John Watson doesn’t believe in God.

There was once a time when he allowed himself to kneel beside his bed and clasp his hands together, head bowed in silent prayer. But after watching bullets tear through innocents, after watching whole cities collapse into ruin, after watching people abandoned and left to die—the realization sank in and found a hold, leaching despair into his soul.

No benevolent god would let such suffering continue.

His devotion finds other outlets. Some nights, as he leans against the doorframe and watches Sherlock in his study, oblivious to his presence, he wonders if he’s treading on a path of blasphemy.

Because—he believes in Sherlock.

i. piety

Awe fills John’s eyes as he watches Sherlock solve a case with a single sweeping glance over the room. He whispers his reverence, and warmth washes over his body when Sherlock acknowledges his adoration with a glance and a smile.

ii. faith

No mind can outwit Sherlock. No eyes are sharper than his. Sherlock will not be defeated.

Perhaps Sherlock can cheat even death. 

iii: devotion

Sherlock is curled up on the chaise longue, shaking beneath John’s fingers. He’s too proud to admit that he’s still only human, that his body is subject to the same laws as anyone else. His skin is clammy, his eyes frantic.

“Hush. This will pass.”

“John, please—”

“Absolutely not, Sherlock,” John says, even though his heart breaks seeing Sherlock so vulnerable as he suffers through the throes of withdrawal. He realizes now the depths of his desire to see Sherlock happy—not his glee upon hearing about another body killed in some grotesque manner, but real happiness: the soft glow that touches the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and lights up his face even if his lips remain set in a straight line.

“Just a little.”

“No.”

He can’t grant this to Sherlock. This isn’t the happiness either of them wants.

The resentment in Sherlock’s glare destroys something inside of him.

iv: love

John isn’t gay, that much he knows. Can’t comfortably say he’s bi, either.

But he loves Sherlock.

He’s come to accept that in his time living with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. There’s never been another person for whom he’s felt such depths of emotion, and there’s never been another person whose pain echoed in him as much as Sherlock’s does.

But when people suggest that Sherlock is his lover in some way, he rejects the notion. Not because he’s uncomfortable with the possibility, but because the word is too simple to describe what’s between them. No word is adequate, not “lover” nor “partner,” not “friend” nor “comrade.”

Besides, John’s love for Sherlock has nothing to do with the gendered body he inhabits. It’s not sexual, nor is it romantic—John’s never felt the impulse for either, anyway; he only follows the scripts as much as polite society requests him to.

What John is interested in is Sherlock's mind, that machine that whirs away behind Sherlock’s eyes, slots everything together so all the pieces click into place, makes sense of the world and understands people—their mechanisms, their motivations—in an instant, even when Sherlock himself doesn’t truly understand people. His body plays into who he is, yes, and his gender shapes a part of that as well, but the root of the matter is that there is a Sherlock that would remain constant underneath all other shapings.

John harbors no illusions: Sherlock is not a god, no matter how sublime, and his mind cannot be separated from his mundane humanity.

But John can compose his own devotionals.

He taps his pen against his journal, then begins to write.

The Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department: A Study in Scarlet…