As God Intended

The World Outside The Blanket

Sherlock POV: It wasn't cold in the church, in fact it was one of the warmer days of late spring and all of the heat was trapped within the lofted ceiling, circling down and causing John to go propping open the stained glass windows with the long pulley systems the church had installed. Despite the temperature Sherlock was still wrapped in a blanket, unable to prevent himself from shivering as he nestled into the cushions of the leather couch. It was a strange feeling to be back here, back in this church that stood so similarly to the one in his recent memories. One would imagine the church would have morphed to match the mood, as if Mary's bombshell declaration should have left an actual hole in the floor which she stood. Though it was untouched, unchanged, and wholly the same. The only thing which was different was the woman herself, or rather her presence. During a normal night Sherlock may have been spending his evening with the whole Watson family, whereas tonight he stared at an empty couch across from him, listening to Hamish gurgle on the cushion next to him while John struggled with temperature control. Sherlock could only bear to look at his Godson in his peripheral vision, almost afraid to make eye contact and see a glimpse of the evil that Father James had alluded to. Could it be that their demon was an incubus, having infected so innocent a lifeform before it had the chance to develop? The whole time Hamish had been growing inside of Mary, was he festering in rotten thoughts and creating a brain to support them? Was he really some sort of antichrist, the spawn of so foul a creature? Such a sweet thing, so precious to see and so soft to touch...was he really destined to raise Hell?
"Finally!" John's voice came from the other end of the church, followed by a great creaking sound as the ancient hinges began to move in their intended direction. Sherlock began to feel a soft breeze playing across the back of his neck, one which only made him draw his blankets closer around him, feeling as if some ghostly hand was brushing its fingers across his exposed skin. The blanket became more than just warmth, it became protection. What he had gotten out of the meeting today was that even after all of these years he was not in control of Father James, not the man or the memory. Either way Sherlock interpreted his situation that crooked old man was somehow on top, laughing and jeering at Sherlock for the past they regretfully shared. Such a shell of a human being could drive Sherlock to the utmost end of his confidence, a man who couldn't even step a foot on the ground so easily drove him to his knees! What did this mean, if not submission? The memories got sharper; the feelings began to associate once more....suddenly this blanket wasn't enough to keep his hands away. Sherlock winced, shutting his eyes tight and staring at the blankets before him, trying to imagine anything else but the one thing which continually appeared in his mind. It was unsuccessful. This time he saw the old classroom, coupled now with the old man. Somehow he was upright, walking, laughing, but his teeth were chipped, his breath was foul, and there was no color in his eyes. Sherlock couldn't help but let loose a small cry from his lips, pursing them once more for the shame of it and recoiling deeper into the couch. It was just the same as it was in school, the same fear, the same memories twisting into reality! He remembered the days in his bedroom, processing and shivering, the days in the seminary hiding under his blankets when he heard the footsteps of the night watch go by! In those days he didn't trust anyone with a white collar in their shirt, and even now he hardly felt comfortable alone in a room with a priest. Father James had left a festering wound within his mind and soul, and just when he thought it might have scarred over he went and slashed clean through again. And here Sherlock sat, bleeding. Though tonight something was different, tonight was one of the first in which he was not alone.
"Was that you whining, or Hamish?" John wondered at last, reappearing at the foot of the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock allowed his eyes to open, staring up at John with a very shameful expression.
"Sorry it was...it wasn't intended." Sherlock muttered, drawing his blanket even tighter around himself so that it could cover up his neck and chin, as if trying to hide the blush of shame that was cropping up in his cheeks.
"No need to apologize." John assured in his softest voice, coming around the side of the couch and scooping Hamish up into his arms. There was a terrible bravery associated with a once simple act, seeing as though Hamish was now marked with a curious lineage, and therefore a potential hazard for all who handled him. Even Sherlock couldn't manage it these days, and yet there John sat, cradling the demon spawn to his chest as if nothing had changed at all.
"I was proud of you today, Sherlock. Even if it didn't go as you planned, the fact that you stood up to him was the first step to a full recovery." John assured, staring over at Sherlock who still could not maintain proper eye contact. For some reason even the thought of John's direct eye contact was daunting, as if he would begin to see the aggression he most feared to recognize. Suddenly Sherlock remembered of what Victor told him about their night at the bar, the suggestion that John had taken advantage of Sherlock's drunkenness. Memories he couldn't recover could never be confirmed unless he asked the only man present for the affair, though how could Sherlock phrase such a thing? He knew that there were embarrassing topics to be discussed if they focused their attention back to that regretful night, though the worst case scenario was infecting his mind with unnecessary fear. Sitting here alone with John should be a joyous occasion, for his conscious mind told him that John was the only one he could truly trust. Though what else did his brain have to say, those unconscious parts that still might hold the past?
"He was still so strong. Even at ninety years old he...he was no match for me." Sherlock admitted in a trembling voice. "And I had the element of surprise."
