"Well then, why don't we all just try to go back to bed?" Mary suggested at last. "Maybe this is all some shared fever dream, and we just need to go back to sleep and forget about it."
"If only." The priest muttered, staying seated all the while the Watsons got to their feet and gathered up their empty tea cups. As Mary shuffled away with their discarded glassware John lingered behind, leaning across the altar and observing the priest's sunken head, his dark curls falling over his eyes and shadowing the concerned expression upon his face.
"John, do you have the time?" Father Holmes asked at last. John nodded, looking towards his watch and seeing with some dread that it was well past midnight.
"About three o'clock now." John announced.
"Witching hour." The priest murmured under his breath, sending some unneeded chills down John's spine.
"What sort of talk is that? Are you trying to scare me half to death?" John demanded. The priest chuckled quietly, lifting up his head and leaning against his fist for a moment. It was very strange how tightly his skin was arranged, it hardly even wrinkled as he leaned his weight upon it! The more John was able to stare the more recognizable the man became, and suddenly each feature of his was undeniably a young adaptation of the old priest he had come to know. But this, well John had to admit that this version of Father Holmes was much more preferable. Perhaps he had carried along his temper for the ride, though there was a spark of life within the priest that made him a much more pleasant person to be around. He was beautiful enough to compensate for his sharp tongue, which was undoubtedly how he grew to be such a nasty adult. With nothing to shield the eyes from the rotten core, all anyone saw from the old man was his offensive behavior and snarling mouth. The priest's eyes were growing heavy now, as if exhaustion was setting in. For a moment he hesitated, drawing his fingernails across the altar with a small, distasteful scraping sound. He looked nervous, as if he was summoning courage from within his restored heart.
"I wonder if I would be allowed to spend the night in the church?" Father Holmes asked at last, his voice coming out in a small, timid squeak. John's eyes narrowed, for a brief moment imagining the priest lying horizontally at the foot of their bed.
"On the couch?" John asked suddenly, a rather stupid question the more he thought of it over.
"Well of course on the couch!" the priest exclaimed in agreement, finally dropping his hand away from his chin and supporting the whole of his head's weight on his neck alone.
"I mean I'm fine with it, but I've got to wonder why you wouldn't rather your own bed." John admitted. The priest sighed, as if he was embarrassed about his main cause.
"Well, I don't know. If this really is the Devil's work then he might be close, and I'm not very much in the mood to deal with him alone. Besides, this is a holy place, something that will keep any of the evil presences away for the remainder of the night." The priest admitted quietly.
"So you're afraid to be alone in the dark, that's what I'm gathering." John chuckled.
"When you say it like that it's not very heroic!" Father Holmes defended. John finally straightened up, hearing his wife's approaching footsteps coming up from behind.
"Mary, we're having a sleep over." John announced with a grin.
"Oh delightful." She exclaimed with a clap. "Just like middle school."
"Yes well, your husband has been so kind to lend me the couch." Father Holmes admitted with a respectful bow of his head. John sighed heavily, letting his hands drop into his pockets as he looked towards some of the boxes which were still stacked behind the altar. He figured their extra blankets must be hidden away in their somewhere, as they had not yet found all of the ones they had kept draped across the couch in their old apartment.
"Let's see if we can find some blankets and pillows." John announced.
"I'll only need one of each; really I don't want to be a bother. In fact I can sleep as is, if it's more convenient for everyone." The Father offered quickly.
"No, no. The box is right there, I see it under the table cloths." Mary assured.
"I can use one of those!" exclaimed the priest, to which John finally clapped a hand upon his back, trying to silence him as effectively as possible.
"When we say it's no bother, we're not lying." John assured, nodding his head as if trying to force Father Holmes to mimic him. The priest gave a nervous little smile, but finally silenced himself. Obviously he was not used to be being treated like a guest, and therefore had no idea how to act when people went out of their way to make him feel comfortable. At last Mary yanked the box free from its neighbors, tearing open the masking tape and pulling out the blankets and pillows which had been squished between the cardboard.
