As God Intended

Select Your Sin

Hamish gurgled his way through his evening bottle, drinking it about as fast as his little throat could swallow as if he was especially hungry tonight. Sherlock held him carefully within his arms, perched on one of the high top chairs which surrounded the altar and balancing himself carefully with both arms occupied. Hamish was becoming better at grasping the bottle within his fingers; he could at least place the object and touch it along both sides. However he had no strength within his arms or finger, and certainly he wouldn't be able to hold it up by himself. Therefore Sherlock was holding the bottle on the very top, trying to avoid Hamish's hands to ensure he had the opportunity to steady the thing within his tiny hands and feel accomplished. It was a wonderful thing to witness, and John sat stooped over his glass of wine staring at the two as they quietly interacted, both the baby and the priest lost within their own worlds. The way Sherlock interacted with Hamish made it a bit difficult to fully reject his parenthood, being that he seemed to understand the baby much better than any of his supposed parents. If John hadn't known the priest at such an intimate level, if he didn't understand the way Sherlock's heart worked, well he still might have had suspicions. Perhaps this demon story was all in an attempt to offer up another alternative? It would be a theory he might have pursued farther was he not so sure upon Sherlock's word. He knew the priest to be morally rigid, perhaps only to bend at the will of John Watson himself.
"He doesn't look much like the devil." John commented at last, noticing now that the bottle had drained and Hamish was only sucking on air through the rubber top. Sherlock loosened the bottle from Hamish's mouth, much to the boy's protest, and snuggled the child more securely within his blanket.
"Like Father James said there's no DNA within him that is not human. It's only the soul." Sherlock muttered.
"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse." John muttered.
"Better, certainly. A soul can be remedied." Sherlock assured.
"But he'll never be my child, will he? He'll never have my likeness." John sighed regretfully, to which Sherlock stared down rather unfortunately at his own glass of red wine.
"I'm afraid not. Though Victor Trevor is quite good looking, so you needn't worry about that." Sherlock assured, to which John only chuckled in protest.
"You make that sound as if he dodged a bullet, getting that boy's genes instead of mine!" John exclaimed, to which the priest's cheeks began to glow a particular shade of magenta.
"No of course not! No, no certainly it was a shame to have missed out on such inheritance!" Sherlock defended quickly, to which John only smirked. Ah so there it was, the final confession. Sherlock's love was perhaps trivial, but now he had confirmed that he found John to be attractive. In the end that was enough to go on. In the end, that might be enough to make some mistakes.
"I thought as much. But if I start to notice curly hair on his head I'm coming for you." John warned, prodding his fingers in the priest's direction and making the man stutter out hasty denials.
"I never, never laid a finger on your wife." Sherlock assured again, his voice speaking so firmly that John almost winced with the pressure of the utmost truth. He couldn't doubt Sherlock's word, though it was always fun to taunt him with Mary's mindset. Certainly the poor woman was laboring under the idea that she had slept with the priest, filled not only with shame but a certain degree of filthy sin.
"I believe you." John assured with a grin, sipping some more of his wine and allowing his gaze to sink rather deeper into that of his companion's. "I just find it rather amusing."
"There's nothing amusing about a false accusation! What if you weren't so trustworthy, what if you turned against me? If anyone else had been in your position this demon may have gotten its way." Sherlock pointed out, swirling his wine with one hand and rocking Hamish with the other. John wished he would put that baby down, as it always felt as if there was an unnecessary ear listening in to their private conversations. It wasn't like Hamish could comprehend anything that was being said, though he did provide a small barrier to John's confidence. How could he speak his mind when there was the everlasting reminder of his real, sworn life sitting in front of him?
"You really think my part in this is so important?" John clarified, not bothering to hide the doubt which was lacing his words. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, though he didn't look ashamed, more so concerned, as if he was upset to hear that John was not so convinced upon his own significance.
