As the night came to a close John was still considering the question of Father Holmes, and through the dim moonlight he strained his eyes, trying to take a peek at the rectory through the darkness. For some reason he trusted that younger priest, perhaps even more than the old one. He figured that the effort Father Holmes had put forth to keeping this church up and running was reason enough for a Heavenly blessing, and if ever there was a man more deserving of eternal youth John would be hard pressed to find him. Besides, the similarities were striking, even if the personality seemed to have turned a bit calmer. John assumed this was to do with the vanishing age gap, for when there was sixty years between them the priest was a little bit more confident, using his age as some sort of pedestal which to stand on. Now that he had been reduced to the same decade, the Watsons undoubtedly seemed a lot more frightening to the young man. John chuckled, noticing that a light had just switched on in the rectory's living room window. It was almost as if the priest knew he was being watched, for as John observed the deep silhouettes displayed through the glass he noticed the figure of the priest, wandering up towards the window and staring outside into the parking lot. From here he could distinguish the way the man's head was bent, staring around towards the direction of the school as if he was hunting for something in particular. Perhaps he felt eyes upon him but couldn't tell where. John felt as if he should take a step back, a little hesitant to be caught in full stalker mode. It wouldn't take much to explain his motivations if he was confronted, though until the point where he could defend himself it seemed as though the priest would be constructing his own theories within his head. John didn't need those rumors, and so finally he turned away to find his wife approaching him, moving slowly through the lamplight before settling very close.
"What are you up to?" John asked with a little chuckle, noticing the playful look the woman had in her eyes. He noticed as well that Mary wasn't wearing her usual bathrobe; instead she had tied a silk robe across herself and left the rest of her attire up to the imagination. John's eyebrows raised, feeling as though he was in the process of being seduced.
"I've been doing some thinking, John." Mary admitted, lifting her hands to wrap them around her husband's neck securely.
"About anything in particular?" John wondered, settling his hands upon the woman's hips and pulling her in a bit closer.
"About children, actually." Mary whispered. "And how we could probably have one."
"I like where this is going." John admitted with a little chuckle, to which Mary had to laugh as well. Obviously she couldn't keep that straight face for long, though she was trying her best to remain calm and seductive.
"Stop laughing, I'm serious." Mary insisted. "Two paychecks, John. A big house, with enough space for a cradle."
"We're old enough, but are we brave enough?" John wondered.
"I think I'm brave enough for this." Mary assured quietly, her face settling back into seriousness as she twirled her fingers through the strands of John's hair.
"Well surely this is the easiest part." John pointed out in some weak defense. The woman laughed again, though this time she maintained her composure. This time she leaned in for the first kiss, and found no objection within her husband's reaction. John kissed her gladly, for he had never heard a more logical idea in his life. In nine months they could transform this church into a nursery, and in that time they could prepare to be parents. To be the best parents in the world! It was a good decision, and the idea of a child just excited him more. Suddenly he found Mary's hands poised at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head to kiss upon his bare skin. And before he knew it they had fallen onto their pathetic mattress, tangled in each other's familiar arms with the thoughts of another on their mind. A third, in fact. And not just a child, not always the child. Flashing thoughts, quick escaping glimpses... little did the Watsons know that their visions were matched by the other, little could they understand that the subject of their imaginations could be just as receptive. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock's fingers caught within the window frame, with his nails digging deeply into the chilled wood. He knew what he was watching by the start of it, and he knew even more that he should've looked away just as soon as he saw Mary approach her husband. That big bay window, that curtain-less, unrestricted pane of glass...he knew it led to their bedroom. John had begun as a solitary figure, Sherlock noticed him as soon as he had finished checking the school for any signs of possible escape. Ever since the strange power outage Sherlock felt the need to make sure the school was secure before he went to bed, just in case there was a door swinging open that might alert him to a possible emergency. He was just about to draw his own blinds when he saw the shape of John Watson silhouetted against the lights of his bedroom, a short stocky figure that was unmistakable within his mind. It was an innocent little glance, Sherlock had always admired the build of that man, and he had always appreciated watching John in his natural habitat. Though it was Mary's arrival that turned his sightseeing into something of a crime, for she marched up closer than expected. If he was going to turn away at a logical moment, at any moment when he realized he was interrupting a personal affair, this would have been it. And when the woman draped her arms around John's neck Sherlock knew for sure what he was