Even though Sherlock wouldn't breathe a word of what happened to Mycroft he still got the feeling Mycroft was able to piece things together. Sherlock was even more distraught than he was when John was dead, for this pain seemed to have multiplied inside of him; it seemed to ripple from his heart into his soul, into his brain, into his very energy. He lay on top of his blankets and whined, all while Mycroft was very nervously trying to hide the bags that had been packed, a mere one or two suitcases, so that they could leave in a sudden hurry if need be. And yet John was alive, Mycroft had been able to worm that out of Sherlock, and so their lives were safe for now. However Sherlock wasn't focusing on this life, so much as the one that followed it. John seemed to think that Hell was everything it was said to be, just as he had read in John's English book. He knew that somewhere there was a circle for the sorcerers, somewhere there was a circle for the murderers, another for those who practiced necromancy, and another for homosexuals. It was rather daunting, to be perfectly honest, when Sherlock fit in all of those categories. Would he be thrown to the level of his worse offense, or would they all add up and descent him even farther than he had been destined to go? Oh what was he doing to his soul, what was he doing to his future! He could give up the magic, Mycroft was pushing for that anyway, he could stop using his spells and he could stop thwarting God's good earth, that was easy enough. He would find another way to survive, somehow he would get a job, maybe he could just resort to being a beggar, they made perfectly okay money, and maybe those who remembered him would pity him, for they knew all about the Holmes scandal, or at least the one that was about to unfold. And yet Sherlock could not give up his love for John, it was impossible for him to lure his heart away from that man, it was impossible for him to correct his longings even though John had tried to do the same. Sherlock couldn't just push John out of his mind any more than he could will his heart to stop beating! It was his natural human state, it would seem, to lie motionless and yearn for that boy who would never arrive. And it was painful, oh it was ever so agonizing, to sit and wait in silence, knowing the only one who might knock on the door was the police, come to arrest him. And so when Mycroft had gone off to work (for the life of a clerk never subsided for things like this) Sherlock went out into the flowering field with a shovel, carrying Merlin's decaying body and his leather book of spells under his arm. He couldn't use magic to dig, and so he found a patch of earth that seemed relatively manageable, flowering with all sorts of wild daisies and pink flowers. It was beautiful, standing out in this undisturbed field, the birds singing and the flowers blooming and the sun shining gently down on his head. It was beautiful and yet he still felt empty inside, he still felt as though something was missing...something was wrong. And it wasn't a mystery what that thing might be. Sherlock dropped his possessions and started on the digging, tiring only three or four shovels of dirt in and realizing that he had many more to go. He wasn't good at physical labor, he was as skinny as a bean pole and he didn't eat enough to maintain any muscle growth. He had always relied on magic for things like this, and what made the situation even worse was that he knew exactly the spell that might have spared him this sweat and strain. And yet that was what he was here to stop, if he really must save his soul then he had to start somewhere. He had to start with the magic. When finally he had a reasonable sized hole he first sat down, taking the magic book in his hands and staring at its front cover regretfully. It had been his mothers, something she hid and yet something she was proud of. She used to sit him in her lap and go over the most mediocre spells, he used to giggle and awe at the tricks she had managed, he used to try to replicate them...he used to fail. The magic seemed to be something that connected him to his mother, something that only they shared. And yet it had to be put to an end, he didn't know where his mother was now, however if she hadn't tried to cleanse her soul, then maybe he would be destined to join her once more. Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes quietly before leaning forward and gently placing the book into the hole, trying to make it so that the pages wouldn't be terribly soiled by any moisture. He was tempted to put a charm on it to keep any rain water out, however if there ever was a day when he needed the book back on hand, he knew the perfect charm that might restore it to its previous condition. Nothing was lost, except life of course, and that was what brought him back to the corpse of his little friend. Merlin lay on his side in the flowers, his wings already beginning to fall out, his little beak closed and yet his eyes, lidless, remained unopened almost so that he could stare at Sherlock accusingly. However he had known what he was doing, he had thought that maybe his life was worth John's...and yet what had that accomplished? John hadn't been brought back; there wasn't enough life in a simple bird to recreate the John Watson that was before the tragedy. He was half a man, half a man that Sherlock had loved, and yet double the tragedy. Sherlock almost would've preferred being hanged for murder than being rejected on the pretenses of a simple old book and the fear of eternal pain. At least in Hell they might have been together. And so Sherlock took up Merlin in his hands, whispering a small prayer of farewell before setting the bird's still body on top of the book, the memories of who he was before, and the beginning of who he was going to strive to be. He couldn't control what his heart felt, and yet he could control his own actions. He cannot be held accountable for the things he wanted and yet never acquired, he would make an effort...he would change. Sherlock dare not shed a tear, he dare not lament over the things that were long gone, and so with a heave he got to his feet and took the shovel back into his raw hands, scooping up the dirt and shoveling it back into the hole, covering whatever remained of his friend, whatever remained of his mother. He was burying his past and focusing on the future, the future that was still yet undetermined. 

