As God Intended

You Can't Take God Out Of The Priest

It turned out that their destination was not too far away, and after only a couple of moments they were pulling up through the collecting storm into the bathing light of neon signs, the glow of pinks and blues igniting the nearly overflowing parking lot as they entered onto the gravel.
"A bar?" Sherlock presumed, looking about at the clientele as they wandered about under the overhanging roof, smoking cigarettes and emitting large plumes of foul odor. John was silent as he pulled into the parking lot, as if he was deliberately not answering that question. When he killed the engine the car fell silent, and all that could be heard was the banging of the rain upon the roof of the car and the heavy breathing from both confined men. They were parked a couple of rows away from the large building, though Sherlock could tell that the smokers were straining their eyes to spy on the incoming costumers.
"Sherlock, I'm going to be honest." John said at last.
"Oh no." Sherlock whispered, his mind jumping once more to the worst case scenario.
"No, don't freak out. It's a bar, sort of. We can get dinner and drinks, but I've brought you for a more important reason." John said finally, turning in his seat to face the priest outright. Sherlock's face grew pale, and by now he had one hand on the door handle, ready to rush out of the vehicle and escape certain doom.
"What's that, exactly?" Sherlock whispered nervously. John reached into his pocket, making Sherlock wince, though it wasn't a weapon he drew. In fact it seemed to be a wad of cash; ones and fives all rolled up into a very pleasing shape and tied with a rubber band.
"Sherlock, this is a strip club. And I want you to hire one of the girls." John announced at last. Whatever the priest had been expecting it certainly wasn't that, though the reaction was just as potent as it would have been if there really was a murder conspiracy. Sherlock gave a scream, so loud that the smokers on the other side of the parking lot were alerted, and before long he had unstrapped his seatbelt and scrambled out into the muddy parking lot, jumping around in the rain and prepared to make a run for it back to the city.
"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "No way, absolutely...John are you out of your mind?"
"Sherlock get in the car!" John demanded, "Take that collar off!"
"I'm not going into a strip club!" Sherlock insisted, stomping his feet into the puddles and making a big scene for the group of men which were standing and enjoying the show.
"Yes you are! You haven't had sex for one hundred years!"
"I'm sixty, John, SIXTY!" Sherlock wailed.
"Oh who cares, that's still depressing!" John assured, scrambling out of the car as he shoved the money into his pocket and locked the doors behind him. Well now with the car excluded from being a safe haven (Sherlock had sort of played himself on that one) his only two options were to follow John inside or stand out in the rain. The latter seemed much more preferable, though here came John, marching up towards him in the pouring rain and grabbing at his neck.
"Don't kill me, don't kill me!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping backwards and running away from John's grip. Only now did he realize that those large neon lights were projecting shapes of women for the whole highway to see, a rather obvious set up that should've alerted him of the situation from the beginning.
"Come here!" John growled, at last grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and restraining him into a bear hug, keeping the squirming priest in one spot as he did his best to snatch the collar out of his shirt.
"I'm being attacked!" Sherlock screeched, hoping to alert the defense of the smokers. "Help, help!"
"Shut up!" John growled, finally snatching the collar and the rosary from Sherlock and holding them both within his clenched fist. "No God tonight, Sherlock."
"You can't take God out of a priest!"
"That's disgusting." John insisted, stepping a couple of paces back before shoving the stolen items into the jacket of his coat.
"You know what I mean! I'm not going in." Sherlock insisted, crossing his arms and nodding his head in assurance.
"I'll drag you." John warned.
"And I'll call the cops!" Sherlock insisted. "You're being a bad friend!"
"I'm trying to help you! No wonder you're always so cranky." John growled.
"You think that...that sex is directly linked to mood?" Sherlock asked miserably.
"In my experience it is." John agreed.
"Well it's not true! I'm not going in, and you can't make me." Sherlock declared. At last John's proud shoulders sagged, and for a moment he looked a bit hesitant to use any more force against the priest. Certainly he realized that the struggle would be more trouble than it was worth, and if Sherlock wasn't willing to go into the building he certainly wasn't going to be entertaining any of the women. It would be a hopeless battle if it was fought at all, and John seemed to realize this as he stared across the rain into his companion's determined eyes. At long last his arms fell to his sides in defeat, and with a growl he walked up, pushed Sherlock lightly as if simply to shake him out of whatever righteous fit he had fallen into, and turned back to the car in defeat.
