"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.

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was swimming; at least, that's what he felt like. He was submerged underwater involuntarily, he couldn't see anything and he couldn't breathe, but suddenly that wasn't a problem. He could hear the sound, the silver dagger clattering to the ground over and over again. The betrayal, the disbelief, it was clouding around him like the water that was now seeping into his lungs, choking him, suffocating him. It was coming in through his nose, his mouth, even his ears; he was being flooded with this water, these emotions.
"Sherlock, you've got to listen to me." said a voice from far off, their murky words clouding around Sherlock's head as he drowned.
"Sherlock it's not over yet." it repeated. Sherlock turned, looking through the darkness, staring and listening hard. He knew that voice, he loved that voice.
"John." Sherlock muttered, bubbles erupting from his mouth as he muttered the name of the man he loved.
"You can still save me." John whispered. His voice was coming from above, but Sherlock didn't know how to get there. He didn't know how to save himself much less John. He was just floating there, drowning himself blissfully because he couldn't remember how to swim.
"John I don't know how." Sherlock muttered, staring at the light above him, seeing a silhouette against what had to be the sun.
"Sherlock isn't not real, none of it. Just follow my voice, come to me." John insisted. Sherlock strained his neck to see farther and farther above him, but he couldn't do it, he couldn't bring himself to rise. He flapped his arms and kicked his legs but nothing was working, everything seemed hopeless.
"Sherlock you know that if you stay in there I'm going to die, you don't want that, do you? You don't want me to die." John whispered.
"No of course not." Sherlock muttered, streaming bubbles from his mouth once more. He liked it down here, it was warm, it was peaceful.
"So I'm going to need you to swim up here Sherlock, it's your turn to be the hero." John insisted. Sherlock looked up once more, finally feeling what felt like the earth beneath his feet, clenching his fists in anger. He wanted to save John, he had to get up there somehow, but he suddenly felt like he couldn't do anything about it. He was submerged in hopelessness.
"John I need your help." Sherlock muttered.
"No you don't Sherlock, I need yours." John whispered back. Sherlock screamed in agony, but suddenly he kicked off of the ground, tearing himself through the water, pushing against the current and propelling himself upwards, seeing a hand reaching into the waves. He grabbed the hand and he was pulled out of the murky depths, he could breathe air, he could see John again... 

    Sherlock woke with a start, his eyes flying open as he saw the faintest of daylight streaming in through his windows. His muscles ached but his heart ached more, and suddenly he remembered what he was doing, suddenly he remembered why he forced himself to wake up in the first place.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, throwing his blankets off of himself desperately. He ran to the door, opening it frantically and seeing two armed guards turn around in surprise, looking as if they were falling asleep.
"You're not supposed to be up!" one of them exclaimed, but Sherlock pushed past them as quickly as he could, pushing one over into a metallic heap and escaping the other one's clunky grasp. He had to find John; he had to save him before the sun rose. Sherlock's muscles ached before he even got to the end of the hall, but he knew it was necessary, who cared if he was tired, John was going to be in a lot more pain if he didn't just bear it. The world spun as Sherlock descended the staircase, his bare feet scraping against the stone as he raced to the ground. He heard clunky metal footsteps behind him, frantic yelling as the guards tried to do their only job, the same job they had managed to fail at.
"Your majesty get back here, you're not supposed to be out alone!" they exclaimed, but of course Sherlock wasn't going to take orders, especially not from someone who wanted John to burn. His adrenaline rushed as he sprinted out of the doors, seeing a large crowd at the arena, seeing the sun start to poke its way over the distant mountains. He was going to be too late. He heard cheering as he approached, everyone so anxious to see John burn, he could hear their screams and yelling from here, running as fast as he could manage down the cobblestone to try to save his love. It was in the arena, of course, where else could they fit a crowd of anxious onlookers, where else to scoff and burn an innocent man? Sherlock ran faster and faster, as fast as he's probably ever gone before. It wasn't just him that was running, he was running for Molly, for Greg, for John's family, for everyone who sat down there in those stands but didn't want to witness the death of their favorite champion. John didn't deserve this; and Sherlock was the only one that could stop it. The paths got lighter, the sky brighter, the sun was rising, he wasn't going to make it. Sherlock flew through the doors of the arena, seeing Victor raising the torch in the air, a wooden torch with its tip ablaze, John standing against a large pole in the middle of the bonfire, raised on a platform for all to see.
"STOP!" Sherlock screamed desperately. There was a huge gasp from the crowd, even a little bit of cheering. They thought that he had come just in time, that he was the hero. But they were wrong, John was the hero of this story, they just didn't know it yet.
"Stop, stop this now!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing up onto the platform and wrestling the blazing torch out of Victor's unworthy hands. The sun poked its first rays above the horizon, Sherlock had just made it, he had just beaten the sunrise.
"Sherlock this is an outrage, he tried to kill you!" Victor exclaimed, stepping back in amazement as if wondering what type of hallucinogen Sherlock was high on.
"He didn't do it on his own free will, he's been tricked!" Sherlock exclaimed, raising his voice so that the crowd could hear. His legs were aching, his lungs screaming for air, but he couldn't do anything about it now, he couldn't show weakness. Victor looked scandalized, looking over at where the queen sat as if looking for some sort of defense. John was gagged, a heap of cloth stuffed in his mouth, but yet he still tried to communicate, he was making all of these desperate mumblings, telling something to Sherlock that he would never understand.
"Where is your proof?" Victor growled. Sherlock held the torch in his hand defensively, prepared to use the flame as a weapon if Victor tried to get too close. Sherlock paused for a moment, realizing that he had no proof, nothing to go on that would justify his claims.
"I...I don't..." Sherlock mumbled, looking at the now disappointed crowd.
"You don't have any proof and yet you would stop an execution? Tell me Sherlock, how is this in anyway respecting your father's memory?" Victor wondered. Sherlock stepped back in amazement, shocked that Victor would even dare use the king's memory as an insult.
"He's innocent Victor, he can't be killed." Sherlock growled.
"And how are you making this assumption? We need to think with our heads this morning Sherlock, not our hearts. I know you didn't see him raise that knife, but I did. I know that you were rather...preoccupied." Victor said with a gleam in his eyes. There was a murmur in the crowd, obviously some had heard and some hadn't, Victor had been talking normally so only the ones closest to them heard.
"Kiss me John, kiss me!" Victor whispered, making Sherlock's hands go so numb that he almost dropped the torch. "Tell me Sherlock, are you just trying to protect your lover for your own sake? Afraid to burn away such...opportunity?"
"Don't you dare accuse me of something like that. He's innocent, what more can I do to convince you?" Sherlock growled. There was a silence over the crowd; Sherlock saw that his mother had gotten to her feet, standing at the railing of the stadium as if trying to hear every word of their conversation.
"And if you claim that John's actions weren't his own, who do you accuse?" Victor asked loudly, spinning in a circle to scan the crowd once more.
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "But he told me himself, they have his family for ransom, if he fails then they die."
"Well, I think it's safe to say that he's failed." Victor said, and there was a little laugh that carried along the stands. Sherlock clenched his teeth angrily, looking at John, who's eyes were desperate, mumbling things that Sherlock couldn't understand.
"Why don't we just ask him?" Sherlock suggested. Victor's eyes glinted excitedly; obviously he would love the opportunity to burn more than one person at the stake.
"Why don't we?" he agreed, stepping over to untie the gag.