Fic: You've Begun To Feel Like Home (2/?)
Rating: Mature
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, you might want to give this one a miss.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 2300 (this part)
Beta: the incomparable lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
Part Two: Comfort, Comfort All My People
John spent at least one day a week at St. Bart's, visiting patients, talking to doctors and on occasion administering the Last Rites. He felt strangely at home in this place where he had once felt so lost, and he had become well-known among the doctors and even some of the long-term patients.
Mrs. Grant was eighty-six years old and had been admitted with severe pneumonia three times in the last year. She was a regular churchgoer when she was well enough, and John always made sure to visit her when she was in the hospital. In spite of her age and her failing health, she was a lively, spirited woman and John enjoyed chatting with her once he had given her the Eucharist. She talked fondly of her three children, six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren and told stories of her early life in Kenya. John always came away with a smile after visiting her, and that particular day had been no different.
John had just left Mrs. Grant's room and set off down the corridor when he was suddenly knocked sideways as a nurse with a crash cart barrelled past him.
"Sorry, Father!" she called out as she rushed into a nearby room.
John drew level with the room and couldn't help stopping. It was a sight he was more than familiar with from his time working here: the patient, helpless, while the doctors and nurses worked quickly and efficiently to revive them. They gave the patient - a young man from what John could see - a shot of adrenaline as a nurse pumped air into his lungs. Everyone went quiet as they turned to watch the monitor, waiting to see if the adrenaline had worked. John mumbled the words of a prayer as he watched with them.
Finally, the monitor registered a response, an uncertain flutter growing into a steady heartbeat. Everyone seemed to give a sigh of relief before getting back to work, tidying the mess and making the patient comfortable. It was only as they started to leave the room that John finally got a better look at the man and his chest tightened painfully when he caught sight of pale skin and dark curls. He would recognise Sherlock Holmes anywhere.
"Father?"
John jolted out of his daze at the touch on his arm and turned to the nurse who had collided with him earlier.
"Are you alright?" she asked. "You've gone all pale."
"I'm fine. I just, I know that boy," John said, gesturing towards the room. "Man," he corrected a moment later.
The nurse gave him a look of concern.
"Maybe you should sit down."
"I'm fine," John reassured her. "It's just a bit of a shock. I haven't seen him for... must be nearly seven years."
He glanced at her and then looked back at the prone figure in the bed.
"I think I'll sit with him for a while," John said quietly.
"Of course. Go ahead,” the nurse patted his hand. “If you’re alright, I'd better get on."
The nurse disappeared and John moved into the room, stopping at the end of the bed. It was difficult to reconcile this gaunt-looking man with the fifteen-year-old John had known before. John frowned and picked up the chart left hanging off the foot-board, eyes skimming over the paper. He froze when he spotted the words 'suspected drugs overdose' and suddenly felt indescribably sad. He wondered what had happened to Sherlock in the past seven years to bring him to this point.
John replaced the chart and moved to sit in one of the chairs. He clasped his hands together and started to pray again, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.
It was a while before Sherlock stirred but eventually familiar grey-blue eyes opened, flicking around the room in obvious confusion. John got to his feet and Sherlock's gaze moved to him.
"Father?" Sherlock got out, sounding tired and confused.
"Hello."
"What- Where am I?" Sherlock asked, obviously disoriented.
Sherlock moved as if to sit up and John stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder and guiding him to lay down again.
"It's okay. You're in the hospital."
"I- How-"
"Rest," John said gently. "I'll be here when you wake up again."
Sherlock regarded him with a frown, but quickly succumbed to his tiredness and fell asleep once more. John returned to his chair to wait, passing the time in contemplation and prayer.
****
Finally Sherlock started to stir again and this time, when he opened his eyes, he seemed more aware. His eyes sought out John straight away and his brow furrowed when his gaze settled on him.
"Did Mycroft send you?"
"No. I work here. In a manner of speaking," John said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock blinked at him, and then turned his head away.
"I think I might sleep some more," Sherlock said, an obvious dismissal.
"Okay. We'll talk later."
Sherlock turned to scowl at him, a look that John remembered very well.
"I don't need any spiritual guidance. Thank you, Father," Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock scowled again and met John's gaze with a fierce look.
