Death Is A Friend

Backseat Boys

"Now Sherlock, I know that I might sound a bit like a whining old mother, but I need to ask you to be safe when you go out today." Mycroft murmured, sitting on the rocking chair in the corner of the attic with the newspaper held up to his nose like a poor disguise.
"I've not had experience with a whining old mother. She's never cared about anything that happens to me." Sherlock said simply, to which Mycroft sighed heavily, folded the newspaper, and threw it over to where Sherlock was sitting on the bed.
"Another disappearance." He said simply. Sherlock swallowed with some difficulty, picking up the newspaper and seeing once again the face of a beautiful young man smiling in a family photograph. A picture that was printed poorly in newspaper ink, and rubbed off on Sherlock's fingers as he ran his thumb across the victim's forehead. There was something about him that seemed familiar, something about him that seemed startlingly similar to his own reflection. The man had dark hair, not nearly as curly as Sherlock's, yet with something of a wave in it nonetheless. He had pale skin, and a pleasant smile, and eyes that were far more radiant than Sherlock's own pits of despair. Yet all the same, Sherlock looked upon this man and knew there was a higher meaning to his death. He knew that where ever he had gone off to, it was for a specific purpose. Sherlock took a struggling breath, ignoring what his brain was reminding him, and folded the newspaper away so that the man would not stare at him off of the page. Sherlock didn't like the look of accusation he received from the photograph.
"I'll be careful." Sherlock said simply, yet even as he said that he knew that he was in no real danger. It seemed so unlikely that this killer would have any interest in him as well. He knew that the killer would take a look at him and know that his life was meant to be preserved, at least to a point.
"Why do I not believe that?" Mycroft grumbled, to which Sherlock cast him a miserable look and fell back onto his blankets with a great sigh of defeat. It was obvious that Mycroft could sense something was off, Sherlock knew that he was very bad at hiding his emotions. Yet where these emotions were spawning from, well Mycroft surely could only guess. He was much too afraid of the truth to consider it, even if it was ever so obvious.
"You need to cheer yourself up, remember John's going to pick you up tonight?" Mycroft reminded him, in a voice that seemed to try to drum up some enthusiasm to no avail. Surely he couldn't understand why Sherlock considered all of this to be some sort of chore.
"Yippee." Sherlock managed quietly.
"What's wrong with John all of the sudden? He's been nothing but nice to you, and surely you've had more of a taste of romance in these past couple of days than you expected to have in your whole life!" Mycroft defended, frowning as if he was wondering why his own little plot of distraction was not working so effectively. For that was why he contacted John in the first place, wasn't it? Because he could sense that Sherlock's heart was straying, and he wanted to keep it safe. He wanted to keep it as far from Victor Trevor as he could manage, yet Mycroft of all people must understand that Victor's love was like a magnet? That Victor himself was simply irresistible? He must understand that anyone who had a glimpse of the man would be ready to do anything to please him...anything at all. Sherlock took a breath, shaking his head and trying to forget about the multiple ways to be what Victor wanted. He tried to forget the gun, the rope, or the bridge. No, he had his own ticking time bomb right in his chest; for once he appreciated the fact that his lungs would not be able to sustain him much longer. For once he appreciated that he was withering with every struggling breath taken.
"There's nothing wrong with John." Sherlock said simply, and that really wasn't a lie. It was ever so obvious to anyone who knew John that he was flawless, in every single way imaginable. That boy was the embodiment of the ideal boy, athletic, scholarly, nice, gentle...well that must be why Sherlock was so infuriated with him! For he had no flaws to be seen, and that alone was enough to spawn distrust. A boy who had everything, well of course he could not understand it if someone decided to leave him. If someone didn't cherish his company, or his companionship, just as much as he did theirs.
"Well then why are you not more excited?" Mycroft asked, his voice becoming hesitant, as if he didn't want to hear this answer despite his asking. For he knew very well why Sherlock was not excited.
"Because you cancelled my time at the morgue." Sherlock said simply, heaving a great sigh and lamenting at the time on the clock. It was seven, long past Sherlock's usual arrival time. Yet Mycroft had called and cancelled, telling Victor that Sherlock had plans at eight, and therefore deprived him from the few precious hours of the day that he was guaranteed Victor's company. The only time that Sherlock genuinely looked forward to, now just wasted away at the expense of John Watson. As if his company was at all preferable to Death himself.
