"Mr. Trevor." Came Mycroft's voice from afar, and both Sherlock and Victor turned to see the man himself coming storming up the aisle from the altar.
"Ah, Mycroft." Victor said in an amused sort of way, reaching out a hand for another hand shake, one which Mycroft ignored of course. Mycroft halted right in front of Mr. Trevor, in a way which made it only too easy to compare them both. Well of course their similarities far outnumbered their differences, and for a moment they looked to be much more related than Sherlock and Mycroft would ever be. For starters, their attire was almost identical. Both wore suits without needing to, with a cane (or umbrella, on Mycroft's part) for which to lean on or swing menacingly. Their expressions were similar, something of the utmost disgust, and their eyes glared without any hint of illumination. They looked downright threatening, as if while sizing each other up they were determining which one would win in a fight to the death. Sherlock would put his money on Mycroft in most all situations, yet for whatever reason Victor Trevor housed the same sort of unstoppable energy, and the audacity to smile even while Mycroft looked tempted to kick him out of the church with his fancy pointed dress shoe. For whatever reason, Sherlock was taking to like Victor Trevor more and more.
"I don't appreciate you talking to the guests. You know your job is simply to..." Mycroft's words were interrupted when Victor raised a single finger, to silence him abruptly. Mycroft blinked, as if he simply couldn't process what had just been done. As if he was trying to comprehend just how Victor had managed to raise such a finger with such force.
"Guests? I'm sorry, but this young man here had introduced himself to me as a relation of yours. Holmes..." Victor said with a grin. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"He's..." Mycroft faltered, for he didn't know whether or not he was supposed to lie in this situation. Sherlock let his head fall shamefully, for he could just tell that Mycroft was going to give him quite the stern talking to after Mr. Trevor's departure. Yet in all honesty, he really wasn't breaking any rules? He was merely introducing himself! He wasn't supposed to deny his heritage; it was just that most people didn't know he existed. "He's my brother, yes. But we don't like him out much, for his health is fragile."
"Yes, he was just saying." Victor agreed, yet unlike most he left out the additive of sympathy. Instead, he merely looked upon Sherlock again with those startling blue eyes, with an expression of the utmost inconvenience. Almost as if he couldn't believe that Mycroft dared challenge him! What sort of fearless man was this, to not only stand tall against Mycroft's obvious anger, but challenge him to the point where he was standing ontop?
"It's your job, Mr. Trevor, to please move the casket out of my church, not to scare those who still linger about the pews." Mycroft reminded him, regaining what composure he could manage. Yet all the while, Victor looked unfazed.
"I was just asking if he was still in the process of mourning. Usually when I arrive for your caskets, the church is empty." Victor defended. Mycroft's upper lip trembled in anger, and Sherlock could see that when he was not talking his jaw was clenched so tightly that it looked as though it could never be opened again. He was livid, for he clutched his umbrella so tightly that his skin turned white at the knuckles.
"Leave my brother alone." Mycroft said finally. Victor heaved a great sigh of regret, yet turned to Sherlock instead, as if he hadn't heard or taken heed of a single word that Mycroft had said.
"It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Holmes- the younger." He cast a side eye to Mycroft again, as if to ensure that his farewell was as long and drawn out as he could manage it. Obviously he was just trying to aggravate Mycroft more, and see just how red his face could turn. It was working, and it was almost tempting to crack a smile as well. Sherlock found this man's daring to be admirable, for such a man seemed to be casual about life and about death as well. He seemed almost godlike in the way he composed himself, unfazed by even the most dangerous of angry men.
"It was nice to meet you as well." Sherlock agreed with a stiff little nod, for he wasn't entirely sure what else there was to say to such a man who he had known for so short of time. Yet all the same, Victor Trevor's departure disappointed Sherlock, for he was the first person he had talked to that wasn't his family in a very long time...in fact maybe even a lifetime.
"And Mycroft," Victor started, as he side stepped the angry man and paused on his way down the aisle, "It's always nice to see you." With that, Victor gave a wink and started down the aisle towards the coffin, waving his cane impatiently at two lingering men who raced to get to the casket and unload it from the pedestal on which it stood. He walked with a purpose, with a swagger that radiated power, and for a moment Sherlock was stuck to do nothing but stare in awe. Mycroft, however, was not very good at hiding his disgust. He sneered in anger, and grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulder to steer him away from the church and from the man who was now strutting along as if he owned the place.
"Come on Sherlock, I think we've done enough." Mycroft growled, and with that he carted Sherlock outside the doors and onto the sidewalk, the only familiar place in the whole world to poor Sherlock. Yet he never had the chance to walk it, and to stare up at the blue sky above. The outside world was fresh, and it was indescribably beautiful. The birds were chirping louder than they ever did from behind the glass, and the sun was hot on Sherlock's pale, unblemished skin. Yet he couldn't appreciate it, really, for Mycroft's grip was still strong, and all the while he walked him down the sidewalk and into what must have been town not a word was said. All the while Mycroft grumbled to himself, shaking his head as if he was trying to figure out just what he was going to do.
