Death Is A Friend

Crime And Punishment

It was first a backhand, which sent Sherlock stumbling into the hallway wall. The pictures all shook on their hooks as his face smashed into the wall paper, yet he was not given any time to recover as it was followed then by a straight punch to the gut. Sherlock doubled over in pain, hoping that such a stance would prevent him from further harm. He was wrong. A beer bottle smacked against the back of his head, with such a force that he fell to the ground on his knees, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, and staring painfully down at the carpet as it spun in a whirl of colors before his eyes. The hallway was dark, yet he could still see his blood as it dripped in a long string from the corner of his parted lips. How different this feeling was, when the pain was not inflicted by someone he loved. How unappreciated pain could be.
"Mycroft tells me that my son is a wh*re now, that my son wants men." Mr. Holmes growled, pausing as he paced around Sherlock's helpless form, undoubtedly trying to aim for the most painful spot in his next blow. Sherlock writhed onto the carpet; receiving a kick to the ribs and falling now flat upon the floor. What did he expect, really? Well of course all of this rushing around would summon their father, and Mycroft knew better than to make up some story. He knew that the only way to turn the Holmes parents against Victor was to tell them the truth, for if the family was going to go against that Godlike man, well then they would have to work together to keep him away. Besides, Mycroft undoubtedly knew that Sherlock was going to have to be taught a lesson, and the only man capable of inflicting pain was Mr. Holmes. Mycroft would never lay a hand against his brother, yet the pain would be the lesson...it could not go undealt.
"Well if I didn't think you were a descendant of the Devil before, I'm d*mn sure now." Mr. Holmes growled, moving now towards where Sherlock's face was pressed into the plush carpet, in an attempt to avoid any more facial blows. He could hear the footsteps as they circled him, he could hear the struggled, pig-like breaths as they drew closer. Mycroft watched with a fearful stance beside the door, knowing better than to get involved, yet standing there all the same. Maybe he wanted to watch the punishment, knowing full well that he was deserving of such accusations as well. For Sherlock had done nothing that Mycroft hadn't, he had only gone down the same path as his older brother, and was paying the consequences for being so close to success. Had they not been interrupted, Sherlock would've been offered what he so dearly wanted in the end. Had they not been interrupted perhaps Sherlock would still be suffering, yet by the hands that deserved to hurt him. By the hands he wanted to kill him. What a disgrace it would be, to be killed by his father's boot! Sherlock knew better to talk, to respond, yet his father yanked on the back of his shirt, pulling his head up so that he was forced to look him in the eyes.
"Speak to me, boy. Defend yourself." The man growled. Sherlock dared not speak, for he knew that anything that came out of his mouth would be in defense of Victor, or rather a declaration of his love. Never could Sherlock denounce the man, or try to convince his father that his love and admiration was ill-placed.
"Victor Trevor is the Devil; Sherlock is merely under his influence." Mycroft offered from where he stood. Mr. Holmes raised his head, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim light.
"No one asked you to speak, Mycroft." He growled. "I want to hear it from William, I want to hear it from our disgrace of a son."
"There's nothing to defend! There's nothing to say except that I would do it again! I won't speak against my own heart, and how it wants him with every..." Sherlock was silenced by his father's fist, flying straight into his jaw and sending him falling aside to the wall once more, now spitting blood from his aching teeth. Yet he wouldn't...he couldn't say anything other than the truth. The high of love had passed, yet now it was all that was left but to defend it, to stand by it. Maybe he had gone mad, yet he knew that madness had a root, a source that was intertwined in his heart. He knew that his insanity was the spawn of love, of legitimate feelings...and not even violence could make him turn his back on Victor Trevor. Not after he had seen the humanity in that man's eyes, and the desire he must be storing.
"Denounce the Devil, boy! Swear your love to Jesus Christ, swear your love!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed.
"I SWEAR I LOVE HIM!" Sherlock defended, holding his aching ribs between his hands.