about to witness. But what did he do, what could he only do? He slunk down into himself, trying to make it less obvious that there was a shape in the window, and kept his eyes focused. He kept staring, even when he knew he shouldn't. It was a human flaw, perhaps, to stare at the things which should be kept restricted. It was like driving by a car crash and knowing that the victims deserved their privacy, though all the while your neck would turn a complete three sixty just to observe the carnage and misfortune of another. It was forbidden knowledge, especially to a priest, to see what was going on behind closed curtains. Throughout his education he had heard the word, he had heard it references, he had heard the stories...but what was it, sex? What was it really? He had lived sixty some years on this earth and never once got a clear answer for that question, simply because he never had the courage to ask it. He was raised by modest parents, enveloped into the Catholic Church, and throughout all of his life he had never once encountered a woman in such a way, nor pressed play on any forbidden tapes. He had always fought off the temptation to ask, or to engage, or to witness for himself. He had always been so strong... a sharp exhale of breath was released onto his window pane, fogging up the glass as he watched John's arms lift and his shirt come up over his head, revealing his muscular bare back to the unnoticed onlooker. Sherlock sunk even farther down, crouched now into a squatting position as he began to grow more and more afraid. Though he didn't want to stop watching, not now. From this position he could see there were long white arms draped across the man's back, though it was not Mary Watson who was his main concern. He cared not for the woman's movements; he cared not to watch her silk robe fall away from her shoulders. Sherlock watched John Watson, he watched the way his arms were moving, he watched the way his body was twisting and his head was turning, he watched where his lips went, and at what rhythm he began to sway. Sherlock's teeth were clenched now, his fingers balled up along the window sill as his eyes focused almost too powerfully, not only observing the moment but dragging it into his own perspective. For a moment he could've sworn he felt hands upon his back, right where John's might've fallen across his wife's bare shoulders. For a moment Sherlock felt the pressure of lips in the crook of his neck, as if it was John's own kiss he was receiving from all the way across the parking lot. For a moment his eyes sagged, the priest's fingers now streaking against the heated glass as his heart began to beat louder, faster, and more agressivley. He began to feel the same caresses that were being exchanged in the room above; as if his nerves were reacting in all the same ways as were Mary Watson's. It was an unknown feeling, a forbidden feeling, and Sherlock couldn't help but remember the vows he had spoken to his Heavenly Father, all those years ago. To dispute the Devil, to say no to sin. To abstain, to restrain, and to stay pure... In an instant the couple fell out of view, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if his unholy moment was over before it had even began. He remembered the setup of their bedroom; he remembered that mattress where it lay upon the floor. The window would not stretch far enough...and perhaps that was a good thing. For a moment the priest breathed, almost in relief, and almost turned away. He had to get calm, perhaps say a rosary or two over a cup of cold water. It was just before he drew the blinds that he at last caught sight of a strange figure, a moving figure... no, not a figure. Just a head. Just a torso, the upper portion of a naked body. Sherlock blessed his young eye sight; he didn't even need his glasses to determine which one of the Watsons had reappeared inside of his line of vision. It was John, his head bobbling back and forth in a slow, methodical rhythm. It was John who looked almost pained, John with the trickle of sweat beading across his forehead. John who kept a woman underneath him, but threw the priest to the floor instead. Sherlock finally let go of the window pane, feeling his back hit the floor and a strange feeling erupt within his stomach, a feeling that was tingling up and down his entire body and locating in a particular spot, a forbidden spot. The man writhed upon the floor, swearing he felt hands across his sides, swearing he could feel finger tips jabbing into his flesh. Sherlock's hands gripped into the threads of the carpet, his legs spreading and his feet kicking against the wall before him. He could almost see him, the ghost of John Watson, the man who could be in one place but bring ecstasy to two people at the same time... Sherlock's eyes closed in defeat, feeling a way he had never felt before, feeling more unholy but more godlike than he thought a person ever could! It was the first time, and it should've been the last time, that he felt any sort of pleasure at all. His young head rolled about on the carpet, his clipped curls getting tangled within the wiry threads. And as his fingers migrated to his waist he felt that it was beyond him to control it now, he felt it was impossible to pull his belt any tighter to avoid the hands of a ghost. But there was a difference, a difference between this illusion and that foul memory. It was the delight, it was the wonder, it was the feeling it gave him to simply imagine, to simply enjoy! And instead of screaming for help, instead of collapsing within the darkness that usually engulfed him, Sherlock had no choice but to allow the light to begin to shine. And on his lips, again and again, was the delightful syllable.
