As God Intended

Fall Together To The Fires

"Admiring your reflection or just the darkness?" John asked with a little grin, joining Sherlock at the glass and staring at their murky images that looked back with shared curiosity. Sherlock shuffled his feet a bit apprehensively, allowing a quick glance at John before dropped his gaze back to his shoes.
"Neither. I was making sure the schoolhouse was secure." Sherlock explained.
"We want him to break out, remember?" John pointed out. "Only one way to get the ball rolling."
"No, he can't yet." Sherlock protested almost automatically, his voice straining with unexpected urgency.
"Oh really? Are we waiting on something then? Still haven't been too gluttonous?" John chuckled. Sherlock sneered, dropping his hands into his coat pocket before pulling them anxiously out again, feeling the need to fidget with something other than simply hold still. His fingers were moving now with a mind of their own, twitching and pawing at each other as he tried to manifest his anxiety in any physical way he could. It wasn't able to stay balled up inside any longer, with each breath he took it added more pressure to the balloon of nervousness now pressed against his lungs. Soon he would be asphyxiated by a mere thought, by a mere construct within his mind. But how to avoid it now when his mouth could not produce any words, much less summon up the confidence he needed to pop the bubble and get on with his night?
"No, nothing of the sort." Sherlock agreed hesitantly, his voice straining as he censored the words which were truly trying to escape.
"You said you had a plan, Sherlock. I have to wonder if ever I'll be let into your confidence or not." John muttered, his reflection turning as his head shifted to face his companion and not just the dark glass. Sherlock, however, was still preoccupied with the shine on his shoes. He couldn't draw enough strength to look John Watson in the eyes.
"I have a plan." Sherlock agreed.
"And what is it, Sherlock?" John asked again, this time with more force, an abrupt and demanding question that smacked the hesitation right away from the priest's answer. It wasn't his conscious mind speaking, instead it was his most immediate reaction, a pitiful and embarrassing one at that.
"You are." Sherlock announced at last, forcing himself to turn upon the man and give a definitive nod. John's eyes were still for a moment, as if he was looking but not seeing, hearing but not understanding. Perhaps it was too vague an answer, though it was the closest thing Sherlock could get to an actual confession.
"I'm your plan? Goodness, I hope you have something more interesting in mind than murder." John said at last, forcing a chuckle on his lips all the while the priest seethed in embarrassment.
"You said...you said you'd help." Sherlock whispered.
"And I will." John agreed.
"I don't want to murder you." Sherlock managed again, figuring it would be best to wipe that completely from the table. John smirked, probably having caught onto Sherlock's plan about five minutes earlier. He was just stringing it along now, trying to see just how red the priest's cheeks could glow.
"I might not offer the same safety net." John warned. Sherlock faltered for a moment, though this time it was not nervousness which sent a shiver down his spine. It was something rather familiar, especially when associated with the other side of this window pane. Anticipation.
"I...I don't want to be too forward. And I don't want to intrude. Nor do I want to..."
"Don't list off the things you don't want to do, Sherlock." John interrupted, stifling Sherlock's words as he pressed a forefinger against his lips, pausing the words where they sat and startling the priest into total compliancy. "List off the things you want from me." John demanded, dragging his finger down across the priest's lips and settling it upon his chin instead, keeping a presence upon the skin as if he was claiming it for further use. Sherlock cowered for a moment, stumbling over that single word that he found still so difficult to say.
"Sex." Sherlock whispered, coughing out the syllable as if it burned his tongue when it escaped. Though the pain of its departure left a sweet taste in his mouth, and the word floated in the air like a soft breath of relief. Sherlock felt it finally, the release of the balloon within his chest, popped when he voiced his ambitions out loud. It wasn't want you would call confidence, though it was at least admittance. John's lips curled into a smile, nodding his head very slowly as his finger was joined by the rest of his hand, curling under Sherlock's chin and keeping his head cradled within his palm.
"I wondered how long it would take you to finally say it." John muttered with a little chuckle, admiring the man he held now so helplessly within his hand. Sherlock felt as small as he ever had, even with his height he still felt as if he had to look up towards John Watson, as if the man had grown a foot in stature just to look down upon him in defiance.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered.
"For what? I want that too." John assured.
