Sherlock Holmes was a man of science, a man of discovery, or facts. He wasn't a spiritualist, he was a materialist. That was how he worked. He'd been in churches as grand as the Sistine Chapel and been unmoved, knowing that a sanctuary was made to be large, high ceilinged and decked out in more regalia than most palaces for a simple reason: to inspire awe and fear. An appropriate feeling for a patriarchal religion based on an all seeing all knowing God.

His mother had hoped if she'd taken him to some of the more artistic buildings of worship that he'd catch onto some kind of faith. She'd hoped it for both her boys, but logic had prevailed on all counts. This was why he hadn't expected faith to come up and knock him over the head in a dying Methodist church in north Georgia.

Protestantism has invented the modern American University. Harvard, the first American university was based on teaching students the Unitarianist idea of the trinity, otherwise known as the positively mind breaking idea that God is three beings existing as one being. The amazing lack of logic in this idea should have been enough to keep Sherlock Holmes away from the faith at all costs. Yet a part of him appreciated that the Protestants taught their religion like a school: strap someone into their seat/pew with guilt and social pressure to stay still and awake during the lecture/sermon. It was a very nice use of discomfort to keep people listening. Even if Sherlock found his university lectures dreadfully dull, he still had to applaud the makers of the system. At least he actually listened to things, which could very hard to make him do.

Why Sherlock Holmes was in dying church in north Georgia was very simply because of Lestrade's sniper. The one for Mrs. Hudson had been found easily. He lived across the street and pointed out to Sherlock that since his employer was now dead and he'd already been paid, there was no point to kill Mrs. Hudson anymore. He also rather fancied her jam, and so would be happy to stay nearby and protect the old woman for a price that Sherlock was sure Mycroft would be willing to pay.

The sniper next door was also how he'd gotten the identity of the two men who'd been in charge of killing John and Lestrade. John's sniper was easy to find: Sebastian Moran wasn't really someone who hid. He just remained dangerous enough that Sherlock couldn't approach him. Mycroft had men on him while Moran was in some African country Sherlock hadn't cared to remember, helping some war effort that Sherlock really didn't give a damn about. Moran was the one to worry about.

The man who was Lestrade's sniper really wasn't a threat anymore. It was amazing how with all vengeance in his heart, Sherlock could chase a man half way across the world and still not get to be the one to kill the man. But then motorcycles were a pretty wonderful way to die if you were stupid enough to drive one. Too bad about the truck driver.

The funeral was to be Sunday afternoon at his mother's church. Sherlock planned to attend to be sure the man was really dead. Sherlock decided it was just easier to attend the service and hang around nearby for the actual funeral. That was why he sat in the pew that Sunday, listening to the sermon despite himself, chained by past memories of his University days.

Truth be told he couldn't remember what the pastor actually said. It probably wasn't important anyway. What was important was the feeling that hit him in the chest like a speeding bullet. One moment he'd been sullen, cynical, and dissecting every little thing the pastor had to say, simply because he had nothing else to do and drugging his fingers on the pew ahead of him or getting up and leaving would have earned him unwanted attention. The next moment something inside him clicked, and he felt so incredibly whole. He was momentarily breathless, wondering how he'd never realized how particularly empty he'd felt before. Then everything melted away, everything that he'd always considered his melt away, and he was left sitting in an overly maroon sanctuary, no longer hearing the words that were being said.

To examine the feeling he would have said it felt like everything he'd ever cared about was merely cast aside, burnt in a fire until they were made even stronger than before. "You're boring, you're on the side of the angels," Moriarty's voice rang in his head.

"Who says that an angel will not destroy an enemy of the lord?" Said another voice, still, small quiet, and painfully powerful.

He wondered then… whoever said that who he was and the life he lived was incompatible with a life with God. He'd never thought of himself as more than a man who was alone. John's presence had been a revelation. For once in his life he'd seen that not only could someone (and a real person, a really good man) care about him, but that he was really worth caring about. He was worth people giving a damn. And he'd had to throw away that person, that one person in his life that really mattered so that he could protect them. He'd never been so alone as the past few months.

Sometimes he would lie awake, feeling just sick. He thought it was anger, or guilt, or something to do with Moriarty, or John, or the damn snipers he was hunting. What he hadn't realized until that moment in the pew was that what he was feeling wasn't to do with anyone else. It was all about him. He, he was being controlled by his anger and his pain and his need to hurt others. He'd been consumed by emotions, by feeling, by things he didn't need.