"You're f*cking annoying, Sherlock." John declared.
"And you're...you're f*cking pushy!" Sherlock screamed back, waving his arms around in exasperation as his curls began to soak and stick upon his forehead. John paused, turning back with the car keys in his hand and staring at the priest in astonishment.
"Did you just swear?" he clarified with a chuckle. Sherlock winced, pressing his hand against his mouth with a sharp, terrified realization. The only thing he could do in response was the sign of the cross, closing his eyes anxiously and awaiting the lightning strike of God's wrath to strike him down in the parking lot.
"Get in the car, Sherlock. We'll go to a club then." John decided.
"What's a club?" Sherlock whined.
"It's got no naked people, but it's got a dance floor." John promised. Sherlock paused, imagining a nice ballroom with couples meandering around doing the tango. In his head that sounded quite ideal, and so he scampered up to the car and huddled back inside, this time soaking wet and quite inconvenienced by the whole episode. John looked even more enraged, and as he settled behind the wheel he could only look towards his passenger with a look of utmost disappointment.
"You're annoying." He repeated.
"I'm only doing my job!" Sherlock insisted with a little stamp of protest.
"You don't have to be a priest twenty four hours of the day!" John protested.
"Yes I do! It's a lifestyle, not just a job!" Sherlock defended. John sighed again, starting up the engine and turning the heating vents on full blast. Hopefully they could saunter into this dance floor not looking as if they had jumped into a shower and back. Thankfully he began to drive away, the tires crunching along through the gravel as they began to distance themselves farther away from the terrible place. With every mile gained upon the road Sherlock began to feel a bit better, though his stomach was still turning in utmost humiliation. He felt as though he could never trust John Watson again, or at least never trust him behind the wheel! It was a disgrace that he hadn't been prepared for, and without his annoying tenacity he might've been forced into a hellish situation! The sort of temptation he was prepared to bow to was John's own advances, not some desperate woman looking to make a quick buck! Not even a woman at all. Sherlock shuttered at the thought of it, huddled in a small ball and leaning against the door in an attempt to stay as far away from John Watson as he could. He didn't dare ask for his rosary back, figuring that John would take good care of it while it was in his possession. Besides, he shouldn't be wearing that sort of stuff in these strange establishments anyway. Not even on a dance floor should he look like he was saving room for Jesus.
"Alright, I'll say I'm sorry." John decided at last. "I hate the silent treatment."
"I'm not..." Sherlock faltered, not having deliberately left the conversation hanging. All the same he smiled, happy to hear some sort of regret. "Apology accepted." He said at last.
"I just feel bad for you, that's all. I guess I should've warned you beforehand." John grumbled.
"That would have been the professional thing to do." Sherlock agreed.
"One of these days Sherlock, I'll break you." John promised, waving a dedicated finger in Sherlock's direction while keeping his eye on the now busy city road. Sherlock smiled weakly, not wanting to get too caught up in the exact phrasing of such a bold claim. It would be an honor to be broken by John Watson, with no inclusion of a third party. Thankfully their next destination was not nearly as intimidating, though there was a large man at the door who was checking ID's for all who entered. Even Sherlock and John, who were both visibly over the drinking age, had to show their cards at the door. Sherlock was rather excited about this one, expecting to hear ballroom music any moment now. He was trying to remember if he remembered any of the steps from the waltz, which he had learned in his school days with his brother as his teacher. In those days he was obsessed with dancing, one of the only loves he had in his childhood which was accepted and even embraced by his parents. Surely he could provide a compliment to anyone on the dance floor, and a talented one at that! John led Sherlock through the door, though once again the poor priest was met with something he didn't entirely expect. There was no ballroom music; in fact there was no ballroom at all! John's definition of a dance floor didn't exactly match with Sherlock's, as his ears were assaulted with the loud, screeching techno music that the kids listened to these days. And the dance floor proved just to be some illuminated tiles upon the open floor, with people jumping up and down and bumping into each other in a mad, drunken frenzy.
