Sherlock had been less horrified when Moriarty had told him to kill himself. That had been disappointing, but nowhere near the repellence brought to him by the criminal knowing his thoughts. Of course, the detective knew, logically, this had to happen if the Bond formed completely. John was no fool—he knew the signs of a strong Bond when he saw them. That was the main reason he'd wanted to avoid allowing the Bond to form with Moriarty. Now how was he supposed to win the game? His mind was his weapon; if the criminal knew his every thought, he knew Sherlock's entire battle plan, his entire—

A disturbing snicker brought the detective back to the dark room he currently sat in. He fixed Moriarty with a stare that communicated a single basic message that was impossible to articulate vocally. Jim was insane. A monster. Sherlock hated him with every bone in his body, and no amount of words could express the depth of that feeling.

Oh, wait, the detective thought cheekily, you can hear that, can't you?

That was the only upside to this. At least Sherlock shared Jim's advantage. But he was so erratic that it really didn't mean much. The two of them were stuck; trapped in this horrible, horrible dance they'd created. It was an armistice; only both of them would perish. No peace treaties were getting signed in this war.

Moriarty shook his head, grinning gleefully at the detective and making his stomach lurch, "That," he mused, "Is fascinating."

"Cameras in the flat weren't enough?" Sherlock arched a caustic eyebrow, "You needed a constant feed."

Jim's face went dangerously blank, "Can't see you naked with just your thoughts," he said monotonously.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He hated this topic. The media gave him enough trouble over it—oh, damn, that was right. How in God's name was he going to keep this from the general public?

"Can't you?" the detective parried lamely, hating the way Moriarty smirked at his obvious discomfort. The mischievous glint in the criminal's eyes quickly dissipated, however, leaving nothing but darkness. He stared at Sherlock blankly.

"You and I both know what has to happen," the criminal murmured, starting to make his way towards the stoic detective, "You wanted to jump," he urged, moving closer until his breath was hot on Sherlock's neck, "And you want it now more than ever. Finish the game. Don't be a fool."

The detective wanted more than anything to have a counter argument ready. He wished there was a clever loophole only he could see. But ever since being Marked, he'd pondered this problem to no avail. There didn't seem to be any tricks to pull, this time.

But that didn't mean he had to let Moriarty know. At least, not out loud. Not yet. He still had his pride.

"I think," Sherlock said slowly, "That you're a fool."

The madman appeared unfazed by the insult, "Darling, you can say what you want about me," he purred, "But nothing is going to change reality."

"And what is that, to you?" the detective turned around slightly to look his aggressor straight in the eye, "Reality?"

Sherlock watched the rise and fall of Jim's chest for a few moments as he waited for a response. If the criminal got his way, that action would stop permanently in a short time for both of them. The detective couldn't see a single sign of doubt in Moriarty's features as he answered.

"Boring."

(o0o0o0o0)

Precisely two seconds after Jim stated the word, the door sprung open, bathing the room in a blinding white light. The criminal quickly stood up, taking a step back from Sherlock and sitting on the detective's side of the bed. A tall male nurse with unremarkable features and warm hazel eyes flicked the lights in the room on, grinning at the now wincing pair of men in the room as if they were the best thing to happen to him all day. To the criminal's dismay, he was carrying a clipboard piled high with papers and pamphlets. Ever darkening Jim's mood was the fact that John Watson and Mycroft Holmes walked in the room behind him.

"Sherlock," there was obvious concern in Watson's voice as he crossed the small room towards the detective. Jim swung his legs onto the bed, lying against the headboard. He could already tell this was going to be a long conversation. "Are you…?" John glanced back towards the criminal before turning away again, "How do you fee-"

"Fantastic," Sherlock interrupted, I'm sharing a mind with a lunatic, I'll continue to share it for the rest of my life, and someone took my coat.

The detective's thoughts made Jim sorely miss his Westwood suits. The generic hospital clothes he wore now were bleached white and unflattering. Not to mention thin—it was freezing in here. Who the Hell had even changed him and Sherlock out of their old clothes?

Did Sherlock honestly think him a lunatic?

Yes, the detective's thoughts answered him, and Jim frowned.

"Well!" the cheery nurse broke a silence that the criminal hadn't realized was there, "You certainly should be feeling fantastic. Honestly, in the Soulmate wing, you two are a bit of a miracle right now."

