Death Is A Friend

You Really Shouldn't Be Jealous

Sherlock woke urgently, sitting up painfully in his bed and looking around in the darkness, trying to make sure there were no witnesses to this...whatever this even was.
"Oh God." Sherlock whispered to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead and realizing that this dream had taken quite the physical toll on himself. "Oh God." He whispered again, pulling his blankets up to his chin and trying to remind his body that the entire ordeal with Victor had just been a dream. There was nothing he could do now, there was no reason to be...to be ready. Sherlock tried to settle himself back down onto his pillow, yet he could do ignore it, he could not ignore the feelings of absolute euphoria that were running through him! Why was this happening now, why was it that his heart was being thrown from person to person these days, when he got to kiss John, yet he still dreamt of Victor? Why could he not settle on a single suitor, why could he not allow himself to be satisfied? Why did he wake with such a disappointment, that his lips had been untainted, that he could still breathe, that he was still alive, and therefore not destined to that silver table and the treatment he was offered atop it? Why did he wake with such need to be plummeted back into that dream, and to feel what Victor must ultimately be doing to his corpse? Why did Sherlock want to go right back into that dream and receive him? This was not the sort of feeling he should want, this was not the sort of treatment he should desire! What was wrong with John, what did he not offer Sherlock that he so ultimately needed? What did Victor have that was becoming so unearthly necessary? Sherlock groaned softly to himself, allowing his hands to trail down his own skin, allowing his eyes to shut for just a moment and to pretend that the fingers were not his own. Allowing himself to remember what Victor's lips had tasted like, and opening his mouth to the air, trying to gasp it just as he would have that man's breath. 

 John was going to pick him up that evening, yet Sherlock wasn't excited. He knew that he should be, he knew that the boy had been the subject of his dreams for the longest time; he knew that a second date with the boy he had loved for so long should be the most exciting thing that had ever happened in his young life. Yet all the same, he sat and stared at the silver table, and empty silver table, and had the most everlasting desire to jump on top of it and feel what it was like to die. Sherlock stared carefully, trying to keep his emotions in check, and most importantly trying to ignore the man who was moving about the room like a ghost, his heels clicking on the tiles as he went from one body to the next, draped in a black apron. Sherlock wouldn't let himself fall under the illusion that he knew anything more about Victor than he did yesterday, for he didn't want to allow himself to think that dream had been real. No it had been heinous, really, and it had merely been spawned from the conversation of Victor's sexuality the night before. Sherlock's mind had taken their conversation and turned it on its head, he had presumed Victor's solitude with the living must mean an intimacy with the dead...that or he merely recognized that the only time he would be admired by that man would be if he was dead. Yet that sort of admiration, well certainly there wasn't a man or woman on this earth who would willingly kiss a corpse and enjoy it! And certainly not Victor, he who held himself to such a high standard, Victor would never degrade to kissing something who could not kiss him back. He loved to be admired; a motionless partner would certainly be no fun for him. Sherlock admired him, he hated to admit it but it was true. Goodness, what Sherlock felt for that man truly was an enigma. Love would be a daring thing to call it, for he didn't feel his heart strings twitch. He felt more of a pain, a physical pain that erupted in his stomach, the feeling of regret and denial, all sunken in his torso like a tumor. Victor wasn't someone he wanted to hold his hand, or to run his fingers through his curls under the stars. He wanted to Victor to be spontaneous, violent, harsh. It was John's job to love him; it was Victor's job to use him. Sherlock shook his head miserably, allowing himself to look over now at Victor as he touched upon the corpse's stomach, feeling about for the internal organs which to drain. Sherlock's mouth downturned into a frown, and he turned away asking himself why he was ever so jealous of a corpse. His only hope now were these diseased lungs, thankfully he had a much sooner expiration date than the rest of these healthy humans. If he had been expected to live to eighty he would have been even more distraught, for he would be old and wrinkled and undesirable by the time Victor got to him. That is, if Victor wasn't already retired or dead himself. No it was good that he had months, not years, to wait. It was a reassuring thought that he just had to wait it out, wither and stall, all the while his life force faded wonderfully from his chest. He would die soon; he just had to let it wait. He had to let the pieces fall into place, and the let Reaper finally deliver his hallow shell to Victor's awaiting hands.