Work Text:
Sherlock Holmes had never been to confession, nor would he ever go. Daddy believed in God, but was practically agnostic. Mummy was an atheist. Neither ever showed emotion in front of the boys, nor did they ever really discuss them behind closed doors. Feelings were simply taboo in the Holmes' household; they interfered with the productivity that branded them geniuses.
Whenever he felt emotion, he was ashamed; it was secular sin. Allowing it to get to him would be sin. He knew hell wasn't real, but hell terrified him. And when he felt, he had guilt. Guilt was hell; going to confession and admitting his sin would be hell.
Undoubtedly, Sherlock Holmes fell in love with John Watson. The love he felt for John made the world go round and made life exciting.
But love was a feeling, and love also made life hopeless. What were the chances they would end up together?
Slim to none.
But the hopelessness was nothing compared to the shame. John valued sentiment, but if John knew Sherlock loved him, it would be as embarrassing as lacking genius.
If John knew, John would know he was a bad person. For having feelings. For being weak. For being human.
Telling John about his feelings would be like going to confession. He would confess his sin to Father John, and Father John would look at him through the screen for a few seconds, and then Father John would push the red button on his side of the booth, activating the trap door underneath Sherlock.
And Sherlock would burn.