Leviticus 20:13

Tell The Pope Just Five More Minutes

Sherlock took a deep breath, however he slowly climbed out of the window with no dexterity, grace, or even skill. He landed face first onto the shingles, making a loud crunching noise which at first he suspected was his spine, only to find that he had landed on a little twig. Sherlock sat up very cautiously, finding himself sitting on top of their sloped awning overhanging the little patio. If he jumped from here into the grass he'd be safe, but if he landed on the cement sidewalk that stretched out below, well then they had a problem. Another problem would be if anyone was in the kitchen, they would surely be able to see him if he landed in the backyard, and that would take a lot of explaining. Sherlock sighed heavily, edging his way closer to the edge of the awning and looking back once more at the line of windows that ran across the side of the house. His was still open and illuminated, however, to his horror, he saw that another window was bright, silhouetting a man standing at the window, watching him intensely. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat until he noticed that it stood much stockier than Father Turner, with a mess of hair and no glasses, it was Greg. Sherlock stared at him for a moment and Greg in response gave him a big, supportive thumb up before drawing the curtains, evidently trying to pretend that he hadn't seen anything. Sherlock shook his head reluctantly, his eyes glancing over at Father Turner's bedroom, where thankfully the thick curtains were drawn. And so he crept closer to the edge of the awning, sitting so that his legs overhung the nearly eight foot drop. He could survive this, right? It couldn't be all that difficult, people in movies jumped from tall things all the time, what made real life any different? That was a terrible mindset to have, there were so many differences, starting with the fact that movies weren't real. Oh well, you never know unless you try, right? Sherlock took a deep breath, aiming for the grass below, and pushed himself off of the awning. The good news was that he landed in the grass; the bad news was that it hurt a lot more than he would've expected. For starters he had the genius idea of trying to land on his feet, and so his ankles had both given out and sent him sprawling into a mess of grass tufts and dead leaves. Secondly he had managed to scrape his hand against the grass as he landed and it was now bleeding with some sort of brush burn looking abrasion. For a moment Sherlock just lay on the ground in silence, opening and closing his mouth and forming silent words that would make Father Turner drag him to the confessional. However it didn't take much motivation to get him back to his feet, the mere thought of John sitting alone with a bottle of wine was enough to make Sherlock grab at their little wooden picnic table and drag himself to his feet with all the strength left in his aching muscles. He limped out of the yard and started down the street, only realizing that he was only wearing his thin little robe when the wind started to pick up, freezing him to the bone. What an unprepared man he had become, rushing out of his house on the slightest whim without thinking about the temperature, or the state he was in before he left! What would happen if someone drove by, someone from the church, and saw their holy priest wandering the streets in his pajamas, limping in slippers? Why they would think he was crazy, they would call the hospital, or the exorcist! This was certainly not normal priest behavior, much less any sort of human behavior. Despite this rather odd behavior Sherlock forged on, the barren trees crackling in the wind above him as the dead remains of their foliage skirted around Sherlock's slippered feet, the moon hanging like a somber spotlight and providing just enough illumination for him to navigate his way to John's house. He had only been there once however he had managed to burn the directions into his brain, and before long he was standing on a deserted sidewalk, staring up at a townhouse he was almost certain was John's. The only reason he knew for sure was because all the rest of the houses had definite markers. Some had Christmas lights strung up, others had neat little mail boxes, some had cars parked with those little family stickers on the back, all in all Sherlock was quite certain that John would never go through any extra effort to make his house look any more inviting, and because of its bareness Sherlock was sure that this depressing little bungalow belonged to John Watson. Sherlock slowly approached the door; rearranging his robe to make sure it covered his entire chest and finally pressing his cold finger to the doorbell. Almost immediately the door opened, almost as if John had been lingering next to the door, waiting for the telltale ring. He looked completely dashing in a pair of old grey sweatpants and an unrecognizable college football tee shirt, looking slightly disheveled yet radiating an air of healthiness that seemed to be almost uncharacteristic to the man.
