"Get out, get out of my house, get your men away or I shall call for your arrest!" Mycroft exclaimed in disgust, wielding his briefcase as if it were a weapon, standing before his defenseless brother like a guardian angel in a shabby work suit. Victor gave a great growl, pulling himself immediately to his feet and nursing a bleeding nose with the back of his hand, wincing however a smile was on his face, a poisonous smile.
"You cannot arrest an Inspector." He growled as he straightened up, brushing off the dirt from his black trench coat and staring at Mycroft with a look of a mad dog, his blue eyes alight like a lightning storm.
"I can certainly try." Mycroft warned, standing tall and even with his short stature he somehow managed to look down upon the towering Inspector, the one who now growled and limped back inside, calling for his men to leave as he himself glared at the two brothers before pulling open the carriage door and clambering inside. One by one the police left the house, none of them seemed to have found much except nothing, and so they all looked rather disappointed as they followed their leader inside, all except one who managed the horses and started them all back to the station, whipping at the horses so that they could start off down the road, clomping and dragging the heavy carriage wheels over the dirt. For a moment the two stood in the road, Sherlock was leaning against the house, short of breath and in a state of panic, his heart throbbing and yet not with love, with quite the opposite. He was disgusted, honestly and whole heartedly revolted by the man who dare lay a finger on him! How dare he think he was in any place to kiss him, to try to take possession of the heart that was in John's protection? And yet he acted like he knew, he acted as though he had some sort of insight that Sherlock never expected him to have. He acted almost as if John was their little secret...
"Are you alright, Sherlock? Are you hurt?" Mycroft asked suddenly, turning on his brother as soon as the police carriage rumbled off into the distance, the sound of the horse's hooves finally fading off and becoming mere background noise for the otherwise silent pair.
"I'm fine, I'm fine he's gone, he's...it's alright." Sherlock whispered, shivering madly before shaking his head and trying to get to his feet. Mycroft rushed to his aid, and for once Sherlock didn't wince, he his brother support him, he leaned on his shoulder and let Mycroft help him into his bed. Sherlock just sat on it, however, for he still remembered that Victor had just been sitting on it moments before and to lie where that man was...well it was something he would want to avoid.
"That vile man, oh he should be hanged, not you! The scoundrel, to always knew there was something off, oh I should've guessed it from the start, thank God I was there Sherlock...thank God." Mycroft mumbled, standing near Sherlock's bedpost and looking down at his brother mournfully. He immediately grabbed for a blanket, trying to pull it over Sherlock's shoulders all while Sherlock tried to push him away, he didn't want to be pampered like this, all the fussing only reminded him once more that it had actually happened.
"I think he knows, I think somehow he knows about John." Sherlock breathed.
"Oh let him try, let him try to prosecute you for the same thing he is guilty of." Mycroft growled.
"He will get away with it, he's an inspector, whatever he says is valid, no matter how hypocritical." Sherlock insisted in a small voice.
"And no one would ever listen to us." Mycroft agreed. Sherlock nodded quietly, finally pulling the corners of his blanket around his shoulders and staring down at the floor. Mycroft was right, of course, no one would believe them. They were poor, they had no titles, they were forgotten and they were the closet things to criminals you could get. Sherlock himself was a triple offender, while Mycroft could most certainly be tried for being an accomplice, harboring a fugitive, and aiding and abetting. They would both hang, should all the crimes be recognized, unless of course Sherlock somehow convinced the jury that he had Mycroft under his spells this whole time, making him turn a blind eye, being in complete control of his actions. It was pathetic, to have to lie to protect one of the only good people in the world, and yet Sherlock didn't see a pretty future for either of them. Now Victor was angry, like a mad dog who had just got off his chain, certainly he'd be back, certainly he'd be ravenous.
"No one ever does." Sherlock agreed quietly. "And yet we'll just make sure we don't have to speak, maybe he'll stay away."
"He won't, that creep will be drawn to you even more now, oh it's just...it's disgusting!" Mycroft exclaimed horrifically, shivering violently before sitting down heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, hanging his head in his hands and breathing rapidly.
"Being a homosexual is disgusting?" Sherlock clarified with a blink. Mycroft just sighed heavily, shaking his head and looking up at Sherlock mournfully.
"No of course not, that man is my age, and he dares to kiss you, and to scare you, and use his job to hold us hostage oh he's infuriating!" Mycroft exclaimed angrily, clenching his fists before sitting back in his chair, shaking his head as if lost in thought.
"He's gone now, Mycroft. We can just eat, we can clean up, we can forget about all of this. I'll go and look for a job tomorrow, maybe John can help me." Sherlock murmured.
