Mycroft pulled into the church parking lot just a little bit before nine thirty, parking in his usual spot and clambering out with his brother close at his heels. The church was dark, as it so often was at this hour. All mass ended at seven o'clock, and with the exception of occasional dinners and events, the church fell to silence immediately after the last parishioner had left. Sherlock always thought of those church goers as poor souls, occasionally even he would grant them an ounce of pity. For he himself was the embodiment of their disbeliefs, he was the living proof that they wasted away their Sunday mornings worshipping a God that spanned as far as the pages on that book. If God was real, Sherlock wouldn't be here, that was why they kept him locked away, wasn't it? That was why his parents hated him so much, he was the living proof that their lives were lies, and that their beliefs were mere ideas before the coming of science and technology. Oh that church, that dark, hallowed out shell of wasted breath and dollars. Sherlock despised it. Mycroft held a different view, for even as he walked through the doors he blessed himself quietly. Mycroft who was wishing for a God, simply to counteract the workings of the Devil. The Devil they both knew was working full time, attempting to make life on earth more difficult. Oh it was so easy to believe in the Devil, someone to blame for the wrong doings of the world. It was a wonder why people even tried to counteract him with their prayers and their beads. It was a wonder why anyone hoped for a new beginning, when they never could understand that life on Earth was as much of a beginning as they were going to get. Can Heaven be described as anything more wonderful than what is possible here on Earth? Selfish people, whining about their everlasting happiness when they knew not a shred of despair. Selfish people, who pray simply because they want more. Sherlock followed his brother up the stairs to the Holmes' family floor, down the hallway to where the trap door was waiting. This time Mycroft didn't follow, he merely patted Sherlock on the back and said his farewells before continuing down the hallway to his own room. Sherlock ascended by himself, lugging up his oxygen tank like the deadweight that it was, and sat glumly on top of his bed for a little moment of contemplation. Mycroft's voice came to him again, in that tone which the words were first delivered... "What about John Watson?" What a question! What an impossible question, linked to so many connotations of deep rooted guilt! Oh it was easy to tell Mycroft that he was too busy, it was easy to tell even himself that he hadn't the time for contemplation. Yet it was a lie, he knew that much. He had all the time in the world to think, it was just that his thoughts had been drifting elsewhere. So embarrassing, really, to admit to himself that his thoughts strayed past John Watson because he was a thing of the past. Embarrassing to admit to himself that he thought of something else now. Yet in what connotation? Sherlock knew what it felt like to fall in love; he knew that soft pitter patter that went along with it...and when he thought of Victor Trevor he did not get such a feeling! Well that was well enough, considering that Victor was nearly Mycroft's age, much too old for Sherlock, and much too...well let's say emotionless? Victor most likely didn't have the capability to love. And yet, even if Sherlock didn't love him, the man possessed his mind. He was the subject of his thoughts, of his day dreams. Victor Trevor was the recurring man in his dreams, the one who loomed from the back of the room with that smile on his face. He was the voice in the back of Sherlock's head, the one who reminded him the limits of possibility were blurred. He was the one who encouraged the bad ideas which sprung up every so often. No, when Sherlock thought of Victor he did not feel warm on the inside, he didn't feel as though he had the capability to sing. He felt tight, irritable almost. He felt as though with the thought of Victor his muscles clenched, and his organs twisted. He felt his fingers tense even now, with such power behind that fist that he could break walls, or move mountains. Such power behind this pent up rage, something of indescribable passion, of an unstoppable force. Maybe this was what Mycroft was concerned about; maybe this was the persona of Victor leaking slowly into his own body. Maybe this was how Victor felt every day, with his head held that high, with his smile cutting like blades...unstoppable. 

It was that look of inconvenience again, that look that just screamed "when are you going to die already?" Sherlock knew that he was long past pleasing his mother, yet he still thought it was a little bit rude to look upon your own son as if he was the most hideous thing you could imagine.
