"It's the sports page I thought you'd want to see. Full color, full page." Mycroft said with a grin. Sherlock nodded, flipping to the spots page and seeing just as Mycroft had promised, a large picture with John in an elegant, striking pose. He was poised above the football, with his foot in the air ready to kick. His jersey was clinging to his chest, white so that you could basically see straight through, his blonde hair turning dark in the rain...
"Beautiful." Sherlock breathed truthfully, yet all the same he felt the need to wrap the picture up just as soon as he had unearthed it. It felt weird; to look at John's photograph and to know that one time or another he had felt more...
"Yes, I thought you would appreciate it." Mycroft agreed quietly, staring out the windshield and looking quite nervous. There was obviously something more he wanted to say, and obviously something more that Sherlock wanted to hear. Yet all the same, neither one of them wanted to start up any sort of conversation, for the tension would be unbearable. Yet it could not go unsaid, and it would take the bigger one of them both to manage such a feat...
"Sherlock, about what I said last night..." Mycroft began.
"Yes." Sherlock interrupted immediately, feeling as though it was all he needed to do but agree nervously. Mycroft hesitated, yet went on all the same.
"I pray you do not think me a weaker man, or a different one." Mycroft began quietly.
"No of course not. Mycroft I think...well I suppose I find it a bit odd. Yet you're my brother, it's sort of my job to find you odd. I think it was just surprising that you had not admitted such a thing, for four years talking about my own love life, you'd think you would have mentioned your own!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mycroft merely shook his head, color returning to his cheeks as he flushed up in humiliation.
"My life was anything but love, it was mere insanity that had befallen me. Besides, I thought it rude to go blabbering about my own situation as if it was anything near as hopeless as your own." Mycroft admitted quietly.
"Hopeless? My love life is not hopeless! I'd like to think that I'm far more attractive than..."
"That's not what I mean! Ouch, Sherlock!" Mycroft growled, shaking his head as if Sherlock's words had left physical wounds embedded in him. "I simply meant that I could go out in the world and pursue my own madness, while you were forced in the attic to simmer in your own."
"But you tried, you did peruse it...didn't you?" Sherlock pointed out.
"Sherlock, things in the past are simply best left unmentioned." Mycroft protested, shaking his head as if he simply didn't want to think about such things any longer. Whatever had happened between the two, during that 'climax' or so Mycroft had put it, well it had undoubtedly been a disaster! Yet how it went down, what happened and who got their heart broken...well that was entirely clouded in mystery. Sherlock knew that he could ask Victor, yet then again discussing the topic of love with that man wasn't the least bit tempting. In fact, Sherlock would rather stay very quiet and go about his work as he was expected to. Any word to Victor would be a reason for eye contact, and for communication. Any word to Victor would be...well it would be a trap.
"I think it's cute, Mycroft! The way you loved him. I think it's a very fitting match." Sherlock defended with a little chuckle, to which Mycroft merely sneered.
"It's anything but! We cannot be in the same room together for more than three minutes without tearing at each other's throats!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"Wasn't it always said that if you're mean to someone, it really means that you like them?" Sherlock clarified in a childish little giggle.
"That's outrageous. You're mean to someone if you hate them, if they cheated you...and broke your heart." Mycroft growled. "You're mean to someone if they deserve it."
"So childish you are." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head with a little smile all the while Mycroft's scowl deepened.
"But you heeded my warning, yes?" Mycroft clarified, taking his eyes off of the road for one moment so as to give his brother that everlasting glare. Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as if he simply didn't have time for his brother's pestering.
"Yes, Mycroft. Now really I find it insulting that you'd think I'd ever fall for him." Sherlock pointed out.
"Why? Sherlock you're an impressionable young man, and he's...well he's confident, and beautiful, and just innately flirtatious. It would be perfectly plausible for you to fall in love." Mycroft pointed out.
"But he's your age, and I'm just seventeen." Sherlock pointed out quietly, for age was really the only thing he could use against Mycroft's argument. Yet that really wasn't a reason not to fall in love, it was merely a reason for that love not to be accepted. Anyone could fall in love with anyone; Sherlock seemed to have learned that the hard way.
"Yes, but I'm sure that your heart has no gauge of morality, or lawfulness, does it Sherlock?" Mycroft clarified. Sherlock sighed heavily, yet shook his head all the same.
