Leviticus 20:13

Only So Much God Can Do

"Not even that blonde one? Come on man, she was hot, admit it." Greg begged him as they were throwing the bags into the back of the banged up old car. Greg was smiling as he noticed that Sherlock had thrown in an extra box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Greg's personal favorite.
"It's very degrading for a woman to call her 'hot'. But either way, I just...I don't know. I don't like to even think along those lines." Sherlock admitted rather shyly, watching as the sun started to sink below the top of the grocery store and illuminating the building in a very beautiful glow. Now beautiful isn't a word he would usually use to describe the grocery store, but for a moment all he wanted to do was stare. Sherlock's favorite times were when the clouds parted just so the light from the sun can poke out into visible beams of light, when his mother had been alive she used to say that was the light of Heaven. Now when he saw that same particular cloud arrangement he always thought of her, and how she was most likely watching him from that gap in the clouds, smiling.
"Were you dropped on your head when you were a baby?" Greg was asking, as if he had been jabbering on all while Sherlock had been watching the sky. Sherlock looked back at him with a very bored expression, shrugging and pulling the trunk door closed.
"Take the cart back." He muttered carelessly, walking to the front seat and sitting down rather roughly. He stared blankly at the white lines in front of the car, of the parking space that had been abandoned in the time they had been doing their shopping. Now all that was left between those lines was a crushed McDonald's cup, leaking some sort of soda and baking in the dying sun. Sherlock listened to the cart wheels as they ran over rocks and spun out of control, and then he heard a telltale yelp that meant Greg had been trying and failing to ride the cart down the slight decline in the parking lot. When Greg finally returned Sherlock waited for him to get in the car and get situated before he finally turned it on. As Sherlock started back home Greg played with the radio stations, trying to find appropriate music for their dramatic entrance back to the rectory. Unfortunately all that was on was commercials, and so he dug around in the glove box to find some of CD's he stashed there for situations just like this one. This car was so old that it didn't have AUX cord capabilities, and so they were forced listening to the radio or CD's. Sherlock didn't own any CD's, which was unfortunate because Greg had heavy metal (remember that had been his ambition in life) and Father Turner had some sort of smooth jazz. So unless Sherlock's preferred radio stations weren't playing commercials he was always stuck listening to someone else's horrible taste in music. This time Greg picked some sort of demonic screamo band, blasting the music so loud that the very car shook with the drumbeats. Sherlock rolled down his window just so that the music wouldn't get trapped in the car and in turn shatter his eardrums; however it proved to be a mistake when they stopped at a red light and the people in the car next to them could gaze easily inside at the two priests blasting extremely explicit heavy metal. Sherlock whined and complained the rest of the ride home, and it became a bit of a duel to see who could turn the music up or down without the other noticing. Sherlock lost this game because he simply turned it off, which of course Greg noticed right away, and after that he was extremely attentive, making sure Sherlock's hands remained on the wheel at all times. When they finally pulled up into the crappy alley outside of the peeling walls of the rectory Sherlock turned off the car and the two of them began to unload the groceries. Father Turner made an appearance as well, not necessarily smiling but not scowling either when he saw that they had obeyed his wishes and gotten him Fig Newtons and prune juice. What an old geezer. Sherlock made sure to smile and look happy, even Greg was on his best behavior, because Father Turner's very presence was enough to scare them both into shape. When the groceries were finally unpacked Sherlock retired to his room, turning on the old lamp next to his bed and changing into his cozy pajamas by the soft orange light. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he folded away his clothes and put them into his laundry basket, checking his hair for a moment (he wanted to look good, just in case anyone watched him sleep) before climbing into bed and sitting under the covers. With his back against the headboard Sherlock read a couple of passages of his prayer book, loaded with different prayers for the day and motivational stories about how God can move mountains or something like that. After a while these things got repetitive. He had already prepared his sermon for the next day, and so he put his prayer book next to his mother's beautiful rosary and snuggled up under his blankets. He could still see his mother's face, lying there in that hospital bed, but he could never remember her healthy. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what scene he tried to remember, it was always that woman in the hospital bed. She replaced his real mother, at his birthday parties, at Christmas dinner, all of the most vivid memories he had ever had of his mother she had always been replaced by the bald headed mother he had last seen before she died. Not that she hadn't been beautiful, not that she was a bad sight, it was simply the fact that it seemed like she had always been sick, even when she hadn't been. It felt as though as Sherlock's life began to count up hers began to count down, as if they had just missed the timer that was slowly beginning to drop. It was wrong, for a child to not understand what happened. It was wrong for a child to have to ask their father where their mother had gone. And for a moment Sherlock's thoughts caught on poor Mr. Watson, the man who had been crying over his rosary this afternoon in church. What could possibly be his tragedy, one so horrific that he had readopted his faith after so long? What could make such a man cry, and yet be embarrassed of his tears? Sherlock knew that God helped those who needed it, and yet sometimes there was nothing God could do. He can only prevent things of Satan's doing, but if God himself willed it then no amount of prayers would stop what was imminent. Sherlock wanted to help Mr. Watson however he could, and yet he was sure he was going to find that quite difficult since he didn't even know the poor man's issues. Maybe he would be there tomorrow at mass, maybe he came daily, to make sure God didn't forget about him. Sherlock could always detect the struggling ones, the men and women who weren't praying for love but praying for a favor. They always talked fastest, they always prayed longer, more vigorously, as if God would listen to them out of all the rest just because they said the longest prayer. Sherlock always pitied them and he always did his best to help them, whether that be by giving them food, or raising money to help them afford medical bills, or possibly just by adding their name to his prayers before he went to bed. But Sherlock knew more than anyone else that there was only so much that God could do. After losing his mother he had followed the path of God because that was where she had directed him, but who knows what he could've become had she not given him her suggestion? A death sometimes acted like a wakeup call, sometimes people pray to God for help and when he doesn't grant them their wishes they leave forever, they cease believing in him. Sherlock always found that preposterous, however he tried to talk them back into the church the best he could. The church was dwindling, here, everywhere really, numbers were down and funds were low. The church used to be a powerhouse, and now it was beginning to be treated as something as a joke. Priests were scarce, that's why that idiot Greg was able to get a job despite his horrific behavior. Who knows where Sherlock could've ended up had he not seen the light? And to think, all of those people he had helped, all those he had prayed for, all those he had comforted, they would've been alone. Or Greg would've helped them, but God knows that might even make it worse.