John was sitting in the back pew, getting to his feet as soon as Sherlock made his grand entrance.
"Are you alright?" John wondered worriedly, walking swiftly over to investigate. However as soon as he got too close Sherlock took it upon himself to take a step back, insisting that he couldn't be tempted to sin only thirty seconds after he had just gone through confession.
"I'm fine." Sherlock lied, feeling a very uneasy grumbling in the pit of his stomach. He was feeling guiltily, beyond guilty in fact, because even as he remembered the priest's words he still wanted to take John up in his arms and kiss him until they were both blue in the face.
"You look kind of pale." John decided, crossing his arms and examining Sherlock's face as if it fascinated him.
"I'm always pale John." Sherlock snapped.
"Well, abnormally pale. Like you're scared of something." John observed, his voice dropping to a softer tone as if he were worried about Sherlock's little mental state.
"I'm fine." Sherlock insisted once more, lying through his teeth. The door opened once more, and Father Franklin came out, stretching his arms and observing the two men with newfound shame. Obviously they have both confessed to the same thing, or at least Sherlock assumed they had, so he now knew basically everything that was going on in their lives, all of the dirty little secrets they kept hidden away.
"Well Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, you have been forgiven of your sins as of now, go in peace, go in tranquility." Father Franklin willed, looking very calm as he approached. He didn't seem too disgusted, actually, in fact he seemed rather appreciative, as if he was happy they could both admit to such sins so carelessly. Then again, that had most certainly not been a careless process for Sherlock to endure; he felt very guiltily when the Father's eyes strayed onto him. Sherlock also noticed that John was looking uncomfortable, staring down at his toes and blushing guiltily. He must have confessed, there would be no better explanation for such an act.
"Thank you Father, for everything." Sherlock muttered, deciding that if John wasn't going to be the one to talk he should lead them out of here as smoothly as possible.
"Not a problem Mr. Holmes. And for both of you, heed the word of God, and the sanctity of the promises you have made." Father Franklin pleaded, looking upon them both with concerned eyes. Sherlock even felt rather awkward in his glare, finding it necessary to make sure his shoes weren't scuffed and that the floors were properly cleaned. You know, important stuff, that he had to focus on right this moment.
"We'll be more cautious." John promised, finally speaking up when Sherlock found that his throat had seemingly swollen up. Talking anything about the promises he had made felt like he had been asked to cough up a golf ball, it felt impossible to admit to such things as these and not feel as if the whole church were looking down on you in shame.
"Until then, good luck with the spirit inside you." Father Franklin laughed. "I hope this helped repress it a bit more."
"I hope so too. Maybe I can actually go to sleep tonight." John agreed with a nervous little laugh, eying Sherlock as if hoping he had a little bit of humorous input to the topic at hand. But Sherlock didn't really have anything to say, so he just nodded and let John go on, thanking Father Franklin once more before leading Sherlock out the wooden doors and back into the startling sun.
"Did you tell him?" John wondered, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at Sherlock curiously.
"Yes, of course I told him, did you?" Sherlock asked, daring a look up at his companion before climbing into the car. John waited to buckle up before answering, sitting snuggly in his seat and sighing heavily.
"I felt like I had to, yes." John agreed heavily.
"He didn't seem too happy with me." Sherlock admitted with a regretful sigh.
"No, me neither. Of course he wouldn't be happy, but he went on and on about the sanctity of marriage and all of that stuff. It's rubbish, all of it, everything that's going on." John decided flatly. Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that, so he simply started the car and pulled out of his rather poor parallel parking space.
"What is? Your marriage?" Sherlock wondered, not daring to hope for such a thing.
"No, you, us, I mean...whatever this is. Like I said before, it meant nothing." John insisted.
"Of course it didn't." Sherlock agreed quickly, saying what he thought John would want to hear instead of saying what his brain was telling him.
"I thought you had said it did mean something?" John asked quickly, turning his head so that he could stare directly at the side of Sherlock's face.
"No, no I never said that." Sherlock defended, feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.
"You were saying how I couldn't blame Irene for my feelings, and that I was in love with you!" John pointed out, talking about this as if he were wishing these statements upon Sherlock, as if he wished they would come back to the table. Maybe he wanted to act on them, to finally take them into account.
"Well, I mean, I never said that directly." Sherlock defended, trying to keep his eyes on the road dispute the feeling of John's eyes on him constantly.
"Well good, because it's not true." John finished, sitting back in his seat and tapping his foot against the floor of the car quickly.
"I know, I thought we had agreed on that before." Sherlock agreed.
"It wasn't even a kiss, it meant nothing, it was just...drunkenness." John decided finally, thinking out loud as he tried to make himself seem more pure. Sherlock nodded in agreement, feeling as though all he could do was agree. Let John ramble, whatever he said he said just to get it out, to put his inner qualms to rest.
"It meant nothing." John repeated again, as if that was going to be his new mantra. Sherlock hummed in agreement, looking over at John with a small, curious smile on his face.
"Would you do it again?" Sherlock wondered casually.
