Death Is A Friend

The Mortician's Apprentice

            "You look a little bit taken aback." Victor observed, sitting back in his chair and leaning his walking stick up against the table. He peeled his gloves from his white fingers and clenched them both in a single hand before grinning and throwing them in an inconvenienced way onto the table next to him. Then he crossed his arms and observed Sherlock with the same analytical look that Sherlock was surely giving him at the moment.
"I'm just a little bit surprised. As you've probably already gathered- I don't get any visitors." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"Yes, they seemed to take my knowing you as some sort of personal offense. Surely they don't treat all of your friends with such poor hospitality?" Victor presumed with a raise of his manicured eyebrow, yet he smiled as if he already knew the answer to such a question.
"I don't have any friends." Sherlock said obviously, looking rather confused as Victor's eyes went unwavering, and untroubled. He looked as though this was somehow a normal procedure; all the while Sherlock very much thought his case of isolation was a peculiar one.
"Hm, and that really is tragic." Victor agreed, looking as though he had all the time in the world as he stirred his tea around with his spoon, yet did not drink. And he was smart not to, considering that Mrs. Holmes may have laced it with any sort of the numerous poisons, just to ensure he didn't come to visit anymore.
"I'm sorry Mr. Trevor, and of course I'm flattered by your coming to visit but I'm just...well I'm not sure why you're here." Sherlock admitted finally, taking a bit of an apprehensive breath before catching his oxygen tube between his fingers and twirling it nervously. He didn't very much like talking to Victor, for it seemed as though the man across the table knew everything which was going to be said before he had even arrived. He may very well be on a script, for he leaned against the table once more and, with his unwavering blue stare, formed his lips into something an amused yet snakelike smile.
"Well I'm here because I feel as though we're both a little bit lonely." He said finally, yet in a way which made it clear that was not the end of his statement. He paused for dramatic effect, yet continued on as soon as he thought he had achieved the appropriate reaction. "I work in the morgue, as you may already know, and it's becoming quite a chore. I realized lately that so much work for one man really is tiresome, and that perhaps it might be nice to have another set of hands around to help out, and to learn the trade. I've been looking for an assistant for quite a while now, and it just so happens that you seem to fit the part perfectly." Victor ended there, with an encouraging little smile which made Sherlock feel quite appreciated. No one had ever wanted him for anything, and it was far rarer for someone to think him capable of anything but being a burden. To be told he had the right skills to be a part of something larger than himself...well it was confusing to say the least. Yet it was flattering all the same.
"I'm sorry, I don't really understand. You want me to work in the morgue with you?" Sherlock clarified.
"Yes I do." Victor agreed. Sherlock blinked once more, nodding as he remembered just how impossible that was. Not only would his parents never allow him to leave the house for work, but Mycroft's predisposed hatred of Victor Trevor would make it all too difficult to get even his support.
"What qualifies me for that?" Sherlock wondered, for that was an all too important question as well. Victor knew nothing of his skill set (that being he had none) and would be disappointed to find that he knew nothing of mortician business. Well it would seem that the only trait Sherlock possessed that would make him a good replacement for Victor would be that they had the same pale skin color, and the same taste for dark, old clothing!
"Just that you said you were practical about death. I have a good feeling about your capabilities, not only to learn the art, but to learn the magic behind it all. The process of embalming a human, of preparing them in death to look just as beautiful as in life, it really is a talent. And it is a magical opportunity to see death as it really is, before your very eyes in its natural, ghastly state." Victor said with an enthusiastic little grin, his fingers wiggling in his clasped hands for just a moment in his momentary excitement. Sherlock found this all to be quite perplexing, yet in his state of confusion he could not yet allow himself to rule it all out.
"I must admit, Mr. Trevor, that it's a tempting offer. But I'm not in any position to do what I like, surely you'll have to go through my parents first, and..."
"They've already agreed." Victor said plainly, interrupting Sherlock before he could ramble off any other poor excuses.
"They have?" Sherlock clarified with a very curious frown. That almost seemed impossible; well his parents had never allowed him to do anything he wanted to do! Why now, what had changed?
