Leviticus 20:13

The Devil Sends You Temptations

    It was a cold Thursday night when Sherlock sat alone at the dinner table, poking around at some Chinese take out that he had ordered the night previous and never finished. It was dismal, lonely evening, one that would usually be filled with the ruffle of Father Turner's newspaper or the ramblings of Greg as he recreated his fascinating day for his peers to hear. However Father Turner was out with his brother for some sort of birthday celebration (Sherlock wasn't entirely sure whose birthday was being celebrated, so he had bought a little gift just in case) and Greg had decided that the bars were a better way to waste his Thursday night, and so that left Sherlock. Alone. His final mass had ended not an hour ago and he was still wearing his stereotypical black garb, his white collar poking into his esophagus as he tried to eat the rather soggy pieces of broccoli covered in crusty rice. It wasn't the most appetizing of meals, however it was either leftover take out or cereal for dinner, and even for Sherlock that wasn't a difficult choice. The single lightbulb shone above him, struggling to light the entire kitchen by itself and leaving many of the nooks and crannies filled with shadow. Sherlock didn't know why he didn't just turn on the rest of the lights, or at least one in the living room, because he was starting to get a little bit creeped out by the overwhelming shadow to light ratio. Past the little doorway to the kitchen he could see nothing but blackness, save for the occasional headlights of a passing car, and even then he only got eerie silhouettes of the chairs and the lamps, looking ghostly in this old, unoccupied house. It was nights like this that confirmed Sherlock's suspicions, that even though the house was occupied only by Sherlock, he wasn't alone. It was these shadows that convinced him of Greg's terrifying tales, of seeing ghostly women or hearing phantom voices moaning through the plumbing...even now Sherlock could convince himself that the faint dripping of the kitchen sink was footsteps from the floor above, and he could almost hear a...knocking! Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair when he heard loud knocking coming from the front door, sounding like an urgent fist upon the wood, begging for entry. He recollected himself hastily, dropping his fork back into the disgusting mound of rice and vegetables to go see who was so urgently coming to call. Sherlock turned on one of the lamps in the hallway, doing a very poor job of lighting the house in orange of course, however it was better to open the door and look more like a human in the light than a vampire in the night. He turned on the porch light irritably and pressed his eye to one of the clear sections of stained glass, hoping to see either Greg or Father Turner, someone who would provide him with any comfort in this gloomy house. However he was pleasantly surprised when it was neither of the priests, in fact his heart leapt unexplainably when he saw the grinning face of John Watson through the rather obscured view of the glass. Sherlock struggled to open the door and fix his hair at the same time, grasping for the lock while he pushed his curly bangs anxiously out of his face, trying to make himself look at least a little bit presentable before approaching John. Of course it wasn't like he'd care all that much, now that they've seen each other at their worst it wasn't like some bangs falling askew would make any negative impact on their relationship. However it seemed necessary, almost as if his perfect good looks were essential while in the presence of John Watson. Sherlock pulled the door open anxiously, seeing that John was waiting on the front porch, shivering, with a bottle of wine dangling carelessly from his hand. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, ducking into the crack of the door and leaning ever so carefully against the door frame, almost as if he was trying to block the view into the depressing house.
"Mr. Watson, this is a surprise." Sherlock muttered happily. John nodded, looking almost ashamed to have come at such an hour, however he was still smiling, pulling his arms around himself to fight off the chilly breeze and glancing a couple of times at the idiot bugs who were bouncing off the glass bulb above the door.
"I'm sorry to have come this late, but I didn't think you'd mind all that much." John admitted with a bit of a smile. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to the wine he was clutching in his hand, cheap wine it would seem by the label; however its presence was more curious than its cost.
"You brought wine?" Sherlock wondered curiously, raising a single eyebrow to emphasize his confusion. John held the bottle up nervously, looking at it as if he had no idea how it had gotten into his hands in the first place.
"Well I um, I was lonely. Thought you might be as well." John admitted with a shrug. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle, ducking his head so as to hide his amusement, however John's idiocy made the night a whole lot brighter.