"He's a psychopath, Sherlock. His actions can't be explained logically." John assured. Sherlock shook his head, knowing that there was no accounting for that man's mental state. He was still as sharp as a tack, just as knowledgeable and cunning as he was during his most sinful years. Sherlock coward deeper down into his blanket, staring now at the coffee table instead of the opposite wall as his neck bent to protect his chest.
"He remembered me." Sherlock whispered shakily. "All the while I struggled with my memories my only consolation was that I was just one of many, that I wasn't special, I didn't stand out. That he might've forgotten. But he knew my name, he remembered my face."
"Only after you reminded him." John assured. "I don't think he recognized you until you spoke your real name."
"Even so. Something about me was enough to be remembered." Sherlock whispered shakily. "And that makes it all the worse. I don't want to be his beloved plaything, I don't to be a memory he thinks back on..."
"Sherlock, push it from your mind." John insisted, setting Hamish upon his lap so as to free up a single hand to be placed upon Sherlock's shoulder. Despite his effort, however, the hand did not last so long upon its intended destination. As soon as Sherlock felt the fingers curl along his shoulder he lurched back, a great shiver causing him to writhe for a moment and fall against the end of the couch with a cry. He didn't like the touch of hands, he didn't trust even John Watson's grasp! It was a ridiculous fear, though it continued to multiply in his head until at long last Sherlock saw even his closest friend as his potential enemy. He fought the temptation to get to his feet and run towards the rectory, hoping to find some solace within the walls, though at last he was able to find John's eyes. Involuntarily he began to stare, shivering from the cold and from the fear, with the window's soft breeze playing across his face and the orange glow of the lights so far above illuminating the church into a soft, peaceful glow. It felt almost silly to be so stricken with fear in a place like this, one which radiated peace. It felt silly to be afraid of the one man he had ever come to love. Though it had to be asked, it had to be pushed away. Sherlock would believe any word which came from John's mouth; he just needed to hear the right one.
"John, you wouldn't...I mean you haven't, done anything like that to me before?" Sherlock whispered at last, his voice squeaking just into an audible range. John's eyes widened in surprise, though he finally got the sense that Hamish would be better sitting upon the coffee table in his bundle of blankets, freeing up his hands if ever they were wanted.
"Anything like what?" John wondered quietly. Sherlock winced, trying to keep a brave face all the while he felt his eyes casting downwards anxiously, trembling now from head to foot as he tried to face the question he was so ashamed to ask.
"That night, that night I don't remember. You didn't...you didn't touch me?" Sherlock whispered at last, feeling as though the words came out rather like vomit, spilling over the church in unbearable strength and coating the walls with the ridiculous accusation. John was quiet for a moment, though at last Sherlock heard him began to shuffle, moving closer even though that might not be appreciated. Their proximity was increasing, Sherlock could feel John drawing closer, and with every inch lost he found it more and more difficult to breathe. It was as if his fear was pressing down upon his chest, refusing to allow his lungs to inflate.
"Sherlock, can you look at me?" John asked at last, the first words he was able to say. This alluded either to a period of absolute shock or one of deep thought. He either had a long speech planned out or he had been hearing nothing but white noise for the past minute. Sherlock gave a small noise of effort, his fingers curling as he forced his neck in John's direction. He met the familiar eyes, those soft hazels that rung with such sweetness. It was a glance that he had never seen in another person before, a glance that was the most unrestricted John had ever offered him. Inside of his stare were the depths of love that Sherlock had suspected all along, only now allowed to fully materialize. Sherlock saw honesty, loyalty, and care all packed within such a dense, overwhelmingly comforting stare. Such a look almost replaced a speech, though it seemed as though there was one coming any way. Sherlock tried to match the expression, though at the moment he could not seem to summon the whole of his feelings into his eyes. He was still riddled with fear and anxiety, his heart unable to make an appearance just yet.
"Sherlock I would never lay a finger on you that wasn't allowed. I would never violate you, nor would I ever take advantage of you in such a state. That night... that night I only held you in my arms on the dance floor, held your hands at the bar, and held your shoulder as I dragged you through the parking lot." John admitted softly, allowing himself a little giggle as he must have remembered the drunken mess the priest had amounted to. It was answer enough to dissolve Sherlock's fears, truth enough to settle his overanxious mind into a state of utter stagnation. He believed every word; in fact those were the only words he had been expecting to hear. The fact that it was confirmed, however, made it all the better.
"I can trust you." Sherlock whispered, speaking it aloud just to reassure both himself and his companion of the utmost truth.
"You can absolutely trust me." John assured. "There's no use hiding in a blanket, no use cowering in fear while I'm around. If I have to I'll go back to that prison and give that hag a piece of my mind. If I have to I'll jump into that little brain of yours and whip him into the next century."
"I would appreciate it if you did both." Sherlock chuckled a bit nervously. John smiled softly, lifting his hands very slowly as if to show Sherlock their intended course.