"Now Sherlock really, surely Victor can get on without you." Mycroft insisted with a hesitant frown, for obviously he didn't understand that Sherlock was instead unable to get on without Victor. It was difficult to find a meaning in life, if not to be surrounded by that man and his company.
"Yes, he's capable of it. Yet you didn't ask me first." Sherlock growled.
"Are you saying you'd rather be pent up in that horrible white room, than out with John Watson?" Mycroft clarified, asking as if that was such a ridiculous notion, a question almost undeserving of the breath he used to conjure it.
"Yes." Sherlock said quietly, yet too quietly for his brother to hear. Too quietly that it came without sound at all, just a mere breath that passed through his lips. A truth that went unheard, yet understood all the same. "You could've at least allowed me to go for an hour." Sherlock suggested finally.
"Oh now stop moping, John will be here any moment! Are you all ready to go?" Mycroft asked, getting to his feet and letting the rocking chair rock back and forth with the absence of his weight. Sherlock merely groaned his agreement, for he was still in the clothes that he had been wearing all day, and his hair wasn't even brushed. Yet he knew that at this point it didn't matter how he looked, he knew that John was much too invested in their love to care. At this point, he could show up looking as if he had crawled from a dumpster and John would still want to kiss him in the back of the car. That boy seemed to be much more invested than Sherlock was, and completely immune to all feelings of doubt. He radiated so much confidence that he didn't seem to understand that Sherlock wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as he was. He didn't seem to realize that Sherlock was indifferent, tasting his lips and thinking of someone else instead. Mycroft marched Sherlock down to the parking lot again, as if this was something worthy of a procession. As if he expected this encounter, so late in the night, to achieve any sort of glamor at all. Sherlock walked down the stairs of the church, feeling almost as if this was his death procession. He knew what waited for him in that car; he knew what John was planning. Three dates, all corresponding to another level of intimacy. First a kiss, then something more...well tonight could only be the last and final step. Tonight could only be their first night, one spent purely in the company of the other, surpassing all barriers of modesty. And Sherlock didn't mind, yet he wasn't nearly as excited as he knew he should be. He knew that tonight was going to be ground breaking, he knew that he had literally wished for this moment every second of his life, from the time he first saw John, to the time he first saw Victor. Then his ambitions changed. Yet tonight, well maybe he could convince himself to be happy. Tonight maybe he could conjure up all of the feelings he thought he had lost, maybe he could take John Watson and enjoy it as he should. Sherlock heaved a great sigh even as he thought of this, for it seemed like such a great burden to convince himself to be happy. His emotions couldn't be forced; they were demonstrating the truth, that was all. It would be a lie to himself and to John if Sherlock made a great big display of ecstasy, especially if he approached that car with heavy feet instead of a fluttering heart.
"Remember Sherlock, be careful." Mycroft reminded him, patting Sherlock's shoulder as he trudged unceremoniously over to where the car waited for him.
"I'm always careful." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head carelessly and dragging his oxygen tank by his side. Mycroft gave a great sigh, and Sherlock could hear the tip of his umbrella as it hit the ground and supported his weight. So he had taken that stance, that nervous stance, as he watched his brother walk off through the darkness. Surely Mycroft could feel it too, that tenseness that arrives only when something tragic was fated to happen. There was that looming feeling that the night would amount to something much different than was expected. Nevertheless, Sherlock was no longer afraid of anything except rejection. And whatever tragedy may just be headed his way, whatever murderer still crept in the dark...well at least he would die. At least the life would be drained from his lips, and his body delivered to that silver table where he ultimately belonged.
"Sherlock, so good to see you." John said with a large, enthusiastic smile as Sherlock took his place in the passenger seat. Sherlock nodded his agreement, shutting the door behind him and positioning his oxygen tank at his feet.
"Good to see you too." he agreed quietly. John stared at him for a moment; Sherlock could feel his eyes on the side of his head, studying him as if wondering just where his lips would kiss him tonight. Sherlock didn't even blush; he merely stared inattentively at the figure of his brother, still standing in his defensive posture over by the church door. Sherlock was positive that Mycroft could see nothing of what was going on inside the car, merely a shadowed windshield, and so he didn't make any effort to play it up. He wasn't hiding anything from John; it was only Mycroft who he had to be worried about. It was Mycroft at the helm of Sherlock's life, for it was he who allowed Victor's interference, and it was he who had organized John's reappearance. Mycroft could so very easily disallow Sherlock's work at the morgue, if he suspected that it might be negatively affecting him. If he suspected that Sherlock was headed down the same path he had traveled in vain, all of those years ago.
