As God Intended

Drowning In The Fountain Of Youth

John POV: His sleep was undisturbed, though his dreams were reflecting the scene going on outside. Their windows weren't open, as they were trying to keep the fan's breeze contained within their makeshift bedroom, and so John could only hear the faint echoes of car horns and yelling from outside. It made for a nice dream, a car chase, police speeding down a highway after him, a nice and innocent scene when compared to the reality playing out in the parking lot. He was tossing and turning on top of the mattress, his dream car going skidding off of the road, the police finally catching up and speaking through his shattered window. He could feel them, their arms grabbing at his shoulders and trying to drag him from the vehicle. And they were yelling, yelling! Mr. Watson, Mr. Watson...
"Mr. Watson!" it was a real voice this time, not imagined. A voice loud enough, desperate enough, to shake him from his dream and shock him back into reality. The darkness came in fast, the grip upon his shoulder materialized into reality, and before long he found himself with the arms of another, a stranger, with a voice deep and unaltered and a face staring at him through the darkness. John didn't panic in time; he took too long to try to recognize the shadowy complexion that was focused so intensely. It was unrecognizable, half hidden behind unruly black curls, with smooth skin that was stretched so tightly across a complicated facial structure that it reflecting what was left of the moonlight. The man was glowing, quite literally, and it was those eyes that struck panic into the poor man's soul. They were so bright, so unopposed by age or cataracts, shining with a life that John didn't recognize in any face he had seen before. He let out a scream, throwing the hands away from his shoulders and falling back upon his bed in a rush for freedom.
"Get out, get out of my room!" John exclaimed, kicking his feet madly at the stranger who must have broken in. Or perhaps it was a ghost, materialized from the walls and memories of this horrible church! Mary awoke and began to scream as well, crawling away from the deep silhouette of the man who had now gotten to his feet, crying out pleas in an unprecedented voice, begging his innocence after being caught in the most incriminating situation.
"Thief, murderer, trespasser! Get out of my house, get out of my room!" John exclaimed, finally getting to his feet and raising his fists in an effort to fight.
"John, don't hurt me, please, I need help, I need help..." the man began to wail, covering his face with his hands as if trying to contain the tears that were running along his smooth face.
"Psychiatric help, perhaps. Burglar!" John exclaimed, rushing in and tackling the stranger around the waist, sending the two men crashing down upon the hardwood floor, their heads just missing the corner of the piano bench by an inch or so. The long limbs of his captive began to flail in protest, real tears were flowing from the strange man's eyes, he was letting out sobs of desperation, choking and trying to find voice enough to defend himself.
"It's me, it's me!" he was yelling in croaks, choking on his own tears and desperation.
"Mary, get the light!" John demanded, restraining the man's flailing feet by jamming his knees into either one of the man's thighs, holding down his shoulders so as to prevent his arms from fighting back with claws or fists.
"John, please, have mercy..." the man was crying.
"The light!" John demanded again, this time causing Mary to rush towards the lamp and pull the string, illuminating the balcony within a moment of John's second exclamation. What little light was provided was not enough to make this stranger any more recognizable, and while John was staring into an unfamiliar face he still got a feeling that he wasn't in the presence of a criminal. This man had strange intentions for sure, though from his watering eyes John could tell that there was innocence and anxiety that was not so easily found within a man with ill wishes.
"Who are you?" John demanded. The man let his limbs fall limp, forgetting his struggle as their eyes locked from their entangled positions. John felt the muscles relax, his own body easing ever so slightly into the stranger's and their lungs inflating together, pushing each other up and down with the slightest synchronization. The stranger was trying to breathe, trying to collect himself...
"It's me. It's Father Holmes." He admitted at last.
"That's it, Mary, call the cops." John demanded.
"No, no, I swear!" the man insisted, able to break his arms loose from John's weakening grip and catching his face within the two desperate hands, steadying John's gaze and forcing him to stare even longer within the eyes of his captive. "Look at me, John Watson, recognize me! I need help, I've been cursed, I've been blessed...I don't know! I've lost so many years."
"How could you turn from a wrinkled old man to...to some makeshift supermodel?" John growled.
"Supermodel?" the man clarified, seemingly forgetting his argument as his cheeks flushed with the compliment. John shook his head, tightening his grip as if to try to gain his intimidating edge.
"You know what I mean." He corrected quickly. The man underneath him sighed, shaking his head and closing his eyes for a moment of contemplation.
