As God Intended

God? Almost.

Mary was there to wake the men up, and at a rather inconvenient hour indeed. John wasn't entirely sure of the time, though the sun looked fresh in the sky and his headache still hadn't subsided. His limbs were terribly heavy, hanging over the couch and scraping against the wooden floors with hardly any control. For a moment he wondered if he was even alive, for there was such a terrible feeling in his head, like someone was running around and banging a mallet onto the inside of his skull.
"John, thank God you're here." Mary said anxiously, rousing her husband by shaking his shoulders. John groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and feeling it lurch in dislike, trying to avoid his life and go back to his fever dreams. He wasn't just hungover, God no, he had fallen already. This was worse than any feeling in his life, though his evening's consumption hadn't been nearly half of what he's been known to drink! How was it that so minimal drink could render him so completely helpless?
"What is it?" John grumbled, finally allowing his wife to pull him onto his side so that half of his face could be exposed.
"John, I think someone broke in last night." Mary hissed, slapping her husband twice along the face so as to get some reaction in him. John's senses were still too numbed to feel much pain, and his reaction time wasn't half of what it used to be. Those words went in one ear and out the other without so much of a panic from the man, for he merely nestled deeper into the uncomfortable couch with a small groan of annoyance.
"It's just the priest." He explained, peering an eye across the coffee table to make sure the man was still alive. It seemed as though he was alright, for his arm was wagging along the edge of the couch and his mouth was opened wide, a steady stream of drool dripping from the corner of his lips as he slept on through his undoubtedly wild dream land. John wouldn't be surprised if the man was drunk even after he woke considering the state he was in when he fell asleep.
"No, it's not the priest. It's Hamish!" the woman insisted, pulling on John's arm so as to drag him from the couch and onto the floor. Thankfully John was able to comprehend those last words with the proper emotions, for with the idea of his child in danger the man suddenly found enough life to crawl slowly to his feet, blinking his eyes against the aggressive colors flooding down from the stained glass.
"What do you mean, Hamish? He's not a burglar." John pointed out in defiance.
"John, come with me. Please, please, I don't want to go in there alone!" Mary pleaded, pulling on her husband's hand anxiously.
"Go where?" John wondered.
"To his room!" the woman exclaimed, at last starting to drag John to the stairs that lead up to the balcony. He was still a bit foggy in comprehension, though John could sense that there was some danger afoot. If Mary was too afraid to go somewhere alone then it had to be bad, for that woman was usually much braver than John when it came to things like spiders and snakes. They had never had trouble with humans before, though even as John groggily climbed the stairs he had a sneaking suspicion that it would be something far more complicated than any human crime. If there was any uninvited guest wandering throughout the church last night John almost doubted that it was alive and visible enough to be caught.
"I went to check on him this morning, he wasn't crying but I figured he would have been hungry. I could only get the door open so wide, I think it's blocked by something!" Mary exclaimed, at last coming to the nursery door and throwing her weight against it. John's blood froze to see that the door could only open a couple of inches before it stopped all together, though from what disturbance he could not imagine. Unless the little dresser had fallen he couldn't imagine what could block it so effectively.
"You mean you haven't heard him?" John asked nervously, rushing up to the door and sticking his fingers through the crack, trying to feel around for the blockade. Slowly he crept his grip down the wood, at last coming in contact with what felt like the solid edge of Hamish's dresser.
"It must have toppled over night." John theorized, trying to heave the dresser back as far as he could from this awkward angle. Not surprisingly the thing didn't budge, for the carpet was thick and probably wasn't ideal for sliding things across. They would have some trouble with this, though there was no choice in the matter. One way or another the parents had to get inside, lest their baby be stuck in there alone!
"He hasn't cried all morning." Mary admitted, rubbing her hands over her worried face as she tried to peer inside overtop of her husband's squatting form. From this secluded angle they could see nothing but the opposite wall, and there was little knowledge to be gained from there.
"Hamish, Hamish!" John called out, at last getting to his feet and rushing the door with the whole of his body weight, throwing himself against the wood and nearly rattling his poor brain inside of his already throbbing skull. Thankfully the dresser was budging just a little bit with every collision, and before long there was space enough for Mary to squeeze through, pressed so close against the frame of the door that John was worried she'd get stuck as well. Thankfully she was able to slide by, and from her initial gasp John began to expect the worse. The first reaction she had seemed to be terror, though with a cry of relief the mother must have spotted her baby, alive and well.
"He's here, he's alright!" Mary exclaimed breathlessly from inside. "He's just quiet, that's all."
"What happened in there? Can you move the dresser?" John wondered, hoping that he might be able to gain access to the nursery in the coming days of his life. Mary was quiet for a moment, her voice sounding hushed and squeaky as she spoke words of relief to Hamish, who still had not let forth a single sob. How sad it was that his silence made his exhausted parents immediately assume the worst! That just spoke to the mannerisms of the child, and his inability to shut up.
"It's a disaster; I knew I heard something last night! I just assumed you boys were messing around downstairs." Mary admitted at last, her voice laden with worry as she scanned her surroundings more thoroughly.
