"Victor, I'm going to let myself in." George called again, retrieving a key from his pocket and fastening it into the lock. For a moment the whole group held their breath, watching as the man's wrinkled hand grasped the door knob and began to turn. Sherlock clenched his fist even tighter around the rosary, as if losing circulation in his fingers was going to help him in any way. As the door swung they all stared intensely into the room, trying to make out any telling figure within the shadowed bed. The curtains were drawn tightly across the windows, though there was light enough to see just how disheveled the room had become. The room stunk of body odor and human excrement, as if the boy had been living within the confines of these walls for weeks on end without leaving once. There were dirty dishes shattered upon the floor, and from the faint light the sun could provide Sherlock noticed the promised scratches upon the wall, three strokes side by side and stretched almost from ceiling to floor. He shivered in discontent, feeling as though this was no prison for the mentally ill; it was a den for the devil. Yet the most disturbing part of the room was not what was inside, in fact it what was missing that caused Sherlock to go cold.
"Victor?" George called softly, stepping into the room only a single step so as to examine the darker corners of the room. There was no response, though the man didn't seem to want to go in any farther. Perhaps he was afraid that the boy was crouched and waiting for an attack, that or he just didn't feel safe being in the confines of these destroyed walls.
"George, you don't think he escaped?" Marie asked nervously.
"He's been so docile, why would he escape now?" George insisted, clutching nervously to the folds in his ill-fitting dress pants and turning circles in the spot he now stood. Sherlock tried to take a step farther inside, feeling as if the hallway was slowly becoming smaller, as if it was growing darker. Suddenly the bedroom felt safer than his current situation, the last in this small party, the most vulnerable from behind...
"Oh father, what have you brought me today?" came a purring voice from behind, unnaturally deep yet playful. Sherlock jumped to feel a hand clutch upon his waist, solid fingers squeezing upon his hip bone as if the boy intended to dig his fingers as far between skin and bone as he could manage.
"Victor!" Marie exclaimed, clutching her hand to her heart with the appearance of her son. Sherlock slapped the hand away, turning frantically and falling into the corner of the hallway, trying to distance himself as much as possible from the looming presence that seemed to grow in stature. It was just as Sherlock had imagined, a young adult with all the characteristics of a charming, mature young man. His brown hair was falling over his face in unstyled bangs, covering radiant blue eyes that seemed to glow ever brighter, and at the moment he must be standing well over six feet tall. He had an overbearing appearance to him, a power that could not be explained in any logical procession of words. His very presence had a choking feeling, as if his smile was sucking all of the oxygen from the room and leaving his guests breathless. For a moment Sherlock brandished the crucifix, though never released his fingers to reveal to the boy just what it was. Victor hesitated, sneering upon the man's closed fist, though he didn't dare come any closer.
"Father Holmes." Victor snarled. "Sherlock Holmes. William Holmes."
"How do you know my name?" Sherlock demanded.
"Logical deductions. Based entirely off past experiences." The boy chuckled. "We've met before."
"I don't recall." Sherlock admitted. Victor merely chuckled, twiddling his fingers together and eying Sherlock with a curiously hungry expression. The priest tried not to show fear; he tried not to let his emotions get the better of him. Despite his determination, Sherlock's fist was beginning to waver in the air, the beads of the rosary clanking together as they hovered and shook.
"Have you some idea what to do with me, Father?" Victor chuckled. "I'm just sick, I swear that's all that is the matter."
"Victor, how did you get out of your room?" George wondered, pocketing the key and approaching his son with as much confidence as he could muster. The boy sucked on his lower lip, bouncing his weight back and forth between feet as if trying to think of the correct answer.
"Oh father, I just turned the knob. I wanted a snack." Victor defended, trying to put on the most innocent composure he could manage. Though despite his demeanor, the boy was still radiating with a sickly energy, one which struck fear in his onlookers. This was no regular boy, Sherlock could tell just by the feeling radiating off of his skin. It was something much more evil, though what sort of evidence could prove such a claim? It was no so easy to get an exorcist, they took proof, they took money! Sherlock had very little of both of these things, not to mention almost zero respect from his higher authorities. If the bishop would be the one to have to sanction the exorcism then it was game over for the Trevor family! They might as well throw this diseased boy down the well; it would be much less messy than whatever plan the bishop could cook up to make Sherlock's life more difficult.
