Leviticus 20:13

The Fate of a Father

Sherlock POV: Sherlock had every reason to feel alone. He lived a lonely life, surrounded by people but never by friends. He knew names, faces, and families, except he never shared but a few words with them. He knew most everyone's darkest secrets, and yet nothing of their life as a whole. They knew him purely by his white clergy collar and the rosary hanging from his neck, nothing more. When the whole world called him Father is was difficult to remember himself by any other name, sometimes it was hard to remember who he had been before he was a man of God. But Sherlock wasn't alone. No matter how deserted the streets he walked, or how empty the room he occupied, he knew that there was always someone above him, looking down and protecting him, ensuring his safety as a messenger of the truth and of the salvation. Sherlock had no friends, barely any acquaintances, and a family that lived hundreds of miles away and yet he always knew that he was never alone. He never found it difficult to protect his faith of course, and he never regretted the path he had chosen long before. Well, almost never. There were times, times when he had to sit in the dark, sit behind a screen, and stare hatefully at the wooden door in front of him. And he had to listen to that accursed crying.
"I'm sorry, oh Father I'm so sorry I knew that it was wrong, I knew it was, but it just slipped out!" the woman's voice cried. Sherlock groaned silently, letting his head fall back onto the wooden wall behind him with a thunk. He knew exactly who was in the confessional beside him, dabbing her eyes with that disgusting white handkerchief and sobbing her way through admitting whatever mishaps she managed to twist into sins. Sometimes Sherlock suspected that poor Molly Hooper only pretended to sin so that she could have someone to talk and cry to; however it would seem that she forgot that other people were waiting outside for their turn to talk to the priest.
"Tell me, you don't have to be afraid." Sherlock assured in his most soothing voice, tapping his long white fingers anxiously on his knee and trying to count the number of little dots of light that fell on top of his hand. There were many it would seem. Ms. Hooper just kept crying, weeping on and on because, for the third time this week, she was convinced she was going to Hell.
"My cat, Fluffy, not to be confused with Margret who has the same white fur but a different face, stepped on my toe the other day! And I was wearing open toed sandals because I had been sitting on my patio but Fluffy's nail dug into my toe and I said 'oh my gosh!' but I didn't say gosh..." Ms. Hooper exclaimed horrifically, her crying muffled as if she had pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Sherlock pursed his lips, nodding and trying his best to wipe the smile off of his face. She would never take his words seriously if she knew he was trying to contain laughter.
"We all use vulgarity in different forms, and although we are not to use the lord's name in vain I'm sure he will understand that it simply slipped out." Sherlock assured calmly.
"Usually I just say 'oh crumpets' but it just hurt so very badly, and I talked to my neighbor Carol and she said that I should get it cleaned out professionally but I decided that maybe if I got some rubbing alcohol..."
