Leviticus 20:13

A Path Best Strolled With A Companion

John POV: It was Sunday, and yet John didn't go to church. In fact he didn't even work that morning, he had called off sick and in turn barricaded himself in the artificial darkness of the closed curtains and locked doors. All was silent in whatever remained of the Watson household. It was his way of facing his mistakes, of punishing himself for something he had no control over. John had slowly come to a realization that maybe the other night was simply meant to be, that their entire acquaintanceship had come down to the one moment when they needed to take it farther. It was the climax, it was simply fate that brought them together and it was fate that brought their conversation to that emotional theme, setting the stage for what could either be or not be, for what needed to be or what never could be at all. It was needed to be tested, and that night, well, that had been Fate's way of reminding them what had to be done. John had simply been the bigger man, the one who was able to take the extra step and test the boundaries of the codependence they had built around one another. So it wasn't love then, in that case it wasn't anything. John couldn't face that man if he knew that he had no chance, he couldn't look him in the eyes if he knew that Sherlock was aware of every little thought wiring through his mind, he couldn't hold his head high if he knew that a man knew of his weakness. Love, who would've ever thought it would be considered a weakness, but look where it had gotten him! Look at him now, or anytime in the past two years and decide what had happened to get him in this state of pure hopelessness. First Mary, then Rosie, and now Sherlock, all of the people he had ever loved and all of the people that had left him one way or the other. Now of course Rosie had no choice, she would have stayed; she would have lived, if she had the choice. And Sherlock was bound by his moral obligations to the priesthood to remain loyal to God and stand unremitting in the face of temptations, that was understandable. But Mary, she was the exception. She didn't have to leave, heck she could still come back if she wanted to, and that was the tragedy of it all, she didn't want to. Now that John had a taste of life without that witch of course he preferred her to stay away, however it would seem that her absence hadn't left the intended scar. She had been the first to hurt him, the first to leave him in a state of hopeless depression, wondering how on earth he ever had faith in humanity, shouldn't he have learned? Shouldn't he have learned not to trust, not to love? And now look at him, riddled to the point of depression; cowering in his blankets as the cold air seeped through the cracks of his window panes, it was pathetic! And it was all because he had dared to let his heart wander on to new things, different things, beautiful things...forbidden things. Maybe John just had a knack for desiring the unreachable, maybe that was his fatal flaw. John knew that a man could only wallow in his own pity for so long, and yet he kept falling asleep every time he made a commitment to tear himself from the bed, almost as if the blankets weren't comfortable unless he wasn't allowed to be in them. And so around two o'clock he was finally able to fall onto the carpet, his legs limp and his muscles aching from disuse, his cheeks feeling stubbly and his eyes feeling heavy. John's growling stomach was the only thing that truly convinced him to make his exit, and yet now that he was out and about he was beginning to feel a little bit better, a little bit more purposeful. John made himself eggs for lunch (breakfast?), the only thing he really knew how to make after his years of experience at the diner. He ate alone however he had another set of silverware and a plate set up, just in case he had an unexpected visitor. He was smart enough not to expect Mary anymore, however there was a small part of him, just a small, rather unreasonable part of him that thought Sherlock had a place at his table. But that was preposterous of course, Sherlock had made his position quite clear, and even though the two of them would most certainly be one of the best matches it simply wasn't meant to be. Love only worked if it was mutual, and if Sherlock insisted upon sticking to the church then John certainly wouldn't be the one to tear him away. Despite his now burning passion he knew that eventually it would snuff itself out, the longer he went on Sherlock withdrawal the easier it would be to forget him, and while his heart may cling onto hope his brain would give up sooner than later. The brain was more logical while the heart was more optimistic, it was a character flaw in most human beings; however it was necessary for sympathy and for survival. When John finished his pathetic little lunch he went to the bathroom and lathered his face with shaving cream, turning on the light above the sink and fiddling around with his cheap plastic razor. He had really been neglecting personal hygiene for the past couple of days, with Rosie's death coupled with Sherlock's rejection he had just began to suspect that there was no need for his personal upkeep, who was going to pay attention, who was going to care? John was just in the middle of shaving the left side of his face when he heard the telltale ringing from the other room, his cell phone presumably, ringing and vibrating as it sat on his bedside table. John groaned, wiping his hands on the hand towel before rushing into the bedroom to retrieve the phone from where it dangled dangerously near the edge of the table, vibrating and skirting all around the smooth, slippery wood. John grabbed at his phone and saw that it was an unknown number, and as suspicious as he was about telemarketers and phone scams he decided that it was worth a shot. There were plenty of people in his life that he didn't have the phone number for, and at the moment one person comes in mind... So John picked it up, jabbing at the phone rather violently with his shaving cream covered thumb (he hadn't done a very good job of cleaning his hands) and with that he let the speaker hover next to his ear.
