and crosses everywhere.
"You must be Sherlock." said a voice from inside, and Sherlock nearly jumped off of the steps when he finally noticed a man standing half concealed in shadow next to the statue of Mary.
"Yes, um, hello." Sherlock muttered, watching as the priest made his way forward through the entry way.
"Good to meet you Mr. Holmes, my name is Father Bob Franklin." The man said with a smile. They shook hands rather stiffly, but the man seemed to be more interested in John than Sherlock.
"Father, this is my friend Mr. Watson, he's the man I was telling you about." Sherlock muttered, feeling the need to introduce John even though the priest knew exactly who John was already.
"Yes, how could I forget? Mr. Watson I can sense an energy inside of you, a dark one at that." the father agreed, walking up to John and shaking his hand nevertheless.
"Well that's kind of why we're here." John agreed, smiling very awkwardly. Obviously he didn't like all this attention, especially not when these two men were staring at him in a very patronizing way.
"Well come inside, sit down, would you like some tea?" Father Franklin asked, closing the wooden doors and making his way deeper into the church.
"If you wouldn't mind." Sherlock agreed, unbuttoning his coat and following the priest down the aisle. It was a magnificent church; wooden pews lined the aisle, bibles and song books lying askew. There were more stained glass windows stretching up to the large domed ceiling, depicting religious scenes in vibrant illuminating colors. The altar up front was beautiful, with a couple of vases filled with flowers laying to the sides of the marble, and some empty golden candelabras perched on the corners of the stone table, draped in red cloth.
"We just had a mass, excuse the mess." Franklin muttered, leading them behind the altar and into a neat little back room that smelled of lavender. This must be the priest's common area, because there was a long table with many mismatched wooden chairs. Father Franklin put a kettle on an old stove, heating it up and turning back to his guests.
"Please sit, we're all friends here." he insisted, and both John and Sherlock sat awkwardly in the wooden chairs. Father Franklin remained standing, but he leaned against the counter, observing the two of them closely.
"You two have tension." He decided, looking between them with a little knowing smile.
"Well, resolved tension." Sherlock assured, looking at John nervously, who nodded in agreement. The priest hummed, but maybe he could see a bit more than they could.
"Nevertheless, this possession, tell me about it. Mr. Watson I know that you seem to be occupied by a soul that is not your own, but what more is there, things that I could not assume by simply watching the Exorcist?" the priest asked.
"Well um, I don't remember much. I don't know much else than what Sherlock told me." John admitted.
"Then I'll be the one telling the story." Sherlock agreed, leaning forward on the polished wooden table and trying to think of where to begin.
"I was called by my friend Molly Hooper because I have this...ability. I can see the dead, when they're around." Sherlock admitted.
"A psychic?" the priest wondered, raising a doubtful eyebrow.
"In a ways, yes. But the dead, they vanished. I don't see any of them around, I grew up here, you see, so I know they were here once." Sherlock admitted.
"They're fleeing." The priest guessed. Sherlock nodded gravely, happy that someone could take his story seriously.
"Mr. Watson sleep walks, but he's not conscious. He walks and talks and knocks things over, but he doesn't remember any of it. It's been going on for a couple of weeks, and the doctors can't explain it." Sherlock admitted.
"All signs of a possession, but I'm going to need a little bit more than sleep walking." The priest muttered.
"He tried to talk to me, yesterday in the basement. And I passed out." John added.
"You didn't just pass out, his eyes glowed yellow, and he started screaming things, talking about the gates of Hell, saying over and over again 'He is mine'." Sherlock admitted. The priest nodded, looking very thoughtful. He tugged absentmindedly on the little white collar of his shirt, humming for a moment.
"Yellow eyes you say?" he wondered.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "Does that mean anything?" Father Franklin nodded, walking over to a bookshelf and scanning the titles for a moment before plucking an old looking leather bound books from the shelves.
"You're lucky I'm a believer, most of my colleagues would dismiss you as soon as you told your tale." He admitted. The priest set the book down in front of Sherlock and John, flipping through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. It was an old book with pencil drawn sketches of men, men with black mist surrounding them and pained expressions on their crudely drawn faces.
"That mist, I've seen it on John." Sherlock said excitedly, pointing to the shading around the men.