"Have anything to say to me, mother, or are you content with staring?" Sherlock snapped, for it was rather difficult to read while his mother glared. She took a quick breath, exposing her clenched teeth as if she couldn't believe he had the audacity to ask her something like this. In fact, as they could both recall, this was the most hostility he had ever offered her. It was undoubtedly Victor's influence, for he wasn't afraid of the retaliation. In fact, he actually enjoyed watching his mother's lips clench in disgust.
"Don't you dare use that tone with me." Mrs. Holmes growled. Sherlock sighed heavily, twirling his pen in the air with indifference as he went back to his reading. She continued to stare, and it really did not do well for concentration.
"Wondering when I'm going to die?" Sherlock presumed finally, for he really couldn't stand her piercing gaze any longer. "Wondering when you'll finally be rid of me?"
"Counting the days." Mrs. Holmes snapped back, presumably having had enough of his snarky attitude. She wasn't one to pretend, she wasn't one to fake sympathy. Below, the church music could be heard seeping through the walls. Sherlock could only hope that the silent screams of their clench fists and sharp gazes couldn't be heard below. He hoped the music would mask the noise of silence.
"Will you have a funeral for me?" Sherlock wondered in an almost challenging sense.
"For you? Who would come to mourn?" Mrs. Holmes snapped. "Of course we won't."
"Will you have me preserved none the less? If I wrote it in my will?" Sherlock asked. Mrs. Holmes repositioned herself in her chair, sitting up straight and proper.
"If you wrote it in your will, I suppose I would not have a choice, will I?" Mrs. Holmes sneered. Sherlock smiled thankfully, nodding his head and knowing that he had won. And so it would be, that he was to be preserved, embalmed, powdered and dressed in his best. Handled by those hands, who would caress his dead skin and appreciate the beauty that had been left behind.
"Then I shall write a will." Sherlock said confidently. Mrs. Holmes watched him once more, and he could tell now that there was an underlying confusion, hidden amongst the anger.
"Why would you want to be preserved, if you've seen the process? Is it not...distasteful?" Mrs. Holmes presumed, twitching her nose in quiet disturbance, for obviously it pained her to have an actual conversation with her son. To talk to him would be to acknowledge his humanity, and obviously that would bring about a feeling of guilt. Mrs. Holmes assumed that she had locked away a mere hunk of flesh, a godless creature who was repulsive to the world. As soon as she allowed herself to remember that such a tortured thing really was her own son, a thing of her own creation, well that was when the pain and guilt would finally settle in.
"It's a process far more nurturing than anything I've received thus far." Sherlock snarled. Mrs. Holmes winced, and with that rose haughtily to her feet.
"I will not be talked to like that. You dare insult me?" she growled, her usually pale face reddening now as she recoiled.
"Dare I insult my own mother? Well isn't that just as daring as imprisoning your own son?" Sherlock shot back, getting to his feet as well, only to receive a slap in the face.
"Don't be so prideful as to classify yourself as my son...you know as well as I that you're the spawn of the Devil!" she cried, turning her back and starting down the trap door as quickly as her heeled shoes could take her.
"It's the same thing, is it not?" Sherlock called back, but his only response was the trap door shutting violently, and shuttering against the impact of the ladder as it came swinging up to meet it. Yet once the silence took over once more, Sherlock was left not with a sense of shame, yet with satisfaction. He had never been daring enough to stand up to that woman, to that horrible creature. This was Victor's impact, the first taste of it. This was the courage to stand up for himself, to stand up for the injustices which were forced upon him as if they were necessary. The decision then, to not be treated like an inconvenience, was purely Victor's doing, purely Victor's suggestion. Sherlock smiled to himself quietly, before turning away to his desk and uncapping a pen as quickly as he could. He hadn't ever thought of writing a will, simply because he never had any wishes for the afterlife. He hadn't cared what happened to his body, simply because he knew that no one else would care either. He didn't have any possessions to pass down, nor any money. It was strange; to be so unprepared for death all the while it was growing so much closer with every passing moment? Yet now he wrote in urgency, sitting at his desk and scribbling as if the Grimm Reaper himself was standing behind him, with his scythe raised high, and ready to strike. Sherlock wrote as if his death was seconds away, simply because for once in his life his death was a deadline.
