As God Intended

Anything Else For The Tabloids?

It seemed rather silly to go through the trouble of getting these confessionals out, considering both men knew who was sitting alongside of them. Perhaps it was just the added layer of the screen that gave the priest comfort, knowing that he wouldn't have to look into John's eyes as he shared his story. For a moment it was silent, save of course for Hamish's heavy breathing, though at last John heard what he thought were the shuffling of feet on the other side of the box, as if the Father was trying to rearrange himself to better prepare what he had to say.
"Mr. Watson, I feel as though I have to explain my actions from the other night." Father Holmes declared at last. John's heart sank, for he felt as though he had a great deal of explaining to do on his part as well. There was something embarrassing about that memory, something that he wished the priest didn't remember in light of what all had followed. Some part of him wanted to deny the priest his right to talk, as if he would rather leave every detail of that night to memory, only to fade away and be gone.
"Alright." John agreed, speaking without full consent of his heart or brain. Again there was a long pause, as if the priest was beginning to choose his words more carefully.
"It will be the first time I ever speak of this." The priest admitted. "In fact, I thought it would be something I took to my grave. My parents would never allow such a confession...but it must be said. Keeping it inside is like trying to contain a tiger within a tissue box."
"That's strange." John admitted, speaking more about the priest's use of similes rather than the actual impending secret.
"John, you asked me if..."
"Oh skip over that part. I know what I asked." John demanded embarrassingly, not wanting to hear his words repeated. "I was tired, Sherlock. Delirious."
"I know, and I'm not holding it against you. Nothing you did that night, none of it was...unappreciated." Father Holmes chose this word after some contemplation, as if he was trying to fit his feelings appropriately within their place. John blinked in some surprise, having expected this entire meeting to be a lecture on priest's vows and personal space. To hear that it had nothing to do with him was almost a pleasant surprise.
"I'm having a hard time phrasing this, John, because my mouth does not wish to say these words. I've never had an audience to tell, nor had I a friend so dear that I trusted enough with the information. But after my actions the other night you deserve to know, and I think I deserve to speak at last. I've been silent too long." Father Holmes declared at last. John nodded, hating to admit to the excitement he felt mounting within his chest. He hugged Hamish closer, as if trying to keep the baby protected from the words which were going to be issuing into his confessional. Dare they be potent; John didn't want the baby to be affected.
"John...you asked me if I had ever been touched before. And I answered yes, which must have come as a bit of a shock." The priest began, to which John gave a groan of protest. He thought he had requested that exact quote not to be used, though there was no stopping it now.
"Yes, it was." John agreed, figuring this silence was to be used for his own advantage. The priest heaved a sigh, one loud enough to be heard through the screen separating the two confessionals.
"Priests swear vows, John, never to love anyone but God. They swear to abstain from human pleasures, and from human interactions. But that oath had never been fulfilled, on my part it was tarnished before the words ever left my mouth. I had been tainted long before I got to be ordained, long before I ever settled my eyes upon the priesthood." Father Holmes admitted. "I...I had a teacher in third grade. He was Father James, at that time, and he taught my homeroom. I always considered him a very professional man, a devoted priest, an excellent teacher. And I trusted him, John, trusted him as any child would to a man in his position." The priest's voice fell off, giving John some time to consider where this story was going. Well of course there was probably only one way it could go, with such an introduction.
"He invited me to his office after school one day, and I was too young to realize there was anything strange in this. And he waited until all the other teachers had gone, and he invited me inside. He loosened my belt, John, and he..."
"No, no. Sherlock don't say it." John debated at last, interrupting the priest's struggling voice in an attempt to save the poor man from his memories. The priest sounded close to tears, as if every word he spoke was the equivalent of stepping on shards of glass with bare feet. John wanted to spare him from this, but how could he interrupt what momentum the priest already had?
