Sherlock POV: It was hard writing a sermon for a funeral that no one would attend. It was hard writing anything for a crowd of one that didn't even believe in God, in fact Sherlock was finding it virtually impossible. He never gave much thoughts to her sermons, he skimmed over the respective Bible verse and sometimes he jotted notes down onto a notecard, however he never actually tried to remember the whole of it, he never actually dedicated his time to something as meager as a speech that people would only half hear. And yet, well, this was John, this was John's sermon and John's funeral and John's last goodbye to his daughter, Sherlock couldn't mess this up! And so he sat here, the Bible open and ignored next to him on the desk, his pen tapping furiously against the wood and yet surprisingly that didn't help the words flow any better. There were the eulogy stereotypes of course, she was a wonderful girl, lovely to everyone she met, everyone loved her, all of this utter crap that most lazy priests went along with because they didn't think it necessary to make the final farewell meaningful! Of course Sherlock was guilty of that as well, but only because most of the people he sent off never knew him, or at least they thought they knew him but while they were telling their life story his brain was off thinking about what he was going to have for dinner that night. And then they died, and then the family requested him because he was 'such a good listener' and he 'really cared about them' and he was stuck saying yes what a wonderful woman while his brain was once more off thinking about food and not the topic at hand. But of course this was different, this was different because he actually did know Rosie and the problem was there were not many people that did. So it was hard to try to make a sermon about someone who was a wonderful person and was loved by everyone they met and yet those statements sound so cliché that they would probably come across as a reused sermon and something from the old filing cabinet and not from the heart. And John, he would be the only one there, well he and his family presumably, but he would be there, and listening, and watching, with his brown doe eyes staring right at Sherlock while they pooled with tears that slowly made their way down his tan, smooth cheeks...Sherlock let his pen fall in agony, leaning back in his chair the way they always used to scold him for in elementary school. But right now if he fell over and cracked his head open it would be a wonderful escape, so of course the chair held strong and he was finally able to ease his way back down to the desk where his blank piece of paper was waiting patiently. Oh how tedious this all was! It was difficult to be perfect when your audience knew you to be anything but. Sherlock decided that he ought to take a break, clear his mind or something like that, presumably in the form of alcohol. So he got to his feet and rubbed his temples in aggravation, tapping his foot against the old wooden floor before finally making his way downstairs. The microwave was humming in the kitchen while he made his way through the narrow hallway, and of course the only microwave user in the house was staring intently as his plastic cup of macaroni and cheese spun around and around on the little revolving tray. Then again, Greg wasn't alone, there was another man sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper held up to his chin, his bald head sparkling in the artificial overhead light and his glasses sitting perched on his nose.
"Father Turner, I didn't expect to see you here so late." Sherlock started politely, walking over to the cabinets to try to unearth something edible. Well now alcohol was completely out of the picture, surely Father Turner wouldn't appreciate Sherlock getting drunk while trying to write a sermon.
"Where else would I be at this hour?" Father Turner wondered, and of course he left a pause there so that Sherlock could recap all of the Father's absences in these last two years. They were numerous of course, it seemed as though every night Father Turner was doing something or other, leaving the kids in the house to wreak havoc and drink the whiskey that was hidden not so discreetly under the sink.
"I'm not sure, you just always seem to be...out." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"Well I'm here now." Father Turner said flatly, turning the page of his newspaper very loudly before shaking it to get the proper angle. Sherlock glanced over at Greg, who was still watching his macaroni, and yet in the reflection of the microwave Sherlock could see a little grin on his face, as if he found this conversation to be entertaining in some way.
"Is there any food, anywhere?" Sherlock asked miserably, leaning on the cabinet doors for a moment before straightening up abruptly after he heard them give way to a warning crack.
"Sure there's plenty, a couple of miles down the road." Greg assured with a little chuckle, watching as the timer finally counted down the last couple of seconds before the obnoxious beeping.
"What you mean at the dump? I would never want to invade on your favorite restaurant." Sherlock snapped back, and yet not a smile from either priest.