"Yes they have. I explained to them all the benefits of having your work in my morgue, and they listened intently. They agreed that it would be a good place for you to grow into a respectable, hardworking adult." Victor admitted. Sherlock couldn't help but gape, for every word that came out of Victor's mouth was growing more and more ridiculous! His parents cared nothing about the benefits of anything! They didn't want to see Sherlock develop into an adult, they wanted to hide him away until he died, and relieved them of his financial burdens! What sort of lunatic dared to stand in front of Sherlock and ramble on about how his parents had his best intentions in mind?
"That's hard to believe." Sherlock admitted quietly. Victor smiled, as if he was appreciating Sherlock's confusion, as if he very much enjoyed keeping his conversational partners completely in the dark.
"You'll work every evening with me, from five o'clock to nine o'clock. There I can teach you the entire art of mortuary work, from storing the body, to embalming it, to dressing it up for the funeral. I work very closely with the funeral home director, as well as your brother and the church." Victor admitted with a grin. Sherlock thought for a moment, yet it wasn't a very long moment at all. For weighing the costs and benefits of this operation was a very quick task, ending of course with the final benefit of leaving the house. He could be going to collect garbage on the side of the road and he wouldn't complain, as long as he got to be out in the sun, and breathing fresh air! To work closely with this mysterious, Godlike man, and to get a better understanding of the fate which was nearing him with every passing moment, well of course it was something he couldn't refuse. Yet then again, his condition brought about another concern, something which he was sure would be a deal breaker...
"Mr. Trevor I really would love to work with you, but don't you want to train someone with, well...with a little bit more longevity?" Sherlock mumbled apprehensively.
"All the more reason to take you under my wing, Mr. Holmes. What a full circle it will be, when you end up on the same table where you operated! Now come, come Mr. Holmes, that was a solid confirmation if I've ever heard one! Come with me to the morgue, I will give you a quick tour!" Victor said excitedly, jumping to his feet with energy that had not been there a mere moment before. He grabbed his gloves off the table and slid them effortlessly over his fingers, clutching his cane in one hand and extending the other for Sherlock to take. Sherlock sat there for a breathless moment, wondering what he had just gotten himself into, yet all the same he was ever so intrigued. He was mesmerized in a way which he could not explain, and it seemed as though he now had no other option but to take Victor Trevor's hand. It would be foolish to do anything else, and so with all the curious reluctance in the world, he settled his fingers over Victor's palm and allowed the mortician to pull him from his chair. As Victor dragged him through the doorway Mrs. Holmes appeared, undoubtedly drawn to the sound of movement.
"Where are you going with my son?" she demanded, chasing after Victor for he did not stop as he started his way down the stairs and into the church.
"We are going to the morgue, Mrs. Holmes! I've got a new assistant!" Victor exclaimed.
"You cannot take my son without permission!" she exclaimed, yet she stayed at the top of the steps, for obviously she wasn't going to go through the effort of descending. She really didn't care that much about Sherlock, especially now that she knew she was at a loss for keeping Victor at bay. This man just did what he wanted, that much was quite clear.
"I've got Sherlock's permission, what else is there! I'll have him back by seven, until then, Mrs. Holmes, good day." Victor exclaimed, twirling on his heel right before they exited out the side door. Of course he was still clutching Sherlock's hand, so as Victor twirled to tip his hat Sherlock was wrenched off to the side as well, stumbling over his feet in surprise. He got a glance of his mother, or at least the vengeful beast that was posing as a woman at the top of the stairs. Her face was red and blotchy, and her hand clutched so tightly to the stair railing that the wood may very well crack under the pressure. Yet she stayed where she was, and it was all Sherlock could do but flash her an almost antagonizing smile (Victor's reign of carelessness was contagious) and allowed the mortician to pull him from the church and out into the ever familiar sunlight. Sherlock had almost expected a small black car to be parked outside, something fashionable and gothic as per Victor's taste. Yet he was surprised to see something even more morbid, the hearse itself, parked horizontally along about five spaces, so as to ensure the tail end didn't get clipped as someone zipped by. Of course the lot was empty this time on a Wednesday, and there was no one here to complain. When finally they broke into the real world Victor let go of Sherlock's hand, undoubtedly he realized that Sherlock would be foolish not to follow at this point. And of course, he could not turn back any more. Not now that Victor had him very well baited and hooked.
"You can ride shotgun if you'd like." Victor offered with a hospitable wave of his hand. Sherlock gave a doubtful little laugh, trying to tell if Victor was joking or not. For there was only one seat other than the driver's seat, and that was the passenger side.
