Death Is A Friend

Rather Be Dead Than Alive

"Get off of me." Sherlock whispered with a struggled breath. For now he was ashamed, he felt so weak and insignificant, stuck under a boy who was afraid he might crush him.
"What? No, Sherlock I didn't mean any offense, I just..."
"Get off!" Sherlock demanded, trying to sit up all the while struggling with John's weight. That boy may be small, but he certainly had enough muscle to prove himself a difficult advisory. There was a sharp moment of panic in which Sherlock imagined a scene where John refused, where he used his strength to finish what he had started. Yet instead, thankfully, John allowed himself to fall into the passenger seat of the car, looking shirtless and ashamed. Oh but whatever moment had been between them, it was gone. Whatever passion that Sherlock had managed to conjure, well he was able to see now how falsified it was. For John didn't love him for who he was...he merely pitied the person he couldn't be.
"Sherlock I didn't mean it like that. I was merely worried about you; I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I didn't want to do anything you couldn't handle." John insisted quickly, as if a quick explanation would make it all okay. Yet he was mistaken, the more he talked the more revolted Sherlock became. And so he merely leaned over and retrieved his tank with some difficulty, grabbing the thing from the front seat and heaving it up next to him.
"I'm leaving." Sherlock said simply, grabbing his shirt and jacket and pushing open the door of the car.
"Now wait, Sherlock wait!" John exclaimed, jumping out of the car as well and running around to catch Sherlock just as he was starting to his feet. Yet there was nothing that would stop him now, not John's protesting, not the cold weather that was spitting snow flurries in every direction. No, Sherlock did not want to be in that car. He wanted nothing to do with John Watson, not if that boy looked upon him and saw not beauty, but pity. But worthlessness.
"Sherlock I'm not going to let you walk home alone, it's freezing! Come on, even with the proper clothes on you wouldn't make it home without getting frostbite." John debated, and yet Sherlock ignored him, trudging now through the snow that was beginning to accumulate on the frozen cement below. Yet this boy was persistent, which was a very nice way of saying annoying, and even as Sherlock kept his eyes forward and his head down, John continued to pursue.
"At least let me drive you back home." John pleaded.
"I'm fine, John. Leave me alone." Sherlock growled, feeling as though he needed to threaten this idiot just a little bit. If he continued on in silence John would undoubtedly follow him all the way to his final destination.
"Let me drive you. I won't do anything, look I'm sorry? I'm sorry; I was just looking after you. You know that all I want is the best." John insisted, talking as if he already knew he was fighting a losing battle. His voice continued to fade away into nothingness, and it was all Sherlock could do but trudge on miserably.
"Leave me alone." Sherlock repeated again. John gave a great sigh of defeat, and for a moment the footsteps that had been padding along in the snow beside him subsided. Sherlock was left in silence, for now. And so he continued on, he didn't care what John did from now on. He didn't care what happened to that boy anymore. Sherlock found the road just in time for that terribly beat up car to pull up alongside of him, the headlights shining brightly so as to illuminate the desolate park side roads. Not a single soul was out tonight, it felt almost as if it was just the two of them in this whole town. And yet Sherlock knew there was at least one other. That was of course where he was going to go. For he was ready to lose himself tonight, he was ready to manifest into a creature of the night. He wanted to be with someone, he needed to get rid of his innocence. He needed someone to finish what John had started. And so it had to be anyone, anyone but John Watson. Well in fact, Sherlock did have one person in mind. And so that was where he was headed, trudging along in the accumulating snow yet not even feeling a shiver against his bare skin. The cold was an almost unimportant sensation, his whitening fingers, his shivering blue lips...well they didn't matter at all. They were second rate, much less important, than his throbbing, frustrated heart.
"Sherlock don't be an idiot, get in the car! I'll drive you home!" John begged through the open passenger seat window. The car was rolling along at a steady rate so as to keep with Sherlock's swift walking, but even now the distance between them was obstructed with the falling snowflakes.
"I'm not going home. Go away." Sherlock growled.
"Well where on earth are you going? I'll drive you there, I'll drive you anywhere! Just get in here, where it's warm." John pleaded. Sherlock huffed a great cloud of fog, shaking his head and scowling.
"What, afraid my lungs can't take it?" Sherlock wondered in a snap.
"Yes! Yes, I'm afraid that none of you can take it! Any man would double over with hypothermia in these temperatures!" John begged.
"Go away John." was Sherlock's final response.
"You know I can just get out of this car and drag you inside. You know that I'm stronger, so don't make me have to do that." John cautioned, yet even as he said it Sherlock began to chuckle in disbelief.
