As God Intended

Good Boys Speak Broken Latin

Sherlock POV: It was perhaps a little bit childish to speak so loudly, though for today's mass Sherlock tried to emphasize his words about as loud as possible, aiming them not at the crowd which sat before him but instead on the open windows of the church. If Mr. Watson decided to complain then it would be all the better, perhaps Sunday mass would get so irritating to the man that he would pack all of his things into another moving truck and leave the parish in peace once again. The crowd this morning was at their usual number, densely compact in the rows of metal chairs that he had set up specially before the crowd began to arrive. It was a dedicated effort to continue his priesthood, for if he had no parishioners to preach to then what exactly was his use? What good was it to rot in a rectory and watch the church you love disintegrate through the Devil's hands? Sherlock had no choice but to accommodate to his loyal followers, especially since there were faces within this crowd that he had known through all of his thirty years of service. To quit on them now, just because the loss of the church, would be a coward's way out. Oh but this situation with the Watsons, a feud that seemed to only be beginning, seemed to bring the most unnecessary emotions out within him, sources of rage and despair that Sherlock had not dealt with since his teenaged years. The mass lasted its usual abridged schedule, a mere forty five minutes without any of the formal processions. The song books had been randomly placed about the chairs, as many as he had salvaged from the church before they closed the doors, and the communion was merely blessed Wonder Bread that Sherlock had shredded with his own hands this morning. It was a pathetic excuse for a holy service, though his hand had been forced by the financial situation of the diocese. This was better than nothing, and certainly God would appreciate the effort put forth not only by the priest, but by the crowd in attendance as well. It displayed a great bit of dedication on all of their parts, and would undoubtedly be rewarded in the end. When the pass had ended Sherlock closed his Bible and stepped off of the small podium, one which had been buried with the rest of the old furniture within the school house. It wasn't much of a stage, and hardly had the proper altar, though he had draped it with white fabric and stuck a crucifix on top, trying to resemble at least some of the embellishments a regular church might have. The crowds got to their feet, their chattering starting up almost immediately as Sherlock's powerful voice died down, and he stepped in to intermingle with some of the more familiar faces. Out of all of the priests in this local diocese it was no question that Sherlock was the favorite, which made his situation all the more pathetic! Look how these people flocked to him, wandering through the pavement just to shake his hand! Some of these faces had been looking up at him for thirty years, those who had aged alongside of him and stayed strong and devoted throughout the whole process. How could such a beloved priest be condemned to a solitary rectory, without an assigned church to command? It was a betrayal of the highest sort, come down as an unofficial punishment from the bishop. That stuffy man, who had always had it out for poor Sherlock! Who knows where the feud had started, and who knows where it would end? At the moment the bishop had the most powerful hand, but the tides could soon turn once Sherlock got a grip on his situation. Even now he seemed to be flourishing, given the conditions of his church and the current squatters it had adopted.
"Father Holmes, you do such a lovely job." insisted one of the older women, clutching onto Sherlock's hand for a moment longer than would be appreciated. Sherlock gave her a soft smile, gently pulling away to ensure that everyone else had their due time. It was strange to see how many emotions could be boiled into one crowd, how many different opinions could be reflected in the myriad of eyes which stared upon him! There was appreciation, admiration, inspiration, and perhaps even attraction. The latter was the one which scared him most, and was unfortunately the most popular with some of the women his age. He would've thought that such feelings would die down as he aged, though he seemed to be on track to still lead his age group in the counts of beauty. Sherlock had lived his life as an attractive man, though he had imagined that would change once his curls turned gray. Though it seemed as though the color wasn't an issue for those older women, all of who flocked about him with their giggles and excitement. It was always humiliating for a priest to sprout such feelings within his parishioners, especially considering the strict rules which both parties thoroughly understood. As the crowds finally began to vanish, with each of the small groups shuffling back down the alley to where their cars were parked across the road, Sherlock found that he was left with a single couple, two older parishioners who were looking quite distressed. They were standing near the back of the makeshift church, behind the last row of folding chairs, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to speak with the priest in private. They were muttering to each other, though every so often they would lift the heads to see if Sherlock was occupied with any other callers. In the end they were the last couple to remain standing, at last making eye contact from the back row and beginning to make their way down the central aisle. It was not unusual for parishioners to be so afraid, some of them found their priest to be terrifying, as if he was a true mouthpiece of the Holy Father. Some people found this to be comforting, though in others it came with a deep seated sense of fear.
