Death Is A Friend

Unleashed To The Outside World

    Sherlock watched as his parents drove away, he could see their car as it pulled into the line of Sunday afternoon traffic, headed for who knows where. He didn't care if he ever saw them again, he didn't care that they didn't bother saying goodbye. The ideal situation would be that their car got crushed by a large tractor trailer, and he would be free of their tyrannical rule for the rest of his forsaken life. Yet that was too much to hope for, and he should be focusing more on the miracles which were happening right now, the miracle that their car even left the church in the first place! The present was offering him opportunities beyond his wildest dreams, and here he was imagining more morbid, long term possibilities. Just as soon as the car departed Mycroft reappeared, not bothering to knock on the trap door simply because he knew he was expected. Sherlock watched as his brother clambered inside, with that wide cheerful smile which so rarely played genuinely across his aging features.
"They're gone?" Sherlock clarified in a breath, unable to believe what luck he had encountered.
"They're gone. And the funeral starts in an hour, and you look...well you can look better. I'll make sure of that." Mycroft promised enthusiastically.
"That's almost an insult." Sherlock muttered with a huff, yet he dragged his oxygen tank to the wardrobe and watched as Mycroft took to searching through it. Sherlock didn't have many clothes, yet those that he did own were always best suited to make him look dashing. He was always dressed for an occasion, even while he was trapped up here in this accused attic. Yet today, well today was one of the only legitimate occasions which he the honor of attending, one of the only excuses he had to look his best. And so he decided, of course that, he wouldn't just look good for his own standards- he would instead be the best dressed in the whole room. And Mycroft of course, knew everything about style. Sherlock tried on three shirts, one black in mourning (which they decided was too somber, and too gothic), followed by a white one (which they decided was much to vibrant for the occasion), and finally his favorite shirt of dark purple, which perfectly blended into the somber mood all while allowing him to stick out of the crowd. And such a color too, alluded to his feminine side. It drew out the radiance of his skin, the black curls of his hair, both of which would catch John's attention if he was trying hard enough. Sherlock then pulled his black jacket overtop, pulling it tight so that it stretched over his thin chest, and sculpted his body in a way which was almost irresistible. Even Mycroft had to stop and stare in awe, as his reclusive brother, so pale from the shadows of the attic, stood before him like a preened and proper adult.
"Absolutely stunning." Mycroft whispered to him, setting his hand proudly on Sherlock's shoulder as if boasting to his reflection that they were related. They couldn't look more different, really, for Mycroft could hardly be considered beautiful in anyone's vocabulary. He had a sort of maturity which made him handsome, yet beauty was a considerable leap. And while standing next to his brother, a small stick of a boy with such beautiful color contrasts throughout his body as a whole, well it would take a DNA test to prove the relationship. Yet despite Sherlock's understanding of his own attractiveness, all the while he appreciated Mycroft's fan fair, he still knew that there was something missing, or rather there was something that ruined his entire reflection. There was something which drew the attention away from however stunning he may look, which turned his image or a formidable and attractive opponent to a weak boy who deserved empathy, not a second glance.
"If only I didn't have this stupid tank." Sherlock grumbled, pushing it rather agressivley into the floor yet not daring enough to kick it. He didn't want to risk it bursting, for what a terrible way to spend his only free day! Mycroft took a heavy sigh, which in its own way was merely antagonistic, and looked upon his brother with pity. He turned his eyes away from the reflections, and instead looked Sherlock in the eyes with all of the parental concern which could be managed.