"Are we speaking to Victor Trevor?" Sherlock asked finally, keeping his voice calm and firm. The boy's blue eyes blinked quietly, and for a moment he began to approach with soft, careful footsteps. Sherlock brandished the cross again, shaking his fist as if to remind Victor of the power he possessed.
"Who else would be speaking, love?" Victor wondered.
"Have you taken his body?" Sherlock asked again. The boy chuckled, clutching his fingers to his chest and grabbing hold of his skin, trailing his hands the whole way down his sides as if to caress his own shape, as if to play a game of temptation with the onlookers.
"His body?" the boy wondered. "My body, you mean? A young, healthy body."
"Victor, stop speaking like that!" Marie cried. "Come to your senses!"
"Mother, you're not helping." Victor sighed. "Can you not see I'm seducing this old man?"
"Seducing?" Sherlock snarled, stepping forward again and releasing the rosary from his fingers, allowing the cross to dangle between his fingers and demonstrate the power of God. The boy flinched, withdrawing back a single step as if the appearance of the holy symbol took him aback. Marie had begun to cry again, stifling her tears behind her clenched fist and shutting her eyes tight, as if trying to pretend she did not see her vulnerable son with the maddened eyes, hissing at the mark of the Father.
"Victor go back to your room." George demanded at last, stepping aside and jabbing a finger towards the bed.
"I've been in my room long enough." Victor whined, though there was a sense of playfulness in his eyes, as if he found this entire conversation to be terribly entertaining. Sherlock was still trembling, though he found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes focused upon the boy. For some reason Sherlock felt guilty for staring, as if he wasn't allowed to look as long as his eyes demanded. Seducing this old man...what sort of audacity did that boy have?
"Go to your room." George demanded again. At last Victor began to shuffle, rearranging his limbs and slouching heavily within his frame. Sherlock lowered the rosary, figuring he had to let the boy pass through one way or another. As Victor began to shuffle forward Sherlock countered his movements, sliding along the wall so as to keep the space between them safe and constant. At long last the boy was lingering within the door frame of his bedroom, his fingers playing against the door frame and scratching upon the wood. It was only now that Sherlock realized his hands were covered in dried blood, once a deep red now caked into the folds and divots of his long fingers.
"Get inside!" Marie demanded, giving Victor's back the necessary push and sending the boy tumbling onto the hardwood inside of his bedroom, giving her husband just enough time to pull the door shut and turn the lock securely. There was no protest from the other side; Victor seemed to have fallen silent. Perhaps he was accepting defeat, or perhaps he figured this whole encounter was a win on his part. Either way, he was satisfied enough with the ending to let it be such. Together the party of three descended back down the stairs, treading carefully and fearing what they might find within the house. Victor had been loose and unmonitored, and the blood on his hands had to have come from somewhere. It was only until George let out a cry that they found the true victim to the boy's escape, a mangled corpse of what used to be a cat, now torn open in hideous strokes and left bleeding upon the living room carpet.
"Oh Charlie!" Marie wailed, tears falling ever more freshly as her husband pulled her out of the house, leading the dazed adults out onto the front porch. Now that they were safely between two doors, Sherlock felt at least able to recover from his encounter with Victor. His breath was still coming in heavy heaves, and for a moment his legs were feeling rather weak, as if they were threatening to give out at any moment. The world spun, with the cries and shouts of the Trevors beginning to fade into a soft, buzzing background noise.
"Mr. Trevor, let me give you my phone number. Your son is not well, I fear. But we will need to be sure, before we make any decisions about what to do." Sherlock admitted at last, once he felt he had enough energy to speak.
"Do you think it's a demon, Father?" Marie wondered, regaining her composure enough for a final question. Sherlock hesitated, stepping up to the porch railing and supporting himself on the heavy cross beam.
"I'm not sure." He admitted, staring out into the peaceful fields and wondering how something so evil could have crawled its way out here. "But whatever it is, it is not a creature of God." 