"I've never gotten a social call before." Sherlock admitted, his hand still gripped on the door handle while the rest of his body leaned very heavily against the peeling door frame, his legs bent at odd angles to keep himself up as his curls fell once more into his eyes.
"What calls are you used to getting?" John wondered almost flirtatiously, his lips curved into some sort of smile that Sherlock was certainly not used to seeing pointed in his direction. He almost had to wonder if this wine wouldn't be the first alcohol John had drunk tonight.
"Oh solicitors mostly, the census taker, and in a rather humorous encounter we had a group of very confused Jehovah's Witnesses, who took one look at my collar and turned around." Sherlock admitted with a laugh. John seemed to find that very funny, and he laughed for a good ten seconds before he finally calmed himself down and took to shivering once more, trying to pull his thin little jacket tighter around his skin so as to preserve body heat.
"Would you like to come in?" Sherlock asked suddenly, realizing at once how rude he was being for making John stand out on the porch for this long. Of course he hadn't shown up with that wine just to share a couple of jokes on the doorstep, he was obviously looking for a more permanent arrangement for an hour or two.
"Yes, that would be nice." John agreed thankfully. Sherlock held the door open wider, taking a large step into the entrance hall and holding the door so that John could make his way inside, his hands shivering as they clutched around the bottle of wine and his breath forming a cold fog as it escaped his slightly parted lips.
"It's a cold night." Sherlock said stupidly, closing the door behind John and leaning ever so slightly against it, as if trying to make sure John couldn't escape all that easily. John nodded slightly, setting the wine down on the floor as he wormed his way out of his thin jacket, obviously planning to stay a while. Sherlock didn't mind of course, however he found it vaguely amusing that John would simply invite himself to the rectory as if it was a mere social call. It was the first time he had ever been in here, and yet he strode about as if he owned the place.
"Is there anyone else home?" John wondered as he hung his coat up on the rack, empty except for Sherlock's long black trench coat.
"No, they're both out somewhere, I was alone." Sherlock admitted, suddenly thankful for the two priest's rather abrupt plans to leave tonight, as if this was all plotted out exactly. There was no man Sherlock would rather spend his time with, and since they had the whole house to themselves, well, it added a whole new level of comfort to whatever conversation they were to be having.
"Oh well that's um, that's good." John decided finally, and yet Sherlock could only laugh, finding that funny for no logical reason at all.
"Good how?" he wondered curiously, his hand sliding over the lock of the door just so that they didn't have any unwanted intruders throughout the night. John, obviously hearing the telltale click, raised an eyebrow curiously, however Sherlock didn't let his smile waver, acting as though he hadn't done anything wrong.
"Good because I only have enough wine for two." John said finally, grabbing the wine from the floor, an unopened bottle at that, and starting his way to the kitchen without waiting for Sherlock to follow.
"You're an aggressive houseguest." Sherlock commented as John finally got to the kitchen, setting the bottle on the counter and looking around to see which drawer might hold the bottle opener.
"I'm not aggressive at all...do you want to get glasses?" John asked, grabbing at one of the drawers to only find a bunch of charred hot pads. Sherlock merely leaned against the table, ignoring his sad dinner all together, and watched John curiously.
"Why are you so desperate to get the alcohol passed around? Do you only like me when I'm drunk?" Sherlock wondered in a playful tone; however John paused on his way to open another door, looking back at Sherlock through the pitiful light of the single bulb, a curious smile on his face that did nothing to answer Sherlock's question. When John had finally found the bottle opener he took to opening the wine himself, prying the cork from the bottle while Sherlock got two glasses from the cabinet, very dusty, unused glasses that were only there to fill up the unused shelf space. They didn't drink much wine around here, which is probably surprising since they were all priests, however Father Turner really didn't like to have alcohol in the house, and even though Greg was smart enough to hide his own stores he was never a wine person. They had plenty of little square whiskey glasses, as well as those pathetic little shot glasses that Greg got for them all as a joke one year when he went on a 'pilgrimage' to the Bahamas, however the wine glasses were hardly ever touched. John filled them both nevertheless, pushing one of the glasses in Sherlock's direction while he held his own to his lips, not sipping just yet. Sherlock took his glass with careful hands, standing on the opposite side of the counter as John, who was watching him with very curious eyes. Sherlock had to wonder if this wine was poisoned or something, so he held his glass to his lips as well, pretended to drink, and waited until John had taken a good couple of gulps before finally letting the wine pass through his closed lips. Thankfully there was no reaction, and Sherlock owed his sudden paranoia to the fearful state John had found him in, sitting alone in his empty, supposedly haunted house.