"Sherlock, the tank does nothing to suppress your beauty. It is merely there to keep you alive, and surely John will realize that. He'll love you either way, for soulmates are not restricted by silly little obstacles like oxygen tanks." Mycroft reminded him sincerely, smiling in that annoying way which he did when he knew there was nothing Sherlock could say to argue. And so Sherlock stayed silent, nodding his head yet grabbing his hair brush and stepping away from his brother for just a moment, wishing he could simply be left alone to whine about his own imperfections in peace. Yet Mycroft was right, today was not a day to whine about the most trifling, most unimportant aspects of his appearance. The things he could not change would simply have to stay put for now, and along with his tank his disease was not going to go away so quickly. Surely he would have to work around that, and surely John would come to see past it. Oh, the idea of seeing John Watson for the first time! Face to face, eye to eye! Sherlock could finally appreciate the details in his eyes, in his skin and in his hair. He knew John from afar, where he could observe his body type, hair color, and posture. Yet when they were closer, well he could appreciate every little detail so far as John didn't notice his stare was unwavering. He could observe the way he held his hands, the way he fixed his hair. He could watch as the skin crinkled upon his cheeks, or as the tears rolled from his eyes as he mourned the loss of his coach. John Watson was about to be human, and vulnerable, right before Sherlock's eyes. And he would have the opportunity to be close to him, to be his shoulder to cry on! Oh what if...oh the magic that would be John's trembling body against his shoulder. He could feel it now, the weight of his head, and of his emotions. Sherlock could just about feel John's lingering fingers across his chest, first there to support himself, yet now lingering guiltily across the indentations of his rib bones, exploring while still hiding behind the notion of comfort. There was a sort of excitement bubbling up in his chest, making it difficult to breathe (more so than usual that is), and making it difficult to do anything more than smile and wince, and brush his hair obsessively. Today was the day that his life changed, he could feel it! Today was the day where he swept the man of his dreams off of his feet, and achieved the greatest accomplishment of his life. He wasn't even expecting a kiss, only a smile, even a glance would do! He just wanted to be noticed, he just wanted to be seen! That in itself would be unprecedented, and monumental...
"Ready then? You can come help set up the flowers if you would like." Mycroft offered. Sherlock nodded, for such mundane tasks as setting up for a funeral seemed all together glamourous for him. It had been so long since he had been able to descend the stairs of the attic, and see the outside world. To help set up, to talk to people who weren't his brother and to gaze upon the outside world with a different perspective...well of course it was too good to be true! Too good to be true, as he clambered down the wobbling attic staircase, and descended onto the lower lever. He looked around, now just for a moment, and was finally able to look up into the hole which he had been trapped in for the most of his life. He was finally able to look up, and then look away. He was finally able to move on. It took a long while for the funeral to begin, yet the casket was there as soon as Sherlock descended into the lower church. Of course the people mingling around didn't know that his arrival was so special, and he really didn't want them to be making such a big deal out of his being there. In fact, it was almost more special to be regarded with the utmost carelessness, as if no one wanted to wonder who the strange boy with the oxygen mask was. Mycroft, however, kept him on quite a short leash. He kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as they walked throughout the pews of the massive church, almost as if he was worried that Sherlock would wander off and get himself into trouble. Yet then again, wasn't that why he was here in the first place? To live a little bit, for a day? Yet he was protective, and that was special in its own way. Sherlock appreciated his brother's fearfulness; it meant that he actually did care. The casket sat up on the altar, bare now, yet it was surely going to have flowers overwhelming it in the near future. Surely there would be orchids and roses and wreaths all lined up to accompany the thing, for that was what funerals were all about. They were there to make the body look beautiful, more beautiful in death than ever they had been in life. It was for the mourners to see the deceased for the last time, and able to leave a good imprint in their mind. Forever when they imagine the stories, or revisit the memories they had tucked away, that cold corpse may very well take the place of whatever living specimen had been alive before. Therefore, it better look acceptable enough to take the living person's place. Yet the lid was closed, and for now Sherlock couldn't see anything of the deceased. Then again, it wasn't the corpse that was the most interesting part of this experience. He was mesmerized in the sort of colors the light filtered in through the stained glass windows; he was amazed at the feeling of a soft carpet under his feet as he walked, and the people, oh the people! They were milling around, some looking exasperated, others looking disconsolate. Family and workers all intermixed then, to try to get the funeral underway as soon and as best as possible. They were normal, yet they were extraordinary. Sherlock watched them from where he stood with his brother, near the top of the aisle, and looking down at the wide array of human beings. It was almost breathtaking, to be walking among them, and to be treated as nothing more than normal. As nothing more exciting than just another person in the crowd.