"Aren't you afraid that you'll break me like that? I'm so fragile, John...like porcelain." Sherlock reminded him in a mocking tone. John frowned, yet hesitated. He obviously didn't know how to counter that, and he certainly wasn't going to stop the car and live up to his promises. He really was all bark and no bite, especially when he was too afraid of hurting his victim. He pretended to love, he pretended to care, but really what was this relationship, if not charity? Surely John saw Sherlock nothing more than a boy who needed to be saved, and he was merely playing to his good Christian values when he forced himself to love him.
"I'll go and get your brother. Surely you won't want..."
"To H*ll with my brother!" Sherlock exclaimed. "And to H*ll with you! I don't want anything to do with you anymore, John, so just leave me alone!"
"You don't mean that." John demanded, phrasing that in an almost pleading manner, as if he was trying to talk some sense into Sherlock, trying to display now that his words had struck a nerve. Oh it was obvious that Sherlock's words hurt, for John had actually made the mistake of falling in love. And yet that didn't bother Sherlock, well in fact that was his goal in the end. He wanted to hurt John, just as John had hurt him. Tonight they would both be injured; tonight they would both be deprived. At least for now.
"Do I have to say it, Sherlock? Is that what it'll take for you to get in the car?" John asked in an almost broken voice, struggling now against the heavy snow. Sherlock was beginning to feel the chill, for the snowflakes were beginning to melt against his exposed skin, melting into puddles of freezing water and running all the way down his body. He gave a very preliminary shiver, yet shook his head all the same. He refused to get back into that car, with John the patronizer. John the babysitter.
"Nothing you'll say will make it any better. You're better off going home." Sherlock whined.
"Not even that I love you?" John asked, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear him yet quietly enough to make it sound genuine. "That I love you, and that...that every time I see you my world just gets brighter, and warmer, and happier. That every time you smile I feel..."
"Shut up John! God you're acting like a woman." Sherlock growled, yanking his oxygen tank through a little pile of snow that had collected alongside of the road.
"And you're acting like a child!" John defended in a helpless whine.
"I don't care how I'm acting John! Just go away!" Sherlock pleaded, and this time John finally seemed to get the message. Even after his heartfelt little declaration, still he was feeling neglected.
"Fine, but I'm going straight to the church. Straight for Mycroft." John warned.
"I don't care." was Sherlock's truthful response. And this seemed to be the only promise John could upkeep, for in an instant he started off, gunning the engine and plowing his way through the snow so as to make this trip as quick as possible. And as careless as Sherlock was about John's threats, he knew of course that Mycroft was going to be a very threatening factor in his plans. For Mycroft seemed to be the only one who knew where Sherlock would go, if he was not home, and certainly he would make it his own top priority to prevent whatever was about to unfold. And so it was a race against John, against time. For Sherlock needed to finish this night right, he needed to finish it the way he intended. Even now his heart was beating urgently, even now his frozen finger tips were grasping at the air as if it would suddenly turn into a man's skin, as if it would be warm and soft. He needed something, he needed someone and for God's sake if that retched John Watson would not be the answer then of course it would have to be Victor. Tonight would be the night where Sherlock accepted that man, where he disregarded any of Mycroft's previous warnings. He didn't care about Victor's personality; he didn't care if he might use Sherlock's feelings against him. Victor knew as well as Sherlock that he was in love, and so it was only a matter of acceptance. It was only a matter of mutual need. And so Sherlock broke out into a run, carrying his oxygen tank alongside him as he dashed off through the snow covered sidewalks, slipping this way and that and feeling the cold air as it stung inside of his lungs. It was a painful experience, cold enough now that his skin was turning a raw shade of red, and his mouth tasted like blood. He was heaving for breaths that wouldn't come, and began to cough before he even reached another block down the road. Yet he forged on, hacking up whatever mucus was being dislodged from the walls of his lungs, spitting it out onto the road beside of him and continuing on. By now John would have reached the church, by now he would be dashing inside with his own manner of urgency. Yet surely there will be an explanation period, along with an approval. Maybe Mycroft wouldn't take him seriously; possibly he wouldn't want to go right away. Oh that was just stupid, wishful thinking. Of course that man would drop anything so run out and save his brother, for in the end he saw Sherlock as a helpless being as well. He saw him as something that needed protection, whereas Victor saw him instead as strong. Victor saw him as able. It wasn't far now. When Sherlock arrived in the parking lot he had expected it to be empty, yet the single street lights were able to illuminate that black hearse, sparkling under the moonlight and sitting alone in the crumbling pavement. And so Victor was here, still lingering about the morgue in the dark hours of the night, not expecting visitors. He was a strange man, seemingly taking more comfort with the dead than with the living, and yet tonight he would have to be burdened with someone in between. Oh surely if he was able to love the dead, then Victor could be able to love a boy who was so close to the line? Sherlock had one foot in the grave already, one half of him that