Heir Apparently

Burning The Beautiful

"Well good morning John Watson!" Victor's voice exclaimed. John hadn't been able to sleep, but he had closed his eyes for a little while, and when he opened them again he saw Victor's face at the bars, smiling in the darkness of the morning. "I may not know the weather, but I'm going to predict a beautiful sunrise this morning. It'll almost look like the horizon's on fire."
"Where's Sherlock?" John growled, not wanting to listen to Victor's taunting. His body ached from lying on the stone, his skin scratched from the hay and his throat was dry, dispute the cup of water that lay next to him. He tried to tell himself that he wasn't scared, that he wasn't even considering what it might feel like to be put up in flames, but eventually, he decided, he would find out.
"Sherlock's safe, of course, tucked up in his bed, sound asleep." Victor assured.
"You've been busy." John decided, observing Victor's tired eyes, however energetic he may seem.
"It's a big day John, the last day that I have to put up with you." Victor decided triumphantly.
"You know I always despised you, from the moment I found you asleep with Sherlock in that stable, I knew that you'd cause me trouble. I always wondered how I would get rid of you, but I never suspected that you'd hand yourself over to me so willingly. You made a mistake John, a fatal mistake, but I have to say that only you suffer by it." Victor sang.
"Just get this over with Victor, just do it." John growled, pulling himself to his feet and holding his hands behind his back for Victor to shackle.
"There we go, compliance. But don't think your manners are going to keep you alive." He said teasingly, closing the iron cuffs very tightly around John's wrists.
"I wouldn't dream of it." John growled. Victor grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door, a long line of armored guards standing along the rows of cages, as if John was going to try to make some sort of escape attempt. But he wasn't going to escape; he wasn't going to try to run. John knew that he had to do this, to save his parents and everyone he had ever loved, he needed to burn. Even though the flames wouldn't tickle he knew that he was getting the least of the pain, and in some ways that was comforting, in other ways that hurt the most. His parents would cry, Molly, Greg, they'll cry. And Sherlock, he couldn't imagine Sherlock's grief when he woke up and found that he had failed at saving the only man he had ever come to love. Victor moved John swiftly through the corridors, leading him out into the entrance hall and out the large oak doors, down the cobblestone paths to the arena. John was surprised that they would do an execution at the arena, especially where that was the same place he had gained all of his fame, all of his glory. It had been a day where John proved himself to the world, that servants were more than just the lonely men who washed socks and mucked out the horses. And now John was going to prove once more to the kingdom that servants weren't just there, he was going to prove that they could also be vile, be cruel. All of the townspeople who had once adored him were going to boo as he went up in flames, blaming him not only for the death of the king but the attempt of murder on Sherlock. It was going to be an execution of the highest disgrace. Victor led him into the arena, their feet scuffing over the dirt as John was hauled to the middle. The stands were filled with people, the stands as packed as they were for the tournament, everyone coming out to watch the assassin burn. As soon as John entered the arena they all started booing, hissing, and screaming, throwing out words you should never use in front of other people. But John took it, because he knew they were true. There was a large wooden platform; on top of it sat what looked like a bonfire with a large wooden pole in the middle of it, the pole on which John would be tied. A shiver went down his spine as he looked at it, knowing that he would be killed on that very platform, that he was going to lose his life in front of so many people, all disgracing him for a crime he was forced to commit. But he had to do this, and knowing that it was necessary, well, it wasn't as scary.
"Look at all these people, all coming out to watch the show, it's heartwarming, isn't it?" Victor hissed into his ear, dragging John up the wooden steps onto the platform. Only two out of the four thrones were occupied, one never to be used again, Sherlock's old throne, and the king's throne stood empty in the middle. Sherlock was still unconscious then, there was nothing he could do to stop this. The queen sat proudly on her throne, staring at John from across the stadium with anger in her eyes. John could see her hatred from here, hatred he most certainly deserved. She didn't think he was innocent; she had bene the one to put this kind of execution on his head. She was avenging her husband, avenging her son; she was playing the part only a mother could play, a mother who was doing what was best for her family. Mycroft looked just as pleased with himself, just as powerful. He was responsible for Sherlock's not being there, but he sat upon his prince's throne like it was the king's, looking at John with such a complex of seniority that it was almost pathetic. He loved to see Sherlock's entire world burn.
"Ah, the royals look pretty happy don't they?" Victor wondered, scanning the crowd as well. John couldn't see Greg or Molly or even Billy, but he was sure that was a good thing. He knew they were there somewhere, but he didn't want to have to see their tears.
"Restrain him!" the queen shouted. John watched as men came onto the platform with ropes, unshackling John's hands and leading him on top of the mass of sticks and logs. John winched as they pulled his arms around the pole, tying him as tightly and as harshly as they could to the wood. He was facing the thrones; he watched the royal family as he was bound once more and tied to the pole with a large, uncomfortable rope. He would've complained of course, if the whole point of this presentation wasn't to hurt him. Obviously they didn't care how tight the rope was, he wasn't going to feel it much longer. This was the end. It was almost hard to imagine that soon he would either descend into heaven or plunge into hell, or maybe he would just fade away into blackness. Who knew if there really was an afterlife? Who really cared? If there was he would have to wait many more years to be properly happy, even if he did go to Heaven who knows how many more years it would take for Sherlock to join him? Sherlock, that was John's final wish. He wished that he could see Sherlock one more time. He wanted to see the king, even if he knew it was better if the king didn't see him. To watch the love of your life burn, it was a lot worse than falling asleep and missing it all.
"John Watson, you are being charged with the murder of my husband and the attempted murder of my son. You have betrayed the kingdom, you have betrayed your rulers, and most of all you have betrayed your friends. I know I speak for all of us when I say you deserve this, and only this." The queen said, getting to her feet and addressing John from where she stood. She paused for a moment, as if this was too emotionally overwhelming for her.
"You are to be burned at the stake as soon as the sun rises." She muttered, turning away and sinking back into her throne. Mycroft said unheard words to his mother but she did nothing more but nod, obviously not able to comprehend the fate she was condemning onto her son's lover. John let his head fall onto the wooden post, staring at the horizon he could see peaking just over the back of the stands. Any time now, and his life would be over. Here comes the sun.