"Oh god yes." John agreed unintentionally, and as soon as those words came out of his mouth he covered his lips with his hand, as if he could possibly shove the words back down his throat. But Sherlock just laughed, that had been the answer he was expecting this entire time. Then again, John didn't seem to find it that funny, and he turned a ghastly shade of white. 

 It was a slow next couple of days, a week or so coupled with awkward conversations, prolonged eye contact, and John muttering little prayers of forgiveness to himself whenever their hands so much as brushed over each other's as they reached for the kettle. Sherlock didn't really like this new John, this holy John, but it was reassuring at least to know that the thoughts of temptation were still swimming around in John's sinful skull. Then again, Sherlock shouldn't find any satisfaction in that, knowing that those thoughts were probably going to be the thoughts that gave the Aspiration full control in the end. The nights got longer, their eyelids got heavier, and Mary's scowls got deeper as they stayed up through all hours of the darkness, biding their time meaninglessly just so they could keep their eyes open until midday naptime. But they adapted, they started to find better things to bide their time with than simply sitting around and talking. John balanced his checkbook, Sherlock made card towers, John paid bills and calculated taxes, Sherlock discovered how to play chess by himself, and then once the sun rose up they both passed out where they were sitting. It was a very productive couple of hours, and it was nice to be alone with John, even if they both knew nothing would amount from it at all. Sherlock was perfectly alright with this emotional love they shared, this mutual feeling they both knew was there, but they both wouldn't dare act upon it. They started to become more and more emotionally paired, like they had been married for years without their lips ever touching. Sherlock knew what type of tea John liked when he made it, John knew to make sure Sherlock had alone time from time to time, Sherlock knew not to mention Mary and John knew never to breathe a word about Victor, and together they lived in this dark harmony. What little contact they would make would be very brief, it would be the brush of a hand, or maybe a little smile or hair ruffle in the psychotic hours of two in the morning, but nothing would ever amount, nothing sinful. It was a mutual understanding and a mutual love, and they were both happy with it, or at least that was what Sherlock assumed. The only person that seemed to be upset with this entire setup was Mary, who was obviously starting to feel more and more neglected as Sherlock and John's bond grew. She was trying to cling to her husband to no end, trying to keep him away from Sherlock whenever possible, as if that would help their failing relationship. Sherlock knew that as soon as that Aspiration was out of John there would be some serious changes in his life, obviously if they all made it out safe and sound then John wouldn't want to remain married to a woman who couldn't care less about the whole predicament. She was selfish and rude and irritable, and the more Sherlock got to know her the more he despised her existence. She never volunteered to stay up with John anymore, completely pushing the entire Aspiration get up aside, she seemed to have come to the conclusion that if she ignored the entire thing then maybe it would just go away. Well, something was keeping it at bay for at least a week or so, but Sherlock was quite sure it wasn't Mary's stubbornness. Since they had gone to confession with Father Franklin it seemed like the Aspiration didn't dare show its face. Maybe it had gotten pushed down, maybe John's soul had vanquished it forever and they just didn't realize, or maybe this whole staying up late gig was really helping repress it more and more. But Sherlock knew that eventually they would have to get a game plan, eventually they were going to have to perform the ritual. They knew that they had to let the Aspiration get to the brink of total control and then chant all of that Latin, but it was a lot easier just to avoid the problem rather than face it. Sherlock was much happier staying up into the miserable hours of the night with John rather than trying to exorcise him on the front lawn. Nevertheless, all seemed to be well, it was calm, it was almost too calm. It was a Saturday night, the chilly fall air ruffling the withered brown leaves on the trees outside the Watson house. Mary had decided that she and John needed a date night to rekindle the flame or something lame like that. It was her way of dragging John out of Sherlock's clutches, as if he were just hers to command. So of course, they had called on their trusty companions to babysit Rosie, leading to a very destructive night to say the least. Sherlock and Molly had arrived around six, and they were expected to babysit until nine, but neither knew what to do with a child. So when the Watsons kissed their daughter on the head and said their goodbyes, they left a flabbergasted Molly and Sherlock standing in the kitchen, staring into the surprisingly judgmental eyes of the little girl. 

"So...what do you want do?" Sherlock asked nervously, starting at Rosie nervously, as if she were going to decapitate him with her little plastic tiara. She didn't answer; she was just staring at the two of them, as if wondering why her parents would dare leave her in the hands of such unexperienced friends.
"Want to have a tea party?" Molly suggested, bending over so that she could get on Rosie's eye level, smiling very obnoxiously.
"I don't like tea parties." Rosie said flatly, crossing her little arms moodily.
"Want to play princess?" Sherlock suggested. Rosie sighed heavily, but eventually she nodded, her pigtails flopping on the side of her head.
"Oh I love playing princess!" Molly said excitedly, looking genuinely happy to be playing such a childish game.
"We can be princesses, and he can be the executioner!" Rosie decided with a little squeak of excitement, and Molly's smile faded rather quickly.
"The what now?" she wondered in a very nervous voice.