"John..." Sherlock whispered, easing himself back and forth across the carpet where he lay. "John." 

Needless to say it wasn't a surprise when the baby announcement came. It was about two weeks later, around the time when Sherlock could finally muster the courage to look either Watson in the eyes, when the couple shared the new about their positive pregnancy test. After a Sunday mass, when Sherlock was folding up the chairs and tucking them back in their place on the front porch, he heard the side door of the church swing open and announce the couple's appearance into the parking lot. The poor priest's face turned scarlet, seeing John's smiling face and suddenly having him appear again in a darkened flashback, that face which was so real laying right above... Sherlock hesitated, trying to fold up the last of the chairs without his muscles giving out on him. For a moment he pretended not to notice the incoming company, figuring it was better to act surprised than to greet them when they were still not even half way across the pavement.
"Father Holmes, we've got a surprise for you!" John exclaimed happily, bounding through the parking lot with a great grin upon his face. Sherlock straightened up, letting the last of the metal chairs fall rather negligently into the stack which preceded it.
"I don't like surprises." Sherlock admitted truthfully, rubbing his hands upon his black shirt and watching as the two interlocked their fingers in excitement. This came as a strange pang to his heart, though he raised his eyes to theirs in an attempt to forget about all that he had seen and all that he may never witness again.
"Well then we'll present it instead as an announcement." Mary corrected. Sherlock sighed, settling his hands on his hips as a message for the pair to just get on with it. Even more than surprises, he hated anticipation.
"We're pregnant." Mary announced at last. Sherlock's eyes widened, though he began to examine both of their stomachs just to be sure he had heard that right.
"Both of you?" he clarified a bit fearfully.
"No, idiot. Just Mary." John snarled, prodding at his wife's very normal looking stomach as if to clarify his point. Sherlock nodded, feeling a shiver run down his back for no explainable reason. Perhaps it was a sense of guilt, for he must have been spying on the conception of the little child.
"Wonderful." He muttered at last. "Just another noise in the night then."
"Oh come on Father, you've got to be just a little excited?" Mary insisted, prodding the priest in the arm to try to get him to react with some more human emotion.
"Of course I'm not, this is your problem, not mine." The man reminded her.
"No wonder you married an idea instead of a woman." John grumbled.
"God isn't an idea, John." Sherlock defended a bit weakly. John sighed in disappointment as if this defensive mechanism wasn't going to work so easily for the priest.
"Show some enthusiasm, Father." Mary insisted. "I'm sure you'll be here every step of the way, so you might as well get used to it."
"Every step? Certainly not." Sherlock defended, though he hesitated to wonder just how much Mary meant by that. Every step would include the very first, though she couldn't possibly know that he was in a way present for that conception? Could she possibly have noticed his shape in the window, even when she seemed to be so distracted? John merely sighed, as if he wasn't overly impressed with their neighbor's reaction to the news.
"Well isn't there such a thing as a godfather?" John wondered at last, to which Sherlock's eyes widened a bit fearfully. His heart paused for a moment, as if to clarify John's full meaning.
"Godfather, yes. Not just a mafia boss." Sherlock agreed a bit hesitantly.
"Well, you're the only God we've got in our lives." Mary reminded him in a very light, friendly voice.
"Me?" Sherlock clarified a bit excitedly. "You want me to be the godfather?"
"That is if you show a little bit of interest, yes." John agreed. "Though if you really don't care..."
