Leviticus 20:13

There's A Metaphor Here, Somewhere

            John POV: The funeral itself wasn't what made John cry. He hated to show emotion, especially in front of a man who most likely took him for a stoic, very level headed individual. He had every reason to cry of course, every logical reason under the sun to shed a couple of tears; however it wasn't really the looming loneliness that suddenly affected him. Because Sherlock was right, Rosie wasn't really gone, not really, and unlike Mary maybe Rosie's soul would watch over John and care about what happened to him. He never thought she was gone, of course he didn't, and yet he cried over her grave. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't cry for Rosie. It was Sherlock's speech that made him cry, it was Sherlock's presence that made him cry, it was the very idea that this man had not only granted him a free service but he had taken the time to write a speech, a beautiful speech, that no one would ever hear. He had put in so much effort and yet it would seem he never understood just how lonely John had become. Sherlock was slowly beginning to turn into the only loyal friend John had, the only loyal person at that, who would stay at his side through the mess of a life he was somehow managing to lead. For some reason John wasn't crying about his loneliness, he was crying about his choice of companionship. Somehow he had managed to find the most obedient, most dedicated, most understanding human being, and of course all he could do was stand here and let that very man stand alone, two feet away. It almost felt like Sherlock's absence all together would be less painful than these meager two feet, because even though John was painstakingly aware that Sherlock was standing so close he knew that he couldn't be farther away. John wanted to be close, he wanted the intimacy that came along with a friend that was slowly morphing into more, and yet he knew that he couldn't take that step, he couldn't reach over and take Sherlock's hand, nor could he wrap his arms around his neck and hold him closer than he had before. And it was all because of that collar, that white band that stretched along his neck, it was because of that rosary that hung on his chest, it was because of the Bible he held so firmly in his hand. It didn't take a genius to realize that what the two of them had was more than friendship, it didn't take a detective to realize that the only reason Sherlock was the only one standing here at this grave by John's side was because he was the only one who truly loved him, and yet what could John do except keep his distance? He was a priest, of course he was a priest, the only breed of human being incapable of having any sort of romantic entanglements, the only people on this earth that fell in love and yet had to restrain themselves, on the behalf of themselves and their prospective partner. And John knew that Sherlock wasn't in love, he knew that there was no way he would let his heart or his thoughts stray that far from God, and yet John knew that there was also more. Just because Sherlock was a priest didn't mean he couldn't love, didn't mean he couldn't know he was in love at that. Maybe he was in love, and he was simply fighting the same side of the moral battle that was raging in John's head as well. John restrained because he knew that Sherlock was a man of God, Sherlock restrained for the same reasons, presumably. Oh this was pathetic, why did he even get his hopes up, why did he dare suspect such horrible things? He was in mourning, he was delirious, a simply attendance at a funeral did not account for the feelings that were starting to churn in John's chest. And besides, what was he feeling? Loneliness, presumably, a hole that was etching its way through his heart and so he was grabbing at the first people he saw to try to fill it. It was almost as if he was trying to convince himself that he loved Sherlock just to justify the outrage that would follow if he dared step closer. He didn't want love any more than Sherlock did, he wanted the companionship, he wanted the loyalty, he just wanted a reason to keep Sherlock to himself! Friends didn't have the luxury of being jealous, they didn't have any logical reason to hold their companions close and hiss when anyone else got in the way. Now maybe John didn't love Sherlock, and maybe Sherlock didn't love John, and yet friendship was not a good enough excuse to try to drag Sherlock into the solitude John was already living in. He wanted to be the center of the priest's attention just so that he felt wanted, appreciated even, and he knew that without a few soft touches and gentle words there would be no way to captivate that holy man. It was selfish to the full extent of the word, and yet John almost wished that the rest of the world would just vanish, making it so that he and Sherlock were the only ones alive. And they could just be together, not romantically, but not platonically either, just together, in whatever connotation pleased him at the moment. John cleared his throat momentarily, grabbing the only ratty tissue he managed to find in the folds of his pockets and dabbing it at his eyes, trying to recollect himself as he stared blankly at the casket before him.
"That was beautiful." John said after a while, a long while at that. A good ten minutes must have gone by since the last word was uttered, and yet they were making up for whatever time would've been lost with the eulogies of the family members and the friends, and so they were filling the gaps with silence, letting the words speak for themselves inside of their heads.
"Thank you." Sherlock muttered humbly, sounding almost surprised. Whether he was surprised that John enjoyed the eulogy or if he was surprised John had talked was a mystery in itself; however either way didn't affect John all that much so he didn't bother to clarify.
"I um, well... I don't know what to do now. They said they'll lower her casket later on, just because they were probably expecting a larger crowd, and a larger service. I feel bad just leaving her here but..." John cut himself off, pursing his lips and staring down at the hole next to his feet. The grave was surprisingly deep, a lot deeper than he would ever have thought necessary for a casket. Surely if someone fell down there it would take a ladder or something to pull them back up, and yet for some reason he had the slightest inclination to simply lean the extra bit and let gravity do its work. And so John took a miniscule step back, trying to prevent whatever strangely suicidal urges that were now circulating through his brain.