"You want it...you want it too?" Sherlock clarified with a croak, watching with straining eyes as John's other hand took to wrapping around his waist, keeping him secured all the while the man was stepping in closer and closer, until finally their chests would be pressed together if the pair took deep inhales simultaneously. Sherlock was shaking, and due to John's softer look he was sure that his immediate reaction was being processed and accommodated to. That playful almost dominating expression fell off of John Watson's face, and as he realized just how terrified his partner was the man relaxed into that comforting and understanding persona. This was the one Sherlock appreciated the most, the John Watson he knew the best. He found it easier to relax into this familiar man's arms, looking down into those eyes like melting chocolate, sweet and warm and dripping with the most passionate emotions. He had felt John's body upon his before, though when the man stepped up to close the last couple of inches of space Sherlock felt entirely enclosed, as if the legs which pressed against his own snapped shut around him like a bear trap. There was nothing he could do now, nothing except raise his own trembling arms and place them against the static fibers of John's pajama shirt, touching only the stray threads and not the man's actual body. He dared not touch him, not when such an action would mean immediate compliance. He dared not rush into this, as if each moment had to be savored as his first and last. And so Sherlock just stared, his lips parted with the support of John's firm grip, his breath escaping through his teeth in quick whistles, his heart beating so quickly that it sounded with the strength of a snare drum. He stared, and John stared back.
"What first?" John asked softly, drifting his fingers softly across Sherlock's jawbone and waiting for his immediate instructions.
"My collar." Sherlock whispered in response, feeling as if the white plastic was beginning to grow against his neck, sprouting up against the skin and compressing his windpipe in an effort to stop whatever actions he was prepared to take. John nodded in compliance, releasing the priest from his grip so as to take the plastic collar in his fingers, working it out of Sherlock's shirt and holding it proudly in front of them. There was Sherlock's priesthood, now resting in John Watson's hands. Sherlock could only wince, though he took the thing within his own fingers and, without giving himself a moment to hesitate, tossing it over his shoulder as far as he could manage. Thankfully the collar was heavy enough to fly rather than float, and through the air it sailed over the balcony, falling to the lower story in the middle of the center aisle, unceremonious and forgotten. Sherlock took a deep breath, unrestricted now by the chain of God, and nodded his head quickly.
"Yes, alright." Sherlock whispered. "Now...now my belt."
"I won't undress you without a kiss, Sherlock Holmes." John protested. "It's not gentlemanly."
"I wasn't..." Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to replace this tingling feeling within his chest with oxygen, "I wasn't aware."
"you won't be aware of any of this." John assured. "But I think you'll be good at it all the same."
"I'll try my..." Sherlock was cut off, though it was probably best that their conversation was ended abruptly. It was no time for words, not here in front of the window pane. It was no time for adjusting to the situation, no time for tiptoes. Sherlock had baptized so many before in clean, refreshing water. It seemed like bad karma that he might now be baptized in fire. John's lips pressed against Sherlock's before the priest could make out the last of his sentence, though the words were meaningless when compared to the feeling this kiss created. It wasn't anything like Sherlock's only past experience, that terrible moment when Victor Trevor had leaped upon him. While that was rough and forceful, unexpected and unwanted, this kiss was slow and gentle, with John's lips moving at about the speed of their heartbeats. He held Sherlock's head within his hands, keeping the poor priest upright all the while keeping his head from swiveling back and forth with his own effort of romance. The poor priest had no proper idea of how to kiss; he had no idea what his lips were supposed to be doing, no idea where his hands were supposed to go. Finally he settled them down upon John's neck, though the nerve endings within his fingers never gave him firm confirmation of the fact. Instead each and every sensation was coming from his lips and face, reporting every brush of John's finger, ever press of John's lips, every breath that escaped into Sherlock's parted mouth, every utterance that appeared as mere syllables and left deciphered. Sherlock felt himself quivering; he felt his heart racing, that same feeling of ecstasy that he had felt alone in his living room that night, watching Mary Morstan as she received the same passion in this very spot. Though there was something different about this kiss, not only differing by Sherlock's position within the role. Even without properly spectating he could feel that this kiss had much more emotion, much more powerful anxiousness, much more desperate interactions. Each kiss meant something more than the last, each breath heaved just a little bit more urgently. Both men were kissing with passion they weren't allowed to have, both releasing a heart full of emotions that had been stored up for as long