Sherlock fell into a chair at the table, his entire body shaking as if he had come down with a fever, his hands quivering and his heart throbbing in his chest, threatening to break through. That was the closest he had ever been to anyone before, that was the most intimate he had ever dared to be, and John...John loved him... Sherlock let his head fall back against the chair, gasping for breath as if he had just run for miles, John loved him, he actually loved him and what could Sherlock do but reject him? What could he do but turn him away? This wasn't just love on the line, it was his career, it was his livelihood, his passage into Heaven! How could Sherlock accept this man's heart when he knew it would only lead them both to tragedy, both to Hell? And yet his heart, his own heart that beat in his own chest, it seemed to have picked up a new rhythm, a melody of sorts against his ribs, chanting for him to rush outside, pleading with him to chase after that minivan that had just driven off into the night, begging him to finish what they had barely even started. And what of his feelings, oh how meager and meaningless that had to be! They have to be ignored, there was no other option, no matter how strongly his heart strained for that man it simply couldn't be, there was no alternative, no other way. A kiss was more than a kiss, it was sin, it was unjustified and it was wrong. His love had to be ignored, flat out ignored, or else it would lead him off to roads he had not yet explored, unchartered territory where the grass hadn't even been trodden yet. Love was a mystery, love wasn't even an option...it would pass. This feeling that was bubbling up in his chest, it was certainly going to subside. His heart would eventually slow back to normal speed, his breathing would level out and his mind would slowly begin to think on different things. His legs would gain mobility, his hands would still, his arms would regain feeling, and all would be well again. As if it had never happened. As if those half drunken glasses of wine would just vanish if he willed them to, as if that memory would just hide in the back of his mind if he wanted it to, as if he could ever forget the way John's breath danced upon his skin, or how his fingers tangled so meaningfully through his curls...as if he could ever forget John Watson and the love he was telling himself he had to give up.
John POV: It took all of John's strength simply to get into his car and drive away from that house and leave Sherlock behind. The building itself mocked him, with its peeling paint and its darkened windows, it was almost as if it was reminding him that there was no more light in his life, not even one coming from the rectory. Sherlock had been his last hope, his last outlet, and now he didn't even have him. How stupid could someone be, how stupid could anyone be, to make a move on a priest? The only breed of human being incapable of having a relationship, the only one where it was clearly stated in their terms and conditions that they could not love, and of course John decided that he would be the man he was to fall in love with. Out of anyone on this entire earth, and he decided to go and lose his heart to the man in a white collar. Oh how complicated his existence had come to be! And now he was struggled to so much as ease his foot down on the gas pedal, as if that simply exertion of energy was enough to physical exhaust him. John lolled his arms on the wheel, his reflexes just barely able to get him through the deserted streets alive, pulling at the wheel every so often and swerving almost as if he was drunk into the other line. Thankfully he was the only one on the road, the only pair of headlights illuminating the blackest of nights, where it seemed as though even the stars had forgotten to make an appearance. His limbs felt heavy and his fingers felt numb, his eye lids drooping and his mouth sagging to form an unescapable frown. He felt like crying and yet he knew that he had to wait until he returned to the solitary darkness of his lonely house, he didn't want anyone to bear witness to a break down that he couldn't explain to any logical man. How could he even explain it to himself, how could he even justify his disgraceful actions tonight? Was it the wine, the darkness, the full moon that was hidden away in the clouds? Was it the solitude of the old house, or was it the pale glow of Sherlock's skin in the single lightbulb over the kitchen table? Had he gone there with those intentions buried deep in his heart or had he suddenly lost control, swept away by the torrent of words that had suddenly overwhelmed their previously innocent conversation? Was Sherlock flirting with him, had he intentionally hinted at something of a relationship, something along the lines of feelings? Or was it all relative; was John everything he's ever wanted as a friend? A platonic soulmate? Oh how pathetic he sounded, oh how pathetic he had turned out to be! Paper thin, crumbling under the pressure of a small smile and a metaphor about Heaven and Hell, only to get blown away with the gentlest of breezes and the mere hint at a rejection. And now it was just john and his wine, pulling up in his driveway in his horrible red minivan and turning the headlights off, finally engulfing the world in a blackness that he felt slowly overtake him. He turned off the car and yet he just sat there, hunched over the steering wheel almost as if he were about to fall asleep, and tried to remember just what it had felt like to have a face staring back. His eyes squinted in the darkness, trying to focus on where he believed the passenger seat to be, and tried to envision someone sitting there. It didn't even have to be Sherlock; in fact he would really prefer it not to be Sherlock in a time like this. He wanted it to be Rosie. He wanted his daughter to be sitting in the car beside him, with her long blonde hair pulled up into pigtails with the ridiculous ribbons Mary used to tie, wearing a pink polka dotted dress and a smile that was wide enough to cover the width of her face. And he would smile, and she would laugh, and she would press her stuffed animals to the window of the car so that they could see the landscape as they passed by in a blur. But she was gone, and all that remained was her memories, her stuffed animals, and her ribbons, all tucked away in her bedroom drawer, not knowing that they were never