"Two of each, Mary." John instructed. Father Holmes opened his mouth to protest, though he figured it was no use to try to complain. Perhaps he couldn't even formulate an argument, considering it was a very odd and unnecessary request.
"What, one for his head and the other for his feet?" Mary scoffed.
"No, I'll stay down here with him." John assured. "He's still trembling."
"Mr. Watson, please don't inconvenience yourself." The man begged, finally turning towards John with his eyes wide and entreating. John sighed, giving him a soft smile and patting him upon the shoulder once more. It was almost delightful, continually getting excuses to touch the priest.
"I've slept in this church myself, and if there's any place that makes you feel like there's a demon staring upon you, it's here. Besides, I'm wide awake and I know Mary hates it when I toss and turn." John assured.
"It's true, God he's a nightmare." Mary groaned. Father Holmes chuckled nervously, though at last nodded his head in thanks.
"Alright then, it really will be a true slumber party." The priest agreed, thanking Mary as she handed him his blanket and pillow for the evening. John doubted that Father Holmes had ever been to a 'true' slumber party in his life, though in an effort to be kinder to the man he kept his mouth shut. For some reason he imagined Father Holmes having been a proper hermit for his entire life, birthed with a white collar around his neck and growing continually into his deep, developed frown. John chose the yellow couch on the left, for he knew it to be much less comfortable than the black leather one on the opposite side. Even if Father Holmes couldn't tell the difference from where he stood he still seemed a bit hesitant, though thankfully he had stopped issuing apologies. Perhaps he was still unsure about why he had requested such accommodations, and as John threw down his pillow onto the couch he also wondered why he had gone through such troubles to accompany him. Neither man had any firm reasons for staying, except perhaps that they felt a strange need to stay together. It was as if Father Holmes felt safer within the reach of another man, and John felt stronger when in his presence.
"Don't stay up too late boys. If I hear anyone playing truth or dare I'm going to come right down here and send Father Holmes home." Mary warned, waving around a sarcastic finger as if trying to play the part of the strict mother.
"Playing what?" Father Holmes clarified, giving the Watsons a strange look of curiosity.
"It's too late for that, Father. Just go to bed." he instructed, bidding his wife goodnight and collapsing into the cushions of his chosen couch. It was admittedly very uncomfortable, but for the sake of his guest he wouldn't make a noise against it. He could feel the springs poking up through the thin cushions, prodding him in the back and squeaking whenever he readjusted himself. As he arranged his blanket up to his chin the lights went out above, obviously Mary had found her way into her own bed and was ready to fall back to sleep for these precious few hours. John rolled over noisily, straining his eyes through the darkness to make out the silhouette of his neighbor, lying across the couch with his socked feet dangling over the opposite edge. The blanket didn't reach the length of his body, though John knew the priest would feel much too uncomfortable to ask for another. He had a much smaller build now that his age had been melted away, as if along with the wrinkles his years of accumulation had also fallen off. His limbs were almost frighteningly thin, and when lying upon the dense leather sofa his body was hardly distinguishable through the darkness. If it was not for his unruly curls John may never have known where his head was lying, and he never would have been able to catch a reflection of moonlight in the eyes that were staring right across the table in his direction. Suddenly John shivered, readjusting himself and shooting his glance back towards the ceiling, as if trying to pretend he had never been caught staring. Well what choice did he have, really, when faced with a magical man on the other side of his makeshift living room? John felt as if he would never get bored of staring into that face, being that it had been blessed back into its proper form. Say what you will about blessing and curses, about the work of God or the Devil. Perhaps Satan really was behind the transformation, but that face had been sculpted by the hands of the creator. John had never seen so beautiful of a man, and he now understood what advantages the Devil might have when bringing it back from the grave of old age. He wouldn't only be tempting the priest with some fraternizing; he would also be tempting the rest of the world out of any of their previous commitments. Sending such a specimen into the world, such a soft hearted, timid man with the face of an angel, it was going to be catching hearts all over the town. It would be chaos, certainly. Just what the Devil thrived on and what God most wanted to avoid. John smirked, at last rolling away so that his back could face the priest. He pulled his blanket over top of his head, listening to the silence hard enough to make out Father Holmes's deep breaths from the other side of the room. It was a peaceful lullaby, steady and deep enough to lull John into his own sleep for the remaining hours of the night. 