"Do you really want to be seen with him yet? After you publicly killed him?" Mycroft clarified, looking quite mystified.
"There's only one way to publicly prove that he's alive. Maybe if people see us together they'll think we're...I don't know, healing?" Sherlock suggested. Mycroft nodded, however he still seemed reluctant, for he held his chin on his fingertips like he did when he was lost in thought.
"Sherlock maybe it's best to just lay low for a while longer? If you see him again, I fear to think what might happen if you were alone." Mycroft admitted with a shudder.
"I won't be alone, I'll have John, or Greg, he was the one that took me today." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. Mycroft knitted his eyebrows curiously, looking at Sherlock as if he wasn't aware that Sherlock had even gone out.
"You went somewhere? Where?" Mycroft wondered nervously. Sherlock's cheeks immediately went pink, shrugging his shoulders and swinging his feet reluctantly.
"I went to John's...he invited me. I think he's finally realized that we're meant to be together after all." Sherlock said with a little nod, to which Mycroft only hummed. He had of course never known the first part of the story, in which John left Sherlock to ensure his safe passage to Heaven, however what mattered now was that they were back together, happily reunited and looking forward instead of down.
"Well that's good; I suppose that's what matters now. Think not on Inspector Trevor, he is a mere leaf in the whirlwind of life, and surely enough he will be blown away by the changing winds. Let's eat then, and think on happy things. Maybe you could play the violin for me tonight, to liven things up a little bit." Mycroft suggested with a smile, to which Sherlock just nodded reluctantly, easing himself off of the bed and letting his comforting blanket fall into a heap on the rest of his sheets. The violin sounded wonderful of course, however the last time he played it he saw his life force play out before him, mirroring his thoughts as the music mimicked his feelings. He had been falling in love then, what felt like so long ago, and so the music had been happy and the birds had flown and John had been there, he had kissed him. And yet now Sherlock felt drained, he felt miserable, he saw only one man in his head and surely that man would be displayed in his music, his slow music, his dreary music...It wouldn't do to liven anything up at all. For dinner Mycroft had only bought a single loaf of bread, and it was already more stale than Sherlock was used to at this time. He could only imagine the state it would be in the next morning. And yet when they didn't have a daily salary this was what they resorted to, the bare minimum, it felt so long ago that Mycroft was cooking up ground beef, joy in their hearts...and now they sat here in silent despair, trying to hide the fact that inside they were aching. Mycroft didn't seem to have anything to say and yet it was obvious that he wanted to say something, for he was sitting rather stiffly, staring at the table below his hands as if looking to it for conversational inspiration. Sherlock didn't want to talk, and to be perfectly honest he would prefer the silence to whatever sort of conversation Mycroft wanted to strike up. There really was no aspect of their life that wasn't depressing anymore, and after all the fiasco of life and death it was really inopportune to factor in Victor Trevor's disgusting taste in forceful flirtation. When dinner was over Sherlock didn't want to play his violin, and so he made his excuses and went early to bed, not even daring enough to try to read his borrowed textbooks by the light of a candle, he wasn't quite sure that he could concentrate right now. So much excitement, all in one day...Sherlock pulled the curtains around his bed and lay in the darkness, shielded mediocrely from Mycroft's flickering candle as he tried to get ahead on some of his clerk business, sitting at the table and writing out numbers on some very confusing looking spreadsheets. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, longing for John, wishing that he could just curl up with him ever so innocently, hold his head against his beating heart and listen for the rhythm that Heaven had created so as to lull him to sleep. And yet that very heart had given out because of him, that heart had stopped...because of him. Sherlock wasn't sure now if even that would help him sleep, it was a horrible state of loneliness that overcame him, of helplessness. He missed the coos of Merlin from the bedpost, Merlin who now lay in the hastily dug hole in the field he had once explored. He missed having magic, he missed conjuring spells and pleasing crowds, he missed having a purpose...he missed being special. Now who was he, really? A commoner, a criminal, a homosexual? Nothing without his magic, nothing extraordinary anymore. 

