Leviticus 20:13

The Only Path To Heaven

Sherlock sat in the living room for a long while, slouched over his favorite armchair and trying to contemplate what his life might be without it. He might not have this armchair. Or this house. Or this nice warm heater that sat behind him. Or anything, none of this would be his anymore, he would have to trade his entire livelihood for John's love, would it be worth it? Oh this was the biggest decision he had ever made, and what was worse was that he couldn't tell anyone about his internal struggles. Greg was the only one who knew about this whole affair and he was the one that was holding it over Sherlock's head, surely he'd have a biased opinion should Sherlock go talk to him, the same with John. He was alone in this decision whether he liked it or not, and yet he felt as though his brain was splitting in half! Father Turner walked by a couple of times, for a moment he sat on the couch and flipped through the newspaper, glancing every once and a while in Sherlock's direction as if wondering what was so wrong with him. Sherlock didn't respond, he didn't make any motion to even hint at his knowing of Father Turner's presence; he simply sat there with a dead look in his eyes, staring blankly at the coffee table with his head nestled uncomfortably in his hand. When Father Turner finally left Sherlock readjusted himself in his chair, listening to the sound of silence that was interrupted only by his own heartbeat, waiting for Greg to walk through the door. It was almost as if Sherlock had positioned himself right next to the front entrance as if he was waiting to guilt trip Greg, making it seem (quite accurately) that he was in agonizing mental anguish. Sherlock could've easily sat in his room behind the closed door and yet he had chosen this chair so that maybe Greg would feel a pang of guilt and revoke his three day sentencing. It seemed as though Greg took forever to finally arrive, and when he did he opened the door very slowly, watching Sherlock as he sat broken in his armchair and heaving a great sigh.
"Have you been moping around here all night?" Greg wondered with an air of regret, closing the door and finally trapping the cold wind outside of the house. Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, curling into a little ball and leaning closer to the heater that was blasting nice warm air onto the back of his neck.
"What else have I to do?" Sherlock wondered miserably, glancing up at Greg to see that he wasn't even looking back; he was busying himself with hanging his coat up on the rack, still with snowflakes clinging to the black fabric.
"I would've thought you'd talk it over with um...with you know who." Greg admitted, peering through the darkened hallway to make sure Father Turner wasn't eavesdropping from the shadows. When he seemed satisfied with their solitude he walked into the living room and lingered at the door, rolling back and forth on his heels and watching as Sherlock hung his head even lower, sinking his chin between his knees in some sort of defensive position.
"I can't talk to him...I can't talk to anyone. This is my decision, until it's not." Sherlock muttered in a very small voice. Greg sighed heavily, shaking his head and walking around to the couch, sitting down exactly where Father Turner had perched not an hour before and glaring at Sherlock from across the small coffee table.
"Sherlock you know I don't mean to make you suffer like this...it's just that we both know you can't be a boyfriend and a priest. I want you to be happy, and I think that you need to focus your efforts on one or the other. I'm not trying to be mean; I'm just trying to make you realize which half of your life you prefer, your priesthood or your relationship." Greg admitted finally, not apologizing in the way Sherlock would've preferred. For some strange reason Greg thought that his cruelly was justified by 'doing the right thing' and yet no matter how much he claimed he was helping Sherlock he was tearing his heart in two! He was making Sherlock choose between the two things that were most important in his life, all while trying to convince them both that it was for the greater good! Sherlock almost felt like he should be laughing right now, mocking Greg for his blindness and calling him out for his cold heartedness and yet when he opened his mouth he could barely even speak. He felt sobs starting to creep their way up his throat, and if he opened his mouth he just knew that they would somehow manage to escape. Maybe tears would make Greg see just how inhumane this blackmail was becoming, however Sherlock couldn't bring himself to cry no more than he could bring himself to speak, and so he did nothing.
"Are you mad at me?" Greg asked finally, his voice dropping to a more comforting level, as if he was expecting Sherlock to laugh and assure him that he had done nothing wrong. As if!
"Yes! Yes of course...of course I'm mad at you!" Sherlock managed finally, his voice cracking in emotion. He stifled his words with his fist, shaking his head slowly and trying to regain his self-control. Suddenly Sherlock was hit with a wave of anger, suddenly he saw in blinding shades of red, seeing Greg sitting atop that couch with devil horns sticking from his neatly combed hair.
"Sherlock you know I'm just trying to help!" Greg defended in a hiss, dropping his voice so that their argument wouldn't carry along to where ever Father Turner was perched for the night.
"You're tearing me apart Greg! You're...you're killing me." Sherlock managed in a breath, clutching at his heart and finally letting his feet fall to the floor in front of him. A little bit dramatic, yes, however it was enough to get Greg to wince, shaking his head as if he was finally starting to see the affect he was having on this poor priest. Finally he got to his feet, taking a deep breath and looking down upon the wreck of a man sitting in that old, peeling leather armchair.
"I sorry Sherlock, I really am." He muttered finally, and with that he made his way out of the living room, the heels of his dress shoes clicking against the aging wood on each other stairs until his door shut and the footsteps ceased. Sherlock was alone once more.