"I didn't even know what he had done was wrong until eight years later! I didn't know it wasn't allowed to do such a thing to a child; I didn't know that he got any pleasure from it at all! I was too young to know what he would want with me, I was too young to realize! It didn't make sense, John...none of it made sense! And so I kept his secret, I kept it figuring there was no harm...and I allowed it to happen to others. Throughout those years, all of those years that I spanned away from him, away from his class, from his office. I wasn't the last, when I should have been! But I didn't know, I didn't know." By now it sounded as if the man was crying, for there were sniffles accompanying his broken voice on the other side of the screen. John leaned forward towards the shared wall, pressing his hand up against the screen in the hopes that his offered touch would come as some consolation to the weeping priest behind. "He was arrested my junior year of high school, and that's only when I realized there had been a crime committed against me. But I kept my mouth shut, I knew what my Father would say, I knew what my Mother would think. I'd be an outlier, a victim, a weak, broken thing! They wouldn't love me, they couldn't if they'd ever known..."
"Stop saying that, Sherlock, stop thinking it!" John demanded, daring to throw his voice sharply through the screen and interrupt that man's maddened ravings. "How dare you assume this was your fault? How dare you let it shatter you?"
"I'm impure, John, ruined from then on!" the priest wailed, sounding as if he had broken into proper sobs now at the other side of the curtain.
"No you're not." John growled. "It doesn't count against you, it counts against him. He's the impure one, Sherlock, you were just a victim. It's not on your record."
"My Mother always told me that love was forbidden between men, but how...how could it be that love from a man is the only one I've ever known?" Father Holmes whispered in a broken, struggling voice. John gave a growl, at last figuring this confessional set up was quite unfavorable to the caliber of conversation they were having. He wasn't just going to sit on the other side of a wall and listen to the man crying, not when he knew there was a chance he could help! And so John got to his feet, throwing back the curtain to his own confessional and then again to Father Holmes's, revealing the priest where he sat crouched upon his knees, having rolled up to a near fetal position upon the bench.
"John, you're not supposed to come in here." the priest debated.
"Like H*ll I'm not." John growled. The first thing he did was set Hamish down upon the floor, for he figured that was the only proper place for the baby while he consoled the priest within the confines of their shared confessional. Thankfully Hamish wasn't crying, for that would undoubtedly break the mood which mounting between these stuffy wooden boxes. John was even so good as to draw the curtain again, to give them privacy from any onlookers who might be glaring through the parking lot. The curtain shed a deep shadow through the box, shielding them from all of the sunlight John had gone to seek this morning.
"This is a confession, John." Father Holmes protested, all the while John sat himself down upon the bench next to the priest and wrestled his hands away from where they were clutching his shins. He tried to yank the priest out of his defensive position, trying to keep him sitting up straight and holding his head high.
"Sherlock, that wasn't love. That wasn't, so get it out of your head." John demanded at last.
"But it was sex, John. That's just as bad, in fact that's worse." The priest protested, his eyes growing wide as if he was afraid to have even spoken the word.
"No, no, it wasn't sex either." John debated, feeling as though this was a strange conversation to be having while confined inside of a small wooden box. He kept the priest's fingers clutched within his own, trying to keep the clammy skin warm and protected within his own grip. He could feel the priest trembling, and even as the man collected himself there were still marks of glistening tears that were drying upon his cheeks. John tried to relax his gaze, trying to keep himself from displaying the anger which was now bubbling within his chest.
"If it wasn't...well then what was it?" Father Holmes asked nervously.
"It was abuse. Plain and simple, Sherlock. There was no love in it, no sin on your part at all. That man was sick in the head, and he brought all of his troubles upon innocent bystanders." John insisted.
"He's in jail now." The priest muttered, as if that was supposed to make his point any stronger.
"All the better for the world. But Sherlock, how many years has this been? At least sixty?" John insisted, smoothing their hands together again to try to bring some comfort into the man's clambering limbs.
"No, not sixty." The man defended. "More like fifty."
"He's dead then." John insisted.
"Not quite." The priest guessed.
"Well then he will be, soon. Soon enough." John assured. "Either way, I don't want to hear you speak of this as your own fault again. I don't want you to think of it as if it's a sin against your soul, when it was a helpless case. You didn't know what was happening; you didn't ask for it, you didn't like it. You were a child, Sherlock. And if you still don't know what sex is now then I'm pretty sure you didn't when you were six years old."