"Hello?" John muttered rather nervously, staring at a spot on his wall as he waited for a response on the other end. He didn't hear anything for a moment, as if the caller was too nervous to say anything or even to breathe, however John finally heard what sounded like a gasp on the other end, as if they hadn't expected John to pick up.
"Mr. Watson?" asked a familiar voice over the line, fizzled out with static yet still plenty recognizable even through the rather robotic speaker. John's heart skipped a beat and he pressed the phone even closer to his ear, plunging it into the mess of shaving cream and yet suddenly that didn't quite matter anymore.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, almost too astounded to say much else. Why would Sherlock be calling him, why now? After all they had just gone through what did Sherlock possibly have to say, if not to rub it in John's face once more that he was single?
"I'm sorry to call John, I'm sorry to bother you after..."
"It's okay." John assured immediately, breaking off Sherlock's sentence before he had a chance to deliver whatever he thought to be a necessary excuse. Except John didn't mind him calling, in fact the mere sound of his voice was enough to leaving John positively elated. There was silence that was occupied by the sound of Sherlock's breathing over the line and the very faint yet distinct sound of the church organ, as if Sherlock was calling from the back room of the altar, where he thought it would be the most private.
"John I don't know how to say this...I don't really know if I'm even doing the right thing here, or if I'm just going completely mad..." Sherlock broke off his own sentence that time and John could sense his uneasiness, there was a tone in his voice that made him sound as if he was struggling to even force these words out of his mouth. And yet they had to be said, despite the both of them knowing already exactly what he was going to propose.
"You haven't gone mad." John assured him softly, sitting down heavily on his bed while his legs slowly began to go numb. He didn't like talking to Sherlock without being able to see him; it was rather difficult for him to tell exactly what the man was feeling without seeing him, without watching his chest rise and fall with his heavy breaths, without noticing the blush in his pale cheeks or the ducking of his head when he suddenly suspected that his eyes would expose his true emotion. Over a phone it was impossible to tell these things, however John suspected, simply by Sherlock's tone of urgency, that something important was about to happen, something urgent.
"I need to see you, John I think I've...well I've chosen my path and I've decided that it's a path best strolled with a companion." Sherlock admitted in a mere whisper, his words engulfed by his breath as if he was trying to talk as quietly as he possibly could.
"You want me to be that companion?" John clarified hopefully, his hands shaking in anticipation and his heart beginning to palpitate. Was this really happening, had Sherlock really chosen him over God?
"I feel so sinful, just saying this out loud confirms it, just letting another human in, it's..."
"Sherlock what do you want me to do?" John interrupted with an air of authority, cutting Sherlock's sentence off before he could ramble on anymore.
"Could you just...I think I want to see you." Sherlock admitted in a weak voice, sounding as if he was almost cowering.
"You want me to come over?" John wondered in a sort of laugh, feeling almost like a high school student dancing around the very idea of a date.
"Yes I think I do." Sherlock agreed in an almost numbed voice. "Father Turner is away, and I'm sure I'll be able to get Greg away just John...be careful please. I don't want anyone to know that we're...well, I just don't want anyone to know."
"If our love depends on secrecy then my lips are sealed." John assured positively. There was silence again, and John almost suspected that Sherlock had hung up on him before he heard that telltale breathing once more.
"Love?" Sherlock clarified in an almost fearful whisper, as if he was too scared to admit to himself that love was what he had been seeking with this very phone call.
"Would you classify it as anything other than love?" John wondered almost flirtatiously, trying to get an inside look at what kind of shenanigans went on inside of Sherlock's very single minded brain.
