Death Is A Friend

Quite Like The Cadavers

"Sometimes I'm afraid to come down here, Victor." Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes snapping back to his host, who was looking ever the more intrigued. Certainly Victor couldn't predict the direction this conversation was going, yet he seemed ever so anxious to watch it play out. Maybe that was the thing he liked the most in Sherlock, the way he simply couldn't guess what he was going to say next. Such deep, meaningful confessions, all recited in a mere whim. In all honesty Sherlock didn't know why he was telling Victor these things; perhaps he said it all in the hope that he was right about Victor's ability to read minds. Perhaps he wanted Victor to know, just so that he could be given a straight answer for once, rather than being forced to constantly guess. It would be so much easier if Victor could read the confession in his words, in the gaps between his syllables. Sherlock would hate to have to say it out loud.
"Afraid? Afraid of me?" Victor presumed, rather selfishly in fact. "I thought you weren't afraid of anything."
"Not...not anything." Sherlock corrected. "Yet I become afraid of myself, occasionally. And when I'm down here I...I become a different person. I feel myself wanting something that I've been fighting against my whole life, and it's infected me. I see it in my dreams, I...I can't get it out of my head." he sneered, shaking his head as if this very concept was too painful to recite. Sherlock winced as if he had to vomit these words out of his mouth, just to be sure that they escaped his tightly pursed lips.
"Can't get what out of your head?" Victor wondered, no doubt falling back into that realm of confusion, in which he assumed that everything was directed back to him. Self-indulgence, perhaps, in where he could feel the admiration begin to leak out of Sherlock's every pore, in which he was bracing himself for a confession. Poor Victor, thinking everything was in love with him. Poor Victor who felt that he was just so special.
"Death." Sherlock spat out as quickly and abruptly as he could. "When I'm down here, I never want to leave. I want to lay in the refrigerator in the dark, and I want to be dragged out in a bag, and set on a table. More than anything, I want to die. And that scares me." Victor straightened up, finally relieving the counter of his weight as he got to his feet. He looked taken aback by such a confession, his lips were parted and his eyes were wide. Yet he looked enchanted, as if he had never heard a sentence more beautiful in all of his life. For once in his life, Victor seemed to be mesmerized by something other than himself. For a moment he walked up to Sherlock, he didn't even taken his time. He seemed to be the one who wanted to be closer, he did not step forward to flatter, or to mock anyone. For once in life Victor was not teasing as he swooped in closer, and took Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock was prepared for a kiss, but it didn't come. Sherlock even allowed his eyes to close, for such was his initial reaction when he felt a palm against his cheek. Yet it didn't come, his lips remained untainted, and Victor's face lingered closer, yet not close enough. Nowhere in the romantic realm of possibility. All the while Sherlock clung to the man's wrists, clinging to his skin with his hands stretched tight around the sleeves of Victor's jacket, for he found that he couldn't stand any longer, not without support. He found that Victor's hands about his face were like electric charges, and all the while their skin touched his entire body shook. He couldn't remember if Victor had ever touched him before. He couldn't remember if he had ever felt anything so meaningful, or so appropriate as this. Sherlock couldn't remember a time when he felt more purposeful.
"You would like to die?" Victor whispered anxiously, his voice dropping so low that it was almost a growl, yet a soft growl. Something of compassion.
"I would like to die." Sherlock agreed in a whisper, his eyes still shut tight so that he could not see the intensity, the hunger, in his companion's eyes. Oh Victor was just exhilarated, Sherlock could feel his pulse pumping through the tips of his fingers, Victor's heartbeat had joined Sherlock's, and together they drummed up a very peculiar rhythm. Sherlock didn't know if Victor was going to kill him. He knew that Victor would like to, he knew that the man was capable of it. Yet there may still be a purpose for him, there may still be a hesitation.
"You don't know how happy that makes me." Victor's voice purred, now so close to Sherlock's ear that he could swear he felt his lips upon his curls, and the heat of his breath along his skin. He could feel the pleasure rising in the man's body; he could feel him getting excited.
"Get on the table, Sherlock. I shall let you lie there." Victor instructed, finally letting his hands fall away from Sherlock's face as he stepped away with a great breath, returning to the world of reality for just a moment. Sherlock nodded, feeling suddenly in control of his own limbs, startled in fact, with his own ability to move. For a moment he felt like a man possessed, not in control of his own body, and completely at the mercy of another. Yet he wasn't finished yet, no, Victor was just now taking his spot at the head of the silver table, he was just now steadying himself against it, as if he was preparing himself for something delightful. And Sherlock did as he was told, well of course he did. For Victor wasn't the only one who was experiencing something pleasurable. No, Sherlock was finally able to relive something out of his dream, he was finally able to place his back upon the metal and stare up at the ceiling, clutching now to the edges of the table and blinking in hesitation to the strong light. Victor took a great, heaving sigh, he could hear his lungs as they inhaled and exhaled, as if he was trying to control something in himself that was fighting to take over. As if Victor was hiding from something, something that was like a beast inside of him. Sherlock let himself fall into the table, he allowed gravity to take complete control, he allowed himself to relax, and to be still. Quite like the cadavers, he attempted to steady all muscles in his body, even his heart if he could. Sherlock wouldn't mind dying right here. In fact he already knew that it would do nothing more than elevate the situation into something truly magical. Yet he couldn't die, not yet. He couldn't simply will his heart to stop beating, or his lungs to stop breathing. He had been waiting in vain all these years, waiting for them to stop on their own. Somehow he knew that the one time he wished them to give up was the one time they would continue on.