"Ah Sherlock, I was getting worried. Almost thought I would have to call Greg." John admitted with a little smile. Sherlock nodded, glancing back into the darkness behind him to make sure there weren't any watchful eyes peering from the windows across the street.
"Yes well, I'm happy I got here in one piece." Sherlock admitted with a little smile.
"You didn't jump out your window, did you?" John asked with an almost accusing grin, making Sherlock shrug his shoulders innocently.
"Well, maybe just a little bit." Sherlock admitted guiltily. "May I come in?"
"Nope. I made you come all this way so that you can stand on my porch, freezing to death in your little robe." John muttered sarcastically, moving out of the way so that Sherlock could move past him into the entry way. He had never been in John's house before, and yet it was almost exactly like he had pictured it. It was simply a little rowhome, with a dining room and living room and kitchen all visible from the door and a small little staircase leading up to where the bedrooms presumably were. There were only two pairs of shoes at the door, a pair of nonslip mandatory work shoes and a pair of nice grey and orange running shoes, looking almost new.
"Have you taken up running?" Sherlock wondered as his eyes trailed away from the shoes at the door.
"I've decided that I needed to get some sort of hobby." John admitted finally. Sherlock nodded impressively, wondering if there was any other motive for John to get fit. Maybe he was trying to look better for a certain someone?
"Quite a painful hobby. What's wrong with knitting?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.
"Well maybe I could try that too. I'll knit you a pair of mittens." John offered sarcastically.
"No thank you I've already got a pair." Sherlock snapped back, trying to make that sound rather argumentative but instead making himself sound like a very sad, pathetic man. What type of man owned mittens?
"Not to change the subject or anything, but would you like a glass of wine?" John wondered hopefully, making his way over to the living room where he had already started up a fire in the fireplace, with fresh looking logs just beginning to smolder in the flames. Sherlock followed him rather nervously, not exactly sure what to expect. Was John hoping this would turn out to be a romantic evening or was he simply inviting Sherlock over to have a conversation, a couple of glasses of wine, and a couple of kisses? John hadn't waited for an answer, for he had already seated himself on the carpet beside the fire and began pouring another glass of red wine, watching as Sherlock lingered awkwardly in the doorway.
"You can come in you know." John offered quickly. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat before hastily making his way towards where John sat. He eased himself down onto the carpet beside the fire, enjoying the nice warm heat the flames provided, and slowly accepted the rather full glass of wine that John offered him.
"John I've got to be back soon, I just want to warn you." Sherlock pointed out nervously.
"I know, and I have no intentions of keeping you long. I just missed you, and I know that we don't get many other chances to see each other." John pointed out, almost as if he were accusing Sherlock of something.
"Well you know I'm busy at the church, maybe if you came to mass more often we could see each other." Sherlock offered quickly. John sighed heavily, taking a sip of his wine and shaking his head as if he was in some sort of state of denial.
"Don't talk about church Sherlock." He muttered pleadingly, and Sherlock simply nodded in agreement. John was right after all, the mere mention of the church was enough to remind the two of them of just what they were doing. When in normal clothes it was easy to forget that Sherlock was a priest, and yet after bringing up God it almost introduced the all-seeing Father into their conversation, into their night. Suddenly this empty apartment didn't feel so secluded; suddenly it almost felt as though there was another pair of eyes watching them as they stared at each other through the firelight. Suddenly Sherlock felt as though they weren't alone.
"So what possessed you to give me a call tonight?" John wondered curiously, sipping at his wine with a rather odd look in his eye. Maybe it was due to the shadows cast by the firelight upon his face, making him look much more threatening than intended.
"Oh well, you know, I haven't really seen you in a while and I thought that maybe it would be worth a quick chat. I certainly didn't intend on doing...whatever this is." Sherlock admitted, looking around at the fire and the wine and deciding he ought to just take a sip. John laughed rather guiltily, as if he knew he was a bad influence on Sherlock and he was very proud of that.