John POV: It took more energy than it was worth to move the mattress to the top floor, and more energy than there was in either of their muscles. For a long while they had to rest the mattress upon the stairs, about half way up, just to give their poor aching bodies a rest. It was a battle worth fighting, for John couldn't sleep one more night upon that floor, so vulnerable to all of the noises and the shadows of the church. The church was starting to feel a little bit more like a home after they had taken to some serious redecoration, immediately replacing each one of the creepy Saint statues with photos that they had taken from their apartment, ones of their parents and of their grandparents, much more comforting presences within the nooks of their new home than the bust of grumpy Saint Francis. When at long last the mattress had been arranged on the balcony they lay on it for a long while, appreciating the feel of the springs in their backs as they tried to get used to the gaping ceiling above them. This was the closest they would be to the roof, though it was still too long to reach even with a normal sized ladder. The building was massive, and it would take a lot of redecorating to make it into anything like a home. After they had arranged the bed with the proper sheets and pillows they set to heaving the dressers up the stairs, arranging them along the walls of the balcony and shoving their clothes into the respective drawers. Up came some of their potted plants, their book shelves, and their laundry baskets, trying to make this large open space into something that closer resembled a typical bedroom. In the main church they assembled their makeshift living room, putting all of their couches and seats together with some of the shorter church pews, all along their large area rug that only took up an almost negligible space within the vast wooden floor. Between the furniture sat their coffee table, decorated with more potted plants and tissue boxes, some of the relics they had in their apartment. The altar became their makeshift dinner table, around which they assembled high topped chairs and placemats, with the dishes set within a large cabinet settled against the far wall of the church, right underneath the mural of Jesus. Inside one of the doorways on the right was the kitchen, a room which must have been some sort of breakroom for the priests between mass. There was an operational stove, microwave, and refrigerator; in fact this room was the most normal looking of all. Once John had managed to snag the cross down from above the oven it looked like any other house, a bleak representation of what a kitchen really should be. Once they fixed curtains around the windows and added some food to the shelves it might actually pass off as a normal home. All in all, the house was coming together. It was terribly spread out and in no way cozy, though they were blessed with a lot of open space where they could pass around one of Mary's volleyballs or throw their Frisbees long distance. The possibilities with such a structure were endless, walls could be built to separate the vast spaces, a second story might even be installed with a modern sloping roof on either side! This church could be turned from a strange, awkward space to the house of their dreams, with a little money and remodeling. The possibilities were endless, that is when the money allowed it. For now they were left with the open space, though so long as they never turned their back on it, it really was quite manageable. As the day was drawing to a close Mary and John were working hard within the kitchen, trying to prepare a make shift meal within their kitchen and finding that it was very difficult to work within a foreign space. For starters the city water here tasted terrible, and to get used to it they were combining it with bottled to distill the foul, metallic taste. Secondly the gas on the stove wasn't working, and so they were left with a cold pot of hard pasta and a microwaved bowl of sauce, something that was so far from a reasonable meal that they almost felt like laughing.
"Perhaps there's a pizza delivery nearby?" Mary suggested, giving the oven a good kick as she abandoned her makeshift dinner.
"I hope this thing doesn't have to be replaced." John muttered, ignoring her suggestion as he squatted down to examine the old gas stove, hoping there was a small problem that could be easily fixed by his own yet minimal expertise.
"We could just get a repair man. Don't you think of fixing it, John, or we'll end up needing a new one any way." Mary warned.
"Hey, I can fix it if I wanted to!" John defended, getting back to his feet and settling his hands on his hips defensively.
"The only thing you can 'fix' is something that needs to be broken. Like...like a piñata." Mary suggested after some thought.
"It's only a joke if you don't pause in the middle." John defended.
"Good thing it wasn't a joke then!" Mary laughed, grabbing her phone to try to look up any local delivery options. John abandoned the dinner as well, wandering into the makeshift living room and settling down into his favorite armchair. From there he kicked his feet against the floor, craning his neck towards the ceiling and trying to estimate just how tall it was.
"There's a pizza place, Chinese...ooh how about Korean barbecue?" Mary suggested excitedly. John narrowed his eyes, thinking that sounded rather expensive.
"Pizza would work." He suggested at last. Mary sighed, as if she was hoping he wouldn't suggest that option. Her heart must have been set on barbecue, though what she really wanted was never disclosed. This time their doorbell interruption didn't startle them so much, considering they had already heard the tone once and knew just which door to go to. Only one person could be calling at such an hour, though this time John was rather thankful for the priest's arrival. That way they could pass these creepy Saint heads off, and stop them from poking their noses any deeper into the Watsons' personal affairs. Together the couple walked the long distance to the side door, seeing that familiar shape within the doorway and matching it appropriately with the man of the hour. It was the same predicted black shape, standing just as tall as before. John clenched his teeth, unsure of why he felt such a hate for the man. Certainly Father Holmes had done nothing wrong, or at least nothing personally to offend him? But why did the priest strike up so much anger within the normally calm man? John unlocked the door and pulled it open, meeting Father Holmes upon the front stoop in the fading sunlight. The priest looked tired, his eyes heavy within the sinking sockets and his old face falling exhaustedly towards the ground, as if gravity was winning an unofficial fight against the old man.
