Sherlock POV: Victor was laughing through his choking mouthfuls, something that turned into a rather pitiful show as the porridge began to dribble down his chin in unmanageable globs. Sherlock knew that the demon would begin to mock him, from the moment he walked into the door Victor just began to spew out comments about what he saw within the man's head. It was even more infuriating when Sherlock couldn't remember, in fact he had no idea what the demon found to be so joyous about the evening Sherlock had spent. The last thing the priest remembered was drinking that last shot, and afterwards he had only blinks and flashes of memories, blurred words that didn't comprehend into anything meaningful, and touches upon his skin that may have been from John, may have been from a stranger, may have even been from himself. Though somewhere along the line something must have happened, otherwise this demon would be sitting quietly and eating his dinner like a good boy. Finally the bowl was emptied, though Sherlock knew he would have to rush out of the room before Victor could swallow and make his final comment. Well, this was his first mistake of course. Sherlock was neither agile nor quick enough to beat the speed of sound, and before he had even grabbed his flashlight that forked tongue began to snake through the demon's lips.
"I know you don't remember." The demon said at last. "Oh it must destroy you to forget what he did that night."
"I'm not listening to you." Sherlock demanded outright, fumbling for his keys on his belt and turning towards the door to arrange it.
"It could have been anything, dear. Throughout those hours...who knows what he could've done?" the demon chuckled.
"He did nothing." Sherlock insisted.
"How can you be so sure?" Victor muttered. "Who knows what that drunken man could accomplish, what sort of secrets your mind is keeping from you. Much like your first secret, Sherlock." Oh that beast always knew just what to say in order to keep Sherlock attentive, he always knew how to best strike a nerve! Sherlock's fingers were around the door handle when he shivered violently, pressing his forehead up against the wall and beginning to scan his memories for anything which might indicate a most dreadful affair.
"That never happened." Sherlock whispered, trying to put some confidence in his voice but hesitating once more to cling to memories he simply didn't have. For a moment the boy hummed, kicking his toes up and down against the floor as they were the only available limbs to twitch. Sherlock clenched his fingers around the door handle, at last turning to face his prey with utmost distain. He was trying to keep himself collected, trying to make it seem as if he was not so afraid. Though for the moment his knees began to shake, and his brain began to create memories which he may not even have. For a moment there was a blur between the two faces he had ever known, the balding head of Father James sporting the facial structure of John Watson, both with that smile upon their faces and a steadying hand against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Have you seen it?" Sherlock demanded.
"Inside of your head, dear? No, I see only white noise in you." The demon sighed.
"Inside of John's?" Sherlock growled in clarification, stepping forward and holding up the flashlight in an offensive position, as if prepared to use the thing as a bludgeon in this makeshift interrogation.
"I can see it now, poor drunken Sherlock, defenseless and limp in his arms. John Watson never did have self-restraint." The demon sighed.
"You see it, or you've seen it already?" Sherlock clarified, his voice shaking as he attempted to sound the least bit intimidating. "That couldn't have happened!"
"How would you know!" the demon yelled back, his voice carrying and bouncing upon the walls, striking against Sherlock again and again until at last the echoes were absorbed and the voice lost. Sherlock winced, shaking his head as he figured he would get no solid answer from this creature.
"You're lying to me." Sherlock said flatly, wishing that he could believe himself.