"You got to live a little Sherlock; otherwise you'll live as the equivalent to a crusty, boring old man for seventy years until you die." John pointed out very matter of factly, as if he had that mantra knitted somewhere on a throw pillow.
"John I've lived more in the past week than I have my entire life, I mean not only have I um...lost something...but I also jumped out a window!" Sherlock said quickly, his cheeks glowing red while his face lit up in excitement.
"You seem very proud of yourself." John observed with a grin. Sherlock just shrugged, taking a sip of his wine as if it really was no big deal, but in his head he was playing the Indiana Jones theme song.
"Look right here, I even cut my hand a little bit. See that little brush burn? Battle scars John." Sherlock said proudly, thrusting his hand out and waving it around John's face very proudly. John laughed like a man in love, taking a little look at Sherlock's slightly injured hand and nodding in false satisfaction.
"Very manly Sherlock, very manly." He agreed with a little smile. Sherlock nodded, sitting crisscross on the carpet and sipping very daintily at his wine. Despite the very comforting crackle of the fire he was starting to get a little bit overheated, he had now successfully defrosted from his freezing trek over and now, with the fire burning very intensely not two feet away, he was starting to get a bit uncomfortable. John didn't seem to notice, however, his eyes never ventured away from where Sherlock sat, as if he was completely transfixed with the man in front of him. Sherlock knew that there was a reason John hadn't contacted him all week; however at this moment he couldn't figure out what it was. Surely John was still interested in him, certainly he was still entranced, maybe it really was due to a lack of communication? Or maybe it was because he suspected Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him, which would be almost humorous. As if Sherlock could forget a man like John Watson after no more than a week. Despite his intentions of only a phone conversation tonight Sherlock had been dying to see John again, if not in tonight then tomorrow night, or maybe the night after that. All in all this had been long overdue, and now that it was here Sherlock couldn't help but hide his smiles and try to blame his blushing on the fire next to them. Because he knew he should be somewhat ashamed, after literally jumping to freedom from the rectory he was surprised he hadn't any qualms about his little adventure, however it now seemed that John dominated his life. He had his heart in his hands, and it seemed that whenever he called Sherlock was obligated to come, not that he would ever complain. He had expected this relationship to be more of a duel of morality, God vs. Man sort of thing but it wasn't, was it? Sherlock had really sorted out his priorities in the week that had followed their night together, and it would seem that there was only one thing in his life that he would drop all else for. And that thing just happened to be sitting right in front of him.
"I'm finding it harder and harder to believe that you have remained single for your entire life." John admitted finally, sitting forward and studying Sherlock's face with newfound dedication, as if he was trying to remember every little wrinkle and bone structure so that he could recreate it in his head. Sherlock blushed in the newfound spotlight, smiling and ducking his head away in shame. He never liked people examining him too closely; he didn't want to find any of his flaws.
"I'm a priest John, a priest isn't really supposed to have relationships." Sherlock reminded him as if he was one to preach about such a thing. Here he was, sitting with his boyfriend, and talking about how priests couldn't be in relationships. Oh he was such a hypocrite.
"No, I know that part it's just...in high school you weren't a priest, were you?" John wondered curiously.
"I knew that I wanted to be one." Sherlock assured. John hummed in agreement.
"But you didn't have an obligation to stay single? Weren't you just a little bit tempted to get a taste of love before you were forced to go without?" John wondered curiously, as if he couldn't wrap his mind around this whole purity thing.
"I always thought myself above the other children; I had no need to meddle with the...commoners." Sherlock admitted, raising his glass to his lips only to laugh into it, fogging up the glass and choking a little bit as he forced the wine down his throat.
"Commoners? Wow Sherlock, you really did have a God complex." John laughed accusingly. Sherlock smiled guiltily, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand to wipe away any splattered wine from his already red lips.
"I was a very contradictory child, I never had any friends, due mostly to the fact that no one wanted to hang around me, however there were always those girls...the ones daring enough to try to get close." Sherlock admitted with a little bit of a shiver. John raised his eyebrows curiously, as if he knew enough to know that this was going to be quite the story.
