The Devil Was Never Here

The Smiling Spirit

"Where do you want to sleep then?" Mary asked, crossing her arms and looking at Sherlock as if he were nothing but a burden.
"Do you have a guest room?" Sherlock wondered hopefully, trying to be rather nice about all of this, especially since he had basically invited himself.
"Yes we do, I suppose that will be a bit more comfortable than the couch." Mary agreed, walking towards the end of the hallway and pushing open the door, the one right across from their bedroom.
"Thank you Mary." Sherlock muttered, following her into the room and seeing that there was a nice queen sized bed waiting for him there.
"You've been very helpful; I hope you can excuse my unyielding presence in your life." Sherlock muttered, feeling the need for some sort of apology while they were alone.
"Just fix my husband Sherlock, that's all I'm asking you to do. I don't care what you do; I just want my family back." Mary insisted in a very determined voice. Sherlock nodded meekly, wanting her to know that saving her husband was the only reason he was here.
"Could I say goodnight to him?" Sherlock wondered. "To John?" he added, as if he hadn't been clear the first time.
"Well, if you insist." Mary muttered, stepping aside and letting Sherlock walk back into the hallway. Of course he wasn't saying goodnight for sentimental reasons, he wasn't planning on tucking John in and reading him a bedtime story, he merely wanted to make sure the ghost knew exactly what was going on. Sherlock was staying across the hall, he wanted Ms. Irene Adler to get up and investigate, maybe say some more things that would help him identify how to destroy her. Sherlock needed to first understand this ghost before he could stop it, and therefore he had to interact some more. So he pushed open the bedroom door, knowing full well that Mary was following behind. John had dismantled his little fortress of pillows and was now lying flat, looking as though he had a little bit more color to him. His makeshift dinner that Molly had put out for him was half eaten, and he was looking as though he had regained some strength. John looked over at Sherlock irritably, as if he didn't want to see him again tonight.
"Hello John." Sherlock muttered nervously.
"Sherlock." John grunted his form of passive aggressive welcome.
"I'm going to be staying over tonight, alright? Keeping an eye on the place." Sherlock muttered, trying to keep his voice soft as to not startle the poor man.
"On the couch?" John wondered.
"Across the hall, in the guest bedroom." Sherlock shrugged.
"Alright then, if you think that will help." John agreed, sitting up just a little bit more and eying Sherlock curiously.
"Will you be alright tonight?" Sherlock asked. John nodded, clearing his throat and rearranging his blankets.
"Ya, ya I'll be alright." John agreed, obviously knowing that's what Sherlock wanted to hear.
"Feeling better?" Sherlock wondered.
"I guess so." John admitted. "But remember Sherlock, what I asked of you, it's still on the table, I'm not just going to let it go because you're stubborn."
"Goodnight John." Sherlock whispered, pretending like he hadn't even heard John's last sentence. John didn't say anything in return, he just lay back down on the bed with a soft groan, letting Sherlock walk across the hall into the guest bedroom and get himself situated.

 It started off as an uneventful night. Sherlock couldn't go to sleep, and every now and again he could hear Mary rearranging herself in bed, evidently she was having trouble sleeping alongside a demon. John didn't seem to be moving, and Sherlock was just watching the clock count up, ten thirty, eleven o'clock, eleven thirty, twelve o'clock. As the red numbers went higher his eyelids got heavier, but his heart beat was keeping him awake, his quick, nervous breaths and his wandering eyes. He was scared, an emotion he wasn't completely unfamiliar with. But his fear had never been like this, when he was afraid of the ghosts he knew that they couldn't hurt him. He just didn't want to see them. When he was a little boy he knew this feeling very well, he would hide under his blankets and listen to the ghosts wander through his bedroom at night, he could never sleep, he could never relax. It's been a while since he's been properly scared, and now, some twenty years later, he had that strange urge to pull the blankets over his head and protect himself once more. He knew that John could hurt him, or whatever was in John that is. He knew that it was evil and it only wanted to cause destruction, that and it was obsessed with him. Sherlock knew that this spirit was curious, if not threatened, by his power and his presence. And if John Watson walked tonight he knew exactly where he would be headed. It was around two o'clock when Sherlock was first alerted. He had been on the verge of sleep, conscious but not very present. His ears had been straining, however, for even the smallest sound, and he knew that when he heard the telltale creaking of a door that someone was out and about. At first Sherlock really didn't know what to do, he hadn't planned this far ahead. Was he to try to communicate with the spirit, or should he simply observe, see what it was planning on doing? Sherlock sat up in bed, hearing the creaking of the wooden floorboards, presumably under John's feet. Sherlock's heart started to race, the blood pressure was pounding in his ears, he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was downright terrified. Sherlock couldn't see much in this darkness, but he saw enough. He was able to see the door handle start to turn, he could see his own door start to slowly creak open; he could hear the breathing outside the door... Sherlock scrambled up against his head board, pulling his blanket up to his chin as if it would somehow protect him from what was coming through his door. He could hear the shuffling, and finally a pale face, the pale face of John Watson, was illuminated through the darkness. John stood half concealed by the door, standing in the doorway with a sickening smile stretched across his lips. And he just stood there, smiling, staring right at Sherlock with cold eyes. Sherlock could see the mist swirling around on his skin, the sign of the spirit taking over the body, but John's eyes remained normal. They weren't yellow, as they had been in the basement. It was almost as if Irene was trying to make this seem like normal John Watson. A shiver went down Sherlock's spine as he stared right back at John's immobile form, a body suspended on puppet strings from Hell.