"It's not that you don't need them," the voice said. "You don't need to be controlled like that. You know how not to be. Emotions don't make the sin, the action does. You've been too controlled by your pain. If you go back to John like this you won't be who you used to be."

There's no such thing as back, he thought. John wasn't going to forgive him.

"You don't need that guilt, not like this. You don't need to question that part of your life."

What do I need to question, then?

"Are you really who you want to be?"

Sherlock felt shocked by that question. He'd never really asked that before. He knew he'd never be a good man. He was no hero. He did things other people couldn't, but in effect he was less human because of it.

"That will never be true."

Isn't it?

"John said you were the most human human-being he had ever known. Will you believe him, or will you believe a temporary and passing emotion?"

That made sense. Sherlock was jolted out of his deep thoughts by everyone rising to sing a hymn. He opened the book and mouthed along, but made no sound. His mind had gone off somewhere, somewhere that had him chasing his tail out of confusion. When the song ended he just sat down and stopped listening.

He didn't feel alone anymore. The true… knowledge that there was something else, something bigger and stronger than him was staggering. Maybe Irene Adler hadn't been that far off with her assessment of his vicar costume. Maybe he had wanted to believe in a higher power. He couldn't imagine it. He's never cared about religions in general, except as something to know that he'd need for a case or observation, nothing more.

Yet at that moment it was like he'd been hit by lightening, right up through his shoes and out the top of his head. Unexpected was a word. Terrifying. Yet he was sure, he felt sure, against everything he'd studied and read that there was a god, not just a, but The God. Just one. Why? Why had this thought come at that moment?

"It was the first time you listened."

But I wasn't.

"You were. To dissect you must observe and understand. You heard what you needed to and you understood." The voice was blending into his mind. He wasn't sure if he was just hearing a voice, or having a conversation with himself. It was insane, completely insane.

And yet he'd never felt so safe in his entire life. Someone that understood him, wouldn't judge him for who he was… accepted him for it. John had been close, but even John didn't completely understand him… but God… acceptance, total acceptance, and love. No strings attached.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock jumped, turning around and seeing the old woman who'd been sitting behind him.

"You have such a lovely voice, it was a shame not to hear you on the last song," she said.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his normal voice slipping out of the fake but thoroughly believable American accent he'd worn so carefully before. "I'm afraid I wasn't up to it," he said.

"You heard something, didn't you?"

"Didn't everyone, wasn't that the point?"

"Sometimes we hear something that no one actually said, and it moves us beyond the words any man can say."

"How did-"

"A guess, a good one, apparently. I try to watch whatever guests we have… to look at them and figure out what they need, why they're here. You weren't here for the service, were you?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"Thought so… you didn't seem like you really cared what was being said… and then suddenly you cared very much."

"I don't think I cared at all," Sherlock said, but his voice sounded much weaker than he wished it would.

"I didn't know you were English," the woman said. "You've got such a lovely accent."

Sherlock looked momentarily stunned. He didn't even remember speaking normally. He was out of it, completely. "Yes, I suppose so. It' easier to cover it up when I'm traveling."

"Such a shame, it's a lovely voice," the woman said. She glanced around to where people were clearing out, moving around changing the drapings, collect the attendance sheets in the pews. "If you'd like to speak to pastor Tom, I'm sure he'd be happy to speak with you."

"No, I don't need to."

"Yes you do, Sherlock Holmes. Stop being so proud and get your questions answered."

"Well, maybe," Sherlock amended.

"Why don't we wait for the crowd to clear a bit? Everyone wants to see Tom when he's finished. I'll take you to see him when he's finished."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, not feeling up to giving the woman anymore than that.

"I'm Violet," the woman said. "Violet Jacobs," She said, offering her hand to shake, which Sherlock did not take.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. He was surprised to hear it come out of his own mouth. He slipped into silence, his mind running over the same information again and again. It was an odd thing to be trying to convince himself of something that he couldn't believe. It felt like in Dartmoor, when he'd seen the hound, but knew it couldn't be real. The logical part of his brain threw up every argument against the existence of God it could come up with until one part of the sermon floated to the top of his mind. 'Sometimes any excuse will do.' After that, Sherlock shut down the disbelief.