"May I help you?" Sherlock asked most politely, trying to keep his voice calm and cooperative in order to ease whatever fears they may have. The couple was still quite pale, perhaps in a similar age range as himself. There were some wrinkles upon their faces, with hair shock white, though they might look more sickly than normal as they stood cowering upon the blacktop. For a moment they couldn't seem to find their words, and Sherlock wondered if he would have to start asking some more direct questions in order to get the meaning of their approach.
"Father, we're having some trouble that we thought you might be able to help us with." The man admitted at last, his voice very quiet and fearful, as if the very concept of his claim was frightening to him.
"We're here every Sunday; we've been coming to your services for about three years now." The woman piped in.
"I recognize you both, though I'm not sure we've ever been properly introduced." Sherlock admitted.
"George Trevor, sir. And this is my wife, Marie." The man introduced quickly, patting his wife on the shoulder as if trying to get her to liven up. The woman seemed to be crying, as her eyes were glittering in the morning sun. Sherlock hesitated, wondering just what was haunting these good peoples' minds.
"What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Trevor?" Sherlock asked at last.
"It's our son, sir, Victor. He's been acting terribly strange these past couple of weeks, progressively getting worse as time goes on." The man began quickly, twisting his hands together as if trying to figure out the best way to phrase this.
"Has he been diagnosed with anything?" Sherlock wondered, as if this could be so easily explained in either the physical or mental sciences.
"No sir, no it's not a disease. He's twenty six you see, just moved in with us after finishing his graduate school. We spoke with his doctors, but they say nothing seems to be wrong! He had some symptoms of depression, some of anxiety, others of more violent conditions. But it's our honest opinion, Father Holmes, that there is something evil afoot." George admitted at last.
"Evil?" Sherlock clarified quietly.
"A demon, Father Holmes!" the lady cried, at last bursting into tears and covering her face shamefully with her hands. Her husband shushed her, allowing her to settle her head upon his shoulder and weep into his Sunday jacket. Sherlock was properly taken aback, though he tried to maintain his composure. As a priest he has heard all sorts of ludicrous claims, and in his many years this was not his first demon possession. The rest had turned out to be perfectly logical explanations, delving within schizophrenia and paranoia. Certainly this case would not turn out any different, despite this poor couple's almost hysterical confession.
"On what grounds do you make such a claim?" Sherlock asked calmly, trying to give these people peace of mind enough to maintain a conversation. For a moment the woman sputtered, trying to find her voice behind the stifled sobs that she had kept contained.
"He's acting so strangely, Father. He won't let us inside of his room, he's speaking in what sounds like broken Latin, his voice is much deeper, his face seems twisted... every time I've tried to get a look at him he moves so quickly out of the light, in strange contortions, almost spiderlike." The woman shivered again.
"It's not our Victor, Father we promise you that. Something has taken him over." George agreed, nodding his head determinedly as if trying to back up his wife's amazing claims. Sherlock thought for a moment, able to predict at least a couple of explanations for such strange behavior.
"Are you sure he hasn't adopted a bad case of social anxiety? And perhaps he had learned Latin at school, and is trying to practice?" Sherlock offered quickly.
"He's a math major, Father. He has no need of such studies." Marie insisted through her sniffles.
"Victor has always been a gentle, outgoing boy. To avoid his parents entirely is very much unlike him. And he's not only avoiding us, Father. He's been insulting us, insulting God, calling us names that I dare not repeat!" the man agreed.