"He means Victor." Mycroft said between clenched teeth, seemingly abandoning his passivism as he stepped forward, looking as though he ached for his own punch. Maybe he just wanted to knock the sense back into Sherlock, maybe he just wanted to hurt him until he forgot how this was all his fault. He was the one who let Sherlock fall into Victor's clutches, the one who left him with just a warning...
"I'll kick you until your teeth fall out, William. I'll rip your tongue off; I'll even castrate you... if I think it necessary. Can't f*ck a man if you can't f*ck at all." Mr. Holmes growled. Sherlock writhed against the wall, grabbing at the wallpaper with his fingernails in an attempt to pull himself up. He wanted to be able to look his tormentor in the eyes. He wanted to be able to state his case from a strong position, with his legs holding him up, not the floor. Yet he couldn't find the strength, for as soon as he was able to lift his chest he received another kick that sent him flying into the carpet once again.
"Now, Father..." Mycroft started hesitantly, finally stepping forward and holding his hand out in surrender. The man paused, looking now to his older son with that familiar fire in his eyes. Sherlock dared not say anything, yet he finally allowed himself to hope. The pain was multiplying; it was growing in his limbs and making it more and more difficult to raise himself from the floor. He was beginning to feel as though the energy was seeping out of his wounds, and eventually all of his strength would leave him, until his heart could not pound out another beat. He was scared of death like that, for it was not the way he intended to go. He wanted to die by Victor's hand, not by his Father's. Not again.
"Have something to say, Mycroft?" Mr. Holmes demanded, unclenching his fist just for a moment of brief diplomacy. He always took Mycroft so seriously, his first born, his only untainted son. Well of course he cherished Mycroft's opinion, for the man was, in Mr. Holmes's eyes, his only hope of succession.
"I merely suggest, well perhaps ending the punishment here. Let me talk to him, perhaps calm words do more than a heavy fist." Mycroft suggested. Mr. Holmes sneered, looking now to the lump on the floor that was Sherlock, the boy heaving heavy breaths in an attempt to keep himself alive, to preserve himself until he could reach a proper death.
"Calm words have done nothing thus far." Mr. Holmes snarled.
"Neither has violence, evidently." Mycroft protested. Sherlock writhed, oh how he hated to get aid from his brother! He hated the man's pity, it was every bit as dehumanizing as was John's. Yet he was in a position now where he couldn't deny it, he was in a position where his brother's help might be the only help which was offered to him. And so he stayed quiet, he silenced his cursing tongue, and he kept his head close to the ground.
"He's learned his lesson, father. Let me please just...just talk." Mycroft begged. Mr. Holmes sniffed violently, bringing himself to full height and rearranging his jacket on his shoulders. His knuckles were bruised as he pushed the few remaining stray hairs from his eyes, yet finally he nodded.
"Yes, perhaps you're right. The boy is too fragile to be beaten around anymore anyway. Can't kill him, what a scandal that might be." Mr. Holmes growled, looking now towards the cross that was hanging a little ways down the hallway. He blessed himself quickly, as if praying for forgiveness, or perhaps asking for praise. "I'll leave you with this, William. I'll leave you with a little warning. If I see you leave this house again, or if I see that Victor Trevor fellow anywhere near my church, I'll kill you both." Mr. Holmes grumbled, and with that started his way down the hallway with a huff. The brothers waited for a couple of moments still, long after the door had shut to announce his departure. Silence hung over them like a heavy fog, yet that same silence was broken when Mycroft gave a noise of urgency and rushed to his brother's aid. While Sherlock was in no position to deny his brother's help, all the same he still was not very happy to accept it. He hated the shoulders which he had to cling to; he hated the man he had to rely on. It was Mycroft's fault he was here in the first place; it had been Mycroft who had told Mr. Holmes about Sherlock's actions of the night. Yet he had paid the price, did he not? He had paid the price in blood, and in tears. Yet he had not learned his lesson. This beating was brutal, yet it still was nothing enough to convince Sherlock not to go back. Sherlock wasn't going to be so easily dissuaded, and once he had set his heart on Victor Trevor he would not dare turn away. Sherlock wasn't afraid of anything except rejection, and he seemed to have moved passed that tonight. Victor was ready to accept him, to have him...they were merely interrupted. Sherlock knew that just as soon as he reunited with Victor, well then that would be the moment he died. Mr. Holmes's threats meant nothing; he could not kill them both if one was already dead.