to be worn again. John hadn't believed he could ever hit rock bottom, he had never suspected that one day the list of people he loved, or at least who loved him back, would have dwindled to nothing. He had never expected to look out into the world, into the cesspool of lonely, desperate people, and not see at least one face looking back expectantly. He had official scared away the one person who he had hoped would fill the hole he had managed to carve into his own heart, and now he didn't even have the promise of Sherlock's company to look forward to. There was nothing he could do except work, and eat, and sleep, and work again, making money to fund only himself and the meager existence he was forcing himself to lead. And yet what had he expected, was there all that much to gain by a simple kiss? If Sherlock had been daring enough to let his lips so much as brush against John's tonight would his loneliness finally be cured? Or would he just be leading himself down the same path, crossing from friends to lovers too quickly and ultimately losing the person he thought he owed his heart and soul to? Would a simple kiss ease his lonely nights, would it suddenly fill the second cup of coffee that sat idly next to his pot, waiting every day in vain to be filled? Would a simple kiss put a hand in his hand and a heart in his chest, would a simple kiss fill the space in his closet and in his bed? The answer was no, of course, a simple kiss from Sherlock Holmes would do nothing but ensure a messy ending to their companionship, a breakup promising friendship until they suddenly drifted off, until finally Sherlock forgot all about John and John remembered every little quiver of Sherlock's hand and every little beat of his heart. He would be tormented listening to the silence of the darkness, just as he had when Mary had left, and when Rosie had died, and now, when Sherlock had rejected him for the last time. Had he kissed that man tonight he would only be ensuring for heartbreak down the road, and with the fragile state his heart was in now he was quite certain that he couldn't withstand another blow, for it would most certainly be fatal. He needed clarity, he needed time, and now, most importantly, he needed alcohol. John kicked the door open rather agressivley, the door swinging on its hinges only to snap back and crush his legs as he tried to slither out onto the pavement. John gasped in pain and yet he didn't cry out, he didn't want to break what remained of the startling silence, where not a cricket chirped in the frost that had settled itself over the cold grass. He grabbed his bottle of wine, still open of course, and stumbled out onto his driveway; locking the doors through the door and slamming the door shut rather angrily. John then walked up to his front door, fiddling with the key a while before finally pressing it into the lock and pushing the door open with a slow, eerie creek. The house was dark, as was the rest of the world, and yet John still looked back, he looked towards the road, as if he was half expecting to see the lights of that beat up old blue car rumbling into sight, as if he was expecting the long, thin figure of Sherlock Holmes to erupt out of the night and throw himself apologetically into his arms. And to think that there was once a time when their hands would never let go... John shut the door quickly, looking out into his silent house and pressing his back against the cold glass window pane, feeling the chill seep through his thin shirt and into his very skin, goosebumps erupting on his flesh and his teeth chattering slightly. His instincts told him to move, and yet his self-pity told him to lean farther in, and so he did. He slid into the glass, he pressed the back of his neck to the chill, and eventually he found himself on the floor, shivering with his lips around the bottle of wine, pouring the numbing alcohol down his throat as if he were a baby trying to bottle feed. He didn't care, of course, how he looked, because who was there to judge?
Sherlock POV: I didn't take long until his rosary felt heavy on his neck, as if the weight of what he had done and what he didn't do was slowly starting to asphyxiate him. He remembered every detail as if he was still there, in that moment, and he saw John's face every time his eyes shut, it took him back to that darkness, it took him back to that man and that moment and that magic and he saw love, love in its most unapologetic form. And he knew that he shouldn't remember any of it, he knew that he should be pushing it into the back of his mind and do his best to forget, and yet that memory remained so clear throughout the night that when he woke in the morning he could still remember all of the creases on John's skin as he loomed so closely, as his lips parted to let his breaths escape in quick, small gasps. Sherlock had never been faced with such a sensation before, he had never been offered love and therefore he had automatically assumed he was immune to its temptations. However now he looked back and he almost felt regret, as if he suddenly realized that his mistake had been a fatal one, and that now the only thing he could do was forge ahead and pretend that it all didn't matter, as if he could simply let it slide. But why had John done that, why had he even dared such an outrageous attempt if he had not seen it fit to try? Was there really a love that burned so strongly in his heart that he could dare to tempt a priest into so much as a brush of the lips, just to remind them both that their hearts still functioned? Or was he looking for more than that, was he looking for not just a brush of the lips but a brush of the hearts, of the souls, was he looking for not only an evening but a night, was he seeking a morning where they woke up by each other's side? And why did Sherlock not find that appalling, why did Sherlock almost find that...tempting? Oh he was going mad, that was for sure, but it was John that was leading him down this path of insanity, it was John who was beckoning him from the abyss with his bottle of wine and flirtatious, carefree smile. But Sherlock knew that he couldn't follow, that would lead to nothing more than tragedy and sin, and as a priest he knew that he should be morally obligated to steer clear of anything that was surely of the Devil's own making. He had been right after all, that John had been sent to him as his snake, as his