"That was lame." Greg decided finally, using one of their dish towels to get the hot plastic cup out of the microwave without burning his hands.
"Yes well, it was the best I could do in the moment." Sherlock muttered, feeling his cheeks grow red in shame. Greg busied himself with pouring the cheese packet into the sad soupy mess of character shaped noodles, and Father Turner seemed increasingly interested in some sort of article about the economy, so Sherlock was left to look around in the fridge and try to find something that looked appetizing. This was the only problem of having three men in the house; they never bought food unless specifically told to. So of course none of them ever did because they were never told because they always went out to eat when they didn't have any food and therefore forgot about their constant hunger until they were hungry again, and then they started the same tiring cycle over again. In the end Sherlock helped himself to whatever was left of Greg's Lucky Charms, sitting at the table like a respectable citizen and watching as Greg burned his mouth over and over again before he actually had the brains to wait for the macaroni to cool.
"So...how was everyone's day?" Sherlock asked awkwardly, hating the awkward silence filled only by the old heating system trying to turn on and the ruffle of Father Turner's newspaper.
"Uneventful." Greg admitted with a shrug.
"Likewise." Father Turner agreed, and they were left with the same silence as before.
"I'm writing a eulogy, and it's not going too well." Sherlock admitted finally, looking between the two to see which of them would be the most interested in what he had to say. Of course neither looked very thrilled to answer, and yet Sherlock waited in anticipation for one of them to say something in response.
"I didn't see any funerals planned." Father Turner admitted. Sherlock nodded, turning his head away and realizing that he hadn't exactly told them of his little gift to John, the very gift that cheated the church out of close to five hundred dollars.
"Oh well, ya it's not exactly...Well I didn't charge him." Sherlock admitted flatly, dropping his head in shame. Well the good thing was they suddenly both seemed very interested in the conversation; the bad thing was the angered look in their eyes.
"You what?" Father Turner clarified, folding his newspaper down so that Sherlock could see his wrinkled face all contorted in annoyance. Greg just rolled his eyes, as if he knew exactly what was going on here.
"Well it's a, um, a friend of mine. And his daughter just passed away, and as my gift I gave him a free ceremony you know, as a sort of sympathy present." Sherlock admitted weakly, smiling as quickly as possible before taking another nervous bite of cereal.
"You don't have any friends." Father Turner said flatly. Greg, of course, had to hide his laugh, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile in agreement.
"Well in fact I do, I have one friend, and his daughter just died." Sherlock defended flatly.
"Ah yes, your beloved John Watson." Greg teased, to which Sherlock just glared. However Father Turner didn't seem to notice his little comment, all of his attention was seemingly focused directly at Sherlock.
"You complain about having no food in this house and yet you give away sermons and funeral ceremonies as if they're yours to give!" Father Turner exclaimed in disgust.
"I don't think it's right to take advantage of a dear friend's sufferings." Sherlock said calmly, and of course Greg laughed at that as well. Nothing was funny of course, he just laughed.
"It's exactly right, we're a church Sherlock, we need to make money on funerals! People die, and that's tragic, but at five hundred dollars a death I wouldn't be opposed to a bomb being dropped on this town!" Father Turner admitted morbidly. Sherlock blinked, and for once Greg stopped laughing.
"Too far." Greg decided flatly, and went back to his macaroni.
"My point is, Sherlock, that you could've gotten him a nice sympathy card, or a teddy bear to hug on the lonely nights, but giving away church revenue is rather much." Father Turner muttered bitterly.
"Would you like me to pay the fee?" Sherlock offered, and yet Father Turner just laughed, as if the very idea amused him.
