"We were born sick," you heard them say it. My church offers no absolutes, She tells me "Worship in the bedroom." The only heaven I'll be sent to, Is when I'm alone with you. I was born sick, But I love it, Command me to be well. Amen. Take me to church, I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife...
Rated: M - English - Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,853 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 3 - Published: 9/8/2015 - [Sherlock H., John W.] J. Moriarty - Complete