Death Is A Friend

The Tools Of The Trade

"So what exactly would I be doing here?" Sherlock asked apprehensively.
"Well everything I do, I suppose. I'll teach you how to embalm, how to preserve and restore, and make someone look as good as new. Then we'll ship them off to the church, or the funeral home, or wherever the body has been requested, and it's out of our hands from there." Victor admitted with a grin. Sherlock nodded, yet he understood that most all of that had to be a lot more complicated than it sounded.
"And how exactly does someone embalm another human being?" Sherlock asked a bit apprehensively, looking back to the drawer on which Mr. Carpenter lay, as if wondering just what fate awaited him when he was finally taken off the slab and onto the operating table.
"Oh well, that's a process for another time. I just want you to get to know the things about the lab today; I want to see if you feel comfortable with it all." Victor said with a grin.
"I feel very comfortable." Sherlock assured with a little nod.
"Yes, you do seem to be fitting the part perfectly. Oh who knew that any relation of Mycroft Holmes could end up being so perfectly conformed?" Victor chortled, this time leaning up against one of the operating tables, almost as if his feet couldn't stand supporting his body weight for long.
"How do you know my brother so well?" Sherlock asked, wondering just what the backstory was behind Mycroft and Victor, and where the dislike had come into play. On first glance Sherlock would have suspected them to be best friends, simply because they had so much in common, such strong spirits and such Victorian personalities. Yet maybe that was just it, both men couldn't stand being the lesser of the two, and together they were constantly battling for that unofficial superiority. What a dangerous pair they might have made, and how much they seemed to despise one another! Now that Sherlock considered it, it really wasn't much of a surprise. Victor seemed a bit reluctant to answer that question; in fact it seemed to be the first time that Sherlock had ever seen him properly out of his comfort zone. He kept his smile on, and he kept his posture rigid, yet Sherlock could see the doubt flash across his blue eyes, just for a moment they dulled...
"We worked closely for a very long time, Sherlock. Well ever since he's taken over the funeral services I've been hand delivering him the bodies for his altar." Victor admitted with a shrug.
"You say that as if you're finished working closely with him, when you're both still in operation." Sherlock pointed out, not backing down on his investigation into Mycroft's past. In all honesty, Sherlock knew about nothing of his older brother, nothing of his life at least. They never talked of the outside world, most likely because Mycroft suspected Sherlock may get jealous of his being so involved in it. Victor Trevor may very well have come up in Mycroft's life; he may have played a very substantial role! It's just that Sherlock never had the courage to ask, and Mycroft would never share a personal story without having it pried almost painfully out of his brain.
"Well we've rather drifted apart, Mycroft and I. We do work together, yes...but not nearly as closely any longer." Victor said with a little grin, as if he found their separation to be almost humorous. Sherlock nodded, sort of getting the idea that this conversation was coming to an end before he could get anything out of it all. Yet there was at least some conclusion, the fact that Mycroft and Victor did have some sort of history, whether that be purely professional or something more. Just as soon as the silence grew to be almost unbearable Victor sprang to his feet and made for a cart, one which was laden with all sorts of wicked looking metal instruments. This cart must contain all of the tools for which to embalm someone, yet Sherlock couldn't imagine the purpose for about half of them. There were little clay caps, needles and thread, and horrible looking needles that seemed to be as thick around as Sherlock's little finger. What all of these assorted objects had to do with funeral services Sherlock couldn't even guess, yet the way Victor was standing over the cart made it obvious that he would soon learn. The process was long, yet it was actually one of the most interesting hours of Sherlock's entire life. Not only was he standing in a foreign room, with a man who was entirely new to him, but he was being taught an art form which had been completely barbaric just a moment before. Victor taught better than Sherlock's mother ever had, and he explained the tools on the cart with such professional intricacy that Sherlock was sure he could take one of those cold cadavers and make them into a beautiful specimen to be put in a coffin and displayed. All of those little trinkets had a purpose, and Victor in his specialization knew how to use and perfect them all. It was an hour's lecture, yet when Sherlock looked down at his watch he was surprised to find just how long it had actually taken. Victor had the stunning ability to make such a boring speech so colorful and so exciting that that entire hour had felt more like ten minutes. Sherlock had been lost in his mind, lost in Victor's words, and his body language. He had been watching with great interest as the man's white fingers curled along the metal instruments, he studied his facial expressions and the way his lips curled into a devious little smile whenever he picked up a particularly sharp blade. He was almost like an actor as he stood next to the cart and recited his lines, using such intricate vocabulary and such wonderful descriptions that it seemed as though his speech must have been scripted or practiced before. In fact, Sherlock was so mesmerized by Victor and the sum of his knowledge and beauty that when he had finished speaking Sherlock didn't realize. He just continued to stare, taking the silence as yet another form of dramatics, and appreciating now the calmness of Victor's face as his lips finally fell still. It wasn't until the man began to laugh that Sherlock realized he was staring unblinkingly, focused so intensely on the performer before him that he never even noticed how awkward he had just made this whole situation.
"Shall I take you home then?" was Victor's first sentence after he finished his speech. He evidently realized that he had Sherlock right where he wanted him, and so all that was left to do now was send him away for the night.
"Yes...yes sorry." Sherlock agreed, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat awkwardly. He felt his cheeks blushing under the humiliation of being so transfixed, yet by the way Victor grinned he could tell that it had all just been part of the plan.
"No need to apologize, Sherlock." Victor assured, strolling casually to the coat rack where he replaced his top hat on top of his head. He took a very long while to pull on his gloves, which may have been understandable had it even been cold out. Yet it was still in the warmer weeks of September, and to be wearing such leather gloves in a time like this meant simply that Victor was after the look, not the practicality. Sherlock couldn't blame him, really, for complete with his hat and walking stick, the gloves made him look even more like a man out of his time. Victor would blend right in among the streets of Victorian London, strolling about like a true English gentleman just two centuries too late. Yet such fashion fit him quite perfectly, to the point where Sherlock couldn't imagine the man in anything less formal than a suit and jacket. Sherlock often felt as though he was dressed up to the status quo (despite his never being in the social situation to prove it), yet Victor was one of the few men who made him feel rather under dressed. It wasn't like this morgue was a fashion runway, in fact there was no one here to impress but each other! Yet all the same, Sherlock would have to fight the temptation to wear a bowtie the next time he strolled in through that dingy little reception room. When finally the ascended into the parking lot the sun was just beginning its decent into the horizon, splashing the sky with all the beautiful colors which were so characteristic of a sunset. The sky was the one part of nature that Sherlock was most familiar with, simply because a window hardly restricted his view. Yet even now, the sunset in person was drastically different than the one through the glass. For whatever reasons, the colors looked so vibrant from where he stood on the pavement. He could see the reds and the oranges as they broke through the last of the lingering clouds, surrounding them with an eerie arura of flame. He could spot the moon, fading into view to take its rightful place in the sky. It was breathtaking from this unrestricted angle, yet all the same Sherlock knew better than to be caught staring like an idiot twice in one day. He cleared his head and walked to the hearse as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening in the sky. Victor didn't seem fazed at all by the sunset, and he too climbed into the hearse without a second look. They drove in silence; silence which might have been awkward had Sherlock not already felt so comfortable around this man. Who knew that a stranger from the church could turn into such a close friend in a span of a mere hour or two? Who knew that the first person to collect Sherlock from his confinement would be the best possible candidate? Who knew that the mortician, of all people, could make Sherlock feel so alive?