"I know...I know what sex is." The priest defended in the smallest of voices. John merely grinned at him doubtfully, trying to bring a smile to the man's face once again.
"And lastly, Sherlock, don't listen to your mother." John declared again. "Out here in the real world we realize that love is anything it wants to be."
"I know that." the priest agreed quickly. "I've known that for a while."
"Good." John muttered, smiling now quite unapologetically towards the man in the darkness. He liked the way their fingers felt, clenched together as if for stability rather than proximity. There was a smile on the priest's face as well, a growing smile. He felt safe, undoubtedly.
"You're the first person I've ever trusted with this. Therefore, John, I'd appreciate if you wouldn't share it." the priest muttered quietly, as if this was something that even needed to be said.
"Of course I won't share it, who do you think I am? You start off a story with such discretion and expect me to go spread it around town as soon as I leave?" John chuckled.
"I'm just clarifying." Father Holmes assured. John smiled again, feeling as though he had the power to delay his response a little more. It felt as if their conversation was ending, and if that was the case then he would have to let the man go. And he didn't want to, not right now at least. He wanted to keep these fingers in his grip; he wanted to cherish the proximity that was growing between them. He wanted to be able to stare through the gentle shadows and into those complicated eyes, seeing now more than a stuffy priest. In fact John was starting to see the other sides of Sherlock Holmes, those that had been lost when he declared himself one dimensional. Who ever knew that the priest could be hiding something, and with this secret perhaps many more?
"Anything else you want to share with me, in case the tabloids need something else?" John wondered at last, leaning forward with a playful grin. It was a motion he had often used with Mary, used in that case to steal a kiss after one of his more corny jokes. It worked rather well when the recipient was expecting it, or when it was intentional rather than purely impulsive. John hardly recognized the motion before he had stopped merely inches away from the priest's face, halting his own and looking quite confused as to why his body had moved so unintentionally. Half of him was wondering how he had got so close, and the other was still expecting a kiss to be placed upon his lips any moment. Therefore one of his eyes shut and the other remained open, one lip pursed and the other sneering, perhaps one of the strangest facial expressions he had used in years past. Father Holmes recoiled just a bit, perhaps ducking his head away an inch, maybe more, though the message was rather clear. It was the reception of John's accidental gesture that showed just how unorthodox his subconscious intentions were. No matter what the circumstance, no matter what the proximity, he wasn't sitting across from his wife. No, not even across from a woman. He was holding hands with an ordained priest, a man who in spirit was sixty years his elder, and a man who had sworn to look past all romantic interaction with a firm and steady heart. And here was John, oblivious to the whole situation and getting a look that was the equivalent to a powerful slap in the face.
"No, um...nothing more." Father Holmes managed at last, muttered a bit uncomfortably as John withdrew back to his starting point. At the moment both men were visibly troubled, though John's face was glowing red with humiliation and Father Holmes's was white with anxiety. Slowly their hands fumbled away from each other, John going to fumble with his sleeves while Father Holmes tried to fix his hair as nonchalantly as he could manage.
"Right, okay." John agreed finally, getting to his feet with some hesitation and turning once towards Hamish, back again towards the priest, and then finally towards the door. In all directions he took not a single step, nor said a single word, and remained perfectly motionless in his scuffing and decision making. All he had the power to do was contradict his previous goals, before at last he was merely turning circles in what little space he had available to him.
"Are you going?" Father Holmes wondered, having curled back into his chest in a strange ragdoll sort of way. It was interesting how close he could draw his own limbs to his chest, evidentially with joints which had been revitalized by some Heavenly blessing.
"Do you want me to stay?" John asked immediately, hoping for a very precise answer.
"No, no I was just wondering if you knew how to get out." the priest admitted in a small voice. "Also, you've got your baby on the floor there."