 Sherlock POV: When his eyes opened with the first rays of sunshine, Sherlock was almost certain that the entirety of last night had been a dream. His memory was so fogged and his perception still sleepy, now mixing the strange reality with his almost normal dreams. He stared upon the sunlit ceiling above, so many feet above, and blinked upon the multiple colors that were washing in through the glass and playing over his face. Sherlock recognized the church, though for a moment he forgot why he was here. Very slowly the events returned, and he turned his head towards where he expected his host to be sleeping. As predicted, there was John Watson, curled with his blanket pulled all the way up to his forehead, with his bare feet sticking out from the other end. John Watson... Sherlock hesitated, almost too afraid to check if everything from the night before had turned out to be reality. For a moment it seemed too fanciful, it seemed as though this youth would turn out to be yet another dream he woke out of into a starker, harsher reality. Though he had to be sure, and so very carefully Sherlock raised his hand up in front of his face, half expecting to be met with the wrinkled callouses and bulging blue veins that he had come to expect in his aged fingers. Instead, they were smooth. Yes, smooth, the skin was tight, the fingernails well maintained, elegantly bent and perfectly beautiful. Young, as he hoped to find. For a moment he touched his face, feeling that his skin was still soft, his hair was still thick, not a wrinkle, not a divot to be felt. For a moment the excitement washed over him, the relief and the satisfaction of knowing his life was destroyed. A second chance, a new beginning! He almost burst into tears to feel that it was not a dream, though what dignity he still had restrained him. He had to think logically, and remember that this may not be a gift at all. From what he remembered of the moments leading up to it, he was struggling with that demon Victor. The boy had been contained, though lunged and kissed him in a mad swipe of passionate aggression! What happened next was a blur, and it was this time in which Sherlock assumed the final blow had been dealt. Somehow that demon's kiss had rearranged his entire body, reprogramed each individual cell and took away the signs of life and aging. It was a curse bestowed from a demon, come in the form of the thing Sherlock most desired... So how could he treat it so lightly? How could he appreciate what had come to pass, knowing now that it was Satan's will? He had woken up on the tile in the hallway, listening to the wailing of the demon from behind the closed door. The Trevors themselves were gone when he woke, though the door was locked and the keys were sitting atop his chest. Perhaps they didn't know what to do with his body, not knowing if he was dead or alive, that or they were so afraid of their son that they could not wait another minute. Either way, Sherlock had woken up alone. It was not until he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened glass of the schoolhouse door that he began to panic, holding the keys to the church and rushing towards anyone who might be able to help him. At first he thought it was some trick of the eyes, and then perhaps a terrible mutation that had melted away his original skin! He first took himself to be deformed until a second glance in a reflection told him otherwise, allowing the strange truth to finally sink in. and from there, he rushed to the Watsons. From there he was attacked, cherished, and fed tea until he fell asleep. From there he was treated like an esteemed guest, if not proper royalty. There was a chill that he could not shake, a nervousness that seemed to be eating away at his heart, and for a moment Sherlock wondered what state Victor Trevor had found himself in. Were those belts going to be enough to hold him, or would Sherlock have to brave another encounter in order to properly restrain him? Was this makeshift prison going to be enough, or were they all in danger within such close proximity? Either way, Sherlock knew better than to speak a word of it. As far as the Watsons knew, his stupid angel dream (which was fabricated on the spot) was the method of his miraculous transition. To speak of demons, especially one that was within twenty feet of their back door, would spook them unnecessarily. There was no need to tell them of the demon, lest he lose the only friends he may have ever made. It was a problem he could