"Yes, that's what I feared." The priest agreed.
"What does it mean?" John wondered nervously, getting to his feet so that he could see the book at a better angle.
"The good news is that it's not a demon." The priest muttered. "Demons have black eyes, and they're usually more powerful, or at least more experienced."
"If it's not a demon what is it?" Sherlock wondered, looking at him curiously.
"It is a mortal man, or woman that is, who aspires to be a demon. They have pledged their life for the devil and died at his hand. But he has not welcomed them into Hell; they are cursed to wander the face of the Earth until they can prove themselves a worthy follower." The priest muttered.
"A Satanist?" Sherlock wondered.
"That is the polite term." The priest agreed.
"Died at Satan's hand, what do you mean by that?" John wondered, looking at Sherlock with worried eyes.
"They have died by fire." the priest muttered. John took a deep, nervous breath, and obviously the two of them remembered back to the tragic tale of Irene Adler, getting torched on her front lawn. It all made sense, it made too much sense. Irene worshiped the Devil and was burned for it, but she still hasn't proved herself a worthy follower, she wanted to somehow make a statement by possessing John, and by taking him and his family down with her. Sherlock looked at John, and John looked back fearfully, they both knew that this meant. At that moment their silence was interrupted by the screaming of the tea kettle, a sound so loud and uncalled for that all three men jumped violently.
"Tea is ready." Father Franklin muttered, walking over to the stove and beginning to prepare them three cups of tea.

    "It makes sense Sherlock, Irene, the fire, what do you think she's planning to do, to prove herself?" John wondered, perching on the edge of the wooden table and looking up at Sherlock with large brown eyes.
"I don't know, but somehow we're all tied up in it." Sherlock muttered.
"I'm not real keen on having a hard core Satanist nestled inside me, I don't know about you." John whispered.
"Yes, we're getting to that." Sherlock agreed. "But this worries me John; I thought it was nothing more than a simple possession."
"It won't hurt my family, will it?" John wondered.
"I can only hope that whatever it's planning, it's too extreme to bother with your family." Sherlock muttered.
"You don't think she's coming after you, do you?" John wondered.
"It would only make sense. She'll be killing someone who can see through the veil, recruiting me to join the masses of the Underworld, if I have this power on Earth imagine the power I'll have in Hell." Sherlock muttered. John's face went rather pale, but their conversation was interrupted by Father Franklin bringing over three cups of steaming tea. They thanked him reluctantly, stirring around their preferred cream and sugar, but for a moment no one talked. They didn't quite know what there was to talk about, what was acceptable to discuss.
"So how do we get her out?" John wondered.
"Her?" the priest wondered, raising an eyebrow curiously. Oh yes, they had neglected to tell him of what they had already discovered.
"We think it's Irene Adler, a woman from way back when, she was burned outside of her house, people said that she was a witch, Satan's lover." Sherlock admitted.
"Ah, the Adler family, I remember them vividly. Or at least I remember their reputation. It would make a lot of sense if you had one of them nestled inside of your chest." The priest agreed. John smiled timidly; obviously he didn't know how to respond to something like that.
"To get one of these pesky souls out you need to perform a very extensive ritual, and it has to be performed at the place where the spirit died." The priest admitted, flipping to another page that had a lot of Latin scrawled down, as well as a large drawing of a cross.
"What makes the ritual so extensive?" John wondered. The priest sighed heavily, sipping his tea for a moment.
"It must be performed by a servant of God; in this case that most likely means me, and it has a lot of Latin, a lot of holy water, and a lot of favors from the man upstairs. I have never seen it done, and I have never heard of an instance where it was done correctly." The priest muttered.
"So if it does work, what happens?" John wondered.
"Well in theory you're calling for God to reach down and pluck this soul from your body and take it up to Heaven to try to convert it from its Satanist ways." The priest muttered.
"That sounds a little bit farfetched." Sherlock decided, crossing his arms doubtfully. The priest looked at him with a very offended look, and Sherlock couldn't help but look down shamefully.
"You're speaking as a man who can see the dead, in the presence of both a man possessed and a man of God. Speak carefully Mr. Holmes." The Father warned.
"Apologies." Sherlock mumbled guiltily.