"On this salary? Good luck." He muttered, and with that he folded his newspaper back over his face and that was the last of their conversation. Sherlock finished up his cereal in total silence before washing his bowl (had Father Turner not been there he would've left it for someone else to take care of) and dashing back up to his room where his paper awaited. Sherlock paced around for a while before finally sitting down in the chair and taking up his pen, deciding that the creative juices were pumping enough for him to at least write a beginning without too much effort. However after the first word was written the rest seemed to flow, and before long he was flipping the paper over to the back to make sure he had enough room to complete his brilliant masterpiece. He read it three times over after he was finished, trying to imagine reading it aloud, trying to imagine how his voice would crack and his eyes would flicker when he knew that John was standing a couple of feet away, wracked with the effort of containing his tears. However the eulogy was beautiful, it captured every aspect of Rosie's personality, all of the positive things Sherlock had been able to detect in the short couple of minutes they had spent together. All in all he decided that it would do perfectly, and so he got up from that uncomfortable wooden desk and went over to sit on his bed thoughtfully. The funeral was tomorrow, and Sherlock had only one mass to deal with before he was off for the rest of the day. Since the church wasn't officially involved in the funeral process he had to take a personal day to get out of doing mass, however it was worth it, wasn't it? This funeral was about as personal as it got, and it wasn't like Sherlock was skipping out on his opportunity to get out to the beach or whatnot, like Father Turner had mentioned earlier, their salaries weren't much, certainly not enough to get them to the beach and back without having to hitchhike and beg for food on the sidewalk. So why was Sherlock even bothering, why didn't he give John a discount, or a meager hundred dollars off? What possessed him to pledge a five hundred dollar value to a man he barely even knew? Why did he suddenly feel the need to serve John's every need, as if he felt guilty about something, as if this was in any way his fault? There was something about that man, something about his nervous little finger twitches and his obscenely straight posture that made Sherlock's throat close and his stomach twist, something about John's small ironic smile and the gleam in his chocolate eyes that made Sherlock's knees go weak and his hands clench, God this feeling was pathetic, it was inconvenient, it was thoughtless and yet it was everything Sherlock wanted in a relationship and more! John was just so, well...he brought out a different side of Sherlock, one that no one has seen before. He made Sherlock a bit more human and a bit more sympathetic, he made him feel emotions that he thought were just myths and he let him open his heart up just to see what his charitable capabilities were. It was as if John had put a spell on the poor priest with his little laugh and his sandy blonde hair, it was something completely unprecedented. Something completely uncalled for. Something that Sherlock would do well to avoid in the future, and yet certainly wouldn't change from the past. Something that he surely shouldn't have but couldn't live without. What is this feeling you ask? Well...that is the question, isn't it?
The morning of the funeral Sherlock was up at dawn, sleep had betrayed him and so he watched the light creep its way through the darkness, slowly making its way up his bedroom wall until finally his alarm clock went off. He rolled out of bed immediately, donning his nicest black shirt and pants before spending a good ten minutes wetting his hairbrush and brushing rigorously, trying to make sure all of his curls cooperated for this very special day. Of course it wasn't a happy event, it was quite the opposite actually, however he knew that not only would John be there but his sister and his parents as well, and so Sherlock had to look flawless of course. First impressions matter. It was a bright day, he could already tell by the uninterrupted blue sky that was just starting to illuminate the morning shadows below. What a terrible day for a funeral, what a terrible time to mourn. A funeral deserved clouds and rain, a sign that God not only noticed but cried as well, and yet a cloudless sky was all the more reason for John to believe that God had abandoned them. It was a terrible accusation, purely because it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. The moment John gave up his prayers was the moment God gave up on him, and yet a single Hail Mary would suffice, a simple prayer or even an acknowledgement to the man above would be enough to get God's trust and approval. John was trying to blame fate's happenings on the only person who hadn't officially dedicated themselves to saving Rosie's life, and now he sought to the missing God purely to bring out his pent up anger from all these years of loneliness. But he shouldn't crawl to God when the going gets rough and then abandon him as soon as his situation disappears, God grants wishes to those who