Give Him To Me
Pairing: Holmes / Watson
Word count: ~ 650
Warnings: Inadequate knowledge of church related rituals.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: The usefulness of churches.
A/N: Full moon… couldn’t sleep. Holmes and Watson neither. Popped into my head and I had to write this... Thanks to nodbear for beta-reading!
“Holmes! Sleep!” Watson looked down on Holmes, who cuddled his beloved pillow tight and sighed, slowly sinking into sleep. Last think he heard was a murmured ‘…take you into church on Sunday…’ Church? Why not? Tomorrow would be Saturday. He held the pillow tight, pretending it to be Watson’s warm chest, firm and his scent divine. Watson smiled down on him. The sleeping detective was such a rare sight… He gently touched the tousled hair and went to bed himself.
Saturday. They spent it in comfortable silence with a break at four o’clock in the afternoon. A walk through the park with Gladstone in tow, sniffing here and there, a shared cigarette, ‘cause Watson forgot his case. It was quiet and peaceful.
Sunday. Holmes was up before Watson was. He’d shaved, washed and was dressed like a true English Gentleman. Watson saw it and said nothing. Tying his own cravat into a neat knot he took his cane, hat, overcoat and led Holmes to the church of St. Mary’s of the Sacred Heart, his preferred place of worship. He wondered the whole time they need to get to the church, why Holmes’ hadn’t turned him down. He wasn’t a religious man, that was for sure. He wondered and said nothing.
The mass was as usual well attended. Elderly men and women dressed in their Sunday best following the lead of Father Fitzpatrick, a worn looking Irish man, whose long and elegant fingers wove intricate patterns into the scented air. It was all the smells, bells and costumes one could find in many a church in these times.
Holmes found it extremely boring. He faked interest, opened his mouth not in tune to the words of the chant, his eyes flickering through the great nave. Instead he watched Watson, and fell into his own worship of the man beside him. The dim light gave him an even softer touch than in broad daylight. Maybe it was the atmosphere that let his eyes sparkle in an unearthly blue.
‘Like a saint,’ Holmes’ thought. Watson gave him a glance, a small smile on his lips. Holmes had to look away.
‘He knows. Everything. O God! I am the sinner. Take me…’ And he averted his gaze for the rest of the mass, reflecting over the possibility of God’s existence. What, if… Watson was right and he was not? His heart was hammering, a high ringing tone in his ears. He sank onto his knees, accidentally with all the other people around him, and started his own prayer.
“Give him to me, give him to me, oh Lord. I beg you. I know, it’s a sin, but please… Give him to me, give him to me…” His voice so low that even Watson kneeling at his side couldn’t understand a single word. He wondered, but said nothing. He knew.
He hadn’t finished his prayer, when, all of a sudden, the mass was over. Watson gently took his arm and together they left the church. Holmes was puzzled in the extreme, but tried to hide it. His eyes still filled with tears he shivered at Watson’s arm. His friend felt it and squeezed his hand.
“I thought, you don’t believe in God, Holmes?”
“I don’t, Watson. But sometimes faith is…”
“…a necessity. A possibility. A kind of… a punishment…” He looked away, ashamed, afraid Watson had seen the sin in his heart. He had been right. Watson saw. He saw his own sin reflected in the detective’s eyes.
“Have you never asked yourself, Holmes, why I visit church that often?” Holmes’ brown eyes became incredibly huge.
“You’re a saint, Watson. That’s the place where to find them…” Watson’s smile sunk like a sunbeam into Holmes’ heart.
“I am no saint, Holmes. Come. And find out at Baker Street…” A low whisper full of promises. Holmes blinked several times and followed the doctor down the street. And there, at Baker Street, his prayer was answered.