John barely even pauses before yanking the door open and storming in. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Sherlock is indignant. "What about you?"

"What about me? Victor's being completely practical. It will help us with the investigation, he's not trying to convert anyone – I'm sure he knows you better than that! What's the harm in sitting through one single service? I'm sure you've done it before. When was the last time you went?"

Seventeen, just done with school, only the second time in more than ten years, flowers, distant relatives who didn't know his name, meaningless chatter about eternity and a better place but he knew what dead was and all the talk in the world wouldn't change a body rotting in the ground or invoke the help of a god who never existed…

"That is not the point," Sherlock snaps. "Don't tell me you're religious! Of all the feeble-minded things you could believe in, I really thought better of you, John, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised with your level of intellect. Although even you should realise what the church would have to say if they knew everything about your life, and then where would you be?"

"Christ, Sherlock, get a hold of yourself before I punch you," John barks. "I don't care how much better insulting me makes you feel, keep speaking to me like that and you'll have a whole other set of problems."

John looks dark and dangerous and Sherlock, though still in a rage, backs off minutely. "Then why are you insisting on this? Think I'll get something out of it, become a better person?"

"Oh, come off it! The only thing I expect either one of us to get out of it is an in with the locals for the investigation. And I'm not insisting on anything other than that you try not to be a unreasonable arsehole to the person in whose home we are currently residing. Or to me, for that matter. Go, don't go, I don't care. It's your case."

Your case, not our case, he hates it when John does that, it's like a slap in the face, a denial of their partnership, even though sometimes he himself pushes John off cases out of pique, which he knows John hates even more…

Sherlock says nothing, lips pressed together, balanced on his toes by the window like he's ready to fight or run.

"And since you were so kind in asking," John continues bitterly, "I am not religious. But when I was young my family went every week and our parish was nice. The priest was kind, you got sweets and pages to colour in at Sunday school, and there were picnics and fundraisers for good causes. It was a good thing for the community, brought people together. Remember, I've seen first hand what religious extremism brings, but this is hardly it."

"What would your kindly vicar say if you turned up with me in tow then?"

"Mazel tov, probably. Liberal city parish."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not that liberal, not really. The official line still calls for repentance of pretty much everything you and I have ever done, together or separately. But that is miniscule beyond the problem of attempting to use an eclectic set of ancient and mistranslated mythology to construct a code of conduct that flies directly in the face of every known fact of human nature, and then thinking you can apply that to people en masse to convince them to believe in a deity there is no evidence of, with the threat of an eternity in agony as a stick and the promise of intangible rewards after death as a carrot! I had that worked out by the time I could read picture books. It's a method of control, nothing less."

Doesn't matter how many bake sales or visits to the poor or fundraisers for a new firehouse, he could never see religion as innocuous, it's just a way to manipulate people, to stop them from thinking for themselves, to allow them to feel better than others and give them false hope to distract them from their miserable lives, he had never wanted any part of it and resented every single time he was made to participate, and that was before all the hours and weeks and months Mummy had wasted begging an imaginary deity for her life, as their priest promised her a bright future in heaven and her body wasted away…

John frowns. "Are you quite done? Because I believe the topic was whether you could or could not manage to sit quietly in a church for forty-five minutes, and not the premise of all world religions or the existence of a god."

"Well, I'm making it the topic. Do you believe in god?" Sherlock practically spits the question at John.

"Does it matter? Would you lose all respect for me and walk out the door if I said I did?"

"It does matter. I should know if you do." Sherlock is attempting to rein himself in now but it is going poorly, he realises.

John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I've seen far too many terrible things to be able to hold onto the notion of a loving creator or an all-powerful being of some kind, because if god exists and that's the sort of thing he or she allows then I wouldn't want to know. And I'm a rational man and a scientist. The supernatural doesn't make sense to me.

"But when I think about meeting you, I hate to imagine that was just an accident, that if you'd been working elsewhere that day or I'd been slower on my walk through the park that we never would have known the other existed. It feels impossible that such an important thing should hang on such trivial circumstances. It feels like we have to mean more than that, like there had to have been a reason beyond coincidence. And when I think about… the end…whenever it comes, I have to hold on to some glimmer of hope, delusional though it might be, that we won't be just gone, separated, non-existent forever. I need to believe there could be something for you and me after this, together, because it's the only way all the risks we take are bearable for me."

