There was something about the inside of a church that unsettled Sherlock, but the thing that drove him craziest about this unease was that there was no logic behind it. Religion was created by men to explain the things they couldn't explain and to feel better about death. It was lazy and though he appreciated the moral foundation it could give a person, it was basically useless. So there was no reason in the world this place should unsettle him, but it did.

The vicar took him straight to the sanctuary. "This is where he's been spotted. Twice by the cleaning lady, six times by members of the congregation, and once by me."

He studied the sanctuary. There were 3 large stained-glass windows and none of them were movable. Definitely couldn't have gotten in that way.

"There's only 2 doors. One in the front and one in the back," the vicar said.

He restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Like he'd needed him to state the obvious.

One of the walls had a larger-than-life painting of Jesus on the cross. The artist hadn't failed to leave out the gory details. It stood opposite of another painting of Jesus risen from the tomb.

People called him strange, but at least he didn't glorify a man's death. Treated it unemotionally and conducted experiments on the bodies, yes, but never gloried in it. A peculiar thought came to him just then. Had Jesus faked his own death too? It would explain the countless witnesses, many who went to violent deaths rather than deny Him. But how did one convince Roman soldiers you were dead, especially when they pierced your side and brought out blood and water, a clear sign of death. It was a mystery he would've liked to have solved if he'd lived in Bible times.

It really was a grand story as far as fairy tales went. Sherlock was very familiar with it because his maternal grandmother had often taken him and Mycroft to church. He and Mycroft had found great amusement in trying to explain the mysteries behind the miracles as children. Here was a hero as the Bible told it. A god who lowered himself to become one of His creation. In fact, in this instance, caring mattered because caring was what had saved the entire human race, if they chose to believe that is. He didn't because as nice as it was, it made no sense. Why should God, if such a being existed, send His Son to die for such thankless and imperfect people that would not be in rebellion if their supposed predecessors, Adam and Eve, had listened in the first place? And that was just the beginning of the things in the Bible he couldn't comprehend.

No, Irene was right. The only higher power he believed in was himself. Ignoring the pictures, he began knocking on the walls.

"What are you doing?" the vicar asked.

"Shh. Wasting my time if you don't keep quiet." He hadn't even covered half the wall before he got the first text. "Annoying things, mobile phones. They have a habit of going off at the most inconvenient of times."

4 cm -JW

He still had plenty of time. A woman wasn't ready to go until she reached 10 cm. He knew that because he'd once had to deliver a suspect's baby. Worst case of his life.

He continued to knock around and check for hollow sounds until he was 100 percent sure the doors were the only way in and out.

He started to ask the vicar where the "spirit" had been standing, but he received another text.

5 cm -JW

Is it necessary to text me after every cm? -SH

Yes -JW

She was moving along fast, but then they couldn't be sure this was Mary's first child. It could be her third or fourth for all they knew.

"Where did you see him?" Sherlock asked.

"The choir loft." That made perfect sense. That was where the door in the back was, the choir loft. The ghost was becoming less ghostly by the minute.

"Was it a shadow or did you see the figure clearly?"

"As clearly as I see you now. And just as the others described him. Victorian clothing and eyes that didn't seem to be able to focus on anything or anyone."

"Did you ask him what he was doing there?"

"It didn't occur to me just then," he said, flushing. "I started to run the other way. When it occurred to me that he might be a real person, I turned to talk to him, but he was gone."

"Could he have gone through the door?" he said, asking the obvious.

"No, I would've heard the door squeak. The hinges are terribly old."

Just then the figure was there in the choir loft, and Sherlock ran towards the resident ghost. Not as exciting as he'd hoped for, but John and Mary would be happy about the timely conclusion. At least, this phantom had proved to be more than a figment of the imagination.

However no sooner had he vaulted into the choir loft than the figure was gone again though Sherlock had never taken his eyes off of him.