"It's almost as if he can look into our minds, examine us for our hidden secrets. It's not natural Father Holmes, and we're desperate for any help!" Marie insisted, reaching out to clutch Sherlock's arm instead of her husbands, as if to plead to him more physically for any help he could offer. Sherlock flinched, at first quite frightened of the touch that she so quickly sprung upon him. However if he could act as a shoulder to cry on then he would, by all means, help her in any way possible. This woman seemed hysterical, as desperate as any grieving mother could be.
"I am not practiced in exorcisms, though I can work with the church to determine if a true exorcist is needed. I will not lie; most of these claims end up in mental health diagnoses." Sherlock warned, as if trying to prepare the two for disappointment. Surely they were not hoping for their son to truly be possessed, though if this were the case there would be a much easier fix in the end. For a severe mental disorder, who knows what years of remedy might be necessary to bring their son back safe from his own mind?
"If you would just take a look at him, I'm sure you'll understand why desperate measures are necessary. It's becoming harder to live with him; we hear his footsteps in the night, wandering about. We're afraid for our safety, we're afraid for his safety as well! Who knows what a demon would want with my son, and what their intentions might be?" George insisted nervously.
"Our Victor is a lovely boy, so lovely." Marie agreed, wiping her eyes finally upon her dress sleeve as if trying to put her tears behind her. She was recollecting herself, focusing now upon action rather than pleading. They had gotten their priest's attention, though now it was the matter of what to do next.
"I can visit your son this afternoon, if that will work for you? Certainly we can get this figured out within the evening." Sherlock assured.
"Oh yes, yes Father! We can give you the address, or if you would like you could just follow our car now!" Marie offered excitedly, breathing a huge sigh of relief to see the priest's compliancy. Sherlock turned, looking at the assortment of chairs, books, and other relics that he had left skewed throughout the parking lot.
"Let me clean this up, and I will follow you out." Sherlock offered at last, hating to admit that his curiosity was getting the better of him. The longer he waited to more excited he became, which was certainly a terrible claim to make when faced with two very frantic parents. But a demon possession, how could his job get any more interesting? The Trevors helped him to clean up the parking lot, both seeming to be very dedicated to helping out, working at a very quick pace as if this matter could not go attended for even ten minutes longer. Before he knew it, Sherlock found the parking lot completely empty, and already the Trevors were headed anxiously for their car.
"You can follow us, Father!" Marie called. "We'll be waiting on the road, our car is blue!"
"Thank you Mrs. Trevor!" Sherlock agreed, headed rather swiftly towards his own car and backing it out of his makeshift garage and then down the alleyway, finding indeed that a blue car was waiting for him along the side of the main road. He wasn't sure what was awaiting him at the other end of this drive, though something in his gut warned him not to take it lightly. He recognized true hysterics within the woman's eyes, and true desperation in the stiffened shoulders of the husband. Even if their son was not possessed, he was obviously plagued by something which was not so easily dealt with. Sherlock surely hoped that he had the capabilities to handle such a situation, and to bring peace of mind to the family involved. The rosary bounced along his rear view mirror as Sherlock's car struggled through the major and unavoidable pot holes, keeping the Trevor car within his sight as he sped along towards another side of town, one of the less populated areas which slowly began to progress to farmland. It certainly was a far drive all for the sake of a church service, for they had to have been driving for about fifteen minutes when at last they hit a long dirt driveway, covering the mailbox painted with their name in the dust which was kicked up by the numerous tires passing through. On either side of the narrow path were fields of soybeans, not a rare sight considering how far out they had come from the city's center. It was more of a large town, really, flanked on all sides by the agricultural world. The driveway was long and gradually downhill, until at last a large farmhouse rose out of the fields before them, with an old yet cozy look to it. It was undoubtedly built before any of the city had been constructed, with a design that might have dated all the way back to the nineteenth century. What it lacked in age had been replaced with a very nice rustic touch, for the windows had been adorned with blue checkered curtains, the porch was covered in flower pots and antique watering cans, and in the yard was a large, flowering dogwood tree. It was a peaceful place, one that didn't seem just as haunting as its long driveway might imply. The Trevor car halted before the house, and quickly the couple piled out onto the makeshift parking lot, a patch of ground covered in gravel. Sherlock paused for a moment, watching as the two ran to look into one of the top most windows; as if to make sure it didn't seem disturbed in any way. When at last Sherlock opened his door they flocked towards his car, as if they were too afraid to enter the house without him by their side.