"Well of course you are important! If you hadn't been here for me throughout this whole affair...well I don't think I'd come half as far as I would have! You're the one that found the demon's ritual, the one who got Mary's confession, the one who convinced me to confront Father James! Without you, well I'm sure the demon would have gotten his way without a single word of opposition." Sherlock assured at last. John felt his cheeks flush involuntarily, though it was a natural response to a praise which, when coming from the priest, sounding much more lofty than it might deserve to be. John was not often given a word of compliment, so foreign to the concept that he almost didn't know how to respond.
"Oh, well...half of that was just luck." John murmured anxiously.
"But the whole was invaluable." Sherlock defended, using his free fingers to push his bangs across his forehead and reveal even more of his startling gaze. John felt his stomach twist, a small smile appearing upon his face as his heart began to swell in admiration. This was another moment when he began to believe his memory was not deceiving him, another moment that made him doubt Sherlock had been talking about shoes last night on the couch. He must have said those words, those three words. They seemed to fit within this conversation; they seemed to fit within every conversation they've ever shared! But why was it so easy to forget, why was it so easy to doubt?
"Hamish looks tired, Sherlock." John muttered at last. "Maybe set him down on the couch for a while."
"Trying to get rid of the baby?" Sherlock presumed, though even as he chuckled he got obediently to his feet, as if he had the same intentions.
"The adults are talking, no need for him to interrupt. Besides, you can't hold your wine properly if you've got a baby in your arms." John defended, steering himself around on the stool so he could watch as the priest descended from the altar and settled Hamish comfortably upon the leather couch.
"We must always prioritize alcohol to children." Sherlock agreed.
"Oh well, it's not like he's our kid anyway." John scoffed, raising his glass in the direction of the schoolhouse and taking a sip on behalf of Hamish's true father, trapped somewhere within those old walls within a mess of enchanted leather belts. Sherlock settled himself back down upon his stool, taking a sip of his wine with a thoughtful look upon his face, looking as though he was obligated to begin a conversation he didn't want to consider.
"John, are we brave enough to confront this demon?" Sherlock asked at last, leaning over the altar and pressing his chest against the smooth corner of marble.
"Armed with the right weapons...I believe we have no choice." John admitted, keeping his voice quiet and regretful. Both of them understood now what was on the line, though they had to bow down to the moral battle within themselves before they confronted the war between good and evil which was yet to come. They had to do the right thing, even if it meant sacrificing what had brought them so close in the midst of this strange affair.
"I hate to agree." Sherlock muttered quickly, though he bowed his eyes mournfully. John was silent at his end of the table, prodding his wine glass across the marble and considering now what their goal would be. To rid themselves of this demon and all of his influence, whether good or bad, they would have to follow the steps assigned to them by Father James. First they must learn the exorcism ritual, and then they must enlist the help of their heavenly father.
"Do you feel confident that you can exorcise him?" John asked at last.
"No." Sherlock whispered. "No, and that's why I must practice the ritual before we even consider doing it for real. I have tried before to no avail."
"Father James said..."
"I know what he said." Sherlock whispered. "And I know what he expects me to do. I am just worried that there is a fine line between calling God's attention and shunning him from me for life. If I cross that line, well who knows what consequences it might have?"
"You're planning to sin?" John clarified, allowing his eyes to widen in some excitement. Half of his heart began to hope, while of course the other expected Sherlock to evade his taxes or something equally boring.
"What choice do I have?" Sherlock sighed, heaving a long breath and keeping his eyes fixed upon the reflection of himself within his red wine. John quivered silently upon his chair, though he was not brave enough to suggest any surely sinful acts. Perhaps he would have to count upon the priest to decide just how he wanted to defy God.
"With good reason I suppose God could forgive you. Especially if your actions lead to the prevention of the Devil on earth." John assured quickly, to which the priest gave a small yet unconfident smile. He seemed quite afraid of what he was expected to do, though from what angle his fear came from was still a mystery. Could he perhaps be frightened of the wrath of God, or perhaps was he just nervous about the implications of his act?
"Well I suppose I could use it all to my advantage. Who knows, perhaps I can go ahead and kill Father James." Sherlock suggested enthusiastically, a smile coming upon his face that John did not recognize. It looked conniving; for once in his life John imagined that Sherlock had spawned a purely evil thought.
