Death Is A Friend

Prove You Love The Poison

The night was quiet, and Sherlock sat up alone. Sleep didn't matter to him any longer; he was a nocturnal creature at heart. When he had nothing to do but wallow in the attic he would usually sleep all day, when the light was brightest, and when the people were out doing their daily, mundane routines. The routines they considered boring, and torturous. How they all wished they could just sit around at home all day, without ever realizing the psychological consequences of being pent up like an animal. When Sherlock was reclusive he slept through the day to allow himself at least some ignorance to how wonderful the world of people was. He would ignore the world as it turned around him, so that his own seclusion from it didn't seem just as painful. The darkness was different. He could observe the world in the state he was most familiar with; he could observe the stillness, interrupted by the occasional passing car. He knew then that most every light in the distance either corresponded with pain or with pleasure. A light in a window meant someone was up, struggling with work or with school. Someone was being tormented by illness, or by depression, and sat up in those hours of the nights bearing the consequences. Or the lights meant that they were stuck in a deep, intimate embrace. The lights meant that two people were exchanging themselves, their hearts, their loves. Sherlock winced at the very thought, for such a concept had always been so foreign to him. Yet seeing the light made him feel...closer, in a way. It made him feel as though he was a part of such a connection, even if he was just an observer of the illumination. Love such as that...or rather love in general; well it had always been so far away! Sherlock had never been in a position to have his love returned, and so while his heart did ache, he had taught it to ache alone. He could never tell it to wait a little while longer; he could never tell it that relief was in sight. The pain of loneliness was just as sharp as the pain of reclusiveness, for while he was so alienated from the world...well of course the whole world was alienated from him! There was no possible way to have found someone to love, or at least there hadn't been. Not before. Sherlock sighed heavily, with his fingertips curled around his wrist and his heart beating steadily. He never liked to allow himself to think of such things, especially if ever there was a possibility of self-fulfilling prophesy. When he had first spotted John Watson out of the mix he had made the mistake of thinking he was beautiful. He had made the mistake of letting john into his brain, before seeping steadily down into his heart as well. Observation led to obsession, and the thought processes along the way were completely optional. No, Sherlock did not like to think of love, simply because he knew that along with love came another form of painful rejection. He could wish and wish all he liked, he could pray and dream and complain...yet that had never brought John closer to him. What a different aspect Sherlock was going to have on life, now simply that he was allowed to live one! The morgue opened him up to the world, and to a man who could not be slowed by any such forces as rules or strict parents. Victor could take him anywhere, or more accurately, Sherlock could go anywhere. So long as he had his boss to defend him in the process, well Sherlock was powerful enough to do whatever he pleased. Maybe love wasn't too far away these days. Maybe it wasn't impossible for his light to be on at two o'clock in the morning, and to have hands on his skin that were not his own. 

 "I'm not going in with you today." Mycroft said from the driver's seat, the car idling quietly in the parking lot of the morgue while Sherlock got himself situated on the pavement. 

"Too angry already?" Sherlock presumed. Mycroft gave him a stern look; however it was obvious he could do nothing to argue.
"Let's just say a confrontation may end up in casualties." Mycroft decided quietly.
"Ah, well then in that case stay in the car. I need you alive to drive me." Sherlock insisted, shutting the door with a snarky little smile. As Sherlock walked towards the morgue he heard the crunching of tires following him, followed by his brother's shouting through the opening passenger side window.
"What do you mean you need me alive? If I fought Victor I would totally win!" Mycroft defended. Sherlock stopped, and this time he didn't have to fake his laugh.
"You're not serious? You think you could kill Victor?" Sherlock clarified, walking up to the car window and giving Mycroft a very antagonizing, challenging look.
"Well of course I could!" Mycroft said confidently, with his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. He looked offended, that was for sure. Yet Sherlock really couldn't tell if he was joking, for with Mycroft's logical brain he must be able to realize that he'd get killed?
"He's taller than you, stronger than you, and probably weights the same but in muscle, while you have fat." Sherlock reminded him with a glare. Mycroft stammered for a moment, his lips contorting into something of an offended frown.
"Yes but I know some karate moves." Mycroft defended with a little whine.