The Last Will And Testament of William Sherlock Scott Holmes:
I will be sent to the morgue for preservation, to be embalmed by Victor Trevor.
That was all he wrote, simply because that was all he had to write. Nothing would be passed down, or granted to any of his family members. The only thing he wished to happen was that he might be granted a spot on that silver table, where so many had lay before him, and be handled with such gentleness, and such charisma, that he felt admired more in death than he had in life. 

 Mycroft didn't walk Sherlock down to the morgue, yet this time the air was as clean as it could've been with the excess stench of formaldehyde. That being said, there was no cigarette smoke. Victor was sitting up on the counter, without his apron on, looking very stoic as he bent over an unraveled newspaper. He obviously hadn't noticed as Sherlock walked inside, simply because he had a very interesting smile on his face, something of accomplishment really. He read the newspaper and beamed, as if he couldn't have been presented with better news if he tried. 

"Mr. Trevor?" Sherlock said rather apprehensively, for he didn't want to interrupt yet he felt rather out of place observing. Victor was obviously having a moment, not necessarily of recollection, yet one that seemed to be of private satisfaction all the same. He was poised so elegantly atop that counter, in fact Sherlock felt it a shame to allow him to move and reposition himself. For once his posture was broken, and his walking stick lay uselessly on the floor next to him. His back was bent in a natural bend, with one of his knees bent over the other, and a look of very human happiness on his face. He looked...well the only word for it would be beautiful. Yet just as soon as he noticed that he was being watched Victor corrected himself, he straightened up back into that rigid posture, adopted his expressionless smile once more. Yet for the first time, Sherlock had to ask himself if that whole gentleman composure was a ploy or not. Was it all just for show, and was this easy going stance his true natural way?
"Sherlock, excellent news!" Victor exclaimed, tossing the paper aside and jumping back onto the floor where he belonged. Sherlock couldn't help but smile right along with him, oh it seemed as though that smile was contagious, like an infectious disease! Sherlock didn't even know what this good news was, yet he knew that whatever could make Victor Trevor smile would make him smile as well.
"Well go on then, don't leave me in suspense." Sherlock urged, folding his hands behind his back and grinning widely at his host.
"There's been a murder." Victor said with glee. "Well, in fact a disappearance, yet all the same isn't that just..." he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath all the while wriggling in enthusiasm... "Riveting?" Sherlock had to admit, that certainly wasn't the sort of good news that would be universally appreciated. Victor's occupation gave him something of an excuse, yet all the same morally he seemed to be backwards. Sherlock's smile even managed to waver a little bit.
"A disappearance? Well how on earth is that good news?" Sherlock wondered curiously.
"Well because if they ever do find the culprit, well then we get the body! I always love working on the tragic ones, whether it be the kidnapper, whether it be the victim...We either get to work on a madman or preserve someone who will be mourned by all." Victor said with a deep sigh. "Oh a joyous day."
"I've never seen you this happy before." Sherlock commented, for he really couldn't help but appreciate that great big smile on Victor's face. It was so genuine, more genuine he presumed than a great many other expressions that had come across Victor's lips.
"Well we haven't known each other long, so that's perfectly explainable." Victor said with a quick shrug.
"Yes I suppose so." Sherlock agreed. He looked to the refrigerator now, seeing that most all of the slots were without a name card. "Slow day?" he presumed.
"Yes, the worst. I'm sorry to say Sherlock, that there's no work to be done." Victor admitted with a sigh. His eyes looked upon the refrigerator as well, focusing for just a moment on one of the slots near the bottom left corner. That one was newly filled, Sherlock saw, yet there was no name on the card. It was just blank, as if to remind Victor that there was someone there, yet no one of much importance.
"No work? Well we can find something to do I'm sure!" Sherlock insisted, unable now to hide his worry. The very idea of arriving home early seemed almost too frightening, and it was all he could do now but beg Victor to let him stay throughout his hours. Their time together was the thing he looked forward to most, and to have it cut short due to lack of deaths seemed almost tragic! Oh look at him now, wishing for more people to fall over dead! How this job has changed his moral compass...
