A/N: A reverse ending of White Noise written as a prize for @STHSonic09 for winning my fanfiction round! In which John survives at the end of the book. Enjoy!

It was within his own room that Sherlock fastened on his tie, an impressive feat considering he hadn't been able to step within these walls since his final encounter with John Watson. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson had allowed him to stay in one of the other apartments until his life got straightened out, though from the way things were going he may be staying in there until he was old and gray. His life wasn't working out, though today might help push the trajectory up towards the sky instead of its usual rate, heading deeper and deeper down through the earth. Even standing here felt wrong, his shoes disrupting the layer of dust that had collected upon the carpet, that which had felt more than just feet, more than just the weight of his own body. It was upon this carpet that John Watson crawled, it was on this carpet that Victor Trevor may have met his end... Sherlock shuttered, pulling his tie too tightly around his neck before loosening it frantically, getting his hands all mixed up within the intricate knots and tangles of fabric before at long last he had two strings hanging around his neck once more. Oh it was no use, no use to try to look his best! This was the first time he had worn anything decent in as long as he could remember, his shirts having been folded away for so long that there were already visible crinkles along their folded lines! No one would believe him to be a well put together gentleman; no man or woman of the jury would respect him just because he chose a special tie for the occasion. Once the story was spilled it wouldn't matter what he was wearing. It will have been four months since his hands were torn from John's neck, four months since he was pulled from the suffering body and replaced with paramedics. Four long, lonely months during which John Watson made a full recovery, despite Sherlock's best efforts to rid the world of his presence. A knock at the door knocked him out of his contemplation, announcing the presence of not only his friend but his ride as well. Mrs. Hudson was lingering there, wearing her best floral dress matched with a proper hat perched atop her graying hair. She looked worried, standing small and frightful in the doorway of the room she vowed never to enter again. Too much has happened within this room, some of which may never be confirmed at all.
"Ready dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked quickly. Sherlock nodded his head slowly, throwing the tie onto the bed and deciding to go with a more casual look. It was no use walking around with a noose around his neck anyway.
"As I'll ever be." Sherlock agreed, and followed the woman outside to her car. It wasn't supposed to be a long drive to the courtroom, though Mrs. Hudson was driving as slow as she could legally go within their city streets. She had the same uneasy feeling within her bones as Sherlock did, and somehow she knew to keep their distance as long as possible from the building which contained their villain. Sherlock was not to be called until eleven thirty, though the trial had begun its second day at nine o'clock. Here they were, at eleven twenty one, still going fifteen miles an hour down one of the narrow streets in an attempt to miss the proceeding and confess in front of the jury by mail.
"You know what you're going to say?" Mrs. Hudson presumed as she eased her foot upon the pedal, finally realizing that they ought to arrive on time to help validate their responsibility. Sherlock leaned heavier against the passenger side window, staring at the white line as it blurred along the side of the road.
"I suppose I'll say the truth, if that's not too much of a stretch." Sherlock decided at last.
"That being?" Mrs. Hudson clarified.
"That being that he's a monster." Sherlock insisted. "A murderer, a stalker, a trespasser, a rapist, a thief."
"A madman." Mrs. Hudson agreed solemnly.
"Not according to the jury. We cannot let them believe that he is out of his mind, lest they throw him in a hospital instead of an electric chair." Sherlock warned. Mrs. Hudson nodded, though her hands grew tighter upon the wheel of the car. Perhaps his dedication took her aback, though on the subject of the death penalty she took some time to contemplate their intentions.
"You want him dead?" she clarified.
"I want him dead." Sherlock agreed firmly, one of the only truths he had been able to settle upon over these past couple of months. How could he allow such a man to walk free, how could he live on the same earth and breathe the air that may have been exhaled by that miserable wretch? No, it could never be. Sherlock had tried his best to kill John Watson before he was interrupted, and today was finally his second chance to pull the metaphorical trigger. Perhaps Sherlock could not get away with assassinating the man within the courtroom, though by sitting on the witness stand he knew he could get John to settle down in an electric chair. The way God intended. Mrs. Hudson didn't say a word of protest, perhaps because she was thinking the exact same thing. Their parking space was reserved in the lot, and as soon as their vehicle arrived two men wearing bullet proof vests escorted them inside, checking them for weapons and walking at their sides for makeshift protection. There were some crowds collected within the old stone building, some reporters with flashing cameras. Sherlock kept his head down, huddling Mrs. Hudson to his side and trying to keep her out of the spotlight. The guards continued to shoo the press away, warning them not to get any closer. Sherlock wondered what these men were worried about, being that the most threatening man was sitting in chains somewhere in another room. The air already felt foul, sticky and hot as if they were drawing closer and closer to Hell. This was the first time Sherlock had shared a building with John since their final encounter, the first time he was within feet, not miles, away. His steps were getting slower, his motivation crumbling as fear mounted. The clock was ticking rapidly, his time for action was drawing nearer, but could he do it? Could Sherlock step into that room, attracting hundreds of pairs of eyes? Could he do it, knowing that one specific pair was staring directly at him with the same hunger it had always demonstrated? Was John Watson properly secured, or would he still be a threat to the man in the witness stand? Finally the pair was led into a private room, one where they could enter the courtroom unrestricted by press and unbothered by the spectators. It was a small room, with plush chairs, magazines, and a water cooler for any of the witnesses who were feeling much more at ease than Sherlock. He couldn't imagine anyone could wait for their time at the stand while reading Good Housekeeping. As soon as the door shut behind them the security guards took their positions throughout the room, standing in two corners as if to make sure they could keep a good eye on everything that moved within the room. This left Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson standing rather awkwardly in the middle, huddling together for self made protection.