"Tell me, Father John, what does your God think of drug addicts?" he snapped.
"God loves all kinds of people."
"What about homosexuals?" Sherlock bit out.
"Even homosexuals."
Sherlock laughed sourly.
"Oh yes. Love the sinner, hate the sin," he said somewhat venomously.
"Sherlock," John said calmly. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to all these years?"
"I think that's obvious enough even for you, Father. I've been wasting my youth and throwing my life away."
There was a familiar parody in his words.
"Is that what your mother thinks?"
Sherlock regarded him for a moment in surprise, and then gave him a half-smile.
"Mycroft, actually. Mummy's too ill to be much bothered by what I do. Not that she ever was."
"I'm sorry," John said automatically. "Is it serious?"
"Apparently," Sherlock said, then shrugged half-heartedly. "I haven't spoken to my mother in months."
John found he wasn’t much surprised by this turn of events, remembering the strained relationship between the pair. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop himself from urging a reconciliation.
“I’m sure she'd be happy to hear from you.”
“You’ve obviously forgotten what my mother’s like. I assure you, she hasn’t improved in the last seven years.”
“Sherlock-”
“I’m tired,” Sherlock interrupted, closing his eyes deliberately.
With a quiet sigh, John got to his feet and, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to rest his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise.
“I'll leave you to rest. God be with you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s only reply was to roll his eyes and turn his head away, closing his eyes again. John drew his hand away and with one last look at the other man, he turned and left.
****
John had a late lunch with Stamford, before heading back to Sherlock's room, unable to stay away. Just as seven years before, he had been moved by Sherlock's pain. As he approached the room, Mycroft Holmes was just leaving and he stopped when he caught sight of John. Mycroft was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and appeared to have lost some of the extra weight he had carried in his early twenties.
"Hello, Father," he said as soon as John was close enough.
"Hello, Mycroft. How are you?"
"Fine, Father. Thank you."
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother," John said softly. "If there's anything I can do..."
"I'm afraid it’s probably a little beyond even your keenest abilities at this point, Father. She has leukaemia. It's quite advanced now."
"I'm sorry. She'll be in my prayers."
Mycroft gave a half-smile, much more subtle in his disregard for the Church than his brother - a consummate diplomat.
"Sherlock too," John added. "I'm sorry to see him again in these circumstances."
"Unfortunately, this is not the first time my brother has risked his life in this manner," Mycroft answered with a sigh.
They fell into a brief, awkward silence.
"Sherlock’s sleeping at present," Mycroft said, glancing towards the room. John couldn't help wondering if Sherlock had used sleep as an excuse to get rid of his brother as well. Either way, he was probably not in the mood for any more visitors.
"Ah. I'll leave him be then. He needs all the rest he can get."
"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "In any case, I must be going."
"Of course. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Father," Mycroft said with a nod, and then he was gone.
****
Sherlock had apparently discharged himself by the time John came to visit the next day and John returned to the parish church feeling restless. He wanted to help Sherlock, but if the man himself was so resistant to help, there was really nothing John could do but pray for him and hope he found a way out of his current situation.
John heard nothing of the Holmeses for several weeks but then one early morning a month or so later, Sherlock appeared in the church. John had been tidying in the sacristy and had only come out to get a cup of tea when he caught sight of the bowed head among the empty pews.
John instantly changed course, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the stone floor as he made his way to Sherlock. He sat down next to the other man, watching him in silence. There was obviously a reason for Sherlock's visit, but John wasn't sure what it might be, considering how much Sherlock seemed to dislike the Church. John crossed his hands in his lap and continued to sit in silence, waiting for Sherlock to speak.
After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, Sherlock finally shifted in his seat, although his gaze remained fixed on the floor. He brushed a hand over his face and raised his head just a bit, just enough for John to see how drained he looked.
"It's my mother," Sherlock finally said, his voice unsteady. "She's dead."
John closed his eyes for a moment, fingering the rosary he kept in his pocket.
"I'm so sorry," John said, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock was quiet for a while, but then he spoke up again.
“I hated her sometimes.”
John remained silent, not sure anything he could say would help. Sherlock sniffed, raising his head further to look straight out in front of him.
