When Sherlock finally made sure it was empty he got out of the car, pulling his oxygen tank behind, and went to open the door for John. It was a grotesque scene that he was met with, for each time he saw John's seemingly lifelike body he knew that there was something wrong, there was something missing. He felt in his bones, that eerie feeling of being alone when his sight continually tried to prove him wrong. There was something missing, that connection between a living boy being there, and just a hunk of flesh in imitation. It was almost painful that Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that John was dead, and that he really was alone all the while that ever familiar face was so close. Yet he took up the boy's ankles, dragging him with some effort until at last the limp body flopped out of the car and into the parking lot. Sherlock knew that he wasn't strong enough to lug that thing around on his shoulders or in his arms, no his best bet would be to drag him the whole way down. Yet that was going to prove to be difficult, with the oxygen tank having to be toted along, and with the staircase...however there simply was no other way! The morgue's terrible location forced his hand, and so in the end he had to pull the oxygen tube from his nose and leave it behind, at least until he could go back up to reclaim it. Even though Sherlock was slacking behind on his health lately, he had been becoming progressively worse. The coughing fits were more frequent these days, and they lasted much longer than before. He was feeling much more lethargic than before, and he could sense that he was also nearer to death than he might have preferred. And all of this, of course, in such close proximity to the only life he wanted to live! It was a cruel fate he had, when he couldn't even enjoy the life he had coordinated for himself! He propped open the door and took up John's ankles once more, starting the long, tedious drag from the parking lot and into the morgue. The receptionist room was just as empty as it had always been, and for the first time Sherlock heard no evidence of life from the basement. So Victor had gone out, and left Sherlock with the dead tonight. That came as some disappointment, and it became even more of a threat when Sherlock remembered who might be looking for him in the early morning hours. Mycroft would know immediately where to find Sherlock, if he ever had reason to search. And if Victor wasn't here to counter him, well then Sherlock would either have to hide or fend for himself. Oh he wasn't foolish enough to think he could fight his brother off, surely if the two met he would be getting dragged back to that attic by the ear, this time to be put behind barred windows and a locked door! Who knows, Mycroft might even send him to prison for his crimes! God, prison would not be the right place for him, the men were much too hostile there, it certainly wasn't the place for a gentleman such as himself. But he couldn't think of that now! He had work to do. Sherlock's muscles ached as he finally reached the staircase, knowing of course that he could not drag John down in such a crude manner. At the very least he would have to take up the man's head and walk backwards, so that his feet were the things that would hit every stair on the way down. Sherlock knew that John was already dead, and so he really had nothing to lose, yet all the same he was worried about any obvious desecration. As he had already decided, John's death was supposed to be a beautiful, meaningful thing. Well of course that wouldn't go well if his head was smashed in from his journey down the staircase! It was a bit unnerving, really, when Sherlock had to go around and take up John by the armpits instead. He didn't like being so close to the face that used to be so familiar, coupled with the unfamiliar bruising along his neck. He didn't like having to feel John's chest, the one he had become now so familiar with, and feel it without a pulse vibrating through. It was unnerving, really, to hold the boy so close again, yet know in the end that he was the only one conscious enough to feel it.
"Come on then John, we're almost there." Sherlock muttered in agitation, stepping down one struggling step at a time, and occasionally letting John's head fall into his legs as he reached for the railing in a panic to sturdy himself. More than once Sherlock felt as though he was going to topple backwards and earn the same fate that he had feared for John, a cracked skull. Oh wouldn't that be horrible, if in the mere couple of hours after John's death, Sherlock had to face him in the line for the pearly gates? Well, the only consolation for that might be the fact that if there really was an afterlife, Sherlock certainly wasn't earning that Heaven status. He would probably be sent down to Hell, to wait on Victor for a lifetime until that man finally decided to die. For that reason, and that reason alone, Sherlock really did hope that the afterlife proved to be nothing. Finally he arrived at the doors, and he kicked them open to find that the light was on, yet the morgue was abandoned. Victor must have gone out, yet to what house Sherlock couldn't even guess. He never even imagined Victor having a home other than this morgue, for whatever reason he just assumed he didn't sleep, and he always stayed here tending to the corpses which he loved a little bit too much. Sherlock propped open the door with his foot and heaved John inside, setting the boy on the ground for a quick moment while he prepared himself for the final lift up onto the table. He knew that this was going to be the most demanding part of the entire operation, yet all the same he also knew it would be the last. He would haul John onto the table and then finally be left to the more precise details, the more delicate art of making this body last forever. And so Sherlock stretched out his arms, his muscles already aching for they hadn't worked this hard in...well forever.
