Leviticus 20:13

Love Me More Than God Ever Could

The doorbell had thrown Sherlock back into reality, reminding him once more that this was actually happening. Part of him was relieved to see John had shown up, the other half, the majority at that, was beginning to feel queasy simply while staring at John's translucent form through the stained glass windows. However Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as he walked to the door, and pulled it open almost forcefully, as if he was simply forcing himself to open the door because he knew that if he lingered just a little bit longer he wouldn't open it at all. And John stood there, effortlessly beautiful with a nervous grin on his face and a thorny rose clutched between his two fingers, leaving Sherlock in a sudden state of helplessness. He was overwhelmed with the fact that while he didn't have any idea how loved worked overall, John was a well-seasoned expert. He had probably had his fair share of relationships in high school, he was bound to be popular and have a girl on his arm at least once, that and he had been married for how many years? John was an expert, and Sherlock, well...he didn't even know how to invite him in without begging for him to throw his arms around his neck.
"Sherlock, wow you look so..."
"Normal?" Sherlock offered nervously, looking down at his outfit before glancing back up at John with fearful wide eyes.
"Beautiful, is the word I was going for." John corrected, and Sherlock's cheeks erupted into flames.
"John we're not even..." he started, however he stopped himself, shaking his head and holding the door open wider. "Come in, please."
"I got you a flower, thought you might like a rose." John admitted proudly, pinching the rose by its stem carefully with his two fingers, and yet Sherlock in all his intelligence went right for the stem with his full hand. He drew away painfully, clutching at his poor palm as the rose thorns dug unapologetically into his skin, and yet it was all John could do but laugh and hold the flower at bay for a moment while Sherlock yelped and flailed his hand in horror.
"Oh ya, and they have thorns." John offered a little bit late, making Sherlock smile just a little bit as he watched a couple of drops of blood ooze from his skin and trickle their way down into a miniscule pool in the divots of his palm.
"It's a very nice flower." Sherlock assured, pulling a tissue from the box in the hall and dabbing at his hand until it stopped bleeding, all in all deciding that he had best observe John's gift from afar.
"Yes I thought so, that's why I bought it. They also had daisies but I decided that for a first date I ought to get a rose. More romantic." John clarified with a shrug. Sherlock paused for a moment, pressing the tissue into his palm with such force that he almost suspected he was cutting off circulation.
"That's what this is then? A date?" Sherlock wondered nervously, his voice dropping off to no more than a whisper, as if he was scared that there were still priests lingering about these old halls.
"Well it doesn't have to be, but I kind of suspected that you were intending on a date." John admitted with a shrug, looking up at Sherlock with an almost apologetic smile. Sherlock could only stutter for a moment, trying to think of the best response and yet suddenly his brain seemed to shut down, suddenly he couldn't decide what he should say or what John wanted him to say or what he simply could not say. And so he simply couldn't bring himself to say anything. He stood quietly, blinking at momentary intervals and waiting for John to start up the next conversation. He must be a really annoying person to be around, romantically or not, because sometimes conversations were about as meaningless as trying to talk to a brick wall. However John didn't seem to mind, that was another beautiful thing about John Watson, it was that he simply embraced Sherlock's quirks and his anxieties, he loved him for his abnormalities and his imperfections, even now he smiled. And what could Sherlock do but force a smile back?
"So um, would you like to come in? More than you know...in the entry way." Sherlock offered nervously, realizing as soon as he said it that John was technically inside the house and that his offer was pointless if not explained. John nodded, shedding his coat (to which Sherlock politely looked away, for some reason) and rolling back and forth on his heels, looking about the old rectory for the first time in the light. Only now could he appreciate the depleting architecture and the chipping paint, his eyes lingered on the scruffy carpets and the smelly old blankets that were hung lamely over the ancient couch. Sherlock's opera record spun quietly on the player, playing out very beautiful music for no one to appreciate, as they were listening more intently to their own heartbeats than to the beautiful vocals of some Italian woman. This was the life of a priest in all its glory, and it would seem that John wasn't terrible impressed.
