(Warning: Religion treated lightly and very sexually.)
Sacrilege
"Face the other side of the confessional brother John."
Dear god John's dreams never go the way they're supposed to though, heaven help him, not for lack of trying.
Which is to say, in his early days at 221B, John realized rather quickly that all his morning boners had Sherlock's name written all over them—so to speak. Dead certain that that ship would never set sail, John had studied up on lucid dreaming, devoting himself fervently instead to bedding his flatmate in dreamland.
Yet after weeks of effort his success rate was dismal. Sure he could lucid dream—be aware that he was dreaming—but affect the dream's outcome? Like so much fun. The one sex dream he at last achieved after those weeks of effort had Sherlock so wildly out of character—"spread 'em chappy, I'm gonna roger you good"—that dream John was so confused he never even got off.
Fortunately those frustrating days were long gone. The good ship John & Sherlock Are Lovers had indeed set sail and, from the early looks of it, getting off with Sherlock was not going to be a problem in dreamland, either.
However, had John actually paid for this dream he was currently having he would probably have asked to speak to the management. It was bad enough John ran round London waving a gun and shooting people, did he really have to cement his handbasket-to-hell status by dreaming about promiscuous priests?
"Face the other side of the confessional brother John."
Apparently, yes.
He entered his dream with the sex pretty much already in progress because, apparently, that is completely how John's sacrilegious subconscious rolls.
...
Standing in the tiny confessional, the most reverend Father Sherlock sitting in front of him and so close in that small space he had to spread his legs either side of John's, the single thought going round-rosy in brother John's head right then was, "Thank heaven I'm wearing black." Surely his dark cassock disguised the ungodly pounding of his heart, a thrumming beat so wild it made his chest ache.
"Please," the grey-eyed reverend whispered up at him.
John looked down into those light, witchy eyes and nodded once. He'd barely turned, barely presented his back to the younger priest before there were hands down low, pressed soft against the sides of his calves.
And those hands, they shook.
Heart beating the same fierce tattoo, breathing just as harsh, still, somewhere something taut inside John unraveled, suddenly relieved. With a sigh he placed his palms flat against the wall of the confessional, ready, waiting, and oh dear lord wanting.
John would never know why the reverend father said nothing, did nothing, didn't even seem to breathe for…how long was it? Forever? Or was it just a little less?
Yet that was fine. It was all fine. You can't last as a priest without patience, so John? He stood stock still in that impossibly close space and he listened to the sound of his own heartbeat in each breath and he wondered what the skin of the reverend's hands would feel like against his, and he waited for those hands to stop trembling—they didn't—then he waited even longer for them to start moving—and they did.
Slow as you please, and maybe even slower than that, Father Sherlock ran the palms of both hands up along the sides of John's legs, moving carefully, as if over something delicate and rare, and as those hands rose they tugged with them the long, heavy cloth of John's dark cassock.
Somewhere awhile back, unnoticed, John had stopped drawing breath, a fact brought home when he swayed, dizzy, and the father's hands clenched hard around his thighs, holding him steady, still, safe.
And right there, with that small moment of uncertainty, right there would have been the place for one of them to stop, but instead they each waited and they both prayed.
Please, please, please, beseeched one.
Oh dear sweet lord, implored the other.
They answered one another's prayers, John with a very small, very clear arch of his back, Sherlock with the soft skim of hands moving higher.
Finally, pushing the cassock up over John's hips, the good reverend bunched his hands into the mass of cloth, held it tight, held it in place, then leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the small beautiful curve of John's lower back, pooled a long hot breath over the swell of John's bare arse.
...
Bare? Bare arse?
Yes, yes indeed, it seemed brother John wore nothing much under his cassock for that, apparently, was how Dr. John Watson's dream subconscious rolled.
Lord, yes.
…
Everything started happening then. Not fast no, but there were no more pauses, no waiting, thinking, longing, god no.
There was just the slow, very slow, insistent push of Sherlock's tongue—which was so…what's the word? Hot? Wet? Perfect?—wriggling into the cleft of John's arse, delving, getting close—so damned close—but passing over with a wet swipe that teased, wound John up tight, until he was shaking as hard as the man behind him.
Breathing, was he still not breathing? John wasn't sure, it seemed as if he'd forgotten how, but that was fine that was—
—another hot wet stroke, so close, so close to where John wanted him to be—
—just fine, apparently he didn't need to breathe, which was actually boring, so boring, but this this—
—the reverend father shut John's mind down, down, down by going down, on his knees in that small box, that ridiculously cramped space that really shouldn't have been able to contain them both but it did and now finally, dear god yes, Sherlock pushed his hot, wet, squirmy tongue right into John.
Words, he tried to say a few, tried to ask for something but he wasn't sure what and then he knew because reaching round his hip Sherlock's hand wrapped around John's erection and as he licked at, bit at, poked and poked and poked at John's arse with that tongue John tried to be a very good initiate and help his superior, gently, carefully pumping his hips.
It should have been John struggling to stay silent but it was Sherlock moaning, tiny murmurs, barely louder than breathing, but to John that sound was as clear and high and sweet as a choir in full voice.