"Alright then, John. Up we go." Sherlock groaned, leaning down and picking up John's body in what he thought was the sum of all of his strength combined. Somehow, someway, he got that body up onto the table. It took a long while, and as much cursing as he thought his tongue could tolerate, yet in the end he finally pushed John around to the spot where all of the corpses lay, with their hands by their sides. For a moment Sherlock stared at him, realizing now that this was really the first time John looked properly dead. It was this table, this horrible table...it was the mark of a dead man. Sad, that John Watson looked so fitting on it. With his face so bright from the harsh lighting above, and his face so panicked still, with his muscles having tightened into an everlasting expression of fear. His eyes were open, glassy still, with the reflection of Sherlock in his most murderous state still singed upon them. Sherlock had been the last thing that boy ever saw, and Sherlock could only hope that it was a meaningful last glance. He could only hope that it was what John would have wished for, in the end. Sherlock sighed heavily, and with some difficulty, as he stepped up to John's face. He looked into the boy's eyes for another moment before finally taking pity on him, shaking his head, and going quick to force John's eyelids back over top of his eyes. He hated the fact that John could still stare up at him; he hated the fact that John could overwhelmingly see Sherlock's guilty, and his struggling humanity. And now John looked like a proper corpse, ready for the embalming process. And yet before that, Sherlock had to first get himself in order. So he climbed the stairs, leaving John behind as he went to collect his oxygen tank and move the car to a more discreet spot in the lot. Sherlock didn't want anything to look out of the ordinary in this morgue. He knew of course that John's body wasn't the first of the murdered victims that had been taken back on their own, yet all the same he knew that anything that might look off about the building would draw one curious eye too many. Sherlock wanted no one suspecting anything, and that would surely entail a certain level of discretion. When Sherlock left the parking lot and descended down the stairs, the only thing that looked out of the ordinary was the lack of the hearse. Where victor could be, Sherlock simply couldn't imagine, and he had to wonder what that man got up to in his free time. A quick, fleeting panic rose in his chest as he wondered if Victor had a partner, someone he went home to every night. Yet that fear subsided, at least for a moment, when Sherlock remembered just how lonely Victor made himself out to be. He didn't seem the type of man with a family, or a wife or husband of any kind. He seemed to be perfectly content with his corpses, and the sad excuse for company they provided him with. Yet now he would have Sherlock, whether he liked it or not. Sherlock was his own responsibility; he was going to be his husband for just as long as either of them lived. This Sherlock had already decided when he had taken John's life. That what was this was all for, appeasing the dreamed ghost of Victor Trevor, and fulfilling his request to at last choose a side. To choose death, above life, and choose the everlasting company of Victor Trevor over that of John Watson. It was much easier for Sherlock to stare at John now that his eyes were shut. It looked more normal now, the man lying on the table. He looked like a proper dead person, he looked calm. Sherlock tried to forget the boy's last moments; he tried to forget his panic stricken last breaths. It hurt him to remember that John had trusted him; it hurt him to remember that he had loved him. Sherlock shook his head in agony, and decided to get himself prepared for the embalming process. The first thing Sherlock did was interrupt the silence that had settled around him. He knew that he should be used to the dead by now, yet being alone in a silent room full of corpses, especially one that was only too familiar to him, was all together quite unnerving. And so Sherlock put on one of Victor's records, the one that had already been sitting on the player, and filled the room with the beautiful yet surprisingly eerie vocals of some Italian opera singer. Next he dressed himself in an apron and gloves, and wheeled the carts with the necessary equipment over to where John was lying in wait. Well the first, most obvious problem was that John was still half dressed. All of the corpses were already naked, and of course Sherlock's modesty could not get in the way of his practicality. It...well it felt wrong to have to undress John when he was not alive to notice it. It felt almost invasive, and yet Sherlock tried to think practically. How many dead bodies had he witnessed before, well surely this one was not going to be any different? And yet it felt wrong, the whole process of working John's clothes off of his stiff, dead limbs. It felt incredibly disturbing only to witness his lover in this state after he had killed him. Finally the deed was done, and Sherlock threw the clothes onto the floor and returned to the practicality of the matter, returning now with the needle which to poke into John's neck. He knew where to find the artery, for many times as he had been staring at John it caught his attention. The blue was obvious, even in the midst of his bruised and swollen neck. Sherlock knew exactly where to jab, and in a quick moment the opera was accompanied by the steady hum of the machine. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking towards John's face and knowing that he would have to rid him of that as well. He would have to put caps on his eyes, and sew those beautiful lips shut forever...the only lips that he had ever had the pleasure of tasting. The only lips that he could consider himself familiar with. Sherlock sighed heavily, trying to keep himself rational yet feeling his emotions beginning to take the better of him once more. He allowed himself to reach out, running his thumb against John's top lip, feeling the smoothness, feeling the warmth that was still attempting to cling there. Oh it was a tragedy; Sherlock knew that from the very beginning. John's death was a tragedy.
"It's hard to sew lips shut when you still want to kiss them." said a voice from the back corner of the morgue, a voice so unexpected that Sherlock could do nothing but let out a great scream of fear. He turned around in horror to find Victor Trevor himself standing back in the shadows, wearing his usual attire of a full suit, cane, and top hat. "It's a struggle I've found myself with many times." He admitted again. Sherlock clutched to his heart, feeling it beating through his chest for many reasons now. He was just working over the shock, and now beginning to feel a great sense of relief at Victor's being here. Just as he had expected, this man never seemed to leave.    