"Perhaps there's a better compromise between sin and crime?" John suggested. The priest sighed, leaning back into himself as their chairs were not accompanied with backrests. He had no choice but to slouch even deeper, curving his back in an almost unnatural, reptilian way.
"Yes, perhaps a compromise." He whispered again. John bit down on his lip, holding his tongue even though he wanted so desperately to spit out his own suggestion. They were both thinking it, were they not? Sherlock was visibly uncomfortable, his cheeks glowing red as his brain pondered the options which were now open to him. He had received a get out of jail free card, a pass to commit one forbidden act. Well certainly he should go for the one thing he had never done before, the one thing that had to have been on his mind for a long while now?
"John?" Sherlock whispered at last, looking up with wide eyes.
"Yes?" John responded in a tense whisper, feeling the alcoholic courage beginning to stir up in his bloodstream. Would he get the offer now? Would he take that priest down upon the altar floor, all in the name of God?
"Do you mind me sleeping on your couch again tonight? Just so that I can be within reach of Hamish when he needs me?" Sherlock wondered. John's enthusiasm plummeted, though he nodded a bit stiffly. Would John be able to join him on the couch, or was that only acceptable when in close proximity to an emotionally charged moment?
"Of course." John agreed. "Will you finish your wine?"
"I think not." The priest muttered, shoving the glass with a soft push across the marble. "I need a clear head for tonight."
"Oh yes?" John presumed, again beginning to hope. The priest's eyes narrowed, as if he found John's excitement to be rather suspicious.
"Yes. Lots of thinking to do." He agreed slowly, as if he wanted each one of his syllables to be perfectly understood by his counterpart. John's shoulders sagged, but he nodded all the same.
"Yes, lots of thinking." John murmured. "But in that case we'll save the wine, maybe have some for breakfast."
"That's a terrible idea!" Sherlock exclaimed, though there was a touch of humor in his voice.
"I'm full of terrible ideas. If you're looking for one more, just ask." John assured, getting to his feet and fitting the cork into the bottle neck with some pressure. The priest watched quietly, even from here the gears could be heard turning within his head.
"John, I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me when the time comes? Help me with...well with any step along the way?" Sherlock asked in a rather trembling voice, as if he was forcing the words out of his mouth with some effort. John smiled, crossing his arms across his chest and rocking back and forth upon his heels. There it was, then. The lightbulb.
"I'd do anything for you, Sherlock. But I think you already know that." John assured, to which the priest smiled a bit meekly. His face was flushed again, with that soft pink color John had begun to enjoy very much.
"I know that, John." he muttered softly. "And likewise, I would do anything for you."
"Then we are at an understanding." John decided, walking around the altar as if his feet were traveling on their own free will, closer and closer to the man who sat curled upon the stool. As John approached the man unraveled, straightening his spine to its full length and staring at him with curious, almost cautious eyes. John wasn't sure of his intentions until at he found his fingers once again settled upon the ridges of Sherlock's shoulders, his palms curled around the sharp bone and cradled within the bunches of dark fabric. That was when his mind snapped back to its intended route, and leaning forward he pressed his lips against the priest's forehead, a sign of affection he had often used with his wife in the days of their unblemished love. It was only the second time he felt the priest's body beneath his lips, though tonight was the first time he had properly kissed his skin. There were no curls in the way of this moment, nothing to prevent his lips from pressing upon the smooth plain of pale, vibrant skin. It was just as he expected it to be, and just as meaningful in the midst of this dark, silent church. For a while John's lips lingered, though when he released them he felt obligated to stay in such a position, now with Sherlock's face pressed so close to his. An inch, maybe less, separated them now. Could he be so bold as to lean down, breaking that small bit of space and go for the real thing? His breath was hot against the priest's skin, and from here he could feel the man's heart beating so quickly inside of his chest. It was as if Sherlock wanted it too, he did not speak a word of opposition nor did he move away. Some weeks ago he would have already been on his feet, reaching for his Bible and shaming the boldness of his friend! Could it be that he had a change of heart, could it be that he was tempted now more than ever? As the seconds passed and they stood stagnant John figured it was time to pull away. The tension had been rising between them as thick as fog, though by now the moment was already growing stale. If he had at once been so bold his opportunity had expired, and by now it was time to pull away and recollect himself. Allowing his fingers to fall from the priest's shoulders John readjusted himself, managing a small smile as he tried to play the entire affair off as if it was no big deal, as if they had always taken to kissing each other so intimately.
