As God Intended

A Preoccupied Priest

It took a week to learn the Latin, though Sherlock may have been dragging his feet some while in an attempt to spare himself of the trouble which was yet to come. These past few nights had been rough for poor Hamish, and as Sherlock stagnated with his due response the poor child had taken down the curtains across his window and splintered the door throughout his powerful dreams. The nursery was becoming something more of a warzone, and this was even before the baby new of his abilities! What kind of child would he grow to be if he was able to control them to do his bidding? Might they accidentally raise a criminal, one who was not so used to getting denied? Sherlock knew that the time was approaching, especially since the scene was cleared of any unnecessary players. With Mary Watson still hiding in her parents' house it was safe to proceed with whatever plans he was hatching, in fact every day they wasted had the potential to be their last. It would be impossible to go about his preferred plan with that woman in the way, meaning that tonight may undoubtedly be the night. The exorcism was memorized to perfection, and while Sherlock now kept the book of demonology in his jacket at all times he wanted to be able to recite it line from line, just in case he was separated from his spell. For now the man had to prepare himself not for his most immediate actions, but also the consequence of those which were to come. He knew that tonight may amount to be the most eventful of his entire life, holding both love and Lucifer, though the aftermath had the potential to bring each attribute of his new life crashing down. Sherlock knew that whatever gifts this demon had granted would be expelled when he banished him back into the underworld, and the very temptation of this was undoubtedly why he had been gifted his youth in the first place! Sherlock found it difficult to so freely give away his new good looks, especially when he considered the divide it would put between himself and his newfound love interest. If this blessing wore away he would be left in the shriveled shell he had originated in, that wrinkled old man who had not a week left of life expectancy! He couldn't expect John Watson to love him in such a form, in fact he could hardly justify spending time with the Watsons as if nothing had changed at all! His life would have to be uprooted, and at what cost? Oh but one step at a time, one step at a time! For now the priest had to prepare for the tip of the ice burg before he dove into the dark, icy depths to examine the rest. He had to accustom himself with what he was going to do next, and in doing so he felt that he needed to become comfortable in a more vulnerable form. Sherlock stepped into his personal bathroom, the one inside of the rectory which was shielded with patterned curtains and secured with a lock on the door. He almost felt silly as he examined the room for weaknesses, though it made him feel better to know that not even the squirrels on the tree would be witnesses to his rather obscure actions. At first Sherlock examined his face under the electric light, feeling along the smooth ridges of his face and touching the perkiness of his lips. It was a strange thing to be staring at his reflection in the mirror, something he never focused on with too much concern in his priestly days. Admiring yourself was linked to the sin of pride and was not widely regarded within the church. In fact there were hardly any mirrors in the seminary at all! Priests were supposed to take their appearance as God's will and trust him to keep it presentable, and above all else they were not allowed to value their good looks as a part of their character or capabilities. Sherlock had always been blessed with beauty, though it had only been in these recent weeks that he had come to appreciate it. Perhaps this had been the help of John Watson, for as that man started to realize it, so too did the oblivious priest. John's admiring eyes and careful words had giving Sherlock the self confidence boost he had needed, and so today in the mirror he felt more radiant than he ever had before. Perhaps this was simply because he knew he was allowed to appreciate himself, for his mind had been separated by the strange rules of the seminary for some time now. Oh but besides that, besides the admiration of youth! Sherlock was here not to poke at his face but to undress, which sounded like a rather simple task that one might take for granted. Well of course the priest had taken showers before, though aside from that he had never been caught in his naked form, especially without water or steam to hide himself from even his own eyes. Sherlock had never been presented in front of an audience before, and if he truly wanted to take a large step in the direction of John Watson, well he would have to prepare himself for the humiliation that would have to come along with the pleasure which followed. He would have to prepare himself for an audience, and in that he had to make sure that he could stand for more than thirty seconds undressed in the open air. Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as his fingers found the first button of his shirt. Oh it was silly to be so afraid, for he had made sure he was alone and unwatched within this small bathroom! Though his intentions were to get his nerves out now, and so while his fingers were shaking he figured they might be still later tonight, if ever his intentions became reality. Slowly he worked his way down the button down shirt, revealing his glistening white chest to the mirror as he hastily worked the white collar away from his neck, setting it upon the porcelain sink and shimmying his arms out of the fabric which enclosed them. the priest's shirt fell to the floor all the white his wooden rosary remained about his neck, a small garment which he found nearly impossible to take off. It may be silly, though the weight of the cross against his now bare chest gave him some security to proceed the rest of the way. He felt as if he was being comforted by a God who did not yet understand his intentions, though nevertheless was there to support him along the way. Now would be the hardest part, in this bathroom and in that bedroom, the only obstacle that manifested in a solid, almost unbreakable fashion. His belt. Sherlock had spent much of his life fastening the thing tighter and tighter across his waist, so much so that the very idea of unfastening it and loosening the leather almost made him sick. It was the only definitive action he remembered from his interaction with Father James, the only motions that he could recite from memory. While he knew what followed next, it was more of a blur in his mind, perhaps his brain's way of shielding him from the trauma exact memory might produce. But the belt, the unclasping and unraveling of his small black belt inside of that office, well that memory was crystal clear. Even as his own fingers reached for the brass buckle he could almost see those aged hands reaching, and as he steadied his grip across the strap he could remember the words which were accompanying the motions.
"Our little secret." Sherlock whispered to himself, wincing as he took the clasp in his hand and ripped the belt from its restraints. Slowly he pulled the thing from its loops, allowing it to fall to the tile floor along with his shirt. The priest took a deep breath, telling himself that he was the only one, telling himself that his own hands did not mimic those of that twisted old man. He was in control, and he was alone. Carefully the priest discarded the rest of his clothes to the growing pile, pulling his legs from his trousers and finally standing naked in the bathroom but for the rosary which still hung undaunted across his chest. For a while the priest was unable to stare at his reflection, he was much too afraid to find any flaw within his reflection, anything which might be considered ugly in the eyes of John Watson. He did not like to see himself in this way, and as the cold air pressed upon his skin he felt more vulnerable than ever in his life. The slight breeze from the struggling air conditioner mimicked fingertips across his stomach, the touch of the floor froze his bare feet, and in such an awkward position he could hardly let his hands fall anywhere but at his sides! Sherlock struggled, though at last he opened his eyes once more to examine his reflection in the poor bathroom mirror. He looked upon himself, now in his most natural form, and wondered just how he might be presented to a different set of eyes. He grimaced at himself, though slowly leaned forward and settled his hands upon the sink, leaning the whole of his weight as he stared more intently at his face upon a set of bare shoulders. He was beginning to grow used to this situation, this nakedness within a setting of complete privacy. The open air did not sting as he expected it to, nor did any insects on the wall suddenly fall over and die at the shock of it. It confirmed his theory and strengthened his mindset knowing that he had the potential to stand unclothed within complete stagnation. Though he was still not sure of his most pressing question, one which may not be answered from his own perspective. Yes, he could be naked, but more importantly, could he be beautiful?