Leviticus 20:13

Be a Priest or Be In Love

John left the ladder at the rectory, deciding that it was better to just use all his strength to throw it in the weeds next to the side of the house than to try to drag it all the way back to his meager living space by himself. So he struggled home alone, his hands swinging at his side as his muscles struggled to relax, aching from pain and it wasn't even six thirty. The last couple of hours had been something of a whirlwind for John; in fact he had to concentrate really hard just to remember what had even happened before any of the morning mayhem. Sherlock's visit, of course, was the most appreciated memory and yet running about the streets with a ladder would probably be the thing he remembered most from this day. But it was wonderful; it had been a magical night with a man he shouldn't even be with. John was hit with the same feeling of carelessness that he had felt during high school, the invincibility, the fallacy that no harm would ever come to you if you envisioned yourself on the top of the world. Well he certainly did feel like he was on the top of the world, and so what now? Was he really invulnerable? Or was God still interfering, trying to pull his strings to lead him to his own demise? 

 Sherlock POV: Surprisingly the morning was normal, up until he had finally crawled into his window that was. He had been as quiet as a little mouse, scampering across the roof and fortifying himself in his bedroom before anyone could notice he was missing. He was down to breakfast at his normal time; he even had time to shower, wiping the sweat and the smell of wood smoke off of his grimy skin. He hadn't expected anyone to be in the kitchen when he arrived, however when he walked down the stairs, fixing his white collar as he went, he saw that the light was indeed on, and Greg was sitting at the table with a fixated sort of look, staring at a sports magazine while blindly stirring his very watery oatmeal. 

"Good morning." Sherlock muttered cheerfully, getting a bowl from the cabinet and filling it with some stale Cheerios that he had been able to salvage from the back of their cabinet. They had something he liked to call the cereal graveyard, boxes upon boxes of cereal that had just enough for a quarter of a bowl, but not enough to fill it. No one ate those, of course, because they wanted a nice bowl of cereal to wake up to, and so the boxes just sat there and waited in vain, getting staler and staler until Father Turner finally threw them out. Thankfully Sherlock wasn't very hungry, and so a quarter bowl of Cheerios was exactly what he was looking for. He seated himself at the opposite end of the table from Greg, watching him as he flipped absentmindedly through the magazine, most likely just looking at the pictures instead of actually reading the articles. Sherlock never really pegged Greg as a sports fan, other than the Super Bowl of course, which he always insisted on watching even though none of them actually followed that silly sport. It was always a horrendous night, because Greg insisted that everyone watch it and so they all collected on their tiny couch and watched their tiny TV and pretended that they knew what was going on. Sherlock suspected that it was just Greg's way of convincing them to buy more snacks (because everyone ate junk food for sporting events, according to Greg) and yet he only attended to watch the commercials and the half time show.
"So how was your night?" Greg asked finally, not even picking his eyes up from the magazine or taking a bite of his oatmeal. In fact it looked like he had eaten nothing from his oatmeal at all; he only stirred it repeatedly until all the little oats were solidly submerged in the very murky liquid. Sherlock sighed, finally remembering that Greg had watched him as he scrambled off of the roof to get to John's house. A witness to the crime, so typical.
"It was good." Sherlock admitted casually, trying his best to hide the fact that his night was even better than good, it had been spectacular, and romantic, and beautiful...Good certainly was an adjective to use and yet it didn't capture the magic.
"Ya I'm sure, since it's probably safe to guess that you weren't sneaking off to do some secret praying at ten o'clock?" Greg wondered in a rather accusing tone, looking up at Sherlock as if he was for some reason trying to make Sherlock feel guilty about this whole ordeal.
"I thought you supported...this?" Sherlock clarified in a bit of a harsh tone, dropping his voice so that Father Turner couldn't hear from wherever he lurked.
"I do." Greg said simply, not providing any reasoning or any comfort at that. His answer was as vague as his loyalties, and Sherlock didn't know whether or not he should trust him or not.