"We have alcohol." Sherlock offered quickly, trying to take John's eyes away from his poor excuse of a home to more important things.
"How long do we have?" John wondered curiously, looking at the large grandfather clock that lingered in the corner of the living room and watching the large hands twirling about the numbers.
"I'm not entirely sure; Greg never did give me a time frame. Sometimes when he goes out he's only out an hour, other times he doesn't come home until the next morning." Sherlock admitted with an almost ashamed shrug, as though Greg's actions disgusted him for some reason. To be perfectly honest Sherlock now had nothing to hold over Greg's head, and no reason to think that he was somehow superior to the sinful priest. Here he was with a man that he knew only had one intention, and here he was, standing lamely with his bleeding hands in his pockets, not doing anything to stop him. He had invited John over despite the obvious attraction; in fact that very attraction was what persuaded him to pick up the phone in the first place. As much as he hated to admit it, Greg had been right this whole time, and now Sherlock had tumbled all the way down to his level. John thought for a moment, however he seemed rather content with the idea of alcohol and eventually let Sherlock lead him back into the kitchen, where they had stood apart not two nights before, pondering the same things that were now running unapologetically through their minds. The only difference now was that they knew for certain that it was going to happen; they knew that there was no turning back from this moment, from this clarification. It was love waiting patiently for the okay, and before long it would explode into an uncontrollable flame that could only be snuffed out with the effort of two people. Sherlock poured two glasses of whiskey in silence, noticing that their stores were becoming increasingly low. As his morals plummeted his alcohol consumption skyrocketed, and now he was trying to remember if he had any spare change that could go to refunding Greg for all of these borrowed glasses of bad decisions.
"So you've decided then?" John wondered with a curious eyebrow, leaning on the counter and sipping his whiskey very naturally with one hand. Sherlock watched him for a moment, feeling his heart throbbing and his legs numbing as he realized that John was becoming increasingly impatient, obviously he hadn't come here for alcohol and small talk, however the closer John lingered to the topic at hand the more reluctant Sherlock was to get on with it. He had made his decision last night, John over God, however as he stood here in the moment he realized that giving up on his lifelong faith was a lot easier said than done. He needed a persuading hand; he needed someone to tear him out of his uncertainties and into the arms of the man that was so willing to cradle him. Sherlock thought for a moment, but nodded silently, taking down the last of his whiskey with a single sip and pursing his now slightly numb lips, looking at John with weak, terrified eyes. He hoped that John was aware of his inexperience with these sorts of things, certainly John understood that Sherlock was no match for his romantic expertise? Certainly he should realize that with one kiss Sherlock was surely going to melt into his hands, and that was all that was necessary? A single kiss to betray God...that was almost familiar.
"John I've been struggling with this very idea ever since you presented it to me, and I'm a little bit reluctant to go either way. I know that I can either stay loyal to God or love you, and I'm afraid to admit to myself which one I had chosen." Sherlock admitted.
"Then why did you call me here?" John wondered flatly, standing up a bit straighter and pushing his half-filled glass of whiskey aside on the table. Sherlock was a little bit taken aback with John's sudden anger, he was acting like this decision was as simple as deciding what to have for lunch, as if Sherlock could so easily opt out of something and submit himself to another.
"John I can't bring myself to do anything, I can't bring myself to come closer." Sherlock whispered nervously, his hands shaking around his empty glass so he flung it fearfully onto the counter, letting it skirt around the marble before finally coming a halt dangerously close to the edge. Sherlock found himself short of breath and so he leaned back against the cabinets, feeling the wood shift under his weight as his eyes closed in defeat.
"You won't come closer?" John clarified. Sherlock nodded, pushing the bangs out of his eyes and clenching his fists against the handles, trying to keep himself in the present, trying to force reality to overwhelm him once more.
"But I won't step back." Sherlock breathed finally, letting his head fall against the cabinets in finality as he suddenly realized what he was submitting himself to, what he was letting John do. John nodded, pushing himself to his feet and making Sherlock shiver in anticipation, trying to prep himself for what he ultimately knew was coming.
