WHICH WAY DO YOU WANT IT

He's strolling up the aisle. Of course, he would locate me. In this church, even as a priest I knew he would find me.
"Hello Jim," his voice faint but deep, full-toned. Not loud enough to resonate through the sanctuary.
We're all alone, no parishioners, no other clerics. Just the two of us.
I, attired in my black frock coat. Him, in his black flared coat. How alike we look!
"James Moriarty. I've found you."
"Nooo, you've got it wrong. My name is Richard. Richard Brook. I'm the priest here," pulling at my long coat," see, a priest."
"Richard Brook, James Moriarty. You are the same creature."
Leaning against the altar, my left-hand reaches for the lapel of his coat, drawing him nearer.
Close enough to detect the heat of our bodies.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, whatever you want I will be. Whichever you want I will be."
He stares, tilting his head, doubt in those blue-green eyes.
His fingers loosen my grip, and he sidesteps away.

"Step into the confessional, Sherlock. It will give us anonymity. Easier if we don't see each other's facial features."
He rumbles in his throat, stepping up the one carpeted stair to push aside the curtain, pulls it close.
The ornate door to my stall clicks behind me.
"Tell me, Sherlock Holmes. What are you thinking?"
"You are my consulting criminal, the opposite of me."
"Maybe. And what are you?"
"The worlds only consulting detective. We are Ying and Yang, but I will take you down, bring you to justice."
"Do you really think so? And if I am said consulting criminal, what will you do while I'm in jail? How will you amuse yourself?"
The silence deepens.

"Kneel, Sherlock," faintly, enough for him to hear me through the latticework.
"What?" Why?"
"Kneel," opening my door, moving aside the curtain to observe the top of his curly head, his coat splayed out, as a bride, kneeling at the altar.
On my knees, sliding close, smelling his cologne," remember? Remember that day on the roof of Barts Hospital? The day we both faked our deaths?"
Cautiously, stretching my arm out, my fingers tentatively brush his cheek. His lips part, he sinks into my touch.
"Remember sitting against the chimney and our almost, almost kiss?"
Angling closer, the tip of my tongue licks out, barely touching his upper lip. Swiping it.
He cocks his head, scowling.
"Whoever you want me to be, I will be it, my consulting detective."
Cupping his jaw in my palm, I nip his lower lip and imprint a kiss.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" breathing the question into his mouth.
His hand snakes around my neck, his mouth on mine, tongue bold, caressing inside.
He pulls me up with him and thrusts a leg between mine. His hardness is against my thigh, pressing, pushing.
Stepping back, he grunts in frustration, lifting my gown and fumbling with the belt buckle of my trousers.
I freeze, wrenching his hands away.
"What am I doing? No, no," howling at him, at myself.
"I'm a priest! A man of the cloth! No, no!"
Hands raking my hair, pulling it, I suddenly stop.
Turning to face the man, my mind a muddle, "Sherlock Holmes, I will be whoever and whatever you want. Name it."
We stare deep into each other's eyes, our heavy breathing the only sound in the quiet sanctuary.
He stumbles backward, turns on his heels and rushes out the side door.
"Sherlock Holmes," I whisper to the air, "whatever you want, I will be it."