"Did you know that man?" Sherlock wondered. Of course he wanted to know more about Victor Trevor, yet at the same time he wanted to know what was so bad about Victor knowing about him. Was it really so much of a death sentence, as Mycroft was making it out to be?
"Yes, oh yes I know Victor Trevor." Mycroft growled. "The most insolent, disgusting man I've ever had to make eye contact with."
"He didn't seem too bad to me." Sherlock defended quickly; all the while he really had no grasp of what that man was really like. Yet all the same, he was usually a good judge of character. All the while Mycroft despised him, Sherlock really had no reason to hold a grudge.
"Well that's because you don't know him. He's just so irksome! And so rude!" Mycroft exclaimed, halting in his furious walk to lean up against the side of a brick building, tapping his fingers so agressivley against his umbrella handle that he seemed to forget that he had been holding a conversation just seconds before.
"You just don't like him because he's not afraid of you." Sherlock presumed. Mycroft faltered, his black eyes looking down onto his brother with an expression of the utmost confusion.
"Sherlock that is not why I don't like him." Mycroft defended, yet all the same he couldn't produce a better reason for his hatred. Instead he merely shook his head, and said nothing more. Sherlock leaned against the wall as well, staring at the crowd of people on the other side of the road and wondering what differed them all. What were they like? What was their favorite food, how many children did they have, do they like dogs or cats? And yet, with a quick voice in the back of his head that sounded disturbingly familiar...when were they going to die?
"Are we going to eat somewhere?" Sherlock asked quickly, for it seemed as though Mycroft was content to stand here for a long while.
"No, no we're going home. Just not...let's just wait until his bloody hearse leaves." Mycroft said in a growl, and just now did Sherlock realize why they had picked this spot to wait at. They could see the parking lot of the church, discretely enough so that those in the parking lot would not know that they were being observed. Yet Mycroft stood close to the wall, with his black eyes fixed to the hearse so as to be sure that the entire mortuary team left when they were supposed to. Yes, there was the coffin now, being rolled on some sort of dolly down the pavement and into the back of the hearse, where men in black suits with white gloves were waiting to receive it. And there went Victor, swinging his cane with all the confidence in the world, and dressed so dark that he was almost indistinguishable from the blacktop on which he walked. Sherlock was able to breathe normally, yet all the same he felt some sort of pang of interest. That man was just...well he was unlike anyone Sherlock had ever encountered before. And even though he had a very narrow view of the world, he was quite sure he was correct in that assumption. 

 Sherlock only muddled in the defeat of his day of freedom when he returned to his room. He had been so distracted by the end result that he had almost forgotten about the goal, and the failure to complete it. In fact, Sherlock had forgotten about John Watson only until he sat up in his bed once more, and was confided in those four walls. He had no choice but to go back into his head, and when he did he was greeted by that ever familiar boy, the one who lurked in the back of his mind now with the connotation of humiliation, and of defeat. The boy who just might've been Sherlock's, had he been any bolder, and any less ashamed of his own disgusting display. Well of course it wouldn't have been right to approach the boy again! John wouldn't be able to look at him, that was for sure. It was just too embarrassing to approach that boy, for now it was all Sherlock could do but stop and wait for his next opportunity, to wait until the stars aligned again and he would be offered a second shot at eternal happiness. He was holed up in the attic for what felt like ages, yet what turned out to be just three days. It took three days until he began to hear yelling, the loudest yelling that had ever filled these obscene walls, and of course Sherlock knew before he got the knock on the attic door that it was because of his escape. He knew by the tone of his mother's screech, and by the multiple bangs against the walls from his father's brute anger. Sherlock knew that Mycroft would be getting the worst of it, for he was the organizer of such treachery, yet how they found out was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Who would have come to tell them really was a mystery, one which Sherlock was hoping to find out as the attic door opened and his mother ascended. Her face was red and blotchy, as it usually was when she was angry, yet her expression twisted more and more as she lay eyes on her deformed, malfunctioning son. Sherlock recoiled, holding his oxygen tank between the two of them so as to defend himself from whatever rage she may feel she needed to take out on him. 

"You've been out, haven't you?" Mrs. Holmes growled, standing threateningly near the trap door yet not seeming to be brave enough to approach him any closer. Sherlock didn't know if he was supposed to tell the truth or if it would be smarter to lie, so he merely stood there awestruck. For it was a rare occasion that anyone even came up into the attic, and it was certainly rare that they would make such a fuss over his sake.
"TELL ME IF YOU'VE BEEN OUT!" she demanded in a flying rage, her voice escalating so loudly that the windows shook.
"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed. "But it's not Mycroft's fault! It was my idea!"
"Oh I know you're lying about that. He already took the blame himself." Mrs. Holmes growled, marching up to her son in a livid, threatening sort of way. Sherlock gasped, and tried to fling himself away from her outstretched arm, yet she fought him into a wall before grabbing his wrist and pulling him along. It wasn't abuse; she wasn't hitting him, or hurting him in any way. She was merely pulling, as if she wanted him to follow.