"So you're okay with this then? All of this...any of it?" John clarified once more, blinking away his surprise and making his way painfully slowly around the counter. Sherlock just wished he would run, he wished he would force his lips onto Sherlock's and just get it over with already, all of this build up, all of this anticipation, well he could barely force himself to breathe much less get himself excited. Almost as if his first kiss would be the most painful, and after the first he would just get progressively numb until he couldn't feel anything anymore, until he could convince himself he was actually enjoying it.
"Yes, yes John..." Sherlock looked up at the man one last time, seeing that John had moved even closer now, standing next to the counter with nothing obstructing his view of the cowering priest.
"I need you to love me more than God ever could." Sherlock breathed finally, relaxing his muscles for just a moment and taking a moment to feel just how quickly his heart was throbbing in his chest, just how anxiously his voice was building up in his throat, waiting for the final release... And so John nodded, dropping his gaze for just a moment before taking a couple of steps forward, coming just about as close as he had the night previous, just so that their chests could brush up against each other's and yet their lips never touched, not yet at least. This proximity alone was enough to make Sherlock's knees buckle, and yet somehow he kept himself upright, leaning heavily against the smooth wooden cabinets and feeling the eyes of God watching his every move. And yet he didn't care, he was happy God was watching, this way he would know for sure that Sherlock had found the better alternative to his fabricated care. For a moment Sherlock could only feel breath, for his eyes were closed and his hands were clenched around the handles of the cabinet doors. He could feel John's breath tracing its path along Sherlock's neck and jawline, as if John was exploring every crevice of Sherlock's white skin before finally coming in for the kill. It was enough to drive Sherlock crazy, almost to the extent where he wanted to just lean down and kiss John instead, however even if he had intended on taking the first step he was quite sure he would mess it up in some way, and that alone was enough to keep his head pressed firmly against the wood. He would leave this all up to John, John who had already weakened Sherlock to the point of unconsciousness simply by breathing. With every breath John's chest pressed closer and closer to Sherlock's, he could feel John's lungs inflate and he could feel them deflate, whatever air that had pressed them together now emerging from John's parted lips and creating goosebumps on Sherlock's smooth skin. It was all becoming too much, or at least it had been too much already, when finally Sherlock felt the first touch of John's lips press down upon his skin. It wasn't a kiss so much as a brush, right along the bottom of his left cheek, presumably as John rearranged himself for the real thing, however it was enough to make Sherlock gasp, suddenly finding that his lungs were unable to inflate anymore and that he was breathing for no real purpose. It felt like everything had shut down, except his heart kept pounding, his veins still pumping, and his hands still trembled from where they grasped the metal. John was getting the reaction he sought after, surely he was getting the reaction he deserved, and so finally he went in for the kill. John's first kiss was soft, yet it was more than a simple brush of the lips. It was gentle and yet there was an air of impatience, a touch of lips and a breath passed between the two, and suddenly the world became so clear. Suddenly Sherlock didn't hear white noise in his ears, suddenly he didn't hear anything at all except everything...The brush of John's shirt against his jacket, the gasps of breath exchanged between the two of them, the hearts beating simultaneously coupled with the tiny noises of encouragement that threatened to issue from their aching throats. And he could feel everything as well, he could feel the softness of John's fingers as they grabbed at the back of his neck, he could feel the vibrations of John's feet along the floor as he shuffled to get closer still, he felt his heart throbbing through his rib cage, pressed up so closely to Sherlock's torso that he almost felt as though he had two hearts entirely to himself. He felt strangely fused with John at that moment, and disturbingly aware of everything that was going on between the two of them. He had half expected a kiss to be like Greg's soap operas, with camera angles changing every five seconds, the lighting dimming and the music turning softer as the characters got closer, as the talking ceased. They almost made it seem like romantic moments were whirlwinds, no one exactly knew what was happening they just knew that whatever they were doing it was feeling right. Maybe this was John's ideology as well, maybe he had suddenly suspected that since this was Sherlock's first kiss he would be too caught up in the moment to notice the sudden absence of his fingers on the back of his neck, or tangled in his curls. Maybe John thought he was being sneaky, or maybe he just thought he was being romantic, when he began to slowly undo the buttons going down the length of his collared shirt. Sherlock simply didn't have the power to ignore such a thing, as if the very sight of John's chest wasn't enough to make his head fall away, suddenly unable to function, suddenly realizing where his intentions were leading. John faltered for a moment, realizing that Sherlock had suddenly gone rigid, and yet he didn't draw away.