The end, he hates to think about it, the final problem, more than just an academic exercise now, the thought of nothingness never bothered him but the inevitable separation is terrifying, even though it shouldn't matter if nothingness really is all there is, he'd never know the difference, but it still frightens him to imagine any sort of existence without John and he hates that it does….

Sherlock swallows, all his anger gone. He moves closer to John, who is visibly upset.

"Okay," he tells John almost meekly.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I can accept that. Okay, I'll go tomorrow. Take your pick."

John lets out a long, weary breath and nods. "Good." He sits on the bed and Sherlock sits beside him.

"John, I…" he begins, not really sure how he's going to finish that sentence.

John shakes his head. "It's over."

"I was harsh."

"Yes."

He sidles closer to John, but doesn't touch him.

"I'm still angry," John tells him and he nods. They sit quietly for a few moments, and then John seems to make a conscious effort to shake it off.

"Now," he says with false cheer. "Do you want to hear about the people I talked to today or shall we do another five rounds on theology?"

Sherlock is careful to listen attentively to John's rundown of the interviews instead of bombarding him with questions and interruptions as he usually would do. He is not entirely above the concept of penance, although he's aware it's a meagre measure.

"The only one who seemed at all unusual was the groundskeeper. The housekeeper was unfriendly, but straightforward about it and seems very loyal to Victor. The groundskeeper, Hobbes, is a local though – he kind of came with the castle – and seems to regard Victor as an interloper. He wouldn't answer any of my questions directly but was only too happy to hold forth on his opinion of the restoration project and the archaeologists and tourists who were going to tramp all over his land. I couldn't tell if he had something to hide or just doesn't like outsiders. There seems to be a lot of that in this area. He could want to sabotage Victor to make him give up and leave, but it seems like there are easier ways to do it. And he's old – in his seventies and not healthy. He'd need help, a lot of it."

But he might know the place better than anyone, the history, the tunnels, the ins and outs of every passageway, living there his whole life, feeling proprietary about the building and the land, he certainly is a decent candidate if it weren't for his frailness, perhaps he knew secrets he had passed them on to someone else…

"A possible, if unlikely, suspect, then. What about the stone mason? He's got the skill set."

John shakes his head. "He loves old castles and churches like most people love their children. He was almost in tears to talk of the missing stones, how perfect an example of early Norman technique it was, what a loss to the structure."

"And the apprentices?"

"I didn't know it was possible to be a geek about stonework, but apparently it is. They're absorbed. And I asked around and all the other workers are regularly accounted for at the Heath and Holly, drinking their pay away. Including the night of the last disappearance."

"So, we'll keep an eye on the groundskeeper then, but see what we can learn tomorrow from the local populace. Hopefully some of Victor's tenants will be there as well. Anything else?"

"Nothing that struck me. I'm done in though." John did look worn and a little grey, very dim and subdued still. "Are you going to go back to your research or…?"

He really should, but there might not be much more to glean from the files and he's reluctant to leave John after the row, not sure if he's been forgiven yet or not…

"No, I'll stay here… if… it won't bother you."

John nods and smiles a little, tiredly. They get ready for bed without speaking and settle under the heavy coverlet, John in his usual position, half on his stomach, half on top of Sherlock with his head just in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock relaxes automatically, an almost Pavlovian response to the feel and smell of John against him, allowing him to let go of all the Not Good things he'd felt and said. But he still needs to make it up to John somehow, give him something in return for his patience.

"John?" he says at last, before his friend's breathing slows into slumber.

"Mmm?"

"I think about it too. What might have happened if we had never met. And what will happen. The end. I can't bring myself to believe the things you do, even a little. But you're the one with the heart… if you want to believe it for both of us, I wouldn't object."

He can feel that John is surprised, but he only says, "All right, Sherlock," and squeezes his arm very tightly.