It was Saturday when Sherlock decided to seek out employment; it was Saturday when he finally went to the Watson household, looking for someone who might accompany him through the busy streets. It was a shame that the police, the very people that were supposed to protect commoners, where the very people that Sherlock had come to fear, and yet it was necessary for him to precautious. It was obvious that they were corrupt; they were led by one of the sickest men in the history of all mankind, and of course he just so happened to be the very man who had an eye for Sherlock. He couldn't tell, however, if Victor's sudden infatuation was even something of love, or just another way to display his control. Surely there was no better way to terrify someone than to show them that you could do anything to them and they'd be helpless to stop you? Victor had made that quite clear the day when he came to raid the house, he made it clear that Sherlock was all together defenseless when faced by him. And yet what was Sherlock to do? He had the power to stop him, he knew a simple spell that would certainly ensure Victor wouldn't have any more romantic pleasures in his life, he also knew a way to stop his disgusting heart from beating, and yet it was just a matter of whether or not he was daring enough to take the life or not. It all depended, of course, on whether or not Sherlock was daring enough to use magic in front of him. If Victor saw with his own eyes the very thing he was trying to condemn Sherlock for then the case would be lost, and Sherlock would be in no position to deny any accusations. He couldn't use magic to defend himself; it would have to be a spell that ensured Victor never spoke again...or never breathed. To kill an inspector was certainly a punishable crime, and yet Sherlock was starting to suspect that it was a necessary one. Victor was on to something, he knew something that Sherlock didn't want him to...he knew purely because he had mentioned 'him'. Sherlock being with 'him', almost as if he knew Sherlock's lover so casually that he could dare use pronouns. He didn't want to endanger John in anyway, and yet he was beginning to feel like there was something coming, something he certainly didn't want to pass. Sherlock arrived at the doors reluctantly, for he still wasn't sure who would answer the door. If it was someone other than the parents he was sure he'd be fine, and yet if it was the distraught Mr. Watson, the one who had hired Sherlock to stand before his crowd and kill his son, well Sherlock was probably going to be kicked to the curb. And yet he had no time to dilly dally, for the streets were still empty and it would take one passing glance from someone in a police hat to flag him down and drag him over... Sherlock knocked loudly, his knuckles rapping against the wood and leaving him immediately in silence, waiting to hear the approaching footsteps, waiting finally for the door to be pulled open, and to be met with a face that he recognized, thankfully...
"Back again Sherlock?" Molly said with a little smile, leaning on the door and looking back into the house so as to make sure no one important was listening in on their conversation.
"Well yes, I hope my presence isn't unwanted." Sherlock said in a little mutter, to which Molly just giggled, as if the very thought of him not being wanted was unheard of.
"Well of course you're wanted, in fact I think Master Watson has just woken up, would you like me to send him a message or would you like to go disturb him yourself?" Molly wondered with a smile.
"Oh, well you know me Molly; I'm a simple person, peace-loving..." Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head sarcastically and grinning widely. "On the other hand, do you have some sort of trumpet? Or maybe symbols?"
"Well we do have a triangle, I know where that is, next to the piano. I could certainly help you lug that up, however it's not too loud and I'm sure he would notice your presence much quicker than you could play a note." Moly murmured.
"Oh I'll just lead the way, we'll leave the orchestra for another time, when we're more prepared." Molly decided, and Sherlock nodded along confidently.
"Yes, an excellent idea." Sherlock agreed, and with that he stepped inside of the very elegant house, becoming so used to its beauty now that he barely even stopped to awe over it. And so he followed Molly up the familiar path to John's bedroom, finding that the rest of the house was very much asleep as they ventured down through the hallway filled with elaborate paintings of very dignified looking members of John's family. John was in his room, as predicted, and yet it took quite a number of knocks before finally he called to come in. Molly opened the door politely, and yet instead of letting her announce his presence formally Sherlock just stood on his tiptoes so that John could see him from where he lay, still in his blankets and looking exhausted.
"Master Watson, a gentleman here to see you." Molly said formally.
"No gentleman comes knocking at this hour." John insisted with a laugh, for he could now see that it was Sherlock who was at his door and not some actual distinguished person.
"Good thing I'm not very gentle then." Sherlock giggled, making both members of his audience didn't find his play on words very amusing.
"You're one of the gentlest people I know; my goodness Sherlock a gust of wind could topple you!" John exclaimed, however he finally sat up in bed and frowned at his new guest, seemingly unaware that he was shirtless and therefore extremely distracting.
"Well I'll let you two be then; surely this isn't my place...whatever this even is." Molly said almost nervously, bowing her way out of the room before scampering down the hallway, as if she could already sense the impending intimacy. And yet Sherlock wasn't really here for that, it wouldn't be a drawback of course but he had a more business oriented goal.
"Sherlock I'm glad you came, actually. I wanted to show you something." John muttered, sitting up evermore and bringing his bare arm into focus. Sherlock walked slowly towards his bedside, as if wondering what could be so interesting on a meager arm.
