A/N: MAJOR self harm trigger warning.
John stormed out of 221B, pushing all of Sherlock's previous warnings about Moriarty and snipers from his mind. Jim didn't want him; he wanted Sherlock. And right now, that was simply becoming too much.
People on the pavement passed the doctor in a blur as his thoughts raced. He was angry. More angry than he'd been in a while. Though he supposed that didn't mean much. John and Sherlock had fought a lot since this whole fiasco had started. He'd been hoping, in spite of himself, that it might end soon. Just a little bit of normalcy wasn't too much to ask for, was it? Not that he didn't like the excitement, but this…this was starting to hurt. John didn't like seeing Sherlock getting thinner by the day, unable to eat because he was figuring out a new, sick puzzle. John didn't like the idea of some creep giggling as he stalked their blogs, strapping people to bombs and constructing sick obstacle courses for them to race through. He liked cases. Running after criminals at midnight and making his body and mind work like only Sherlock could make them work. Not this.
The doctor stopped to look at an advertisement showing a grinning man and woman, obviously Soulmates, kissing with their hands entwined. He narrowed his eyes at the text above their heads.
Want this? Finding your one and only Soulmate is only a click away! To find out more, go to and start your 30 day free trial! Because life's too short to spend alone!
John's mouth twisted into a disgusted scowl. How could something so romanticized become so twisted? Sherlock was Bonded now. Bonded to a madman who would happily see them both dead. If only they'd never touched hands. Why had they needed to shake hands? What had possessed Sherlock to do that? No…more importantly, what were the consequences going to be?
Obviously, Sherlock didn't like the idea of allowing the Bond to form, but really, what was their other option? John knew a strong Bond when he saw one and Sherlock had every symptom. If this didn't form correctly, either death or severe brain damage would result, and the doctor was not willing to accept either of those options. This was Sherlock. Sherlock who was a constant; an anchor. Losing him was something John didn't think he'd be able to make it through. The detective had saved his life, and even now, John needed him like he needed oxygen.
How sad was that?
The doctor shook his head, continuing to stomp down the street. It could be worse. At least, according to Sherlock, Moriarty was panicking too. At least he didn't plan this. That was something. Maybe they could find a way to use this to their advantage. Maybe Sherlock could find a way to delete or suppress the Bond. Maybe…
A distraction slammed into John's shoulder—luckily, not his injured one, and interrupted his musing. Just as the doctor's eyes found the assailant, however, the irritation disappeared not just from them, but from his expression entirely.
"Sorry!" a wide eyed brunette panted, glancing around nervously before continuing running away from him. John's mouth fell open a little bit as he stared after her, suddenly wishing he hadn't worn so much clothing today.
Oh, God…what if that had been it? What if that was her? What if that was his Soulmate? If it wasn't Sherlock, who else could it be? This was like a movie scene. What if he never saw her again? Cursing under his breath, he deliberated calling after her for half a second before noticing the sad truth.
She was already gone.
"Damn it!" John cursed loudly, earning him a dirty look from an elderly couple. That could have been it. His one chance to get away from all this madness and he'd blown it. She'd been so pretty, too. And clearly afraid—it was hard to tell if her eyes had actually been as big as he'd thought they were, or just widened in panic. What was following her? Or who? He should have helped her, instead of standing there drooling like a prick…
John's phone rang, and he reluctantly checked the caller i.d to see Lestrade's name. Shit. He really should have told Greg not to come over. Goddammit. He'd been so preoccupied with thinking about himself and his own Soulmate that he'd forgotten about the real problem at hand. Sherlock was Bonded to a monster and here he was worrying about his own Mate? What was wrong with him?
"Greg," the doctor greeted tensely.
"John…you said to come over-" Lestrade said hesitantly, trailing off.
"Yeah, yeah I did…" John pressed a hand to his temple; all this was giving him a headache, "Listen, Greg, it's not a great time."
"I know," Greg said earnestly, "Sherlock's bloody Bonded? When did this happen? He's on the floor, John-"
All the air left John's lungs, "He's what?" the doctor exclaimed, slightly panicked that Lestrade knew the truth.
"He's on the floor. I'd call a doctor, but with the press and everything, I thought you'd be the one to tell first-"
"Fucking-!" he looked around in a panic, as if anything of use could be found amongst the landscape of brick and asphalt, "Greg, whatever you do, don't tell anyone about this. Understand? No one. He's Bonded to Jim Moriarty as of earlier today and we-"
"Wait, what? I think I must have heard wrong…"
"Sherlock," the doctor enunciated carefully, "is Bonded to Jim Moriarty."