"Prove it." the demon sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile. The priest cowered into himself, though at long last he had lost complete control of his body. It was a quick flash of instinct, a defensive mechanism which turned into a rather offensive affair. Before Sherlock could process his own actions he felt his arm swing out, the one brandishing the flashlight like a club, and smack solidly against poor Victor Trevor's skull. The demon's head whipped back upon the impact, a solid metal thunk stirring up Sherlock's blood and leaving the boy limp and delirious within his bonds. The priest's first reaction was one of horror, watching now as a dribble of blood began to issue from under the boy's matted hairline. Though this initial reaction was overtaken, now more than ever by a sense of primitive aggression, the sort of violence that was displayed by a wild cat tossing its injured prey in the air. It was something he couldn't control, something ugly and festering inside of his very soul. And though, more than anything, that bludgeoned skull only made him want to hit again. It made him want to strike out, to hit Victor upon the other side of the head and send his neck flopping into the other direction. He wanted to bear his teeth and flex his fingers, he wanted to tear flesh and taste blood. For a moment all of this pent up anger erupted within Sherlock's heart, all of it aimed at the only defenseless villain he had within his life. It would be sinful, not to mention unethical, to go after a man who was gagged and bound, though for the life of him Sherlock only wanted to cause pain. He had been the recipient of that feeling for too long, oh just once in his life he wanted to deal it out himself! Self-restraint was a difficult thing to come by, though as the demon began to come to, as his lips began to spread and blood dribbled into his teeth, Sherlock finally felt himself come back into his normal perception. The anger was still there, and that aching desire was still burning, though he was able to control it. He knew that he couldn't cause a show; he couldn't demonstrate to this demon that its words had any impact. And so Sherlock merely lunged forward with the handkerchief, tearing open Victor's jaw before he had enough sense to shut it tightly, and shoved the fabric deep within his mouth. He halted that tongue before it got the chance to wag, and now the only sound the demon could make was a muffled whine, loud enough to be heard but impossible to decipher. These noises couldn't enrage the priest, though he didn't stick around long enough to give the demon its fair shot at more antagonizing. Sherlock grabbed his set of keys anxiously, scurrying around the door and slamming it shut. With a couple of locks clicked and a couple of doors secured Sherlock finally made his way through the parking lot, shivering in the dusk and walking slowly through the parking lot. The lights of the church were on, bright and unrestricted through the stained glass and looking quite pleasant in the breaking light. He stared at the windows, now almost expecting to see someone staring back. There was a lingering doubt within his head, the echoes of the demon's words that seemed virtually impossible to comprehend. He was suggesting the worst, that the memories Sherlock had lost were just as vile as those he had saved over all of these years. That demon had the audacity to accuse John Watson of a crime most foul, an assault that he had been told about through tearful eyes... It wasn't like him; in fact Sherlock concluded it was all together impossible. The demon couldn't cite his examples; in fact he couldn't even promise that the images he was suggesting had ever happened at all. It was a trick, a deceitful one at that, and all in an effort to frighten the poor priest out of his newfound friendship. While stuck within that dark room it had seemed possible, though as Sherlock bathed in the calming lights of the church, all of his memories of John Watson floating calmly back, he figured that the man hadn't the capabilities to perform such grievous actions. It wasn't within his character, Sherlock was sure of that. And what could he do now, except trust his gut feeling? There was no way he could regain his memories, nor any way to question John upon the matter. He would have to trust what he already knew about John Watson, which historically was only the best of things. He would have to judge off precedent alone. 

 It was only too easy to fall to sleep that night, considering he had lost more than three quarters of the night previous to drunken delirium and tragic, messy occurrences. His head had been aching since morning, and tonight the priest had been captured within his dreamland much quicker than he could remember in the days past. Even since he had crossed the forty mark he hadn't been able to sleep the whole night through, and even though his body had been restored the priest wasn't all together convinced that his sleeping schedule had been. Though tonight he slept not just like a twenty year old, he slept like a baby. The darkness enclosed upon him, his brain shut off for good, and he slipped into the fortress that had been made with his soft sheets and warm blankets, cocooned within his bedding and cradled within a soft dream. The demon's words had already slipped his mind, and for once he was untroubled. And as Sherlock dreamt he began to remember, just snippets, just phrases and actions and faces. As he dreamt he revisited what he had long forgotten, journeying deep enough into his unconsciousness to wake with a newfound feeling of relief. As terrifying as it was to be interrupted near midnight the very first thought upon the priest's mind was a small, almost hopeful suggestion. He woke with the idea that John may very well love him, based off of facts he had already forgotten. Though there was that feeling, a warm feeling within his body, and for some moments his heart didn't have to question any longer. He woke from that dream with a sense of knowledge, spurring from memories he didn't know he had. And he was sure, sure of it. Sure that had he had uncovered something that wasn't ever supposed to be lost. The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by panicked knocking on the outside of his front door. It was a dreadful sound, and within the darkness illuminated only by the haunting led lights of his clock the priest shuffled into his slippers, trying to rearrange himself on the edge of the bed to better fumble for the cord of his lamp. Finally the light clicked on, bathing the darkness in a soft orange and allowing the man to fumble forwards towards the front door, half expecting to see the Trevor parents standing outside once again, here to interrupt yet another peaceful night of sleep. Sherlock grabbed towards the only weapon he could think of, coming up with a can of spinach that he grabbed from the kitchen counter on his way through the long, unorganized house. The living room was dark, though through the curtains he could at least see the street lamps were still shining, illuminating mere slivers of the where the fabric fell short of its job.

