Leviticus 20:13

Never Be Afraid To Cry

Sherlock was off that morning, that whole day in fact. Greg and Father Turner shared Monday's mass schedule, and so Sherlock was left to wander freely wherever he wanted while his fellow coworkers were forced to don their robes and preach to the small crowd every other hour and a half. It was wonderful to get to enjoy sleep while he heard the others shuffling around and getting ready for the day, knowing that while they had to get up and get dressed he got to lay snuggled in his warm blankets for as long as he pleased. Sherlock enjoyed his day off first by sleeping in until ten o'clock, sleeping off whatever buzzed feeling he had the night before and awakening without the scarcest trace of a headache. He felt refreshed, to say the least, and he knew full well that the house would be empty. Greg had mass at seven, and Father Turner always went to the diner for breakfast and he would most likely leave from there to the church to take over at ten thirty. So Sherlock got up slowly, pulling his thin robe over his bare chest and shuffling down the stairs to the kitchen. He had a sad yet enjoyable bowl of whatever cereal Greg had stashed away (this time it was Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and sat alone at the breakfast table while he ate. The sun had been up long before he had, and the birds were chirping outside, trying to make their message clear even through the harsh winter wind that had begun to blow. Sherlock always had been a morning person; he could get up rather easily without the need for caffeine or anything else to get him going. Lonely mornings were his personal favorite; where his soul could still rest while his body begun to spring into motion. After breakfast Sherlock got dressed, deciding finally to take a stroll downtown and get a nice earl gray tea from the coffee shop and maybe stop in some stores along the way. Sherlock never bought many unnecessary things, mostly because he didn't have the pocket change for such unnecessary things but also because he barely had any time to meander down town and get them. So maybe today would be his day. Sherlock stashed a twenty dollar bill into his pocket and donned his trench coat, making sure the white collar was clearly visible before brushing out his hair and stepping out into the brisk winter's day. It was Monday, and so the streets were rather desolate at eleven o'clock, and yet he knew that whatever midday stragglers that were out and about would surely all congregate at the coffee shop and enjoy a nice hot drink of whatever it was they fancied. Sherlock made his way down the deserted streets, the barren trees hanging eerily above him, their branches stirring and crackling in the cold wind. The shops were open of course, and yet they weren't overly populated, the shop keepers sat behind their desks in boredom, entertaining themselves with crossword puzzles or television and gazing now and then out onto the sidewalk to see if there was any chance of a passerby. Sherlock snuck into the coffee shop effortlessly, seeing a couple of faces he recognized in the mostly strange crowd. He smiled at a couple of people who smiled back, enjoying their coffee much more than their forceful interactions with the priest. Only old people truly enjoyed talking to him, younger people of the parish most likely felt sorry for him and talked only out of pity, and those who didn't go to his church usually veered away, as if suspecting that just because he was a priest he was going to try to change their religion or manipulate them for some reason. None of these assumptions were right; however he had learned to stay in his lane. He only talked to people if they approached him, most of the time that is. Mr. Watson, well, he was a different case. Sherlock found himself looking for that man every time he found himself in a crowd, which was most likely a very telling sign of obsession. However Sherlock didn't quite know what to do if he had found Mr. Watson, and so it was probably a stroke of good luck when he found that the shop was filled with people who didn't mean anything to him. Sherlock ordered his tea and found a nice window seat, lounging in a comfortable arm chair and forcing himself to enjoy the rather hipster music that was playing gently over the speakers. Men and women of all kinds meandered past; a coffee shop truly was a great place to meet new and interesting people and yet Sherlock didn't open his mouth to talk to any of them. He didn't necessarily want to meet new people; more observe them, from a distance of course. Sherlock found the normal human population to be fascinating, and to be honest he envied each and every one of their individual spirits. What had they decided to do with their lives? What had they gone to college for, who did they love? Sherlock had been trapped in a priest shape mold as he developed, and suddenly he wasn't a human anymore, but a priest. He had almost no form of identity, no form of fashion or individuality. If he continued down the same road he had chosen so many years before he would end up something like Father Turner, a hallowed out man on autopilot until he died, preaching and speaking the word of God without realizing that he was a person and not simply a machine doing the same thing every day of its life. Sherlock envied the people in this coffee shop, the ones who expressed themselves, who tattooed their arms and pieced their noses and died their hair all sorts of crazy colors. They stood out; they reflected their personality onto their bodies for all to see while Sherlock was forced to wear this drab black outfit with the white collar every day of his life. He wasn't allowed to let people see him as anything more than a priest, they weren't allowed to notice that he was human just like them. He wasn't even allowed to decipher himself, to find out who he was and what he would do if he had been freed at a young age. If Sherlock could be himself what would he wear? What would he do? Were tattoos an option, would he look good with a pierced lip? Sherlock envied the people who understood themselves enough to express it permanently, while he was still sitting over here, and after how many years of being alive he still couldn't figure out how to make a decent friend. He couldn't even figure out how to start a conversation without sounding like a stalker or a manipulative man of God. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking around the last bit of tea in his cup and staring lazily out the window onto the sidewalk. No one passed by, at least no one important.