"Your sins are forgiven; go in the name of God." Sherlock said quickly, hoping that he could end that poor woman's sentence before she went on and on about her makeshift doctor routines. Sherlock heard a sigh from the other end of the confessional, but finally the door opened and he heard her high heels clicking along the tiles as she finally made her exit. She was a very confusing woman, with the body of a thirty year old but a soul of someone past fifty. She hung out too much with the old ladies of the church and they were slowly transforming her, suddenly she began wearing sweaters that correlated with the seasons and holidays, she adopted cats and she drank tea out of fancy saucers. Sherlock only knew this, of course, because she and her neighbors all went to his church and had invited him over for diner one time. Now, he wasn't really a fan of gossiping and petting cats, however he never really realized how much fun old people could be once they have had a glass of wine or two. Confessions took another twenty or so minutes, however he only saw five or six people that day. It was Saturday, of course, so not a lot of parishioners go out of their way to confess their sins on a day that is usually reserved for chores or family time; however he was beginning to notice that numbers were certainly down. Not that he was going to complain, of course, he got to leave Confession time early, and that was always the most exhausting time of the day. So Sherlock got to his feet, straightening out his jacket and fixing his collar before stepping out of the confessional and into the darkened church. They only lit half of the lights when mass wasn't going on, it was some way to save on the electric bill without forcing the lonely worshippers to try to read their prayer books in the dark. Sherlock liked the church when it was dark and empty, it was serene and he truly felt like he could sense the present of the Holy Spirit lingering among the pews where the lively parishioners had sat and sang not hours before. He liked the way the stained glass windows lit the floor, with colors dancing along the empty wooden pews, and the smell of the smoke once the candles had been extinguished on the altar. His footsteps always echoed up the barren stone walls, and most of the time he could walk up and down the aisle and make sure all the songbooks were put away correctly; however after a quick sweep of the small church he suddenly realized that he wasn't alone. There was a man sitting in the third row, hunched over a rosary and muttering things that Sherlock couldn't hope to hear. His blonde hair sparkled as the red light from the stained glass window filtered in from the sun on the other side, and Sherlock stood for a moment, watching his only companion with a curious gaze. He had never seen this stranger before and yet the strangest feeling washed over him, a feeling that tried to bring him closer even though he didn't allow himself to submit to these whims. Sherlock was not about to bother the man while he was saying his prayers, and so he walked along the other end of the church to reach the back rooms through an exclusive door next to the altar. Most parishioners think that priests live a life of luxury and class, having people worshipping them day in and day out, being men of God who preach in such extravagant churches and pass around solid gold collection tins twice every mass. Well, they would certainly be surprised to see what the back room of the church had turned out to be. Sherlock suspected that it used to be an apartment, or something of a kitchenette, because it was complete with a stove, a sink, and a spot on the wall that looked as if the sun had faded the wallpaper around a perfectly square microwave. He always wondered just why they would pick such a disgusting place to send priests before and after mass, however the wardrobe holding their ceremonial garb and the table with many mismatched chairs suited his needs just fine. Sherlock grabbed water out of their leaking little fridge, an old bottle that may have been opened by him or one of his fellow priests, unscrewing the cap and taking a couple of sips. Doing confessions always drains him for some reason, and just leaning against this old counter and sipping from someone else's water bottle usually gave him enough energy to get back to the rectory. For a moment he leaned against the counter and stared blankly at the wooden table in front of him, wondering how poor Molly Hooper was doing on her drive back home. She seemed something of an emotional wreck, and he was quite sure that she was a hazard on the road, especially after a confession. A car crash caused by crying didn't seem to be all that common, however there was a first for everything, and if there ever was a moron who would lose control of the wheel while dabbing at their eyes, well, his money was on poor Ms. Hooper. Sherlock finally finished his water and threw the meager plastic bottle into the recycling bin, a little blue tub that was overflowing with plastic water bottles and jars from the lunches they ate here between mass times. Of course they never gave it to an actual recycling center simply because they were too lazy to lift a finger, all of the priests (and there were only two others, excluding Sherlock) decided that, no matter what day they approach that poor recycling can, it could always wait one more day. Judging on the pile of plastic that was bulking up it had waited one more day for three years, but Sherlock thought that maybe tomorrow would be its day. Sherlock then loosened his collar and walked out through the back door of the church, into the sketchiest yet holiest alley in the city to make his way back to the rectory. It was a big house that was two doors down from the church, inherited from some older lady who had