"I haven't seen you in a while." Sherlock admitted finally, breaking the silence with the best small talk he could manage in such short notice. John nodded almost guiltily, shrugging his shoulders and setting his wine back down on the wooden counter top in front of him.
"I haven't really been going to church all that much, not after Rosie died." He admitted in a rather small voice, as if he was ashamed to admit his sudden atheism to a priest. Sherlock nodded, not bothering to try to hide his disappointment.
"Do you mind if I ask why?" he wondered quietly. John shrugged once more, taking a very small sip of his wine and dabbing at the corners of his lips with the back of his hand before he continued.
"I just don't feel as though God is on my side anymore, and I don't know why I should lay myself down at his feet if he won't do anything except step over me." John admitted finally. Sherlock pursed his lips, looking down at the counter and trying not to take personal offense to John's statements.
"I don't think you've given Him a fair chance, God rewards in the most mysterious ways, but only if you acknowledge him and pray to him." Sherlock reminded John in his usual priest voice, a very comforting yet very stern tone, encouraging people to follow the path of God even if they're not particularly keen. He didn't like to have to use this voice with John, he was supposed to be his friend, not his mentor, and yet at the moment it appeared that he had to be both.
"I bet you say that to all your boys." John muttered with a little smile, sipping at his wine while Sherlock looked at him curiously, trying to figure out what on earth John meant by that. He wasn't necessarily up with pop culture, so maybe that was just a movie reference? Surely John wasn't actually...flirting?
"Well yes, and girls too, women, more accurately. Everyone can hear the word of God." Sherlock assured mindlessly. John just shook his head in amusement, as if Sherlock's single minded confusion amused him more than anything.
"Hmm, yes. Women." John muttered with an almost disgusted tone. "Have I ever told you about Mary?"
"Not in great detail. I know that she left you when you most needed her, but other than that I don't know much about her." Sherlock admitted, sounding almost as if he was taunting Mary's memory. He wasn't trying to rub salt in any wounds of course, it was just only too obvious that Mary had left the moment times got rough and Sherlock had maintained their friendship all throughout Rosie's death and the brutal aftermath, it made him feel very proud to know that he was more loyal to John than even his own wife had been.
"Oh she was beautiful of course, I thought I had gotten everything I ever wanted when I slipped that ring on her finger. We lasted a couple of years too, six I believe, or approaching six. And I was under the false impression that she loved me as well, but it was only too easy for her to walk out that door." John grumbled irritably, his fingers wrapping very tightly around his wine glass as he swirled it around in the dome before taking a quick sip once more.
"Relationships can be confusing." Sherlock assured with a shrug.
"You've never had a relationship, how can you know?" John wondered, his eyes snapping up to where Sherlock stood innocently, leaning ever so slightly on the counter with his wine glass clutched in both of his hands.
"Greg had a soap opera phase." Sherlock admitted truthfully. John simply laughed, stepped closer so that he could lean his elbows on the counter as well, looming closer and closer to Sherlock all while keeping the counter between them. It wasn't obvious what he was trying to do, if he was trying to do something at all, however Sherlock felt that there was something different in the atmosphere tonight, something he didn't quite understand.
"Oh well, they're not usually that complicated. However some are." John admitted with a shrug.
"I wouldn't know." Sherlock said flatly.