"Look at me, look at my clothes. My rosary. Look at my eyes, John, and recognize them from before. From our dinner, Korean barbeque, from red wine, from basement bookshelves. Recognize me, John Watson." The priest begged, his hands finally falling away from John's cheeks and tracing as he went, each individual finger falling at varying moments from the cleft of John's jawline as gravity overtook him. Slowly John began to recognize that this story was true, no matter how impossible it seemed. He could recognize those long, black curls as the same greying twists that had been clinging to the old priest's scalp; he noticed those cheekbones were sharper than before as they were unrestricted by the wrinkles which used to be sagging in his face. Those eyes, now so vibrant, were convincingly the same that had been watering and gray before, and those lips which were once dry and colorless were now popping with a plump redness that was only ever found in lipstick. John eased his grip, regaining his breath, regaining his composure. Slowly he got to his feet, rolling off of the priest and clambering up rather hesitantly. He looked towards Mary, who was still standing ready to run by the lamp, worried that the man on the floor was telling a very convincing lie. As the priest took to his feet John knew that it was no lie. If his face was not an accurate representation of the old man his clothes would have to do. They were the exact same attire he had been wearing the day before, with the familiar collar, the same ironed black suit, the same beaded rosary. John was sure if they turned out his pockets they would find a driver's license to prove the ultimate identity of the man. For a moment there was no doubt in his mind, though where violence had once stood was now empty, replaced with an overwhelming sense of confusion. Everyone stared at each other, their eyes glancing back and forth as they tried to contemplate the situation they had now found themselves in. John took a deep breath, turning back to the priest who stood so small in his now baggy clothes, looking like a poor misrepresentation of a once proud man.
"How in the actual h*ll did you manage to chop thirty years off of your life?" John demanded at last.
"John, he's a priest!" Mary declared. "Language!"
"I don't care about my language, Mary!" John snarled. "I want to know why you're waking me up at this time of night, breaking into my house, and demonstrating your anti-aging medication at its finest!"
"It's not medication; it's a miracle of some kind. Or perhaps a curse...some sort of power has gifted me this. I'm not sure how, or why, but it's proof of faith. It's proof of the Lord." The man muttered, feeling upon his face and running his fingers over the smooth complexion of his skin. John stared a little bit too long, sort of tempted to join Father Holmes in his admiration of the smooth skin which was stretched over top of his facial structure. Once again, the balcony fell silent. Mary looked towards John again, her face paling terribly.
"How about a...well maybe a cup of tea?" she suggested quickly.
"Lovely." The priest agreed, nodding his head and running his fingers through his now thick, sprouted curls. The trip downstairs was a good enough reason to fall completely silent, and thankfully the priest was walking in between the Watsons, giving John enough time to examine the back of his head. It wasn't a very necessary mission by any means, though he felt the need to make sure this wasn't some elaborate set up. From what he could tell the man had no signs of balding, nor any gray hairs that were trying to sprout from his scalp. It didn't look like a wig, though John would be prepared to test that theory by pulling on each individual curl if he had to. It wasn't natural, it simply wasn't natural! How was it that this man was walking in front of him, suddenly having lost thirty years of his life overnight! At last both Father Holmes and Mary were settled around the altar, with John running about in the kitchen trying to get three mugs to fit in the microwave at once. The priest seemed to scold this kind of tea drinking, though a kettle would simply take too long. As the cups spun around and clanked together within the microwave John leaned against the counter, observing the conversation that was being had very quietly over the altar. The priest was leaning heavily upon the stone, with his head folded within his arms and his face strained in anxiety. Mary was talking very softly, occasionally lifting her hand to pat his arm in consolation. John couldn't imagine that the priest was unhappy with his current situation, though it would be a shock for anyone of course. The joy of being young again would never override the startling realization that miracles and magic exist. At long last the microwave beeped, allowing John to drop in the tea bags and shuffle over with the three mugs juggled dangerously within his hands. He took up something of a bounce jog, considering the cups were still much too hot to touch for too long. Thankfully he and the drinks arrived at the altar in one peace, and John was then able to go back for the sugar in less of a hurry. When finally he had settled down at the altar, sitting next to Mary so that he could observe Father Holmes at every available angle, he watched as the priest ladled in spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea, almost making John worry they would have to refill the container to satisfy his complete needs!
"Do you feel old?" John asked at last, as finally the priest began to stir the thick liquid with a little spoon.
"What do you mean by that?" Father Holmes asked quietly. John hesitated, trading the handle of his tea cup between his hands a bit awkwardly.
"Oh I don't know...do you have more energy? More...excitement? Less indigestion?" John suggested uncomfortably. This allowed the priest to laugh, a surprisingly clear, enthusiastic laugh that John had not heard from his mouth before. He sounded legitimately humored, as if John's poor attempt at describing elderly life was better than any joke he had ever heard.
"I feel strange, I'll admit." The priest muttered at last. "Who knows if this is a temporary thing, who knows if my internal organs have followed the same track as my exterior?"
"You mean your heart might still be eighty?" Mary suggested. The man let his shoulders slacken, his hands gripping the sides of his hot teacup in some exasperation.
"Mrs. Watson, how old did you think I was?" the man declared with a daring smile.
"Was." John commented. "What a strange thing to say."
"Perhaps not eighty..." the woman admitted.
"Certainly not! That's the Bishop's job, being evenly divisible by forty." Father Holmes defended, taking a daring sip of his tea so as to make sure it was not hot enough to burn his mouth. He smacked his lips in regret, setting the cup down and blowing very slightly upon the rising steam.