"I'm going to take that blanket off of you, Sherlock. You can't hide behind it forever, and there's no point in hiding behind it now." John insisted, at last gripping both sides of the fabricated cocoon that Sherlock had woven around himself. His hands rested so near to Sherlock's chin that his knuckles brushed up against his skin, waiting for the okay before he stripped Sherlock of his outermost layer of protection. Finally Sherlock let his own fingers fall away, unclasping the blanket and letting it fall limply around his shoulders. From there John gave a small smile of encouragement, carefully easing the fabric off of Sherlock's shoulders and exposing his body to the world. He was still wearing his usual attire, his black shirt with the collar tucked neatly against his neck, though he felt terribly naked as he was exposed to the outside air. It felt as though he was vulnerable, though to what attacks he was not sure. The longer John sat near him the safer the priest began to feel, until even his memories had a hard time surfacing in the wake of John's ever comforting gaze. Finally the blanket fell away from the couch, falling upon the floor in a useless heap and allowing Sherlock to sit freely upon the couch as a renewed, or rather rejuvenated, man. He fought the urge to wrap his arms around his chest, forcing them to remain at his sides as he struggled to breathe against the pressure of his extremely tight belt. Today was one of the first days in a long while he had gone for the farthest hole in the leather. It had taken him years not to strain the thing as tightly as he could manage across his waist, though with all of those steps forward in his forty years of recovery, somehow one day had set him all the way back at square one.
"Have you ever been touched by friendly hands?" John wondered, raising his hand towards Sherlock's forehead and tucking some of his loose curls away from his eyes. The priest shuttered, though he appreciated the gesture all the same. He appreciated the touch of skin against his own, a wholly natural feel. The answer to this question was rather heart breaking, considering the lengths Sherlock had to go back in his memory to find an answer. Perhaps that was why Father James's touch resonated so deeply with him, for his may have been the last hands to touch upon Sherlock in his life! His parents never showed intimacy, a hand shake might have been the most skin contact he got throughout his entire life! Ever since his mother last settled him in his cradle he had been untouched by friendly hands. And since then, Father James, since then...Victor Trevor. Since then, John Watson.
"Only yours." Sherlock admitted. "Here at the end of my life. Only yours."
"The beginning of your life, Sherlock." John corrected. "Lie back with me. Let me hold you once again."
"John..." Sherlock managed, a small croak which was interrupted by a small sob that escaped his throat. He hadn't expected it enough to retain it, though now that it was released it was only followed by more whines, coupled now with tears which were streaming softly down his face. Though why he was crying he wasn't sure. Yes, the trauma was fresh in his mind, and yes his history was coming back even more venomously than usual. Though it was not of grief that he cried. The thought of his childhood did not bring fresh misery, in fact it might be those very words which resonated so deeply and struck a chord never played before. These may very well be tears of relief, tears of joy. Sixty years of his life, sixty years gone by, and here he sat with the only man who had ever loved him. Sherlock leaned forward, throwing his arms around John's neck and falling down upon the couch with him, allowing those strong arms to wrap their way around his neck and hold their bodies close. John pulled his legs up onto the couch, drawing Sherlock as close as he could manage and feeling the tears soaking through his shirt as the priest's eyes continued to well up. Sherlock had never felt such a touch before; he had never felt such safety within the contact of a human being. All those years spent hiding from this very sensation, and here it was at its most meaningful. Here it was, exactly how God intended it to be. The priest's heart swelled to an abnormal size, he felt his love nearly choking him as it welled in his throat, as fresh as any of his tears. And just as his sobs, those which forced their way from his stomach and through his lips, so too was his love declared. Unplanned, unwanted, though entirely unstoppable.
"I love you, John." Sherlock whispered, hardly audible as his mouth was smeared against the man's chest. Though with his ear pressed close to John's heart he could hear it begin to beat faster, evidently some snipped of Sherlock's declaration had been recognized. Faster and faster it pounded, and while John's arms drew tighter around Sherlock he never spoke a word. Instead he leaned his head closer, sighing deeply and pressing a long, uninterrupted kiss onto the top of Sherlock's curly head. While this wasn't any sort of declaration it was recognition enough. It wasn't a rebuttal nor was it agreement, it was an unspoken understanding. It was as much pity as he could muster, as much sorrow as he could allow. And yet it was as much love as Sherlock felt, as much passion contained within his body that he could hardly keep from escaping. It was a kiss that meant so much more than words could ever phrase, in a language that had not been invented just yet. It was affection so unworldly that it may very well belong in Heaven. And yet it was just a kiss, a kiss that was due to end. And while his lips lasted upon Sherlock's scalp the priest felt a warmth, a validation, and when John's head fell back upon the couch he felt strangely alone once more. Sherlock knew it might've lasted longer, had things been different. He knew there would have been many more kisses if this collar was not strapped to his neck, nor that wedding ring circled around John's finger. In some perspectives you might claim it was not meant to be. But for both men lying upon the couch, with their heartbeats moving steadily to mimic the other, and their lungs hesitating to inflate for fear of disrupting the other, they knew it was more tragic than that. It was meant to be, meant in some other universe. Every other universe than this one, which just so happened to be the one they were stuck together in. The only versions of themselves that had to sit back and remain quiet, with but a single kiss to end the night, and a single kiss to cradle them both into opportunistic dreams of a world that could have been theirs.