Leviticus 20:13

Make New Potential Acquaintances, But Keep the Old

Sherlock POV: Sherlock felt somewhat defeated as he watched Mr. Watson's retreating back, suddenly realizing just how abrupt he was being. He scared that poor man, he had...well he had been too straight forward, too nosey. And yet something about Mr. Watson, something strange, made Sherlock want to get closer. A feeling that was previously unknown to him was begging him to follow him out the door; it was commanding him with everything he did around that poor man, instructing him through all of their brief little encounters. It wasn't Sherlock intention to scare the man, it hadn't even been his intention to call him over and hold his hand firmly in between his own...Oh why had he done that? Sherlock leaned with his back against the wooden door, knowing fully well that the ushers were all lingering behind him, observing his moment of self-hatred and revelation. But what did they know, what could they observe? They probably hadn't seen Sherlock's sudden confrontation and rejection, they probably didn't notice the way his hands, still with the lingering sensation of Mr. Watson's skin, were shaking fearfully, regretfully. He knew that he wasn't the best at making friends, and to be honest he didn't know what it was about Mr. Watson that suddenly made him so desperate to get closer and yet he knew that he had to. There were mysteries surrounding that man, mysteries as to why he was even at this church at all, why he was crying through his prayers, why he was always so pale and exhausted. And Rosie, who was Rosie? His wife, most likely, surely a man such as Mr. Watson wasn't without a beautiful woman on his arm. Was he praying for his wife, for his children, for his family? Was his wife sick, and therefore couldn't attend mass for herself, was he praying on her behalf? Sherlock shouldn't be stuck playing the guessing game, especially if this poor man seemed to want his privacy. And yet Sherlock was becoming more and more obsessed with the tragedies that surrounded that man, the secrets and the feelings that radiated him like a strange aura. Sherlock knew that he had to be a little bit more conscientious, surely he had been coming on much too strong, and yet there had to be a way, a way to help him and a way to know him, without scaring him half to death. That had been Sherlock's last mass of the day, and after a full Sunday of preaching and teaching and singing he was becoming more and more tired by the minute. Despite the few parishioners who still dotted the pews Sherlock walked up the altar and slipped in through the side door, finding that he was alone once again. So Sherlock silently changed out of his ceremonial robes and donned his usual black on black garb, an outfit that looked tragically emo without the white collar to prove his holiness. Sherlock then (after quickly checking his reflection in the mirror above the sink) walked out the side door, slipping out into the dusk knowing full well that the ushers would watch over anyone who was still lingering about. It was only about four thirty and yet with the winter in full swing the sun was sinking earlier, and so the darkness was just starting to take hold as Sherlock started down the sidewalk to the rectory. The house stood still and silent, its windows dark and unoccupied. Father Turner was out doing who knows what and Greg was out doing no one wanted to know what, leaving Sherlock to unlock the door and walk into the eerily empty house. He turned on a couple of lights along the way, and yet with the old, renovated house a single light only did so much to illuminate all the cracks and crevices in this old mansion. Sometimes Sherlock would swear it was haunted, and of course Greg agreed without a shadow of a doubt, and yet Father Turner always assured them that they were making things up. He claimed that the floor creaked and the heaters made noises and the plumbing was a disaster, and while all Sherlock had to prove his claims was mysterious footsteps and creaks in the hallways Greg would swear he saw the apparition of a woman in a white dress walking through his bedroom wall. Now, despite Greg's firm belief, Sherlock also happened to know that during this occurrence Greg had been hitting the bottle pretty hard (unknown to Father Turner of course) and his 'ghost' was probably just some hardcore vodka induced hallucination. There was no real rule against drinking as a priest, and yet Father Turner strongly disapproved whenever Greg came home with a bottle of whatever it was he was drinking that night. Sherlock had no problem with alcohol; in fact he was feeling the urge to treat himself to the smallest of sips from Greg's stores, just to clear his head. Priesthood had never faced him with such challenges before; usually his job was easy and straight forward and yet tonight, well, tonight had been different. Suddenly his path wasn't clear cut ahead of him, suddenly there was an obstacle, a social obstacle to be exact, and everything he said and did from this moment on would determine whatever future he may have with Mr. Watson. Sherlock sought friendship of course, or at least something a bit more than whatever awkward interactions they were forcing themselves to have now, however he knew that if he continued doing whatever he was doing now Mr. Watson would most likely switch churches or leave his faith behind him all together. It was always a tragedy when someone lost faith, especially someone so young, and yet the number of atheists these days was shockingly high. People just didn't believe anymore. Back in the old days they had believed in Gods simply because they had no other explanation for the world around them, the rain, the mountains, the seasons changing. Now with science they were becoming increasingly aware, and suddenly they decided that because of a little chemistry they could turn their backs on everything their ancestors believed in, ignoring the larger picture. Maybe they knew how clouds worked, but who created the