"Father, do you have any guess as to what happened?" John asked at last, rather tired of this small talk in which everyone accepted what they saw and moved on. Certainly there was something else behind it, something that might explain this unbelievable phenomenon! For a moment the priest hesitated, as if he was making up a reasonable version of the truth in his head.
"I don't know, I was dreaming of...of angels. I remember this clearly. And one reached down, and kissed me on the forehead, and when I woke up I felt rather odd. So I went to the bathroom and splashed water upon my face, and when I looked up I saw myself in this form. Saw myself as I would have when I was first ordained, all those years ago." Father Holmes trembled a bit, steadying his hands by containing them within each other and setting them firmly down upon the cold altar. John nodded, not entirely believing this story but not having any evidence to dispute it with. Certainly there was no other explanation that would make more sense? The priest looked nervous of course, but that didn't exactly mean he was lying.
"And how'd you get into our bedroom?" John asked at last, finding this part to be equally enigmatic. The priest smiled a bit guiltily, but at last revealed a ring of keys from his jacket pocket.
"I may have kept a key or two." he admitted. "But I didn't know what else to do, who else to go to!"
"So you decided to break in and terrorize us! Give me that key, right now!" John demanded, holding out his hand with a very authoritative air. The older priest would never have caved to this pressure, but this newer version, the one which was now so unsure of himself, hesitantly unhooked one of the keys and set it within John's palm.
"Like it or not, I figured you two would be the only ones to believe me. That is, the only ones who might know me enough to realize anything had changed." The priest admitted at last.
"That's so depressing." Mary muttered, leaning her chin within her hands and resting upon the altar.
"Well it's not my fault." Father Holmes defended.
"It might be." John muttered, but when the priest hummed in clarification the man fell silent, pretending he had never said anything to begin with.
"Alright, so what do you plan to do then?" Mary asked, when finally silence had fallen long enough for her next most pressing questions to reveal themselves.
"What is there for me to do?" Father Holmes wondered with some anxiety, shaking his head as he stared up at the mural of Jesus Christ on the wall. He looked rather passionate as he stared into the eyes of his Lord, as if figuring the man was testing him from his throne in Heaven.
"We'll think about all of that later, certainly." John assured. "Let's just, well let's not get all stressed out."
"Easy for you to say." Mary muttered, to which both men gave a little whine of disagreement. Father Holmes sunk his head even lower into his hands, as if he couldn't even express the sort of anxieties which were playing upon his mind.
"I don't know what to think. I don't know whether to be happy or scared, I don't know if this is a blessing or a curse." The priest admitted at last.
"How could it be a curse? You're young again, isn't that what everyone over the age of thirty wishes for?" John wondered with a tilt of his head. The priest laughed for a split second, as if trying to show his enthusiasm without having to stain too much. Certainly it was hard for him to manage a smile now that his head was so twisted with conflicting thoughts and feelings.
"Well of course it could be a curse, for I have to live my life all over again. My twenties were the hardest years of my life, watching my peers and friends getting married and having children, getting jobs and settling down. It was hard to keep to my vows and keep to my path of faith." The priest admitted at last.
"Well, maybe it'll be easier now that you don't have friends." Mary suggested. Almost as soon as the words slipped from her mouth she covered her lips in desperation, as if only now wondering how rude those words would be. Both men stared at her; more in disbelief than anything, for even John didn't know Mary to be so insolent.
"Sorry, sorry." she whispered at last, to which the priest managed another smile and nodded it off.
"What you're saying, basically, is that you're going to have to spend another prime decade of your life as a virgin?" John presumed at last, to which the priest's face reddened and Mary let loose an exclamation of accomplishment, probably happy to not have been the only one making this situation uncomfortable.
"No, no! Of course not that." Father Holmes demanded. His voice was not as strong as it might have been if he had been completely confident in his answer, and even as he slouched down within his chair he didn't look all together comfortable with the situation.
"This would be so much weirder if you were still seventy." Mary muttered with a sigh.
"Was never seventy, but you're getting closer." Father Holmes snapped.
"Well, let's just assume it's a blessing and move on. Make the most if it, Father. Try to live a little, now that you've got a second chance." John suggested.
"No, no I have no interest in living." The man snarled, to which Mary chuckled a little bit but eventually fell silent.
"Maybe that's why you're getting a redo. Even God understood how pathetic you were." John suggested.
"Maybe so." Father Holmes agreed. "But I figure he'll have appreciated my determination. Why would he make me restart it, and live through it again?"
"Maybe it's not God pulling the strings." John suggested quietly. The Father grimaced, nodding his head and staring blankly into his tea cup, the liquid now rapidly cooling without a single sip being taken.
"That's what I fear the most." Father Holmes agreed. For a long while it lingered in the silence they had created, no one feeling brave enough to follow up that grim comment with a more cheerful topic of conversation. It was rather difficult to comment on the lovely weather when the Devil's presence had just been suggested.