Confessio Mortalis

Mortal Confession

«You used to play among these gravestones, you said...»
The tombstones rose from beneath the ground, towering, motionless, cold, anonymous, forgotten.
The pearly marble, which once made them shine, was now darkened. Moss and mold had taken over some of them. Some of them were that much affected that even the name and date of death were now unreadable. The surrounding area was absorbed in the most absolute silence, broken only by the touch of the soles of the shoes which were moving on the damp ground.
Darkness was now taking over, making the long-abandoned place seem even more eerie.
Father Watson was caressing the top of the gravestones with a slow pace, which sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine.
Row after row, the priest went through each of them; they were standing like soldiers waiting for orders.
The young man stood to one side, observing him in absolute silence and trying to figure out what was going in Father Watson's mind.

Sherlock was a young chemistry student in his third year. He had just lost his beloved grandmother on the day of Father Watson's visit. Her death made him feel empty inside and, at the same time, it perfused into him like a dull ache. The priest had arrived perfectly on time to give her the extreme unction.

A light wind began to stir the leaves of the trees. The priest knelt before his grandmother's gravestone and folded his hands in prayer, his knees buried in the loose soil beneath him.

Sherlock's gaze was fixed on him, when suddenly his mind went elsewhere. He had the feeling of being watched. He could hear his grandmother's voice in his head.

The young man bit his lower lip while trying to hold back the tears because her sweet and reassuring voice was forever gone. He would no longer be able to listen to her, never again.

Sherlock was aware that he couldn't endure forever, thus he gave up. Slow and warm tears began to flow down his cheeks, irritating his eyes and skin.

Father Watson looked behind him and, with the corner of his eye, saw him crying. He slowly got up and approached him with a gentle smile, leaning down on the tombstone of a certain Nemo Holmes.

«I'm so sorry for your loss, boy. I know your granny was essential to you»

The young man was now unable to speak. He just nodded, incapable to think of anything else.

The priest patted his knees with his hands to remove the damp soil from his pitch-black cassock. Then he turned to look at Sherlock. «You can talk about it, if you want. You can tell me anything: what you're thinking of, what is bothering you. You're not forced to hold back your perplexities and anxieties»

The boy raised his head and looked at him, straight in the eyes. He knew there was something different about this priest, he wasn't like everybody else.

The boy knew that, in his youth, the priest had served in the British Army and that he had been discharged due to a wound in his right leg. The man, with his well-groomed blond hair, had a scar that covered his entire left cheek, tracing a thin line between his thick beard. Sherlock thought it was a war trophy. Later, he would've imagined his adventurous life on the enemy soil.

Father Watson embodied the serenity itself, and he seemed to come from a different world.

Sherlock finally decided to open up to him, making himself more comfortable on the marble tombstone.

He decided that he would've told him everything that came to his mind. He knew that he certainly couldn't tell anyone about it and, if the government had found out his darkest secret, the consequences would've been devastating. His family, and especially his brother, was conservative and traditionalist, and they didn't tolerate such behavior.