As God Intended

A Strange Assortment of Neighbors

"Breakfast, then?" Mary presumed, coming over to ruffle her husband's hair and get him moving a bit quicker.
"I should head back over to the rectory, really." Sherlock insisted.
"What sort of pressing business do you have over there?" John wondered, commenting upon the urgency in Sherlock's voice. The priest hesitated, wondering what his rush really was. Perhaps it was just spawned out of his eagerness to get out of this church and allow the Watsons to get on with their day. It was what, a Wednesday perhaps? Maybe Thursday? Either way it was a work day, and certainly these two had something to do with their lives?
"Well don't you two have work?" Sherlock presumed a bit nervously. Both John and Mary chuckled to themselves, looking sort of guilty as they shrugged their shoulders.
"We're both still settling in. I'm to start with a new company next week, and John's...well who knows what he has planned?" Mary chuckled.
"I said I'll find something! I can probably be a contractor or something." John defended, frowning towards his wife who looked so doubtful.
"And you'd make a great one of course. Lifting wood and painting houses all day, I can just imagine the state of our floors!" Mary exclaimed.
"Well...well at least let me help with breakfast. Despite my performance with the pork roast the other night I am something of a decent cook." Sherlock offered.
"Can you pour cereal and milk then? Impressive." John chuckled, heaving himself into a sitting position and looking quite amused.
"Oh, oh. It's that kind of breakfast." Sherlock muttered.
"We're not fancy here. I hope you like Cheerios." Mary chuckled, scampering off into the kitchen to get everything arranged while the men got to their feet and stretched. Sherlock took a moment to tear his clothes back into place, and while this was going on John was trying and failing to get his blanket out from where it had gotten wedged between the couch cushions. He was commenting with some foul language about how it was stuck on a spring, and that was why it wouldn't spread throughout the night. It was an amusing scene, one that was only cut off when Sherlock excused himself to bathroom. He didn't need to be shown the way of course, for this was a route he had mastered throughout his days in this church. He knew every crevice of this church, every chip in the paint, every portrait on the wall. Sherlock had watched this place adapt, evolve, and finally crumble below his feet. And here he was again, staring blankly at the plain white wall of the bathroom. Strange, how suddenly everything was different. Stranger too, how nothing had changed at all. As Sherlock washed his hands he got his first opportunity to look into a proper mirror, not a reflection within a door or a bulletin board. He was able to stare at himself, make eye contact with his reflection, and go back thirty years in time. Sherlock looked just the same as when he started within this church, the same as that bumbling, clueless twenty year old who was lost in the world. It was a terrible shock to be staring into that face once more, the face he imagined was gone from this earth. How could this have happened so suddenly, how could his world have been turned upside down and his years erased? It was the work of the Devil, no doubt, and it would take all the willpower he had not to take advantage of it. As he had admitted to over the altar last night, these years were the hardest of his life. It was a crying shame to waste such looks to a life of religion and solidarity, and it seemed as though all but one percent of his common sense was able to realize this. That one percent, however, had all of the control and all of the say. That was dedicated to God, not the commoner, and was able to steer Sherlock in the direction that had been paved for him his entire life. Sherlock followed the trek that God had left, simply because he never realized there was another way to go. A powerful knock was able to bring Sherlock away from his reflection and back into the world, jumping at such a quick, unannounced aggression.
"Come on priest, you better not be admiring yourself in there!" John's voice warned. Sherlock yanked the door open immediately, giving John something of an unamused stare. The man stood on the other side of the door frame, still standing in his pajamas with his hair disheveled and his smirk quite perky even for this hour of morning.
"Sorry." Sherlock muttered, stepping out and allowing John to work his way inside.
"Wait until you're in your own house." John warned, shutting and locking the door as a last word. Sherlock nodded, not entirely following John's logic but deciding it was time to let the conversation drop all the same. Very quickly he made his way back into the church, seeing already that Mary had arranged their breakfast upon the great marble altar. The yellow box of cereal looked quite pathetic in the place that the golden chalices used to sit, the carton of milk looking quite subpar when compared to the rich altar wine. Despite how mediocre these items were in comparison, their reasoning was somewhat more inviting, and Sherlock had to smile as he settled himself down upon one of the high top chairs, feeling more at home at the altar than he ever had before. For there was finally someone looking back at him, smiling with her soft eyes and her friendly face. A friend, rather than an audience. A woman who cared about him, not just what he had to say. Someone more conversational than God ever could be. That morning was the first that Sherlock began to realize the truth behind the sale of his church, one which he first considered to be a tragedy. He began to realize how lucky he had become to have God move out and the Watsons move in.