Sherlock doesn't sleep that night, turning the facts over and over in his mind, but laying there with John is restful, and by the time morning comes his excitement for the case has returned and he's almost eager to get to the church and start canvassing for suspects. He asks Victor to keep the reason for their visit quiet, but Victor only laughs. "Do you think there's a single person with in 50 kilometres who doesn't already know who you are, why you've come, and what your shoe size is? Visitors are the ripest gossip."

Corvin Village barely deserves the name, consisting only of a stone chapel, a small shop selling necessities that doubles as a post office and petrol station, and a few houses clustered around. They are nearly late, so there is no time for chit-chat, although judging by the smiles and waves from many of the congregants as they slide in to Victor's pew he is quite popular with the locals.

Of course he would be, he seems effortlessly at ease in this setting, as does John, Sherlock sticks out like a sore thumb with his city clothes and strange face, one that couldn't possibly belong here…

Sherlock attempts to blend in as much as possible, appearing to look intently at the hymnal John holds up for them, although not actually singing. Instead he uses it as a chance to survey the crowd. Several people jump out at him as having something to hide, although that's no sure sign of guilt in the case. Church is enough to put anyone on guard and there are plenty of other crimes a person could have committed.

He stands and sits as others do, though he does not kneel, and tries to block out the words of subjugation and praise, faith and supplication. He can feel himself growing agitated by the rituals, the mindless, pointlessness of it all and by the time of the homily he is almost crawling out of his skin in his efforts to stay silent and still, appear a normal church-goer. The priest drones on about self-sacrifice, resisting temptation, and the consequences of failing to do so.

He feels wound tighter than a spring, especially once the priest begins to go into specifics, and feels the compelling desire to stand up and denounce the entire Church of England, and every other religion, loudly and in great detail, deconstructing every false ideology he has heard this morning (he's counted twenty seven so far).

How are Victor and John so relaxed, how can they even be here, both moderately intelligent men, both essentially good in a way that Sherlock can never be, listening to a stranger telling them they are evil at heart, that they should renounce so many of the things that make them good for an arbitrary standard of holiness, what if they actually believe what is being said, what does that mean for Sherlock, does John think somewhere deep inside that what they have is wrong…

John senses Sherlock's mounting discomfort and shifts a little closer to him. He doesn't say anything but hands Sherlock a little scrap of paper upon which he's scribbled several verse references: Song of Solomon 5:16; 6:3; 7:10.

Intrigued and temporarily distracted, Sherlock pulls the Bible out of the pew in front of him and looks up the scriptures.

"His mouth is sweetness itself; he is altogether desirable. This is my lover and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem… I am my lover's and he is mine; he browses among the lilies… I belong to my lover and his desire is for me."

Shocked, he looks at John, who gives a little smile and takes his hand. "When I was a teenager I used to look for all the naughty bits when I was bored," he whispers very quietly. "It's not all bad. Comes quite in handy, really."

Sherlock feels some of the tension leave him and focuses on John's hand in his. He still feels somewhat under attack, but is warmed by John's stubborn loyalty to him, even here.

My lover, my friend, the beauty of reciprocal possession, ancient words alive in them today, he doesn't even mind the sentimental streak in John that offered up those passages to him because it really is so apt, so pleasing that John thinks such things and to have John by his side burning as brightly and steadfastly as a lantern in the night, those words were almost worth having come here…

At last the ordeal is over, and they are released outside for coffee and baked goods set up on little folding table. No one seems in a hurry to leave; it's likely this is the main social event of the week for many of the more rural families. Sherlock and John sip their coffee in silence as Victor speaks briefly to the priest. Sherlock observes the movements and interactions around him silently, taking mental notes, and he can tell John is doing the same beside him, though likely missing much.

Snippets of conversation drift by, mainly about children, livestock, crops, the upcoming fair, and a large amount of inconsequential gossip. Suddenly, he hones in on a group of men not far from them, catching just part of a sentence.

"…and I don't care whether 'tis a prank or a crime or an act o' God, I don't know why he thinks he needs to bring a couple o' London queers in to sniff around our business – he should keep 'is own house in order…"

Sherlock tenses instantly. From John's sudden change in attitude Sherlock can tell he heard it too, and is about to do something lovely and foolish. Sherlock's tempted by the potential enjoyment of letting him go off, despite the damage it would likely to do to their investigation.