"I don't know why I came here," Sherlock admitted. "My mother always found comfort in religion, but I never could."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, his expression twisted with pain, before he shook it away.
"I almost did something very stupid when I found out. Almost. But I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it."
Sherlock laughed bitterly and tipped his head back, addressing his next words to the roof.
"I suppose she can be glad that she has more power over my actions in death than she ever did when she was alive."
Sherlock's expression flickered with momentary amusement, but then sobered. John continued to watch him in silence.
"Sometimes I wish I could have my mother's faith. Your faith,” Sherlock said quietly. “I wish I could believe that when people die, they go to Heaven; that they go to be with God and the people they love."
"You don’t believe it’s even possible?" John asked.
"Oh, where to begin...," Sherlock answered sardonically, his eyes finally meeting John's. John gave him a small smile and Sherlock gave an amused twitch of his lips. He brushed his hair away from his forehead and bowed his head once more, his hands pressed together in mock-prayer.
"I don’t know why it makes me feel better, talking to you," Sherlock murmured with a frown. “You’re just like everyone else, trying to save me.”
"Do you want to be saved?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispered, after only a moment's hesitation.
"Well, that's the first step, isn't it? Admitting that you need help?” John said. “I suppose you've considered rehab?"
"I don't think I could bear it. All that group therapy,” Sherlock said with a look of disgust. “Normal therapy, even. It sounds dreadful."
John smiled softly and Sherlock sat back in the pew, arms crossed over his chest.
"Will you pray for me?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"I always have, Sherlock."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, but then turned his gaze away. They fell into a comfortable silence, each man caught up in his own thoughts.
****
Sherlock didn't go to rehab, but he did go away. It was only afterwards that John learnt he had gone to shut himself in the family's summer home in the Rhone Valley to battle his addiction alone. John heard from him only once, when he received a six-page letter full of complicated and long-winded arguments against the existence of Heaven. It had made John smile and he had tucked it away into an old copy of The Apocrypha his sister had sent him after he’d been ordained. He did not hear from Sherlock again but he continued to think of him often and included him in his prayers, hoping that he could make peace with himself someday.
****
Part Three: Fight The Good Fight
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, you might want to give this one a miss.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 2300 (this part)
Beta: the incomparable lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
Part Two: Comfort, Comfort All My People
John spent at least one day a week at St. Bart's, visiting patients, talking to doctors and on occasion administering the Last Rites. He felt strangely at home in this place where he had once felt so lost, and he had become well-known among the doctors and even some of the long-term patients.
Mrs. Grant was eighty-six years old and had been admitted with severe pneumonia three times in the last year. She was a regular churchgoer when she was well enough, and John always made sure to visit her when she was in the hospital. In spite of her age and her failing health, she was a lively, spirited woman and John enjoyed chatting with her once he had given her the Eucharist. She talked fondly of her three children, six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren and told stories of her early life in Kenya. John always came away with a smile after visiting her, and that particular day had been no different.
John had just left Mrs. Grant's room and set off down the corridor when he was suddenly knocked sideways as a nurse with a crash cart barrelled past him.
"Sorry, Father!" she called out as she rushed into a nearby room.
John drew level with the room and couldn't help stopping. It was a sight he was more than familiar with from his time working here: the patient, helpless, while the doctors and nurses worked quickly and efficiently to revive them. They gave the patient - a young man from what John could see - a shot of adrenaline as a nurse pumped air into his lungs. Everyone went quiet as they turned to watch the monitor, waiting to see if the adrenaline had worked. John mumbled the words of a prayer as he watched with them.
Finally, the monitor registered a response, an uncertain flutter growing into a steady heartbeat. Everyone seemed to give a sigh of relief before getting back to work, tidying the mess and making the patient comfortable. It was only as they started to leave the room that John finally got a better look at the man and his chest tightened painfully when he caught sight of pale skin and dark curls. He would recognise Sherlock Holmes anywhere.
"Father?"
John jolted out of his daze at the touch on his arm and turned to the nurse who had collided with him earlier.
"Are you alright?" she asked. "You've gone all pale."
"I'm fine. I just, I know that boy," John said, gesturing towards the room. "Man," he corrected a moment later.
The nurse gave him a look of concern.