"This is amazing." Sherlock breathed, finding it quite difficult to say anything more than that. For that was the only thing on his mind, just the absolute awe of the normal life, of a life beyond those same four walls.
"I thought you'd like it." Mycroft agreed with a grin. "If you would like to help set up you're welcome to, yet you can sit in the pews if you want. I don't know how strenuous the work will be, but I don't want you to strain yourself."
"Oh don't treat me like a cripple." Sherlock growled, yet all the same he hoisted his oxygen tank closer to his legs and cleared his throat a little bit. It was rather hypocritical to try to deny it, yet all the same he wanted to be treated as normal, at least for today. Whether or not he had to lug this tank around really was beside the point.
"Fine, do you want to go and take some flower pots from the cars outside?" Mycroft snapped, for he of course knew that answer before he phrased the question. Sherlock huffed for a moment, crossing his arms as if he really didn't think that was a fair question.
"Alright fine, I'll sit in the back then. Don't mind me." Sherlock grumbled, wheeling his tank over to one of the pews and sitting down heavily on the wooden bench. He knew he shouldn't be all moody, especially not when this was the most exciting thing to have ever happened in his life. Yet all the same, it really was tempting to feel sorry for himself. The very fact that a funeral of all things was the highlight of his life experience up into this point was a sad, sad truth. Yet he had to be making the most of it! Besides, John Watson himself, in all of his beautiful glory, was going to come strutting into Sherlock's path of vision in the very near future. That of all things was going to be worth this entire experience, no matter how handicapped and useless he felt in the real world. John Watson...oh that poor boy didn't know what was coming! Sherlock watched for a little while as the church transformed from a hallow shell of worship to a floral masterpiece. The decorations which went up were superb, from a large photo board of pictures from the man's life and career, to black draped cloth along the pews for mourning. Flowers and balloons were prevalent as well, yet the final touch was the one which sent the proper chills down Sherlock's spine. The final touch...when they opened the casket to reveal the body. The family lingered closest, and as soon as the lid of the coffin was opened they all let loose their next round of tears, clutching tissues to their noses and holding each other's hands tightly, as if worried that Death might take the straggler, the one who was not properly linked to the rest. Yet Sherlock could see, at least he could see what little bits of human that were properly visible from the opening in the casket. He saw the tip of a nose, along with white fingers folded over what had to be some sort of football. They stretched long a skeletal along the laces, the knuckles bent so as to give it a more realistic grip. The skin was white yet powdered, and from what Sherlock could tell from where he was sitting, well there was every change that the man might just sit up and go about his day as usual. It was ghastly, not to mention terribly disturbing, to see such a corpse as it sat in that casket. It was disturbing for Sherlock to wonder what killed the coach, and what was going to be the death of him as well. He knew it wouldn't be long until he followed that man to the grave, he knew it wouldn't be long until he was powdered and posed and covered in roses as well. Or would he? Would anyone come to mourn him, would his parents even host a proper funeral? Maybe not. Maybe he'll get a plot in the backyard, buried in a pine box and sent to the ground in the most dishonorable way. Would Mycroft make sure that he was given a proper burial? Or would he be cremated, perhaps, to save burial costs? Oh in all honesty his parents were probably counting down the days, they were probably watching their clocks, or their calendars, and trying to remember just what was the day the doctors had told them to worry about. Oh those foolish doctors! Under the impression that the Holmes parents would lament over their son's passing. Surely he wouldn't understand that they would be relieved to avoid those pricey oxygen tanks every month. Sherlock was dragged from his internal monologue when Mycroft reappeared from his flower duty, looking just a little bit exasperated and covered in little specks of soil. Sherlock smiled at him, and of course despite Mycroft's misery, well he really could never resist a good smile back.