"I know better." Sherlock said finally, and that was his last word on the topic. When they pulled into the parking lot, Sherlock followed his brother very glumly to the door. He wasn't entirely sure why Mycroft insisted on going in, considering now that Sherlock knew very much about his past occurrences with Victor. Yet all the same, the man must feel entitled to at least be there for Sherlock, especially if he suspected that Victor's influence was beginning to worsen. Together they descended the stairs, hearing already the sound of Victor's record player on full volume, blasting that enchanting opera. Sherlock knew that he and Mycroft shared the same sort of anticipation, that nagging feeling in their chests, the one which knows it had no place in their hearts, yet continued to bombard them all the same. Both were feeling strong pulls of desire, yet they knew to silence them as best they could. Mycroft went through the doors first, and so Sherlock walked in just in time to see Victor's look of surprise.
"Ah, Mycroft! Haven't seen you in a while." Victor exclaimed with a little grin, standing above the corpse he had been working on with a needle in his long fingers. He didn't look too enthusiastic about setting his work aside, yet all the same he placed the needle where it belonged on the table and peeled off his gloves in an instant. "And Sherlock, again."
"Hello Victor." Sherlock said with a little mutter. Oh there it was, that peg of guilt! As soon as their eyes met Sherlock felt himself go weightless once more, and his own fingers gripped his oxygen tank handle even harder than before, so as to ensure that he didn't feel the other fingers as he had last night. For here he was, standing before the man himself!
"You've been treating him well, I assume, Mr. Trevor?" Mycroft clarified, trying to keep on that intimidating persona all the while Sherlock could tell more than his knees were trembling. His heart in his chest, undoubtedly, was going at a constant speed.
"As well as I possibly can, Mycroft. And even that surpasses his usual living standards." Victor reminded Mycroft bitterly, as if he thought himself now responsible for advocating for Sherlock's living conditions.
"That's my parents' fault, not Mycroft's." Sherlock defended immediately, for he didn't want Mycroft to be put down so easily by the man he had once allowed himself to love. Victor recoiled just a bit, as if he had not expected Sherlock to jump to the aid of his brother. He nodded quietly, looking between the brothers with that intoxicating sparkle in his eye.
"So it is." He agreed quietly. For a moment all that was heard was the opera, for a moment all that any of them could do was listen. Mycroft began to rock back and forth on his heels, obviously realizing now that it was time for him to leave.
"Well then, I do bid you good day. Sherlock, be smart." Mycroft insisted, clapping his brother on the shoulder and looking him in the eyes with that deep, anxious glare. That look which attempted to remind Sherlock of just what was at stake here...what they could both lose now to Victor Trevor's influence.
"I'm always smart." Sherlock lied hastily; nodding his head all the while Mycroft breathed a noise of nervousness.
"Yes, I suppose you are." He agreed doubtfully, yet allowed his brother to step away all the same. Mycroft didn't say goodbye to Victor, instead he cast a warning look in the man's direction, as if to tell him that he knew exactly what he was planning, and to warn him that it wasn't going to work. With that, finally, Mycroft made his leave.
"Well he's just a cloud on a sunny day, is he not?" Victor grumbled just as soon as they heard Mycroft's feet ascending the stairs.
"He's always been the sun to me." Sherlock defended quietly, looking back to where the doors had just stilled. Mycroft was now long gone, leaving Sherlock and Victor together to hover in this uncomfortable silence.
"Well isn't that just poetic?" Victor chuckled, going back to where his work had been cut off. Sherlock nodded, walking over to the corpse and looking down on it curiously. It was odd, really, to know how it felt to be there. Or at least to imagine what it felt to be there. He made sure to keep himself occupied with other things while Victor reapplied his gloves, yet Sherlock was all too aware as Victor placed his fingertips against the man's bare collarbone, so as to insert the needle into his desired spot. He remembered that feeling...vividly.
"You're quiet today." Victor commented as he worked, replacing the silence now with the steady hum of the blood pump.
"I um...well I'm just tired." Sherlock lied quickly. "Didn't get much sleep last night."
"Ah, must have been the coffee then." Victor decided with a laugh. "Can't handle your caffeine?"