"What do you mean by disaster?" John insisted, wanting anxiously to slide into the room to join her. In all reality he wasn't nearly thin enough to scrape through, and it would be too embarrassing to get stuck between the door and the frame especially in this state of post-intoxication.
"I mean everything's toppled over, the dresser, the chair, the pictures are all off the walls. It looks like a bomb went off, but Hamish is completely unharmed. I don't know what could have happened." Mary muttered, her words ending with the eventual scraping of the dresser across the carpet, as if she was finally clearing the way for her husband to pass through. At long last the door opened wide enough to allow John inside, and by the state of things he saw that Mary really was not exaggerating. Everything they had ever set up inside of this room was on the floor; there were shards of glass from the picture frames, knobs of wood that had fallen from the dresser after impact. The only thing untouched was the cradle, though that didn't seem to make the investigation any easier to solve. Only a human could have done this, not unless there had been a bear breaking into their church in the small hours of morning. But who could have done it without being seen, and with what purpose? The window was still shut and locked, though the way the door was barricaded made it seem like whoever would have acted inside of the room should have been locked inside, unable to escape but from the window. In that case there was no likely culprit, unless of course the parents began to suspect their one month old child to have the ability to destroy his own room. There was really only one option in this locked room mystery, one which John had rather expected from the beginning.
"It's got to be the ghost." He decided at last, stepping over where Hamish was lying once again in his cradle, looking quite content with his large blue eyes. Mary was silent, though that silence really did speak a million words. She clenched her fingers against her mouth, as if trying to keep her most immediate reactions from escaping her lips and scalding the baby's innocent ear drums. She was not so clueless as to deny the feasibility of the undead, and considering this disaster had occurred in near impossible conditions there was no better option to be presented. The aggressor had to have been able to walk through walls; otherwise they would still be crawling around the mess they had made.
"Can't you think of a better explanation? Something a bit less impossible?" Mary whispered nervously. John shook his head, scooping up Hamish and stepping out of the room at last, trying to let the child breathe some untainted air as he tried to think of what more he could do to protect them.
"What else could it be?" John insisted. "Unless you're suggesting Flat Stanley broke in and then slithered out the gap in the door?"
"I don't know what I'm suggesting! I'm not even sure I'm against the idea of a ghost I just...I just hope there's something we can do about it!" Mary insisted, joining her husband on the balcony with tears forming in her eyes. "And why Hamish, why our child? Why would anything, living or dead, come to hurt him?"
"I don't know." John admitted at last, holding Hamish close to his chest and feeling the little heartbeat through his small body. It was a relief to hear that it was still beating strong, though the child's silence was still worrisome. Why was Hamish not expressing his emotions about the whole event, unless he had been silenced in fear from what he had seen last night? The Watson's family reunion was interrupted by a yelp coming from the church, followed by a thunk that could only have been the priest's head hitting against the hardwood with a sickening impact. John merely smiled, wandering towards the railing of the balcony and looking down upon the man, still clothed in all black, slithering across the wood in an effort to pull himself up with the help of the coffee table.
"Good morning sunshine!" John called down, happy to see that he wasn't the only one suffering from last night's events. Father Holmes readjusted himself upon the floor, looking wildly around to find just where that taunting voice was coming from.
"God?" came his small voice, as if he rationalized the unseen speaker into a Heavenly body.
"Almost." John called again. Finally Sherlock spotted John upon the balcony, and while he looked very happy to see him there was some undeniable disappointment within his face. Evidently he had been hoping for something more almighty.
"John...oh my goodness my head hurts." The priest whined, messaging his scalp and squinting up towards the upper story. "What happened last night?"
Don't you remember it?" John wondered, feeling his heart lurch in hope that the priest's memory had been erased. Oh if he could just forget all the mistakes that had been made between them then there was a much better hope of their continued friendship! John was so afraid to see how Sherlock's sober mind would process the details of that dancefloor, and for a moment he was beginning to wonder if it would ever get the chance.
"Bits...bits and pieces." The priest admitted at last. "I remember really terrible chicken wings and...and the strip club."
"The what?" Mary exclaimed, joining her husband against the railing and giving him one of her stereotypical 'you better not have' glances. John's cheeks flushed red, though he really had nothing to worry about in terms of that. He was perfectly innocent, as they never stepped a foot inside.
"We didn't go, it was a joke that we were throwing around all night." John assured, trying to make it seem as though neither party was keen on going inside. Hopefully Father Holmes didn't remember the force John had used against him, though considering the alcohol had come after that point there was a fair chance that there would be repercussions for his actions later on.
"A married man and a priest were going to go to a strip club?" Mary clarified with her hands crossed across her chest.
"No, we weren't going." Sherlock added in from the lower floor, finally managing to pull himself onto the coffee table and message his temples from a better angle. The woman's shoulders relaxed, though her face was still squinted in some suspicion.
"I never know with you boys." She admitted with a sigh.
"Neither do we." John admitted truthfully, finally descending the staircase to confront the priest where he was now wallowing in the wake of his hangover.