"Who is it?" Sherlock demanded, trying to keep his voice rough and irritable as if to scare away any of these terribly polite thieves. The chances of criminals ringing the doorbell were slim, though just in case Sherlock had to be prepared. He clutched the can within his fingers, ready to take the aluminum down on anyone's head who tried to confront him. Though it was a familiar voice coming from the other side of the door, one which lightened his heart and loosened his fingers.
"Sherlock, open the door, please!" John's voice called from the other side, unmistakable even through the thick wood of the front door. Sherlock dropped the spinach onto the carpet, kicking the can away to hide the evidence of his pathetic weaponry, and unfastened the deadbolt along the door. From here he opened up, looking into the darkness and making out two silhouettes huddled on the other side of the screen, looking much smaller and much more frightened than he had ever seen them before. The loud wailing of the little baby made it clear that Hamish was present as well; though since the light was not strong enough to illuminate the family entirely Sherlock was not sure which one of the Watsons had the honor of escorting him.
"The ghost came back." Mary admitted breathlessly.
"That's quite the claim." Sherlock whispered, though he hastened to get the screen door open and admit the terrified parents into his darkened living room. While Sherlock rushed towards the lamps the Watsons shut the door behind them, locking it tight as if trying to keep their attacker at bay with a little scrap of wood. It was a pathetic attempt, though it would seem that their arrival at this hour meant they were surely desperate. When at last the lamps were lit Sherlock turned back to see the baby squirming and crying within John's arms, the man himself wearing his ratty old pajamas and a look of absolute terror upon his face. All exhaustion was gone out of the parent's eyes, replaced instead with a look of fear that Sherlock had never processed upon a face before. They looked as if even their shadows were hunting them, as if they were expecting the final blow to be delivered at any moment. After observing the parents Sherlock noticed that Hamish was also an object of interest, not only because of his choking sobs but also because of his rather strange attire. The baby was dressed in his striped onesie, a favorite outfit that the priest often dressed him in, though he was also sporting a tangled wooden rosary, paired with a white collar shoved around his head as a makeshift headband. Sherlock recognized both of these items to belong to him, almost having forgotten to reclaim them after John had confiscated them before their big night out. Thankfully his possessions had been well cared for; though this was one of the strangest delivery methods he had ever seen.
"Is that my rosary?" Sherlock commented, watching as Hamish tangled his little fingers around the cord and yanked, as if trying to release himself from the tethers of the religious symbolism.
"It's the only holy thing we could find in the house." John admitted, huddling the baby closer to his chest as Mary tried to wrestle the objects from the little child. Once the crucifix had been handed over to its proper owner Hamish's cries lessened, as if he had been feeling constricted by the beads and wanted them off. Sherlock draped the necklace back over his head, though he tossed the collar onto the coffee table to be arranged within his shirt the next day. At the moment he felt no need for the tightened grip upon his neck, especially not at this hour.
"The window shattered in Hamish's nursery. It was just ten minutes ago, but it woke us both. It was as if...as if a bomb had gone off! And after we had cleaned up from the night before!" Mary exclaimed, stomping her feet in exasperation as if this was nothing more than a terrible inconvenience.
"We're afraid he's being targeted. I mean, looking at everything that's happened so far..."
