Death Is A Friend

Playing The Victim

"The date went well, though?" Victor continued, his voice dropping now to a rather serious tone, the sort that made Sherlock's stomach twist a bit apprehensively. Oh it was as if Victor could tell when his enchantment was wearing off, as if he could tell when he needed to coax Sherlock back into his web!
"It went wonderfully." Sherlock admitted in a breath, leaning on his hands now against the silver table, knowing that Victor was now rather close, just across the other side of the corpse, who was still waiting for formaldehyde. Yet she could wait, she didn't have anything better to do than lay there.
"So you kissed him then?" Victor wondered in a voice that was very low, less of a sentence and more of a breath, a breath that passed through the simple gap between them and became electric. Sherlock paled, yet he found once again that he was unable to move. He felt once again that tense energy, yet he didn't know who it was coming from. How could Victor know, he spoke as if he was there when it happened! He spoke as though he had seen them...
"How do you...I mean um, well how did you guess that?" Sherlock whispered horrifically. Victor really had just trapped him, didn't he? What could Sherlock respond with; yes or no was just as incriminating. Unless he intentionally lied and told Victor that he had been out with a girl then the pronoun still stood, and Sherlock proved to be just as freakish in the eyes of Victor Trevor as his brother had been all those years ago. For that's what happened, hadn't it? Had Victor pushed Mycroft away simply because of his gender?
"Well most all dates end with a kiss, and the way you were spaced out I can only imagine you're..."
"How'd you know it was him?" Sherlock corrected, his voice harsh yet wavering for he was angry yet afraid all the same. He was beginning to feel helpless once again, helpless in the presence of Victor Trevor and his all-seeing eyes. The man merely grinned, yet he seemed to be questioning Sherlock all the while he smiled at him.
"I thought that was obvious since the start." He said finally, looking upon Sherlock with those unblinking eyes, now with such depth that Sherlock almost felt wounded by his state. Oh he hated this spotlight, he hated this exposure!
"I didn't think...well I've never told anyone but Mycroft." Sherlock whispered, twisting his hands now, all excitement having drained just as fast as the blood had from the corpses before him. Victor chuckled quietly, presumably at the mention of Mycroft. Perhaps he thought it was some sort of inherited trait, this homosexuality, that or he was under the impression that both Holmes brothers had lost their minds.
"Oh yes, I'm sure Mycroft knows all about that." Victor agreed with a little chuckle.
"He told me about it." Sherlock said abruptly, trying now to shift the attention away from his own interrogation to Victor's instead. "He told me what you did."
"What I did? Now this is a story I don't yet know." Victor insisted, leaning even closer now, leaning so close to Sherlock's glowing face that he may very well get burned. For the boy was standing so nervously, his knees wobbling so agressivley, that it was a wonder he didn't just fall over. Sherlock felt weak, he felt that even though this wasn't his own story, well he still felt as if he incriminating himself! He felt as though he was setting himself up for disaster!
"He said that he told you about his...his feelings. And you rejected him." Sherlock said very slowly, for his voice was not ready to speak; his words were not willing to come out.
"Rejected him? Ha, were those his exact words?" Victor wondered in an amused, unapologetic voice. Sherlock thought for a moment, yet shook his head quietly. He remembered Mycroft's voice now, for whatever reason that conversation had been stuck in his head since they had it. Those words were imprinted upon his brain, as if he had enough talent in foreshadowing to know that this conversation with Victor was going to need details.
"I um...I think he said that when it came to the climax, you pushed him aside." Sherlock corrected quietly. Victor chuckled yet again, nodding his head.
"Now that's more like it. Did he tell you why I had to push him aside, though? You know that term is completely literal?" Victor wondered. Sherlock dared now to look into Victor's eyes, for he was now much more intrigued than afraid. This was new information, for Sherlock had never assumed that Victor's side of the story would contain any more information. He had rather forgotten that either side would be a little bit biased, to gain the sympathy of the audience. Mycroft had indeed presented to situation very calmly, as if the two had just had a conversation. Yet it must have been more than that...it must have been!
"No I...that was all he told me." Sherlock admitted in a breath, his chest tight now with anticipation. His heart palpitating against his chest, anxiously waiting to know... Victor merely chuckled, shaking his head with exasperation, yet now standing on his feet, and going back over to where his gloves were sitting.
"He always does love to make himself the victim." Victor decided glumly, and with that he turned away from Sherlock, back to the corpse he was handling.
"Victor!" Sherlock whined, just now finding the strength within himself to march over to Victor's table for further investigation. "You can't just leave it at that!"
"Why not?" Victor wondered curiously, his eyes sparkling in an almost defensive manner, as if he was daring Sherlock to pry into his brain, as if he was daring him to even try.
"Well...well you haven't told me anything!" Sherlock defended, feeling a bit like a whining child who wasn't getting what it wanted. Yet all the same, he felt as though this strategy was necessary for getting any answers out of this infuriatingly vague man.