"Well I care now, of course." Sherlock assured with a quick nod of his head, his heart already swelling to have been included in such a thing. Did he really mean so much to these parents, so as to be invited into their family? The priest couldn't help but allow a smile onto his face, one which was matched by the radiant grins of the Watsons, and ever since that moment it seemed as though the poor parents weren't ready for the sort of involvement they were about to receive. The first step to every baby's arrival was making sure it had a suitable place to live once it outgrew its current reservations. Therefore Sherlock took an active role in picking out the perfect baby room, what turned out to be the large closet that spanned off of the balcony. In the days of active worship this had stored the choir's bleachers and multiple fake plants for their special Christmas shows, but now it had been turned into a make shift wardrobe for the Watsons and was filled instead with boxes full of clothes. It was the perfect spot for the child, a small room which was adjacent to their own living spaces. There was even a window at the very end, one which would allow the child to have natural light throughout its developing days. Sherlock went to the local furniture store in the back of the Watson's car to help pick out a cradle, and when it came time to paint the walls he stayed on guard to make sure each of the painters did his job to turn the dismal closet into a baby blue paradise. By the time the first ultrasound pictures came in (a process which Sherlock was regrettably not invited to) he marveled in the little thing, looking to be no bigger than a lima bean but already protruding his mother's stomach a little bit. Mary grew and grew with the baby, and before long she was feeling kicks and turns from within her large stomach. It was Sherlock's job to rush to the grocery store at odd hours of the night, retrieving strange foods for the woman as she demanded things like sardines, Jell-O, and at one time a fried chicken sandwich all past the hour of midnight. It was perfectly unlike him to put so much effort into a single thing other than his religion, though with the coming of this baby it would seem that Sherlock's mission in life was to ensure perfect comfort for the expectant parents and even a perfect life for the baby on the way. After all, he was going to be the Godfather. And this was a responsibility he wanted to be ready for, even if that meant preparing throughout these nine months to wait head and foot on the baby instead of the two frazzled parents. In some way Sherlock felt responsible for the child, even beyond his new role as Godfather and his assigned position of loyal neighbor. He felt connected, if that was at all possible, to the thing growing within Mary's womb. It was a wonderful moment when he was allowed to settle his ear atop the large stomach, listening to the twisting of the child as it repositioned itself to and fro. And it made the poor priest nearly shed a tear when he felt a kick, as if the baby was already attempting to abuse his future Godfather. Those nine months were some of the busiest of his life, and near the end he felt as though they were the most stressful as well. Mary's due date was only three days away when Sherlock found himself once more on the Watson's leather couch, listening to John and Mary practice her breathing exercises all the while Sherlock's nose was buried in his usual book, Becoming a Great Godparent: Everything a Catholic Needs to Know. He was almost three quarters of the way through now, learning all about the ins and outs of supporting the child through their developing years and trying to understand their emotional state. The most pressing concern on his mind was how to ensure the child not only got a good education, but also a fair chance at religion. Being raised by two non-religious parents would prove to be a struggle, though if the child was open to loving God then Sherlock would have to be there to help him through the process of becoming a true Catholic. Oh he could imagine it now, watching that little child in a white robe, wandering down the aisle to his First Holy Communion! Oh but no one knew, did they, whether or not the thing would be a boy or a girl. The Watsons chose not to know, even though their ultrasound pictures may have alluded to the specific gender in the past! From the only photographs Sherlock had seen the baby's gender was perfectly unrecognizable, and it would seem that this was the goal of the parents all along. And so it was hard not to know how much Sherlock needed to perfect, hair braiding or baseball throwing, talks about facial hair or menstrual cycles...oh but what if he needed to know all of them! What if the child was a boy with long hair, or a girl who liked sports better than Barbies? And what of Barbies, would he ever be good enough to join in? Would he get his voice high enough to participate? These were agonizing questions, ones he hated to not prepare for! Of course it would take some time until the child grew into any preferences at all, whether they be within Sherlock's range of ability, though this was wasted preparation time indeed! All he could do now was read his book and hope for the best.