"Are you alright?" John whispered against Sherlock's skin, his words dissolving in simple breaths along Sherlock's cheeks.
"I'm fine it's just...we're in the kitchen." Sherlock reminded him cautiously, his eyes suddenly trailing to where the windows stood open and unshuttered, allowing anyone who just had to be passing by in their backyard to look in and see a priest making out with another man. Certainly not the best thing to be caught doing, and yet Sherlock knew a place a little bit more private... John simply laughed, kissing Sherlock a couple times more with an air of playful curiosity, as if he didn't want to be the one to suggest the idea.
"Hmm. Too risky for you?" John wondered flirtatiously. Sherlock nodded, becoming momentarily obsessed with the idea of exposure, and suddenly he had the horrid vision of Greg or Father Turner walking through the door, the door that had the best view to the kitchen where John was now tangled shirtless around him... Sherlock slid his hand into John's, the fear of being discovered powering him just enough so that he could take some sort of action, or at least stand without the help of the cabinets. Without a word he pulled John through the darkened house, the latter laughing playfully as he followed in Sherlock's long strides up the squeaking staircase. By the time Sherlock arrived in his bedroom John had already shut the door, not wasting a moment before pulling Sherlock onto the bed, pushing him down on top of the blankets without much warning at all. Sherlock dissolved with a yelp of surprise, but before he could do anything John's arms were already wrapping around him and his head was suddenly becoming heavier in the soft cushion of the blankets beneath him.
"John don't you think..." Sherlock started, and yet John silenced him, kissing him with unprecedented ferocity, as if now it didn't matter how gentle he was but how quickly he could get Sherlock immobilized once more.
"Shut up Sherlock, just shut up." John breathed, his hands running along the length of Sherlock's arms before busying himself with the buttons of the poor, helpless priest's shirt. And Sherlock couldn't do anything to stop him, not that he would've, yet suddenly things were going much faster than he had anticipated. He had never suspected that John would simply take over, and now that Sherlock didn't need to use any sorts of muscles to keep himself standing he suddenly found it only too easy to sink into the pillows and clutch onto John's bare back, his fingernails digging into the man's skin as his kisses intensified, all Sherlock really needed to do was survive the experience and enjoy it to the best of his abilities. He had to do nothing except let John take complete control over the situation, and the more he submitted the easier it was to breathe, the easier it was to kiss back. His vision was fading in and out as his reality intensified before going back into a translucent lull, for a moment when he looked up at John all he saw was a very beautiful, unrecognizable blur of color and skin before finally his vision sharpened and he could notice every detail in John's face and in his sandy hair and in his red lips as they trailed all about Sherlock's face, neck, and shoulders. He had never been in love before and yet he was willing to make a bet that this was what it felt like. He may not have any experience but he was quite sure that whatever love manifested itself to be, the feelings he was experiencing and the intense throbbing of his heart were a sure sign that whatever John was doing, it was working. For a moment Sherlock forgot all about the severity of this situation, lost in the storm of John's kisses and affection the very thought of God had erased itself from his mind forever, and whatever warnings he might have received from anyone down the line had simply slipped away. All that was real now was John, all that he could focus on was John, all he could see, hear, breathe, experience, love...it was all John Watson. And despite the persistent gaze of the crucifix on the wall Sherlock felt that they truly were operating unobserved, almost as if he expected to recover from this night and return to his priesthood without a heavy weight hanging off of his shoulders. For a holy man to submit so easily to a sinner was the epitome of the Devil at work, it was the reason there was a divide between good and evil, it was the reason for Heaven and Hell. And yet Sherlock suddenly found it a lot easier to sin and ensure he and John ended up in Hell together than work all his life for a paradise that may not be promised to the both of them.