"Maybe you should sit down."
"I'm fine," John reassured her. "It's just a bit of a shock. I haven't seen him for... must be nearly seven years."
He glanced at her and then looked back at the prone figure in the bed.
"I think I'll sit with him for a while," John said quietly.
"Of course. Go ahead,” the nurse patted his hand. “If you’re alright, I'd better get on."
The nurse disappeared and John moved into the room, stopping at the end of the bed. It was difficult to reconcile this gaunt-looking man with the fifteen-year-old John had known before. John frowned and picked up the chart left hanging off the foot-board, eyes skimming over the paper. He froze when he spotted the words 'suspected drugs overdose' and suddenly felt indescribably sad. He wondered what had happened to Sherlock in the past seven years to bring him to this point.
John replaced the chart and moved to sit in one of the chairs. He clasped his hands together and started to pray again, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.
It was a while before Sherlock stirred but eventually familiar grey-blue eyes opened, flicking around the room in obvious confusion. John got to his feet and Sherlock's gaze moved to him.
"Father?" Sherlock got out, sounding tired and confused.
"Hello."
"What- Where am I?" Sherlock asked, obviously disoriented.
Sherlock moved as if to sit up and John stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder and guiding him to lay down again.
"It's okay. You're in the hospital."
"I- How-"
"Rest," John said gently. "I'll be here when you wake up again."
Sherlock regarded him with a frown, but quickly succumbed to his tiredness and fell asleep once more. John returned to his chair to wait, passing the time in contemplation and prayer.
****
Finally Sherlock started to stir again and this time, when he opened his eyes, he seemed more aware. His eyes sought out John straight away and his brow furrowed when his gaze settled on him.
"Did Mycroft send you?"
"No. I work here. In a manner of speaking," John said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock blinked at him, and then turned his head away.
"I think I might sleep some more," Sherlock said, an obvious dismissal.
"Okay. We'll talk later."
Sherlock turned to scowl at him, a look that John remembered very well.
"I don't need any spiritual guidance. Thank you, Father," Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock scowled again and met John's gaze with a fierce look.
"Tell me, Father John, what does your God think of drug addicts?" he snapped.
"God loves all kinds of people."
"What about homosexuals?" Sherlock bit out.
"Even homosexuals."
Sherlock laughed sourly.
"Oh yes. Love the sinner, hate the sin," he said somewhat venomously.
"Sherlock," John said calmly. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to all these years?"
"I think that's obvious enough even for you, Father. I've been wasting my youth and throwing my life away."
There was a familiar parody in his words.
"Is that what your mother thinks?"
Sherlock regarded him for a moment in surprise, and then gave him a half-smile.
"Mycroft, actually. Mummy's too ill to be much bothered by what I do. Not that she ever was."
"I'm sorry," John said automatically. "Is it serious?"
"Apparently," Sherlock said, then shrugged half-heartedly. "I haven't spoken to my mother in months."
John found he wasn’t much surprised by this turn of events, remembering the strained relationship between the pair. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop himself from urging a reconciliation.
“I’m sure she'd be happy to hear from you.”
“You’ve obviously forgotten what my mother’s like. I assure you, she hasn’t improved in the last seven years.”
“Sherlock-”
“I’m tired,” Sherlock interrupted, closing his eyes deliberately.
With a quiet sigh, John got to his feet and, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to rest his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise.
“I'll leave you to rest. God be with you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s only reply was to roll his eyes and turn his head away, closing his eyes again. John drew his hand away and with one last look at the other man, he turned and left.
****
John had a late lunch with Stamford, before heading back to Sherlock's room, unable to stay away. Just as seven years before, he had been moved by Sherlock's pain. As he approached the room, Mycroft Holmes was just leaving and he stopped when he caught sight of John. Mycroft was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and appeared to have lost some of the extra weight he had carried in his early twenties.
"Hello, Father," he said as soon as John was close enough.
"Hello, Mycroft. How are you?"
"Fine, Father. Thank you."
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother," John said softly. "If there's anything I can do..."
"I'm afraid it’s probably a little beyond even your keenest abilities at this point, Father. She has leukaemia. It's quite advanced now."
"I'm sorry. She'll be in my prayers."