"Three minutes to go, Mr. Holmes." Called one of the guards, to which he nodded and squeezed his fingers into a tight fist, trying to ease any tension that was now bubbling up within his stomach.
"Don't worry too much, Sherlock. He's restrained, in a court full of people and men with guns." Mrs. Hudson assured. "He won't be able to touch you."
"But he'll see me." Sherlock reminded her. The woman sighed, though thankfully she didn't find any humor within the trembling words.
"I'm afraid that can't be helped." She cooed, taking up Sherlock's hand within her own and patting it in reassurance. "Just remember why you're there, dear, and it won't feel as scary."
"What if...what if he breaks loose?" Sherlock whispered. "I feel like he has the potential, I feel like he would break metal."
"Well, then you should just run." Mrs. Hudsons suggested.
"We both know I'm not very good at that." Sherlock debated, to which the woman forced a smile.
"I'm sure you'd manage. Besides, if he did break free I'm not sure he'd make it across the table before the guards would get him." Mrs. Hudson pointed out. Sherlock nodded, though that was almost no consolation at all. He didn't trust iron chains to hold that maniac, he didn't trust armed guards to restrain him. John Watson was his own force, a being of devilry and madness, unstoppable when he set his eyes on his prize. And Sherlock, God help him, was surely going to be looking like a stuffed toy hanging in a booth at the carnival.
"Mr. Holmes, you may go in." the guard muttered at last, speaking into his earpiece to announce Sherlock's arrival in the courtroom. The door was opened for him by a man with white gloves, one who appeared from inside of the courtroom as if to escort Sherlock inside. His breath stopped for a moment as he felt the air trickle out from through the open doors, surrounding him like a thick fog of contamination. Sherlock's feet wouldn't move, they wouldn't obey. He was stuck still, already feeling the wandering eyes of those who were within the proper range. He knew that just around that corner would be the slouched figure of the man from his nightmares.
"Go ahead in, Sherlock. I'll be right here for you when you get back." Mrs. Hudson assured, releasing his hand and trying to give Sherlock a little push towards the door. Still he would not move, his strong sense of self preservation kicking in and immobilizing him completely. For a moment Sherlock was worried he couldn't override it, he was worried that he'd have to be wheeled inside in a cart...
"Mr. Holmes?" the escort said in a firm voice, as if this wasn't his first time dealing with a hesitant witness.