"Well...good." Sherlock muttered, looking up at Greg to see that he wasn't looking back and deciding to just settle with staring into his bowl of cereal, suddenly not very hungry. Their conversation didn't continue after that, partially because Greg was surprisingly uncommunicative and partially because of Father Turner's grand entrance from the staircase, dressed in his normal priestly attire but looking sterner than ever. Simply because of his nightly adventures Sherlock immediately feared the worst, nothing could put Father Turner in a bad mood quite like disloyalty. However Father Turner bid them both good morning, his eyes lingering on them both for a moment behind his glasses before he finally began to root around in the cabinets for something good to eat. Of course he found nothing actually good and so he settled for the last of the Shredded Wheat, dumping a couple of squares into his bowl and sprinkling them with the crumbs that lay piled on the bottom of the bag. He joined them silently at the table, and yet thankfully Sherlock was able to escape whatever conversation he was prepared to have with his excuse of early mass. Well of course he had to get there, and it was legitimately time for him to leave, however it felt as if he was escaping some sort of horrible perdition when he left that ever so silent table. Sherlock washed his bowl and excused himself, donning his trench coat before grabbing his keys and starting over to the church. It was a surprisingly cold morning, with snow sprinkling the ground in light tufts; however the arrival of the morning sun should clear it all away before noon. The air was still and yet it hung with a heavy chill, as if the dew in the morning air was freezing onto his skin as he walked the very short walk from the rectory to the church. Needless to say Sherlock was happy to walk into the nice warm church, keeping his trench coat on until he could dump it in the back room of the church. Sherlock walked over to where Mrs. Hudson sat in her office, bidding her good morning and going through the rather agonizing process of asking her how her morning had gone. It took about ten minutes before he could excuse himself, in fact some parishioners were already beginning to show up by the time he was able to sneak around through the nearly empty church and into the back room. Sherlock groaned heavily, not feeling very holy this morning since his mind kept trailing to more forbidden things...John Watson for example. It was hard to pray to God when you were beginning to consider your boyfriend as something from Heaven and something from Hell. He was the most wonderful man and yet he was leading Sherlock farther and farther away from his eternal peace, he was angelic in his beauty and yet demonic in his actions, kissing with the light of Heaven while the fires of Hell began to burn brighter. The worst part was that Sherlock didn't feel any reluctance at all; he would take eternal suffering so long as John was by his side. What a horrible mentality, especially for a man who was supposed to be leading people to Heaven, not condemning himself to Hell! When it was finally time for mass he walked along the procession to see a large crowd, maybe fifty people all spotted around the large church. Now this wasn't very large in most people's minds, however for a Sunday morning at a church in the time of growing atheism, well, it was something to be proud of. The only problem was that he hadn't written a sermon and he wasn't even sure what Bible verse was being taught today. The good news was that he knew most all the Bible verses by heart now, the bad news was that his heart, among other things, was slowly becoming consumed by John. He wasn't entirely positive that he wouldn't start spouting information not about God but about how wonderful John's golden hair looked in the gleaming of the firelight. The staring faces of the large crowd nearly made him stutter a couple of times, however miraculously Sherlock was able to get through the mass without giving up too many signs of his disloyalty or his distractions. At the end of mass he was trapped by Molly Hooper, who had quite a lot to say after so long of 'narrowing missing each other' these past couple of days. Of course nothing had changed with her, the same old cat stories, the same old sweaters, and the ever familiar blush that appeared in her cheeks when Sherlock faked a laugh at some pathetic joke she had made. All in all her conversation had taken up the whole of five minutes, five minutes that he would never get back of course, and when she had finally left he took to slumping down in an arm chair in Mrs. Hudson's desk, fiddling with the cross shaped stress ball she had on her desk while she typed away at her ancient keyboard.
"You seem stressed Sherlock, is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson wondered carefully, sounding like the mother she insisted on being. Sherlock wasn't stressed at all, maybe just a little bit tired, however he was sure that it was his choice of occupation that got that poor woman worried about him. It was, after all, a stress ball that he fiddled with.
"No I'm not stressed; it's just been a long day." Sherlock admitted heavily, sinking even lower in his chair so that his back was bent at a very odd curve, his feet stretching so far in front of him that they nearly reached the edge of Mrs. Hudson's desk.
"Sherlock honey it's not even ten o'clock." Mrs. Hudson reminded him, and that only dampened Sherlock's mood. If today had already been this exhausting and it was only ten o'clock, imagine how awful the rest of the day could amount to be.