"But some are worth it, of course. I'm sure you've seen it in your soap operas plenty of times, love always wins, no matter what the circumstances." John reminded him almost nonchalantly, as if that was a sentence that made appearances in every day conversations. But Sherlock knew it wasn't, that was a staged line, a perfectly played line that John had probably been planning ever since he started on this shaky conversation. However Sherlock could only laugh, why on earth was he laughing? There was nothing funny in anything that John had said and yet Sherlock could only hang his head and chuckle to himself.
"What are you laughing about?" John wondered with a smile, looking more confused than amused at the moment. Sherlock simply shrugged, fiddling with his wine glass as his laughter began to cease and his smile remained intact.
"Oh nothing it's just...I can't tell." Sherlock muttered ominously, glancing up at John for a mere second before going back to watching the wine slosh ever so slightly in his glass.
"You can't tell what?" John asked with a sense of nervousness in his voice, obviously wondering which way Sherlock was going to take this conversation.
"I can't tell if you were sent to me from Heaven or from Hell." Sherlock admitted finally, looking up at John who finally wore an expression of absolute horror on his tanned face.
"Why on earth would I be sent from Hell?" John asked in disgust, obviously taking that as a sort of offense. Sherlock simply shrugged, a smile playing upon his face as his mind whirred thoughtlessly.
"Well, it's said that the Devil sends you temptations, ones in the form of everything you've ever wanted...and more." Sherlock admitted in a rather small voice. John took a very sharp breath, and for a moment they just stared, Sherlock's smile fading as John's eyes widened, and for a moment they had exactly the same thing on their minds, just in very different connotations. John set his wine glass down almost desperately; walking in great strides around the counter as Sherlock quickly straightened himself out, trying to say something in defense while his throat closed under the pressure, his mouth forming words that never came out.
"I'm everything you've ever wanted?" John wondered in a soft voice, his hands hovering to Sherlock's only to take the wine glass very gently from his hands, easing each and every finger away from the glass, making each hand numb with every touch. Sherlock could only stand, dumbfounded, as John set the glass on the counter, as if he was purposely getting it out of the way. And he stepped closer, much closer. And yet Sherlock couldn't seem to step back, he couldn't seem to do anything except nothing at all.
"I should, I should rephrase, Mr. Watson, surely I didn't mean..."
"You said it. You meant it." John declared flatly, taking a step closer that broke whatever barriers there were between them, pressing his chest against Sherlock's and pulling his head down to his level, their foreheads crashing together and yet their lips never touching. Sherlock had gone completely limp, his limbs wouldn't move and his voice wouldn't even croak, he simply breathed, heaving his breath in through his parted lips; his lips that hovered so close to John's...dangerously close. John's hands were fixed around the back of Sherlock's head, holding him there in a romantic headlock, his fingers squirming anxiously in Sherlock's curls and his wrists pressed so close to Sherlock's skin that he could feel his pulse throbbing anxiously through his veins. Oh but what could he do, what could he only do? With John's face so close, with their bodies pressed against each other and their breaths overlapping in synchronization? What could he only do?
"No...no I can't." Sherlock whimpered, sounding wounded as he pushed himself away from John's earnest grasp, leaning against the counter and panting with the effort of simply standing upright. He knew that he was helpless; he knew that he was vulnerable, and yet John just shook his head, running his hands through his hair and stepping in small, humiliated circles. Yet he didn't apologize, he didn't say anything simply because whatever came out would most likely be cut off with a sob. So he grabbed his bottle of wine, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily and making for the door, walking so swiftly that Sherlock almost didn't have time to call out to him.
"John, I'm a priest." Sherlock whispered, his voice quivering through his shaking lips, yet it was enough to make John pause, turning momentarily as he stood in the doorway, hovering halfway through the light of the single bulb and the shadows that now overwhelmed the hallway.
"Well then that's a shame, because I think I've fallen in love with you." He said plainly, and with that he turned once more, walking for the door, grabbing his coat, and letting himself out into the cold night. Sherlock could only sit; he could only stare at the space in the darkness that was once occupied by John.