"Well where else would I go?" Sherlock asked curiously. Victor simply paused, leaning against the other side of the vehicle with his hand extended over the roof of the car lazily.
"Oh I've met quite the lot who would like the honor of lying in the back." Victor groaned, rolling his eyes in a comical sort of way, as if creeps like that were more of a bother than anything. Sherlock hummed in amazement, yet he didn't know the appropriate response to such a statement. Thankfully Victor unlocked the doors, and he was able to clamber inside the hearse (which smelled disturbingly like flowers, the perfect mask for the stench of death). Sherlock had not been in a car for a very long time, in fact he couldn't remember the last time he moved at a rate faster than average walking pace. He steadied his oxygen tank between his knees, looking out the window in fascination as the church steeple got farther and farther in his view. He had not been in this part of the city before, yet it was only about a two minute drive before Victor pulled into a rather worn looking parking lot. They had ridden in silence, yet Sherlock hadn't noticed the awkwardness simply because he was so mesmerized with the passing city life. The buildings went by in blurs, and the people appeared to be simple dots of color! It was fascinating, a world at this speed, and it wasn't until he noticed they had stopped until he realized he was being watched. Victor was looking at him with all the curiosity in the world, letting the engine idle as he positioned himself over the steering wheel so as to observe his passenger all the more diligently.
"You really don't go out much, do you Mr. Holmes?" Victor presumed in a sad sort of voice.
"No I um...no I'm not allowed." Sherlock admitted finally. Victor nodded, looking him up and down again (presumably following the oxygen hose from his nose to the tank and then back again) before finally turning the key and silencing the engine.
"And that sounds like a lovely story for another time. Yet today it's not about your past, it's about your future! Your prosperous future." Victor said with a grin.
"For as long as it lasts, mind you." Sherlock reminded him, opening his door and stepping out onto the cracked pavement while Victor chuckled behind him.
"That's the sort of attitude that's not appreciated by anyone except those who do not fear death." Victor presumed proudly, shutting the door and starting his way towards the entrance, his cane clicking along in summoning. Sherlock followed obediently, yet he had to admit that he was beginning to have his doubts about following this strange man into a building such as this. It wasn't marked with any sort of sign or plaque; it was simply an old windowless storefront, with badly peeling painted bricks on the outside and a single metal door separating its contents from the outside world. For the first time Sherlock began to feel threatened, for it didn't look very convincingly like a morgue. Then again, what did he really have to lose? And so he followed obediently, all the while Victor plucked a particular key from his ring and unlocked the door.
"I'm afraid it's not a glamorous establishment, yet it was the only place I could afford when I first entered the trade." Victor admitted sadly, hearing the lock click and pulling the door open with a horrible rusted creak.
"You started this morgue yourself?" Sherlock clarified in amazement, holding open the metal door for Victor as he followed him inside.
"Oh yes, yes from the ground up." Victor agreed. "Of course, that's a metaphor simply because it's mostly in a basement." As if this had all been choreographed, as soon as Victor finished his sentence he walked over to a staircase hidden in the back of the nearly empty room. There were a couple of old brown chairs tucked away in the corner, with an empty receptionist desk. The lights were off, yet Sherlock could still see that the entire room was painted white. Even the floors were white tile, cracked and stained in some spots yet still convincingly medical.
"Do you have costumers come here, or do you collect the bodies from the coroner?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Oh I get bodies from all over the place, not just the coroner. The hospitals give me some, families give me some, and some well...some just show up here." Victor admitted with a little chuckle, descending the staircase with all the familiarity in the world. Now it was beginning to look more like a morgue, for Sherlock could already see the bright fluorescent lights leaking into the darkness. The smell of heavy disinfectants stung his nose, yet it was starting to feel a little bit more appropriate. Victor passed through a set of swinging doors, through which transformed the dingy little entry way into something completely different, and completely breathtaking. It looked quite like a hospital, with shockingly white walls and white tile floors, yet these radiated cleanliness and sanitation. Sherlock had never seen a morgue before, and it was almost disturbing to see the metal wall, with square doors, three in a vertical line and about five horizontally, all which had the capability to hold a dead body. It was disturbing to think of just how many corpses had passed through here, how many dead people who had suffered from all diseases known to man, and all ailments which could not be cured in time. This was close to the final resting place of most men and women, in which they were transformed from animate human beings to simple hunks of flesh and bone, to be meddled with as was necessary to get them lively again. Victor took a sigh of relief, as if this really was the home where he was meant to be, and threw his hat and cane somewhere near the coat rack. He wasn't wearing a heavy coat, and so he swooped in one of the metal operating tables, three of which sat morbidly in the middle of the room. They had drainage pipes leading to the floor, where all sorts of bodily fluids and chemicals were undoubtedly filtered through an intense sort of sewage system. There were all sorts of pumps and tools and needles lined up on little trays next to the operating tables, as well as numerous racks of what appeared to be cosmetics. Obviously all the mortician's tools were not out on display, for there were surely many more wicked instruments which would scare the newcomers. While Sherlock meandered in awe about the room, Victor settled himself very pleasingly next to a wheeled chair, as if he was too excited to sit yet gravitated towards the chair in most other circumstances.