"Yes, sorry sir." Sherlock muttered, suddenly finding it within himself to step forward. Thankfully his fear of getting in trouble suddenly overpowered his fear of being murdered, and before long he found himself in the doorway of the courtroom, already facing towards where the Judge sat elevated within his chair. On either side of him were rows of elevated seats, stadium seating designed for these more infamous cases. Sherlock knew that half the city would want to sit in on this trial after John's crimes went public, and already he could see people nearly hanging over the railings in an attempt to get a better look at him. Sherlock Holmes, suddenly famous for his influence in the case. Sherlock Holmes, the man so beautiful it led to murder. Slowly he entered, taking small steps while he heard the doors shut behind him, locking him in this room, securing the prey in with the predator. Any step now, any second now...the rows were falling away, his view opening, he knew that John would be sitting on the left table, perhaps in between his team of lawyers. Another step now, and the first of that table became clear. It was a woman, poised and proper and sitting straight in the wooden chair. She looked fierce; undoubtedly one of John's defense lawyers, and already Sherlock began to shiver. He knew he would be under the microscope; already her eyes were scanning him and looking for flaws in his appearance. Perhaps he should have worn that tie after all... When John Watson came into view Sherlock had no choice but to stop, for he suddenly forgot how it was to control any part of his body. He cared not where he was supposed to be going or who was instructing him, suddenly the only thing within his mind could be the man who was sat at that table. The only thing that he could contemplate in that very moment was that figure, the slouched figure, which loomed like a shadow within his own chair. John Watson looked sickly, dangerously thin and brittle, with his skin having gone a deathly pale and his hair thinning on the top. He was dressed in a suit that could hardly disguise his diminishing frame, and even now it bunched with excess fabric. As deadly as his body appeared, his eyes made it clear that his brain was still in its most powerful stages, contorted with obsession and constantly thinking. Constantly planning. It was a gaze that shot through Sherlock much like a bullet, and for a moment he was stricken with panic, unable to step forward, unable to step back. The crowd was silent as well, watching the interaction with their breaths contained in their lungs, worried that an exhale would disturb the moment that was happening on the courtroom floor. Sherlock felt his lips move in a silent mutter, simply forming the name of his adversary without giving them the voice necessary. He had to say it, John Watson. He had to think it. On the insistence of the judge Sherlock's escort at last took his arm and yanked him up towards the witness stand, knocking him out of his trance and forcing him to pay attention not towards the villain in chains, but rather to the old man in the curled wig. It was a strange fashion, and frankly pathetic now in these modern days. As Sherlock stood nervously next to the microphone he was instructed to say his oath, and with his words now verified by God he was allowed to begin. The first to get to their feet was the prosecution's layers, those representing the state. Thankfully their goal was to prove John guilty, and Sherlock's words may very well have some meaning to them. The lawyer took the floor, a rather aged gentleman who was wearing a very finely tailored suit. For a moment the man stared at Sherlock, as if trying to recognize any of the beauty that John had undoubtedly described. He had told his story to anyone who would listen; John's quotes were stamped across the morning newspapers in three separate towns! And how he loved to gush.
"Mr. Holmes, I understand that you are acquainted with the defendant?" the lawyer began. Sherlock cleared his throat, glancing towards the jury to see all of their eyes trained anxiously upon him. Leaning forward, he tried to speak his answer clearly into the microphone.
"Yes, in a way." He agreed at last.
"And how did you meet the defendant Mr. Watson?" the lawyer continued.
"He met me in a doctor's office, where he works. I was taking my landlady to her appointment, and he approached me there." Sherlock admitted. He tried to keep his gaze away from John, though he felt the man's eyes trained upon him as if they were two laser beams, bearing into his soul and cutting through flesh and bone.
"And during this interaction, what impression did you have of Doctor Watson?" the lawyer wondered. Sherlock remembered back, remembered how fun it was to tease the dumbstruck man. Back when flirting was for fun and games, back when hearts were things to play with, not to break.
"He was...well I suppose he was a bit forceful. Following polices of the office. He caught me smoking, and demanded I put out the cigarette." Sherlock exclaimed.
"And did you get the sense that Mr. Watson was going to continue this relationship? Did you get the feeling that you would see him again?" the lawyer wondered. Sherlock shivered, steadying himself on the railing of the witness box and shaking his head.
"No." he said simply. The lawyer nodded, as if this was going to help him prove a point that had been debated already.
"Very good." He agreed. "And tell me, what was your impression of Mr. Watson when he approached you the second time, at the coffee shop?"
"This time he had changed, he was a bit more passive, a bit more off putting. Flirtatious, but in a desperate sense." Sherlock explained.
"And he approached you that day with romantic intentions? Never disclosing that he was married?" the lawyer questioned.
"Yes sir. He never wore a ring." Sherlock agreed quickly. Quickly he scanned the audience, wondering if Mrs. Watson might be in attendance somewhere. He wasn't given the time to properly look, for as his eyes wandered he caught another glimpse of his opponent. It wasn't even eye contact, though it was enough to make him shiver and drop his gaze. He didn't like the idea of John Watson watching him; in fact he didn't like the idea of John Watson at all.
"How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Watson?" the lawyer wondered.
"One sided." Sherlock explained quickly.
"Meaning...?"
"Meaning he loved me, I could tell that he loved me. But I never reciprocated. And I told him this many times." Sherlock explained. The lawyer nodded, taking a look at John Watson before tucking his arms behind his back with a smile.
"Do you think Mr. Watson understood that you didn't love him, even after you explained it?" the lawyer asked.
"I think he understood that he was not welcome. After that point he became sneakier, more desperate. I got the sense that I was constantly being watched." Sherlock explained.
"Do you think this desperation would lead him to jealousy, perhaps aimed towards the late Victor Trevor?" the lawyer wondered.
"Without a doubt." Sherlock agreed.
"And do you think, Mr. Holmes, that this jealousy would lead to a tactful killing of Mr. Trevor, in order to keep you to himself?" the lawyer asked at last. Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and wincing to remember the departure of Victor Trevor. Oh but it was only too possible, it was only too plausible.
