Leviticus 20:13

Try To Justify These New Feelings

Sherlock fell into a chair at the table, his entire body shaking as if he had come down with a fever, his hands quivering and his heart throbbing in his chest, threatening to break through. That was the closest he had ever been to anyone before, that was the most intimate he had ever dared to be, and John...John loved him... Sherlock let his head fall back against the chair, gasping for breath as if he had just run for miles, John loved him, he actually loved him and what could Sherlock do but reject him? What could he do but turn him away? This wasn't just love on the line, it was his career, it was his livelihood, his passage into Heaven! How could Sherlock accept this man's heart when he knew it would only lead them both to tragedy, both to Hell? And yet his heart, his own heart that beat in his own chest, it seemed to have picked up a new rhythm, a melody of sorts against his ribs, chanting for him to rush outside, pleading with him to chase after that minivan that had just driven off into the night, begging him to finish what they had barely even started. And what of his feelings, oh how meager and meaningless that had to be! They have to be ignored, there was no other option, no matter how strongly his heart strained for that man it simply couldn't be, there was no alternative, no other way. A kiss was more than a kiss, it was sin, it was unjustified and it was wrong. His love had to be ignored, flat out ignored, or else it would lead him off to roads he had not yet explored, unchartered territory where the grass hadn't even been trodden yet. Love was a mystery, love wasn't even an option...it would pass. This feeling that was bubbling up in his chest, it was certainly going to subside. His heart would eventually slow back to normal speed, his breathing would level out and his mind would slowly begin to think on different things. His legs would gain mobility, his hands would still, his arms would regain feeling, and all would be well again. As if it had never happened. As if those half drunken glasses of wine would just vanish if he willed them to, as if that memory would just hide in the back of his mind if he wanted it to, as if he could ever forget the way John's breath danced upon his skin, or how his fingers tangled so meaningfully through his curls...as if he could ever forget John Watson and the love he was telling himself he had to give up. 