ask for them years in advance, not days! If he stuck with going to church and praying then maybe his future dilemmas would work out better, but then again, what did John have to lose anymore? A lonely man was a man deprived of any future tragedies; you can't lose anything if you've never had it in the first place. Sherlock set his hairbrush down on the sink mournfully, thinking once more about how John might be spending his morning.The same as always, presumably. He would come to the funeral after work, most likely not telling anyone where he was going or what had even happened. He would put on his black clothes and stand idly by the grave, watching his only daughter get lowered into the ground. No one should have to bury their children; no one should have to lose their family in such a short span of time! Why John, why would he be chosen to suffer the most heinous life? Why should such a kind, gentle man lose everything he had ever won in a mere two years?Sherlock hated the idea that John was alone right now, he didn't like to think about that poor man waking up alone and going throughout the day without a friendly face to say good morning to. He didn't want to dwell on the fact that John ate all of his meals in silence, sitting alone at a table with four chairs. Sherlock wanted to do something, he wanted to help, he wanted to be there any yet he knew he couldn't! John would turn him away, he hated sympathy, he hated pity, but what of love? Of loyalty? Sherlock respected John more than any other man on this earth and he just wanted him to be happy, to be cared for, if John pushed everyone away then who did he have to blame for his loneliness except himself? Surely not God! Sherlock descended the stairs in a very irritable manner, and thankfully no one was waiting in the kitchen when he arrived. Sherlock ate his sad breakfast of stale bread toast alone, silently watching as a bird in their window hopped around in the morning dew, it's pretty feathers brushing up against the window pane and making a big, unattractive smear. Sherlock went over his eulogy again before he went over to the church, rolling the words off his lips without saying anything and deciding that it was perfectly adequate before he headed down to the church. He knew that John would be in the diner right now, and to be honest Sherlock had a strong urge to turn around and head to that cigarette stinking dump to go say hello, however he knew that John had a job as well as he did, and they both had to do those jobs until they were released to the cemetery. So Sherlock walked through the silent doors of the church, finding that no one was waiting for him when he came in. Mrs. Hudson's door was closed, the lights turned off and the office empty, so it was Sherlock's job to turn on half of the lights in the church and the lights in the entry way and all of that, just so that the parishioners could see where they were going. He then sat in the room behind the altar, his priest robes hung up on the wardrobe waiting for him to put them on before the mass officially begun. And yet Sherlock sat in an old wooden backed chair, staring blankly at the old red carpet and imagining that it was staring back. He had been hit with unprecedented dread, he didn't want to go to that funeral, he didn't want to give Rosie an official goodbye. There was something horrible about the thought of that girl in a hospital morgue, and yet there was something even more horrible about a gravestone with her name on it. Sherlock still hadn't fully processed that the little girl was dead, that after only five years her life had expired and she was to live in Heaven for the rest of her existence. He hadn't known her long and yet he felt like he should've known her, he should've talked to her more, visited more, asked John more, anything than simply waiting in his church for her heartbeat to slow! And now it was too late, now he had to deliver her eulogy, and not another word would pass her lips. Sherlock talked very quickly that morning, he rushed through his sermon (one he barely even remembered) and even stumbled a bit as he tried to rapid fire the prayers back at the parishioners. Anyone with a watch could tell that something was off, simply because instead of the full hour Sherlock's mass had taken not forty minutes to complete, and he barely lingered at the door in the end. But he was preoccupied, he couldn't be stuck in the present when he knew that the future had so much at stake, he couldn't concentrate on what Molly Hooper had to say when he knew that John Watson was waiting. They were to meet at the cemetery at two o'clock to get everything set up, the funeral was at three o'clock, and the reception dinner was at five. It wasn't like Sherlock was looking forward to the funeral, and yet he knew that the sooner he got these people out of his church was the sooner he could go get prepared, and even though he had a good six hours to get ready he still felt the need to rush around and get everything together. He needed a Bible and his eulogy, some holy water for people to bless themselves and maybe a rosary to put on the casket before it got lowered. Sherlock felt that Rosie deserved a mark of God even in the afterlife, just as a reminder to him that she was special.