Death Is A Friend

The Last Will And Testament

Mycroft pulled into the church parking lot just a little bit before nine thirty, parking in his usual spot and clambering out with his brother close at his heels. The church was dark, as it so often was at this hour. All mass ended at seven o'clock, and with the exception of occasional dinners and events, the church fell to silence immediately after the last parishioner had left. Sherlock always thought of those church goers as poor souls, occasionally even he would grant them an ounce of pity. For he himself was the embodiment of their disbeliefs, he was the living proof that they wasted away their Sunday mornings worshipping a God that spanned as far as the pages on that book. If God was real, Sherlock wouldn't be here, that was why they kept him locked away, wasn't it? That was why his parents hated him so much, he was the living proof that their lives were lies, and that their beliefs were mere ideas before the coming of science and technology. Oh that church, that dark, hallowed out shell of wasted breath and dollars. Sherlock despised it. Mycroft held a different view, for even as he walked through the doors he blessed himself quietly. Mycroft who was wishing for a God, simply to counteract the workings of the Devil. The Devil they both knew was working full time, attempting to make life on earth more difficult. Oh it was so easy to believe in the Devil, someone to blame for the wrong doings of the world. It was a wonder why people even tried to counteract him with their prayers and their beads. It was a wonder why anyone hoped for a new beginning, when they never could understand that life on Earth was as much of a beginning as they were going to get. Can Heaven be described as anything more wonderful than what is possible here on Earth? Selfish people, whining about their everlasting happiness when they knew not a shred of despair. Selfish people, who pray simply because they want more. Sherlock followed his brother up the stairs to the Holmes' family floor, down the hallway to where the trap door was waiting. This time Mycroft didn't follow, he merely patted Sherlock on the back and said his farewells before continuing down the hallway to his own room. Sherlock ascended by himself, lugging up his oxygen tank like the deadweight that it was, and sat glumly on top of his bed for a little moment of contemplation. Mycroft's voice came to him again, in that tone which the words were first delivered... "What about John Watson?" What a question! What an impossible question, linked to so many connotations of deep rooted guilt! Oh it was easy to tell Mycroft that he was too busy, it was easy to tell even himself that he hadn't the time for contemplation. Yet it was a lie, he knew that much. He had all the time in the world to think, it was just that his thoughts had been drifting elsewhere. So embarrassing, really, to admit to himself that his thoughts strayed past John Watson because he was a thing of the past. Embarrassing to admit to himself that he thought of something else now. Yet in what connotation? Sherlock knew what it felt like to fall in love; he knew that soft pitter patter that went along with it...and when he thought of Victor Trevor he did not get such a feeling! Well that was well enough, considering that Victor was nearly Mycroft's age, much too old for Sherlock, and much too...well let's say emotionless? Victor most likely didn't have the capability to love. And yet, even if Sherlock didn't love him, the man possessed his mind. He was the subject of his thoughts, of his day dreams. Victor Trevor was the recurring man in his dreams, the one who loomed from the back of the room with that smile on his face. He was the voice in the back of Sherlock's head, the one who reminded him the limits of possibility were blurred. He was the one who encouraged the bad ideas which sprung up every so often. No, when Sherlock thought of Victor he did not feel warm on the inside, he didn't feel as though he had the capability to sing. He felt tight, irritable almost. He felt as though with the thought of Victor his muscles clenched, and his organs twisted. He felt his fingers tense even now, with such power behind that fist that he could break walls, or move mountains. Such power behind this pent up rage, something of indescribable passion, of an unstoppable force. Maybe this was what Mycroft was concerned about; maybe this was the persona of Victor leaking slowly into his own body. Maybe this was how Victor felt every day, with his head held that high, with his smile cutting like blades...unstoppable.