Sherlock stayed the rest of the afternoon with John, who had settled back down on the couch to sleep once more. He looked peaceful of course, but Sherlock knew that what was stirring inside of him was anything but, and he knew that looks could deceive. There was undoubtedly a war raging inside of John Watson, a war for dominance, for control. Sherlock didn't want to have to watch this battle be fought, and he most certainly didn't want to see how the winner was. It seemed as though they were straying closer to the beginning of the end, and soon Father Franklin would have to show up at their front door with a cross and a book of Latin.
"You don't need to sit with him all day Sherlock, he's not going anywhere." Molly assured, leaning against the doorway and watching as Sherlock sat in the chair anxiously, somehow managing to keep his eyelids propped open as his gaze fogged over.
"I'm just worried that the smoke will come before his eyes open, and that I'll need to lock him up in the basement or something." Sherlock admitted, rubbing his tired face and groaning loudly. Molly nodded, sighing heavily and sipping passively at her tea.
"Why are you being so protective over him all of the sudden? What have I missed?" she wondered curiously. Sherlock looked over at her, only slightly insulted at her choice of words.
"I've always been this protective, it's not me that changed, it's the situation. He's never been out for this long." Sherlock defended. Molly looked back into the kitchen at Mary, who was helping Rosie up onto a stepping stool to wash her grimy little children hands.
"I know you know what's right Sherlock, I'm not going to insult you by doubting your morals." Molly assured, sipping at her tea once more and studying Sherlock curiously over the rim of the cup. Sherlock breathed quietly, sitting back in his chair and staring once more at the unconscious form of John Watson. Of course she had every reason to insult him, to question his morals. He had sinned in the worst of ways, not only had he tempted John but he was the accomplice of a horrible affair, one that had the potential to rip apart a happy family and a respectable marriage. Oh he really was a horrible human being, was he not? Maybe by babysitting John through these tedious hours was his way of trying to make it up to himself, trying to prove once more that he deserved to be sitting in this chair, very much alive. Trying to prove that there was still an ounce of good hidden away in his satanic body.
"I'm alright." Sherlock assured after a moment's thought, and with that he finally looked away from her, trying to signal that this conversation was over. Molly didn't seem too upset by that, however, because as soon as Sherlock focused on the floor rather on their conversation, she moved back into the kitchen with Mary, helping her unload the dishwasher while Rosie played with her dolls in the sink. That child was really peculiar, not to mention morbid. She was using a plastic cup to be a shark, and was devouring her Barbie dolls in the depths. As time went by nothing changed with John, or with Sherlock to be honest. John just lay there on the couch, not even moving positions, as if there was not a spirit, human or Aspiration alike, that had control over those limbs. Sherlock remained in that armchair as well, staring blankly at John on the couch and waiting until he saw some sort of life, a twitch, and eyelid opening, even a deeper breath than normal would reassure him in some way. But alas, nothing came, John remained motionless and altogether still while he slept on the couch. Sherlock was starting to envy him, however, when he realized that he hadn't really gotten a proper night of sleep or a nap in the past couple of days. He had been on the go so much that the only bout of sleep he had managed was the only time he really shouldn't have let his eyelids close. This was all his fault, of course it was. If he hadn't been so stupid, so submissive that night, then John's soul wouldn't have been so wounded. If he hadn't kissed John and let him kiss back then maybe the sins that now scarred John's soul like trenches wouldn't even be there. They had been doing so good, not a single possession in a week, of course Sherlock had to go and be the catalyst for this horrific disaster. When eight o'clock was finally announced by the chimes of the grandfather clock Molly decided that it was time for them to leave, thanking Mary for the dinner only she had eaten. Sherlock wasn't hungry, he felt as if he forced food down his throat it would just come right back up, so he didn't bother insulting Mary's cooking like that. instead he just kept his attention fixed on John, yet the rest of the night was just as eventful as the entire day had been. Not a stir, not a word, not a wisp of black smoke. Then again, no news was probably good news in this situation, so Sherlock tried not to let himself worry too much. Then again, of course, he was worrying dispute his efforts to put an optimistic spin on this train wreck. Molly finally convinced him to pry himself out of that armchair, hovering over John for one final goodbye while in the presence of both Molly and Mary, so he couldn't do anything except mutter out a few meaningless words. Sherlock hated the idea of leaving Mary and Rosie alone with John, just in case he woke up and started summoning the Devil or something obscene like that. The only requirement he had was that they monitor John all night, that they set up the video cameras they had bought on their first visit and set them up around the room. One video camera was focused on John sleeping on the couch, and the other was on the stairway, just in case the spirit decided to pay a visit to the people sleeping upstairs. Sherlock made sure that Rosie and Mary slept in the same room and that they kept their door locked, just in case an Aspiration possessing John's body decided to come say hello. All in all, however, it was not very difficult to get Sherlock to wander out into the darkness and into Molly's tiny car. His head was spinning from exhaustion, and by the time he sat down in the cold leather seat he was already starting to doze off.
