Death Is A Friend

One Of Them Is Next In Line

Having left his room for that one moment had allowed him to be sitting in the passenger seat of Victor Trevor's hearse, sitting next to the man himself, on his way to see the world. It was intoxicating, this rush of adrenaline, and along with it came a kind of appreciation, a kind of obsequiousness. Sherlock felt that, in whatever way, he owed something to Victor Trevor that he could never offer. He felt as though he needed to make up for this favor, he felt as though he needed to submit.
"How do you like ice cream?" Victor wondered passively. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, for he had it once or twice when Mycroft was feeling generous. Of course he liked ice cream, yet he noted the ice particles that were sticking to the unfrosted part of the windshield, and felt a persuasive chill.
"Bit cold for that?" Sherlock suggested, for he wasn't going to flat out deny Victor anything. Victor nodded, pursing his lips as if he hadn't considered such a thing.
"Coffee then?" he suggested.
"Mycroft never lets me drink coffee." Sherlock admitted, although he knew that such a statement was more encouraging than anything. He had intended it to be so, really. If there ever was a person to break the rules with, it was Victor.
"Coffee it is." Victor said with a grin, looking over to Sherlock with that sparkle in his eyes, that sparkle of bad influence. To Sherlock's surprise they didn't pull into a coffee shop, in fact they pulled into a large parking lot that was surrounded by very out of place wilderness. The park then, Mycroft had told Sherlock of the park. Then again, Sherlock hadn't seen so many trees in one place before. He had never seen so much natural green, nor breathed such fresh, unpolluted air. Sherlock clambered out of the car and took a deep breath, feeling almost silly for wearing oxygen in a tube when it was so prevalent in the outside world. He stood on the pavement and looked around, at the trees as they clung to the last of their brown leaves, as the grass as it shown through the fallen mess. Yet there was green, there was brown, there was an array of oranges and yellows that Sherlock had never considered to be produced by nature! It was breathtaking, it was completely...
"Beautiful." Sherlock muttered quietly, turning his head now to see that Victor had been positioned on the top of the car, watching Sherlock as he took in the sights. For a moment Sherlock felt embarrassed for being so taken aback by the park, for of course anyone else in the city probably considered the park to be distasteful and a poor representation of natural beauty. He felt rather silly for being so mesmerized, especially when Victor was one of his sole witnesses.
"I'm glad you think so." Victor said with a grin. "I myself find winter to be beautiful as well."
"Let me guess, because everything is dead?" Sherlock presumed, looking over at Victor in a very accusing sort of way. Of course Victor had no choice but to pretend to be offended, yet it would be interesting to hear him try to deny it.
"Or I just really like snow!" he defended with a chuckle.
"That's a bit hard to believe." Sherlock admitted.
"Oh, believe what you like." Victor said with a sigh, shaking his head as if he already considered Sherlock to be a lost cause. Yet he started off towards the park, walking swiftly so that it was almost difficult for Sherlock to catch up. Of course something as considerate as slowing down would be ridiculous in Victor's mind, and so Sherlock raced along at his side, with the wheels of his tank dragging loudly across the gravel path in his wake.
"I always get my coffee at this little cart over here; I do hope it's satisfactory for your first time." Victor said, with a hint of doubt in his voice. Almost as if he thought it was his job to make sure Sherlock's first sip of coffee was the best sip of coffee on the face of the earth.
"I wouldn't know any differently, I'm bound to be delighted." Sherlock assured with a shrug.
"How very optimistic of you. Well then, onwards." Victor agreed, looking over at Sherlock with a half-smile, as if he was proud of him for having such a positive outlook on life. His appreciation made Sherlock feel very warm inside, despite the harsh nip of the wind through the gaps in his trench coat. Yet he couldn't complain, not even the cold weather could dampen Sherlock's spirit! The freezing wind upon his cheeks was welcomed, for it was an experience he had little of. Looking about this park, at the trees and at the people, well it was well worth having these shivers running constantly down his back. Victor stood in line for coffee while Sherlock stood off towards the side, for he didn't understand the menu and was getting a little bit overwhelmed. Victor was almost parental about it, he insisted that Sherlock go and find a park bench, however Sherlock didn't know where those were, or how to get back, and so he instead lingered over next to one of the trees where he could still have a clear view of his escort. People were walking so quickly, some were even running (how atrocious, they seem to be doing that on purpose!), and a great many had dogs tethered to them by leashes. Sherlock had never seen a dog in real life, or rather this close in person. Occasionally people would go back and forth on the road outside the church with little dogs, yet Sherlock had never been in proximity enough to get barked at, or bit. In fact, each dog that went by made him retreat farther into the tree's cover, for he didn't trust those flimsy leashes that were keeping those animals tame. Some of those dogs were much bigger than their owners, and they had all the potential in the world to look over at Sherlock and decide that he was going to be their next treat. Sherlock shuttered, for he had never envisioned the world to be so threatening. Thankfully Victor returned quickly, looking completely unfazed as he walked through the crowd. Obviously he was around people and animals quite frequently, for he didn't seem to be bothered. The other people, however, seemed to be a bit bothered by him. They gave him very strange looks, as if they were wondering why he was dressed up when it was so far from Halloween. Yet some seemed to know, some seemed to understand. They looked upon Victor and instead of confusion they displayed fear, as if they had never seen a man so fearful in their lives. Sherlock could almost read their thoughts across their faces, "there's the mortician, come to kill me next." Yet Victor didn't seem bothered by their confusion, nor of their fears. He strolled as if he owned this world, which he very obviously did.