"…Jim MORIARTY? Are you barking mad?" John started at the outburst, which only served to fuel his own worry more.
"Yes, Jim Moriarty. We can't tell press, for obvious reasons. It was a complete accident. They…shook hands and it just happened. Sherlock tried to hide it from me at first but-"
"Wait, wait, am I hearing this right? Jim fucking Moriarty? As in the bloke who stole the crown jewels and broke into Pentonville on the SAME DAY?"
"Yes!" John said impatiently.
"The same Jim Moriarty who Sherlock's been going on about for weeks?"
"Yes!"
"…You're joking."
The doctor huffed in frustration, "Just promise me this is between us until it's sorted out. Promise me, Greg."
There was an uncomfortably long silence. John listened to traffic to pass the time.
"Of course, John. I won't tell a soul. But Jesus Christ, what are you going to do?"
The doctor sighed tiredly, noticing the use of 'you' instead of 'we', "I don't know, Greg. Everything keeps getting more and more complicated."
"I'll try to help as much as I can. But mate, you really need to get over here. Sherlock looks like he's in a lot of pain."
"Yeah, well there's not much I can do about it, is there?" John snapped, "We can't exactly let the Bond form. We don't even know where the bloke is!"
"This looks bad, John. I haven't seen him this pale in a long time. Stop by the drugstore on your way back and grab him something to take the edge off-"
"Don't tell me what to do," he said coldly, "Since when do you care about what happens to Sherlock, anyway? You sold him out!"
"I didn't have a choice. This is my job. What makes you trust him?"
John's cheeks flushed in anger, "Because he's my best friend! I know him, Greg, and so do you! You think Sherlock would honestly enjoy hurting another person? Really?"
"…Look," Lestrade said slowly, "All the evidence points to him having a hand in it. I don't want to consider that possibility, because he's my friend too, but-"
"But nothing!" John exclaimed, "Just a minute ago, you were talking about how horrible Jim Moriarty is, and now you're back to thinking he was a made up character?"
"John, I have to consider everything," Greg said weakly, "People have died. This Bond doesn't change anything that happened. If anything, it works against Sherlock. Two psychopaths Bonded together-"
John hung up, unable to listen anymore. This was hopeless. This whole fucking situation was hopeless. Now Greg knew about the Bond and they couldn't even be sure he would keep the secret. Sherlock was in pain, Moriarty was nowhere to be found, and according to the London police force, Sherlock Holmes was a fugitive. They had no one to run to, not even Mycroft. John felt like the ground was falling out from underneath him, every side a different obstacle. To his right was fire, his left, quicksand, in front was water…
He sighed, putting his phone away and starting the short walk to the drugstore. London looked very grey today.
(o0o0o0o0)
Jim leaned over the bathtub, his entire body shaking as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his head. Hair frazzled, skin pale, and clothed in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, he didn't look half as intimidating as usual. The criminal didn't have time to acknowledge this uncomfortable fact, however. Right now, all of his attention was focused on holding the knife in his left hand steady.
With great effort, he spread the fingers of his Marked hand, eyeing the shimmering skin with contempt. He was tainted; dirty. This needed to change. Sherlock was going to hurt. If that meant Jim had to hurt along with him, so be it.
Eyes black with hatred, Moriarty lined the tip of the thin blade up with the edge of his Mark, and sliced.
Warmth flooded over his palm, and Jim gasped as the pain in his skull increased tenfold, hating how he sounded like a wounded animal. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and black clouded the edges of his vision, blurring all thoughts save for the one that was most important: Do it again.
The criminal obliged, slicing his palm again and again, fueled by nothing other than pure, unadulterated rage. Sherlock's fault. This was all his fault. The noise of silverware on skin was like nails on a chalkboard to Jim, and he loved it because of that. He was blinded by the pain; forgetting his name, his profession, his location. Nothing mattered except for breaking the Bond. He had to do this. He had to…
Moriarty was seeing red, though he wasn't sure it was only because of the scarlet running down his arm and the side of the tub. Everything he could see throbbed bright red, ever darkening at the edges. The smell of iron was so strong he could actually taste it in the back of his throat, along with another less prominent smell that he couldn't put his finger on. Probably had something to do with the silver leaking out of his hand in tiny, silver droplets. His palm was on fire, and his mind was being slashed to ribbons, but at least Sherlock was hurting. At least there was that.