"That must be it." Sherlock agreed haphazardly, although he knew full well that caffeine had nothing to do with it. No, he had been under the influence of another drug, a much more potent thing...a much more dangerous addiction.
"Well, I've got my hands full of corpses these days. Would you mind helping out? Possibly doing a body all on your own?" Victor suggested with an enthusiastic raise of his eyebrows.
"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed instantly, before clearing his throat and reminding himself to keep his enthusiasm at a minimum. "I mean...yes that would be great." He added hastily. Victor grinned widely, gesturing to the refrigerator as if it was all fair game.
"Then pick, Sherlock. The ones with tags hanging from the handles have been embalmed, the ones who have yet to still have the cards." Victor said with a shrug, going back now to check on the blood as it pumped from his most recent project. Sherlock nodded, starting over to the refrigerator and looking up and down on the multiple doors. None of them stood out to him, for the names were foreign and written in sloppy cursive handwriting. The only door that seemed mysterious enough to be tempting was the one in the in the bottom left corner, the same one that Sherlock had noticed there yesterday. The card was still on the door, yet there was no name, nothing to allude to that space's being filled at all. Yet Victor was a systematic man, and the corpses usually all followed some sort of pattern, usually four across and three down. This one was in the fifth slot, way off were it might not be noticed. Well was this body being neglected, had Victor forgotten about it simply because it had fallen out of his rhythm? Sherlock decided then that he ought to pick that one, to ensure that it didn't start rotting prematurely, and that Victor didn't get sued by the grieving family. Sherlock made for the door, leaning down and opening it to be met with a smell of heavy perfume. It was as if the corpse was being preserved better than the rest, for it stank of rose petals and lavender. Sherlock found that quite odd, yet he was only allowed to get a quick glance at a man's naked corpse, a man with sandy blonde hair as it would seem in the dim lighting.
"Not that one, Sherlock!" Victor called, casually yet with an underlying sense of urgency in his voice. Sherlock jumped to his feet, nodding enthusiastically for he was very afraid of having done something wrong. He shut the door as quickly as he could, looking back to see that victor was half way over to the refrigerator, as if he was on his way to close it if Sherlock never got around to it. He smiled, yet there was something of desperation in his eyes, something that seemed almost guilty.
"That one is a very important costumer. Rich family, you see, and he's to be kept in very special conditions." Victor said in a mutter, lingering a couple of feet away from Sherlock as his eyes flickered down towards the corpse's special box. "Don't touch that one, if you will."
"Yes of course. Sorry, Mr. Trevor." Sherlock grumbled shamefully, to which Victor just let out a little laugh of amusement.
"Sorry? Well there's nothing to be sorry about! An honest mistake, Sherlock." Victor assured, smiling that dazzling smile before turning on his heel and letting his fingers glide over the many doors of the refrigerator, as if intending to touch all of the corpses that lay behind the metal. Sherlock took a deep, nervous breath, watching as Victor returned to his corpse in a very transfixed state. Oh what that man did to him it was just...well it was almost unbelievable! It was almost tragic, how Sherlock could blatantly disobey his brother's warnings on the same day they were issued to him! How horrible life was, to present him finally with a different set of feelings, feelings which he had no idea how to comprehend! Even more terrible still was that they were directed a man who very much knew what to do, a man who knew how to bend people to his will, and could detect the signs of love almost as quickly as he could smell the metallic whiff of blood. 

 "Now don't let yourself go just yet, Sherlock stay in your clothes." Mycroft insisted as Sherlock jumped out of the car and into the church parking lot. It was a Friday night, about a week after Sherlock had discovered his brother's secrets and his own. Things hadn't progressed, life was stagnated, and Sherlock's routine was becoming clockwork. The same hours he slaved over the silver tables, draining and filling and cleaning those horrible corpses. Hour after hour he tended to his work, hidden behind an apron and gloves; all the while he felt Victor's eyes on him. He knew that Victor was aware of his own influence, well you'd have to be really very good to hide anything from Victor Trevor. Sherlock was not very secretive, and he betrayed himself most every time a word got caught in his throat, or a glance held for just a moment too long. He betrayed himself and his secrets, those that were building up so obviously against his heart, and tainting his dreams with madness. Yet all the while they both knew of Sherlock's desires, neither he nor Victor dared mention them, or act upon them. Victor acted as he always did, flirtatious and mysterious; tip toeing around Sherlock's heart all the while his smile was so rich, and so inviting. Possibly he was okay with it; possibly he accepted Sherlock and what he so dearly wanted. Yet he would never make the first move...no Victor would never give Sherlock that opportunity. 