"See right here? It's a papercut, here on my finger. I was opening letters the other day, and it still hasn't healed. It hasn't even closed. There was no blood, and yet I've been putting all sorts of creams on it, I've been covering it, and yet it hasn't even attempted to heal. It's almost as if my skin can't heal, it's almost like my skin is...inactive." John murmured, studying his hand with a frown.
"Does it hurt?" Sherlock wondered, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking John's hand in his own, observing the cut in question and seeing that John was right, it hadn't healed, it seemed as though it had just been cut open moments before.
"No, it doesn't hurt." John admitted finally.
"Curious." Sherlock mumbled, not really wanting to come to grips with what this obviously meant. It confirmed their suspicions that John wasn't actually as human as they would've liked, he wasn't healing and he wasn't feeling pain, both of those aspects were rather vital in the human experience. Maybe his body wasn't functioning exactly as they intended it to after all.
"Sherlock I'm worried, goodness there are so many things on my mind right now..." John groaned heavily, leaning forward in quite some contortion so as to dangle his arms off of Sherlock's shoulders and groan heavily.
"Well I've got just the thing that might make your day!" Sherlock said in mock excitement.
"And what is that?" John asked anxiously, suddenly looking hopeful for what the day might bring.
"Job hunting!" Sherlock exclaimed, making John groan once more and fall back onto Sherlock's shoulder in disgust.
"Job hunting? What a bore." He groaned.
"Oh no, it'll be quite fun, we can make up my skills, make up some references, some job experience, it'll be fun." Sherlock insisted with a giggle.
"Ah yes, well you were...magical...at your old job." John teased, chuckling a little bit all while Sherlock suddenly felt to slap him over the head.
"What a horrible pun." He murmured.
"And why do you need me for this?" John wondered, still too lazy to look Sherlock in the eye at the moment.
"Because I just don't feel safe on the streets, not alone. Something happened the other day, it was enough to scare me into taking a buddy everywhere I go." Sherlock admitted with a heavy sigh.
"Am I allowed to ask what it was?" John wondered nervously. Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning his head very gently against John's and shrugging indifferently.
"I don't think you'll want to." He murmured somberly. John just straightened up now, regaining his attention as he realized there was a slight tremble in Sherlock's voice. He was always so protective, that was just one of the many things Sherlock loved to dearly about him.
"Has it got to do with me somehow?" he wondered nervously. Sherlock sighed heavily, shrugging and looking down at his feet for a moment, trying to find a proper way to phrase such an atrocious happening.
"It's about Inspector Trevor...the one who tried to hang me before. He came to my house, the other day; he tore the place up, looking for who knows what... I suppose I angered him in some way, he pulled me outside, he um...he kissed me, forcefully. If Mycroft hadn't shown up I don't know what could've happened, I don't..." Sherlock took a deep breath, shaking as he suddenly remembered all the horrendous feelings that went along with such an attack.
"Sherlock, oh Sherlock I'm so sorry." John breathed, leaning forward to take Sherlock's head in his hands, and yet instead of kissing him he just held him there, safely, securely, he ran his fingertips over Sherlock's cheeks as if trying to wipe the ghosts of the tears that had fallen because of such an occurrence. And although it didn't erase the memories it did help to ease them, it did help Sherlock remember that for all the cruel people in the world, there were still good ones.
"So you can see why I don't want to be alone." Sherlock murmured, to which John nodded, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock very gently on the forehead, like a mother trying to calm her scared child, and like a child Sherlock trembled into his arms, falling against his chest and resting his head safely on John's soft shoulder.
"I understand...of course I do. And of course I'll accompany you." John assured quietly. "And know Sherlock, just know, that if he ever approaches you again, that if he even so much as tries to touch a hair on your head...I'll kill him myself."
"You'll have to wait in line." Sherlock whispered, and yet it was a very short line, composed of only Sherlock and Mycroft, surely John could get his share towards the end. To be perfectly honest it was just good to know that someone else was on his side, someone else was looking out for him, someone else cared...For with John's promise came the everlasting reminder of what real love was, and what real love was supposed to be. Nothing forceful, nothing without consent, nothing harsh. Certainly whatever emotions Victor had were twisted ones, contorting his obsession with seeing Sherlock hang into a romantic passion, something of anger consorted into sick lustfulness. It was disgusting, and it was everything John wasn't. And that was why they were together now, after so much happening all at once, that was why after life and death itself they were still able to hold each other and feel safe, feel protected. Real love was drastically different, and it was what occupied Sherlock's heart and John's heart, that is if John's heart was still managing to beat.