Death Is A Friend

You Have A Visitor

"Mr. Trevor." Came Mycroft's voice from afar, and both Sherlock and Victor turned to see the man himself coming storming up the aisle from the altar.
"Ah, Mycroft." Victor said in an amused sort of way, reaching out a hand for another hand shake, one which Mycroft ignored of course. Mycroft halted right in front of Mr. Trevor, in a way which made it only too easy to compare them both. Well of course their similarities far outnumbered their differences, and for a moment they looked to be much more related than Sherlock and Mycroft would ever be. For starters, their attire was almost identical. Both wore suits without needing to, with a cane (or umbrella, on Mycroft's part) for which to lean on or swing menacingly. Their expressions were similar, something of the utmost disgust, and their eyes glared without any hint of illumination. They looked downright threatening, as if while sizing each other up they were determining which one would win in a fight to the death. Sherlock would put his money on Mycroft in most all situations, yet for whatever reason Victor Trevor housed the same sort of unstoppable energy, and the audacity to smile even while Mycroft looked tempted to kick him out of the church with his fancy pointed dress shoe. For whatever reason, Sherlock was taking to like Victor Trevor more and more.
"I don't appreciate you talking to the guests. You know your job is simply to..." Mycroft's words were interrupted when Victor raised a single finger, to silence him abruptly. Mycroft blinked, as if he simply couldn't process what had just been done. As if he was trying to comprehend just how Victor had managed to raise such a finger with such force.
"Guests? I'm sorry, but this young man here had introduced himself to me as a relation of yours. Holmes..." Victor said with a grin. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"He's..." Mycroft faltered, for he didn't know whether or not he was supposed to lie in this situation. Sherlock let his head fall shamefully, for he could just tell that Mycroft was going to give him quite the stern talking to after Mr. Trevor's departure. Yet in all honesty, he really wasn't breaking any rules? He was merely introducing himself! He wasn't supposed to deny his heritage; it was just that most people didn't know he existed. "He's my brother, yes. But we don't like him out much, for his health is fragile."
"Yes, he was just saying." Victor agreed, yet unlike most he left out the additive of sympathy. Instead, he merely looked upon Sherlock again with those startling blue eyes, with an expression of the utmost inconvenience. Almost as if he couldn't believe that Mycroft dared challenge him! What sort of fearless man was this, to not only stand tall against Mycroft's obvious anger, but challenge him to the point where he was standing ontop?
"It's your job, Mr. Trevor, to please move the casket out of my church, not to scare those who still linger about the pews." Mycroft reminded him, regaining what composure he could manage. Yet all the while, Victor looked unfazed.
"I was just asking if he was still in the process of mourning. Usually when I arrive for your caskets, the church is empty." Victor defended. Mycroft's upper lip trembled in anger, and Sherlock could see that when he was not talking his jaw was clenched so tightly that it looked as though it could never be opened again. He was livid, for he clutched his umbrella so tightly that his skin turned white at the knuckles.
"Leave my brother alone." Mycroft said finally. Victor heaved a great sigh of regret, yet turned to Sherlock instead, as if he hadn't heard or taken heed of a single word that Mycroft had said.
"It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Holmes- the younger." He cast a side eye to Mycroft again, as if to ensure that his farewell was as long and drawn out as he could manage it. Obviously he was just trying to aggravate Mycroft more, and see just how red his face could turn. It was working, and it was almost tempting to crack a smile as well. Sherlock found this man's daring to be admirable, for such a man seemed to be casual about life and about death as well. He seemed almost godlike in the way he composed himself, unfazed by even the most dangerous of angry men.
"It was nice to meet you as well." Sherlock agreed with a stiff little nod, for he wasn't entirely sure what else there was to say to such a man who he had known for so short of time. Yet all the same, Victor Trevor's departure disappointed Sherlock, for he was the first person he had talked to that wasn't his family in a very long time...in fact maybe even a lifetime.
"And Mycroft," Victor started, as he side stepped the angry man and paused on his way down the aisle, "It's always nice to see you." With that, Victor gave a wink and started down the aisle towards the coffin, waving his cane impatiently at two lingering men who raced to get to the casket and unload it from the pedestal on which it stood. He walked with a purpose, with a swagger that radiated power, and for a moment Sherlock was stuck to do nothing but stare in awe. Mycroft, however, was not very good at hiding his disgust. He sneered in anger, and grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulder to steer him away from the church and from the man who was now strutting along as if he owned the place.
"Come on Sherlock, I think we've done enough." Mycroft growled, and with that he carted Sherlock outside the doors and onto the sidewalk, the only familiar place in the whole world to poor Sherlock. Yet he never had the chance to walk it, and to stare up at the blue sky above. The outside world was fresh, and it was indescribably beautiful. The birds were chirping louder than they ever did from behind the glass, and the sun was hot on Sherlock's pale, unblemished skin. Yet he couldn't appreciate it, really, for Mycroft's grip was still strong, and all the while he walked him down the sidewalk and into what must have been town not a word was said. All the while Mycroft grumbled to himself, shaking his head as if he was trying to figure out just what he was going to do.
"Did you know that man?" Sherlock wondered. Of course he wanted to know more about Victor Trevor, yet at the same time he wanted to know what was so bad about Victor knowing about him. Was it really so much of a death sentence, as Mycroft was making it out to be?
"Yes, oh yes I know Victor Trevor." Mycroft growled. "The most insolent, disgusting man I've ever had to make eye contact with."
"He didn't seem too bad to me." Sherlock defended quickly; all the while he really had no grasp of what that man was really like. Yet all the same, he was usually a good judge of character. All the while Mycroft despised him, Sherlock really had no reason to hold a grudge.
"Well that's because you don't know him. He's just so irksome! And so rude!" Mycroft exclaimed, halting in his furious walk to lean up against the side of a brick building, tapping his fingers so agressivley against his umbrella handle that he seemed to forget that he had been holding a conversation just seconds before.
"You just don't like him because he's not afraid of you." Sherlock presumed. Mycroft faltered, his black eyes looking down onto his brother with an expression of the utmost confusion.
"Sherlock that is not why I don't like him." Mycroft defended, yet all the same he couldn't produce a better reason for his hatred. Instead he merely shook his head, and said nothing more. Sherlock leaned against the wall as well, staring at the crowd of people on the other side of the road and wondering what differed them all. What were they like? What was their favorite food, how many children did they have, do they like dogs or cats? And yet, with a quick voice in the back of his head that sounded disturbingly familiar...when were they going to die?
"Are we going to eat somewhere?" Sherlock asked quickly, for it seemed as though Mycroft was content to stand here for a long while.
"No, no we're going home. Just not...let's just wait until his bloody hearse leaves." Mycroft said in a growl, and just now did Sherlock realize why they had picked this spot to wait at. They could see the parking lot of the church, discretely enough so that those in the parking lot would not know that they were being observed. Yet Mycroft stood close to the wall, with his black eyes fixed to the hearse so as to be sure that the entire mortuary team left when they were supposed to. Yes, there was the coffin now, being rolled on some sort of dolly down the pavement and into the back of the hearse, where men in black suits with white gloves were waiting to receive it. And there went Victor, swinging his cane with all the confidence in the world, and dressed so dark that he was almost indistinguishable from the blacktop on which he walked. Sherlock was able to breathe normally, yet all the same he felt some sort of pang of interest. That man was just...well he was unlike anyone Sherlock had ever encountered before. And even though he had a very narrow view of the world, he was quite sure he was correct in that assumption.