It took three days.
John was trying not to think about the significance of the number, but Sherlock kept muttering, "And on the third day He rose again…" because he was, apparently, really gunning for that punch in the face.
Halfway through the second day, John began to falter. He was just so damn tired.
Sherlock asked him if he could just hold Hope there for a few hours without trying anything else. John answered that he should be able to, and Sherlock disappeared.
"I got you some coffee," Molly said, handing John a Styrofoam cup while they waited for Sherlock to return. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine," John muttered, knowing it was a lie. "It's the longest job I've had so far, though."
"Father Murray said there were a few novices at the church," Molly told him, sipping her own cup of coffee with the urgency of the sleep deprived. "He's offered you their assistance if you need to take a longer break."
John shook his head. "I'm not getting anyone else involved in an exorcism this dangerous. No offense, but it's bad enough that you're here."
Molly shrugged. "Sorry." She didn't look particularly repentant.
There was a brief and slightly awkward silence before Molly nodded at Hope. "How much longer, do you think?"
John shrugged. "I have no frame of reference. The longer I rest, though, the longer it will take."
"You should get some more sleep," Molly said hesitantly. "After Sherlock gets back from wherever he is."
"I might manage a few more hours, but we're getting to the point where it's more dangerous for me to step away than to push through the exhaustion. I think I just need to power through."
Molly nodded and focused back on her coffee. "I hope Sherlock gets back soon."
.. …
Sherlock, apparently, returned with John's second wind, because the exorcist felt a rush of power and strength as soon as the angel materialized.
"I've brought Danu," Sherlock announced. "She'll help you through the rest of this."
"Oh, thank you," John gasped, getting to his feet. "Thank you so much. Now. Let's finish this." John picked up some sage, lit it, and wafted the smoke through the air. "By the power of Danu…"
… …
It still took a long time.
Sherlock was pacing around the chapel, losing his bloody mind, while John tried to work through the night. Molly had gone back to her flat to get some sleep, and Sherlock pulled a few novices from the church to keep an eye on John and make sure to serve as an anchor if necessary.
John gave him a glare when Sherlock brought more civilians into their mess, but he didn't stop his chanting in order to tell Sherlock off.
Hope was getting restless, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle.
Brigit and Danu were benevolently presiding, listening to John's commands and giving the man a little nudge of strength or energy when he started to lose focus.
But it was still taking a very long time.
At this rate, John was going to run himself ragged before they even tracked Moriarty down. Sherlock would just have to be sure that his friend received a few days of uninterrupted rest before each job. He would leave him out of the rest of the investigation so that he might reserve his strength.
Sherlock didn't like the thought. John hadn't been kidding when he said that Sherlock followed him around when they worked together. Sherlock preferred John's presence when they were working, he liked to have him there every step of the way.
But John was only human, a limitation that grated on Sherlock's nerves with each reminder.
He would have to rest, in order to be there when he was most needed.
… …
"John thinks you tricked him into being the one who fired the Blessed Bullet," Molly confided as she and Sherlock sat with their backs to the old stone wall. "He thinks you were being sneaky for some reason we mortals cannot comprehend."
Sherlock shrugged. "John was meant to be the one who fired to bullet. I do not know why, I only know that such things simply are. I let events unfold as I saw fit. It was not my choice to make. That decision was left to the universe."
"Fate," Molly murmured. "Do you believe in it?"
"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed. "It is a comforting thought. Much more so than the chaotic alternative."
"I guess," Molly mumbled, frowning. She didn't know why she kept asking Sherlock these sorts of questions. His answers always left her feeling she misjudged her footing on the stairs.
"Do you believe John can do this?" she asked, changing the subject.
"I believe," Sherlock said, smiling, that he already has."
… …
It took three days.
But eventually, the poor host's head was thrown back and his mouth wrenched open as the demon within erupted from his body.
"You will pay, John Watson," the black smoke hissed. "He does not like to be interfered with. He will seek His vengeance upon you."
John started the incantation to bind the demon so Sherlock could get a hold of him.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock said brusquely, straightening the collar of his coat. "I'll take it from here."
"God be with you," John muttered as Sherlock and the dark, oppressive smoke both disappeared. "And the devil have at you, Sherlock. Christ, I do not get paid enough for this."