"I'll...I'll see you tonight. John." Sherlock whispered nervously, and with that the line went dead. John was too stunned do anything for a moment, and all the while his shaving cream was beginning to dry and harden along his cheeks he didn't seem to notice nor did he seem to care, he simply sat on his blankets and stared at the floor, trying to contemplate what he had just agreed to. More importantly, what had Sherlock just agreed to? What had changed in these two days that had suddenly convinced the poor priest to abandon his faith for a man he barely even knew? Had he had a moment of revelation or had he simply decided that his heart was more important than his faith? Was this even a romantic visit at all, he had sounded pretty afraid at the mere mention of love, was he just calling John to his church to trick him into confessing his sins or donating so some sort of charity? Was he taking advantage of John's love to convert him back to the path of God? No...no Sherlock had sounded terrified on the phone, almost as if he was telling himself over and over that he shouldn't be calling and yet he had finally decided that he had to. He was a human, surely he had realized that by now, and humans simply had to have love, it was unhealthy to bottle up all those powerful emotions and pretend you didn't feel them swirling inside of you. Maybe Sherlock had finally decided to uncork the bottle, to let his heart free just for a night, just for an evening, just for a brief moment where their lips could brush against each other's...or maybe not at all. Maybe Sherlock was calling him there to remind him of just why their relationship could never work out the way John intended it to. Maybe John would arrive at the rectory to find all three priests seated at the dining room table, reading for a sort of forceful cleansing of his unclean soul. Nevertheless it was worth the chance, it was worth it to arrive at that rectory dressed to impress, ready for the best and worst case scenarios. Sherlock had summoned him and he simply couldn't refuse, not now, not to the man who had unknowingly taken full possession of his heart. And so John got ready, he went back to the bathroom and shaved the rest of his face until it was smooth, he showered and dressed in nice clothes yet ones he wasn't too attached to, a simple pair of jeans and a nice button down shirt, just in case something happened to them... Then he paced around his small house and tried to think of some sort of peace offering he could bring, something that would make Sherlock smile just a little bit more than usual. Alcohol was off the table, he had brought wine last time and had ended up drinking it alone straight from the bottle, no alcohol wasn't personal enough. A flower, yes a flower! Everyone loved flowers whether they wanted to admit it or not, yes Sherlock would swoon in the presence of a romantic gesture, such as a rose. But where to get a rose, oh that was the question! This was so difficult, it was so stressful! John hadn't gone on a first date in eight years, and more importantly he had never gone on a first date with a man before, he had no idea what men liked! Then again he was a man, but somehow that didn't seem to help when he considered the drastic differences between himself and Sherlock Holmes.  

Sherlock POV: Sherlock almost thought he was going to wait in vain for that minivan to pull up alongside of the rectory. He almost thought, for a brief moment, that no one would be arriving all night, and that he would sit here with Greg's whiskey and his favorite opera music spinning in the record player all alone. However another half of him surely wished that he would be stood up, just so he didn't have to face the severity of the decisions he had made the night previous. To follow John instead of God was a risky move, however Sherlock had decided that he simply couldn't take it anymore, there was no alternative to John's love, God was slowly starting to slip out of the picture as Sherlock realized what a poor excuse of a life he had been living for these past few years. To think that he was nearly thirty and he hadn't even brushed lips with another person, he hadn't even looked a person with that mutual spark of attraction, it had either been this false sense of superiority or this false sense of holiness that had held him back from any romantic attraction between himself and whoever was unfortunate enough to cross his path. And now, looking back, it was a very poor way to spend his life. It was an almost wasted life. But could he do it? Could he stare John in the eyes and confess his love, confess his newfound need for human interaction, for human touch and affection? He knew that the moment those words passed his lips every prayer he said afterwards would be futile, God would never take him seriously again, he would never trust him. But that brought up the question again, if God had ever heard him in the first place? It was worth the risk, was it not, to sacrifice a mere hour of his life to test whether or not the wrath of God would rain down upon him or if everything would continue on the way it used to? He almost hoped that God would punish him for what he was about to do, simply for the clarification that there was a higher power. It was a lot easier to make decisions when you were terrified, and the fear of God was certainly the most terrifying power of all. It rendered the human into the weakest of states, it reminded them who the real top of food chain was, and that with a flick of God's finger they could be whisked off the face of the earth, swatted like flies that had gotten too bothersome. Was that the fate that awaited Sherlock tonight? Sherlock had left his rosary on his dresser and his neck felt rather naked without it. He had found it this morning, all the beads strung back onto the cord which was now knotted very unattractively, and it was no mystery who had been the gracious repair woman. Mrs. Hudson had always had a fondness of that rosary, and Sherlock was willing to bet that when she had arrived to light the candles that she had found its remains strewn about the aisle and had taken it upon herself to fix it. She always had been a good friend, and yet now Sherlock turned his back on her as well... He wasn't wearing his priest garb at all; in fact this was the most normal he's ever dressed in what felt like ages. He was wearing his favorite purple shirt, the one that always tempted him from his closet before he was forced to pull out the boring black shirt that had been provided by the church. His collar was free, unbuttoned enough so that when he bent his neck he wouldn't strain the fabric too much, and for once he felt like a civilian. Nothing was connecting him to the church except his reputation, and tonight he would shatter whatever was left of his faith under his heel, under John's lips, under John's body... Sherlock shook his head and turned away from the mirror, almost too disgusted with himself to look into his own eyes. How could he do this, how could he be so disgraceful? Well the answer was simple, wasn't it? The answer was the man at the door.