Sherlock POV: Sherlock recognized the chair that he now sat in as the one which was once positioned inside of the priest's break room, the small room that now served as the kitchen for the Watson family. It was a wooden thing, not very impressive when compared to the golden throne like chairs they sat in before the crowd upon the altar. However this chair had always proved to be more comfortable, and when the church had vacated the property he was almost surprised that it was left behind. It was a relief to know that same comfort had not been drained over these couple of weeks, and as he shuffled into the indentation in the wood Sherlock almost felt as if nothing had changed. He was even wearing a long robe once more, this time in the form of a table cloth which had been tucked into his loosened shirt collar, making up for their lack of proper hair styling equipment.
"Now hold still, the more you squirm the more likely it is that I'll poke you." Mary warned, snipping a bit more agressivley as if to prove her point. Sherlock sighed, almost nodding before he remembered that his head was supposed to remain still. The stray hairs began to collect in the divots of the plastic table cloth, unnerving him considerably. He had told her just to straighten his hair out if she could, though he had never specified just long he preferred it to be. Could she be snipping it down to the roots and giving him a nearly clean shaven atrocity? There was no mirror to ease his mind, and it was all Sherlock could do but shrug his shoulders and hope for the best.
"When's John going to be back?" Sherlock asked finally, hoping that discussing her husband would be an interesting enough topic for the both of them. It had been a little uncomfortably quiet for about ten minutes, and before long even the shy priest had some hesitations.
"Tomorrow afternoon, if the schedule holds. But you know planes, they're quite unreliable." Mary sighed.
"Why did he go to a job interview so far away? You'd think that job wouldn't be very convenient." Sherlock pointed out in protest. He wouldn't say that he was feeling neglected, only that he was never issued a formal goodbye. One might expect at least a farewell from someone in the position they were in, not quite friends but not quite enemies, either. Why was it that Sherlock had only found out about John's interview through his wife the next day?
"It's an online job, actually. He'll only have to take business trips to headquarters about every three months. It'll be perfect for him, really. John never did like to leave the house." Mary chuckled, snipping away and letting more beautiful curls fall bouncing upon the table cloth. Sherlock hummed in agreement, taking this as some good news after all. If John chose an online job that would mean he would be staying at home more often, giving the lonely priest at least someone to talk to throughout the day.
"I didn't know the church had Wi-Fi enough to handle that." Sherlock admitted at last, trying to keep his enthusiasm to a minimum. Obviously he shouldn't get his hopes up, considering the job may likely have many other competitive applicants. Perhaps John was only going to be humored, and would come home just as unemployed as before?
"Well we'd handle that if we had to." Mary assured with a shrug. "We're good at adapting."
"Evidentially." Sherlock agreed, hating to have his mind go wandering off in embarrassing directions. It was hard to sit so close within Mary's reach and not think of what john had spoken of, all of his regrets, his fears, and his shameful imaginative affairs. Could it be that Mary was living a lie herself, or perhaps living inside of one constructed by her husband? They were happy, perfectly happy, from what Sherlock could tell. Why was it then that John crumbled under the pressure of confession, spewing out all of his mental struggles to a man he hardly knew? Sherlock had to wonder what was under their smiles, and if Mary was holding back potent secrets that may ring a familiar tune to those of her husband.
"How had John been lately?" Sherlock asked at last, figuring that was a question that would fly under her radar as something not to be too concerned with. It was innocent enough, if not investigated with too much suspicion.
"Oh he's a little stressed, these job interviews get him all worked up." Mary admitted. "He's always been shy in the spotlight."
"I wouldn't take him for the type." Sherlock muttered, always having seen John as a confident, outgoing man.
"Oh well, he only gets nervous when he's out of control. He really doesn't like that." Mary sighed. Sherlock nodded, to which she gave a hiss of annoyance and straightened his head out again with some firm fingers.
"Sorry." Sherlock muttered, and fell silent again. Mary continued to clip, though he breaths turned a bit more forceful, as if she was finally summoning up the courage to ask a question of her own. Sherlock knew the feeling, the pressure of breaking the silence.
"What about you then?" she asked finally. "Now that you've had an extreme makeover, are you going to be returning to priesthood?"
"Well I never left, of course." Sherlock pointed out in defense.
"I meant, well maybe into more active service? Another church perhaps?" Mary suggested.
"Trying to get rid of me?" Sherlock chuckled, to which the woman muttered out excessive denials and apologies.
"No, no. I just meant that you've probably got more energy in you, more potential." She assured at last. Sherlock nodded quietly, understanding that she was trying to solve the problem which was still looming within his conscious mind. Of course this was a version of the question he was asking himself, whether to stay within the priesthood or to break free of whatever chains he had bound himself in too early within his life.