"Well then excuse me for being tired. It was a long night too." Sherlock muttered, however he immediately silenced himself when he realized that he had no logical excuse for having a long night. No one except Greg knew about his adventures, well Greg and John, however Greg shouldn't even know! And so how was he supposed to explain why his eyelids were already drooping this early in the morning? Thankfully however Mrs. Hudson was busy typing again, her wrinkled old fingers batting at the key as if she didn't expect them to type properly unless she slammed them as hard as she could into the keyboard. They sat in silence for the remainder of his little visit until finally Greg's arrival convinced him to get up and follow his fellow priest to the back. He didn't necessarily want to talk however he felt that it would be better to at least try to get a casual conversation in to make sure they were still friends. Sherlock didn't know what had made Greg so grumpy over the last few days; however he decided that it was better to just let it slide and pretend like nothing bad had happened at all. Because nothing bad did happen, or at least not from Sherlock's perspective.
"So did anything interesting happen in the um...the sports world this morning?" Sherlock wondered nervously, sitting in one of the little chairs that surrounded the dining room table and watching as Greg stared solemnly at the fruit bowl, remaining standing in the middle of the room and showing all signs of being totally absent from whatever conversation Sherlock was trying to start.
"Since when did you care about sports?" Greg wondered suddenly, after a bit of a deafening pause. Sherlock shrugged nervously, not really knowing what to say but then again that must have been the point of Greg's question.
"I don't know, just trying to start a conversation." Sherlock admitted finally, shrugging his shoulders dismissively and trying to look as innocent as possible. Greg sighed heavily, walking over to the table and standing absentmindedly at a chair without sitting down, as if he wanted to sit and yet he felt like he had to wait for permission first.
"You're annoying when you're trying to start a conversation, simply because you make it so obvious that there's nothing to talk about, not really." Greg admitted finally, sitting down heavily in the chair and crossing his legs like the lady he was. Sherlock looked up at him with a bit of a smile, hoping that by making himself comfortable Greg was also allowing for more conversation to go on between them. That or he was intending on just sitting and staring at random things before it was time for him to go start mass.
"Sorry." Sherlock muttered, not quite sure what Greg was expecting from him after such an odd statement. Greg nodded, clearing his throat and tapping his stubby little fingers against the wooden table once more, like he always did when there was something on his mind that was just dying to get out.
"I don't like keeping your secrets Sherlock." He said finally. "It's making me feel distant from God, and from Father Turner, even from you."
"Like you've ever felt close to God." Sherlock muttered with an almost accusing laugh; however the frown on Greg's face made it obvious that he wasn't saying that simply to try to get sympathy from his audience.
"I'm a priest Sherlock, and if you don't mind me reminding you, so are you. I've been close to God before, and yet now, with this burden on my shoulders, I feel like he's come to distrust me once more. It's just with you...you and John...it's just so different from what I've done! Yes I stay out sometimes, usually with girls who don't even know my name, but I do so knowing that it doesn't mean anything to my heart or my soul, it doesn't do anything to disrupt the direct line I have to Heaven. I feel like you're kissing your way into the void, and you're dragging me along with you just by appreciating my silence." Greg said finally, leaving Sherlock in a bit of a stunned silence. He wasn't only surprised at the point Greg was trying to make, but also with the very impressive way he delivered it. Sherlock had always kind of doubted that Greg knew any word with more than two syllables. Sherlock sat forward in his chair, his hands folded in front of him and his eyes staring rather guiltily back at Greg, trying to fully process what he was trying to tell him.
"You're saying that I should leave him. That or reveal myself, reveal John." Sherlock guessed finally.
"I'm saying that you're a priest Sherlock, and as much as I like that you're becoming a little less rigid I'm also becoming worried about your newfound flexibility. You're forgetting who you are, and who you wanted to be. He's not worth it Sherlock, I don't care how much you think you love him, you're going down the wrong path you just don't know it yet." Greg insisted finally. Sherlock couldn't help but gape, amazed at the fact that he was hearing this from the same man who met women at the local motel.
"He's worth it, this isn't just some hook up Greg, this is love, this is....this is everything." Sherlock insisted with a pathetic little laugh, still not fully able to comprehend what Greg was trying to make him do. Greg bowed his head mournfully, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a long, over exaggerated breath. He was making it increasingly evident that he was trying to say something, trying to make Sherlock realize what was on the line here. Sherlock's stomach twisted nervously, not sure if he wanted to hear what was coming next or not. His heart beat for John, it still pounded out that mournful melody and yet he was slowly coming to realize that he was the only one who heard it properly. Was Greg unable to see how much this relationship meant to Sherlock?