"This doesn't look like a bench." Victor observed. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders innocently, noticing that Victor was carrying two paper cups that were steaming through their lids. Coffee, then.
"I didn't want to lose you." Sherlock admitted apprehensively, to which Victor just smiled, as if that was some sort of compliment.
"And you won't, Sherlock." Victor assured, handing over one of the cups and starting towards the path. "Careful now, that's hot." He warned, to which Sherlock nodded. He merely cupped his hands around the paper, feeling the heat burn rather sharply against his bare palms. Yet it was a welcomed burn, it countered the cold. Victor led them both towards a bench that was sat in the middle of the park, where they could watch a great number of people from many angles. They all walked past, unaware now that they were under observation.
"This is the bench I sit in most often. People have taken note of my presence, and usually stay away from it, even when I'm not here. It's the positive externality of being feared." Victor said proudly. He removed the lid of his cup and blew softly on the steam, which must have been a way to cool it off. Sherlock hasted to follow suit, nearly dumping the whole of his coffee on his leg before he snapped the lid back on once more. He really wasn't balanced enough for such an act quite yet.
"You go to the park often then?" Sherlock presumed. Victor nodded quietly, leaning back in the bench in a very familiar manner.
"Every day." he agreed. Sherlock nodded, looking upon the man and for once seeing a spark of humanity. Sherlock had never wondered about how Victor spent his days, he had rather assumed he spent day and night in the morgue. Yet this brought up a great number of questions, starting now with where did he even live? What were his other hobbies, if he had any? Sherlock had never really considered that Victor was both a mortician and a man, and that while he was so comfortable with death he still did have a life to live. Such a solitary creature suddenly seemed terribly lonely, and for a moment Sherlock realized that he didn't owe Victor anything at all. His presence was what Victor had been wanting all along; his apparent friendship was enough payment for the favors Victor continued to offer him. It was difficult now, to see Victor Trevor as the monster Mycroft attempted to depict him as. A strange man of course, yet one who still enjoyed the little things in life. Like a park bench, a cup of coffee, and a comfortably silent companion. It took a while for Sherlock to brave a sip of his coffee, and when he did manage he was met with a horrible, bitter burning. He almost spit it out, yet that would be unthinkably rude, and so he swallowed the terrible liquid before gasping at the cold air for some relief. Maybe his dislike was more obvious than he thought, for Victor began to chuckle quietly under his breath.
"It's not for everyone." He admitted quietly. "And I even had them add extra cream and sugar to yours."
"I thought coffee was like...the best? I thought everyone drank it because they liked the taste?" Sherlock asked in confusion, for he found it incredibly difficult to believe that people legitimately enjoyed this.
"It's an acquired taste, of course." Victor said with a grin. "I enjoy my coffee black."
"And that means...?" Sherlock wondered.
"Nothing in it, a very strong taste. Would you like a taste?" Victor suggested, holding his own coffee for Sherlock to take. Sherlock hesitated, yet he felt as though this was another one of Victor's challenges. This wouldn't kill him of course, yet all the same it couldn't possibly be pleasant. All the same, he accepted the cup and took a very quick, very nervous sip. It was just as heinous as the first taste of his own, and much more intense. Yet this time he had been prepared, and he obviously didn't produce a very good reaction, for Victor seemed almost disappointed. He hummed quietly, and took back his cup without a word. For a while they sat in silence, and while Sherlock felt a little bit strained to make conversation, Victor didn't seem very bothered at all. In fact he seemed to have forgotten that he had company, and had retreated into the bench, watching the passerby with intense observation.
"I always wonder which one of them is going to be next." Victor admitted finally, after what felt like ages of silence.
"Next to die?" Sherlock presumed, for death seemed to be the only language Victor was fluent in.
"Yes of course. Which one is going to be the next on my table, which one of these eligible contestants will be the first to make their way into the afterlife." Victor leaned forward eagerly, watching the mess of people as they moved along the paved path. "I can almost see the Reaper stalking them now."
"Do you ever recognize the people you embalm?" Sherlock wondered curiously.
"Most always." Victor admitted with a little grin. "Why else do you think I come out here so frequently, if not to get a sense of life, to reproduce in death?" Sherlock nodded, for that was what he should've been expecting all along. It seemed very typical that the most human thing Victor did still had its interests rooted in the morgue. He might have expected that Victor observed life just so that he could appreciate death even more.