"He'd mutilate you, don't try to pretend." Sherlock insisted. Mycroft heaved a great sigh, shaking his head in slight exasperation, as if he saw this not as a logical fallacy, but rather a conflict of interest. He obviously thought Sherlock was wrong in his assumptions.
"Well then, brother mine, you best hope we never have to find out." Mycroft said with a great sigh. Sherlock grinned, and with a nod of farewell he started towards the doors once more. This time, thankfully, he heard the car as it rolled down towards the road, and finally the engine as it accelerated into the flow of traffic. Sherlock was left to descend into the morgue alone, his footsteps echoing ominously throughout the abandoned secretary's office and along the shadowed, dirty walls of the stairwell. Yet the morgue itself was bright enough to light his way, and just as soon as he pushed through the swinging doors he found that everything was just as he left it. His host had his back turned, yet just as soon as Victor heard the doors swing he turned with a great grin. He wasn't wearing an apron; in fact there wasn't even a body on the table just yet. Victor was looking as prim and proper as ever, with his fancy clothes and perfect hair, yet something today stood out. Something today seemed out of place, if even necessary at all. He was smoking.
"Sherlock, wonderful to see you again." Victor said with a great smile, taking a very obvious puff of his cigarette before exhaling a great big cloud of smoke between the two of them. Well of course this wasn't just rude; it was medically hazardous for them both. Billows of cigarette smoke were horrible for Sherlock's lungs, for they simply couldn't process it as most lungs could. Surely Victor realized this, that Sherlock's life expectancy was decreasing with every puff he took?
"Mr. Trevor, I didn't know you smoked." Sherlock said rather obviously. Victor smiled that tantalizing smile, that smile which made Sherlock feel as though he was in the presence of something more than a man...something more of a God.
"I don't." he muttered, before finally taking yet another draw. Sherlock thought for a moment, and wondered then why Victor would be going out of his way to torment him. Well of course, this had to be some sort of experiment. Of course Victor was looking for a reaction from Sherlock, yet what sort? Was he trying to see how careful Sherlock was, or was he rather trying to gauge how tolerant he could be? Was this an exercise to try to mold Sherlock's fragile being into something much like his own, a careless force of nature?
"You do know that um, well with my disease..." Sherlock didn't feel the need to finish, instead he sort of gestured at his oxygen tank, as if that should be enough to remind Victor of the harmful effects.
"Oh, smoking's not very good for you, is it?" Victor wondered, his eyes lighting up into something which seemed almost provocative. Sherlock stammered for a moment, not sure where this was going, and not knowing what he was supposed to be doing. What did Victor expect from him?
"Surely you knew that." Sherlock defended, now trying to at least go on the offensive.
"I did." Victor agreed, his lips upturning into a small grin. "Are you afraid?"
"Afraid of the smoke?" Sherlock clarified, feeling a bit taken aback by the question. Yet he was beginning to understand where Victor was going with this...it was a test not of bravery, but of acceptance. It was a test about practicality, and the imminent death that awaited him. A test to prove that he couldn't just witness death, but experience it also in the same manner. He could prove himself to be a friend of the Reaper by drawing the creature ever nearer with every inhale...
"Afraid of its consequences." Victor corrected quietly, his words rolling through the air like the clouds of smoke, cool and collective. Poisonous, yet necessary.
"You mean death?" Sherlock muttered, watching as another great cloud of stinking smoke came billowing towards him. Victor nodded quietly, his fingers curling along the cigarette in a delicate, almost loving manner. Sherlock had to admit that his process was quite enchanting, of inhaling and exhaling that poison. And so Sherlock stumbled forward, coming now into the cloud of smoke to prove that he wasn't afraid of it. Victor sighed with accomplishment, now taking another long breath and blowing the smoke nearer towards Sherlock with every step he took. Victor stayed still, allowing Sherlock to approach him, allowing him to breathe in the air that escaped from around his oxygen tubes. It stung his lungs, it burned all the way through his respiratory system, yet all the same he drew nearer still. He felt as though he had something to prove, if not that he was fearless, just that he was brave enough to take a challenge. He knew that he wasn't much yet in Victor's eyes, the man undoubtedly saw him as just another child in this world of fragile beings. Yet he wanted to be stubborn, he wanted to be respected. It would be a shame to spend so much time with Victor Trevor yet not have any sort of his personality rub off. He was everything a man should be...and everything that Sherlock still could grow to. He stepped forward now because he knew it was the first step of many in this long path of success. This long path that may very well be cut short, as his burning lungs decided to remind him.