"We don't have to leave her yet, if you don't want to." Sherlock assured softly.
"Yes well, I've got nowhere to be. I cancelled the dinner plans, I hope you don't mind." John admitted, shuffling his feet a little bit and looking back at his little red van that sat a ways down the little cement path that wound its way like a snake through the graves scatted about the tall grass.
"Oh no it's fine, I have nowhere to be either, and to be honest I'm not terribly hungry." Sherlock admitted with a bit of a shrug. It felt almost like the somber mood had lifted, and for a moment John didn't even feel the urge to cry. And yet he didn't dare lift his head to see Sherlock, he knew that a mere glimpse of that man would send in the waterworks once more.
"I know it's not terribly professional, but I've got some Jack Daniels in the trunk, would you like a drink?" John wondered quickly, seemingly talking to the dirt as he spoke and yet Sherlock's soft chuckle assured him that he knew who was being addressed.
"That just might be a first." Sherlock muttered after a moment's thought.
"What?" John clarified, quickly sneaking a peak at the man before focusing his attention once more at the grave in front of him. However the mere glimpse of the side of his head, with his curls all brushed out and perfect, and the chiseled pale gleam of his cheekbone protruding from his skin, well it was certainly enough to help a smile make its way onto John's face.
"Not many mourners have been so willing to offer the priest a drink; however...I think I might be able to make an exception." Sherlock decided finally, glancing over at John with a smile that John never noticed.
"So that's a yes then?" John clarified hopefully, already feeling around in his pockets for his keys. Sherlock laughed once more, very softly at that, as if he didn't want John to know how amused this made him.
"It's a yes." Sherlock agreed. John nodded, grabbing his key and leaving Sherlock alone at the grave for a mere moment while he made his way over to where his crappy little red van sat. He popped the trunk to find, as promised, a half full bottle of whiskey sitting idly on the mysteriously stained carpet, amidst John's other miscellaneous car necessities like jumper cables and golf balls. He grabbed the bottle and closed the trunk, locking the car twice (you know those grave robbers are always so willing to steal a car) and with that he made his way back over to the only fresh grave in the lot, where the only man stood with his head bowed over the casket. Sherlock had moved since John had left him, and he seemed to be staring down at the coffin as though there was suddenly something that interested him engraved on the top. Now John had the option of getting an engraving, however he decided that for the extra one hundred dollars it cost, it wasn't worth carving a name that would only be buried under a pile of dirt. John made his way up carefully, evidently being quiet enough to frighten Sherlock when he finally spoke.
"A rosary?" John observed finally, seeing that there was now an old beaded necklace set upon the glossy surface of the cheap coffin.
"Not my special one, just...I thought she might want it." Sherlock admitted, talking very quickly as though he wanted to justify his actions before John thought the worse. However there really was no worse alternative, a rosary was a pretty self-explanatory object; however John would've preferred that rosary to be inside of the casket rather than sitting lamely on top. Maybe he should've checked with Sherlock before he willed the men to bolt it firmly shut.
"I'm sure she'll appreciate it." John muttered quickly, walking around the casket to the other side of the grave where they had been standing before. He set the bottle on the ground before sitting down next to it, sitting in the grass so that his legs could just dangle into the ten foot drop that spanned out before him. It was a rather morbid thing to do, he had two feet in the grave literally, and yet he felt as though it somehow connected father and daughter. He ought to spend some time in the hole his daughter was going to live in for the rest of eternity. Sherlock watched him curiously, as if half expecting John to take the final leap to the bottom of the freshly dug pit, and he waited on the other side of the casket as if he were expecting some sort of invitation. John simply glanced up at him, watching Sherlock with a glance that asked him what on earth he was waiting for, and with a quick nod Sherlock cleared his throat and made his way over to the spot next to where John was perched.
"A little bit risky, don't you think?" Sherlock muttered nervously, nervously sticking his feet into the grave and watching as a couple of flakes of dirt unrooted from the ground and fell to join the masses in the mud below.
"Metaphorical I suppose, should you have time to sit around and figure out how." John decided with a meager shrug, grabbing the whiskey and setting it proudly on his lap. Sherlock laughed almost guiltily, looking around the graveyard nervously, as if expecting his priest friends to be hiding around the tombs and watching him.
"It's not against the rules for a priest to drink, right?" John clarified nervously, just as his fingers started to twist the little metallic cap.
"Oh no, we can drink." Sherlock assured, sounding quite positive, as if he had already put this rule to the test.
"Good, that's good." John muttered stupidly, staring at the bottle for a moment before holding it to his lips and taking a good swig. As the alcohol scalded down his throat he heard Sherlock chuckle again, as if something about this pity graveside drinking was something to be amused with. John looked over curiously, as if wondering what on earth was so funny, and passed the bottle along to Sherlock.
"Well there's nothing civilized about this." Sherlock decided flatly, and yet with that he took a couple of sips as well, passing the bottle along and wincing as he the drink burned its way to his stomach.