"What are you talking about? It's night time!" Sherlock whined, checking his watch so as to ensure that nine o'clock really was the hour. Why would Mycroft be so insistent for him to stay dressed when he had nothing else to do for the day? Mycroft chuckled, joining his brother in the parking lot and starting towards the church with a mischievous little grin.
"No, you're not finished yet. I've got a little surprise for you, actually." Mycroft said playfully, walking into the church and leading the way up to the trap door. Sherlock frowned at him, wondering just what sort of game he was attempting to play. Sherlock had to admit, if this little surprise included anything that had to do with leaving the house, he would be very upset. His head was cloudy from the tiresome work he had been putting in all day, and the idea of a nice cup of tea and a quiet book was the most tempting option. If Mycroft dragged him out of the house to go bowling or some other lame brotherly activity Sherlock might just puke.
"A surprise?" Sherlock clarified. "Does it involve leaving the house?"
"Well yes, but you're not opposed to that any longer, are you?" Mycroft wondered with a grin, ascending the ladder into the attic with Sherlock close on his heels.
"I've never been opposed to leaving this house, except at an unreasonable hour such as this." Sherlock defended with a frown.
"It's nine o'clock." Mycroft insisted in some exasperation, as if he couldn't believe how lazy his brother was becoming.
"It's bedtime!" Sherlock exclaimed, dragging himself up onto the floor and merely sitting on the wood, heaving his oxygen tank up to sit next to him glumly.
"You're going to want to make yourself look presentable." Mycroft suggested with a sly smile.
"I'm presentable." Sherlock defended, looking down upon his clothes as if to remind Mycroft that they were easily a step above most everyone else's fashion choices of the day. Yet he had to admit that they were a bit wrinkled, with a splatter of something mysterious along the cuffs. He stank of formaldehyde, and undoubtedly the other arraignment of aromas associated with the slowing of decaying flesh. Alright then, maybe he wasn't as presentable as Mycroft would have expected him to be.
"Change your shirt." Mycroft suggested.
"Why?" Sherlock growled, jumping to his feet and closing the trap door with a loud smack.
"You're going out! Now if I told you where, then I couldn't cherish your reaction when you realize. So do as I say now, and make yourself beautiful. I know you'll thank me later." Mycroft insisted with a strong breath of annoyance, as if he really couldn't believe how difficult his brother was being.
"Is this going to be an exciting adventure? Are you taking me out to the bars?" Sherlock asked with a sarcastic growl.
"I'm not taking you anywhere." Mycroft said with a little grin, leaning back against the wall and watching as Sherlock picked out one of his nicer shirts from the line that was hanging in his wardrobe.
"Well that's almost threatening." He decided with a frown.
"You'll thank me later." Mycroft repeated. "In fact, you'd be unappreciative if you did not thank me for the rest of your life."
"You're making it sound like you're a saint." Sherlock reminded him doubtfully.
"Am I not?" Mycroft teased.
"No, you're not." Sherlock said flatly. "Not in the slightest."
"Come on then Sherlock, you've got about ten minutes before we need to be down in the parking lot again." Mycroft insisted, pulling out his stopwatch only to flash a concerned little glance and shove it back into his pocket once more. Sherlock shook his head in exasperation, yet at this time he decided that there was no point in arguing. Mycroft was undoubtedly delusional; this whole ordeal was probably going to amount to a simple walk to the pharmacy to pick up his medication. Yet Sherlock went along with his brother's suggestions, just on the off chance that there was some kind of importance waiting for him in the parking lot. He changed his clothes, brushed his hair, and Mycroft even helped him apply some fancy cologne to his collar. Now what on earth cologne had to do with anything was certainly beyond Sherlock's contemplation, for he had never worn the stuff before. He never had reason to, really, for wasn't it all about romance? About pulling people in to your skin, to make them come closer to sniff the fragrant aroma? Really Sherlock didn't understand why this was necessary, for any romance that happened after nine o'clock was much too inconvenient for him.