"How does it feel?" Victor's voice sang from above, and the footsteps announced his arrival to the edge of the table. Sherlock repositioned himself, blinking his eyes twice, and on the second time he opened them to see Victor's face staring down. His blue eyes were brighter than the lamp, and his lips were parted in such a way that he seemed desperately in need, as if he had lost a piece of his humanity. He looked almost monstrous in the light.
"It feels correct." Sherlock said simply. Victor nodded, lifting his hands now towards Sherlock's face once more. Sherlock didn't wince as his fingers trailed underneath his ears, he knew what to expect, in fact. He knew the purpose. Victor very carefully slid his fingertips underneath the oxygen tube, pulling it up and around Sherlock's ears where it had sat for as long as he could remember. Just about as long as he could forget. That tube had become part of him, something that was more necessary than any of the other limbs on his body. Curious, now that it had been removed. Entrancing, now that Victor pulled it from his nose, and set it aside rather carelessly.
"The dead don't need to breathe." Victor said quietly, brushing his finger along Sherlock's face, following the path where the tube used to run. Finally his finger touched under his nose, just above Sherlock's top lip. Sherlock let his eyes shut tight once more. He could convince himself that he was dreaming, if he wanted to. Yet for once in his life, this would be rather disappointing to distort this into a figment of his imagination. For once in his life, reality was preferable. His breaths came in some difficulty, yet he didn't know if that was because he had to get the oxygen for himself or rather that Victor was in such close proximity. Sherlock had never seen the man so exhilarated, and with his eagerness came Sherlock's anxiousness, wondering what was going to happen next. May this be the moment when he got to feel Victor's lips upon his skin, or his lips, or his clothes? Was this going to be the moment that happened so often in his dreams, now come to play out in real life? His breath came very hesitatingly, it was a struggle now just to inhale and exhale, yet Sherlock didn't mind it. He let his eyes close again, sinking into relaxation at the risk of not seeing Victor for a split second. At the risk of the man getting closer than ever before, breathing such deep sighs as if to demonstrate his ability. Victor hovered in close, his smile Sherlock could see through his eyelids, his smile that was so bright, brighter than the light that shown down upon him, the one nailed to the ceiling above. Maybe the cadavers saw Victor's smile through their eye caps, maybe the dead could see the light. And there they were, those fingers which collected his arm, which held his thin wrist in their cage and squeezed tightly. Victor's hands then moved to Sherlock's chest, letting his fingertips run so gently over the fabric of Sherlock's shirt that Sherlock was only just dimly aware of their presence. Yet it was the pulses, the electricity that was circulating between them, that called all the more attention to his proximity. Sherlock felt a tightness erupting in his chest, perhaps it was his muscles contracting in repulsion, yet most likely it was his heart as it seized, as it struggled now to keep itself from bursting. Sherlock could not recall a moment in his life where he had ever wanted something, or someone rather, so badly. He could not remember a time where he had wanted someone to be as close as he wanted Victor...not even when he was falling in love with John. Finally Victor's hands hovered right above Sherlock's heart, the heart that was beating so furiously, so urgently in his chest. As if it felt the need to remind him of the importance of what was happening, as if it was trying to remind him that something monumental was occurring, as if he already didn't know. Victor's hand came down heavier on Sherlock's heart; he dug his fingertips into his skin, almost as if he was attempting to carve it out of his rib cage. This sudden pain was enough for Sherlock to open his eyes, and when he finally got a glimpse of the man he found, to his surprise, that he looked enraged. The look of euphoria had faded from Victor's face, and it had been replaced now with something of despair. His fingers dug even deeper into Sherlock, until finally his nails drew blood and he remembered that he couldn't realistically get any farther. He couldn't capture the heart that was still beating, beating as if that in itself was disappointing.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock whispered as Victor gave a great groan of defeat, stepping away and running his fingers anxiously through his brown hair. Sherlock wriggled nervously, for he was unsure if he had done something wrong. He knew that this was his rejection, in the form that Victor had decided to take. There had been a confession made, somewhere in the sequence of events Sherlock had admitted his secret, he had breathed it between clenched lips, and Victor had heart it through the sound of silence. And here was his response, turning away harshly, turning away as if Sherlock was far less than perfect.