"Sherlock I think it comes down to one choice, you can be a priest, or you can be in love. There's no in between, there's no overlap, but either choice it only too easy to obtain. You can leave the church and be with John or you can leave John and commit yourself fully to what you have already vowed to do." Greg said finally, concentrating his gaze on Sherlock's to make sure his point was fully understood. This time Sherlock could only stare, he couldn't even form words he could only gape, his fingers shook and his legs went numb and yet he couldn't do anything to force himself to speak. He couldn't believe that he was hearing this, he couldn't believe that the only man he had ever considered to be his friend was going to be the very man that was going to try to tear his life apart. Sherlock knew that he couldn't be a priest and be in love, that was rule one in the handbook, and yet he had to make it work, somehow! It's worked so far, John was happy, he was happy, and the church still had a priest! How could he pick one over the other, and who was telling him he had to? Greg knew nothing about his life, he knew nothing about his heart, how could he sit before him and tell him he had to choose between his lifestyle and his one true love? Was there one that dominated over the other?
"No I can't...I can't believe I'm hearing this. You dare sit there and preach to me about life choices?" Sherlock asked with a disbelieving laugh, looking at Greg and trying to look as though he was amused rather than terrified. The mere idea of choosing one or the other had been following him from the start and yet he knew that he could ignore it as long as everyone else did. Now that Greg had acknowledged the elephant in the room there was no possible way he could probe it back into the shadows now.
"Sherlock I can't lie for you anymore, I just can't." Greg said flatly, shaking his head sorrowfully. Sherlock knew that Greg was sorry, of course he didn't like to hurt Sherlock in this way but he was making it only too obvious that he didn't care enough to stop. There seemed to be another crossroads, the same one Sherlock had avoided in the past, and yet he knew now that there would be no overlap, and no going back. God or John, he had to decide.
"I can't just leave. This is my life Greg, this is my job, my home, I don't have any education!" Sherlock insisted in a broken voice, looking back and forth throughout the church, the one he had taken for granted for so long. Was there really going to be a day where he turned his back on all of this? Where he took John's hand and walked away from the house of God?
"Then stay." Greg said simply. Sherlock breathed heavily, rubbing his eyes as he began to feel pains in his heart, pains that meant it had suddenly realized the cost of getting its way.
"But John..." he whispered quietly, dropping his head into his hands and staring through the gaps in his fingers at the wooden table before him.
"I'll give you three days Sherlock, three days to make your choice." Greg muttered, talking as if he was the judge for this madness.
"And after three days what will you do?" Sherlock asked worriedly, raising his head with tears brimming under his eyes. Greg sighed heavily, shaking his head and trying his best not to look Sherlock directly into his broken eyes.
"I told you I can't hold your secrets any longer. Father Turner will have to get involved, and I think he'll be daring enough to make your decision for you." Greg said finally, getting to his feet dramatically and leaving Sherlock to sit back in his chair, his mouth falling open in a cry of dismay as the tears finally leaked over his cheeks.
"He'll excommunicate me!" Sherlock cried out in horror, wanting to stand his ground and yet he found that his body was unable to do anything but drape helpless across his wooden chair, utterly defeated by nothing more than words.
"Then find it in your heart...or in your brain rather, to figure it out yourself. If you can find it in yourself to love the church once more then you have nothing to worry about." Greg muttered, looking down upon Sherlock with the expression of utmost pity. Obviously he knew that he was hurting Sherlock, destroying him even, however he wasn't doing anything except rubbing salt into the wound that he had sliced open himself.
"I can't...Greg I don't know how I'm supposed to choose." Sherlock whispered in a broken tremble of a voice. Greg just bowed his head, nonverbally expressing his apologies and yet he was obviously not prepared to do anything to make this decision any easier.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, you know I am." He muttered. Sherlock just shook his head, trying to get up from his chair and merely stumbling around as he tried to escape this horrible situation.
"And Sherlock?" Greg asked as Sherlock was halfway to the door, his legs shaking uncontrollably, threatening to capsize him any moment.
"What?" Sherlock breathed, tears still sliding down his cheeks without his consent.
"I'll need those robes." Greg added, gesturing to the priest robes that still hung loosely over Sherlock's frail, shaking body.