"I believe that John killed Victor out of jealousy, yes." Sherlock agreed. "And I believe he planned to do it."
"And lastly, Mr. Holmes, had you ever felt safe around John Watson, within any stage of your relationship?" the lawyer asked. Sherlock allowed himself to glance at the man, the skinny figure of disease crouched within his chair. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and finally shook his head.
"Never. Though the feeling grew more intense as our relationship lengthened. By the end I was afraid to be in the same room with him, as I am now." Sherlock admitted. The lawyer nodded, as if this was sufficient enough to stir the jury.
"Thank you Mr. Holmes." He nodded, returning to his chair while the jury's pens scribbled and the crowd began to mutter. John stayed silent in his chair, and Sherlock kept staring at the floor, afraid to look up and face all of the gazes that were settled upon him. In this short intermission the defense lawyer took the floor, the most foolish position that anyone could take within this building. To defend John Watson, and to try to claim that he was innocent, was perhaps a job guaranteed for failure.
"Mr. Holmes, on how many occasions did you engage in sexual activities with my client?" the woman began, to which Sherlock's face grew red. What a prying way to begin a conversation! Suddenly he hated the crowd even more, simply because he was opening up a rather private part of himself for closer examination.
"Twice." Sherlock said truthfully. The woman nodded, stepping aside as if to address the jury and not the witness.
"Twice. Though you claim never to have loved him, and to have felt threatened since the very moment you met him? Very brave, Mr. Holmes, to continue such a relationship under these circumstances." The woman chuckled. Sherlock sneered, averting his eyes in embarrassment.
"Can you describe to us, Mr. Holmes, how John Watson was first invited to your home?" the lawyer wondered, crossing her arms and observing him doubtfully. Sherlock groaned again, knowing that he would get a big lecture on relationship safety at the end of this proceeding.
"I gave him my address." Sherlock admitted. "And he came in through the window."
"Without having been attracted to him?" the woman presumed.
"Yes, alright? I wasn't particularly cautious about my partners!" Sherlock admitted.
"Just toying with emotions?" the lawyer asked. Sherlock frowned, but had no choice but to nod.
"I felt bad for him." he admitted at last.
"And the second time, upon what circumstances did you accept him again?" she wondered.
"This time he invited himself inside, and begged me. Cried to me." Sherlock admitted. "I pitied him!"
"Once again, catering to a man's fragile emotions with no intentions of continuing on. Mr. Holmes, this would be enough to drive any man mad." The lawyer presumed.
"He was never crazy, ma'am. He was just desperate. And pathetic." Sherlock growled.
"And yet you catered to him, up until what point?" the lawyer wondered. Sherlock sighed, remembering back to Victor's return to his life. How wonderful a day that was, when he could fall back into familiar arms!
"When Victor Trevor returned for me, I left my apartment. I left John Watson behind as well." Sherlock explained.
"So you play with his heart and leave for another man? Without a goodbye, or an explanation of any kind?" the woman wondered.
"Am I the one being charged here?" Sherlock growled in protest.
"Just answer the questions, Mr. Holmes." The lawyer demanded. Sherlock sighed heavily, already figuring that his actions were going to be used against him in this woman's defense. She was using his own mistreatment to justify the actions of John Watson, to make him look less like a criminal and more like a broken hearted love bird!
"Yes. I admit, I played with hearts! But I learned my lesson; I learned it when he tried to rape me, when he broke into my home, when he murdered my boyfriend!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Don't speak unless spoken to." The judge insisted from above. Sherlock growled, shaking his head in protest and at last staring down the villain in the opposing chair. There he was, looking proud of himself, looking accomplished! John Watson even dared to smile!
"Electrocute him, I beg you! Kill this man, who has killed before! I would've done it myself, I would've done it." Sherlock exclaimed, clutching to the railing of the witness box and seething in unprecedented rage. Suddenly he was feeling brave in front of John Watson, as if he was facing his demons and winning up against them. For once his rage made him strong. Again it felt as if he was the only one within the courtroom, trapped across from John Watson. But this time he was able to maintain eye contact, this time, for the second time in his life, he was allowed to testify for the death of John Watson. It should be John who was afraid.
"But the Devil doesn't die." Sherlock whispered at last, clearly into the microphone for all to hear. The crowd exploded into hushed whispers, culminating with their neighbors' voices until the entire courtroom had erupted in a mad frenzy. Sherlock stood tall, braving a single smile to his enemy as if to demonstrate his own victory. He figured that was all, in fact he knew that was all. And with that Sherlock stepped down from the witness box, forcing his eyes off of John Watson and vowing to never glance at the man again, not unless he was strapped and gagged. Sherlock felt like it was a good time to leave, and finally he took it upon himself to make his exit before he was excused.