"Come on, Sherlock," Violet said, grabbing Sherlock's arm and dragging him up to the pulpit room where the pastors would change out of their robes. "Tom," the woman said. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He needs to speak with you."

"Yeah, sure," the older man said. He was in his 40s, balding just a bit in the back, but his hair was otherwise still fairly thick and brown. There was nothing at all extraordinary about his looks. He was a bit over weight, a bit tall, a bit balding, a bit scruffy, and innocuous. Completely innocuous. "We've got spaghetti lunch after the service, why don't we head over and we can talk there."

"No, Tom," the woman said. She was small, in her late 70s, but she seemed to tower over the two men. "I'll bring you something over, but you need to speak privately.

"Yes, Ms. Violet," the man said, waving a bit as the woman liked that. "Never, never disrespect or contradict the church lady. They will rip out your guys and feed them to the congregation as Brunswick stew."

"Noted," Sherlock said, glancing around. He was starting to feel giddy, and he couldn't explain why.

"Why don't we sit down," the pastor said, motioning to two arm chairs. He sat in one and waited so long that Sherlock felt he had to take the other. "So, how may I help you?"

"I'm not sure you can."

"Violet Jacobs thinks I can, so I can," Tom said. "And if I don't she'll kill me later, so I'd prefer to try."

"You want me to talk about my problem," Sherlock said.

"Talk about whatever you need to."

"Something happened during the service."

"Something I said?"

"No, not really."

"Damn," Tom said, causing Sherlock to cock his brow. "You think pastors aren't people too? People who happen to like television?"

Sherlock shook his head, his lips twitching a bit. "Something just… hit me… I don't know how to explain it very easily. There aren't words for it… just… feelings, things I'm not used to."

"Do you feel like God spoke to you?"

"Yes."

"Then that's probably what happened," the man said. "You're lucky… sometimes it doesn't happen. Methodists have a cradle to grave mentality. You grow up in it. Baptists have the born again experience… not that you can't as a Methodist, but as not a big thing."

"Born again?" Sherlock asked.

"Feels like you can take on the world… best experience in the world. You've realized how wonderful god is, and suddenly movies are better, jokes are funnier, colors brighter, girls prettier," he glanced at Sherlock who remained impassive. "Or boys," the man said with a shrug.

"I'm not interested in romantic encounters."

"Shame, if I'd had a face like yours I wouldn't have wanted to waste it." The pastor said and Sherlock scowled.

"The point?"

"It can be very painful at first… you feel like everything's been ripped from you, but then it's replaced with God… and nothing else even matters in comparison."

"Oh," Sherlock said. Is that what the giddy feeling was?

"Yes."

"Yes, oh… I take it something happened to do today."

"It's odd. It's irrational. I'm not… I've never believed in any… in anything or any person… not until recently."

"You had a conversion?"

"I made a friend."

"Ah… well that works too. What about now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, smiling because he couldn't help himself and really didn't want to. "How long does this last?"

"Depends on the person. It normally fades slowly. You adjust to normal living again. Until then, try not to get yourself knocked out."

"Why would I?"

"Nothing's more annoying than a new convert, except maybe a newlywed. Honeymoons are meant to keep the happy couple away from society for a few weeks."

"And the converted?"

"Seminary, or a mission trip or something. You're about the right age, or younger. We just send them to do good work while they feel like they can conquer the world."

"You don't-"

"Talk like a stereotypical preacher, I know. I've just spent my life believing that truth comes from God, and that trying to hide something because it's ugly or uncomfortable is wrong."

Sherlock jumped up, feeling too energized to sit. "You think that, you really think that?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure?"

"It's how I've lived my life. I could be wrong, but doubt it."

"How would you feel about a man of God killing someone?"

"What's the reason?"

"To save the life of someone else."

"It depends on the situation, but Sherlock… the bible doesn't say 'thou shalt not kill', it says 'thou shalt not murder'. If, in order to save the life of another person another person has to kill someone… well, again, it depends on the situation, the people involved. I can't give you an answer to hypotheticals, and you shouldn't take anyone's word on something like that. It's something you work out between yourself and God and no one else."

"Is that what faith is?"

"It's a dialogue between you and God. That is faith. You can argue, be angry, be screaming and cursing… but you keep believing. Belief is a choice, not a feeling. Faith is a choice, like a marriage, like a friendship. Sometimes I wake up and just don't feel like being married that day… but I am. Sometimes I don't want to act like a friend even with my best friend. But I do, because I made a commitment."