"Made yourself useful then?" Sherlock presumed.
"Yes of course. I am rather in charge of funerals around here anyway." Mycroft said with a smile.
"Really?" Sherlock asked curiously. "I didn't know they had given you any power."
"Well of course they had! I'm the eldest." Mycroft boasted, puffing out his unimpressive chest as if he was trying to make himself look much more important than he actually was.
"You're the biggest pushover. Besides, I can't be in charge if they don't want anyone to know I exist." Sherlock pointed out grimly.
"Yes I do suppose you're right." Mycroft agreed with a laborious sigh. "Well anyway, the crowds will be here soon. I've been told the funeral starts in twenty minutes, and those who are always very dedicated like to arrive early." He smiled with that telltale little grin, for Mycroft must know how exciting this whole ordeal was to Sherlock. Surely he understood that this was going to be life changing!
"He'll be here in twenty minutes." Sherlock breathed, instinctively reaching up to his curls fearfully. Did they look good enough? "Do you have a mirror?" Sherlock asked fearfully, suddenly realizing that in the moments he's been sitting here his hair may have drooped, or betrayed him in some other barbaric way.
"No I don't have a mirror, come on Sherlock you look fine." Mycroft assured carefully, for he knew enough to speak lightly when they were on the topic of personal hygiene. The Holmes brothers took their appearances very seriously; it was something very close to religion of course. And now, with such an important audience, well of course Sherlock had to look beyond stunning! He had to look breathtaking, life changing, and completely unprecedented! Oh if only he didn't have this stupid tank attached to his nose! If only people would look at him as something more than just a pity!
"You're sure I look fine? If you saw me for the first time, would you be amazed?" Sherlock asked urgently, getting to his feet now for he was becoming too anxious to sit still.
"Yes, Sherlock you look fantastic. More beautiful than I've ever seen you before." Mycroft assured slowly, obviously a little bit bothered by Sherlock's constant nervousness. Maybe he didn't understand just how pivotal this moment was; maybe he couldn't grasp the concept of what an important even this was going to be!
"Mycroft I may be meeting my husband today, if I look anything less than perfect it'll be absolutely disastrous!" Sherlock roared.
"You look FINE!" Mycroft exclaimed, turning away from his brother in absolute exasperation. This little outburst was enough to draw at least some attention from those milling around, yet it was only a brief pause before they went back to whatever last minute touch ups they were doing. The stage was set, and Sherlock...well at least he hoped he looked the part. It was time soon, the curtain was about to rise, and in would strut his most influential audience. In would wander the one boy he was out to enrapture, the one boy he was out to mesmerize. Sherlock had to admit, the nerves were setting in, and self-doubt was becoming almost crippling. He was overwhelmed not just with the idea of whether or not he could do it, but whether or not it was even worth trying! Disappointment would be worse than death, and with his only shot...well it was now or never! Would it be less pain to not take it, for fear of missing entirely? No, that was the cowards' way out, he wasn't a coward. He couldn't risk this only opportunity for eternal happiness, and besides, if it all went wrong, well he wasn't going to see John for the rest of his life anyway! He might as well just go for it, and then he can plan his next attempt in the next seventeen solitary years of his life (if he even got that far, that is). And so as the minutes ticked by, well Sherlock planed. He choreographed, even, the best spot and best opportunities. If John was going to go down to see the corpse and meet with the family, then he would end up on the left side of the church, exposed and unsure what to do with himself there. And Sherlock stood next to the leftmost wall, in hopes that John would stumble into his path. Then of course, Sherlock would approach him. He'd ask if he knew the coach, and then when John mentioned that he did it would only take a couple of football questions to get the ball rolling. After that, Sherlock could introduce himself (and make it very clear that he was single) and their friendship would blossom from there. If all went well, he may very well have the honor of a phone number, or at least something tangible with which to keep in touch. Fast forward a year or so, and maybe John would be more than friend. Maybe John would be more than everything.