 John POV: It took all of John's strength simply to get into his car and drive away from that house and leave Sherlock behind. The building itself mocked him, with its peeling paint and its darkened windows, it was almost as if it was reminding him that there was no more light in his life, not even one coming from the rectory. Sherlock had been his last hope, his last outlet, and now he didn't even have him. How stupid could someone be, how stupid could anyone be, to make a move on a priest? The only breed of human being incapable of having a relationship, the only one where it was clearly stated in their terms and conditions that they could not love, and of course John decided that he would be the man he was to fall in love with. Out of anyone on this entire earth, and he decided to go and lose his heart to the man in a white collar. Oh how complicated his existence had come to be! And now he was struggled to so much as ease his foot down on the gas pedal, as if that simply exertion of energy was enough to physical exhaust him. John lolled his arms on the wheel, his reflexes just barely able to get him through the deserted streets alive, pulling at the wheel every so often and swerving almost as if he was drunk into the other line. Thankfully he was the only one on the road, the only pair of headlights illuminating the blackest of nights, where it seemed as though even the stars had forgotten to make an appearance. His limbs felt heavy and his fingers felt numb, his eye lids drooping and his mouth sagging to form an unescapable frown. He felt like crying and yet he knew that he had to wait until he returned to the solitary darkness of his lonely house, he didn't want anyone to bear witness to a break down that he couldn't explain to any logical man. How could he even explain it to himself, how could he even justify his disgraceful actions tonight? Was it the wine, the darkness, the full moon that was hidden away in the clouds? Was it the solitude of the old house, or was it the pale glow of Sherlock's skin in the single lightbulb over the kitchen table? Had he gone there with those intentions buried deep in his heart or had he suddenly lost control, swept away by the torrent of words that had suddenly overwhelmed their previously innocent conversation? Was Sherlock flirting with him, had he intentionally hinted at something of a relationship, something along the lines of feelings? Or was it all relative; was John everything he's ever wanted as a friend? A platonic soulmate? Oh how pathetic he sounded, oh how pathetic he had turned out to be! Paper thin, crumbling under the pressure of a small smile and a metaphor about Heaven and Hell, only to get blown away with the gentlest of breezes and the mere hint at a rejection. And now it was just john and his wine, pulling up in his driveway in his horrible red minivan and turning the headlights off, finally engulfing the world in a blackness that he felt slowly overtake him. He turned off the car and yet he just sat there, hunched over the steering wheel almost as if he were about to fall asleep, and tried to remember just what it had felt like to have a face staring back. His eyes squinted in the darkness, trying to focus on where he believed the passenger seat to be, and tried to envision someone sitting there. It didn't even have to be Sherlock; in fact he would really prefer it not to be Sherlock in a time like this. He wanted it to be Rosie. He wanted his daughter to be sitting in the car beside him, with her long blonde hair pulled up into pigtails with the ridiculous ribbons Mary used to tie, wearing a pink polka dotted dress and a smile that was wide enough to cover the width of her face. And he would smile, and she would laugh, and she would press her stuffed animals to the window of the car so that they could see the landscape as they passed by in a blur. But she was gone, and all that remained was her memories, her stuffed animals, and her ribbons, all tucked away in her bedroom drawer, not knowing that they were never to be worn again. John hadn't believed he could ever hit rock bottom, he had never suspected that one day the list of people he loved, or at least who loved him back, would have dwindled to nothing. He had never expected to look out into the world, into the cesspool of lonely, desperate people, and not see at least one face looking back expectantly. He had official scared away the one person who he had hoped would fill the hole he had managed to carve into his own heart, and now he didn't even have the promise of Sherlock's company to look forward to. There was nothing he could do except work, and eat, and sleep, and work again, making money to fund only himself and the meager existence he was forcing himself to lead. And yet what had he expected, was there all that much to gain by a simple kiss? If Sherlock had been daring enough to let his lips so much as brush against John's tonight would his loneliness finally be cured? Or would he just be leading himself down the same path, crossing from friends to lovers too quickly and ultimately losing the person he thought he owed his heart and soul to? Would a simple kiss ease his lonely nights, would it suddenly fill the second cup of coffee that sat idly next to his pot, waiting every day in vain to be filled? Would a simple kiss put a hand in his hand and a heart in his chest, would a simple kiss fill the space in his closet and in his bed? The answer was no, of course, a simple kiss from Sherlock Holmes would do nothing but ensure a messy ending to their companionship, a breakup promising friendship until they suddenly drifted off, until finally Sherlock forgot all about John and John remembered every little quiver of Sherlock's hand and every little beat of his heart. He would be tormented listening to the silence of the darkness, just as he had when Mary had left, and when Rosie had died, and now, when Sherlock had rejected him for the last time. Had he kissed that man tonight he would only be ensuring for heartbreak down the road, and with the fragile state his heart was in now he was quite certain that he couldn't withstand another blow, for it would most certainly be fatal. He needed clarity, he needed time, and now, most importantly, he needed alcohol. John kicked the door open rather agressivley, the door swinging on its hinges only to snap back and crush his legs as he tried to slither out onto the pavement. John gasped in pain and yet he didn't cry out, he didn't want to break what remained of the startling silence, where not a cricket chirped in the frost that had settled itself over the cold grass. He grabbed his bottle of wine, still open of course, and stumbled out onto his driveway; locking the doors through the door and slamming the door shut rather angrily. John then walked up to his front door, fiddling with the key a while before finally pressing it into the lock and pushing the door open with a slow, eerie creek. The house was dark, as was the rest of the world, and yet John still looked back, he looked towards the road, as if he was half expecting to see the lights of that beat up old blue car rumbling into sight, as if he was expecting the long, thin figure of Sherlock Holmes to erupt out of the night and throw himself apologetically into his arms. And to think that there was once a time when their hands would never let go... John shut the door quickly, looking out into his silent house and pressing his back against the cold glass window pane, feeling the chill seep through his thin shirt and into his very skin, goosebumps erupting on his flesh and his teeth chattering slightly. His instincts told him to move, and yet his self-pity told him to lean farther in, and so he did. He slid into the glass, he pressed the back of his neck to the chill, and eventually he found himself on the floor, shivering with his lips around the bottle of wine, pouring the numbing alcohol down his throat as if he were a baby trying to bottle feed. He didn't care, of course, how he looked, because who was there to judge?