"What is this?" Sherlock wondered nervously, hoping that there was a tamer section of dancers somewhere in the back.
"It's a club." John laughed, as if he was wondering how that wasn't entirely obvious.
"I thought you said there would be dancing!" Sherlock protested, having to raise his voice over the loud music just to be heard by his companion only inches away. John laughed again, hooking his arm around Sherlock's shoulder and leading him through the darkness to the illuminated bar. The entire place was lit up in blue neon, with people falling along the counters and stumbling upon their stools. There were glasses littered everywhere, with stray alcoholic puddles soaking in through the hardwood floors. The entire place stank of drinks and sweat, and from what Sherlock could see of the dance floor no one was minding personal space. He was appalled by the level of fearlessness he saw in those young people, though it took him a moment to remember that he was that age these days! If he hadn't taken this path all of those years ago, well perhaps this would have been a part of his youthful years. It wasn't nearly as bad as the strip club, and so Sherlock figured he ought to make the best of it. If they didn't go onto the dance floor there would be no trouble at all, it would be just like sitting at a very noisy bar.
"How much liquor can you take?" John asked, settling himself upon one of the stools and batting away a wandering drunk to secure a seat next to him for Sherlock. The priest scrambled atop of the padded seat, swinging his legs back and forth uncomfortably as he tried his best to listen to John's exact words.
"I drink!" he agreed.
"How much?" John called back.
"Um... a lot?" Sherlock admitted. To be honest his greatest pass time as a priest was to drink, and so his tolerance was much higher than the average person. All the same he had been drinking mostly wine, and whatever would be coming from this bar would probably be much more potent than that.
"Alright then. Bartender!" John called, waving for the attention of a rather tired looking man on the other side of the bar. "Two large beers, two shots of your most potent liquor, and a plate of wings."
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Sherlock clarified with a nervous little giggle, trying to lean upon the bar but coming up with a sleeve covered in a mysterious sticky liquid.
"Yes." John admitted truthfully, grinning at his friend as he gladly accepted the first of their order from the bartender. This came in the form of their beer, two large and frothing pints that were pouring out over the rims of their tall glasses. Sherlock gaped, never having seen such a gigantic drink before.
"That'll knock me right over." he muttered, and though that sounded a bit more like an exciting challenge than a daunting task. He was feeling much more comfortable with this place, considering everyone seemed to be keeping their clothes on. John seemed to have learned his lesson, at least in regards to hooking Sherlock up with random strangers, and he may just be more cooperative in the hours to come. Together they sipped at their beers, shouting common small talk across the foot of space which separated them. It was a loud, miserable place to have a conversation. Though as Sherlock's beer began to settle within his blood he felt at least a bit more confident to lean in and make himself heard, until at long last they were basically holding their mouths to the other's ear without minding the space or intimacy involved. When their beers were drained their clinked their shot glasses in a toast to little Hamish, knocking back the drinks into their throats and leaving poor Sherlock coughing and spluttering, feeling the burning liquid seethe down his throat and warm his stomach from the inside out. He gave a hoot of amazement, his eyes growing wide and the music becoming a bit softer, as if the room was accommodating him and his coming conversations.
"John I'm going to die tonight!" he exclaimed with a great smile upon his face, taking up one of the chicken wings with both hands and taking a large bite, disregarding where exactly the bone may be hiding within the meat.
"Good to hear!" John called back in agreement, patting Sherlock upon the shoulder and watching as he smeared the barbeque sauce upon his face and fingers. The priest was quite happy, for his legs had gone almost completely numb and he felt as if he was floating in midair, the stool feeling quite negligible underneath him. There was a very excited feeling within his stomach, one which he couldn't subdue with adding more chicken wings, and before long he was rubbing his fingers in the excess liquid upon the bar, trying to clean them off without getting up to wash off in the bathroom. Anxiously the bartender grabbed the two men some disposable wipes, tossing the little packages in their direction with a sneer.