John flares with anger, sodium dropped into water, it's electrifying for Sherlock when he's like this, because Sherlock knows it's for him alone…

Before he can decide what to do or John can rip anyone a new arsehole, Victor materializes and steps smoothly in to the group, motioning to Sherlock and John to follow. "Good morning, gentlemen," he says pleasantly. "Have you met my very good friends? They're staying with me and helping with my little mystery. I certainly would hope they would receive the same kind of welcome and respect you all are always so kind in extending to me." He smiles at them, assured and unblinking, a confident alpha dog commanding by sheer force of personality.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, the men back down, shamed, and mumble greetings to Sherlock and John, avoiding eye contact, before they disperse.

"I apologise for that," Victor tells them gravely. "I'm afraid many people out here are not very open minded. You shouldn't have much more trouble though – word gets around. Here, let me introduce you to some people you may wish to meet."

He's been called worse, much worse, but it does resonate deeper now, insulting them is so very different than insulting just him, he's used to being a target, hardly notices, but now he's hyperaware of every unfriendly look and whispered slur they get, in London or out of it…

Sherlock shakes off the encounter quickly, though John retains a distinct aura of wariness, standing beside him with an expression as if daring anyone to say a word. Sherlock puts on his most convincing and friendly normal-person persona, nudging John as he does. He appreciates the defensiveness, but it won't exactly help people open up to them. Reluctantly John relaxes and lets his usual open and harmless demeanour return, but remains on alert.

Victor introduces them first to Mr. Dinkins and his son, both of whom have such thick local accents Sherlock can barely understand them. The elder Dinkins is a gnarled old specimen, aged and wiry, but looking like he could probably lift twice his own weight for all of that, while the son is a hulking man who appears to have the approximate IQ of an eggplant. Neither show any interest or ability to converse beyond farming and the weather, and Sherlock dismisses them as suspects immediately. Their family may have been attached to the land for centuries, but they appeared untroubled by any change of ownership provided they were not disturbed in their work.

How could anyone stay in one place for so long, doing the same thing generations before had done, never moving, never changing, any reasonable person should go mad with boredom, of course Sherlock would stay in London for a thousand years if he could, but London is always new and changing, it's not the same from one day to the next…

"Do you need to meet Suzie and Cora? They don't attend, but I can drive you up to meet them after this," Victor offers.

"You said they moved in four months ago, but the first incident was six months ago, correct? No need, then."

Victor nods. "Right. Ah, Mr. McKellig, come and meet my house guests!"

A dark haired, barrel-chested man in his early sixties lumbers amiably over to them.

"This is Dr. Watson and –"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock offers with a high-wattage smile, shaking his hand heartily.

Large rough hands, calloused but not from farming, weather-beaten face, tattoos in a Bantu language, hair cut short, distinct pipe tobacco scent, clothes un-ironed but clean…

"Navy man, I see. Lots of time around Africa, I presume?"

McKellig looks startled. "That's right, Mr. Holmes. Sir Victor been telling you about me?"

"Not at all. Ship's engineer, am I correct?"

"More'n thirty years," he says proudly. "But got too much for my back and knees to be crawling all around like that."

"What brings you to farming? Quite a leap from a sailor. Did you grow up on a farm? I've always had a fancy to try it myself, but I'm afraid I don't have the fortitude of a man like yourself."

McKellig grins at the flattery. "My grandparents farmed this land, but they died when my mother was a baby. I got no people left, so I figured I might as well do what I could with the family legacy."

"Well, best of luck to you," Sherlock tells him, shaking his hand again and waiting for him to turn away before he lets the fake expression of friendliness slide from his face.

Strong man, some connection to the land, but not to the people around here, they'd be viewing him as an outsider, he'd still need help, seemed like he put most of his energy into his farming, definitely kept to himself…

Sherlock mentally places him in the same category as the groundskeeper; a suspect but not a strong one. The crowd is beginning to thin out now, and Victor excuses himself for a brief talk with the deacons about some upcoming event or other, while John heads for the loo. Sherlock doesn't spot anyone else who seems to be worth interviewing, so he goes and waits impatiently by the car. As soon as he reaches it, a thin blonde man, perhaps in his early forties, makes a beeline for him. Sherlock had seen in him the service and marked him as one of the ones with something to hide.