process? Maybe they understood how the earth was created, but who willed it to happen? They claimed to understand evolution and yet they failed to decipher how life had started in the first place. They insulted themselves, claiming that they were all part monkey, or at least having sprung from the beasts. Didn't they believe that God wanted more for mankind, and therefore created them in his image? Did they really think nature would condemn them to be the half cousins of those hairy, filthy animals? Sherlock had been trained to respect the Father, to thank the Son, and to embrace the Holy Spirit. Surely a bunch of chemical reactions and moving continents wasn't enough to change his mind? Sherlock was following his mother's beliefs and his mother's directions; he was going to follow God as far as God was willing to take him. He pledged himself to this life and he certainly wasn't going to turn back anytime soon. If others were losing faith that was all the better reason to stay true to his values and his beliefs, and surely he couldn't turn back now. Sherlock grabbed a small glass from the cabinet and rooted around under the sink for Greg's back up whiskey. He tried to hide it from the others in the house, and yet he strategically placed it where they kept all the sponges and garbage bags so they were bound to spot the bottle while they were trying to do some last minute cleaning. Sherlock grabbed the bottle and made his way over to the sitting room, keeping the kitchen light on so that he had some background light since the sitting room was only illuminated by lamps. Sherlock then fingered through their collection of records, just some stupid stuff that Greg had bought for the old record player that was here when they had moved in. Thankfully Sherlock had invested in some classical music, and so he was able to sift through the AC/DC and Metallica to get to Bach. Sherlock fitted the record into the player and let it spin, starting off with beautiful violin that made him smile sweetly. This was one of the only nice things about being in the rectory, or being alone here at least. It was a very cozy house, despite its creaking floors and its shadowy appearance, it had been lived in and it felt welcoming. It was only too easy to sit down in a chair, illuminated only by the orange glow of a single lamp, and enjoy some whiskey while listening to beautiful music. Sherlock poured himself a glass and sat back in one of the old arm chairs, also one of the ancient pieces that had been left along with the house. It creaked and it rocked, however it proved to be a very comfortable spot, one of Sherlock's favorite chairs in the whole house in fact. He took a couple of sips and immediately his mind was calmed, suddenly the thoughts and stressors of Mr. John Watson dissolved the moment that alcohol burned its way down his throat. Sherlock was able to sit back carelessly, kick off his shoes and stick his feet up on the coffee table, not necessarily caring what anyone thought. He thought of life, he thought of love, he thought of God. And yet the more he tried to relax the more Mr. Watson started to plague his imagination. In some mad fantasy Sherlock liked to invasion himself with the life of a commoner, a parishioner who lived without such strict rules and who was allowed to have their own life and family. He had always imagined himself with a family, a family with very hallow personalities and falsified feelings, and yet it was probably only the idea of commitment to another human being that Sherlock was attracted to. His imaginative wife of choice changed every time, as did the hallucinated kids, they all changed because no matter what Sherlock did to imagine them and enjoy their presence there always seemed to be something wrong. He could imagine the most beautiful woman sharing his house and his bed and yet it was always a very forceful feeling of love and satisfaction. Sherlock had always tried to remind himself that the reason his suburban fantasies hadn't turned out perfect was because he knew there was a better option, a more efficient option. He tried to remind himself that God was the only true source of happiness, and maybe that was why Sherlock simply couldn't feel anything for his ever changing family of thought. And yet now, sitting back in his chair with his mind deranged with drink, he imagined a different life. A more quiet life, a more secluded life. And there wasn't a woman, nor were there any children. When Sherlock imagined his happiness suddenly he imagined a man. A very particular man at that, a blonde man, rather short yet rather muscular, smiling softly at Sherlock from wherever his happiness took him. Maybe he saw Mr. Watson on his supposed front porch, the two of them sitting on longing wooden chairs and watching the sunset, or maybe it was at the dinner table, just the two of them, with a mound of messy dishes piled up on the counter as a reminder of the consequences of a good meal. Or maybe he was just there, maybe it was just the very idea that through Sherlock's house of dreams there was another person, not a person he necessarily loved but a person that appreciated him and admired him. Someone who would be there just for the sake of being there, but with feelings not controlled simply by Sherlock's imagination, feeling that were genuine to his character. Maybe Sherlock clung so desperately to the idea of John's presence because he was the only new person in his life, the only man or woman who had managed to catch his attention and his association so quickly. Mr. Watson interested Sherlock, as an acquaintance and nothing more of course, which made Sherlock wonder just what he was doing in his imaginative fairytale ending. Sherlock's fantasies were ended abruptly by the opening of the front door, making the poor priest nearly double over in fear. Thankfully it was just Greg, and yet the shock of being interrupted so loudly and without any warning made Sherlock set his empty glass down in horror, rubbing his eyes and glaring at Greg accusingly.