"It's not right, Sherlock, it's not the same." Victor growled, shaking his head and turning to lean heavily on the counter, with his back turned. He looked troubled, for he was bent in such a way that his arms supported his whole body, as if his legs were incapable now of keeping him upright. His spine stuck angrily out of the back of his black jacket as his back curled, and he was taking long slow breaths, as if to bring him down from the high he had been experiencing, the high of euphoria, and untold passions. Sherlock sat up instinctively, feeling foolish now as he lay on the silver table, waiting as if he was waiting for Victor to turn back around and adore him once more. There was something embarrassing about being abandoned, something embarrassing about the fact that Victor could turn away from him so easily. Sherlock had always thought himself to be beautiful, yet did Victor see otherwise?
"What's not the same?" Sherlock murmured, even though he was quite sure he knew the answer to that. Well of course he knew, there was only one different between him and the cadavers that Victor was so used to admiring.
"You have a heartbeat." Victor whispered, speaking into the wall yet loud enough for Sherlock to hear him. Loud enough for Sherlock to fully process his words, and regret every breath he took to sustain himself. He regretted every beat his heart made, for that very rhythm was the thing keeping Victor away. If he was dead, then maybe Victor would finally come to love him. 

It was impossible for Sherlock to mourn properly, for none of the proper substances could ever get properly into his hands. Well of course he couldn't sit and smoke, burning away all of his regrets and issues with the tap of the ashtray. Nor could he drink, for Mycroft would never let him get a sip of alcohol until he was the legal age, and even that seemed much too far away to be possible. Sherlock would undoubtedly die before he was able to drink. And so what to do, what to wallow in except his emotions? How painful it was, to have to face them head on! How impossible it was to tell himself that he was good enough, when there was no substance trying to convince him as well. Sherlock was in no more control of his mind than he was his heart, and when his heart settled one someone without his permission, well then his mind was quick to follow, and to lament without his approval. Surely he would have been prepared for rejection, even if there never had been a confession? Surely his mind would have been ready for this sort of abandonment, simply because he had not been expecting anything else? In some ways Sherlock applauded himself for not making his attraction too obvious, not making a mistake like Mycroft had and coming on much too strongly. Yet then again, he knew that even the most discreet form of attraction was ever so obvious for Victor Trevor, and he would be able to pick up on it like a dog sniffing out a particular scent. Undoubtedly he could sense love, he could see passion, he could feel lust... Yes, every touch of his fingers upon Sherlock's skin must have detected that longing, for every time he touched Sherlock's skin responded by crying out for more. They both felt that, that hollowness that still had yet to be filled by the one man who was capable of it. Oh how painful this was, how miserable! While falling in love with John, Sherlock had been laboring under a different sort of pain. Something he could push aside, because it was only too easy to tell himself he had no control. Life was so much more manageable when Sherlock could remind himself that he had nothing to live for, when he could remember that he was trapped in an attic with no hopes of the outside world. And now with opportunities, those that he was missing, those that he was messing up! Well now the blame fell on himself, and his inadequacy. There was something imperfect about him, at least in Victor's mind. And Sherlock could do nothing about that, even though it was completely in his power. He heaved a great sigh, shaking his head in exasperation and going back to lying miserably in his bed. He tried to think of John, for thinking of that boy at least gave him a spark of hope. Then again, it only highlighted just how difficult Sherlock's real desires were! If John Watson, the star of the football team and the most popular boy in town, could fall head over heels in love with him, then what made Victor Trevor any different? That man couldn't have such high expectations, could he? Where was Sherlock lacking, for his looks, his wardrobe, his personality all seemed up to par. In fact he knew that he was the perfect embodiment of everything Victor could want, Sherlock knew by the way that man's eyes sparkled, the way he toyed with him as if his emotions were nothing more than a fun, entertaining game. The only thing that seemed to be keeping them apart was life, which was some miserable irony that Sherlock could not contemplate just yet. What did it mean, if Victor loved the dead more than the living? What sort of form did this love manifest into? Well certainly he could not physically love the corpses, although Sherlock's dreams had made such a thing into reality. Yet what pleasure could be derived from that, a stilled corpse, a lifeless hunk of flesh? Surely the common man would want a partner who would love him back, who would move with his body and beat with his heart. A corpse was just...a corpse was just dead. Sherlock shivered apprehensively, for even as he contemplated what Victor might like, he knew that he was continuing to convince himself that he aspired to be just that. If he was everything except dead...well then surely he didn't have to wait long until he reached the final step! And yet he would not know what he had accomplished, would he? He would not be around to finally feel the things of his dreams. And that may just be the most hopeless part of it all. Sherlock knew how to get exactly what he wanted...yet he would never know it in the end. His final step would be his last, and what remained beyond the veil was for Victor to enjoy, and Victor alone.