Feeling like a marionette with all of his strings cut, John collapsed to the ground, exhaustion overtaking him.
He had the vague impression of Molly hurrying to his side, and then everything went dark.
… …
Irene stared at the sleeping exorcist with a frown, wondering how on earth she ended up being the one to babysit Sherlock's little mortal friend.
"I'll be back in a tick!" Molly had said before rushing out to get some groceries. Apparently the poor bastard hadn't eaten a full meal in several days, nor had he gotten much sleep.
The signs of utter exhaustion were there, Irene noticed. John was thinner than when Irene had seen him last, only a few days ago. He was greyer too, older looking.
The strain of the exorcism had taken its toll.
Irene hoped, not for the first time, Sherlock knew what he was doing, getting all these mortals involved. There would be hell to pay if he didn't.
No pun intended.
… …
John cracked on eye open cautiously, almost afraid to let the comforting grip of sleep release him. Life was so much easier when he was sleeping. He didn't have to deal with Sherlock, for instance, and that was always a plus.
But he was bloody starving, and he really had to take a piss, so he let his eyes blink open and stare at the slightly familiar surroundings.
It took him several seconds to realize that he was sleeping on the sofa of 221B Baker Street.
"Oh, thank goodness," Molly said from the other end of the sitting room. "I was afraid we were going to have to take you to the hospital. You've been asleep for nearly a day."
Molly jumped out of an arm chair and hurried to the kitchen. "I'll get you something to eat. It's been ages since you've had a decent meal, you must be absolutely famished."
John didn't argue with that. He got shakily to his feet and wandered in what he hoped was the direction of the loo.
He, fortunately, found it. When he was finished he wandered over to the kitchen, feeling very fuzzy and disconnected with everything around him. He couldn't even get his thoughts in order enough to articulate them.
After a few minutes of silence, Molly set some tea and toast in front of him to 'hold him over while she made something bigger.' John ate it wordlessly, feeling some life wash back into him as he did so.
"Is Sherlock back yet?" John asked, his voice surprisingly raspy. He cleared his throat and took a gulp of tea.
"Not yet," Molly said, smiling but looking worried. "Irene has been in and out, but she's trying to keep up appearances with the rest of the demons, so she's off doing…bad things at the moment. Greg dropped in to make sure you were alright, but it's mostly been you and me. Well, just me, I guess, because you were sleeping. But you're awake now, so…" she trailed off.
John cleared his throat. "Right. Um, thank you. For the um…" he gestured to the food in front of him and the flat in general.
Molly smiled, much more genuine than her last trembling one. "It's absolutely no problem, John. You did some really great work. I'm happy to assist however I can. And if that means cooking a fry up, then I'll cook you the best fry up I'm able to manage."
"Really, Molly," John said sincerely. "Thank you." He vaguely wondered where Sherlock found such a sweet person and fervently hoped that he hadn't done anything to corrupt her yet.
He would be sure to give Sherlock a strict talking to whenever he got back from…wherever he went.
"So I suppose the interrogation is taking some time, then," John observed, swirling the dregs of his tea around in his mug. "I guess he thinks that this Hope fellow might actually know something." John suddenly remembered the host of the demon. "Oh…the poor bloke Hope possessed…is he…?"
Molly pressed her lips together. "He didn't make it," Molly said sadly. "Sherlock had someone put a few guardians on standby, though, so they made extra sure that the poor man's soul found its way to Heaven. Or…wherever he went based on his religion. I'm not positive, but I was assured that everything was taken care of."
"That's good, then…" John said uncertainly. "So…did you learn anything during the exorcism?"
Molly nodded and started babbling excitedly, occasionally asking questions, which John attempted to answer to the best of his ability. She continued to do so even after she served him his food, and he had to try to navigate around the mouthfuls in order to keep responding to her endless litany of questions.
After he finished and did the washing up, he immediately felt the need to go back to sleep. Molly tried to convince him to stay at 221B, but John longed for the familiar walls of his own flat. He made his escape and caught a cab, looking forward to getting more rest.
He nearly made it there when Sherlock materialized next to him, scaring the absolute shit out of the cabbie and nearly causing an enormous traffic accident.
"You bloody angels," the cabbie grumbled. "Give some of us normal folk a break, will ya? We ain't immortal."
