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. 

 John stood by the shores of the creek, hidden from the sunshine under the large canopy of oak leaves which surrounded the embankments. His toes were bare and sunken into the mud, though still his legs remained dry. He stared into the rushing water, the cool stream gurgling over smooth rocks and racing past the small pool which had been created throughout the years of weathering and erosion, the deepened trench in which Father Holmes now stood. The man was dressed in a long white gown embroidered with a red cross, with thick fabric that bunched along his ankles even throughout the strong current of the stream. He stood firmly in the pool with his knees covered by the racing water, holding Hamish securely within his arms as he chanted the rituals he had come to memorize throughout his years in the priesthood. The baby was also dressed in white, though he appeared to be quite careless to the almost perilous situation he found himself in. He uttered no cry; in fact he seemed perfectly comfortable within the secure arms of the priest. John watched the sun catch within Sherlock's silver hairs, glistening with a vibrancy of age and wisdom and interrupting the sleek shine he had come to expect from those previously black curls. It was an entirely different man standing within the stream, one with a renewed faith in the Lord now that his other options for eternal love had been stolen back from him. John was silent, though he kept his arms crossed protectively across his chest. On the other side of the bank he watched Victor Trevor, the boy stumbling across the rocks with his wet feet, trying to dry himself with the towels they had brought for that very purpose. His brown hair was matted with moisture across his face, though his blue eyes were electric and visible even from this distance away.

"Hamish Watson, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Father Holmes declared, easing the baby very gently into the water and emerging him just as abruptly, trying to be sure that Hamish didn't spend too much time with his head submerged within the cold creek. As expected the baby emerged crying, though the structural soundness of the forest around them only displayed that some of his powers had been lessened, if not completely erased. Had he still been in possession of his telekinetic abilities perhaps the trees would all be felled and the water bubbling up to a boil. Instead, like a normal baby in such a situation, he merely cried to no avail. John allowed a smile on his face, for the old man cradled the baby with the same gentleness that could be found in his original godfather. From here John might not have been able to tell the difference.
"Victor, will you hold him?" Sherlock suggested, wading over towards the opposite bank where the boy was standing, still soaked through by the water and wrapped in a clean white towel. He accepted, cradling Hamish carefully within his arms as carefully as he could manage, trying his best to make up for his past abuse while under the influence of a demonic presence.
"John." Sherlock called, turning his back upon the pair as his fading eyes focused again on John Watson. The man obeyed his command, and without pulling up the legs of his trousers he stepped right into the water, wading through the strong current as his feet slipped along the algae covered rocks below. He found some stability within the deeper pool, though the clear water rose much farther along his legs, nearly to his waist. He felt quite small in comparison to the priest standing before him, though as Sherlock settled his hands along his shoulders suddenly the gesture felt quite natural, as if they had done this many times before. John had some trouble looking deep into those eyes, those which were clouded and unrecognizable with age and cataracts. Nevertheless he saw the same emotion hidden, as if staring through the same window which had simply been coated in a fine layer of dust. There was still a powerful love behind those eyes, one which could not be utilized any longer. John's heart twisted in pity, though he raised his hands to latch onto the priest's, keeping his fingers clenched overtop to ensure their grip never wavered.
"Mr. Watson, do you reject Satan and all his works?" Father Holmes recited. John couldn't help but glance upon Victor Trevor, the only real form of Satan he was ever familiar with.
"I do." John agreed at last.
"Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth?" Sherlock continued.
"I do." John agreed, remembering that bright holy light which seemed to arrive when they needed it most. A sign from Heaven if anything at all. Sherlock's questions continued on in such a fashion, though John's answer never varied, nor did he lose any confidence within his firm beliefs. He was a changed man, transformed almost as much as Sherlock Holmes throughout their evening of Armageddon.
"John Watson, I Baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Sherlock recited at last. John nodded, hooking his arms along the priest's shoulders and staring once again at his withered form, managing a smile as he felt himself being dipped down, the priest's hands now supporting him in that familiar embrace. He could feel the fingers bearing into his back, now in a much different fashion than before, and suddenly the world was inverted. The sight of Sherlock Holmes was constant, as the trees tipped and the sky shone blue above John saw the priest, like a spot in his vision that he could never blink away. And even as his head submerged and the cold water washed over his face and body he kept his eyes open, staring at the face throughout the clearness of the stream. Despite the current, despite the distortion, Sherlock Holmes still stared back at him. John dared not breathe, though he could smile, filling his lips with river water and bearing his teeth against the current. From here he could make out just a silhouette, from here no colors were shone, no skin was exposed. From here he saw a familiar shape, one that was undoubtedly paired with a familiar face, and the fingertips which touched against his body were those he had always welcomed. Submerged within the water, drowning in his longevity, John wished to have stayed here forever. 

A/N: Well dang, done already? I already miss it... this was one of those stories that popped up in my mind almost violently. I was looking for indoor rock climbing gyms and came across one in an old church (I suppose you climb up the bell tower?) and then got to thinking...what other uses would there be for abandoned churches? And thus, this story. I am really proud of this one. I think it hits off all the key elements that I enjoy writing about, and the story itself was thick and convoluted, and I enjoyed the characters and their individual motivations. Sherlock's age transformation offered the most painful conclusion, as well, which even pulled at my heart strings as I read over it just now. Alas! Better than killing him off (or is it??). Nevertheless, I will not be updating a new story to take the place of this one. I'll continually update only the Porcelain Doll, as even though I do have some unpublished materials, I am very busy and do not expect to finish another one any time soon. Therefore, we'll jump back into the one story at a time method until I can get back my life from college. Unlikely! I hope you all enjoyed, and thank you for being active readers! How I love comments, especially on updating books :)