    Sherlock wanted to keep out of the public eye as much as he could, and so he stayed at home as much as possible, knowing that all the money he could've been earning now was being flung out the window, and yet it was his life or the money, and he was quite sure which he'd pick. Mycroft brought him what he could, however as the weeks went on the food lingered, right up until he got his paycheck the brothers were living solely off rolls and cherry tomatoes, trying to pretend like it was enough, trying to pretend like they were satisfied. They didn't talk much for there really was nothing to discuss, and they lay in their beds at night, convinced that every shift in wind against the house was the police force coming to arrest them, every screech of an owl was the cries of a mob, coming to avenge John... And yet they never came...maybe the murder was declared invalid, maybe it was confirmed as a trick, or a joke, either way all was quiet for now. Sherlock was living in solitude, of course, and now without Merlin he was becoming even more depressed. He barely said a word to anyone, he barely slept, he barely ate (not on his own consent) and being in the ever present spotlight of Mycroft's lamenting black eyes never helped anything. It was on the fifth day of isolation that Sherlock was sitting at home, trying to read his books all while knowing that he might have to return them soon. Surely John wouldn't want his fingers all over the pages, spreading the very diseases that might send John back to hell when he died for the second time! No apology, just rejection, oh it was pitiful! The knock came quietly, and yet Sherlock was still worried that it might be the police inspectors, trying to be calm so as not to scare him out the back window. Sherlock took a deep breath, shutting his book and looking hopefully over to Mycroft's empty bed, as if expecting his brother to materialize come his time of need. And yet it was empty, he was alone, other than for the man at the door. Sherlock put the book aside and slid to his feet, walking carefully to the door before pulling it open cautiously. It wasn't the police, and yet in a way, it was almost something worse...
"Well you've certainly looked better." Greg mumbled, throwing open the door and just inviting himself right inside, as if he had every right to walk into anywhere he chose. Sherlock didn't protest, simply because he just didn't have the energy to, and so he just closed the door behind him and leaned weakly on the wood, watching as Greg stepped inside and observed the room with a frown.
"I thought you were the police." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"Well I'm not; actually I'm quite the opposite of law enforcement." Greg assured with a smile, digging through his coat pocket while Sherlock sighed heavily.
"Yes, you are quite the rebel." Sherlock groaned sarcastically. Greg paused, his eyebrows raised accusingly as if he wasn't used to getting snapped back at.
"Oh well then, if you think I'm so innocent then maybe you don't want what I'm going to give you." Greg said with a shrug, finally removing his hand from his pocket and crossing his arms sternly. Sherlock looked at him curiously, getting up from the door as he let his heart beat in anticipation, what was this, a present? A message? A poem?
"What have you got?" Sherlock wondered hopefully, taking a step closer so that maybe he could snatch the letter from his pocket while he wasn't paying attention.
"Oh no, I'm a law abiding citizen, so maybe I shouldn't give it to you, it might be illegal, I wouldn't want to..." Greg started, however Sherlock just silenced him with his own threats.
"Don't make me curse you Greg, give it to me! It's a letter, isn't it? From John!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. Greg sighed heavily, however a little bit of a proud smile appeared on his face, almost as if seeing Sherlock happy pleased him.
"What happened between you two? I expected you to be all over each other, and yet he's moping around, you're secluding yourself and, well, starving yourself it would seem." Greg mumbled.
"Some of us aren't rich enough to get a meal every day, Greg." Sherlock snapped. Greg's smile faltered, and yet he finally dug the letter out of his pocket. It was simply a piece of folded parchment, stamped with the Watson crest in dark red wax, no name written on the front. Sherlock looked up at Greg nervously, taking the letter carefully and wondering if he should be reading it in front of him. Might it be for his eyes only? Or was it a goodbye, eternalized in ink?
"Well go on then, what does it say?" Greg insisted, looking almost just as eager as Sherlock was.
"As if I'm going to tell you." Sherlock snapped, ripping through the wax seal and unfolding the letter quickly. He took a breath; reading over the words and feeling his heart begin to quake... 

Because of you I saw the light, 

And because of you I was sent to Hell. 

But I realize now, that the point of living 
Is simply ensuring that you live it well. 

Please come,
J.W.

"What is it, what does it say?" Greg insisted anxiously, nearly jumping up and down as Sherlock read it over again, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. He stumbled up against the door once more, for his knees seemed to be wobbling, bit came as a relief, it came as a miracle! Oh what did he care about saving his soul now, he would damn himself to hell just so that he could be in John's arms once more. No more magic...however he couldn't abstain from love.

"It's good...it's more than good, can you escort me? I'm afraid that..."
"Escort you where? Come on mate, just show me the letter!" Greg insisted excitedly, grabbing violently at the letter to which Sherlock just withdrew, letting out an almost uncalled for laugh as he darted out the door, leaving Greg to hopelessly follow him out to the dust.
"Take me to John's house, please; they won't let me in otherwise." Sherlock begged.
"You're going to his house...you mean like, to..."
"I don't know why, I don't even know if I should, oh Greg it's wonderful, it's magical, oh he loves me I just know he does!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding the letter to his beating heart and smiling wider than he had since he had gotten up on that stage all those nights ago.
"Man, those twenty pounds all those weeks ago did wonders." Greg mumbled, however he started down the road in the direction of the market, escorting Sherlock from a couple paces behind so as to let Sherlock prance and scamper along. Al throughout the way Sherlock was ecstatic, trying to remind himself that this wasn't definite, but then again it seemed like he couldn't have misunderstood the letter. It was quite straightforward, was it not? Living life well, that meant love, didn't it, that meant doing what you wanted to do even though it might be frowned upon. They were breaking every law, human law and Heaven law, oh but what did it matter, what did it matter? Greg could hardly catch up until at last Sherlock let him, stopping short of the house by a block or two and suddenly beginning to wonder if he was even going to be allowed. Might there be police inspectors there, waiting for his arrival? A sudden image came, Inspector Trevor waiting at the doors, grabbing the letter out of his hands, discovering yet another one of his condemning secrets. It was a terrifying thought, and yet he couldn't let fear stop him, not now that his heart was racing, not now while he was on the verge of being reunited with the only person who really mattered!
"You seem nervous." Greg decided as he finally stopped beside him, lingering quietly while Sherlock stared down the ominous street, the very one that held the white manor.
"I'm nervous...of course I'm nervous!" Sherlock agreed with a snap.
"What, he invited you, what's the issue?" Greg insisted, starting down the road fearlessly while Sherlock hasted to catch up.
"Well yes, but he's only one man, one among so many others who see me not as some Romeo but as..."
"A murderer?" Greg guessed with a smile.
"A murderer." Sherlock agreed apprehensively. Greg just grinned at him, continuing down the road as if he couldn't be bothered with Sherlock's fragile mental state.
"Well that's what I'm here for, ya? I can vouch for you. I've been in your presence and you still haven't killed me, you must be docile." Greg said with a smile.
"In fact I've given up magic, I don't trust it anymore." Sherlock admitted in a little voice.
"Given it up? Well that's certainly weird." Greg decided, however he seemed preoccupied, as was Sherlock, with the house that was looming above them. Sherlock felt his stomach twisting apprehensively, John was waiting for him there, he was expecting him...
"Alright, let's go." Sherlock said confidently, and with that he grabbed Greg's arm and began pulling him towards the front door, hoping of course that he would be let in. His confidence dwindled once more when he approached the door, and in pretending to be polite he ducked out the way, allowing Greg to be the one to knock. Greg just frowned at him; however he obediently knocked against the wood with something of a frown. There was a pause, and for a moment Sherlock couldn't breathe, he clutched the letter (his makeshift invitation) in his hand and watched the door, listening as he heard footsteps approaching... The door opened, and instinctively Sherlock ducked behind Greg, suddenly not wanting to show his face. However there was something of a feminine chuckle, as if she hadn't been expecting such company, and Sherlock heard Greg take a very deep breath. He could almost sense the obnoxious smile coming to his face...
"Oh, Greg I um...I wasn't expecting you." Molly's voice said from the entry way. Sherlock breathed a massive sigh of relief, she was a friend. He then stood up with a guilty little smile, waving his hello to Molly who wore a cute little white apron over a black dress, a simple maid's uniform. Despite his pleasantness Molly's smile dropped for a moment, staring at him with wonder.
"You...you're the one that brought Master Watson back to life!" she exclaimed in a breath, stumbling off onto the front porch only to trap Sherlock in a large hug. Sherlock gave a yelp of horror, and with a little bit of a nervous mumble she pulled away, evidently embarrassed at his evident disgust.
"I'm sorry, I forgot you were..." she mumbled, however she simply fixed her hair and straightened her apron instead of completing her sentence.
"Well even people like me don't like...attack hugs." Sherlock murmured, to which Molly giggled rather nervously.
"My apologies." She whispered.
"Well you know, bringing John back to life was actually my idea, and I for one do enjoy attack hugs." Greg said with a little smile, to which Molly just giggled doubtfully and stayed where she was. Greg rolled back and forth on his ankles, sighing as if he didn't know what he had expected.
"You're here for John I imagine?" Molly guessed, looking between them both but seeming more comfortable while looking at Sherlock, as if Greg's gaze made her uncomfortable.
"Yes, how is he doing?" Sherlock wondered carefully.
"Oh he's fine, perfect actually! Although he seemed a little bit...down." she admitted with a sigh.
"That's because these two had a little marital issues, that's what we're here to fix." Greg assured proudly, holding his head up high as if trying to assure her that he was here to help save the day.
"We're not married, oh just ignore him, he has no idea what he's talking about." Sherlock snapped.
"I make a habit of it, sir." Molly assured, glancing over at Greg with something of a teasing smile, only making Greg smirk in return.
"Can we come in?" Greg asked hopefully.
"Well yes, yes I suppose I can't keep you. I don't know what the Mr. And Mrs. Watson will do when they see you, but seeing as though you saved him I don't think they can complain." Molly admitted, holding the door open wider in welcome.