"Oh my God! He just gave us..." Sherlock's mouth dropped open, holding up the small paper square in amazement.
"Wipes, Sherlock." John agreed, grabbing one and unfolding it from the little envelope. Sherlock nodded in amazement, unraveling his own as a tear drop collected within his eye.
"He's so nice! Thank you bartender, thank you!" Sherlock called out, patting his hands against the wooden edge of the bar to get the nice man's attention. The bartender, who looked as if he was used to this sort of reaction, simply gave an apprehensive smile before turning back to whatever it was he was already working on. "He's so nice." Sherlock repeated again, turning back to John and batting uselessly at his wet wipe.
"I thought you said you could hold your alcohol?" John chuckled, catching Sherlock's flailing fingers and wiping them off when he saw that Sherlock was incapable of doing such a small task for himself.
"Ya, ya I can. Look!" Sherlock agreed, holding up his empty glass of beer as if to demonstrate that he was capable of picking things up. John merely groaned, shaking his head in exasperation.
"Good job Sherlock." He agreed.

"You call me Sherlock a lot." The priest commented.
"Yes, that's because it's your name." John agreed.
"No one's called me Sherlock since I got ordained. No one except you." Sherlock pointed out, sitting upon his stool with an almost childlike look of boredom upon his face. He was hanging his arms down at his sides, with his head dropped low and nervous upon his chest.
"Well that's because I'm the first one who cared to have you as a friend." John pointed out. "Now hold still, you've got sauce all over your face."
"You're going to touch my face?" Sherlock clarified. "No one's done that either!"
"You idiot, hold still." John said again, wrestling to grab Sherlock's chin and steady the man's nearly swiveling head. At the touch of his fingers Sherlock held still, staring into John's eyes with some fixation. As John wiped up the mess of barbeque Sherlock continually opened and closed his mouth, trying to make such a simple little task a little more exciting for the nice friend he had.
"Are you going to clean my mouth?" Sherlock wondered through a gape, wiggling his tongue to demonstrate that there was undoubtedly some sauce smeared upon his teeth.
"My God, Sherlock you're completely wasted." John commented, withdrawing his hand and letting Sherlock manually close his own jaw, pressing it up with one of his now cleaned hands and settling more comfortably in his chair.
"I know, right. My life is wasted." Sherlock agreed with a sigh. "But that's really no fault of mine."
"Oh it definitely is." John assured. "You're the one who wanted to go and marry God."
"It was my parent's idea, not mine." Sherlock defended, crossing his arms over his chest in a huff. "I wanted to marry Clark Gable. But he was dead by then."
"What on earth are you talking about?" John chuckled, leaning in and pulling Sherlock by his shoulder to get a better advantage point. The music was becoming louder than ever, though in Sherlock's mind it was the mere tinkling of a jewelry box, soft and gentle like a brushing against his ear.
"I'm talking about my backstory!" the priest admitted loudly, wondering what part of this John didn't yet understand.
"What about Clark Gable?" John clarified, stiffening his grip on Sherlock's shoulder to keep the wavering priest upright.
"I wanted to marry him!" Sherlock called out loudly, leaning forward and backwards and wondering just how far he could go without toppling out of his chair. He knew it was underneath him somewhere, though his entire lower body seemed to have vanished and he couldn't feel anything below the waist.
"That's an odd choice." John commented.
"I know, I know. But it's not my fault he was dead." Sherlock defended with a huff.
"Sherlock, are you gay?" John yelled in clarification, to which the priest wobbled a little bit and managed a large smile across his face.
"I am so happy, yes!" Sherlock agreed, nodding his head back and forth and swaying to the music.
"No, like...like gay! Like a homosexual!" John clarified. Sherlock sat back for a moment, pawing at John's hand upon his shoulder with confusion. For a moment he sucked upon his bottom lip, pondering such a question and trying to determine the answer that John was looking for. Well, all he knew about love was that he was supposed to love God, and God was a man, was he not? So...
"Yes!" Sherlock called out. "Let's dance!" Suddenly the priest jumped from his chair, stumbling onto the hardwood with legs that were wobbling at the knees, looking about ready to topple over at any moment.