"Oh ya? And how'd that turn out?" he asked with a little chuckle.
"It usually ended up with the girl crying, however I never quite knew why." Sherlock admitted with guiltily little smile. Somehow John found that to be absolutely hysterical, and he ended up doubling over with laughter, his head nearly falling to the carpet in some sort of painful looking contortion.
"One might consider you a sociopath." John pointed out, still chuckling as he tried to silence himself with his wine. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in agreement, that certainly had been a word that had come up in the school hallways, never a word he generally minded either.
"You're the only proof that I'm not." Sherlock admitted finally. John nodded in agreement, setting his wine glass onto the carpet and watching as it pressed into the little fibers, flattening them underneath its glass bottom.
"Did you know back then, that you were gay?" John wondered finally, glancing up at Sherlock almost as if this was a question he had been wondering the whole time. Sherlock thought for a moment, however he finally shook his head, and that was the truth. Sherlock had never even considered being gay before, he had always suspected that his disinterest in women was purely the work of his dedication to God. Greg had been the first to suggest otherwise, that was why it had taken Sherlock so completely off guard. Because even then he had been smart enough to realize that there was some truth in such a ridiculous accusation.
"No, I never knew." Sherlock admitted in a rather small voice, as if that was something to be ashamed of.
"Me neither. In fact it was quite the stretch for me to even consider the feelings I had for you to be love, for a while there I just thought we had a very intimate friendship, but then well...I suppose I realized I wanted more." John muttered truthfully, glancing up at Sherlock with a little smile. Sherlock couldn't help but smile weakly back, much to sober for such a deep conversation such as this one at only eight o'clock at night.
"Is this more?" Sherlock asked hopefully, keeping his eyes fixed on the wine glass sitting next to him on the carpet. He was too afraid to glance up at John; however he heard a small little chuckle, as if there was something funny in what Sherlock had said.
"What more is there?" John wondered. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, legitimately wanting to respond when suddenly he felt a hand on his neck, and when he looked up he was met immediately with John's face coming right at him, pressing a kiss onto his lips that Sherlock certainly wasn't prepared for. Instead of kissing back he had opened his mouth to cry out in surprise, so when John continued kissing he was happy for that second chance. Sherlock very hastily set his wine glass on the ledge of the fireplace, sitting up atop of the bricks were it would probably be safe from spills for now. It was a difficult feat, to set something next to a fire without burning your hands all while maintaining your dedication to a kiss, and Sherlock was feeling very proud of himself when he was finally able to pay attention to John, full attention. He let himself dangle his arms around the man's neck, holding onto him like some sort of monkey as John eased him down onto the warm carpet, continuing his kiss in the most innocent of ways. They knew that they only had limited time, and so they were doing their best to keep this kiss brief and manageable. Well, Sherlock was at least. John seemed to have forgotten that Sherlock had to be back at the rectory before morning, and his fingers were already struggling to one handedly undo the double knotted belt that wrapped around Sherlock's tightly drawn robe. Sherlock ever so carefully pushed his hands away, pulling his head back just enough so that he could mutter a few words before John readjusted himself.
"Don't get carried away." Sherlock warned, his sentence getting partially cut off as his lips were once more bombarded with John's. Of course Sherlock was probably supposed to be keeping a level head about all of this, remembering that he had a time zone and he still had yet to figure out how to get back into the rectory without detection and without a key. And yet the more John's kisses trailed from his lips he began to regain that feeling of existentialism, remembering once more that nothing really mattered anymore, not as long as he was with John. The world could explode at their feet and Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice, the Pope could come knocking down their door and he would beg for at least five more minutes, oh what was the point of it all? Who cared about his job, his responsibilities, his reputation? There was fire, there was wine, and there was John. So what could he do but nothing as John began to press kisses along his jawbone, what could he say as he felt the belt around his robe loosen, what could he do as he felt John's soft hands ease the fabric off of his shoulders? This was living, this love, what could he do except accept it?