"Well come on then!" she exclaimed, to which Sherlock had no choice but to stumble along. They were headed to the trap door, almost as if she was going to take him out...
"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked in a nervous whimper, for all the times he's been beaten it's been up here in the privacy of the attic. From all the banging and yelling from downstairs he was sure that Mycroft had already gotten his fair share, yet wouldn't their father come up here? Why would Sherlock be dragged along, and granted another bout of freedom?
"You've got a visitor." Mrs. Holmes growled, and with that she descended the staircase. She didn't have to lure Sherlock downstairs, he was now so curious as to who might be waiting for him that he clambered down all by himself, hoisting his oxygen tank in one hand and clinging for his life with the other. Who could possibly be visiting him now? Who could possibly know of his existence, and want more of it? Well John was the first person to pop into his head, yet that was impossible! They hadn't shared a word; John didn't know who he was, or where to find him! So that left ...no, it couldn't be? Had Victor Trevor come all the way back to the church, just to visit him? Sherlock walked the length of the hallway, noticing of course the signs of his father's rage and his brother's burden of it all. There were some pictures that had fallen down, presumably misplaced as Mycroft was thrown into the wall. The carpets were scuffed into the corner, as if someone had been rolling around, and even at one point Sherlock could swear he saw blood along the edges of the hardwood floor. Oh poor Mycroft...well he had known full well what he was getting himself into when he allowed Sherlock downstairs! If ever the parents found out, well they both knew it wouldn't end well! And obviously it hadn't. Yet Sherlock didn't breathe a word of the whole affair, and neither of course would Mycroft. And so who had betrayed their operation, and more pressingly did that same person understand the harsh consequences of their actions? The kitchen light was on, yet there were no voices coming from inside. That seemed to be where they were headed, yet all the same it appeared that not a soul was moving inside. Where Mr. Holmes was still remained a mystery, yet as Sherlock drew nearer he found that his initial suspicions were correct. There was someone sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, a figure draped all in black with that every familiar top hat perched on their head. Victor turned as soon as he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, and as was so characteristic of him he sprouted a great big smile, as if seeing Sherlock alive and well even despite this abusive disaster was enough to warm his heart. Surely the Holmes parents were embarrassed to have put on such a display for their guest? For the abusive tendencies of the minister were far from common knowledge, coupled of course with his younger son's existence. It would seem as though with those two facts Victor Trevor could very well ruin Mr. Holmes's career, and of course Sherlock was plead him to do such a thing. If his father had any other job then Sherlock would not have to be hidden so diligently. An electrician would never try to hide a sick son, nor would a professor, or a plumber. Yet of course, a minister took an illness as a bad omen, and that was why Sherlock was hidden. If suddenly his father switched professions, well then maybe Sherlock would be released to the real world after all. As Sherlock approached Victor's chair he didn't try to hide his confusion. Despite his initial interest in the mortician, he had quickly forgotten about him as the day had progressed and he was riddled once more with the constant regret of his encounter with John. Yet once again, as soon as Victor rose to formally greet him, there was another spark within him which made Sherlock wonder just what it was about this man that made him so intrigued.
"Sherlock, nice to see you again." Victor said formally, extending his hand for another hand shake. This time his fingers were hidden behind thin leather gloves, and when their hands shook Sherlock could hear the material straining underneath his knuckles.
"It's um...it's nice to see you too." Sherlock managed curiously. It was odd to see him here; in fact it was odd to see anyone except family in the kitchen. In the very few times which Sherlock had been allowed downstairs he had always been babysat by either one of his moody parents, that or he had his brother lingering by his side for constant protection. Yet here Victor was, a complete stranger, and invited in with a cup of tea in front of him! It was obvious that his presence wasn't entirely welcome; yet considering that he hadn't been kicked out the door already meant that there was some sort of offer here, something which the Holmes parents had no choice but to stay out of. Why had he come back, and more importantly why would he ever come for Sherlock? Had they formed a special sort of bond in those two minutes of conversation, or was there something else? Was he here to hold his newfound information for ransom, and threaten the parents with the news of Sherlock's existence to the world? Yet why would Sherlock be needed for such an exchange? Sherlock moved along towards the other side of the table, sitting down heavily and rolling his oxygen tank right up to the table, so that the handle could fall level with the tabletop.
"Thank you Mrs. Holmes, you may leave." Victor said kindly, yet in a way which made it clear that this was not a suggestion, but instead a direct order. Of course Mrs. Holmes took orders from no one, especially not in her own house! Yet despite this assumption, she seemed to understand that Victor was some sort of higher power. She didn't look happy about it, yet she followed his command and left the room, lingering out into the hallway without having the consideration to close the door behind her. Sherlock stared at his guest for a moment, staring not only to get a better understanding of the man's appearance, but also staring as if trying to grasp once and for all if he was even real. Surely this could very well be a dream, or some sort of hallucination? Mrs. Holmes didn't follow orders...and she most certainly didn't appreciate being treated as any lesser than another person. Why then, was Victor able to saunter in here and take control? And more importantly, what use was Sherlock to him?