Death Is A Friend

Alive Counts For Something

It may be a comfort to some, to be sure of at least one thing in life; to know that everyone is destined to the same fate, one way or another. Death comes to us all in the end, Death knows no prejudice. It's the privilege of those who work closely with it, those with the ability to stare at the white faces hidden away in the caskets, under piles of roses and lilies and balloons, and try to remember that face for the afterlife. Try to remember that face, so that they recognize at least someone in Heaven. It's scary to be the first to go, when even your grandparents are destined to outlive you. You'll be alone, secluded among the clouds, in a world where the adults will pity you. Died so young, that's what they'll say. What a shame. Yet it wasn't a shame, wasn't it? No, there would not be much mourning for Sherlock's sake. He knew that for a fact. Yes, the mere fact that he died before he reached the drinking age would of course summon mourners, most of who had never known him personally. He might be able to count the people he knew personally on two hands, maybe even one if he didn't count those he knew and observed from afar. The number of lives he had touched would be greatly overestimated in his eulogy, that would be for sure. If his parents even gave him a funeral at all. It was a pitiful life, a life spent in the attic of the church, tucked away in a bed to hear the organ music drifting up through the wooden ceilings, just to bother him as he tried to get through the readings his mother had assigned him. It was a lonely life, with nothing but an oxygen tank on wheels to keep him constant company. And why, why you ask? Why would such a boy as Sherlock Holmes, a smart and beautiful boy, be confined to the attic of his own home? Well the answer was simple; the answer was standing on the altar of the church right now, reading off a sermon to the parishioners, standing up there like the hypocritical beast he was. Talking of love, and respect, all the while he kept his own child like a prisoner. Sherlock was the son of the minister, which was perfectly legal in their Faith. He wasn't hidden because he wasn't supposed to exist; he was instead hidden because he wasn't supposed to be like he was. He wasn't supposed to be sick. A minister was supposed to be blessed, he was a man of God, and in the eyes of the parishioners such a resume constituted miracles, it allowed for the perfect life, blessed by the angels. Sherlock's older brother Mycroft was the perfect son, the first of the two sons which were granted to the Holmes family. He was seven years older than Sherlock, more of a second (more proper) father than a big brother. Yet Mycroft was everything which might expected from a man of God, a tall and impressive man. He was round across the stomach, and with a thinning head of hair already at age twenty four. Yet he was kind, kind in a way which made him a worthy heir to the role of minister. People trusted him, they went to him for support, and he talked in a calm way which made confessions easy. Sherlock was quite the opposite, simply because he was born wrong, or at least born in a way which made his time on earth quite limited. He had cystic fibrosis, which is the medical term for a lung disease which makes most all form of activity, or all standards of living, practically impossible. Not only did it mark him as some sort of cripple, lugging around his oxygen on wheels, but it submitted him to fits of mad coughing, in which his lungs finally decide to rid themselves of some excess mucus. It was a disgusting disease to have, yet it was some resolution that it wouldn't last long. No, it would only last as long as he lived, and as of now...well that wasn't much longer at all. You wouldn't be able to tell that the situation was dire, for his symptoms weren't always too obvious. Yet all the same, his state was worsening, his mucus was thickening, and his life was ending. Slowly but surely, his death was approaching close enough to be marked properly on the calendar. And what sort of symbol of God's presence would he be, if he was spotted by the parishioners sporting the Holmes name and hacking up a lung during mass? He was in no state to sit up on the altar with his father and brother, and he was anything but an appropriate poster child for God's blessings. He was born into a holy family, yet he had been made incorrectly, or as his Father put it, as a mistake. And so he was hidden away, for fear that his condition would lessen the faith of the parishioners; for fear that they would take one look at the unfortunate child and decide that atheism really was the right path for them. The numbers were already dwindling as it is; Sherlock's being there wasn't going to help anything. And so he saw the inside of the attic for most of his existence, whether that be the walls as he sat at his desk and read, or the ceiling as he lay on his bed and lamented. It may be the floor, as he kneeled down and writhed in pain, coughing up onto the floor and gasping for a breath that may or may not come. Gasping, and wondering if such an episode would indeed be the end of him. He came to appreciate his attic hole, probably because he knew nothing different. Mycroft visited him as much as he possibly could, and his presence always made it less lonely. And the world turned underneath, Sherlock knew because he saw it as it did. He could see the people as they walked to and from church, he saw them all dressed in their Sunday best. There were children in dresses and little suits, women and men with their pearls and ties, their hands grasping handbags or walking sticks. The women did their hair nicely, while the men wore hats to hide the shining patches on the tops of their heads. Sherlock saw them walk, he saw them talk, and he saw them smile. Oh he did love it when he saw them smile. His window was his only outlet, the only way he could see the world from where he was hidden. He looked out over the street at the cars and the pedestrians, sometimes wishing that one of them might notice that they were being watched. For a moment of eye contact with a stranger, well Sherlock would give something more than the world. For his world wasn't worth much anyway. Yet he wanted to make a connection, he dreamed of meeting someone...meeting anyone! He would want to meet someone who would care for him, someone who