forbidden fruit. With his flirtatious words and his careful fingers, his wine and his lips lingering so closely, he was used as a lure for Sherlock to grasp onto, he was sent as a careful invitation from the Devil. Sherlock knew that the path of God was not always an easy one, and now he was faced with the undeniable inner workings of a satanic plan to lead him astray. But then again, if he cast his religious paranoia aside, what did he have left? Once he adopted John's point of view what did he have to lose? Love was love, and if you looked at it without the priestly filter you could see that the Devil was not behind the beatings of a lonely man's heart, it was simply nature's way of putting two desperate men together, it was destiny weaving its curious trails to and fro, pulling their paths together so that they danced around the other's trail, waiting until the very moment when those paths intersected and became one, making sure the two men headed down the road of life hand in hand. It was hard for Sherlock to function that day, it was hard for him to stand up at the altar and pretend to be a holy man of God while his thoughts strayed to another man; while his heart tugged ever so slightly in the direction of the door he had last seen John escape from. Sherlock found it difficult to relieve the worshippers of their sins while his brain was concocting a justification for his own sins, his thoughts and his secret desires, all while trying to convince himself that nothing out of the ordinary was happening in his thoughts. However now that he realized that there was something different in his relationship with John Watson it was ever so apparent that nothing had changed whatsoever. This newfound addiction had almost proved to Sherlock that there was a reason behind all of his confusion over the past few months, there had been logic in his obsessive dedication to helping the poor man, there had been an explanation to his lingering thoughts and lingering glances and dwindling sentences. Love was a curious thing, and yet Sherlock was slowly staring to realize that it had been there all along, waiting for him to finally take notice. He ignored Greg for the entirety of the day, not daring to admit that through all of his ramblings and his accusations he had actually been correct in assuming that there was something more than friendship lingering right under the surface of Sherlock and John's relationship. Sherlock couldn't look the man in the eyes, nor could he don the priest's robes without a pang of guilt in his chest, or listen to the beautiful song of the organ as he realized that his ears were filled only with the breathless mutterings of the love sick John Watson, ignorant and unhearing of the word of God. He was trying to convince himself that he still had to decide about which path to take and yet as his day progressed he was beginning to realize that he had already chosen, subconsciously, which path to take. And his brain was constantly reminding him just how wrong it was going to turn out to be. As soon as Sherlock had a break between masses he flung himself into a chair in the back room and tore his rosary off of his neck, feeling as though someone were hanging a ten pound weight from its flimsy cord instead of the simple metal pendant that had hung there since the day it was made. Sherlock was convinced that the more guilty he got the more the crucifix began to weigh, and he knew that as his thoughts began to wander more and more in the direction of John Watson his necklace got heavier and heavier, until it almost felt as though he had to stoop over just to give his neck the support it needed. Needless to say when he placed that rosary next to the fruit bowl if was a breath of fresh air, and he could finally lean over and place his head in his shaking hands, running his hands anxiously through his bangs so violently that it almost began to hurt. He suddenly felt very feverish, and the peculiar taste of wine lingered along his tongue, tasting like the wine that had been on his lips and in John's breath, almost as if his senses were taking him back to that climatic event. This was the crossroads and yet he was at a standstill, his heart pulling him in one direction while his mind dragged him off in another. He was being dragged apart both mentally and physically, and suddenly he found this psychological battle exhausting, his muscles weakening with the mere thought of what stress might lie ahead. He would gain a lover and lose a Father, or the other way around, but he couldn't have both. It was God or John Watson, both of which came with their own advantages and their own drawbacks. John couldn't provide Sherlock with the clarity and promises that God could, however God could never love him as John would, he could never provide the human touch and the human presence that Sherlock suddenly had a craving for. Loneliness simply couldn't be overcome by the belief of a man in the clouds; he needed a hand to hold and a shoulder to lean his head onto. And yet what would come once his eyes shut for good? Would he have wasted his life away with John only to realize that he had an eternity of damnation to face? Was an afterlife stuck in Hell worth the momentary Heaven John would provide, or would a hellish existence pay off in the long run for an eternity in the pearly gates? Or was it just going to be blackness, would Sherlock be greeted with the same stagnant lifestyle he led now, regretting the choices he had made simply because he should've lived his life to the fullest when he had the opportunity. Purgatory would make life on Earth seem a lot more tempting, especially if John was part of that life. It would almost be worth it, wouldn't it? A week, maybe more, spent in John's arms and an eternity in blackness, living only with the memory of what John's lips tasted like and what his rough hands felt like on his smooth, cold skin? Was the risk worth taking, or did his allegiance lie purely with God and the afterlife he sought after? Was his entire career just a fabricated grasp on the reality no one was going to accept, or was it a story constructed purely to alienate the most believing members from the rest of the society, to keep them pure? Did this collar mean nothing but exclusion, did it mean loneliness, or did it mean God, and salvation? What did Sherlock stand for if not for God, and what did he fall for if not for love?