"I've never felt so miserable." the priest admitted, watching as John descended with the baby in his arms.
"Never been hungover before?" John wondered.
"Never had the occasion to drink so much." Sherlock muttered regretfully.
"One beer and one shot was enough to cripple you for the whole night." John chuckled.
"I remember those." The priest agreed. "Though afterwards I...well I don't remember much at all."
"That's for the best." John sighed.
"You don't remember if you saw Hamish last night, do you?" Mary wondered, materializing at her husband's side and hovering over the pair like a dark, ominous shadow.
"I don't think so." Father Holmes admitted. "No I'm quite sure I hit this couch and fell straight to sleep."
"His room was destroyed last night. I figure you're the only guest here that would have the strength to do so." Mary admitted at last, not so shamefully accusing the drunken priest of breaking and entering, not exactly in that order.
"you think I had something to do with that? Give me a break, I can hardly stand on my two feet much less destroy a room." Sherlock groaned.
"My thoughts exactly." John agreed. "It's got to be the ghost."
"Why do you say that as if there's no other option?" Mary exclaimed, her words shaking as her entire body began to tremble.
"Ghost? What about a ghost?" Father Holmes exclaimed nervously, looking up towards the parents with large, terrified eyes.
"I mentioned the ghost to you when I borrowed your computer." John pointed out.
"I thought you were just joking!" the priest protested, trying to get to his feet before giving a groan of impossibility and falling back upon the coffee table with enough momentum to make John wince and fear for the structural integrity.
"I don't know if I'm joking anymore or not." John admitted nervously, patting Hamish's head and trying to force even a little coo out of the silent baby's throat. A shiver of fear ran through the makeshift family, and before long each one of them was checking the shadows in their peripheral vision, just to make sure they weren't occupied by the silhouettes of the dead.
"My head is spinning." Sherlock whispered.
"So is mine." Mary agreed nervously.
"No...no actually spinning. Do you have an aspirin I could take?" the priest asked gently, as if he might be refused this simple request. Mary gave a noise of embarrassment, as if she figured she should have known better enough to offer the man some medical treatment before he had to ask. Thankfully she scrambled off towards the kitchen, where their large box of unorganized medical supplies still sat unpacked. This was a good excuse for some more conversations with the priest, though for the moment John was almost too afraid to ask. He wasn't sure how best to probe the man for more information; worried that too much prying would lead to some suspicion. If Sherlock really didn't remember his rather obscene offers of the previous evening then a direct question would be a terrible way to go. Though if John kept alluding to a terrible mistake the priest may begin to assume the worst, and perhaps imagine their night going a lot differently than it had. It was a thin line to walk, though John had to make sure there was nothing which would create tension between them. If Sherlock did remember, then of course an explanation was in order.
"Do you remember throwing up?" John asked at last, feeling sa though that was a good place to start. The moment Sherlock vomited was the moment immediately following John's wild overstepping of boundaries. Perhaps the two memories would be merged into one.
"So that's why I have this terrible taste in my mouth." Sherlock whispered, tapping at his lips regretfully and shaking his head at last. "That part must have been erased. I remember being in the back of your car...and I think I remember bright lights."
"That was the dancefloor." John agreed.
"Dancefloor? You got me dancing?" the priest chuckled, looking as if that was some feat to have accomplished.
"It was your idea." John admitted with a grin, finally sitting down upon the coffee table and rocking Hamish gently back and forth in his arms. A sense of relief suddenly flowed over him, realizing that Sherlock had not remembered any of the more upsetting details of their night. His mistakes were clouded over by intoxication, and now it was only John who had to remember and atone for his sins.
"Did I have fun?" Sherlock wondered at last, as if he was nervous he had made a complete fool out of himself throughout the entirety of the night. John chuckled, feeling the priest lean closer towards him so that their shoulders were now pressed tightly against the other, a familiar feeling of intimacy that seemed to bring the only recognizable feeling in this wave of groggy aftermath.
"I think you might've, for the first bit. Once you threw up it all seemed to go downhill." John admitted with a chuckle.
"How ghastly." The priest whispered.
"For you and for me. Got all over my shoes, all over the dance floor. I had to pay them to clean it up." John admitted with a laugh.
"I'll...I'll reimburse you." Sherlock assured anxiously, reaching towards his pocket and trying to find his wallet in the depths of fabric.
"It's fine, it's fine. You paid for the drinks, so we break even." John lied. In all honesty he had been at the most expense for the evening, though it was money well spent in the wake of it all. The memories were lost and the mistakes forgotten, and when that was factored in it seemed that every dollar had been worth it. Besides, John's silly words he had gotten a lot of information from the priest, some shocking confessions, and even a substantial amount of closeness. From last night alone he had theory enough to figure that Sherlock was even more complex of a character than he imagined, and what that man's intoxicated mouth would admit never ceased to amaze him. There would be another day to question Sherlock further on his sexuality, though from what John had observed there was no mistaking it. Deep down, very deep down at that, seemed to be a place in Father Holmes's heart for John Watson. It was whether or not he could find his way to this place with a perfectly rational brain that proved to be the most difficult hurdle to manage.