"John would understand this better," Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead like he had a head ache.

"John is you friend."

"My only friend," Sherlock said, pacing now. He normally wasn't so open, but he felt pushed, pushed into speaking, to getting answers for himself.

"And some days it would be easier to not have to deal with him?"

"Yes… but he stays anyway, not matter what I do… I'm a terrible friend. I'm not sure that's a good analogy."

"You can work on the relationship."

"How, I don't know how," Sherlock said.

"Do something for him once in a while, something he wants."

"He only seems to get hurt because of me, to be in danger."

"Listen, Sherlock, I don't know your friend… I don't know what he's like. But if he's as good as you seem to think he is, I doubt he'd let you speak so badly about yourself."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Then he must see something you can't. Sometimes our best traits aren't things we ourselves can easily see. We just have to trust others."

"I don't trust easily."

"You trust John… you trusted Violet Jacobs enough to let you bring her to me, and you trust me enough to talk to me. You may be selective about your trust, but it seems to me you trust fine… there's just one person you must trust, completely."

"God," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

"Yes," Tom said.

"It will be easier if I stop asking questions."

"Yes, but I've never thought that was a good idea. God wants people who think. If you stop asking questions, stop questioning him because it's hard then you will never learn or grow in him… and that's not real faith. That's fear."

"I don't want to be afraid anymore… not like I have been."

"Then don't be… look, something's happened to you today. Whatever it is, just for now ride that feeling and do what you think God wants for you. When the feeling has faded then you can ask questions again… now tell me… if you could have anything right now, what would you want?"

"I want to go home," Sherlock said instantly.

"Then that's where you need to be."

"But I can't."

"Can't, or won't? Is there really anything keeping you away?"

Sherlock hesitated. Moran was heavily under surveillance. Sherlock didn't have to instantly go back to work. He'd been 'dead' for a year. He could go home and be with John, and Mycroft… Mycroft could deal with things… if Sherlock could trust him to do so.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "I think that's what I need."

"Here," Tom said, pulling out his card. "You call me, or email me if you have any questions, if you need anything, even if it's five in the morning, you call me," he said. Sherlock felt floored, realizing that Tom was being earnest.

"Thank you… but I'll try not to call you so early."

"You're welcome. Is there anything else?"

"Can I take one of your bibles?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, it'd be nice if someone read one of them," Tom said, clapping Sherlock on the back and leading him out to 'borrow' one of the pew bibles. Sherlock reminded himself to send money for a new one once he returned to London.

A/N:

This is a terribly terrifying thing that I'm attempting to do… and if I become a better Christian for writing this… I'm not sure whether I'll cry or laugh or both. Ever get the feeling that God is actively screwing with you?

Some pretty straight ups and downs:

1. This is a character study. Period. The point is to study Sherlock Holmes if one little (big) thing changed in his life. He just happens to be a character for whom I'd be very interested to see what would happen if something major and yet not in the forefront of his personality got changed. If it really brothers you, then you can get Sherlock an imaginary brain tumor to push on the part of his brain that stimulates faith.

2. I'm a Methodist… so Sherlock gets to be a Methodist because it's easier for me to get information on.

3. Hypothetically this will be neither pro- nor anti-Christian faith… hypothetically…. It just slips in there without me meaning to and I won't even notice because it's such a part of my brain. I wrote a whole book, reread it many times before I realized just how very… Christian it was, how I never realized it before I'm not sure. This chapter is more pro-Christian simply because it needed to be. Just consider this a scale with weight on both sides.

4. If an asshole becomes converted he is merely a converted asshole. Christianity does not mean either instant assholishness, or instant niceness. Neither does Atheism, or any other religion. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole, no matter where in the world he lives or what culture he's from.

5. For this story, John is straight and Sherlock is asexual.

6. This is not a pairing story. If you want to see a pairing story then read my stories Just One Mistake (Irelock) or I Tried to Spare You (Mollan).

7. Written while listening to hard rock… because nothing says "Sherlock Holmes" or "Christianity" like Five Finger Death Punch at high volume.

8. My brain now wants me to spell Harvard with a 'G' instead of an 'H' because I've been taking Russian for too long.

Read and review, please. If you hate this I'll have no way of knowing unless you tell me.

Seriously, why am I so weird?