handle on his own, that is if he was brave enough to face the demon once more. Sherlock began to wonder if he needed to feed the boy, or if it would be a better plan to allow the host to starve and perhaps kill both the host and the demon in one go? Oh but he couldn't allow an innocent bystander to be hurt, especially since there were other ways to go about it. Victor Trevor was undoubtedly a harmless, terrified boy. To let him die in the process would be a direct offense against all things holy, and frankly a cowardly and criminal way to go about it. Sherlock would have to keep that boy strong, in turn feeding the demon and allowing him to remain. Oh but what was there to do if not that? Sherlock wasn't prepared to do an exorcism, though he might be able to use Victor's now captured body as proof of the demonic infestation. Perhaps he could set up cameras to observe the boy's movements, trying to catch anything startlingly irregular. Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted when at last John Watson began to stir, his soft breaths turning into rather frantic snores as he was beginning to wake. The sunlight was shining rather agressivley upon the man's twisting body, illuminating him in a way that looked, for lack of a better word, properly angelic. Sherlock watched unapologetically, stretched upon his own couch and letting his head fall heavily within his borrowed pillow. It was almost entertaining to watch John as he woke, though as soon as his eyes opened Sherlock turned towards the ceiling, pretending to have been staring up into the rafters for the whole of his morning. 

"Are you up?" came John's sleepy voice not moments later. Sherlock hummed, letting his head fall towards the man's direction, pretending it was the first time since last night which he had looked at him.
"My eyes are open." he pointed out.
"I know, I was just worried you slept like that. It would be really weird." John admitted, letting loose a convincing yawn and huddling his feet underneath his blanket to try to preserve his warmth. Sherlock smiled, but shook his head against the pillow.
"No, I've been up for a while now. At first I thought it was all a dream, and that shook me from my morning dreams a little too quickly. Even now I'm afraid to get up, for I know I have to look into a mirror one way or another." He admitted quietly.
"Afraid of what you'll see?" John presumed.
"Afraid of what I won't see. God forbid it was only my hands that are restored, and my face is just as wrinkled and gnarled as before." Sherlock shivered. John squinted, as if trying to narrow his focus and be sure to give a very accurate report from his side of the coffee table.
"You look young to me." he admitted. Sherlock smiled in thanks, touching his hand upon his smooth cheek once more to be sure.
"I feel young." He agreed quietly, to which John chuckled in his sleepy octaves, a high pitched giggle more than his usual manly grunt.
"What a strange thing to say. What a strange thing...well a strange everything." John admitted with a sigh, turning over on the couch and staring up at the ceiling once more. He balled up his blanket closer to his chin, though he didn't seem to be very satisfied with the warmth it was able to provide. For some reason it seemed as though he couldn't get comfortable, and that little twisted blanket wasn't offering any help.
"I heard talking down there, are you boys awake?" Mary's voice called from the balcony. Since both John and Sherlock were stretching their eyes towards the ceiling it was not a difficult contortion to focus on the woman, and Sherlock could see her now, upside down in his vision and looking very brave as she stood so close to the edge.
"We're men, Mary." John corrected, to which the woman scoffed and began her decent to the lower level.
"I'd say you're still boys. There only used to be one man around here, but he's gone." Mary chuckled, her voice echoing through the stairwell until she finally appeared within the main church. Sherlock groaned, sitting up and trying to rearrange his clothes to fit upon his body correctly. He had lost some considerable weight throughout the transition, and now his suits and shirts were proving to be much too large. With this excess fabric his clothes had gotten terribly twisted throughout the night, and for a moment he took some time to make sure he wouldn't strangle himself with the collar of his shirt, or perhaps trip himself with his pants now rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees.