"And it looks like we've got Mr. Watson the younger!" Sherlock exclaimed, gesturing at John in mock excitement as the crowd clapped excitedly. Sherlock was able to catch Mycroft's eye in a split moment, seeing that his brother was obviously very nervous as well, for his lips were trembling as they did when he was terrified.
"I don't know what I've volunteered myself for." John murmured.
"You didn't volunteer yourself, now smile, look happy." Sherlock hissed. John donned that excited smile and yet Sherlock's heart could do nothing but tremble.
"And now, Mr. Watson, if you would please lie down on this table." Sherlock instructed, gesturing to the table that stood before him.
"I like where this is going." John said with a smirk; however Sherlock pretended not to hear him as he watched the boy clamber up onto the flimsy little table. The crowd was quiet in anticipation, now no one even dared to pick up their silverware, for they probably felt like the very act of looking down at their plate was distraction enough from the show that was being put on before them. They were on the edge of their seats, quite literally.
"Now John Watson, just lie still then, right there." Sherlock instructed, hovering his hands over John as if pretending to put a charm on him. John was staring up at him lovingly, with his hazel eyes wide and trustful, his hands trembling as if he longed only to reach out and take Sherlock's hand in his own, as if he wanted to pull him down on this table with him. Sherlock's heart was racing, and yet it was not with love. It was with fear, for such an experimental trick, one such a critical boy, he had almost hoped he could just preform this on the table itself, and yet now he had John Watson lying before him, ready to be split in half! It could be done, it must be done.
"Now I heard that Mr. Watson was in high demand with the ladies, am I right?" Sherlock started, to which John only giggled. "And I heard that a lot of them wished they could just all get a part of him."
"I'm only made for one, my love." John whispered. Sherlock ignored him once more.
"It is my sole duty, of course, to make everyone happy, and so I aspire to let at least two lucky bachelorettes share him. But to do that, of course, I think I might have to split him in half." Sherlock said with a giggle, and the entire crowd went silent.
"You have to do what now?" John murmured, suddenly sounding very apprehensive.
"Shut up John, just lie still." Sherlock instructed in a mutter, regaining his smile even as his hands trembled, he thought of the spell, he mumbled it, and just like that he willed John's body to sever at the waist. It went by the books, just as Sherlock had practiced with the bed. A clean cut was made, however both of his halves worked just fine, his legs could kick, his heart could beat, it was just fine... there was no blood and no spilling organs, and as John split farther and farther he began to laugh, almost as if there was some sort of tickling sensation. The crowd burst into maniacal applause, and for a moment all was well. For a moment, Sherlock could just breathe. He waited a split second, anxious of course to get John back to normal again, and then began to push the two halves together, willing them to fuse, bringing them closer so that all sections could rejoin and function properly. Concentrate, all he had to do was concentrate, just like the wood rings in the bed, if not one blood vessel matched up when John was put back together this whole trick might go horribly wrong.
"Oh you are...fantastic." John breathed, and with that Sherlock blinked. He momentarily, for just a split second...forgot. And he looked.
"Sherlock, concentrate!" Mycroft yelped, and yet it was too late, John was sewn together and his two halves made a whole, the crowd clapped, the crowd laughed, they stood up in amazement and Mr. Watson laughed along with his family, downing another glass of champagne... And yet suddenly John's hand shot out, grabbing Sherlock's arm desperately, grabbing his arm and looking him straight in the eyes, his hazel eyes alight with an expression Sherlock didn't want to see, he didn't want to notice...pain. And suddenly he gasped, writhing on the table and bending into an excruciating angle, his mouth opening in a loll, blood rushing out onto the table, spilling out onto the floor. And suddenly the crowd was silent.
"John!" cried Mr. Watson's horrified voice, getting up from his table desperately while he rushed to the stage, the crowd having gone stone silent, women began to cry... John was still on the table, rolled onto his side and gasping for air, his legs kicking out and his mouth spilling out more blood than should be expelled in one bout, pooling on the floor about Sherlock's recently polished shoes. For a moment Sherlock was helpless, and yet that was all the moment he needed so as to be pulled away by his brother, he didn't even have time to cry out for John, he didn't even have time to try to save him. In an instant the crowd was in an uproar, the Watson family was by John's side, and Sherlock was being dragged through the stage limply, helplessly, people were screaming!
"John...John, no, JOHN!" Sherlock screeched, and yet it was too late, he was out of the dining room, he was being hustled through some sort of back door, he was being pulled through the dust, Merlin was screeching in his ear, as if trying to urge him back into the ballroom, trying to remind him that he was the only one that would be able to save John from death. If he died...it will have been Sherlock who murdered him.
"We need to leave, we need to go!" Mycroft was crying, pulling Sherlock's limb body through the dust, his heels dragging as Mycroft pulled him from under his arms. He still couldn't process it, he still saw John's eyes, he still heard the screaming, the Watson house's lights still shone, still shone so brightly. And yet there was soon to be a light that went out. Sherlock gave another great scream, fighting off his brother only to dislodge himself and fall into the dirt, falling on the road and attempting to get back to his feet, he needed to get back there, who cared about the police, who cared about formalities? He was the only one...
"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed anxiously, and yet in an instant Mycroft was back on top of him, pulling Sherlock to the ground from behind, wrestling him into submission, trying to get him back into his arms so as to carry him the rest of the way home.
"They'll be looking for you, Sherlock oh can't you see what you've done?" Mycroft forced, grabbing at his brother's flailing limbs in an attempt to still him. And yet Sherlock couldn't go, he couldn't leave now! He fell once again, and this time when Mycroft subdued him he wasn't going to do it again. This time he took up a small stone, holding Sherlock by the shoulder and smacking the rock against Sherlock's temple, causing the poor boy to crumble back into the dust where he had started.     

    Sherlock woke in his own bed, his own bed that trembled under his weight, almost as if it was struggling to hold him...almost as if it was structurally unstable. He woke without remembering what had happened, if only for a moment. He woke with John's name on his lips; he woke with fear in his heart, his hands clenched into fists. There was a moment of confusion as he started to notice his clothes, as he started to notice the blood that was still remaining on his shoes; he was confused until he saw that his brother was packing.
"John..." Sherlock mumbled, and with a start he rolled himself out of the bed, falling to the floor in an instant before trying to get back onto his feet, trying to race towards the door. Mycroft sighed heavily, however he jumped at his brother, trying to force him back into the bed.
"You can't go out there, Sherlock you can't they'll be looking for you!" Mycroft cried, and yet Sherlock would hear none of it, it was Mycroft's fault if he hadn't been there in time to save John's life! So Sherlock cursed him, flinging his arms towards his brother so that Mycroft stood stone still, unable to move, unable to speak. The only things that could move were his eyes, and they darted about the room frantically, unable to speak his mind, unable to prevent Sherlock from dashing back into the night. Merlin was flying just a little bit quicker than him, chirping and urging Sherlock on, his spell book clenched in his hands, a great leather textbook that had been his mother's. The streets were silent under the moonlight, the world slept, unaware of the tragedy that had taken place. Sherlock ran faster than he ever had before, heaving in air as his heart beat faster and faster, as his legs moved faster, as his muscles began to tire... The moon hung low overhead and even the crickets were still, not a sound was made, nothing but Sherlock's frantic footfalls as he transitioned from dirt to cobblestone, starting down the streets of the market, screaming all the way as if to warn the Watsons of his upcoming presence. When he finally reached the house it had all gone silent, the windows were dark as the shades had been pulled, not a carriage lingered, not a person strayed about the empty marble steps. There was no longer music playing, there were no longer butlers at the door...and yet Sherlock raced up the stairs, trying the large doors to find them locked. He forced them once more, knocking frantically on the wood, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I CAN SAVE HIM, I CAN SAVE HIM!" Sherlock cried, banging against the wood with all of his might, his fists throbbing and the doors unmoving, he threw himself against the hinges, Merlin knocked against the windows as if expecting to break one of them. Throughout the two's body weight they were no match for the Watson house, and between the two of them not one thought to use magic...
"PLEASE, MR. WATSON, PLEASE! LET ME IN, I CAN SAVE HIM!" Sherlock screamed, and yet it was no use, no one answered, he doubted anyone even heard. No one came to the door, no one thought to check. The doctor was already in; his small horse was tied outside, the doctor who could do nothing except deliver the fateful news. Sherlock's heart wrenched as he fell against the doors for the final time, his knees collapsing in as he tumbled to the ground, laying his head against the wood hopelessly, pounding his head repeatedly against the door almost as if he wanted to just pass out again, to forget all that was happening. Oh but he was conscious and he remained so, what a cruel world, what a cruel existence. He heaved a deep breath, forcing out whatever tears that might have surfaced, his heart breaking as he lay against the wood...helpless. Sherlock let loose one final scream before clutching to his spell book and falling to the marble stairs, watching as the roof obstructed his view of the stars, he could see the faintest light emitted from under a curtain, a soft and sputtering light, but in a moment it went out. In just a moment, Sherlock was left in complete and utter darkness. He was being carried home, lolling and mumbling while cradled in arms he didn't recognize, his limbs falling helplessly about him while Merlin perched nervously on the strange boy's shoulder. Sherlock could open his eyes and see the stars above, and he could feel his heavy spell book sitting on his chest, he could feel the stranger's heartbeat, he could hear his struggling breaths, and he could feel his muscles clench as he rearranged Sherlock in his arms, in something of a fireman's carry. It was odd that he felt safe, for just a moment he felt almost like at least something was going to be okay, for at least a moment he was able to convince himself that it was John that was carrying him. And yet it wasn't, it very obviously wasn't, for Merlin often took flight and showed the way back to the house, he would sit on lamp posts and direct the stranger, he would lead him to the shack that the police were now searching for. Sherlock didn't want to focus on the face of his savior, nor did he want to concentrate on what was happening this exact moment. He knew the moment he remembered would be the moment he died as well. He was a murderer, a criminal of all sorts, he had taken the life of his beloved, a man he wasn't allowed to love, with powers he wasn't allowed to have. Who would help him, who would trust him enough to carry him own while tears poured out of their eyes? Finally Merlin waited on the stranger's shoulder as he tried the door, finding it open and unlocked, and so he stepped inside, Sherlock groaning in his arms as he was finally lowered back into his bed. The stranger didn't linger, it didn't seem as if he cared very much about Sherlock or his wellbeing, in fact he seemed to care more about the frozen man standing in the middle of the room, Mycroft's useless body that was now yelling unrecognizable things from his outstretched lips. Sherlock rolled over in bed uselessly and flung his hand at his brother, unfreezing him so that he could communicate with Sherlock's savior. Sherlock let his head fall to the side, he allowed himself to see now the boy that was standing very out of place in the Holmes's household, a fading blonde boy who Sherlock had only seen once before.
"And who the Devil are you?" Mycroft forced, stepping between Sherlock and the boy as if trying to protect Sherlock now that he could. As if he would hurt him now, instead of when Sherlock was lying at the front door of the Watsons, against the very threshold of the boy he had killed!
"Greg Lestrade, I'm a friend..." Greg assured, holding up his hands defensively and looking past Mycroft to make sure Sherlock was still awake.
"He's fine...Mycroft. He's fine." Sherlock groaned, feeling tears begin to leak out of his eyes once more, trembling horrifically as he remembered the last time he met Greg...oh how different things were now.
"You saw the book...you saw my brother..." Mycroft started, however Greg just shook his head in exasperation.
"Ya, and a whole crowd saw him split John in half, we all know now." Greg snapped, to which Mycroft just stood a little taller, almost as if he felt like he was being challenged in some way.
"Why would you help us?" Mycroft growled, staring Greg down with his black eyes, to which the boy didn't even flinch. Sherlock admired his stubbornness.
"Because I know Sherlock, I knew about him and john, I know that whatever happened tonight wasn't intentional. But they're already rounding up the police, I don't think you should leave things the way they are." Greg suggested with a smirk.
"You knew about Sherlock and John?" Mycroft clarified, stepping back and holding out a hand towards his brother, as if he expected Sherlock to take it.
"Honestly sir, that's not the main issue now. The main problem is that John is dead and your son here..."
"I didn't mean to! It was an accident, don't remind me, don't remind me that I killed him!" Sherlock wailed, burying his head into his pillow in agony, clenching his fists around the sheets and sobbing into the fabric.
"That's not what I was going to say, now please stop interrupting me, I was going to say you're the only one who can save him." Greg pointed out with a bit of a smirk. Mycroft stared at him, obviously mystified by the nerve he had, and Sherlock suddenly stopped shaking. He dared lifted his head, seeing that Greg's grey eyes were still trained determinedly on him.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"I mean that you killed him, but you can also bring him back to life? Can't you? Isn't there some sort of creepy magic stuff you can do, bring the dead back and all that?" Greg pointed out with a frown. Mycroft turned nervously to Sherlock, looking down on him with his black eyes, alight with sudden hope.
"You don't mean necromancy?" Sherlock clarified nervously.
"Yes, yes I mean that, whatever that is. Creepy Devil stuff, a life for a life and all that rubbish, that's how you're going to save him, crying about it certainly won't do you good." Greg snapped. Sherlock sat up in a sudden bout of excitement, pulling his leather bound spell book into his hands and flipping towards the back, back where he remembered seeing disturbing images of skeletons, of people wailing, of graves that had been split open. His mother had never let him practice any of these spells when he was young, she had never used them herself, possibly because she knew of the power they had, of the dark magic that was involved. Finally Sherlock found the spell, the one that could bring the dead back to life, written in confusing Latin and bearing grave instructions...
"It says that you can't give a life without taking one as well." Sherlock said obviously, reading down the spell apprehensively and looking up towards his audience of two, wondering which of them would be willing to sacrifice their life for John's.
"Don't look at me, it was my idea." Greg said proudly.
"Indeed, your idea...your sacrifice." Mycroft snapped. "I'm his brother, I'm the only family he's got left."
"Oh just take a peasant from the streets, or wrangle up the Inspector that's hunting you down, I don't care! I'm not dying, I know that for sure." Greg said proudly. Sherlock read over the rules once more, nervously scanning through the spell, realizing that there might be a way around it, realizing that maybe someone else didn't have to die tonight.
"If I bring him back and kill someone else then I'm still a murderer, it doesn't solve anything." Sherlock snapped. "But it doesn't specify what type of life needed. It doesn't say that it has to be...human."
"Then what on Earth are you considering?" Greg snapped, to which Mycroft just slanted his eyes angrily, as if that was usually his line. Greg glared right back, crossing his arms superiorly and daring Mycroft to question him. Sherlock sighed heavily, feeling another tear start to well up in his eye as he looked over towards his bed post, the very place his unaware bird now perched.
"So this will save him, clear my name? If I show to everyone that he's still alive then I won't have killed anyone, if he comes back to life then this all goes away." Sherlock clarified.
"Well yes, I assume so." Greg agreed.
"But there's still the magic aspect, how can we prove to everyone that Sherlock's not a sorcerer?" Mycroft pointed out apprehensively.
"Life or death, Mycroft, that's what's important now. You can bring John back to life and then elope somewhere to the United States, but for now we need to remember that there's a boy lying dead here, a boy that means a lot to a lot of people." Greg reminded them. Sherlock nodded, understanding of course that Greg was right. There was no way he could let John die while he sat here with the ability to bring him back. And so maybe it was necromancy, maybe it was frowned upon in the church, and yet what other options did he have? He was already going to Hell, that was for sure, why not descend a little bit farther down so as to assure John Watson had some more time on this earth? The candle had gone out and yet Sherlock held the very match that could light it again; he was the one that was able to take John around the waist and pull him from the depths...
"I'm going to do it." Sherlock said flatly, shutting a bookmark into his page (it just so happened to be one of John's love notes that he had lying in the folds of his blankets) and getting to his feet pointedly.