As God Intended

Witching Hour

Sherlock's sleep came for only a moment, and was gone again in an instant. When he could shut his eyes he saw only nightmares, and when he opened them again he saw only darkness. What had become of his life was slowly slipping into his grasp, and for the life of him he wished nothing had ever changed. The demon's words were ringing more clearly in his ears than ever before, as if the very creature was crouched by his head and whispering directly. He remembered the accusations, the rumors, and the past mistakes. What the demon had spoken of Mary Watson had shaken him to the core, about how the woman wanted him, and how she would take him in an instant. This bothered him only on an external level; it ground his teeth in humiliation and made him curse the instinct of human beings. That poor woman would betray her husband on the behalf of a silly little priest! It made him angry above all, but not necessarily for himself. No, he feared only for the Watsons within that theory of the demon's. It was the second theory that kept his eyes open, this time afraid of what could be made of himself. He was afraid of the accusations the demon had made against him, and against his intentions with not only John Watson, but the whole of the male population. He must have been speaking lies when he guessed at Sherlock's preferences, for never had the man even considered wandering over towards the more forbidden side of love. In the eyes of God it was an atrocity, in the eyes of man it was nearly a crime, and in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes it was almost impossible to fathom. He had never felt anything towards another man that would confirm that demon's theories, though at the same time he had never felt anything towards a woman to disprove it. He was, and always had been, perfectly indifferent to the advances of different people. What was it about this time around that made it so difficult for Sherlock to comprehend? And why were his struggles so visible to the demon if they weren't even revealing themselves to Sherlock? And beyond what never could be, beyond even what may be in the coming days...most concerning of all was what had already happened. What had befallen that poor boy, some fifty years before this day. Yet it felt like yesterday, it felt as though Sherlock had woken up from a dream and ended up in that office once again, with Father James's face staring down upon him with that twisted smile. How could the demon so perfectly mimic his traumas, and above all how could the creature put on the very mask which scared him the most? Could it be that demons have some strange powers to impersonate others, in order to further their own agendas? Was Sherlock facing off with something that wasn't just intelligent, but also deceptive? He didn't want to consider Father James anymore, and he had never wanted to see that face again! And yet there he was, sitting within the chair as if he had been the very captive that Sherlock had restrained. He was there in body, though not in soul; however there may not have been a difference between Father James with his perverted agenda and the demon with its rotting, stinking existence. Both shared the same master. It was long after midnight when Sherlock refused to lay in the darkness any longer, and so he scrambled out of bed and crawled onto the living room couch. He felt like an aged citizen even though his reflection showed him otherwise, for it was many long nights he spent sleepless upon this couch in his oldest years. For some reason old people just couldn't sleep normally, at least not with the regular patterns that the young were able to follow. The priest settled down within the floral designs of his old couch, turning on some game shows which were airing at this obscure hour of night. They were at the beginning of color TV, bringing him right back to his childhood and easing him into a more relaxed state than he was before. It was an undisturbed night, one which made it easier to sink within the indentations of the cushions and let his eyes droop off with sudden exhaustion. He felt safe, even within this little room and within only feet of a demon on the other side of three walls. The man's eyes shut to the lull of the host's voice, laughing into his oblong microphone and easing the priest into his restless sleep once more. He dreamed of darkness, though so long as that darkness was undisturbed he would consider it a success. Sherlock was thankful to have skipped through some hours of the night, ones that would otherwise have been spent in doubt and regret. It was only when silence hit that Sherlock was awoken rather abruptly, finding himself sitting alone within his dark, noiseless living room. The TV had shut off unexplainably, though Sherlock imagined it was a fluke in the power, or perhaps he had kicked the remote while asleep. Slowly he got to his feet, sensing an unhappy presence in the air, and for a moment he approached the old box to try to get it to turn on once again. Sherlock pressed each one of the buttons, even smacking the thing before ultimately giving up on trying to get his game shows back on. In the end it made more sense just to go back to bed, that is if there wasn't such an ominous feeling hanging within the air of the previous safe haven. The clock on the cable box read two minutes from three o'clock in the morning, perhaps correlating the TV's departure with the stroke of the hour. Hauntingly Sherlock remembered the significance of such a time, one that he had scared poor John Watson with when he first broke into their church.
"Witching hour." Sherlock whispered to himself, letting his hands drop off of the TV as he suddenly realized what an inky darkness had surrounded him. Usually the street lights from outside would illuminate behind his thick curtains, though tonight it seemed as though even those had gone out. Perhaps the diocese's electric bills had finally caught up to them, and he was now being cut off not only from his regular career but also from the luxuries of power as well? Perhaps it would be best to slip back under the safety of his blankets and hope for the best? Within sleep held the potential for nightmares, though the reality he was facing seemed almost as frightful as anything his sleeping brain could conjure. Slowly the man turned, using his memory and intuition to navigate through the furniture, before a loud bang came echoing from the parking lot and into his ears, nearly rattling his windows with the strength of it. Sherlock's heart stood still, and finally he felt along the coffee table for the flashlight he had set there the night before, suddenly afraid to be at the mercy of this darkness any longer. Something was moving in the outside world, threatening not only himself but his neighbors as well. Could he summon up the bravery to confront it, on the off chance that he would have to face off one on one with a demon? Sherlock's fingers grasped the light, trembling as he flicked the switch and illuminated his familiar living room. Half of him had been expecting to see a figure standing inside with him, as most horror movies would attempt with a cheap jump scare. That may have made him feel better, at least to know that it was merely a ghost he was dealing with. Though now, to find that he was truly alone once again, perhaps it made it even more concerning. Sherlock crept to the door, figuring that it was worth a look around to make sure everything was secure. The bang that he heard may have been the slamming of a door, or perhaps a window. His first fear was the school, in which any banging of doors could mean the escape of his prized prisoner. His second fear was the church, imagining that Mary Watson may be marching over towards his house any moment in an attempt to collect him for her unholy intentions. This would be a more avoidable problem of course, but perhaps the more embarrassing of the two. Sherlock hoped beyond anything that the bang was made within his imagination, or perhaps from some rowdy teenagers passing by with homemade explosives? By now Sherlock's neighbors brought him no comfort at all, and as he pulled open his front door to take a look outside he surely hoped that he was met with no visible interruption to the serenity he had been enjoying just moments earlier. With a deep breath Sherlock pushed open the screen door, jumping outside into the parking lot and shining his light almost desperately around, trying to find the culprit of the sound he had just heard. Something was amiss tonight, and even if his eyes couldn't spot it he felt the electric feeling in the air, the warning signs that were crackling within the fog surrounding him. The light shone in every direction, and from where Sherlock was standing he could see nothing that might threaten him or his lonely neighbor. The school door appeared to be secure (he didn't dare leave his welcome mat to check the lock) and from what he could tell the church was completely silent. Not another light was shining, not even those which hung over the road on the other side of the buildings, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had heard a transformer burst, eliminating all of the electricity on this side of town. Whatever he had heard, it was over now, and as Sherlock stood waving his light around he began to feel very silly, and furthermore very lonely. He felt as if he was stranded within a sea of blackness, with only his little flashlight to illuminate his way. He felt alone, terribly alone, and without considering a better option he slipped back into his front door once again, frightened enough to turn off his light, lock his door, and hope for more peaceful hours to come.