"Not very afraid after all." Victor mumbled, and yet Sherlock stepped closer once more. He now stepped so close that the two were merely inches apart, where their chest might be able to touch if they allowed them to. Sherlock's fingers were quaking along the handle of his oxygen tank; he was shaking nervously, fighting the urge to break into a fit of coughing. Yet he had to prove himself, did he not? He had to prove to Victor that he wasn't afraid of death. Not here, among the corpses of those who couldn't keep the breath in their bodies, or the blood in their veins. And now Sherlock could see every minute motion, he could see every muscle which twitched in Victor Trevor's face. The man raised his delicate fingers to his lips, placing the cigarette between them as gently as he could, as entrancingly as he could. His blue eyes never wavered from Sherlock's, just so that he could observe as Sherlock stared at his lips, stared at the way they curled and inhaled deeply. Victor watched in satisfaction as Sherlock studied every little detail come into play, as Victor's chest grew larger with the breath, as his fingers brushed gently across his cheeks, how his lips tightened around the smoldering thing. And finally he exhaled, dropping his hand and opening his mouth to blow, directly into Sherlock's face. The boy quivered, yet he inhaled it all the same, he inhaled it with such dedication that he closed his eyes and gasped, praying that his lungs would give way right here and right now, so that he could drop dead in front of this man who would take such an occurrence as a miracle. So that he could prove to Victor, in the moment when it happened, that he would not run from death but embrace it.
"Brave, Mr. Holmes." Victor whispered, all the while Sherlock steadied himself on his feet and nodded sharply. Yet he still felt incomplete, he felt rather upset that he had survived. Yet he didn't know if that was foolish, selfish, or just insane. If Mycroft was here now, if he was witness to this affair...well Sherlock couldn't imagine how quickly he would padlock the attic door and never let Sherlock leave again.
"Give it to me." Sherlock decided finally, holding out his hand urgently. His fingers shook nervously, and even now his lungs were threatening to give way to a fit of mad coughing. Yet he felt as though this was the way he was to prove himself, once and for all. Victor wanted to test him, and so Sherlock was going to pass. He would live up to this man's expectations, and be the person that Victor thought he could become. He would be more than man soon enough. Victor said nothing, and of course he didn't complain. For a man of medicine such as he was, he was focused on the wrong side of the life cycle. He didn't try to save lives; he sought to preserve the dead. He cared not if Sherlock died here and now, for he would only be another life lost, and another body to add to the wrack. And so the man set the smoldering cigarette into Sherlock's palm, the flame just barely burning against his skin. Sherlock took a deep breath of whatever fresh oxygen his tank could provide him with, trying to prepare himself for a whole lung full of poison. He moved slowly, twirling the thing in his fingers before clenching it before his two fingers, holding it with trembling fingers up to his lips yet pausing there, looking up at Victor to gauge his reaction. Was he proud, afraid, apprehensive? No, there was a smile on his face. Of course this was pleasing him.
"Don't hesitate." Victor encouraged, with that he took Sherlock's hand and pushed it towards his lips. This was something Sherlock couldn't fight...it was something he didn't dare protest. His breath was forced out of his lungs by that sudden intimacy, by Victor's long fingers intertwining with his own and pushing the cigarette to his lips. And so he clenched his lips around the foul thing, taking a deep inhale to receive immediate protest. And so that was all his lungs could handle, that full breath of smoke. That was all his lungs would allow him. He dropped the cigarette out of his fingers, and clasped instinctively to Victor's hand, just to emphasize the urgency of the matter. He began to cough, so heavily that his entire body wracked against the effort. Yet he squeezed Victor's hand with all the strength he had left, he clung to the man as he fell to the ground, coming down hard on his knees and writhing against the tiles next to the smoldering cigarette. He wasn't expecting sympathy, yet of course he wasn't expecting carelessness either. Sherlock could hear it just above the sounds of his own coughing; he could hear that quiet chuckle. And as he crouched spitting on the floor, he was just dimly aware of Victor's heeled shoe smashing the cigarette butt into the tile.