"You've been here this whole time?" Sherlock asked with a little shiver. Victor nodded without a word, taking a couple of small steps into the light and turning his blue eyes now on John's corpse where it lie.
"You finally did it, then? Got rid of him?" Victor clarified, striding up to where Sherlock stood in an attempt to admire the body from a closer angle.
"Yes I...well I thought it was the final step. He's my sacrifice, to you." Sherlock explained with some urgency.
"For me? You really think I want him?" Victor asked with a laugh. "Although, I do see why you appreciated him." he added with a little chuckle.
"He was my life, Victor. You are my death." Sherlock said obviously. "And I've made my choice to be with you instead." Victor nodded, pursing his lips in some curiosity as he looked now towards his assistant, looking down upon him with what looked to be emotionless blue eyes.
"Your brother doesn't know you're here, I imagine?" Victor presumed. Sherlock frowned, for in all honesty he had thought his appearance here would be a lot more welcome. Yet it seemed as though Victor was treating this all as it was some sort of great inconvenience, as if Sherlock was just wasting his time once more with all of his hopeless romantic endeavors.
"No, I told no one. I was on house arrest until finally I could..."
"Yes, I know." Victor said miserably. "I called; your parents said that you could not return to the morgue, that they would not allow it. That and...some other choice words were thrown in there."
"I'm sorry that they found out, it was Mycroft who told my father." Sherlock explained quickly.
"Yes well, I'm going to need to find another church to do business with, for your whole family will have nothing to do with me any longer. Apparently they do not think me the best suitor for you." Victor said with something of a little chuckle.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry for it all. But surely you understand, I can't go back there either. I made my choice, to stay with you. I want to stay; you can have me as anything you like, your boyfriend, your apprentice, your burden. I will be anything to you, so long as you allow me to be here, be with you." Sherlock begged, stepping up to Victor in his urgency, to which the man merely smiled, his lips turning up into the most peculiar of grins. He didn't look very interested, more amused, as if Sherlock's begging really was something he considered to be adorable.
"What makes you think I want you, either?" Victor asked with a little chuckle. Sherlock stepped closer again, trying not to let his heart break, trying not to allow himself to lose all hope. He knew of course, that this wasn't going to be as easy as walking in and claiming Victor as his own. Yet he had rather hoped for an ounce of sympathy, he had hoped that Victor could find it within himself to love him.
"I know that you want me, Victor. You're just so stuck in your own delusion of morality that you won't allow yourself to have me." Sherlock snapped. He had intended those words to sting, yet Victor didn't even flinch. He merely stared, his hands tight around his walking stick.
"Oh but you're right, Sherlock. You're quite right about that." Victor said with a little grin. "I cannot have you like this, not now."
"Then let me wait, my birthday isn't far off, I'll be eighteen before you even realize..."
"No, Sherlock. Age is not what matters to me. When someone dies, their age is indefinite, their age is irrelevant. You live for a thousand years, yet at the same time you've never lived at all. Corpses don't have ages, they don't have rules. They're merely things, Sherlock. Things, that can be handled...and owned." Victor said with a little grimace, looking towards Sherlock with a very peculiar fire in his eyes, something Sherlock had not remembered ever seeing in those familiar blues.
"Then...then let me be your corpse. Let me rot in here until I die, until finally these horrible lungs take over. Let me be your possession, let me be..."
"Yes I'm planning on it." Victor interrupted abruptly, and with a move that was quicker than Sherlock could have ever contemplated, with a lunge that could not be countered by anything but a quick jump of panic...well it was painless, really. Sherlock felt a pain in his arm, a pressure, and before long he couldn't feel anything at all. The syringe felt like nothing at all, and the poison...the poison felt warm. Inviting, almost. Before long he could just see light, and those last words, the last formation of syllables that Sherlock heard before his body gave up. It was Victor's voice, that beautiful voice which he so appreciated, that beautiful man, whose arms were now holding him upright. Victor's voice that was so far away, yet right up against his ear, with lips pressing up against his flesh, and breath that was hot yet unnoticed... "You'll be mine forever, Sherlock Holmes."  Was Victor's final promise, and it was a good one. It was a good promise, something more of a chorus than a string of words. Something beautiful to die to. 

A/N: So before I begin, this wasn't supposed to be the end of the story. But honestly, I don't think I really want to publish the rest, I feel as though it might actually be a bit too disturbing. So I'm not going to. Surely the open ended ending will give you something to think about as well, and if you want the rest then, well I guess if there's a lot of whining I can still publish it. It's only like a thousand words anyway, but it's sort of continuing where that left off. I really loved writing this story, in fact I really loved everything about it. I thought it was such a wild concept, to be so in love with someone who was so messed up, so much so that you'd be willing to die for it. Sherlock was obviously much too isolated to know what real love was, and Victor was so bad in the head that he wasn't entirely sure of it either. But it was a wild ride, that's for sure, and so I will leave you with that. Have a very nice rest of the week, and next up I've got another wild ride that deals with the laws of time, and how they can be broken in special cases. Thanks for reading!