"You like it?" victor wondered hopefully, breaking the silence that was only interrupted by the squeaking of the wheeled oxygen tank as Sherlock dragged it mindlessly around.
"I...well I suppose I do. I've never seen a room quite like this before. Never seen anything so...well so fearless." Sherlock admitted in a small voice, turning towards his host once more as if trying to determine what was happening here. Once again he was overwhelmed in the fact that Victor would have picked him, why would he do such a thing? Surely Sherlock wasn't special in anyway, and a job like this, under these harsh lights and on these fancy metal tables, well why hadn't Victor plucked someone from the mix who seemed capable of such tasks? Why did he chose to pick a boy already so broken?
"I like that word, fearless. Well of course all fears span from the fear of death...conquer that and you're left invulnerable in your own mind. Indeed this room is fearless, for being among the dead reassures you that it's not terribly bad." Victor decided with a grin, tapping his fingers against the wall now that his cane was sitting off near the coat rack. He seemed rather lost without it, for he didn't know what to lean on and was instead resting his shoulder against the white wall, with his eyes trained on Sherlock in a fascinated sort of way.
"You're only following all the rest." Sherlock agreed quietly, walking up towards the metal wall and looking at it curiously.
"The refrigerator, as I like to call it. I imagine you know what's stored inside?" Victor presumed, dragging himself to his feet so as to walk up to Sherlock's side.
"Certainly not produce." Sherlock guessed a bit sarcastically, for he knew very well what Victor was keeping in these things. Undoubtedly it was the storage place for those cold corpses which were delivered to his door.
"Not produce at all." Victor agreed. With that he clasped the handle of one of the doors and opened it, allowing it to swing open to reveal the darkened silhouette of a man's head and shoulders, lying flat and looking completely unbothered. It was actually quite surprising to see the body, for never before had Sherlock been so close to a dead body, or at least a natural one. He had only been able to glance at corpses after they had been embalmed and dressed, and so to see one so blotchy and so unattractive, sitting with wrinkled bare shoulders, well it certainly was a surprise. Victor grabbed at the pan which the corpse was lying, and rolled it out so that the whole thing was exposed to the light. Thankfully most of the man was draped in a white sheet, yet for the most part he lay exposed and cold looking. His skin was unhealthily pale, and he gave a very convincing representation of what death should look like. He was not nearly as glamorous as most funeral corpses were, for there was no makeup or mortician method applied to his face. Instead he was very somber looking, as if he had settled to sleep and become one with the earth so very quickly.
"Mr. Isiah Carpenter." Victor said carelessly, reading the little tag on the outside of the door.
"He's not anymore." Sherlock responded thoughtlessly, fighting the impulse to put a finger to the corpse, just to make sure it wouldn't wake with a quick but furious prod. Victor smiled in a pleased sort of way, yet nodded his head in agreement.
"You're a natural, Sherlock. For the mindset is the hardest part of being a mortician. The mindset that death is nothing but a natural part of life, almost a very distant friend who visits us once in our lives." Victor recited with a pleased smile. Before Sherlock could get too amazed with the body before him victor gave the pan a quick push, and it rolled back into the refrigerator with a thump. And gone was Isiah Carpenter to the light, as Victor shut the door rather forcefully on the outside world. Sherlock blinked, looking about the room once more as if expecting there to be other sorts of bodies lying around in the corners. Yet no, the corpses were all sealed inside of their refrigerators, and the living were free to meander around the intensely illuminated room as they pleased.