"I'm not sure what I'll be doing in the coming years." Sherlock admitted at last. "I suppose relocation is up to the diocese."
"How long have you been here without active service?" Mary wondered.
"As long as the church has been up for sale I suppose. Months now." Sherlock muttered, trying to remember the exact date before ultimately giving up. His memory may not have regenerated quite as well as his body had, and he was still struggling with the mental blocks that may be associated with a sixty year old man.
"That's a shame." Mary admitted. "But it's good that you keep up your duties to the parishioners. It's good that you're staying active."
"Yes well, it doesn't only help them. I'm an old man without a set schedule; it was nearly driving me insane. Besides, the longer you don't practice your faith the more withdrawn you become. The first Sunday I didn't stand in front of the congregation felt like a sin in itself." Sherlock muttered.
"I'm sure God forgives you for that, and rewards you for everything you've done since. I mean obviously something came out of it! You are practically stunning." Mary chuckled, pushing Sherlock's head back as she began snipping at the ends of hair that hung near his neck.
"Thank you, but like I said before...it all seems rather suspicious to me." Sherlock admitted.
"Like some sort of set up?" Mary presumed.
"Yes. A plot, some sort of strange devilry." Sherlock agreed mournfully, keeping his eyes down upon his knees as instructed as the woman's hands steadied his neck at the appropriate angle. Her skin was warm against his own, with her fingers wrapped to contort around his protruding shoulder blades.
"How so?" she wondered softly, the steady snipping of the scissors pausing for a moment as she took time to understand. Sherlock heaved a great sigh, not all together excited about sharing his darkest fears to the woman who stood behind him. Then again, what other choices would he have to express himself? He could never say such things to John, who would undoubtedly torment him to no ends. And besides John, what other friends did he have?
"Like I said before, I fear it's a plot to break my faith in God. Or at least tarnish my reputation in his eyes. Regaining youth comes along with all of the temptations along the way, and the question of how the rest of my life will progress. I'm faced again with a cross roads, having already took one path. It seems only logical that the other path should be my choice, even if that means betraying the trust of our Heavenly Father." Sherlock admitted quietly, poking at some of the loose hairs upon his makeshift apron while Mary processed all that she heard.
"You mean you're considering leaving the Church entirely?" she presumed at last.
"I'm not considering anything. But I am not so ignorant as to pretend my options are not there." Sherlock admitted quietly. Mary's scissors regained their usual rhythm, though her hand still had not moved from where it had settled upon his neck. This came as some concern for the poor priest, though he decided that he was not trained in the exact art of hair cutting. He best not think into things too much.
"What would you do if you left?" Mary wondered at last. Sherlock shrugged, feeling Mary's hand go up and down with his shoulders as he pondered what the future could hold. What would he do if he did run off into the real world?
"I'm not sure, really. I'd be without a job, without a home, without a family. Alone, destitute, and without any proper experience." Sherlock admitted.
"You could always come here, if you needed a place of transition." Mary offered finally.
"I won't make plans for something that is improbable, but I do appreciate your offer." Sherlock interjected quickly, hoping that his words were not erupting too much excitement within the woman. Certainly she had to understand that this was all hypothetical, in fact it was a bit too far away from probable that the words may very well be disregarded as soon as they left their mouths.
"Would you get married?" the woman asked at last, as if this was the question she had been leading to this whole time. Sherlock paused in his response, trying to reexamine the life he had envisioned for himself in the future. He had always seen a ring upon his finger, but as to whom he imagined his partner, that part was as shielded to his eyes as ever before.
"I'm not sure. It would depend if the right person came along, I suppose." He admitted at last, figuring that was a safe and ambiguous answer. Mary nodded, as if that was the sort of response she had expected from a man who spoke for a living.
"Not to give you my own opinion, but I think it would be silly to pursue the life you just left. Especially if you're staying on track to become that miserable man again." Mary offered at last. Sherlock sneered, even daring to stretch his neck and confront the woman with a glare.
"Miserable?" he clarified.
"Yes, miserable! Rude, unfriendly, unsociable. It nearly took all of our strength just to get you to acknowledge us, much less to like us!" Mary agreed quickly. Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head to which the woman slapped him back into position once more. "Stop moving."
"I was only miserable because you had stolen my place of work." Sherlock pointed out.
"That all changed when you got your future back." Mary remembered. "As soon as you were back to our age you seemed to have changed. It didn't bother you anymore."
"It still bothers me, but I've grown used to it. That was the initial shock; you caught me at a bad moment." Sherlock defended at last. "Miserable may be appropriate in the context of our first couple meetings, but it did not reflect my personality at the time."