He wanted to encourage those sounds, wanted to beg, "More," but there was that small problem with breathing, which he still wasn't doing, so instead John just concentrated on the fire pricking his nerve endings, on Sherlock's fist around him, on Sherlock's sweet, sweet mouth—
"—oh god!" John came with a groan, chest pressing against wood, legs shaking so hard his knees rapped at the confessional door. He felt every hard, long pulse as he ejaculated quite possibly on the confessional itself, on his cassock, and most certainly all over Sherlock's hand.
And oh that hand, it stayed tight on him, coaxing out every whisper of sensation, in no hurry to move on, to move away, to lose contact.
It was John who finally sighed, turned, at the same time grabbing hold of his cassock—on which he had not so much as a dust speck—and looked down into the younger priest's eyes.
It was kind of funny what happened next though neither of them laughed, they just quietly went about the sharp-elbows-and-knees business of getting Sherlock up in that confined space, and by up they both meant seated again, his own cassock now tugged high.
Breathing was back in vogue for brother John, apparently, because when he looked down at Sherlock's cock he sort of laughed, giddy, and sighed "Beautiful," in soft and fervent praise.
Yet better than a beautiful boner was a slicked up beautiful boner and watching Sherlock lube his own cock with John's come, the already weak-kneed priest was pretty sure he was going to collapse from sheer want.
He didn't, but it was a close thing. Things got closer still when Sherlock—ready now, so very ready—ducked his hands under John's cassock again, lifted it at the same time as he tugged John close.
"Please," he sighed softly, eyes closed.
John didn't make him wait, didn't want him to doubt, he clambered onto that tiny bench, straddling Sherlock's hips, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders so he could keep his balance, and he let the younger priest guide himself into him as John lowered his body onto Sherlock's cock.
There was no way in heaven or in hell Sherlock inside him should have felt as good as it did, but oh god it did. John's instinct was to ride over his young superior like something wild but Sherlock didn't let him, instead the young priest looked up at him and with every thrust he whispered "Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord," the most beautiful sound John had ever heard. Before long he joined the chant, weaving the fingers of both hands into Sherlock's, two men intently at their devotions.
When Sherlock finally came with a barely uttered "Oh god," John held still while the orgasm played itself out, then he kissed Sherlock's forehead and giggled softly, "Amen."
...
The orgasm always woke him. John wasn't sure if it was possible to sleep all the way through a wet dream; he always woke from his just as he started coming, always woke to find his hand hard pressing at his cock while the pleasure played itself out.
As you might correctly deduce, it was generally a very nice way to wake up.
However.
As the last delicious spasm faded this time, John's entire dream came back to him in all it's ungodly glory.
Oh lord he was going straight to hell.
"I watched you."
John opened his eyes to a bedroom washed in grey morning light.
Sitting beside him in bed, a book spread open against his chest, Sherlock smiled down at his sweetheart.
John said nothing, just concentrated on his still-pounding heart.
"A very good dream was it?"
John let his gaze flick over the ceiling and waited for the inevitable.
"I was in it."
Aaaand there it was. Let the deductions begin.
"I know that because you're carefully listening to my voice…which you must have been paying close attention to in the dream."
John closed his eyes, pressed two fingers to his throat, sort of took his own pulse.
"Yet you're embarrassed by what happened, because you won't look at me."
About then John became aware of the ejaculate cooling on his belly. About then Sherlock handed him two tissues.
"That might mean you had sex with someone else in the dream…"
John thought about throwing the soggy tissues at Sherlock. He didn't.
"…but I don't think so because you're still listening to me instead of getting even a little bit defensive."
Instead John dropped the tissues on the floor beside the bed.
"Now the only question is, did I do you or did you do me? Well—"
Aaaaand we're done here, John thought.
The good doctor turned on his side, looked up at his annoying lover and said, "Just hold that thought, okay? Because anything you say is not even going to remotely approach the profane reality."
Sherlock shushed. John curtly nodded his satisfaction with this.
"But, since you asked, my darling, my love, my brilliant deductive idiot, I will give you a simple summary. My dream involved a confessional, your reverend tongue up my pious arse, me getting off all over your hand, then you using my come to lube things up for the sacrilegious rogering you gave me right after, okay?" John squinched his eyes tightly closed. "I have honestly fucking jumped the queue on the ride going straight to hell, Sherlock. It's been really nice knowing you."
Silence. For a long time, an almost church-like silence in their bedroom. When John finally opened his eyes and looked up, he saw his tousle-headed love looking down, tongue pressed against teeth, chest rising and falling fast.
John let a ghost of a grin wash over his face. Then soft as a prayer, he murmured, "Kneel, my child."
It was all so unexpected. One friend sort of typed: "Scream five hail marys into a fist-ful of Reverend Sherlock's cassock as he rogers you in the confession booth and call me in the morning, Brother John," and that inspired another friend to create a quick Photoshop manipulation of John and Sherlock as priests (atlinmerrick dot tumblr dot com) to go with it. It then became extremely urgent that I write this fic. I hope John budges over because yes, I too have jumped the queue on the ride to hell. Do you think I can bring my laptop? P.S. Yes, I know: I have freaking awesome friends.