Mycroft gave a half-smile, much more subtle in his disregard for the Church than his brother - a consummate diplomat.
"Sherlock too," John added. "I'm sorry to see him again in these circumstances."
"Unfortunately, this is not the first time my brother has risked his life in this manner," Mycroft answered with a sigh.
They fell into a brief, awkward silence.
"Sherlock’s sleeping at present," Mycroft said, glancing towards the room. John couldn't help wondering if Sherlock had used sleep as an excuse to get rid of his brother as well. Either way, he was probably not in the mood for any more visitors.
"Ah. I'll leave him be then. He needs all the rest he can get."
"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "In any case, I must be going."
"Of course. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Father," Mycroft said with a nod, and then he was gone.
****
Sherlock had apparently discharged himself by the time John came to visit the next day and John returned to the parish church feeling restless. He wanted to help Sherlock, but if the man himself was so resistant to help, there was really nothing John could do but pray for him and hope he found a way out of his current situation.
John heard nothing of the Holmeses for several weeks but then one early morning a month or so later, Sherlock appeared in the church. John had been tidying in the sacristy and had only come out to get a cup of tea when he caught sight of the bowed head among the empty pews.
John instantly changed course, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the stone floor as he made his way to Sherlock. He sat down next to the other man, watching him in silence. There was obviously a reason for Sherlock's visit, but John wasn't sure what it might be, considering how much Sherlock seemed to dislike the Church. John crossed his hands in his lap and continued to sit in silence, waiting for Sherlock to speak.
After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, Sherlock finally shifted in his seat, although his gaze remained fixed on the floor. He brushed a hand over his face and raised his head just a bit, just enough for John to see how drained he looked.
"It's my mother," Sherlock finally said, his voice unsteady. "She's dead."
John closed his eyes for a moment, fingering the rosary he kept in his pocket.
"I'm so sorry," John said, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock was quiet for a while, but then he spoke up again.
“I hated her sometimes.”
John remained silent, not sure anything he could say would help. Sherlock sniffed, raising his head further to look straight out in front of him.
"I don't know why I came here," Sherlock admitted. "My mother always found comfort in religion, but I never could."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, his expression twisted with pain, before he shook it away.
"I almost did something very stupid when I found out. Almost. But I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it."
Sherlock laughed bitterly and tipped his head back, addressing his next words to the roof.
"I suppose she can be glad that she has more power over my actions in death than she ever did when she was alive."
Sherlock's expression flickered with momentary amusement, but then sobered. John continued to watch him in silence.
"Sometimes I wish I could have my mother's faith. Your faith,” Sherlock said quietly. “I wish I could believe that when people die, they go to Heaven; that they go to be with God and the people they love."
"You don’t believe it’s even possible?" John asked.
"Oh, where to begin...," Sherlock answered sardonically, his eyes finally meeting John's. John gave him a small smile and Sherlock gave an amused twitch of his lips. He brushed his hair away from his forehead and bowed his head once more, his hands pressed together in mock-prayer.
"I don’t know why it makes me feel better, talking to you," Sherlock murmured with a frown. “You’re just like everyone else, trying to save me.”
"Do you want to be saved?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispered, after only a moment's hesitation.
"Well, that's the first step, isn't it? Admitting that you need help?” John said. “I suppose you've considered rehab?"
"I don't think I could bear it. All that group therapy,” Sherlock said with a look of disgust. “Normal therapy, even. It sounds dreadful."
John smiled softly and Sherlock sat back in the pew, arms crossed over his chest.
"Will you pray for me?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"I always have, Sherlock."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, but then turned his gaze away. They fell into a comfortable silence, each man caught up in his own thoughts.
****
Sherlock didn't go to rehab, but he did go away. It was only afterwards that John learnt he had gone to shut himself in the family's summer home in the Rhone Valley to battle his addiction alone. John heard from him only once, when he received a six-page letter full of complicated and long-winded arguments against the existence of Heaven. It had made John smile and he had tucked it away into an old copy of The Apocrypha his sister had sent him after he’d been ordained. He did not hear from Sherlock again but he continued to think of him often and included him in his prayers, hoping that he could make peace with himself someday.
****
Part Three: Fight The Good Fight