"I've never seen so many people in one place before. I've never seen such a variety." Sherlock admitted quietly. Victor looked over at him curiously, adopting once more that invulnerable persona. He was thinking, Sherlock could almost sense those gears moving ominously in his head. What a curious man he was.
"They really never let you out?" Victor clarified, as if he was still trying to tell if this whole thing was a joke or not.
"Never." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. "They say I'm some sort of curse, that ministers are supposed to be blessed and I was a mistake. They hide me away, because they think I'll threaten people's beliefs."
"Religion is a scam." Victor snapped, shaking his head in disapproval.
"Don't I know it." Sherlock agreed glumly. Victor looked over at him again, this time with a little spark of interest in his eyes.
"Have you ever spoken to someone, besides family before?" he wondered.
"Doctors." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"Never someone your age? Never had a friend, never a lover?" Victor presumed. Something about that last word sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, and he shuttered despite the warm coffee still clenched in his hands.
"Never either one." Sherlock admitted sadly. Victor nodded, taking a deep breath so that it crystalized in front of him in the cold air.
"Do you know anything about love?" Victor asked then, looking over at Sherlock and keeping those piercing eyes straining. Sherlock felt very vulnerable in his stares, he felt as though he should say something intelligent, or at least something at all! For whatever reason, his throat was closed, and his lips refused to speak. Anything about love...well Sherlock knew everything about falling in love! But that was the full extent of his knowledge.
"I suppose I know a bit." Sherlock admitted quietly. Victor nodded, for obviously he knew that meant a one sided romance. Sherlock didn't want to delve too deeply into this conversation, for a great many reasons. First of all, he didn't like the way Victor's stares made him feel. It was as if Victor knew something that Sherlock didn't, as if he was just trying to prod at Sherlock's brain so that he would finally figure it out for himself why this conversation was so relevant. Secondly, Sherlock didn't want Victor to know about his homosexuality. Of course these days it was normal, accepted even. Yet he didn't want Victor to find it weird, God forbid he decides that he didn't want to be in a room alone with Sherlock. Their companionship was so intimate, it would be such a shame for Sherlock's stupid little secret to ruin that. Yet obviously Victor didn't understand what it meant to be courteous, that or he was aiming for something, a certain question, or even just a certain reaction. He was always a man with a plan, and so just as soon as this interrogation started Sherlock knew it wasn't going to end when he fell silent.
"So you've fallen in love before?" Victor presumed. "I can't imagine how."
"Victor, I don't really want to talk about this." Sherlock muttered quietly. Victor chuckled softly, shaking his head as if that was the typical response.
"How come, Sherlock? Feel as though I'm prying?" Victor wondered.
"Well I suppose there's just somethings I'd like to keep private." Sherlock admitted with a small shutter. Victor nodded as if he understood, yet there was still a smile on his face.
"I was just wondering, psychologically, how it feels to not have human contact. Or human touch. Or physical love." Victor mumbled, his fingers tapping anxiously against his coffee cup as he simmered in his thoughts.
"Physical love?" Sherlock spat out, his shivering now turning to shaking as he became more and more uncomfortable.
"Well yes of course. In the end it's a natural need, and I'd imagine...well I'd imagine that you're a virgin?" Victor wondered casually, as if that was an everyday sort of question. Sherlock's face blushed now so ferociously that he had to turn away, taking a quick gasp of air that materialized almost immediately from his lips in a large plume of white fog.
"I don't want to talk about this." He said again.
"Ashamed?" Victor clarified playfully, with that chuckle already building up in his throat. He liked to see Sherlock suffer, didn't he? He liked to see him shake.
"Why do you keep asking?" Sherlock asked anxiously, turning his head rather angrily at the man, who of course looked completely unfazed. In fact, this seemed to be the reaction he was hoping for all along.
"Because I asked your brother the same questions. And I got rather the same response." Victor admitted finally, his lips curling now into a large, undeniable smile. Sherlock stared for a moment, for he wasn't necessarily able to process what the connotations were behind such a statement. Had Mycroft sat here on this park bench too, sitting next to Victor so many years ago? Was he so distrustful of Victor because of these invasive questions? Well of course Mycroft didn't like to be probed or prodded; he hated questions that had a specific answer that was required. Mycroft never liked mind games, yet that wasn't enough to justify his blinding hatred of Victor? After such a statement Victor fell silent, and of course Sherlock was not brave enough to open his mouth again, lest something escape his lips. Something revealing, or otherwise embarrassing. For the topic of love was an infectious one, it clung to the mind until it was distracted by something else, and even that was never a guarantee. Sherlock couldn't get it out of his head, falling in love, being in love...physical love. Once he dared glance at Victor Trevor, and just that once he caught Victor Trevor staring right back.