"We don't have to be civilized, we're in mourning, we can do whatever we want as long as we use our sadness to justify it." John pointed out with a shrug, taking another long drink before shoving the bottle back into Sherlock's hands. It was getting considerably lighter every time they passed it to and from, and yet there was no way they would drain the whole thing today. After all they did have to drive home.
"You sound as though you have much more criminal intentions." Sherlock observed after a moment and a drink.
"Criminal, no, nothing criminal. Who have I to kill?" John pointed out, as if that was in some way reassuring enough to put Sherlock's mind to rest.
"No, not kill, I should hope you won't kill." Sherlock muttered nervously, watching John as he took a swig as if wondering what type of poison John might have slipped into this bottle. It would only be the perfect crime, dying in front of an open grave, a suicide murder combo right next to the corpse of his unfortunate daughter.
"Have you ever thought about killing someone?" John wondered, looking quickly at the priest, who simply ducked his head in amused shame.
"Well I live with Greg, so yes, only ten times a day." Sherlock admitted with a little chuckle. John held the bottle idly on his lap, holding it as if it were a child before watching Sherlock with interested eyes.
"What does Greg do that annoys you so much?" John wondered curiously. He immediately noticed a change in Sherlock's attitude, suddenly his cheeks heated up in embarrassment and he ducked his head as if that would prevent John from noticing. And yet this newfound shyness had John evermore curious, and he felt only the need to pry for more information.
"Oh no, it's not like he's rude or anything, he just, well he teases me a lot." Sherlock admitted, his voice trailing off nervously as if he was hoping that would be the last of that conversation.
"You seem like a pretty level headed guy, what on earth does he tease you about?" John wondered, suddenly feeling like he was back in kindergarten, trying to get all the details on the school bully so he could teach him a lesson on the playground.
"Oh no, it's nothing really..." Sherlock muttered nervously, shaking his head as if he really didn't want to share this information, at least not yet. John just smiled, prodding Sherlock with his elbow before passing the bottle along to the stuttering priest. Sherlock just shook his head, as if he knew he was going to regret this, and took a long swig before wincing and holding it protectively at his side.
"He's just been going on about, well, about things that certainly aren't true. And he's managed to convince himself that I'm, well...that I'm a homosexual." Sherlock muttered in the smallest of voices. Immediately he reached for the bottle again, and while he drank John felt the need to either fall into the grave head first or to pull Sherlock to the grass beneath him. Obviously both options would lead to death or worse, and yet his entire body went numb at the same time, and suddenly he felt as though maybe there was a higher power up there, probing Sherlock to stray onto the topic of conversation that John was most keen to discuss. Of course no one wanted to talk about these things, however the questions that loomed around them suddenly materialized before them, waiting to be answered, waiting to be addressed obviously and directly. It was, well, it was almost a miracle.
"And I'm not, God knows that I'm not it's just, sometimes I want to wring that man's neck, just to wipe the smile off of his face." Sherlock growled, pushing the bottle of whiskey away forcefully as if he was trying to make sure he didn't drink the whole bottle in his newfound rage.
"Where on earth did he get such a...a ridiculous idea?" John wondered nervously, feeling as though his voice was doing everything it could to prevent those words from escaping his lips. And yet Sherlock just groaned, rubbing his eyes quickly and letting his head loll back on his neck, as if the very idea of Greg's shenanigans was not worth his attention. That or he was intentionally showing off the beautiful shape of his jawbone, combined with the pale skin stretched so tightly over the bone... John tore his eyes away, realizing that because of the topic on hand he didn't want to be caught staring just yet.
"Oh you know, he's always been trying to set me up with women and always wondered why I never expressed much interest. Now of course it's because I am loyal to God and would never stray onto the path of immorality, and yet now, with you..."
"With me?" John asked immediately, cutting Sherlock off after he heard those two fateful words, the ones he had been waiting for as Sherlock's sentence progressed.
"Oh yes, never doubt Greg's dedication to his little fantasies. He's got you all tied up into this as well, and you get the wonderful role of my bride to be, or whatever it is. My damsel." Sherlock muttered irritably, picking at the grass that grew around his legs just to give himself something to do. He sounded legitimately disgusted with this idea, as if Greg's words were nothing more than a sinful bunch of syllables that weren't worth his time and attention. Then again he also seemed angry, whether it be at Greg for conjuring such stories or at himself, for beginning to believe in them.
"Ya, you're right." John muttered miserably, grabbing at the bottle and taking one last sip, just to prevent himself from something he would certainly regret. "That is stupid." They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock staring intently at the grave in front of him, his head obviously whirring as it tried to figure out what he had said and why he had said it. There was obviously regret in his body language, the way he kept his head down and his lips closed, John was sure that if he hadn't been sitting right next to him, Sherlock might've been hitting himself in the head in shame. But there was no reason that he should be ashamed, there was no reason to even doubt himself. John had wanted to hear those words; he had almost been waiting for Sherlock to just admit to himself that there was a chance, just a sliver of hope that maybe in another world they could be together. John knew that Sherlock's being a priest was their only obstacle for many reasons; however the mere mention of the idea meant that a relationship was praying on Sherlock's mind, whether he took it seriously or not. He had no idea that John saw the possibility, he had no idea that John could almost dare to hope...