Death Is A Friend

Does He Not Look Alive

While Sherlock wished he could talk just to pass the time, and to take his mind off of the atrocities which were presented to him, he stayed quiet. Victor seemed comfortable in the silence, mostly because he had to jump around the body and prod at the tube. He had even begun sewing up the incision points with a wicked looking needle and thread, threading the skin back together so that it looked as if no harm was done. The body was looking as pristine as ever, despite all of the scientific necessities which were being administered. Sherlock had watched most everything being drained from that man, yet still he looked as if he could just sit up and saunter away. When finally the trocar was removed and the man was sewn shut once more, looking quiet and still. Victor took a great sigh of relief, as if that had been the most tiresome process of them all.
"And now comes the easy part." Victor said with a grin. He rolled the surgical cart away and replaced it with another, laden instead with sponges and shampoos. It was indeed easy, for now it was time to wash the corpse. If Mr. Williams was going to look appropriate, he would of course need to have the equivalent of a shower. And so Sherlock was assigned to shampoo duty (careful to avoid the additives to the skull) while Victor went along and sponged down the rest of him. It was a long process, made even longer by the absence of any conversation. And of course it wasn't enjoyable, yet it was most certainly a task that only a mortician could understand. It was as close to death as Sherlock had ever been, here with his fingers lathering through the dead man's stringy hair. There was a sort of intimacy which went along with it, a mutual trust almost. Mr. Williams had written on his will that he wanted an open casket funeral, and along with that came the trust that he would be treated with gentle hands, and by a careful mortician. Sherlock now applied that care, that gentleness, and for a moment he felt as though he had known this poor man before. He felt as if all the while he rubbed conditioner through his locks of hair that they had become friends, without even exchanging a word. The corpse had become less of a science experiment and more of a familiar face. When Sherlock glanced up he noticed that Victor seemed to be having the same thoughts, for he was going about the washing process with such carefulness that Sherlock could swear he was enjoying it. Maybe it was the concentration of an expert; maybe he was simply going about his process and thinking of other things that might give him such a soft look upon his usually confident features. Yet along with Mr. Williams, Mr. Trevor was looking all the more human. He didn't notice Sherlock's watching him, that was undoubtedly why he didn't take a more rigid approach. Yet he was now rubbing the arm down with a sudsy sponge, holding the dead man's arm in his own with their fingers almost interlocked. Victor looked calm, appreciative even, and as he set the arm back down onto the table he took a short moment to run his fingers along the newly washed skin, as if he was trying to feel if there was indeed any motion in the muscles that were hidden and deteriorating underneath. Victor's fingers were very long, and very gentle. Sherlock watched them as they worked; having lost all attentiveness to his own task of conditioning as he noticed every little way Victor touched the corpse before him. Every moment his finger touched down onto the skin Sherlock could swear he felt it as well, a quiet poke, the softest brush of a fingertip, now running across the man's collarbone and pricking against Sherlock's very skin. It was...well it was embarrassing. Sherlock blinked just as soon as he realized his eyes were falling shut, and he immediately went back to furiously conditioning the man's hair, just to ensure that it looked as if he was doing his job this whole time. He didn't want Victor to notice him daydreaming, for not only did that make him a bad employee, but it also made him a rather creepy companion. And so he went back to his task, trying to ignore the fact that Victor was now caressing the man's jaw, with his fingers playing softly across the man's sewn lips.
"Finished then?" came Victor's voice. It almost startled Sherlock to hear him speak, for he had grown accustomed to the silence which hung over the two of them like a shroud.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed, wiping his hands as best he could on his apron, yet still feeling that his fingers were just as washed and conditioned as that man's hair now was. Still he had the goop clinging to him, yet victor seemed to find that more entertaining than pitiful.
"There's a sink." He added obviously. Sherlock nodded, trying not to look like too much of an idiot as he rushed over and run his hands under the facet. Now Victor unearthed a hair dryer and a lot of soft looking towels, yet he held them with a purpose as if there was a lot of explaining that went into this process.
