"What...John what have you done?" Sherlock whispered, too transfixed with Victor's twitching body, lying groaning on the floor, the only sound he could make as his mouth bubbled up and filled with the blood that was still rushing up from his stomach. He had a knife in his back; Sherlock could see the gleam from where he knelt, he couldn't look away and yet he was aware of the two familiar dress shoes that stood above him, their soles already splashed in the scarlet that was leaking into the floorboards.
"I did what we needed to do." John said flatly, staying quiet still as if he was still trying to process the crime he had committed. For a man so concerned about going to Hell, murder really was quite a step down.
"John, you'll hang for this, they'll kill you, why would you do that, John we had a plan!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking up at John finally, tears beginning to soak into his eyes as he stared at the boy, the boy who looked so stern now, so mature. His hands were covered in blood that was not his own and his eyes were staring down at Sherlock, not at the body he had just created, the inanimate chunk of flesh that was lying finally dead at his feet. It would seem as though John didn't care about Victor anymore.
"I'm already dead, Sherlock, already dying. This was the plan we needed, not some stupid photograph. He's dead, he won't press charges. I'm going to save your life Sherlock, just as you saved mine." John said pointedly, and with that he stepped forward and knelt down, taking Victor's bleeding body in his arms and lifting him up with a great heave, struggling with the weight as victor's boots hung over the side of his arm, still shining yet soiled in their wearer's blood. It was a horrible sight, and yet for some reason it almost looked picturesque, as if this was precisely what was supposed to happen this night. Victor dead, John his killer, hoisting the body up to go through with his own personal vendetta. Sherlock could only stumble back and watch as John forced the door open and started into the hallway, his own clothes beginning to soak with blood as he left a trail for Sherlock to follow, down the familiar steps into the entrance hall. He finally stopped there, carrying the Inspector's body with some sort of purpose and waiting for the first servant to notice...the first servant to produce a scream. It was Moly Hooper, and with her scream more followed, until finally the entire house had stirred, all but Sherlock, who sat on the bed fearfully, trembling as his tongue brushed over his bloodstained teeth, clutching to the bed on which he could only helplessly sit, splashing his shoes in the puddle of the tainted blood that pooled into the wood. John was going to save his life...in doing so he was going to be hanged. John was protecting their secrets, he was killing the one who might whisper the stanzas to the executioner, he might persuade the judge, and yet now his lips were silent, they were scarlet. Victor's lifeless body lay on the floor of the entrance hall, lying there motionless as John was arrested, as they slapped handcuffs around his wrists and as his father watched from the stairs, clutching at the banister and realizing that he was going to have to be the one to sentence his son to death. And Sherlock just sat there on the bed, his mouth stained red and his shirt lying forgotten under the bed...he was waiting for them to arrest him as well. And yet no one did, no one even thought that there might be more to this story. No one thought to check Victor's pockets, to see if there was any more condemning material hidden in them. John's life hung in the balance for two days; he sat in his cell if he didn't sit in a courtroom, unable to look his father in the eyes as lawyers shouted back and forth. No one was surprised when the gallows were reconstructed in the town square, and yet everyone was surprised at the rope's new resident. Such a nice boy, they would say, such a good family. A murderer, that was all John would be remembered for, was it not? No one would know the reasoning behind Inspector Trevor's death, surely no one would ask. No one would wonder the connection Sherlock had to it all, Sherlock who could only hold tight to his brother's hand as he heard the rope go taut, Sherlock who could only hold back tears as he sensed not a human soul, but a bird soul, as it took its flight towards Heaven. For Merlin had done nothing wrong, surely, and yet John's soul was under their feet, now tunneling its way lower, for the sins it bore were much heavier now with the blood of Victor Trevor. 

 It was odd now, how quickly such an experience could vanish, slip like sand between his fingers and fall to the ground at his feet. He might try to pick up the grains, he might try to reassemble the life he had built for himself, and yet with John gone it would seem that nothing would ever be the way he wanted it to be. He had been in love...and now that was gone. He had been hunted, and now that was gone as well. Two deaths, only one of them tragic, and only one of them without cause. Victor deserved what he had gotten, he deserved to be killed ten times over for the crimes he had committed while using the law as an alibi. And yet John had only done what he thought necessary, he had only done what he thought he needed to. Victor was too dangerous to be left alive, that was for sure, he had the ammunition and all he had to do was pull the trigger, with one shot he could've taken them both down. And yet John had stopped him doing that, in the process sacrificing himself to the gallows while Sherlock was forced to watch. What was he to do now? Well, all that he had done before, presumably. He would have to revert back to the world he had known before he had known John; he would go out to the field and dig up his magic book, for now that John's soul was in Hell there was no need for him to avoid it. They had the same charges on them now, John wouldn't have sorcery and yet he was a murderer and a homosexual, maybe they would find themselves in the same circle. Sherlock could make money now, and he still had some friends of course. Molly was unemployed now; she couldn't stand to work for the Watsons after Mr. Watson had sent his son to die. He had no choice of course, for pitying his own son would be frowned upon in his line of work, and yet he was still looked down upon. It was inhumane for a man to do such a thing, and maybe he still had his career but his social status was deteriorating around him. Molly now helped in the market, in a stand that was reasonably close to Sherlock's tent, reconstructed and populated heavily by those who had missed his performances during his depression hiatus. They grew to be close friends, and of course Greg couldn't help but come visit when at all possible. He would never miss an opportunity to be with Molly, for the two of them were now a thing, to put it in Molly's words. Sherlock remembered back to when Greg was the matchmaker, and now it would seem that with the death of his own love interest Sherlock acquired the role of cupid. The work was just as pathetic as it had been before Sherlock knew how to love, and yet it was still better than nothing, and the brothers were able to eat just as they had before. They were never wealthy, and they were never destined to become a higher member of society. And yet they were some of the precious few who could learn to enjoy their lives, even if they hadn't much money to their names. They had friends now, friends who cared for them, friends who laughed with them. And yet it was impossible to quite forget about John, John who had disappeared from Sherlock's life just as soon as he had appeared. What a whirlwind his presence had been, what a treasure! Oh whether it be their kisses in that alley, their flirting near the tent, the mornings when they woke up wondering just what had happened the night before. Love! That was what it had been, love despite the gender and despite the social class, hearts connecting, hands caressing, lips cherishing every kiss, every touch! It had been enough to forget the ending, and when Sherlock remembered that execution, the very faint glimpse he had of a John shaped man in a hood, dangling from the gallows, well he could forget easily enough when he remembered John's head pressed against his pillows, or against his chest. John's sacrifice didn't seem that bad when he remembered that they had been so alive together just days before, weeks before! John was destined to die anyway, it best be for a good cause. He ridded the world of one good and one evil; he brought it back to balance with his own death after the ridding of Inspector Trevor. And his memory never failed to make Sherlock smile, for it was only too easy now to remember why he had every reason to. 

A/N: So just a quick author's note at the end of this here, I really liked the idea behind this and I think it was executed well. Hehe...see what I did there? alright, anyway, it's been an idea tucked away in my head since I watched Merlin all of those years ago, and it just finally took shape one day and I was like hm I think I need to write this one. So I did...here it is! Thanks for reading guys, next up is probably one of the stories I'm most excited for you all to read, something which I think is quite unlike anything anyone has ever read, and something with a plot which makes me very proud :)