wouldn't pity him, or see him as a mistake. Yet as time went on, his chances of seeing the world slimmed. As time went on, his own world was disappearing around him at an alarming rate, and the likelihood that his conscious reality would span anywhere farther than this attic was becoming so scarce that he was almost ready to just sit back and wait for the Reaper. At least then he would have some company, at least once in his life. It was now that he simply waited at the window, leaning up against the window frame while the bells chimed above him, watching the parishioners as they went about their day, shaking hands with each other, not knowing that they were being watched. Not aware that eyes were watching them from the sky, just not the ones they were praying to. There was a knock at the trap door, one which had been anticipated of course, yet it was still enough to make Sherlock jump. For a moment he took a breath, just to be sure that he wasn't working himself up unnecessarily. Mycroft would understand if he was a couple of seconds late to answer, for he stood and tried to inhale deeply the oxygen which was being supplied to him through the tube in his nose. That horrible plastic tube constantly jammed up his nostrils and making him look properly ancient. As a child he was ashamed to have such a machine attached to him, for he had only ever seen one other person with a tank at their side. That man was in a wheel chair, evidently in his high eighties, with wrinkled leathery skin, and a bald head that was covered in ugly liver spots. Sherlock had been so offended that the doctors had given him the same oxygen tank as that old man;for as a child he was unable to realize that the oxygen was saving his life. He never realized that it was necessary. And now he realized that he and that man were not separated by ailments, instead they were separated by their longevity. He envied the withered old thing, for he had been able to live his life and see the world, all the while Sherlock wasn't even sure his life was worth living anymore. He wasn't sure that he was living it at all.
"Sherlock, you're going to just keep me here?" Mycroft's voice called anxiously through the wooden floor. Sherlock blinked, having completely forgotten that his brother was waiting to be admitted into the attic. Of course there was a string to pull to release the ladder, yet at the same time Mycroft knew better than to simply invite himself in. Just like keeping a door locked, Sherlock kept his trapdoor shut, ensuring his privacy and seclusion in this desolate place.
"Sorry, you can come up!" Sherlock called back, stomping a little bit on the trap door to insist to Mycroft that all was well. After a moment the floor opened from the bottom, and from a little wooden ladder his brother ascended through.
"There you are." Mycroft said with a little smile, clambering up onto the wooden floors and pulling the door shut behind him. It wasn't a frequented hallway, for it was the Holmes family's private floor and the parents hardly ever traveled this end unless they wanted to visit their son. That was, of course, why Sherlock kept the door shut. He didn't want them to think that they were invited upstairs, for despite his hatred of loneliness, it was still a much preferable option to the company of his parents. They were cold people, cruel despite their smiles on the altar. They believed in fate, in miracles and in curses, and therefore believed that if Sherlock had not been blessed with good fortune then he had instead been cursed with ill will. For as a child born into sickness, well it was impossible to have been cursed for what he had already done. Therefore, as the Holmes parents theorized, he was instead cursed for what he was destined to do. Atrocities which would justify keeping his lifespan short and quick, so as to keep the chaos level at the minimum. As if Sherlock was capable of heinous acts, as if he was capable of exerting himself to the criminal level.
"Here I am, as always." Sherlock agreed with a little grumble, finally turning his head away from the window so as to avoid the temptations of studying the crowd ever farther. He did have a favorite among the masses, yet such long distance admiration was neither accepted nor appropriate. At least it was not now, while his brother was standing before him, waiting to have their daily conversation.
"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked, a rather ridiculous question if you knew anything about the disease which Sherlock was fated to.
"I'm uh, well I'm alive." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"That counts for something." Mycroft decided, smiling rather timidly all the while Sherlock chuckled in agreement.
"Yes, I suppose it does." He grinned. Mycroft stood in his parental posture, with his hands folded over that ridiculous umbrella handle and a look of the utmost worry on his face. Sherlock didn't like to tell Mycroft not to worry, for they were long past that. They were long past the stage when there was nothing to worry about. He was also too afraid to tell his brother that it was not raining, and so those two character traits stayed mostly constant. For a moment Mycroft looked Sherlock, his dark eyes piercing yet soft, as if he was going to be agressivley gentle today.
"He was at mass today again." Mycroft said finally, wandering over to Sherlock's window and peering out through the glass, down to where the parishioners were beginning to fade. The crowds lessened, and by the look of Mycroft's disappointment it would seem as though one in particular had already vanished.
"How'd he look?" Sherlock asked quietly, still a bit reluctant to have such conversations with his brother. For he wasn't supposed to have taken notice to a certain someone, and even if he had, well to discuss such things with your family members wasn't a very respectable thing to do. Yet Mycroft understood that Sherlock's time here was limited, and he wasn't going to go impeding Sherlock's capability to love, just for the sake of protecting his fading normality. Sherlock couldn't turn out to be any more of a disappointment to his parents, and the world knew nothing of him despite his sexuality. So what was the difference really, to sit up at night and think of a boy? What was the harm?
"Oh quite the same. Hair brushed nicely; dressed up in that suit his parents always make him wear." Mycroft teased.
