As God Intended

The Watsons Are Always Welcome

Sherlock was hesitant to follow, wondering if the Watsons were prepared to take over his bed while the priest slept on the couch. Either way he had the child, and so Sherlock stepped nervously down the carpeted hallway in the wake of Mary Watson, finding that John had already made himself comfortable on the undisturbed side of the bed.
"It's okay if we sleep with you? Neither of us wants to be alone right now, and the living room looks pretty spooky." Mary asked hopefully, turning towards Sherlock with that innocent little smile upon her face. It was the sort of smile worn by someone who had already settled upon an answer in their mind, and was not prepared to accept a denial.
"Oh, well yes. I suppose." Sherlock muttered anxiously, spitting out his words now instead of casually speaking them. He was so taken aback by the request that it almost didn't process properly within his head, though once he agreed upon the situation there was no taking it back. John already had his face smashed into the extra pillow, with his body huddled under the blankets and his eyes shut tight. He couldn't possibly have fallen asleep yet, though with the state of unresponsiveness he was in he must already be close. Sherlock cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, holding Hamish within his arms while Mary went to fix her hair in the mirror, leaving the priest standing rather awkwardly in what felt like an interruption of the Watson family reunion. Suddenly he was terribly out of place, though there was only one thing he could do at the moment, considering one o'clock had just struck upon the clock.
"Come on then." John's voice muttered groggily against the pillow, one of his eyes opening beyond the fabric and his hand patting against the empty space next to him. Sherlock gave a small nod of agreement, sitting down carefully upon the edge of the bed and easing into the warm indentation that was still left from his previous hours spent asleep. Carefully the priest eased his head upon the pillow, holding Hamish upon his chest and watching as the baby went softly up and down with each of his struggling, nervous breaths. He had never been so close to anyone in such a vulnerable position, especially not someone he was romantically interested in. He had to wonder what would have happened if Mary was not around, or if Hamish was off in his cradle instead of on Sherlock's chest. The proximity was almost suffocating, as Sherlock knew he could merely twitch a muscle and find John's body; he could touch upon him with a mere stretch of his pinky finger if he felt the need to. There was an aspect of self-control which had to be implemented, lest Sherlock allow himself to roll right on top of the man and claim his as his own. There was a creeping sense of nervousness considering the proximity went both ways, and while Sherlock was slowly beginning to doubt everything that deceitful demon was telling him, well there still was an ounce of caution to be used against anyone who came within close contact. If Sherlock could touch John so easily then John was blessed with the same ability, one which may be used for good or evil. Despite his fears Sherlock doubted that John was awake enough to fulfill such cruel deeds, and considering his voice had not been heard since his last request Sherlock figured he must have fallen to sleep within the time it took for the priest to arrange himself next to him. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, pretending not to feel the weight of the mattress shift to accommodate Mary Watson clambering in on the other side of him. It was the strangest arrangement he had ever found himself in, though Sherlock tried to stay calm and tell himself that this was a normal thing to do. It was normal to feel the breath of two people along either side, normal to feel body heat approaching in all directions. Normal to be cradling a child up your chest while its parents slept so closely by your side. Sherlock was beginning to feel suffocated with the proximity of it all, sandwiched on all sides by people he knew better than to touch. He knew he couldn't shift for the entire night, he couldn't turn or sprawl or kick. He had to stay upon his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his arms tucked close to his body. He couldn't afford the misunderstanding an overlap would imply.
"Good for the light?" Mary's voice whispered, to which the priest hummed in agreement, patting Hamish's back to try to get the baby to sit still and fall to sleep with the rest of them. Mary stretched out her hand, catching the cord within her fingers and plunging the room into darkness. After some more rearranging on her part the bed had fallen completely still, with both Watsons curled in the direction of the priest, almost as if expecting to receive his attention while the lights had been shut off. Sherlock stayed completely still, now with silence falling it seemed as though every breath could incriminate him. He tried to stay silent, tried to keep himself from gasping in the oxygen he surely needed, and spent the next ten or fifteen minutes completely panicking. His body was vibrating within his skin, his muscles aching to stay stretched and immobilized as he tried to prevent any excess movement upon his part. He could feel breath on either side of him, though the light had gone and he could not determine just how close the sleeping forms were. When finally he figured both of the parents were asleep Sherlock finally allowed himself to relax, unclenching his muscles and allowing his neck to fall more comfortably upon his pillow. For a moment he tried to imagine this moment without the excess Watsons accompanying the pair, he tried to imagine what it would feel like to hug himself close into the body heat of John and fall to sleep to the melody of his steady breathing. Even now he felt his body weight shifting in the direction of the man, before at long last he found himself fallen over onto his side, Hamish squirming upon the mattress between them. The priest's eyes were still open though there was nothing to be seen in the dark, not even a vague shape that would represent the man's familiar sleeping form. It was all Sherlock could do but imagine he was there; imagine that he might be looking back. It was enough to go on, enough to comfort him into a state enough to close his eyes and ease back into his dreams.