"We've hardly left him alone before this situation began, though we keep his door locked." George explained as Sherlock got rather stiffy out of his car, easing his old and sore joints back into a standing position. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair thoughtfully, wondering if he should have brought any sort of weapon to restrain this boy. If this was a demonic possession then it would take no more than a prayer to keep him at bay, though Sherlock still had a feeling that they were dealing with something less controllable. If he was stricken with a mental disorder he may become physically violent, and what were three older citizens against a raging teenager?
"Is he violent?" Sherlock asked as he closed the door, appreciating the warm summer breeze that was blowing gently in from the soybeans.
"Not to us historically. Though he has taken to scratching up his walls." George admitted, to which his wife stifled another sob.
"With a weapon of some sort?" Sherlock clarified.
"With his fingernails." George corrected quietly. Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine, despite the heat he was suddenly chilled from the inside out. Looking back upon the house there might have been a newfound shadow, just now conjured from a cloudless sky.
"Wonderful." The priest muttered, finally beginning to trudge towards the front porch in the hopes that the Trevors would lead him to the room of interest. Sherlock tried to give himself a small pep talk before stepping upon the first of the wooden stairs, going over and over in his head to try to contain the fear that was beginning to bubble up inside of his weak heart. This was just a disturbed boy; it was nothing that a good kick in the teeth couldn't handle. Besides, if these two could keep the boy under control for this long, what was there to say that he wouldn't be cooperative for Sherlock's visit? His job today was just to determine if there was any cause for concern, and if there was then what sort of professional would be best fit for the job? Surprisingly enough exorcisms can be extremely difficult to get approved, even within the Catholic Church it took a lot of evidence to even determine whether a matter fell within the description of paranormal. Although he wasn't entirely certain of the signs of demonic possession, Sherlock was sure he would know it when he saw it. All he had to do was assess the situation and go back to his rectory, peacefully and unharmed. George settled himself upon the wire welcome mat, fitting a key into the door and letting the small party into the darkened house.
"Welcome, Father." Marie muttered, though she sounded much more nervous than would any normal hostess. Sherlock nodded, stepping inside and looking quickly around. For a moment the house was dark, though George flipped on a switch that joined electric lights with the natural light streaming in from the windows rather far off. It was a beautiful house, with just as much character and charm as the exterior, though it was choked with a rather stifling feeling, a lingering sense of vulnerability that weighed upon Sherlock's lungs like a thick fog. His old bones could sense it, an evil presence.
"You best come upstairs, Father. He's unlikely to leave the room." Marie suggested, leading Sherlock to follow her husband up a tight wooden staircase, with each step creaking loudly to announce their oncoming presence. If the boy had not already been aware of their presence, he certainly was now. There was a single bulb illuminating the hallway as they neared the top, with a long shadowy chute that branched off into various closed doors, all flimsy wooden constructions that appeared to stand no chance against a gust of wind, much less an demonic infestation. Sherlock uncurled the rosary from his neck, clutching it instead in his hand and trying to channel whatever power the Holy Father would offer him in this moment. His fingers played across the divots in the cross, the chain bouncing quietly against his leg as he followed the couple towards the farthest bedroom, the door at the very end of the hall. George arrived first, knocking lightly upon the door to stir his son from whatever state he had fallen into.
"Victor, do you mind us coming in?" George called, knocking again upon the door. There was no response, and for a moment the man's face fell crestfallen. Marie hesitated, glancing at her husband as if to reinforce the concern they were all feeling. Was he asleep, perhaps, or being intentionally silent? Did he know they had brought a priest?