As God Intended

Do You Believe In God?

There was no shock in the matter, only a deep seated sadness that began to spread like tendrils from his heart, a misery that mixed within his blood and sent each one of his limbs falling heavily to the ground in utmost defeat. Sherlock Holmes knelt before him in his previous form, his original form. The street lamps were enough to illuminate the gray curls protruding from his head, the sagging skin that used to cling so tightly to his facial structure. The lips that John had once held within his own were now cracked and dry, the eyes which had once shone so bright clouded with the fog of age. The miracle had been reversed, and by now the rightful way of the world appeared to be more of a curse. When John blinked he might have managed to see the form of man he had grown used to, though the longer his eyes were forced upon the withered shell of the older man the more his consciousness grew used to it, until at last he was beginning to wonder if ever he had appreciated the company of a younger, more beautiful priest.
"Sherlock..." John whispered, leaning forward with his hand outstretched, hesitating to touch upon the face that he had once found so smooth and inviting. By now he was too afraid to even graze his fingertips, as if the familiar skin had turned hard and brittle, threatening to crack with an ounce of pressure. The old man sat back upon the tiles, letting Victor's head fall heavily onto the ground as he recollected himself in his original form, wincing as each one of his ancient joints whined and creaked under his whole weight. There was a look of distress in the priest's face, the same sort of agony that was beginning to build within John's heart. His face was creased in disappointment, his eyes already welling with tears. The wrinkled hands began to shake, and before long Sherlock was offered no choice but to throw his fingers overtop of his eyes, closing them tight and blocking out what little of his own form he could see.
"I'm hideous." He exclaimed at last, curling into his frame and wailing in an unprecedented agony. John wanted to breathe a word of dispute; he wanted to say anything that might make the priest feel better to have aged forty years in a matter of thirty seconds. Though even his most optimistic brain could not conjure any words of encouragement, and just like the other witnesses to the scene he was silent. His lips were pursed shut, his eyes wide as he noticed every little detail that had gone wrong upon the body of his previous lover. Each one of the qualities he had grown to love now deteriorated with age, either masked by imperfections or lost completely to time. He looked upon the man he had held within his arms just hours earlier, the man who he had stripped down and loved with fierce passion. The man who now sat here, looking like a beautiful marble statue weathered and eroded within the elements. A grandfather, not a lover, perched upon the tiles before him. John's heart clenched, though still he felt the need to reach out. Even if that body was not the one he recognized the soul inside was the same one he had come to love. Surely not everything was lost.
"Sherlock don't speak of yourself in such a way." John scolded at last, easing Hamish down upon the floor and scrambling to his feet anxiously. He stepped over top of Victor Trevor, the boy who was now beginning to writhe and squirm upon the floor, seemingly gagging and spitting up thick mucus. For the moment both men ignored him, finding that his presence had caused too much trouble for the time being even if he was not directly responsible. John huddled down beside the trembling priest, taking the man carefully into his arms and holding him close to his chest. It wasn't much different than holding the younger version, in fact if John closed his eyes and forgot all he had witnessed the frame felt quite similar, almost indistinguishable. The bone structure protruded in the same way, the weight felt equivalent. He fit just as perfectly within John's open arms as he did all those years ago, or rather all those minutes ago. John tried to ease himself just as perfectly as he had before, he tried to put down his defenses and let his whole heart flow from his own chest and into Sherlock's once again. Though he had hesitations, suddenly it was not so easy to love unconditionally. A part of him was waiting to be scolded, for while his heart recognized the two men as one his brain did not yet understand. There was still a distinction within his deepest subconscious, seeing the younger priest as a lover and the older one as a stern authority figure. It was strange to be holding the latter in his arms, no matter how vulnerable the man had become. The moment, however forceful it was growing to be, was suddenly interrupted by a loud and humanoid screech emitted from Victor Trevor's lips, the boy suddenly jolting into consciousness and seizing across the tile floor. All of his muscles contracted and his neck strained, his limbs flailing back and forth as he began to scream the most pained, most terrified cries John had ever heard. Hamish joined in on the disappointment, wailing his own annoyance, and before long the quiet hallway had become alive with screams and yells of all octaves. John allowed the priest to wiggle from his grasp, kneeling overtop of Victor and trying to calm him with well-chosen words and calming strokes. In a way John was thankful for the distraction, though as he watched Sherlock work he was once again reminded of the similarities between the man he loved and the man he knew before. The way he talked was similar; the words he chose were the same. He was undoubtedly the same man, just with a forty year time gap in either direction.
"You're safe Victor, you're safe. The demon is gone, expelled back to Hell. You're here, you're human." Sherlock was muttering anxiously, one hand cupping the back of the boy's head as the other ran up and down his arm, trying to give him the touch of another human to remind him just what reality he was currently living in.
"Father Holmes?" the boy was able to mutter, his voice strained and distant as if he had not spoken upon his own command in some time.
"Yes, Victor. Father Holmes." Sherlock agreed.
"I remember you." Victor whispered, forcing one of his arms up to grasp onto the priest's shoulder, his nails digging into his skin as if to ground himself within this moment of time. John stood idly by, having recollected Hamish into his arms just to make sure he wouldn't be snatched by another hellish force in the coming moments.
"As you should, Victor." Sherlock muttered with a small smile.
"I remember...I remember what I did to you." The boy whispered again, his face turning away from that smile and falling into a dismal, startled expression. "I remember what I made you do."
"You have done nothing, Victor. You were merely a shell, a vessel." Sherlock assured continually.
"I tortured you, Father Holmes! I...I shoved my tongue down your throat!" Victor exclaimed miserably.
"You what?" John clarified at last, taking a step back in some surprise.
"Victor, none of this was you." Sherlock insisted again, patting the boy's forehead as if to ease the pain of his sudden awakening.
"And you...you! Mr. Watson!" Victor exclaimed, finally having noticed the other man standing in the room. "I remember...I remember distain."
"The feeling's mutual." John grumbled, to which Hamish gurgled what could only be an agreement.
"Victor, think upon something brighter." Father Holmes suggested. "Even now the sun is rising." The boy sat heavily up, using Sherlock's arm as support as he raised his head from the ground. By now his bright blue eyes were high enough to see the first arriving rays of sunlight, the natural light sparkling upon his face for the first time since the demon had infested his body. The look of relief on his face could not be falsified; it was a genuine freedom that could not be mimicked even if the demon was still playing games. This was a human expression, a feeling only humans understood, and the way his face shone even through his sickness, the way his thin cheeks curled and his cracked lips smiled, it was entirely genuine.