"Goodnight Sherlock." John muttered in his strained voice, forcing those words out in place of some more obvious, more appropriate ones. All the same his cowardice was shared, and where there had once been a love declaration was merely an echo of the same well wishes. John turned away, recollecting his baby in his arms and turning back only once to observe the priest where he sat at the altar. The man had curled back into his ball, though his fingers were reaching towards his wine glass once more, perhaps reconsidering how clear a head he needed for the night ahead. 

Sherlock POV: For some reason he couldn't concentrate on the exorcism in front of him, only on the hands which clutched the pages together and steadied the book against his knees. His own fingers became a marvel, something which he had never concentrated on before. The way they curled was fascinating, each one of the joints bending at the perfect angle, his rounded fingernails pressing against the old pages of his book with such precision. Could it be that these very hands, those which had stayed so pure, were on their way to becoming foul? Was he prepared to embark against his God with the sole intention of bringing them closer together in the end? There were so many ways to do it, were there not? Even the thoughts he was having now may very well count as a sin against his lord. He could do something so simple, like missing a day of mass, or worshipping a false idol, so many nearly innocent tasks that could land him with a subscription to Hell! Though there were some more tempting alternatives, some which seemed to be the only chance he would ever have. Murder was off the table of course, as was stealing and any other form of punishable crime. While Sherlock's heart told him to go and snap Father James's neck it seemed a little bit too criminal. Instead he might take this opportunity and make the best out of it; instead he might play to some of his more pressing desires, the ones which he had been holding back upon for all of these weeks with the sole intention of staying true to his God. Perhaps that was why his fingers suddenly interested him so much, now that he was wondering what they might be touching in the coming days? John Watson was a married man of course, though it seemed to be that he was just as eager with the idea of Sherlock was. The poor priest's heart began to beat quickly just imagining it, just imagining the bravery which would have to be involved! Would he be able to ask for such a thing, especially considering their circumstances? John's marriage was on the rocks because of a supposed affair with the priest himself, what would happen if John was caught with the same devilish infidelity? In some ways Sherlock could not put the man in that position, guilt might wrap itself too tightly across his intentions and smoother them into nothing. Was he prepared to rope John into this same sinful act, especially when the man's soul was already so tarnished? Sherlock closed his eyes shut, blocking out the Latin that he had been reading and thinking back to that night he had spent in his living room window, the thoughts he dared to have and the feelings which were creeping into his nervous system! It had been pleasure without so much as a touch, a feeling experienced without the assistance of any companion! And it had been enjoyable, so much so that he had frightened himself with his enthusiasm. His body had reacted in such a way at the mere thought of John Watson, how might it react if the man was actually there with him? How would Sherlock feel if he found himself lying upon that mattress, vulnerable and exposed, waiting for something to happen? Was he even confident he knew what he was supposed to do? All he knew of intercourse was the brief glimpse that Father James had forced upon him; all he knew was that there was supposedly pleasure in the naked form. Oh but what was he thinking, what was he even considering? Sherlock could hardly think of that moment in Father James's office without quivering, how could he be expected to go through it again, even with a man he so heavily trusted? Would he allow himself to be so much at John's disposal, could he unfasten his belt without blacking out? Perhaps it would be better just to take the Lord's name in vain and protect himself from this interaction, one that he wanted so desperately but couldn't fathom within the more rational side of his brain. Sherlock opened his eyes again, seeing now that he was trembling within the safe confides of his living room. He was afraid, though for once he was not so frightened of what the outside world had to offer, more of what his mind had to suggest. For once it was his own brain which was scaring him, feeding him images he was not yet prepared to swallow. The priest recollected himself, holding the book with some difficulty as he allowed only his fingertips to show across the page. He cleared his throat with some difficulty and began to read aloud the Latin that he would need to perfect if ever he was going to use his sin to save the world.