"Father Holmes, how can we help you?" John wondered, tapping his fingers against the metal door handle and watching as the priest tried to formulate his words as politely as he could manage.
"Mr. Watson, I was wondering if I might come inside? I had forgotten to clear out some of the books in our library, one of which is of extreme importance to me now." The priest explained.
"There's a library in here?" John clarified with a little chuckle. Father Holmes sighed, as if he was almost embarrassed to clarify the true meaning of the word.
"It's more a nook, in the basement." The priest explained.
"We have a basement?" Mary exclaimed excitedly.
"Didn't you know that?" the priest scoffed, chuckling as if this woman's ignorance was humorous to him.
"This place is so big that I can hardly find the bathroom sometimes." John assured, trying to pad his wife's idiocy with a healthy dose of his own.
"Well, if it's not the dream home you had in mind I'm sure the realtor would be happy to relocate you." Sherlock offered rather hopefully, to which the Watsons merely chuckled doubtfully.
"Always so warm and inviting." John grumbled, holding the door open wider and allowing the priest to step within the threshold. He looked much more comfortable in the church than the Watsons ever felt, as if the building was welcoming him with open arms. For a moment the priest breathed heavily, as if trying to take in every aspect of the building that he had almost forgotten. The small things, the touch of the carpet upon his feet, the soft tickle of light that was fading in through the stained window panes. It was more like home to that old man than it ever would be to the Watsons, though it was not Sherlock Holmes who held the keys. Therefore, this was the Watsons' domain. Father Holmes began to walk without invitation, taking the door to the handicapped ramp and trailing upward to the screened in office, a small waiting area which held the only ground floor bathroom. From there he proceeded past towards a small door, thin and almost hidden as it was painted the same color as the rest of the wall. If it wasn't for the metal hinges and door handle the Watsons would have never noticed it, and may have imagined that the priest was storming right into a thick wall. 

"We really do have a basement!" John exclaimed excitedly, watching as the priest yanked open the handle and felt along the wall for the appropriate light switch. Father Holmes was silent as he led the couple down the wooden stairs, dodging cobwebs through the unfinished section of the church. It was every bit as creepy as one might imagine a church basement, considering it was made entirely of concrete and still had the insulation hanging down from the rafters above. The whole place was very dank and musty, with two singular lightbulbs struggling to illuminate the whole of the basement. It was about as big in square feet as the main church, with many strange items piled up inside of the wide, open space. There were some basement essentials, such as the furnace and the water heater, along with some other rather questionable pieces.
"The church really did like statues, didn't they?" John chuckled, noticing a life size statue of Mother Mary lingering within one of the more shadowed corners of the room.
"Speaking of which, we have all those Saints that the Father can take home." Mary added anxiously, ready to be rid of those frightful things for good. The priest didn't seem to be listening; in fact he was already moving past some of the larger items, such as a disassembled stage for events like confirmation, and towards a large dusty bookcase that had been left abandoned in the dark recesses of the basement. For a moment the old priest scanned the titles, finally settling upon a small black book that was rather insignificant when compared to its neighbors. John wasn't able to get a good look at the cover, though as the priest shoved the book into his coat he was able to glimpse a rather cryptic design, what looked like a pentagram pressed into the book's cover in a silver coating. Was this the priest's idea of light reading?
"What was that about Saints?" Father Holmes clarified, turning around rather innocently to reassess his audience.
"We took them out of their little nooks, figured you might want them." John explained.
"Why would you take them out? They're like...guardians." Father Holmes insisted, his brow creasing in some concern. It was a less hostile approach than John might have expected, in fact he seemed more like an upset child rather than a scolding adult. Perhaps he was too tired to argue tonight.
"They're creepy." Mary offered at last, to which John nodded his agreement. The priest's frown only deepened, though he didn't seem to present any reasonable argument.