"God Sherlock you look awful." Molly decided, starting off down the empty road at a speed that definitely wasn't legal.
"I'm fine." Sherlock lied, his tongue feeling strangely swollen as he tried to force out a couple of reassuring words. His head was lolling around on his neck, every turn and every bump in the road making his stomach twist into very uncomfortable knots.
"You get rest Sherlock; I'll watch the cameras on the laptop." Molly offered.
"No...no I can't ask you to do that!" Sherlock grumbled, but obviously he was in no position to argue. No woman in her right mind would agree to let Sherlock stay up any more than another twenty minutes. As soon as they got home Molly had to help Sherlock up the stairs, he felt miserable, as though he were going through a hangover from a month long drinking fest. His head was throbbing, his stomach was turning, and his eye sight was fading in and out like a blinking movie projector. If Molly hadn't been there to help him he never would've made it to his bedroom, and as soon as he collapsed onto the mattress his eyes shut, and he fell into a deep, shameful sleep. 

 He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. The fires were surrounding him in this charred house and yet Sherlock couldn't do anything to protect himself from the flames that threatened to swallow him whole. He was here for a reason, he was here...he was here for John. Sherlock could hear the faint moaning through the crackling of the burning wood, he could hear John's troubled coughs through the thick ash, he knew that he had to save him, even if it meant sacrificing his own life in the process. Sherlock crawled along the floor, his fingers clawing along the piles of smoldering ash and the splinters that dug under his skin. But he had to get to John; he had to be with him even if he couldn't save him. John's figure appeared through the darkness, the outline of a small man huddled in the corner of the house, in a section of the wall that hadn't already been ignited. He was shaking with silent tears, his face ash streaked and panicked, he was terrified, and when his eyes first found Sherlock, crawling towards him in the smoke, there was no sign of relief. 

"No, Sherlock, get away from me!" John exclaimed in terror, crawling to his feet and pressing himself against the wall, stained with black smoke.
"I'm going to help you John, I'm going..." Sherlock's words were cut off by a violent fit of coughing, and he was immobilized, his chest heaving as he tried to cough up the ash that now settled in his lungs. There was a paralyzing scream from above, and suddenly a black mass rushed towards John, picking him up effortlessly and throwing him across the room towards the fire. Sherlock screamed in surprise, getting to his feet and trying to run through he house in the direction john had been flung, but he knew what was going to be waiting for him when he arrived. There was no way that John could still be alive. He never found out, he never saw the mangled body that was now being overrun with fires that burned through his bubbling flesh. Sherlock was whisked off of his feet as well, engulfed in a black smoke that he somehow was able to distinguish from the real black smoke produced from the house burning away to nothingness.
"Is this not better my love? Is this not what we've wanted from the beginning?" asked a voice from the depths of the house. Victor, Victor was here, and yet Sherlock couldn't see him. He must be hiding in the depths of the black smoke, but Sherlock couldn't see him, he didn't even know where to look. Victor's voice was coming from everywhere yet from nowhere at the same time, his words rattling through Sherlock's numb skull so affectively that Sherlock doubted if they had ever been spoken at all.
"Victor?" Sherlock whispered doubtfully. "VICTOR!" he screamed, fighting against this force that was pulling his feet from the ground. The two men that he loved most in this world and the others were being destroyed by this fire, the same flames that had ripped Sherlock's life apart not seven years earlier.
"Not again, not again..." Sherlock muttered, letting his head fall in defeat. He could no longer hear John's screaming, and to be fair, he doubted he ever would again. He was quite sure that the beautiful voice of John Watson had been silenced forever. 

    Sherlock was rather upset to see that Molly hadn't woken him, but his uneasiness was resolved when he looked over at the clock. It was already noon; he had been asleep for more than twelve whole hours! Sherlock rushed to his feet, feeling surprisingly sluggish dispute having made up all of his missed sleep plus some from the night previous.
"Molly!" Sherlock called, stumbling from his bed to the hallway and rushing down the stairs. He found Molly sitting at the table looking very sleep deprived and concerned, her face pretty much summing up Sherlock's very existence for the past week or so. But her anxiousness was very easily explained when Sherlock saw that she wasn't alone.
"Hello Mr. Holmes." Father Franklin said with a pleasant smile, setting down his flowery tea mug on the dining room table.
"Father Franklin, what..." Sherlock's face dropped when he read the expressions of the two people sitting at the table. "What's wrong with John?" he whispered. The Father took a deep breath, casting his eyes down and staring at the table uneasily.