"To dry you cannot rub, for the skin is vulnerable to tears. Dab dry, carefully." Victor instructed, although he handed Sherlock the hair dryer instead of the towels. And Sherlock was then once more put in charge of the hair. When finally the corpse was dried it was time to apply the cosmetics, which of course was a more feminine procedure than anything. Yet of course, Mr. Williams was looking a little bit pale and discolored, which Victor claimed would only progress if they left it unmasked. And so he rolled up a cart filled with the necessary makeups, with brushes and lips sticks and powders.
"Have you ever done makeup before?" Victor asked, almost as if this was a perfectly justifiable question. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, even though he knew that Victor hadn't really been joking.
"Why would I have done makeup?" Sherlock wondered, to which Victor turned an almost questioning eye to him.
"Oh I don't know." Victor admitted finally, yet all the same it seemed as though he had just reasoning for asking. Almost as if he wondered what Sherlock got up to in his free time. Sherlock felt a little bit awkward as he pushed closer to the corpse, watching as Victor now ran a tube of natural colored lipstick over the man's blueish lips. It was a transfixing process to watch, made only more agonizing as Victor ran his fingers all about the man's lips, jawbone, and eyes. He seemed to be exploring all of the divots and crevices, possibly to tell where makeup needed to be applied. Yet he picked up the eye shadow instead, a pale color which would mask the veins which were prodding unattractively from the lids.
"Being a mortician, Sherlock, offers so many privileges." Victor began to say, as he now cradled the man's head in his hands and applied the eyeshadow in soft, gentle strokes. "Just like finding beauty in the changing seasons, a mortician is able to find beauty in the changing human."
"You find the dead beautiful?" Sherlock wondered quietly, looking towards Victor now, having completely lost interest in the corpse.
"Do you find the living beautiful?" Victor wondered just as casually, as if that was as much of a question as Sherlock's had been.
"Well yes, I suppose I do." Sherlock agreed.
"What difference is there, between the living and the dead? Does he not look alive?" Victor wondered. Sherlock took a deep breath, looking down upon the corpse and finding a stillness waiting for him, an eerie emptiness which was very foreign to him. He could understand that the man was no different than life on the outside, yet he knew too much about the process that got him there that it struck no heartstrings. The man didn't look beautiful, per say. He looked alive, that was all.
"He looks alive." was all Sherlock could say, for he didn't want to agree to anything more. That was all that could be said, in fact, for just as soon as Victor may have opened his mouth to argue farther they were interrupted by the swinging of the doors. This nearly gave Sherlock a heart attack, for he was still under the impression that they were the only two living people in the world. It was very odd to see Mycroft strolling through, looking as alive as ever...
"Mr. Trevor, it's nearly nine thirty!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I've been waiting in the parking lot for twenty minutes, waiting to see if you were prepared to take your proper responsibility." Victor drew himself to full height once more, setting the eye shadow down on the cart and starting threateningly into Mycroft's eyes. Obviously he didn't like to be addressed in such a manner, in an insolent sort of way.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft, to have kept you waiting. I'm afraid I lost track of time." Victor explained carelessly, as if he was making no effort to falsify his guilt. Obviously he was just intending on enraging Mycroft farther, and it would seem as though it was working. Sherlock looked now to the clock on the wall to find that Mycroft was right; it really was getting late, or at least much later than he had been expected.
"So engulfed, were you, in your corpses? Nothing abnormal there, then." Mycroft growled. Victor just chuckled, snapping off his gloves and stepping around the table to approach where Mycroft stood. Neither man dared flinch, yet their eyes met in such a way which almost represented gun fire. Sherlock could only stand and watch, realizing of course that while his world was now molded around the both of them, they were just as hostile as they had been before. They didn't seem to care about Sherlock's opinion on the matter.
"I'd rather spend time with the corpses than with people like you. People who have the personality of one." Victor snapped. Mycroft's lip turned into a sneer, and Sherlock could tell now that things may very well escalate from here. He knew enough to step in, to ensure that they didn't have to embalm one more body today than anticipated.