had given up on life entirely, and was waiting in vain for the end. Why could Victor not bring himself to love that side of Sherlock, the one that was ready and willing to die for him? It was that other side, the other side that clung to life for whatever reason, clung to life as if it was unwilling to accept the end. Oh he knew that there were two sides of his heart, just as there were two sides to his body. The dead side of his heart longed for Victor Trevor, and the living was still holding out hope for the humanity of John Watson. Yet that side was getting overtaken with every step Sherlock took away from that foolish boy, it was being overrun with every step he took towards the morgue, and to those doors that were the only things standing in the way. Yes, this was the night he chose for good. The night he decided if he would rather be living or dead, and who in that state of being he would decide to be with. Who would accept him in those two forms, those proper forms, and who would appreciate the lengths he was willing to go to make himself perfect in their eyes. Victor cherished the dead, the corpse, whereas John could only love a boy he thought in the prime of life, one who was in no risk of falling into the grave. Oh this was where he made his choice...living or dead. This was where the Grim Reaper first accepted him; this was when he opened himself up to death. Not just in the grave, not just on the silver table. But in the bed. Sherlock pulled open the doors and found them to be unlocked, and so he stumbled his way down the steps, his frozen fingers clutching to the handrails but feeling no sensation. Half of his limbs had frozen up, yet he could still feel them preparing themselves. His skin was red and raw, yet still it anticipated the touch, his lips were blue and frozen together, yet still they were ready to kiss, ready to be kissed. His heart, however chilled it may be from being cold and exposed to the harsh wind, well it beat in anticipation. It beat so quickly that Sherlock was sure it was the thing that gave him away, he was sure that Victor had heard it. For even before he pushed through the swinging doors, the man was ready for him. Victor's eyes were trained on the doors as Sherlock made his grand entrance, pushing through and stumbling into the white room, his feet falling onto the tiles and his breath just now catching up to him. He dared not heave, he dared not show any sign of weakness. All the while his lungs ached for a break, all the while his legs insisted that they could go no farther, and they could support him no longer...well he stood tall and proud. He pretended that nothing was the matter, for in all honesty; he was exactly where he wanted to be. As of now, everything was going according to plan. Victor himself was looking up to par, as if he had known this night would happen. He was wearing his usual attire, straight from a grainy Victorian picture, and despite the naked corpse that was lying face down on the table, he was not wearing an apron or gloves. He looked as if he were dressed for a social event, rather than for any embalming processes. Perhaps this was why there was no equipment to be seen, no pumps, no trocars. Merely Victor and a corpse, interrupted, though from what Sherlock could only guess. 

"I ran here." Sherlock announced promptly, throwing his soggy shirt and jacket into a heap next to his feet. He was damp with the snowflakes as they melted indoors, the snow that had collected in his hair and on his skin was turning instead to freezing water, and was dripping down his white skin in tempting little drops. Sherlock knew that victor wouldn't mind, the more unorthodox their encounter was the more he was going to have to enjoy it.
"What was the urgency?" Victor questioned in an almost presumptuous manner, as if he knew very well why Sherlock was here so late, and in such an insistent state. Sherlock took deep breaths, yet he was not nervous, nor was he short of breath. No, despite his gasping his he was quite calm, and it was a mystery to himself why he would bother with such a show. Besides, wasn't the act of breathing the very thing that Victor didn't like in a man?
"I was going to sleep with John Watson." Sherlock said finally.
"You say that as if it didn't happen." Victor pointed out carelessly, as if he found nothing momentous in those words at all.
"I don't want him any longer. He's...well he pities me." Sherlock admitted in a small, shameful voice. Yet Victor merely chuckled, leaning up against the table so that his fingers overlapped with the corpse's skin, sitting so close to the edge.
"That's his mistake then, Sherlock. His mistake also to leave you such a state in this weather." Victor commented, nodding at Sherlock's exposed chest. Sherlock took another breath, yet he was not nervous, instead he must be prepping himself. He must be providing his muscles the oxygen they needed for carrying this out. For there was going to be action, and intimacy.
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" Sherlock wondered quietly, finally feeling that tightness in his chest. His heart was clenching itself, it was trying to prevent him from saying another more that might incriminate him, that might reveal his heart's secret. And yet he was already exposed, he had made his desires quite clear, and it was nothing his heart could do now but admit the full capacity of its lust. There was no point in hiding now, especially when tonight was the night where that lust should be returned.
"I figured I already knew the answer to that question." Victor said with a shrug, speaking as if Sherlock's motive was nothing more than a playful waste of both of their time. Sherlock nodded, a smile appearing on his face as he reached up and pulled the oxygen tube from his nose, pulling it up over his head and throwing to the floor carelessly. His lifeline that he no longer required, his life that he no longer wanted. Death would be optimal now, death would be preferred.