"Haven't told you anything." Victor whispered, in such a way which seemed almost threatening. Yet all the same, he set his gloves upon the silver table and positioned himself now to face Sherlock, so that he could stare into his eyes, now standing without a table between them, without anything between them by fading space. For he was coming closer. "What would you like me to tell you, Sherlock?" Victor asked in a purring sort of hiss. Sherlock was beginning to think that this was a trick question, for he had never really seen anger in Victor's eyes. Well of course he couldn't understand why Victor might be angry, yet there was indeed a flame. And it was terrifying yet all the same there was something...well there was something strangely tempting in it. There was something that drew Sherlock closer, even though he should probably have pulled away.
"Tell me what really happened between you and my brother." Sherlock demanded, trying not to back down, trying not to show weakness. Might this be another one of Victor's games? Might he want to see just how much of a coward Sherlock really was, in the face of an adversary? Victor was the closest living representation of Death, and to prove that the Reaper didn't scare him then maybe Sherlock had to stand up to the next best thing. And so he did, his posture didn't waver, and his eyes didn't blink. He looked into the fire in Victor's eyes and he tried to mimic it, he stared into the flames and struck up his own.
"He left out the parts, Sherlock, where he got impatient. Where he got aggressive. Never thought of your brother as an aggressive man, did you, Sherlock? As a frustrated one?" Victor wondered, taking another step while Sherlock tried to hold his ground. He didn't dare take a step back, yet he was becoming afraid of what would happen when Victor got closer. There was a feeling, the weirdest of all feelings in his chest. It was something that reminded him of fear, yet it wasn't giving him the right instincts. Sherlock felt all the hairs on his arms stand up, he felt his legs shake and his breath waver. Yet all the same he wanted to go forward, he wanted to go to Victor, instead of away! He felt as though to run from Victor now would be the least rewarding thing he could do, for the farther they were apart, the worse off they would both be. Sherlock knew it now; he knew that Victor had personally flung Sherlock out of the web that he had tried so hard to crawl out of.
"He's calm around me." Sherlock said simply, trying to keep his voice from shaking too obviously. Trying to be sure that he didn't betray himself as he shivered.
"Well he wasn't calm that night, Sherlock, when the whole church was silent. When it was just he and I, dismantling the funeral. When it was soft light and candle smoke, when I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck constantly." Victor whispered, now nearing so close that there was no longer a foot of space between them, his eyes gleaming anxiously. Sherlock's stomach twisted, for he was filled with a terrible temptation to just take that step, break that space, and then...well then what? God, what else was there to this, where did his passions end, where did they begin? "And I was in the back closet, arranging the cloths on the counter space, putting away the flower pots. He came in slowly, then all at once. He grabbed me by my waist and threw me against the wall, pressing himself up against my body and begging, begging, for me to take him there. To have him, right there in the church." Victor's voice had dropped so low that it was becoming intoxicating, he had stopped moving yet somehow he was still getting closer. It was only after Sherlock woke from his trance that he would realize it was him moving closer, it was him stepping forward. The story was wild, unbelievably so. Sherlock knew that it should have shocked him; he knew that he should wonder what sort of possession his brother had fallen under, and shame him for it. Yet for the strangest reason, it didn't sound so unfamiliar. For the strangest reason, Sherlock almost felt that his brother's madness was rationalized...almost understandable. Almost necessary.
"That doesn't sound much like Mycroft." Sherlock admitted finally. Victor's mouth broke into a smile, yet finally he allowed himself to reach out, this time he set his fingers onto Sherlock's chest, pressing them there now as if to keep him away. It was very much a push, and Sherlock only realized that it had been necessary when he realized that the only thing separating the two of them was Victor's hand. If he let it fall away, their chests would be against each other's. Yet his fingers now, the mere touch of them, the mere pressure, seemed to be enough to keep Sherlock satisfied. It seemed enough to keep an electric charge going throughout Sherlock's entire body, for he could feel the indents of Victor's fingers on his skin, under his skin, in his very bones. He could feel it all, that entrancing touch. No one had ever touched his chest before.
"If you don't believe me, ask him." Victor tempted. Sherlock blinked now, not wanting to allow himself to look unappreciative. Yet he realized now just how strange it was, for him to be getting so close to Victor, for him to be staring him so deeply into the eyes. And so finally Sherlock turned away, finally he stopped fighting against Victor's soft push, and he stumbled back a couple of steps or so, returning back to the world of the present. Returning to the world of reality.
"No I don't think I will." Sherlock decided finally, taking a deep, nervous breath as he turned away from Victor and went back to the body that had been waiting patiently for him on the table. "I don't think I want to." He said again. Victor nodded quietly, a smile reappearing on his face as he studied Sherlock's head, turned away from him now so as to hide his blush.
"Probably wise, Sherlock. I'd hate for you to think of your brother as anything less than a Saint." He taunted, and with that he turned back towards his own corpse, revisiting where he had left off as if nothing important had happened at all.