Not farm folk, he's got all the signs of an educated, indoorsy man, a scholar, he squints at the sun like it's unfamiliar, awkward in his own skin, but determined about something…

"You're staying up at the castle, aren't you? With Mr. Trevor," the man says without preamble.

"Yes."

"Well, I think the whole thing is a travesty. Turning an historical landmark like that into a circus for tourists."

"And you are?"

"Andrews. Jacob Andrews of the Northumberland Society for Historical Preservation."

"I assume that's different than the Northumberland Historical Society?" Sherlock drawls, amused.

Andrews all but snarls at the mention. "Very. Those sods only care about economic development, they have no appreciation of true history. If they did, they wouldn't be supporting Trevor's 'reconstruction' plan, which is really just a veiled excuse to turn Corvin Castle into a money-making enterprise to exploit the history of the country for his own gains. He's literally steam-rolling over thousands of years of English heritage, and the government and their toadies are all too happy to let him do it. Ruins like Corvin castle need to preserved in their current state, carefully studied by professionals, and protected. Not tarted up and rented out to the highest bidder!"

This is intriguing, not everyone in the county is cheering Victor's efforts, puts a new twist on the whole thing, a motive, if not for Andrews then for others like him, he looks far too unathletic to attempt it himself, but presumably he is not the only member of his society…

"I see," Sherlock says carefully. Andrews has gone red with anger during his little speech. "And you're telling me all this because…?"

"I have little hope of anyone being able to persuade him to change course now, but if you really are his friend perhaps you can make him see the folly of it. If he is a true history lover, he must realise it will only end in disaster and the loss of precious data about our predecessors. Good day, Mr. Holmes."

The other man stalks off, just as Victor returns.

"Oh Lord," he moans. "He got to you, didn't he? He's a determined bugger, I'll give him that. He's been trying to stop my restoration project since the day I bought the property."

"Why didn't you mention him before?" Sherlock asks sharply. "I asked about enemies and people with interest in the castle. He seems to qualify as both."

"He's not an enemy, he's an annoyance."

"He might say differently. You should have told me."

Victor sighs. "Probably," he agrees. "But frankly I try to put him and his people out of my head as much as possible. They've been quiet lately, I was rather hoping he'd given it up."

Not a man to give things up, that one, not any more than Victor or Sherlock himself, he bears investigating more deeply, but interviews won't do any good, man like that's bound to have a paper trail though…

"Hmm…" says Sherlock, but doesn't elaborate.

John still hasn't returned. "I'm sorry again if that was uncomfortable for you. Church. I know you never liked it," Victor says.

"It's fine," Sherlock says tightly. "I just don't… Never mind."

"No, tell me."

"I don't understand how you can still believe in any of it, how you can tolerate sitting there week after week, listening to that rubbish!"

"It's not completely rubbish," Victor replies mildly. "No one is more aware of the flaws of the Church of England or organised religion as a whole than me. But I find comfort in my faith. It makes me a better man, it gives me something to strive for. The lessons of community, of caring for others, of generosity and kindness and responsibility, the sense of something greater than myself. It means something real to me. I know you don't understand it, and that's fine. But it works for me."

"And what about the judgement and doctrine of hell and the misogyny and the condemnation?"

Victor shrugs. "Nothing is perfect. I take what I need and let the rest go."

Sherlock marvels at his ability to remain unscathed by negative teachings, completely faithful yet totally unburdened by any guilt or shame the church would try to impose upon him, absorbing the good and rejecting the bad, Sherlock will never understand how he manages it, even after leaving as a child he had still been infected by the poison of it through his family, conduits of its harmful doctrines, ideas that took years to be free of even after dismissing them as ludicrous with his rational mind…

John rejoins them shortly. "Well, now what?" he asks brightly, seeing that Sherlock has something in mind.

Sherlock quickly shoves the bad memories away and refocuses on the case. "I need you to find out everything you can about Jacob Andrews and the Northumberland Society for Historical Preservation. Victor and I – and anyone else he can spare – are going to go look for secret passages."