"With a tie?" Sherlock presumed.
"No tie today. Maybe he had protested the checkered patterns again." Mycroft said with a little chuckle, to which Sherlock nodded.
"Yes, probably best. Checkered patterns never do anyone justice." Sherlock agreed, sitting down heavily on his bed and taking a couple more deep breaths. He could feel his lungs rattling in his chest, those ridiculous useless things. Always so keen on making their presence known, even if they could hardly function the way they were meant to.
"No, not even John Watson." Mycroft agreed with a heavy sigh. Sherlock winced at the name, for he oftentimes liked to keep it off of his lips. It was fine to love someone from afar, knowing nothing of their life or their personality. It was a lot easier to fall in love with a mere human being, yet when you start assigning that being a name, or character traits, well then it began to get complicated. Sherlock didn't like to think of the fact that John had a name, or a life outside of this church. Sherlock would much prefer to hear that John was locked up in his own attic, rather than being liberalized to the free world to wreak havoc and live the life Sherlock was denied. Sherlock seethed with jealousy when he realized that John's name passed through so many mouths, so many minds. There were people who knew him personally, people who knew him intimately. They stood in the hallways at school together, or sat on the bleachers at sporting events to watch him play. They could talk to him, and look at him...and smile at him. What Sherlock wouldn't do to be able to look at Joh and get a glance back. What he wouldn't do to let John know that he actually existed. Yet he was cursed, and these lungs were to blame! Cursed to live his life from this attic and watch from afar, in loneliness and in vain.
"Have you been doing your therapy?" Mycroft wondered, turning his attention back to Sherlock with his usual motherly expressions. Sherlock sighed heavily, rearranging his hands on the handle of his oxygen tank and merely shrugging.
"I was uh...well I was going to get around to it sometime." Sherlock lied. Mycroft sighed a deep, disapproving sigh, and glared at his brother to no avail. Sherlock could feel that disappointed look on the back of his head, yet so long as he didn't glance back it really had no power over him.
"Sherlock you know that therapy helps you! It helps clear your lungs, it could..."
"Mycroft I've heard your rants before, they mean nothing to me! All of this means nothing to me! So what if my lungs get clear, well what would happen then?" Sherlock asked with a growl, finally turning his head so as to meet Mycroft's glare with an equally threatening one of his own.
"You live, Sherlock! You can live longer; you have a better chance of recovering, and going to see the world! Going to see John!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"Don't use him against me, Mycroft. Don't try something as ridiculous as that." Sherlock growled. Mycroft heaved a sigh of defeat, yet he could say nothing more to change Sherlock's mind. Mycroft tried his best, that much was increasingly obvious. He wanted to preserve his little brother's life; he wanted to be the hovering mother if Sherlock's real mother couldn't care less. Yet he protested in vain, and nagged to an indifferent ear. Sherlock wasn't going to start changing his ways; he wasn't going to start doing his therapy exercises so that he could live another two minutes longer when the time came. Even if by pounding on his chest for five minutes a day granted him another year of life, well what good would that do him? Another year hooked to this machine, another year seeing nothing more than the walls of an attic. He had no will to live, so what was the point in longevity?
"Sherlock you know I'm just trying to recommend what's best for you." Mycroft added in a softer tone, as if he didn't know what else he could possibly say. As if he didn't know what else there was to say.
"I know you are. But what's best for me isn't going to save me. It's terminal for a reason." Sherlock grumbled. Mycroft gave a little noise of disagreement, yet Sherlock turned away regretfully, and he wasn't able to see his brother's reaction. He hated to disappoint Mycroft, yet the man really was living in another world. He wasn't able to see that Sherlock's lifespan ended abruptly. He always wanted to stay positive, he was always so determined to be optimistic, and talk to Sherlock about the future as if it was ever actually going to happen. And so he simply walked over and sat next to Sherlock on the bed, twirling his umbrella very awkwardly between both of his hands before mustering up the courage to put his arm around his brother and hold him a bit closer. Sherlock didn't complain, he was hardly ever enthusiastic about cuddling, yet he couldn't deny that sometimes it was nice to just know for sure that there was someone out there that cared about him.
"You have a reason to live, Sherlock. I think you keep forgetting that." Mycroft reminded him regretfully. Sherlock sighed heavily, resting his head a bit timidly into his brother's shoulder, and saying nothing. For he had forgotten that, in fact he had never known it. Mycroft made up a phony reason most every day, and still Sherlock had no actual proof that his existence was worthwhile.
"You have to keep me company." Mycroft said finally, to which Sherlock could only smile.
"You're lonelier than I am, but I've got a perfectly valid excuse for having no friends. You're just a very solitary creature." Sherlock teased. Mycroft tried to look offended, yet all the same he couldn't help but laugh. For it was true.
"Now that's not very nice." Mycroft insisted, yet he chuckled all the same.
"It's not." Sherlock pointed out. "But that's alright."
"We've got each other." Mycroft agreed quietly, patting Sherlock awkwardly on the shoulder. "That's all we need for now."