Death Is A Friend

Who Holds Your Heart

"Victor's your boss?" John presumed. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, yet he knew that his smile wasn't nearly as discrete as he intended it to be.
"Yes, he's my boss." Sherlock agreed quietly. And there he was again; the mere mention of Victor Trevor brought him right to the front of Sherlock's mind. Right there where he was helpless to do anything but ponder him, and feel his heart as it started beating out a rhythm which was quite the opposite of what it should. Even in John Watson's company, Sherlock's heart was becoming distracted.
"I've never worked any place before." John admitted with a shrug. "Football's always just been my job."
"You get paid to play football?" Sherlock clarified with a gape, looking back to see that John was already laughing, shaking his head as if he found Sherlock's ignorance to be a flattering characteristic.
"No, silly. It's not a real job; it's just what I do during all of my free time. I haven't got any time for a job." John reminded him, flicking his chopsticks in a rather scolding way, as if he didn't want to hear any protest about the irrationality of that. "But it's fine; my parents give me rather generous allowance."
"I don't get paid at the morgue." Sherlock said with a simple shrug.
"You're kidding me? You're working for free?" John asked with a laugh. Sherlock thought for a moment, but yes, he was quite sure that he was going unsubsidized. Now that really didn't bother him much, for spending time with Victor and learning new skills was enough of a payment for him. Especially for a boy with such limited access to the world, and such a short life span. What would he buy if he had money anyways?
"Well I guess it's just the experience. Getting out of the attic is all the payment I'll ever need, and Victor, well...I suppose it's just good to have him there to talk to." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"How old is he?" John clarified, raising an eyebrow as if to make sure he didn't have to start playing the role of defensive boyfriend. Sherlock's heart trembled at that word, for he wasn't entirely how permanent such a phrase was. Well of course it would be nice to keep John close, and if a mere title was going to give him peace of mind then so be it. Yet at the same time, boyfriends meant that Sherlock was excluded from all the rest of the world as well. If he was a boyfriend to John...well what would he do if one day Victor decides to fall in love with him?
"He's about Mycroft's age, so somewhere around twenty four or five I guess." Sherlock decided with a shrug.
"Oh wow, he's young for a mortician. I thought they were all wrinkled old men, only in the line of business to prove that they can still outlive some people." John admitted with a little chuckle.
"Do I look like a wrinkled old man to you?" Sherlock argued with an accusing smile, attacking John now with the sole purpose of making him feel guilty. Yet John seemed to find that accusation to be funny, for he just rolled his eyes in exasperation, as if he simply didn't have time for Sherlock's little jokes.
"I don't know Sherlock, you tell me. How many traits do you actually share with the stereotypical mortician?" John questioned.
"Well, I do have an oxygen tube, and I have never seen one on anyone under sixty before." Sherlock challenged, wiggling the tube so as to make sure John didn't forget he was falling in love with someone with a very short life expectancy.
"Oh besides that, come on. You're young, pristine, and don't wear those big goggles." John pointed out.
"Are you trying to compare me to Doctor Frankenstein?" Sherlock clarified with a laugh.
"Well I mean, you may very well be working under him. Wasn't Doctor Frankenstein's first name Victor?" John pointed out, gaping as though he suspected he had cracked some sort of code that no one was asking about. Yet his own little revelation seemed to excite him, and his eyes didn't narrow back to their original state before Sherlock chuckled and disregarded everything he had just said.
"Well there you go, all men named Victor are the same person. You really have cracked the code." Sherlock said with a sneer.
"Well under those rules, well God, I can't imagine how many people I'd be all at once. There are so many famous John's...so many that I can't think of one." John admitted with a little grumble.
"John the Baptist." Sherlock offered immediately.
"Yes! There's...well I guess there's one." John admitted hesitantly, although he seemed a little bit disappointed that instead of a movie star he was instead some sort of Biblical character.
"I'd be Shakespeare." Sherlock said with a little grin.
"You're not serious? Sherlock Shakespeare?" John clarified with a gasp.
"No, William Shakespeare, idiot. My real name is William." Sherlock corrected in a snap. John nodded, looking quite a bit relieved that he hadn't missed that entire part of literature.
"Why'd you pick Sherlock instead?" John wondered, finally finishing off the last of his Chinese and tossing the paper carton back into the bag where it belonged. Sherlock was still struggling with his chop sticks, and so he hadn't even made it half way through yet. Then again, he was doing a lot more talking than eating, and that seemed to be reason enough to be going rather slow.
"I just liked the ring of it. I mean, my brother's name is long and eloquent, so I felt rather inferior, being named something as mundane as William." Sherlock admitted a bit glumly.
"I mean, John is probably the most common, most boring name in the history of the world." John grumbled.
"I think it's a beautiful name." Sherlock defended instinctively, and of course that wasn't a lie. In all honesty, the name John had been ringing in his heart just as soon as he had heard it for the first time...the name John had been the personification of beauty for as long as he could remember. John blushed ever so slightly; he blushed almost as if no one had ever said that to him before. As if he had gone his entire life thinking his name was just ordinary.
"Well thank you. I think you're beautiful in general." John admitted with a little chuckle, blushing like a school girl now, finally having lost control of the moment. In fact neither of them were in control, no one seemed to be leading or dominating this conversation. They both found themselves just stuttering and muttering, as if they were waiting for the other to say something intelligent. In the end Sherlock just tried (and failed) to shove some more rice into his mouth and John crunched down on a breath mint that he had sitting in the cup holder. Sherlock looked aside rather nervously, for he only knew what that meant. Surely his own breath would taste a bit like stir fry if they were to begin kissing right now, but then again that must be a risk that John was willing to take. He seemed to be rather dissatisfied with conversation, at the moment, and was already rearranging himself in his chair. Sherlock sighed heavily, deciding that it was best to just go along with the moment, and so he gave the boy a grin and set aside his food to eat later. Certainly John was not going to wait for him to perfect the use of chopsticks, not while he was ever so eager to do what he had come here for.