"I know, I know." John muttered quickly, scooping up Hamish on the command of the priest and giving a reluctant little smile. Finally he stepped out of the confessional, ripping the curtain back to reveal an empty parking lot now simmering with the springtime sun. The light was blinding for a moment, though as John readjusted his eyes he turned back to look at where the priest was still crouched, looking as if the sun was going to hurt him if he got too close.
"Do you need help putting these away?" John asked, feeling the need to stay longer even though his presence might not be appreciated.
"No, no I'm alright." Father Holmes assured, clambering to his feet but standing shielded within the box. John nodded, wishing that there would be an invitation for some other time spent together. He knew that he was not in the position to offer such a thing, considering he had been the one to make the last, and rather unappreciated, move. It was up to Father Holmes, who was now dangling precariously upon his tip toes and looking nervously upon the ground.
"John?" he asked at last, as if there was something still bothering him from their conversation before.
"Sherlock." John breathed in response, automatically upon hearing his own name.
"You won't...you won't think any differently of me?" the priest clarified. "Not after knowing."
"Of course I won't think differently." John assured. "Or at least I won't think any worse. I actually find you much stronger now, much stronger than I ever assumed."
"Strong." The priest clarified after a sudden breath, as if that had never been a word that had been used to describe him. It warmed John's heart to see the man's face flush, never having been one to receive a compliment.
"Of course." John agreed.
"Thank you John." Father Holmes declared at last, in a rather aggressive voice that came out as something more of a shout. John gave him a smile in return, feeling as though his praise was something that need not be thanked nor excused on his own part. He felt as though those words were the most satisfying to end with, and so with that he bowed his head before settling Hamish in his stroller, allowing Father Holmes to steep within all of the emotions that had been conjured up throughout their confession. 

Sherlock POV: The oatmeal was spinning just about as fast as his head, and for a moment the humming of the microwave wasn't enough to keep his thoughts from pouring in like an unappreciated waterfall. For a moment Sherlock was trying to figure out what was going on inside of his own head,though that was such a difficult task that he settled instead on trying to get inside of John Watson's. Today in the confessional had been one of the most intimate moments of his life, for he had never been so close with another person, never within the shadows with their fingers intertwined. It was an obvious gesture, that last move that John had made. It had been a kiss, or it was supposed to be one, had it not been stopped by even John's recognition of the impossibility. Oh it was too much to handle, too much to process! Had Sherlock stepped away from his inhibitions, had he caught John's lips just before they pulled away...the opportunity had been there, out in the open and available! And now surely John thought he had made a terrible mistake, he had to be humiliated and ashamed. But he didn't know, how could he ever know, that it was Sherlock who was riddled with regrets? John's actions had taken a step forward, but it was Sherlock in his cowardice that took two steps back! Had he just kissed John when he was supposed to they would have met in the middle,happy to be reunited upon the same path once more. But was he even allowed to have these thoughts, these regrets that would have turned his past accomplishments into utter, utter failures? In the eyes of God Sherlock had showed strength beyond measure, resistance in the face of something he so dearly wanted. It ought to be rewarded as facing off with temptation and surviving to tell the tale, though why did it feel so terrible, like an opportunity missed and a mistake made? Some parts of his heart had fallen away from his previous commitments; some part of him had left the priesthood behind upon realizing there was another, better option. Though some still remained, most still remained, and whether it was his direct intentions or rather directions stamped upon his brain, Sherlock still couldn't sit still and process the information of his own longing. How was he supposed to choose between John Watson and God himself, knowing that both options were hardly obtainable? All Sherlock had of the church was this old rectory and a collar around his neck, and all he had of John Watson was his friendship and a forbidden, illegal, and all together unethical love interest. Neither road would take him anywhere, though as he stood at the intersection he was already stagnant within his life! Stagnant and staring at the inside of his brain, listening to the monotonous ringing of the microwave announcing the demon's dinner had been served. Slowly Sherlock descended upon the school house, the sun just setting below the horizon as he clutched the warm bowl in one hand and the demonology book in the other. Tonight Sherlock was prepared to break some more rules of the Holy church, that is if his Latin speaking was up to par.