"You idiot, you complete, you utter idiot!" Mycroft exclaimed just as soon as he threw Sherlock's broken body onto his bed. The trapdoor was pulled shut and secure, so as to ensure there were no eavesdroppers to this conversation, however there were no ears to listen any longer. Still they had unfinished business, the scene which had unfolded at the morgue, undoubtedly that scene which was stuck in Mycroft's head all the while the beating was happening. A scene that was enough to convince him not to interfere sooner. Sherlock merely lay on his bed, for he knew that there was a strict scolding coming, a harsh talking to that came in Mycroft's ever so motherly voice.
"Sherlock I told you not to fall in love with him, I told you he was a monster!" Mycroft protested, pacing around the attic floor with his fingers tangled anxiously in his hair.
"He's not a monster." Sherlock said in a very laborious voice, for words did not come easily.
"He is! Look how easily he played you, look how much trouble he got you in!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"I chose my path, Mycroft. And I'll choose it again. Our paths are intertwined, Mycroft...I'm meant to be his." Sherlock grumbled. "He wants me, I know he does."
"That's exactly what I thought Sherlock, that's what he wants you to think! But he doesn't love, he doesn't have the capability! And for you to throw yourself at him, maddened, shameless..." Mycroft shook his head, as if the thought physically hurt him. "I hate to think of it, Sherlock. I hate to think of it."
"I love him." Sherlock said very simply, for every word was a pain in his chest. Perhaps he had broken a rib, or his nose. He would never know, really, for no one would be kind enough to take him to the doctor to check. Besides, Mr. Holmes the minister would not be caught dead with such a crippled son, especially if he was being dragged into the hospital while suffering the aftermath of abuse.
"So did I, Sherlock, so did everyone he ever interacted with! But he's a solitary creature, Sherlock, he's incapable of empathy. He's incapable of love." Mycroft growled.
"Well then, Mycroft, you really don't know him as well as you thought you did." Sherlock mumbled quietly. Mycroft paused, looking upon his brother as if expecting a further explanation.
"You don't dare say that he loves you?" Mycroft wondered, in a quiet voice of disbelief. Perhaps there was jealousy intermixed there, perhaps he had still not recovered from his old wounds of heartache. All the same, he sounded intrigued.
"You do know what he does down there, in the morgue, with the dead?" Sherlock clarified, allowing his head to lift up just as much as his sore neck would allow it, just so that he could cherish the look of confusion that was upon his brother's aging face.
"Well he embalms them, does he not? Prepares them for burial?" Mycroft suggested, quite clueless. Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head and appreciating now having the upper hand. It was quite rare for him to know something more than his brother, to know something more of the world around them.
"Yes, I suppose he does." Sherlock agreed with a smile.
"What do you mean by that, Sherlock? Do you intend to say there's something more? Something else?" Mycroft asked nervously. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, knowing that it really was not up to him to divulge Victor's secrets. And so he stayed quiet, and decided that it would be best to sit back and let his brother guess. It was always quite fun to watch the thought processes as they flashed upon Mycroft's face. Quite the character study, really, to watch him ponder and think about the ideas that he was willing to accept. Perhaps the answer passed his mind, and perhaps he discarded it as a mere urban legend. Perhaps he didn't think Victor capable of such things, or maybe he didn't think such things were even possible. Needless to say, if Mycroft ever did consider the correct answer, he didn't speak it. And of course, Sherlock would never recommend it. And so they sat in silence, a tense silence, while Mycroft tried to consider all the possible things a man could do with the dead. 