"Well, either way you're happier now. Either way I like you much better, too." Mary admitted with a little chuckle, catching her hand along Sherlock's cheek and giving it a little pat of admiration. Sherlock forced himself to smile, though admittedly he was feeling rather uncomfortable. He was only too aware of the position he had found himself in with this woman, this married woman. Alone inside of a church at eight o'clock at night, with no promise of her husband returning. It sent shivers down his spine, though what Sherlock was feeling wasn't any sort of temptation at all. It was instead a sense of dread, a fear that would come along with the flirtation he had dealt with most all of his life. He was beautiful at any age, of course to those who fit within the same decade as himself. Certainly it was beyond his power to control this, but it had always made him feel something like a tiger trapped in a cage, getting awed at by those on the other side of the bars. Sherlock never liked the feeling, and tonight was no different. He could hear it in the tone of the woman's voice, slight higher now, as if she had forgotten all about her commitments and the state of friendship they were struggling to maintain. Suddenly Sherlock wanted to leave, though he forced himself to sit in that chair and maintain small talk with Mary Watson as she finished up his makeshift haircut. Thankfully that was the end of their more troubling conversations, though by the end Sherlock was almost too happy to shed that table cloth onto the floor and bid the woman goodnight. She bid him farewell in her friendly way, waving cheerfully and allowing him to slip out the side door as he usually did. It was such an easy exit that Sherlock wondered if he had scared himself for no reason, and had made up the woman's intentions within his head. It wouldn't be the first time he imagined things, especially not when he was in such close proximity to a Watson. 

Sherlock always tried to look discreet when going to feed his demon, though there was almost no way to conceal a bowl of oatmeal under your arm while heading into an abandoned schoolhouse. If Mary chose to look out her window at any time his actions would have to be explained as best he could, though at the moment his only excuse may be that he fancied a different scenery for his pathetic dinner. Thankfully he was not questioned as he stole into the building, and so he made his way through the hallway and fumbled the key into the lock. It was a dark night, cloudy and without a moon. Sherlock had a flashlight tucked under his jacket, and it was with this that he scanned the room that Victor Trevor was tied in, making sure that the boy was secure where he had been left the day before. Sherlock sighed thankfully, pulling open the door and wishing that he had a better method of keeping the host comfortable. Certainly it was the demon he meant to contain, though poor Victor Trevor was going along with his inhabitant on this strange and depressing ride of confinement and captivity. But what was there to do to spare the boy of this misery, if not to perform an exorcism? And without the proper priest to perform such a thing, well they may lose even more than the boy's life. They might release a demon to the world, allowing for a whole new batch of troubles. And so it was the unfortunate fate of Victor Trevor to remain here for as long as necessary, though when that time would expire would be up to Sherlock and his dedication to the mission. It was becoming ever so easy to feed the boy once a day and forget about him for the rest of the twenty four hours, this being the only other option to confronting a demon expert about what to do. Considering there seemed to be only one demon expert in the area, well certainly it was not worth it just yet. Sherlock needed to be sure that he was following the right path, just in case his trip to his oldest tormentor be wasted and for nothing. Carefully Sherlock set the flashlight upon the ground, illuminating the room enough for him to snatch the gag out of the boy's mouth and pour some water into his parched lips. For a moment the demon drank, as if only to humor him, though before long he refused to swallow and allowing the liquid to pour forth onto his chest and clothes. Instead of drinking he took to smiling, as if he found Sherlock's care to be a matter of interest. It was curious enough why the demon would even eat or drink, considering it was a spiritual form that required no such things. Perhaps it was only trying to keep its host alive, or perhaps it was only humoring the priest so as to make sure he continued his daily visits.
"A new hair style, Father?" the boy wondered as Sherlock withdrew the water and replaced it with a spoonful of oatmeal, shoving it into the demon's mouth to try to keep him from talking too much. He never liked to listen to that voice, the one which could take many forms and many octaves. This time it sounded more like the boy and less like the demon, with a human pitch and a soft, gentle tone.
"Cut by careful hands, I presume?" the demon wondered through its oatmeal, to which Sherlock snarled and turned away.
"None of your business." Sherlock sneered.
"Oh but it's all my business. In fact I know everything already. I just like to hear you say it first." The demon chuckled. "She's quite the flirt, isn't she?"
"She's not flirting, filth. She's just being nice." Sherlock insisted.
"While John's away, Mary will play." The demon sung, to which Sherlock shoved another spoonful into his mouth.
"Shut up." Sherlock demanded. The demon chewed for a moment, though he could tell that the attention had been caught like a fish on a line. Sherlock even hesitated to feed him another spoonful, lest there be something more he had to say on the subject matter.