"Sorry," Sherlock said in the most insincere attempt at apology ever uttered. "John, why aren't you at the flat?"
"I'm heading to the flat," John pointed out.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. Not your flat. The flat. The flat where everyone is supposed to gather."
John sighed. "Sherlock, I need to get some decent rest and I would like to do so in familiar surroundings. I need a few days to do nothing but eat and sleep before I can even contemplate another exorcism."
"You're an exorcist?" the cabbie interrupted, looking impressed. "Fine job you lot are doing. I can't thank you enough for your service."
John flushed, occasionally forgetting the almost celebrity-like status some people gave exorcists. "You don't need to thank me," he protested. "I'm just trying to help, however I can."
"He's being modest," Sherlock interrupted. "He just dealt with a Priority One possession."
John nudged Sherlock hard and glared at him.
"What?" Sherlock mouthed, unable to comprehend such human concepts as modesty and humility.
"That's amazing," said the cabbie, looking appropriately impressed. "You must be beat."
"That's why I'm heading home," John said, putting some slight emphasis on it as he glared at Sherlock. "I need to get some sleep before I can be at Heaven's beck and call again."
"You and your mortal limitations," Sherlock scoffed. He lapsed into silence, staring out the cab window.
"Well?" John prompted.
"What?" Sherlock asked, not moving,
"I can't help you right now. Aren't you going to leave?"
"No," Sherlock said shortly. "I've decided to follow you home."
"You know, if you were human, I could call the police about you."
"It's a good thing I'm not human then. Have you fixed your television yet? It's dreadfully dull in your flat when you're sleeping."
… …
Meanwhile, when Sherlock isn't around…
"Sherlock stopped by earlier," Molly informed Irene. "He went off to talk to John, though."
Irene made a small noise of acknowledgment and draped herself on the sofa. She was halfheartedly scanning demonic energies, but without Sherlock around barking orders, she found herself without much to do.
"Why come back, if you're bored?" Molly asked, evidently not understanding that Irene was ignoring her.
Irene fixed her with a seductive look. "So I can see you again, gorgeous."
"Heterosexual," Molly apologized, flushing nonetheless. "You don't need to bother with that."
Irene closed her eyes. "Because Sherlock is a bastard and bound me to this bloody residence. I can't leave it for too long, not without his explicit permission. I've eaten, so now I've got to come back here."
"You've eaten?" Molly's flush deepened as she understood. "Right. Um. I hope he—or, you know, she—is alright then."
"Perfectly fine," Irene said carelessly. "She won't live as long as she would otherwise, but she had a perfectly lovely afternoon and will likely have a perfectly lovely life."
Molly looked like she wanted to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of someone wrestling with the lock on the front door. A few moments later, Greg's cursing floated up the stairwell.
"Bloody lock got stuck again," Greg grumbled, pointedly ignoring Irene. "But Sherlock texted me, told me to do some research on snakes in religious symbolism." He gave Molly a tired look. "I thought that was your job."
"I've slept twelve hours in four days," she said apologetically. "I was there for most of the exorcism. I'm not up to my usual standards of productivity. Tea?" she asked, as though it might earn her forgiveness.
Greg nodded and sat at the cluttered desk, digging through the stacks of books. Molly meandered into the kitchen to prepare that wretched drink that mortals seemed to enjoy so much.
Irene decided to entertain herself by watching Greg with a predatory expression. Greg was steadfastly ignoring her and staring at the books in front of him.
"You don't have to be so shy," she purred, stretching out seductively.
Greg started humming something loudly as he worked.
Molly walked back into the sitting room, carrying mugs of tea while perching a plate of biscuits on her arm. "Is that Blue Oyster Cult?" she asked, listening to the humming.
"Yes," Greg said, looking up at Molly with a smile as he accepted his tea and snatched a biscuit.
Irene scowled. "So you'll talk to her and not me?"
Greg hummed 'Don't Fear the Reaper' even louder as he flipped through the pages.
"Sherlock's given Greg strict instructions not to talk to you," Molly explained, digging through Greg's pile of books until she found the volume she was looking for. "Apparently he doesn't trust you."
"Well…he really shouldn't," Irene admitted, a bit reluctantly. "I'm more annoyed that John didn't seem interested."
"That might be because John's a bit gay," Greg said without thinking. He then realized he spoke. "I mean-" he went back to humming.