Another pained noise escaped him as he continued to cut, now trying to get under the skin, having finished a complete, jagged circle around the Mark. He had to continue. Had to…had to…
Suddenly, Jim realized how weak he felt. He could almost sleep, if everything didn't hurt so badly. He shivered violently, trying to catch his breath. Why was he suddenly so cold? He wanted to curl up somewhere and…what? Die, preferably. But that would mean he'd never settle anything with Sherlock. That couldn't happen. He had to get this out of him. They had to finish the game. God, how was it that his body was so cold but his hand was so hot?
Black was creeping into the edges of Jim's vision at an alarming rate now, effectively extinguishing his rage like a wall of water. Except blackness didn't have a feeling to it—it was just blackness.
The criminal sobbed, weakly bringing the knife up to his tattered palm, still pouring a nauseating mixture of silver and red, only to find that he didn't have the energy to hold it anymore. Jim dropped the instrument with a clang, slumping over the tub and succumbing to the blackness.
(o0o0o0o0)
John entered 221B to hear a slight rustling. The doctor's initial, preposterous thought was one involving Anderson on a drugs bust, but then he remembered: Sherlock was hurting. Greg had said as much on the phone, and he knew enough of social cues to leave after he'd been hung up on. So this was either Sherlock or…someone else.
Heart rate picking up slightly, John cautiously opened his mouth to call out to the detective, only to have him speak first.
"John…" Sherlock called weakly, voice catching at the end slightly. Concerned on a far deeper level than he had been before, John rushed into the detective's bedroom. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway, mouth falling open slightly.
Sherlock was lying on his bed (at least Lestrade had had the grace to help him off the floor), but he looked…possessed. His back was arched slightly and he writhed in clear discomfort, teeth clenched in a grimace against a clearly very present pain. He clutched his Marked hand with a ferocity that turned his knuckles white, holding it to his chest like it was a lifeline.
"Joh-"
"Shh shh shh, Sherlock," the doctor murmured urgently, rushing to his friend's side, "What hurts?"
"He's…he's cutting-" the detective's voice caught again as his body gave a violent jerk, moaning in pain.
"Okay," John acknowledged, alarmed, moving in an attempt to steady Sherlock, "Say that again for me? Sherlock, open your eyes."
The detective obliged, looking up at the doctor with an expression that hurt to look at, "He's cutting his Mark," Sherlock groaned, "John, I can't…I can't…" his last word ended in a gasp.
"Christ," John muttered, shaking his head, "Sick bastard. Sick, twisted, fucking bastard. What emotions are you getting from his end?"
"He's angry," Sherlock croaked, "Very, very angry. God, it hurts…"
"You might be getting some of his pain in with yours," he said gently, trying to figure out how to help with the situation at hand.
The detective didn't respond, only continued squirming in anguish. John watched him helplessly for a moment before he remembered his drugstore purchases. It wasn't much, but something was better than anything.
"I got you some painkillers," the doctor said weakly, holding them up even though Sherlock had his eyes shut again, "They won't help much, but it's something-"
"God damn it!" the detective shouted, making John almost drop the drugs.
"What?" he asked, startled.
"He's cutting it out…"
The doctor didn't bother to ask how Sherlock could know that; he supposed there were some things about Bonds you could only learn from experience. Not that this was an experience he would wish on anyone.
"Is he fucking demented?" John asked, starting to get angry at Jim again.
"Ye…yes…" Sherlock panted, now trying to hold his Marked hand and his head at the same time. It was pitiful.
"Alright, wait here," the doctor instructed, "I'm going to get some ice for your head, and some water so you can swallow these," he rattled the painkillers in their box, "Sound good?"
John took the lack of response to mean that it did. He rushed to the kitchen, hands and feet steady as he gathered the things he needed. When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock lie deathly still on the bed, chest barely moving up and down.
"Sherlock?" he rushed to the detective's side again, accidentally sloshing some water onto the floor, "Sherlock, are you okay?"
"Mm hm," Sherlock answered, voice barely audible.
"What-? Did he stop?" John asked incredulously.
"Think so," the detective's Marked hand still trembled dangerously, but the rest of his body looked ready to sink into the bed. It already was, in fact.
The doctor sighed, "I'm still making you take the painkillers."
Sherlock didn't protest.
A/N: I know, I know. They're hurting and it's awful. I want my babies to kiss just as much as you do. Reviews let you give Jim and Sherlock blankets and hugs and kisses.