"I'm sorry, but I guess we should just be going." Sherlock interrupted quickly, throwing off his gloves and apron in a quick frenzy. The men had thankfully turned their attention towards him, yet neither seemed to have simmered down. Mycroft was the only one holding anything that could be dangerous, yet Victor need only take a few steps and he was next to the cart of embalming tools, those wicked looking blades and tubes. It would be a fight to the death, if ever a fight did break out.
"Yes we should." Mycroft said sternly. "I do not appreciate your keeping him longer than anticipated, Mr. Trevor. If this continues I shall have..."
"Have to what?" Victor interrupted abruptly, taking another step closer in warning. Mycroft recoiled, yet like a snake he raised his chin high, his black eyes flashing threateningly. Both men were not used to being faced with an opponent who considered themselves unstoppable. They were both so used to be over dominating, yet here their intimidation amounted to nothing. It seemed as though neither man knew how to argue when scare tactics were futile.
"Well I would have to disallow Sherlock's coming here." Mycroft said finally.
"He's not your child, he can do what he likes." Victor protested. Sherlock nodded, arriving behind Victor's shoulder in a meek little reappearance. Mycroft seemed almost offended that Sherlock would chose to stand so close to Victor instead of close to him, yet Sherlock stayed still until Mycroft finally backed off. Their quarrels were necessary evils, yet if Mycroft was threatening Sherlock's early retirement, well that would not do. Sherlock wanted to work here until the day he died (which of course wouldn't be long), and Mycroft would have no say in the matter.
"I can do what I like." Sherlock repeated quietly. Mycroft heaved a great sigh, clenching his fingers across his umbrella handle and bowing his head in exasperation.
"That you can." Mycroft agreed finally. "Yet Mr. Trevor needs to demonstrate his responsibility, or I shall have to intervene."
"Intervene all you wish, Mycroft. Or at least all you can tolerate." Victor suggested. "You never did have the stomach for it."
"In fact, Victor, I have too much heart. It's an issue you are unfamiliar with, I'm sure." Mycroft growled.
"There is a difference, Mycroft, between having no heart, and having an inkling of pride." Victor responded with a slight little smile.
"Pride? You speak of pride as if..." Mycroft silenced himself, seeing now that there was nothing he could do except turn away in an instant. He was going to say too much if he continued, he was going to betray himself, and open new wounds. And so he started towards the door, his umbrella tip banging angrily on the tile floors as he beckoned Sherlock to his side.
"I'll see you tomorrow Mr. Trevor." Sherlock said quickly, feeling too rushed to formulate a proper goodbye. And so he smiled at the man in a glance of farewell and dashed to meet his brother up the stairs and into the darkened parking lot where the car waited.
"I've never seen you act so immature." Sherlock growled just as soon as he took his place in the passenger seat, arranging his oxygen tank so that it could sit between his knees. Mycroft sat in the car, stony faced and distant. He stared at the door to the morgue, as if he was hoping Victor would reappear so he could take some more shots at him.
"Immature?" Mycroft wondered. "I was standing my ground, that was all."
"You were being a baby." Sherlock debated. "You were embarrassing."
"Oh you have no reputation to upkeep in there!" Mycroft insisted, shaking his head before fumbling with the key in the ignition and starting the engine up to a low hum. The heating vents started to spew cold air, yet neither brother cared enough to draw attention to it. In fact, they were both mulling over their opinions on Victor Trevor, and in doing so were completely silent. Sherlock knew that there was a divide between them; he knew that they were greatly differed in their tolerance ranges. Sherlock knew that Mycroft detested poor Victor Trevor, yet Sherlock himself found the man to be practically idolizing. It was this separation that kept his lips closed, for he didn't want to discuss such things with Mycroft if he was only going to start to whine. When they arrived home the church was dark, which came as some relief since they would not have to deal with the parents any longer. Sherlock and Mycroft marched quietly up the stairs, with the only sounds being their footsteps and the slow, steady thunk of the oxygen machine on each stair. Sherlock ascended into the attic and found with some surprise that Mycroft was making to follow him up, arranging himself on the ladder just as soon as Sherlock had collected himself on the floor.