"Open up you princesses; it is I, the executioner!" Sherlock exclaimed not ten minutes later, wielding a foam sword and donning a black hood made out of felt. Molly and Rosie were hiding in Rosie's room, both wearing plastic jewelry and tiaras and tutus. According to Rosie they were princesses that were on some sort of death list, and it was Sherlock's job to try to decapitate them or something. He was only half listening to her story, but it was worth it as long as she was entertained.
"You've got to use a deep voice!" Rosie instructed from the bedroom.
"I'm trying!" Sherlock insisted, trying to deepen his voice so that he sounded suspiciously like Darth Vader.
"Sherlock I think you should be the princess instead." Molly suggested from the other side of Rosie's locked door. Sherlock sighed heavily, not knowing what he had to do to entertain these needy women.
"The executioner is doing his best!" Sherlock defended, holding his sword rather limply as he frowned at the locked door.
"The executioner it rather confused." He admitted, in a voice so quiet that he doubted anyone else could hear. He wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to get into the bedroom if the door was locked.
"Come on Sherlock, come get us!" Molly insisted from inside.
"I'm trying, but like...I don't have a key." Sherlock defended hopelessly, stretching up a hand and feeling above the door frame to try to find a hidden spare key. There was none, however, and he frowned in defeat.
"I have no idea what you want from me." he admitted after a moment.
"Break it down!" Rosie shrieked from inside.
"Your mother would murder me." Sherlock said flatly, not daring to get anymore on Mrs. Watson's bad side.
"Murdering is your job; if you're not quick we're going to get away!" Rosie called from inside.
"Where are you going to go, out the window?" Sherlock said with a laugh.
"We can tie together my bed sheets!" Rosie said excitedly, and Sherlock heard Molly gasp in horror at the very idea.
"Don't do that!" Sherlock insisted.
"What are you doing Sherlock, come on, kill us!" Molly yelled from inside. Sherlock had no idea why she sounded so impatient, it wasn't like he could just open it up and come kill them. Murder takes time, especially when the bloody door was locked. In the end he just picked the lock with a hairpin he found in Mary's dresser, and by the time he actually got inside they had devoted their time to playing dolls instead, and the Executioner was completely ignored. That was alright, however, because they were playing some stupid game with the Barbies and he just bided his time, trying to style one of the male Barbie's hair to make him look gay. It didn't really work, and in the end he just flung the annoyingly masculine ken doll across the room and flopped onto the pink flowery sheets of Rosie's bed. Molly was obviously having more luck with connection with Rosie than Sherlock had; obviously girls spoke the same language, no matter what age. They played Barbies, did each other's makeup, and colored for a while. Sherlock was left forgotten on the bed, trying to get some stupid plastic guitar tuned so that he could attempt to play it. But by the time he got anywhere close to making that guitar sound good the Watsons returned, looking rather irritated at each other and exhausted. Certainly not the state you want to return in after date night.
"Rosie, we're home!" Mary announced, running up the stairs to make sure everything was alright. She walked into the room with a large smile, seeing that their unpaid babysitters were doing a good job with keeping Rosie occupied. Well, at least one of them was actually doing a good job. The other was just, well, there.
"What on earth are you doing Sherlock?" John wondered, following his wife into the room and noticing Sherlock sitting cross legged on the bed with the little guitar in his hands. As soon as he saw Sherlock his face broke into an undeniable smile, probably the happiest he's ever looked on their entire 'date night'.
"Oh you know, just...entertaining myself." Sherlock said simply, plucking at one of the strings and making a very ugly plastic sound.
"Evidently." Mary muttered, not sounding too happy about it.
"And what are you doing Rosie? You look very nice, I think the uh, the purple eyeshadow really matches your tutu." John observed, sitting down next to his daughter and picking up one of the dolls that lay discarded on the carpet.
"Sherlock is a terrible executioner." Rosie announced, as if that were the only eventful thing that happened that night.
"They locked the door on me, alright? What was I supposed to do?" Sherlock defended in annoyance, giving Rosie a rather hateful glare.
"Well I always grab the spare...I mean use my magic to unlick the door!" John said in a very deep voice, ticking Rosie until she squealed in annoyance. Sherlock just frowned, well how was he expected to do that? He had neither magic nor a spare key.
"So, now that we're done babysitting Rosie I suspect I'm to babysit John?" Sherlock guessed, chuckling a little bit as John scowled.
"It's not babysitting, it's accompanying." John defended, as if he somehow needed to protect his image.
"More like entertaining." Sherlock corrected.
"Supervising!" John insisted. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head and tossing away the pathetic guitar.
"Whatever it is, it's tiring." He decided, getting to his feet and stretching out his sore legs. Mary stood rather moodily in the corner, obviously feeling neglected once more. Evidently she didn't like the fact that as soon as Sherlock came into John's view she was just thrown aside, even after they were supposed to be bonding over a candlelit dinner.
"Well I think we should get our little princess here into bed." John suggested.
"And our other princess might like a makeup wipe or two." Mary added, seeing that Molly had ghastly green eyeliner up to her eyebrows.
"That would be extremely kind." Molly agreed, glancing at her reflection in the mirror and gasping a little bit.