 Sherlock spent the rest of the week in what could only be described as solitary confinement, for it seemed as though he was not even on speaking terms with his brother any more. Well of course he knew that his actions were rather crude, and maybe a little bit unnerving, and uncharacteristic...and grotesque... Alright so maybe there was nothing good that came out of that night. Or at least there was nothing good for anyone else but Sherlock and Victor. Yet Sherlock still didn't think that made it inexcusable! He didn't think that his actions were so horrendous that his brother would stand by and watch him get beat to a pulp, and that Victor wouldn't be generous enough to even check in! The latter wasn't all that surprising, considering Sherlock never once got the impression that the man cared anything for him. Victor was a solitary creature at heart, yes of course he was prone to his own wild desires and fantasies, but he wasn't about to go strolling halfway across the city to check in on the raving lunatic he had as an apprentice. All the same, Sherlock rather hoped that Victor would notice his absence; he hoped that he would be a little bit saddened by how quiet the morgue had become. The best case scenario was that Victor was lamenting as well. Sherlock could only hope that he was not the only one out of the two that had descended to madness after that night, the only one who could not sleep after being able to look so deeply into the other's eyes. Perhaps it was madness; perhaps it was merely a passing phase. Sherlock couldn't claim to know what love was, he thought he knew and yet now as he was facing all of these complicated, powerful emotions for Victor, well he really couldn't judge any more. What he felt for John all of those years, it was something closer to adoration, or perhaps to jealousy. He knew that he felt something for John, yet that feeling was evidently not enough for him to surpass insults, or even inconvenience. He could only imagine that had he ever loved John Watson, he would still be with him right now. Victor or no Victor, from what he had heard of love, it is everlasting. And that must be it, he never loved John Watson, and he never will. The only feeling close to immortality that he had ever felt was his feelings for Victor, and yet those were anything but tender, certainly not the work of poetry. He would be equally foolish to claim that he was in love with Victor...yet he was certainly feeling something. Something close to affection, and something almost indistinguishable from lust. Yet it was powerful, it was powerful enough to withstand this solitude. Not once did Sherlock sit in his bed and regret his choices, not once did he sit here, coughing and tending his wounds, and wish that he had never walked into that morgue in the first place. No, he cherished that moment; he cherished every bit of that moment. Even getting beaten in the name of Victor Trevor felt like an honor, to be able to stand, staring pain straight in the eye, and to tell it sharply that he would not back down, nor would he renounce his feelings for Victor. Well it was a form of power that never came from affection, never came from madness. It was love; oh it had to be love. And yet Sherlock could only guess at to what Victor was feeling right now, he could only imagine what was going through that mortician's head. Perhaps he was upset that he was alone, or rather he was a bit rattled from the events of the night. Was his own enthusiasm surprising, was it threatening in a way? Had Victor not expected to fall in love, or even to accept love as it was offered to him? Maybe he was afraid, sitting next to the silver table and staring at the ghost of himself and Sherlock, seeing them playing out their everlasting affection before his eyes? Was he regretting pulling away, was he regretting saying no? Or was he instead regretting letting Sherlock into his life in the first place? Perhaps he was kicking himself, telling himself that he should never let a boy that would be so easily susceptible to his charm enter under his roof. Perhaps he should've known that anyone related to Mycroft Holmes would be equally interested...and equally eager. Victor may be going on with his daily life, cutting open his corpses and shivering at the fact that he had ever let Sherlock touch him, or that he ever was able to touch him back. Oh but Sherlock would never know, would he? What anyone's feelings were about any of this? He never saw anything of a human other than the hand that pushed a bowl of soup, or a sandwich, through the partially open trap door. He felt more alien than ever, sitting here on his bed with his tube up his nose. Partially because he thought he had escaped this life. He thought he was another human, these days he thought he had been accepted. How odd it was, to be back to square one, yet able to remember the life he used to be able to live.