left the house to the church in her will for some abstract reason. Anyway, that had been a good thirty years ago, long before Sherlock's time at this parish, and still it seemed as though no one had taken a paintbrush to it since she had died. It was a miserable old thing, something like a biblical frat house since it was shared by three young men. The only difference was instead of beer there was excess holy water, and instead of girls well actually, there was no substitute. Instead of girls they had no one, it seemed as though the only three people to ever cross into this threshold were the three priests condemned to live in it. Sherlock strolled down the sidewalk towards the front porch, nodding and smiling at everyone he passed and getting nothing but glares back. Maybe they were suspicious of people who smiled at them on the streets, or maybe they were concerned that he was trying to convert them to Christianity just by being friendly. Nevertheless their scowls concerned him, humanity was slowly beginning to get harsher and harsher until one day, and he was sure that would be soon, the smiles got wiped off of everyone's faces simply because they had forgotten how to smile, or how to be polite. Suddenly their brains would turn to misery and their lives overrun with sin. A horrible day that would be indeed, and so Sherlock tried to prevent it by all means possible, and so he smiled and never got smiles back. It was better to smile and get frowned at than to never show emotion at all. He bounded up onto the creaking wooden porch and fished his key out of his pocket, thankful that out of all things that had been renovated in this house, the locks had been one of them. Instead of old skeleton keys they had all been equipped with nice shiny keys that fit into the front door, allowing all three priests to come and go as they pleased. Sherlock shared this house with two others, one was a priest only two or three more years experienced than himself, a rowdy individual who didn't follow any holy laws by the name of Greg Lestrade. The second was a very elderly man, someone Sherlock was much too afraid to talk to and frankly wanted to avoid at all costs. His name was Father Turner, and Sherlock was never brave enough to ask him what his first name was. Father Turner had been around long before this house, long before this church, it seemed as though he had been around when the Bible had first been published. He knew the holy book in and out; he could recite and paraphrase anything that Sherlock was having trouble understanding, he really was the Holy Grail of holy facts, and yet Sherlock still got a very uneasy feeling about him. He was almost too holy, too dedicated. Compared to Father Lestrade, who could hardly be called a man of God at all, well, Father Turner seemed like had was God himself. Greg Lestrade was something of a rebellious type, especially in the eyes of the church. He made it very clear to everyone in the rectory that he had intended on becoming an author, a rock and roll star, or a comedian, and yet his parents had forced him to pursue theology and priesthood when he was barely out of diapers. Now of course Sherlock was in something of the same boat, except he didn't whine and complain about how much he hated his life, and he certainly didn't stay up until four in the morning with his screeching electric guitar. Greg was the prime example of what not to do when you're a priest, he went out drinking all the time, and used his priesthood as something of a pickup line to get beautiful women on his arm. Father Turner detested him of course, and yet Sherlock found his presence rather amusing, if not completely annoying. He was a sort of beacon of hope for a young priest like Sherlock, who was already struggling with submitting himself to such boredom for the rest of his meager existence. He had only been in the priesthood for about three years and yet he was already missing the simpler things in life, the things that every day humans could do. Now he could never claim to have fallen in love, and yet from what Greg says Sherlock could only image that it was beautiful. He didn't miss falling in love he missed the opportunity to, he felt as though he had wasted his high school years thinking himself superior to everyone else and cutting himself off from his peers. Now, fifteen or so years later, he realized that he had missed the one opportunity he had ever had to fall in love, to connect with someone. Greg reminded Sherlock that even though he wore this collar he had freedom, some rebellion still left in him that might allow him not only to strive but to thrive. He pushed open the rickety door to step into the dismal house, the only lighting streaming gloomily in from the dirty stained glass windows above the doors. The other old windows were curtained off with long red curtains hanging from iron rods, enclosing the small sitting room next to the door in almost complete darkness. It was a very old house, with wooden walls and floors covered by ugly red carpeting, the furniture inside was all original and so it was not only wooden and stinky but very creaky and unreliable, Sherlock felt as if he leaned back too far in his dining room chair the whole thing might snap. After the sitting room came the doorway to the dining room and kitchen, and on the left there was an old wooden staircase trailing up to the second story, where all the bedrooms and bathrooms were hidden. Sherlock looked into the kitchen to see Greg leaning against the old marble counter, a foggy glass filled with something that hopefully wasn't beer, but probably was. In his other hand he was furiously texting with his thumb, grumbling when he messed up, backspacing just as agressivley, and continuing his message. It was obvious that he didn't realize Sherlock's presence.