As God Intended

Sometimes You Snap

Sherlock POV: Victor was laughing through his choking mouthfuls, something that turned into a rather pitiful show as the porridge began to dribble down his chin in unmanageable globs. Sherlock knew that the demon would begin to mock him, from the moment he walked into the door Victor just began to spew out comments about what he saw within the man's head. It was even more infuriating when Sherlock couldn't remember, in fact he had no idea what the demon found to be so joyous about the evening Sherlock had spent. The last thing the priest remembered was drinking that last shot, and afterwards he had only blinks and flashes of memories, blurred words that didn't comprehend into anything meaningful, and touches upon his skin that may have been from John, may have been from a stranger, may have even been from himself. Though somewhere along the line something must have happened, otherwise this demon would be sitting quietly and eating his dinner like a good boy. Finally the bowl was emptied, though Sherlock knew he would have to rush out of the room before Victor could swallow and make his final comment. Well, this was his first mistake of course. Sherlock was neither agile nor quick enough to beat the speed of sound, and before he had even grabbed his flashlight that forked tongue began to snake through the demon's lips.
"I know you don't remember." The demon said at last. "Oh it must destroy you to forget what he did that night."
"I'm not listening to you." Sherlock demanded outright, fumbling for his keys on his belt and turning towards the door to arrange it.
"It could have been anything, dear. Throughout those hours...who knows what he could've done?" the demon chuckled.
"He did nothing." Sherlock insisted.
"How can you be so sure?" Victor muttered. "Who knows what that drunken man could accomplish, what sort of secrets your mind is keeping from you. Much like your first secret, Sherlock." Oh that beast always knew just what to say in order to keep Sherlock attentive, he always knew how to best strike a nerve! Sherlock's fingers were around the door handle when he shivered violently, pressing his forehead up against the wall and beginning to scan his memories for anything which might indicate a most dreadful affair.
"That never happened." Sherlock whispered, trying to put some confidence in his voice but hesitating once more to cling to memories he simply didn't have. For a moment the boy hummed, kicking his toes up and down against the floor as they were the only available limbs to twitch. Sherlock clenched his fingers around the door handle, at last turning to face his prey with utmost distain. He was trying to keep himself collected, trying to make it seem as if he was not so afraid. Though for the moment his knees began to shake, and his brain began to create memories which he may not even have. For a moment there was a blur between the two faces he had ever known, the balding head of Father James sporting the facial structure of John Watson, both with that smile upon their faces and a steadying hand against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Have you seen it?" Sherlock demanded.
"Inside of your head, dear? No, I see only white noise in you." The demon sighed.
"Inside of John's?" Sherlock growled in clarification, stepping forward and holding up the flashlight in an offensive position, as if prepared to use the thing as a bludgeon in this makeshift interrogation.
"I can see it now, poor drunken Sherlock, defenseless and limp in his arms. John Watson never did have self-restraint." The demon sighed.
"You see it, or you've seen it already?" Sherlock clarified, his voice shaking as he attempted to sound the least bit intimidating. "That couldn't have happened!"
"How would you know!" the demon yelled back, his voice carrying and bouncing upon the walls, striking against Sherlock again and again until at last the echoes were absorbed and the voice lost. Sherlock winced, shaking his head as he figured he would get no solid answer from this creature.
"You're lying to me." Sherlock said flatly, wishing that he could believe himself.
"Prove it." the demon sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile. The priest cowered into himself, though at long last he had lost complete control of his body. It was a quick flash of instinct, a defensive mechanism which turned into a rather offensive affair. Before Sherlock could process his own actions he felt his arm swing out, the one brandishing the flashlight like a club, and smack solidly against poor Victor Trevor's skull. The demon's head whipped back upon the impact, a solid metal thunk stirring up Sherlock's blood and leaving the boy limp and delirious within his bonds. The priest's first reaction was one of horror, watching now as a dribble of blood began to issue from under the boy's matted hairline. Though this initial reaction was overtaken, now more than ever by a sense of primitive aggression, the sort of violence that was displayed by a wild cat tossing its injured prey in the air. It was something he couldn't control, something ugly and festering inside of his very soul. And though, more than anything, that bludgeoned skull only made him want to hit again. It made him want to strike out, to hit Victor upon the other side of the head and send his neck flopping into the other direction. He wanted to bear his teeth and flex his fingers, he wanted to tear flesh and taste blood. For a moment all of this pent up anger erupted within Sherlock's heart, all of it aimed at the only defenseless villain he had within his life. It would be sinful, not to mention unethical, to go after a man who was gagged and bound, though for the life of him Sherlock only wanted to cause pain. He had been the recipient of that feeling for too long, oh just once in his life he wanted to deal it out himself! Self-restraint was a difficult thing to come by, though as the demon began to come to, as his lips began to spread and blood dribbled into his teeth, Sherlock finally felt himself come back into his normal perception. The anger was still there, and that aching desire was still burning, though he was able to control it. He knew that he couldn't cause a show; he couldn't demonstrate to this demon that its words had any impact. And so Sherlock merely lunged forward with the handkerchief, tearing open Victor's jaw before he had enough sense to shut it tightly, and shoved the fabric deep within his mouth. He halted that tongue before it got the chance to wag, and now the only sound the demon could make was a muffled whine, loud enough to be heard but impossible to decipher. These noises couldn't enrage the priest, though he didn't stick around long enough to give the demon its fair shot at more antagonizing. Sherlock grabbed his set of keys anxiously, scurrying around the door and slamming it shut. With a couple of locks clicked and a couple of doors secured Sherlock finally made his way through the parking lot, shivering in the dusk and walking slowly through the parking lot. The lights of the church were on, bright and unrestricted through the stained glass and looking quite pleasant in the breaking light. He stared at the windows, now almost expecting to see someone staring back. There was a lingering doubt within his head, the echoes of the demon's words that seemed virtually impossible to comprehend. He was suggesting the worst, that the memories Sherlock had lost were just as vile as those he had saved over all of these years. That demon had the audacity to accuse John Watson of a crime most foul, an assault that he had been told about through tearful eyes... It wasn't like him; in fact Sherlock concluded it was all together impossible. The demon couldn't cite his examples; in fact he couldn't even promise that the images he was suggesting had ever happened at all. It was a trick, a deceitful one at that, and all in an effort to frighten the poor priest out of his newfound friendship. While stuck within that dark room it had seemed possible, though as Sherlock bathed in the calming lights of the church, all of his memories of John Watson floating calmly back, he figured that the man hadn't the capabilities to perform such grievous actions. It wasn't within his character, Sherlock was sure of that. And what could he do now, except trust his gut feeling? There was no way he could regain his memories, nor any way to question John upon the matter. He would have to trust what he already knew about John Watson, which historically was only the best of things. He would have to judge off precedent alone.