"It's all been centered around Hamish." Sherlock finished, interrupting John before he could announce his final claim. The man nodded at last, staring down upon the baby with some concern and hugging him even closer within his protective arms.
"Is that even possible, Father?" Mary asked nervously. Sherlock sighed, reaching out to take Hamish within his own arms and examine the baby thoroughly. John passed him over, allowing Sherlock to hold Hamish up in the air and stare rather accusingly into his blue eyes. They were strange eyes...almost familiar in their shade and vibrancy.
"I don't know anything about ghosts, Mary." He admitted at last. "Though I figure that just like humans, ghosts can take certain interests."
"Are they trying to hurt him? I mean, all they've done so far is destroy his bedroom! What happens if the cradle is broken next, or the ceiling falls upon him? What if they're going after my baby's life?" Mary whimpered, shuttering with the thought of such wickedness and hiding her face behind her hands.
"Sherlock, is there anything you can do to help him?" John asked anxiously, taking a step closer as if proximity would help to get a reaction out of the priest. In fact that step made poor Sherlock's brain work slower, for suddenly he was distracted with the glare that he was forced to decipher. It seemed so complicated within John's eyes, for there was the presumed look of anxiousness, helplessness, and fear that would be expected from this situation. Though there were other emotions, more sheltered ones at that, stored within those hazels. For a moment Sherlock examined him, trying to find any evidence of the preposterous claims of the demon or even the waking thoughts from just moments before. He tried to search throughout John's eyes and spot the love he was beginning to expect.
"You've not baptized him yet, I imagine?" Sherlock wondered.
"No...no! Do you think that would help?" Mary asked excitedly, stepping forward to join this cluster around the poor, trapped priest.
"Oh that's my own fault; I should have been more pressing with his religion! And to think, a priest as a godfather, and still he's never been properly blessed! I am a fool, and with such consequences!" Sherlock wailed, hugging Hamish to his chest in apology for neglecting his most basic duties.
"Can you baptize him now?" John insisted.
"No, not properly. We will need to wait until morning, if that's possible." Sherlock muttered, figuring he would need some time to arrange the proper ceremony. If he was going to baptize this poor, terrified child then he would have to do it right.
"That's possible, so long as the ghost doesn't follow us here." John assured.
"You can spend the night if it would make you feel better." Sherlock offered, to which both parents nodded anxiously.
"We've already settled upon that idea, without your consent. I can't sleep another night in there until something's done about this horrible demon." Mary shuttered, drawing her arms around her chest and sneering at the thought of the undead lurking around her house.
"A ghost, Mary, not a demon." Sherlock corrected. "Or at least...at least I hope not."
"We figured the church would be protected against that sort of stuff, is it not consecrated ground?" John wondered, peering down towards the floor as if property of the church would be stamped upon the floor in bright red ink.
"Perhaps it was, but whatever you two have been doing inside might have lessened its natural protections." Sherlock suggested.
"Oh ya, blame it on the new owners." Mary grumbled.
"Well...well it's true!" Sherlock defended a bit weakly, looking towards John as if searching for some defense. The man raised his hands in surrender, as if he didn't want to pick any sides in this argument at this hour of night. Already John's mouth was stretched into a yawn, and without an invitation he went shuffling back towards the bedroom to make himself comfortable. Sherlock paused for a moment, wondering just what the Watsons assumed when he invited them over to his house. The couch was a perfectly good option, at least for one of them? But no, already John's figure passed through the doorway into Sherlock's bedroom, as if he was expecting an invitation to share the bed.
"He's..." Sherlock's voice broke, looking towards Mary in some confusion.
"Exhausted." Mary finished, as if that was exactly the thing Sherlock was looking for. The priest stood nervously within the living room, feeling as if he was the uninvited guest even with his own home! Hamish was still bouncing within his arms, silent for the first time since his arrival. As soon as he had been passed into Sherlock's arms he seemed to calm down, as if he was just crying for a change of scenery rather than a specific need.
"Hamish is all changed, so he should be good for the night." Mary assured, giving the baby a pat before catching her fingers across Sherlock's shoulder, giving him a small tug in the direction of the bedroom before sauntering over herself.