"He hasn't quite woken up yet, but he's been mumbling in his sleep, screaming things that can only lead us to imagine that the time for the ritual is forthcoming." Father Franklin admitted sternly.
"What's he screaming?" Sherlock wondered, not sure if he wanted to hear this answer.
"Well, we can only assume he's speaking in two different voices. He's saying things like 'get out of my body' and, well, some rather vulgar statements we can only hope are from the spirit inside of his body, making very daring statements about Satan and about Hell." Father Franklin explained. Sherlock let himself fall into the railing, clutching on it for support as his shocked body struggled to stay upright much longer.
"He's losing." Sherlock whispered in horror. Father Franklin didn't say anything; he just bowed his head shamefully, except that was an answer in itself. That was a bad answer, the very answer Sherlock was wishing he would never have to hear, or in this case, see. He didn't want to have to witness as John lost his inner battle for his own body, submitted to an invading spirit.
"Your name also keeps coming up, in and out of context. I can only imagine that John is screaming for your aid, and the Aspiration, well, I cannot explain its fascination with you." Father Franklin admitted with a shrug. "Come sit down, I think we need to discuss some things." Sherlock looked at him very nervously, remembering that this man was the only person other than John and he that knew about their attraction towards each other, the only one who knew of their temptations. Surely he wouldn't intend on using it against them, surely he wouldn't bring it up with Molly listening? Dispute his bad feelings, Sherlock willed himself to walk over and sit very stiffly in a wooden dining room chair, very aware of his current appearance, being as he had just woken up. Molly and Father Franklin both had their eyes on him, watching him curiously as though they expected him to start screaming as well, but Sherlock sat very still, very carefully.
"John was doing so well Sherlock, for the past week or so we've gone without an incident." Father Franklin pointed out. Sherlock bowed his head sorrowfully, knowing exactly where Father Franklin was going with this.
"Yes well, obviously the Aspiration was biding its time, waiting, I suppose, for an opportunity." Sherlock agreed in a weak voice, his words getting caught in his throat. The Father sighed heavily, leaning forward on his elbows and discarding his mug entirely.
"Would you like to have this conversation privately?" he wondered, glancing over at Molly, who became a shade of scarlet once the attention was focused on her.
"I can leave." she offered a little bit lately, looking around as though she thought they were accusing her of simply being present. Sherlock just shook his head submissively; she had a right to know.
"I don't care." He said carelessly, it was all coming out now. And besides, who really cared? So what, he had an affair with John, but that little bit of information was probably going to be over shadowed as soon as John woke up with yellow eyes.
"Wait, why is this so serious?" Molly wondered, looking between the grim faces of both of the men in confusion. Sherlock kept his gaze down, determined not to make eye contact with the judgmental priest.
"So, Mr. Holmes, any ideas of why this might've happened? Why the Aspiration was able to take control?" Father Franklin asked, looking on Sherlock with a sorrowful expression as he avoided Molly's question entirely. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, trying to formulate an answer without sounding too guilty, too sinful.
"Well, yes, and I think you do as well. I don't know why we have to be all dramatic about it." Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms with a childish huff.
"I told you..." the priest started, but Sherlock silenced him with a little outcry of annoyance.
"That's what everyone's going to say, isn't it?" Sherlock exclaimed.
"What happened?" Molly protested, obviously very out of the loop on this conversation.
"Yes, Father, you told me what not to do and I went and did it, but I'm only half to blame!" Sherlock defended.
"You were the one that was supposed to be strong, you know the consequences!" Father Franklin insisted in a firm voice. He was much more powerful than Sherlock ever would've thought he could be, but apparently just because he wore that white plastic collar didn't mean he was just going to let people walk all over him.
"You probably told John that as well, didn't you?" Sherlock snapped back.
"Well yes, I did, I hoped that out of the two of you at least one would've heeded my words!" Father Franklin defended, looking at Sherlock in exasperation. Sherlock just slumped even farther down in his seat, his anger having dissipated when he realized he was fighting a losing battle.
"I'm sorry." He muttered weakly.
"You can tell that to Mr. Watson." Father Franklin snapped. Sherlock winced, the priest's words cutting into his conscience like daggers.
"I will, once the Aspiration is out. Maybe then, maybe things will be different." Sherlock whispered hopefully.
"Nothing will change, nothing permanent can be undone." Father Franklin defended, folding his hands in front of him and staring at Sherlock in pity.
"Well maybe...maybe it's not permanent." Sherlock muttered.
"Wait a second, Sherlock you didn't..." Molly muttered, covering her mouth as if to try to prevent the words from even escaping her lips. But her eyes said it all, she knew what had happened, that sort of disappointment was very distinct.
"Ya, I know, go ahead, crucify me." Sherlock snapped carelessly.
"Excuse me." Father Franklin growled, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock, who just cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Apologies." Sherlock mumbled.