Deduce Your Sins
Soft as a prayer: "Motherfucking fuck."
Sherlock untucked his head from John's neck, blink-squinted at the dawn. "John Watson," he sleepily slurred, "I w's havin' a good dream."
Tugging the duvet to his chin John Watson "Shhhhhhed," very hard. If shushing can sound annoyed, penitent, and aggrieved this shushing did.
Sherlock retucked his head, rubbed his face against a doctorly neck, murmured, "Y'had a dream, too."
"Shhhhh," hiss-whispered an annoyed, penitent, aggrieved man, in no mood to be—
"Shall I deduce your sins?"
Loud and clear: "God damn it."
Sherlock brushed sleep-warm finger against John's lips. "Your swearing's foul for so early in the morning, you feel either penitent, aggrieved, or annoyed about the dream's content."
John may have muttered motherfucking fuck under his breath again.
Sherlock softly bit beside John's Adam's apple. "Your heart rate's spiked at least thirty percent. The dream was intense."
John tried growling his pulse lower. Didn't work.
Sherlock's palm snaked down to John's chest. "You're sweating despite the cold. You were passionate about something."
John shivered prettily.
Sherlock's long fingers slithered lower still. "And the last time you were this divinely erect from a dream you and I were having carnal relations in a confessional."
Sherlock got to his knees.
"Don't touch it," John whispered, "It's profane."
Ignoring his lover's petition, Sherlock devilishly wriggled beneath their warm cathedral of covers.
And began speaking in tongues.
This is not what I expected to write when looking at Kuuttamo's gorgeous priest!Sherlock (Google: Kuuttamo confessions deduce), but then you never do. This is a wee sequel to my story "Sacrilege," which featured father Sherlock, brother John, and a very Tardis-like confessional.