"I know her intentions, Sherlock. I don't even have to go into her mind to realize it. No one can resist you, Sherlock; no one can stick to their previous vows." The demon assured.
"So you say." Sherlock grumbled, and gave him some more oatmeal to allow some more thinking time on both of their parts. Was the demon simply making lies, perhaps in an attempt to mess with Sherlock's head? It wouldn't work of course, even if Mary's intentions were validated by a second source it wouldn't matter in the least. Sherlock's refusal was solid, and perhaps this is why the demon found it so amusing to observe.
"No, no, Sherlock don't get so worked up." the demon chuckled when he at last found room within his mouth to speak. "I know it's not so simple as Mary Watson. I know more about you than you think."
"Good. Then you'll see your little tricks won't break me so easy." Sherlock snarled.
"Quite the contrary." The demon chuckled. "I can see that your heart lingers on a Watson, but it's not Mary who's your main concern."
"I don't linger on anyone!" Sherlock defended, this time nearly impaling the back of the boy's throat with the front of the spoon.
"Liar." Victor chuckled. "You've felt them both, now. Their hands, their skin. Two prime examples, beautiful representatives for their gender. Ideals on either end, both of which you could have in a heartbeat."
"I want nothing to do with romance." Sherlock insisted starkly.
"There again, is a lie. Perhaps you don't even realize it yet, Sherlock. Perhaps I'm just alluding to a future revelation. When you have him in your arms again, and his eyes grow soft." The demon whispered. Sherlock stood stock still for a moment, almost having forgotten the full spoon within his hands. It was a sharp reminder of what had come to pass between John Watson and himself, one that he had almost forgotten in his fear of Mary Watson. The time when he had been treated with the same amount of flirtation from the other side of the pair, and when his fingers had been clenched so closely between those of John...
"You're speaking madness." Sherlock declared abruptly, forcing himself to remain in the present and not linger too much on other's past mistakes.
"You've always known, Sherlock. Every time you envision your future you never see the woman who you want to spend it with. That's because it's not a woman, you've never wanted a woman." The demon reminded him.
"I'm married to God, and my love lies with him!" Sherlock defended, forcing more food into the demon's mouth in an attempt to empty the bowl as quick as possible.
"Men are the only creatures you know how to handle; men are the only creatures you've come to know. All of these years, Sherlock, and your memory has only gotten more potent. All of these years and you can still feel him." the demon whispered. Sherlock tensed, his fingers clenching around the bowl but not tight enough. It fell from his hands in an instant, his muscles having lost complete control. Time stood still, suddenly the room was falling quite black, and the words of the demon were still ringing clearly within his ears.
"You remember, don't you? Those aged hands pulling apart the clasp of your belt, that friendly face still smiling. One hand steadying, the other reaching... Not so innocent as you might claim to be. Not all priests have been touched like that." the demon's voice faltered, giving Sherlock's eyes the ability to fly open once more. On his watch the second hand ticked forward, and with a great shatter the bowl broke into pieces onto the floor, having been frozen within the air all the while the demon's voice possessed the room. Sherlock winced, holding his hands against his hips and doubling over with a sickened feeling inside of his stomach, the darkness suddenly becoming much more invasive, much more frightening. Sherlock's head spun, and when at last he was able to look upon the demon he couldn't see Victor Trevor any longer. He saw a face, old yet familiar, a friendly face with a twisted, evil smile. Sherlock fell backwards, clambering into the flashlight and shining it as brightly as he could upon the man he had restrained in his chair. It was still there, that face that now contorted into a laugh, that man with the collar shoved into his neck.
"Father James?" Sherlock whispered anxiously, his hands trembling upon the flashlight as he scrambled on all fours nearer to the door.
"Sherlock, dear, I thought you said it would be our little secret?" that distorted voice whispered.
"Stop, stop this!" Sherlock demanded, jumping to his feet and throwing a slap across the priest's face, the one which had been masked atop of Victor's with a veil of shadows. His sudden urgency forced the demon back into its original form, the face of the Father melting away to reveal the true one behind. Sherlock didn't waste any time, he scrambled to collect the handkerchief and shove it into the demon's mouth, taking advantage of his gaping laugh to shut the noise off permanently. Quickly he kicked the shards of the bowl away, trying to make sure there were no weapons within the demon's grip, but he was too shocked to manage a more permanent clean up. Sherlock's heart was pounding fearfully within his chest, his entire body had cemented into an immobilizing brick. That face, that face again... As Sherlock rushed out of the room the demon was still laughing, forcing his humor through the cloth of the handkerchief and using as much of the borrowed vocal chords as he could manage. Slowly his laughing turned to a scream, and as Sherlock secured both locks between himself and the monster he could still hear that mangled, struggling voice leaking through the walls of the school.