"So I don't really have any dinner plans, if you wanted to eat something I'd be perfectly..."
"I'm fine." Sherlock said simply. "Not very hungry."
"Ya, that's sort of what I thought." John agreed a little bit eagerly, turning the key in the ignition and starting through the parking lot very slowly. Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning up against the frosted glass and staring at the lights as they blurred against the darkness. He was rather obsessed, for a moment, with his breath as it fogged up the window. The breath that meant he was still alive, the very thing that was so disappointing to Victor Trevor.
"So I was thinking of just driving then." John suggested a bit apprehensively, for obviously he didn't know how to very correctly suggest the night's form of entertainment.
"And parking too, I suspect?" Sherlock asked with a great sigh. John didn't seem to sense his disinterest, for he chuckled a little bit guiltily.
"Only if you're up for it." John said with a shrug.
"I'm not unwilling." Sherlock murmured, a vague yet honest answer. He really couldn't produce something more convincing than that, lest it be a lie.
"Look, I'm not going to do anything you don't want to do. I just thought, well I guess I won't pretend that I wasn't looking forward to this. I like you a lot, Sherlock. And I really mean that." John admitted finally, as if he was trying to get all the heavy emotional stuff out of the way as they continued down the road.
"I like you too." Sherlock grumbled. It wasn't necessarily a lie, for he did house some sort of admiration for John, a sort of emotion that has lately been manifesting itself more as pity.
"So then, would you mind if I um...parked?" John suggested then, in an almost embarrassed voice, as if he was worried that Sherlock wouldn't know how to handle this, or didn't know about the connotations behind such a word. Sherlock nodded his carelessness, and looked glumly out the window while John pulled into the parking lot of the park, empty now after dark. There were no street lamps to illuminate the car, and no witnesses to peer through the windows to wonder what they were up to. They were alone with themselves, with each other. Alone in the dark, and everyone knows what happens in that situation. . John kissed him before he even turned off the engine, he must have been incredibly eager. And just as soon as the humming of the engine subsided, John was on him more agressivley than he ever had been. He seemed to be working towards something, rather than merely stagnating with a kiss and a touch and a smile. No, this time John was kissing Sherlock while his hands went a little bit crazy, wrestling now with the button on Sherlock's jacket, in an attempt to take it off. Sherlock hesitated, yet he knew that there really was nothing he could do now; there was nothing he could do to stop what had already been put in place. Yet there was a part of him that was afraid, no one had ever seen him without clothes before, in fact he had never even gone shirtless. There was a part of him that was apprehensive, simply because he wanted to live up to John's expectations, whatever those were. He didn't have any sort of six pack, he wasn't any more attractive than his pale skin. He was scrawny, with bones that jutted out at weird angles, and all of those little imperfections of his skin had been so trivial and unimportant when hidden under his clothes. Yet now he wouldn't be able to hide under the fabric, now he would be exposed, and examined. And who knows? Maybe Sherlock in his natural glory would be enough to scare John Watson away once and for all. These thoughts and more were flowing anxiously through Sherlock's head as John worked his jacket from his shoulders, leaving merely a thin button down shirt between them. And through such thinness, John's touch felt much closer, much more intimate. He could feel his fingers as they pressed down through his shirt, he could feel the intimacy, and what to expect when there was nothing. John was getting all the more anxious, trying to get closer even when there was the center console between them, and the emergency brake. John couldn't get as close as he wanted to, that was for sure, and that may just have been the reason he decided to relocate. His lips were eating away at Sherlock's as if he was growing ever more anxious, as if he was getting impatient. Something was changing in him, from sweet supportive boy to just...just ravenous. 