"So eager, Sherlock. One might assume you didn't want to go home." Victor observed with a knowing little grin, for of course he must have been able to gauge Sherlock's place in that house when he had made his original inquiry.
"Of course I don't." Sherlock admitted weakly, now holding his oxygen tank close, as if that was going to provide him any sympathy. Yet he didn't get any, oh that was the thing he loved most about this man! Victor nodded, turning away and collecting his stick from the floor before walking towards the coat rack in the corner with a very purposeful stride.
"Well then get your coat." Victor suggested. "We'll go out."
"Out?" Sherlock clarified with a blink, standing still as he was already wearing his coat, and wasn't entirely sure if Victor was kidding or not. Surely he didn't actually intend to bring Sherlock into the real world?
"Yes Sherlock, out. Did you not hear me?" Victor wondered softly. "I'm sure they don't take you out much, or at all, really. Do you not want to see the world?"
"Well yes of course I want to see the world, but..."
"Or is it that you don't think I'm good company?" Victor asked, turning abruptly to face Sherlock with those piecing, accusing blue eyes. Sherlock faltered, feeling quite pressured to spit out a good answer.
"You're the best company." he muttered helplessly, which of course was his honest truth. "It's not that I don't want to go out, I'm just wondering why."
"Life goes much smoother if you don't question it. Now come, Sherlock, we'll take the hearse." Victor said with a grin, placing his top hat very elegantly atop his head and strolling towards the door with ease. Sherlock nodded, feeling as though he was in no position to do anything else, and followed as per Victor's command. They clambered up the steps to the parking lot, locking the door behind and starting off towards where that single black vehicle waited. Sherlock didn't know if Victor had another car or if he simply drove this one around, yet no matter how morbid it appeared to be it still suited his entire persona. No other man could get away with driving a hearse everywhere, except the one who wore a top hat in the twenty first century. Sherlock took his place in the passenger seat, not daring to look behind him dare he see a coffin waiting. There was an empty feeling coming from the back of the vehicle, a sort of summoning that seemed to pull at him as he sat up front, wrapping its long fingers about his shoulders as if to try to tempt him into the afterlife. Yet it was almost comforting, especially since he sat beside Victor Trevor himself, the one who knew death so personally that he could almost control it. He may very well be an immortal, that man. Maybe that's why he was so peculiar in dress and in personality, maybe he's on personal terms with the Reaper, and has therefore avoided him. That would make a world of sense. Sherlock realized that he was staring only after Victor glanced towards him, those blue eyes locking for just a moment with Sherlock's without saying a word. Yet they were accusing, with very obvious humor mixed in as well. Victor knew of course that Sherlock had some sort of fascination with him, and that seemed to empower him even more. Sherlock remembered then, what Mycroft had warned about obsession... Yet what was he to do? Disregard Victor, or leave him behind? How could he even fathom such an idea, that would be the equivalent of severing his own limb! No, Sherlock didn't mind obsession, especially since this man seemed so worthy of it. Everything about Victor felt so...so purposeful. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking out the window and trying to distract himself with other things. He still wasn't entirely sure if Victor could read minds or not, and so he made sure to stare instead outside the window, where the world waited. He had not seen this part of town before, these buildings, shops, and people. The world moved fast, all churning outside of the car window in a careless, unappreciative fashion. No one out there knew that their life was glamorous, no one out there would do anything but complain. Yet they took for granted their daily steps in the outside world, their errands and jobs and chores. Little did they know that Sherlock was almost eighteen and he had not yet been more than a mile outside of his range of vision from the attic window. Little did they know that their lives could be much worse. Sherlock had to admit, he was getting a very anxious sort of excitement. He didn't know where Victor was taking him, yet he didn't care. There was a sort of humming throughout his whole body, a sort of feeling he hadn't felt since he was first allowed to go to the funeral all those days ago. Oh how that felt like years! And now, here he was with the everlasting benefits.