Leviticus 20:13

Buried Along With Her Name

When finally the last of the church goers faded away he rushed back to the little room behind the altar and found that it was now occupied. Greg was sitting in one of the chairs and eating from a great bundle of shriveled up little grapes, presumably leftovers from the fruit bowl that sat in the middle of the table. Greg looked at him curiously, wearing the same look that Sherlock watched him with when he saw him eating those disgusting little things.
"You've got another ten minutes, what on earth are you doing back here?" Greg asked in astonishment, looking at his watch for clarification before looking back up at Sherlock with a stupid look of confusion on his face.
"They're gone, it's over." Sherlock said quickly, worming his way out of his robes and grabbing his shirt as quickly as possible.
"Why did you go so fast? Those people came to worship for a solid hour, and you're up there..."
"Don't lecture me about the common interest." Sherlock snapped, buttoning up his shirt and lingering miserably by the large wardrobe.
"You've gone crazy Sherlock; the funeral is not until what, two? You don't have to be anywhere so fast, unless you're planning on doing your hair for twelve hours!" Greg exclaimed, throwing his grapes aside and leaning forward on his chair as if this was going to turn into a full blown argument.
"I don't have twelve hours, I've only got six, and besides, what's the big deal about a short mass? These people have lives too!" Sherlock defended, not quite sure why Greg was attacking him so much this morning.
"Just because you suddenly only care about one person doesn't mean you can leave the rest behind." Greg pointed out very philosophically, and Sherlock just blinked in confusion.
"I don't only care about one person." Sherlock insisted in a small voice.
"Oh really? 'Here Mr. Watson, have a free five hundred dollar sermon, my treat!' and 'Oh Mr. Watson, you're a little bit sad, let me drop everything and leave the mass for Greg to handle and I'll just leave my church, hehehehe!' and..."
"This is ridiculous!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Oh and let's not forget 'Oh Mr. Watson, I love you sooo much and even though I always make fun of Greg for hooking up with random women I'm going to be a hypocrite and I'm going to frolic around and make stare lustfully at you and fix my hair every time you're around and think about you and talk about you and dream about you..."
"I don't dream about him, and I'm not in love with him!" Sherlock defended so loudly he was almost screaming. He was suddenly red in the face, his fists clenched and his feet positioned in such a way that it almost seemed like he was going to attack Greg should he continue any farther.
"And this, THIS is the most aggravating part because you're doing all of this and you still deny that you're a raging homosexual!" Greg shot back. Sherlock gasped, clutching his heart like a scared old woman who had just heard something rather offensive. Greg's eyes were alight with anger, and to be honest Sherlock had no idea why. He was getting all touchy, as if Sherlock's sudden dedication to his friendship with John was somehow inconveniencing him.
"I am not a homosexual, that's downright offensive!" Sherlock declared flatly, although his voice was wavering in a very unconvincing way. Greg was silent for a moment, writhing in his chair as if he was trying his best to hold in the words that were fighting to come out.
"But you are in love with a MAN!" Greg shrieked.
"I've had enough of this, I'm going back to the rectory, don't even think about following me." Sherlock snapped, throwing up his hands in surrender and starting for the door.
"Why, so you can enjoy your John Watson shrine in peace?" Greg growled from where he sat, his fingers tapping irritably on the wooden table.
"Lame comeback." Sherlock muttered flatly.
"You're a lame comeback!" Greg yelled at Sherlock's retreating back, and thankfully the door closed before Greg could get another word in. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the church was empty, at least their horrible conversation wouldn't be overheard by any parishioners, especially the older ones who would be absolutely appalled to hear that kind of language used in the back of a church. What a miserable mood everyone was in today, that was more attitude from Greg than Sherlock had ever received, and Sherlock still didn't see what the problem was. Was Greg mad that he had to take over Sherlock's usual mass while he was at the funeral, or was he mad that suddenly Sherlock was spending time with someone that wasn't him? Did he really value their poor excuse for friendship that much? It was just sad to see a grown man act so childish, and it was disgusting for him to throw around such harsh accusations! As if Sherlock deserved this kind of abuse! Yes so maybe he was a bit fascinated by John Watson; it didn't mean that he was in love with him! Surely Greg had no idea what love was, if he did know he'd certainly be smart enough to realize that there was no love between Sherlock and John, absolutely none at all. Not only was it morally wrong to be a homosexual but it was against everything a priest stood for to have an affair while still serving as a priest! And besides, this wasn't his problem, he wasn't in love, he shouldn't go defending feelings he knew he didn't have. Love was for children, love was simply a myth! You could chose to love or not, and Sherlock had chosen long before that he was perfectly content focusing all of his love to the one God, he had no use for mortal feelings, he had no reason to fall for a woman, it was a waste of time and effort. And it didn't matter that he had always had that fantasy of normal life, with a child and a wife and a house, it didn't matter that his fantasy was always somehow incorrect. It didn't matter, of course, that a life with John and Rosie would be considerably more desirable than one with a super model wife. It didn't...it didn't matter that he would rather live in that depressing apartment with John and John alone than anywhere else in the world. It didn't matter that John's arms were where he imagined himself when he thought of home.