"Get into the backseat, Sherlock." John instructed, tearing his lips away to talk before settling them back down onto Sherlock's skin, onto his neck. Sherlock had to admit that such a feeling was quite pleasurable; in fact he could almost convince himself that he liked it. That he wanted more. It brought back the same eagerness from before, the same excitement that went along with proximity. For a moment he was cherishing John's kiss. He never stopped to wonder why that was. Sherlock never really got a chance to examine what was happening in his brain, for a small moment really all he could think about was pleasure, and how to get more of it. And so he did as he was told.  Of course he didn't go out into the cold, instead Sherlock merely clambered over the seat, falling into the backseats sprawled out on his back, just how he knew John would want him. His oxygen tube stretched tightly from where his tank still remained in the front seat, yet at the moment it didn't feel like a problem. At the moment he could almost forget about his illness, and his handicap. John was quick to follow, climbing over the seats and falling on top of Sherlock as if that was a move he had mastered throughout the years. Sherlock didn't want to know how many others had laid here in this very backseat before him; he didn't want to think that he was just one of many. Desirable until there could be nothing more to look forward to, and fading off then to forgettable. Yet now, in that transition period, well he had to enjoy it. He had to enjoy the way John's legs wrapped around his own, the way his weight felt against his chest, the way his lips gnashed at his neck. It wasn't difficult to feel appreciated, now in this moment...it wasn't difficult to feel the love. Finally John's lips subsided, only for him to sit up and begin to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, anxiously tearing at the buttons as if he couldn't wait to see what lay beneath. Sherlock let his head fall back against the door, watching with strained eyes as finally John pulled the last button off and sank immediately to kiss Sherlock's suddenly revealed chest. This evoked a feeling like nothing before, a feeling that was so physical that Sherlock could hardly stand to tolerate it without giving a great gasp. He suddenly threw his arms around John's back, now clinging to the boy as if he was a sort of lifeline, clinging to him as if to encourage him to go on. Sherlock heaved a sigh, he bent his legs, and for a moment he could feel nothing but John's lips upon his skin, and his hands upon his torso. His cold fingertips, pressing deeply, pressing eagerly. Finally John forgot his own modesty; finally he sat up only to rip off his sweatshirt and shirt all at once, revealing his own much more impressive, much more muscular chest. As soon as he fell back down, presumably now with the goal of Sherlock's lips, Sherlock instead evaded him. He ducked away, and kissed at the boy's bare shoulder instead, with his fingers trailing deep crevices down John's muscular, sculpted back. 

"Have you done this before?" John whispered, his lips hovering so close to Sherlock's ear that even a mere breath could be heard like a gunshot. Sherlock said nothing, his lips now moving to John's neck, kissing so eagerly that he almost felt as if his teeth were making contact as well.
"Sherlock have you done this before?" John repeated again.
"No." Sherlock said simply, feeling as though John's question would not go ignored. Really it was a stupid question, for it was obvious that Sherlock had been pent up in his attic for as long as his existence permitted it.
"You're alright then?" John wondered a bit apprehensively.
"I want to." Sherlock agreed eagerly, with his lips now upon John's jawline. Yet it seemed as though their roles had switched, Sherlock had become the one who needed it, and John instead seemed to be apprehensive. John looked as though he was having second thoughts.
"Yes, but can you? I mean...your lungs." John whispered, a statement that was enough to still Sherlock's lips for now. A statement that was enough to still everything, even his heart...even his excitement. The euphoria faded away like a passing cloud, and it was replaced instead with something of shame, of weakness. As if John's question had been insulting, as if he doubted Sherlock's ability to live as a normal human being. As if his lungs prevented him from loving. And suddenly everything that seemed so necessary in the moments past instead felt a bit silly, for instead of being locked in a loving embrace, instead of being pained with passion...well Sherlock suddenly realized that nothing eventful was occurring. Suddenly his vision cleared, and he realized that he was only lying under a boy who saw him as the rest of the world did. Suddenly Sherlock realized he was nothing special to John, a charity project, if that at all. John saw him as weak, weaker than the rest of the world. John saw him incapable, he saw him as a cripple. And just like that, Sherlock realized where the great divide had occurred. Why his heart had strayed towards Victor instead of to John, who had been its original course. The answer was very simply that Victor believed in him, he believed in his ability to be a normal human being. John instead saw Sherlock as a weak boy, struggling along with this oxygen tube as his life line. Well of course, their first proper introduction had ended with Sherlock coughing himself half to death! Whereas Victor...Victor instead cherished what made Sherlock different. He didn't doubt him, as John undoubtedly did. And that was the whole of it...as well as the end of it.