as they could remember. It was a moment of defiance against their previous Gods, a moment of clarity and of utmost desire. It was love, love in its most complicated form, yet love so simple it should have taken them seconds, not months, to determine. Finally John's lips left Sherlock's, though what the man was expecting from such a parting was not nearly what he received. Perhaps that was all, perhaps that was all sex was in the end? A kiss and a touch, a soft noise of admiration and then some sleep curled within each other's arms? No, nothing so simple as that. Sherlock was paralyzed to feel that same passionate kiss across his neck, the lips now touching upon such a vulnerable area of soft, virtually untouched skin. The priest curled away in his most immediate reaction, though John followed, holding poor Sherlock upright in his arms as his knees began to buckle underneath. Sherlock allowed his eyes to shut; he allowed whatever feelings were sprouting in whatever section of his body to take hold, to take action. He feet were numb, his legs trembling, his head spinning. Though there was a strange ache starting to build within his abdomen, a sort of pressure which was forcing him to draw closer when there was nowhere left to go. He felt a dire need not just to be within John's arms but to capture the man within his own as well, he wished not just to tangle their limbs but to press them closer...closer. An audible breath left his throat, a soft moan that he stifled by shoving his face against John's shoulder, giving up in the present moment. It was all happening so quickly that his body could not process, and for a moment he stood spinning within the influence of his companion, being held upright entirely by John Watson's sheer force. Eventually the priest found strength, instead of the ringing in his ears he was finally able to make out breaths, heartbeats, the soft scraping of roughly cut hair. He opened his mouth against John's shoulder, taking his shoulder within his teeth and wincing as he allowed some of his pent up urgency to flow freely, clenching softly and whimpering with his strain. This was such a new experience, something he had no idea how to control, nor how to satisfy! It felt as if he would be standing here forever, being played with by John's excellent show of control. Each and every one of his strings was being plucked by expert hands, though the music he made came as more of a screeching than any proper melody. Oh couldn't he find relief some way, either by stopping completely or going forward until the end? John chuckled again, though this time he eased himself a single step away, allowing the priest to recollect himself and stand up tall using his own strength. John let his hands fall from Sherlock's shoulders to his waist, taking up that brass belt buckle in his fingers and pausing for the proper allowance. Evidently he understood how such a simple action could mean so much. Sherlock stared down upon the familiar scene, he looked upon the fingers which were curled in all the right positions, the way the bent and framed in the same way as those gnarled, wrinkled claws of Father James. Though John's hands were soft and gentle, smooth and white, and as he hesitated Sherlock could only nod his head, telling himself over and over again that he trusted the hands which were about to follow the exact same pattern, the exact same course. John pulled the leather through the loops, pulling the brass buckle and feeding the belt out through the complex design. Sherlock was standing stock still the whole time, remembering, remembering...forgetting. Replacing. As he stared upon his belt he saw nothing more than John Watson, and as the pressure released from his waist, as the leather fell slack and was pulled carefully through each loop, well it was not nearly as dreadful as it used to be. Nothing followed except the clattering of the metal against the hardwood, nothing except Sherlock's first deep, unrestricted breath in a long time.
"Are you ready to fight the Devil?" John wondered quietly, taking Sherlock's torso in his hands and allowing the man to swoon back and forth within his grip.
"Anything with you. Anything for you." Sherlock agreed weakly, his feet stumbling across themselves as John led him over to the mattress on the floor, a fall which seemed so far from this height. And yet Sherlock fell all the same, he allowed himself to be pushed, tumbling back upon his heels and floating for a moment in thin air, feeling the pull of gravity being tested by the pull of heaven. For a moment he felt that he didn't move at all, caught between the fires and the clouds, hoovering at the will and call of both Satan and God. Though in the end, neither caught him. Before he could fall he was entangled, and before he hit the ground he hit against John Watson instead. Together they hit the mattress, though it didn't sink into the fires. It supported them, cushioned their fall, and adapted to their every contortion. Here the priest lay in Mary's indentation, and there John lay with Sherlock pressed underneath his weight, becoming lighter and lighter with every garment that was shed. Never before had Sherlock realized there wasn't just Heaven, wasn't just Hell. There was earth, there was life. There was here. And here was where he wanted to stay, if just for this night, if just for this moment. Never had life become so potent as when he was wrapped within John Watson's arms, and never before did it seem so tempting to stay on earth forever.