"Is he?" Molly wondered out loud.
Irene frowned. "Not totally. Sexuality is weird, though."
"You would know, I suppose," Molly muttered. "Being a sex demon and all."
"The term is succubus," Irene reminded her.
"What would you have done?" Molly asked, looking up from her book. "If John was interested, that is."
Irene shrugged. "Nothing at the moment, but I would definitely have saved him for later."
Molly made a noise of agreement.
Greg made a face and hummed.
… …
"Sit there and don't touch anything," John scolded the second they entered the flat. "I do not need you blowing anything up again."
"You should just stay at Baker Street," Sherlock said for the third time. "There's an extra bedroom. Irene sometimes stays in the downstairs one, but there's one upstairs separated from the rest of the flat. You could still get your peace and quiet."
"I'm really not too sold on the idea of moving in with a succubus, Sherlock," John repeated for the third time. "I honestly don't think that I would survive it. Although her pull was somewhat disappointing to be honest. I mean, she's attractive but completely resistible."
"Give it time," Sherlock said ominously.
"I'd rather not," John responded sincerely. "Seriously, sit on the sofa and don't move. The telly works, so entertain yourself that way if you need to."
Sherlock grouched but did as John suggested.
John made sure Sherlock was settled before he took a shower and got ready for an extended sleep. He felt a little bit like he had been hit by a truck and was desperate to try and attempt to feel normal again.
He had just fallen asleep when he felt himself being watched.
He opened his eyes against and yelped when he saw Sherlock staring at him.
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! You can't keep doing that!"
"I like watching you sleep," Sherlock said, as though that excused his behavior and didn't seem stalker-ish at all. "All your lines smooth out when you sleep."
"Go fuck yourself Sherlock," John said flatly, turning over so he was facing the other way. "And get out of my flat."
Sherlock made a whining noise similar to that of a toddler being told 'no' and stalked out of the bedroom.
John didn't know if Sherlock stuck around the flat at all, but eventually the tension in his shoulders eased and he fell back into a (mostly) peaceful sleep.
… …
"You're back," Irene said, sounding unsurprised.
Sherlock scowled at her and took stock of the sitting room. Molly and Greg were researching, as they should be (although Molly was starting to nod off over her book) and Irene was just lazing about, doing nothing productive at all.
"John kicked me out," Sherlock confessed bitterly. He thought that John's reaction had been a bit unfair. "Evidently it is creepy and poorly mannered to watch someone sleep."
Irene busted out laughing (a sound that was always disturbing from a demon) and even Molly offered a tired smile.
"I can't really blame him," Greg said, not looking up from his book. "Hey, is this the son of a bitch we're looking for?" he asked, holding up the book.
The scene was a simple one, depicting a woman, an apple, and a serpent in a rather familiar situation. It was the fall of Eden.
"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the 'p.' "Not the nicest fellow."
"The snake is often referred to as Lucifer, though," Greg pointed out. "Is that an isolated incident, or is this Moriarty bastard often switched around with him?"
"Moriarty is clever," Irene answered from the sofa. "He doesn't take the blame if he doesn't have to. He always tries to foist it off on someone else. You'll find him under a hundred different names in stories all over the world."
Greg frowned. "I thought he was a Christian demon."
Irene rolled her eyes. "Does he seem like the sort of entity to pay attention to rules like that? Also, you talked to me again."
"Damn it!"
"Children, please," Sherlock sighed. "Let's get back on track."
"I'm older than you," Irene pointed out.
"Fine, mortals and ageless demon woman, please, let's get back on track."
"We just don't even know where to look for him," Molly said, rubbing her eyes. "I've been searching for the signs you've told me to look out for, but I pick him up in too many things. I have to be doing it wrong, there's no way…" she caught the look Sherlock was giving her. "But it can't possibly be him every time, can it?"
"You're more likely to be correct assuming that he did something than assuming he didn't," Sherlock said, taking the seat across from Molly. "He's everywhere. Or, he was. I pulled him out of this world for as long as I could, but…"
"But now he's loose again," Irene sighed. She got up from the sofa. "And I found another Priority One. I think that it will keep for a while, though. They're not killing anyone. Not yet, anyway. We can let that little exorcist of yours get some sleep before we start all over."