Another silence fell. Evidently, he was waiting to be urged on. After a few seconds of quiet, however, he continued on his own.

"Ahem, well. First things first, you are Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, correct?"

"Ah," Jim spoke up shyly, crossing his arms in a façade of insecurity, "I'm not actually Jim Moriarty. I'm Rich-"

"Oh, save it," Mycroft drawled, "They know. You're under the name Jim Moriarty here and your room is under the highest surveillance. No use faking it anymore."

The criminal's gaze darkened, and he chose his next words carefully, "Don't do anything you'll regret."

The eldest Holmes smiled dryly, and Jim watched John's mouth fall open, horrorstruck, from the corner of his eye, "We'll talk later."

The criminal turned back to the cheerful nurse, "Fine. Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. That's us."

Wonder what they had to do to this poor sod to assign him to us, Sherlock thought.

Nothing. He's probably just ignorant, Jim answered without thinking, Fuck.

Shut up, the detective snipped. The criminal didn't answer this time.

"Alright! Well, when we got you two in here, none of the staff thought you were going to make it. You stretched the Bond far longer than is safe, and for most people, what you did would have resulted in brain damage."

He paused for emphasis.

"Em, but you two must have a quite spectacularly strong Bond, because once we got you two together, it formed perfectly. I mean," the nurse shook his head, positively beaming at them, "I've never seen anything like it. We've been constantly monitoring you but nothing seems to have gone wrong. Your hand," he gave Jim a pointed look, "healed flawlessly. There's a lot of new research about Bonding and healing powers, but most of us think that what happened to you is almost a breakthrough."

Jim blinked.

"I mean," the man continued, "Infection disappeared completely. It's unbelievable! Your skin and Mark reformed with no scarring. Yours too," he looked at Sherlock, making Jim cock an eyebrow at the detective. Had Sherlock tried to cut his out, too?

"So, yes," the man hopped slightly, reminding Jim very vaguely of Molly Hooper, "I entrust the two of you will have fantastic lives together."

Oh, yes. He was definitely ignorant.

"But, I'm here to inform, as well as warn you about a few things. I'll try to answer any questions I can at the end," the nurse continued, "Now, first things first. Are you two able to read each other's thoughts, or get vague senses of each other's emotions, or anything similar?"

Jim and Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"Right then," he made a checkmark on his clipboard and extracted two purple pamphlets from the stack he was holding, extending them towards Jim. The criminal reluctantly took one and handed the other to Sherlock, without looking at him. Against his better instincts, he glanced at the title.

Strong Bonds and You

Nope, Jim thought decidedly, turning the pamphlet over and moving a dark gaze back to the nurse.

"So, as you can see by the title," he motioned towards the pamphlets, "You two have a Bond very high in strength. Which means, you get some of the best perks of having a Soulmate, but also some setbacks."

Jim was already starting to map out possible escape routes, aware of Sherlock mentally watching him.

"You two will likely feel a lot of the same feelings, regardless of distance. That's not to say you won't be able to have your own emotions, but if one of you is angry, it's almost certain the other will feel a little irritable. This might improve as time goes on and you learn how to control the Bond to your advantage. Unfortunately, if one of you is sick, or in pain, the other will feel it, too. And," his voice was suddenly solemn, "if one of you was to pass away, it is almost certain the other would, as well."

The criminal could practically feel worry radiating off of John. Maybe that was Sherlock's 'emotions' starting to get to him.

"But," the nurse turned cheery again, "You two will also very likely get to share dreams with the other, sometimes consciously. It's something only found in the strongest of Bonds, but I think you two have what it takes!"

"Why is it illegal to break Bonds?" Sherlock challenged, and Mycroft covered his face with a hand.

"Um," the nurse looked very uncomfortable, "Because in 90 percent of cases it is lethal. They're currently working on research to fix it but so far almost every procedure results in brain damage or-"

"I knew someone who was saved by it," Sherlock interrupted, "Better to have at least a little hope than none."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft started.

"No, he's right!" John frowned, defending his friend, "What if someone is Bonded to a psychopath? Are we just supposed to let their lives be ruined?"

"No, but-"

"Bonds with psychopaths are infrequent enough that the government hasn't placed research on breaking them as a top priority," Mycroft pronounced, quieting the room, "Most are very happy with their Soulmates. There are many other matters in the medical field that are more…pressing."

"More pressing-?" John was incredulous, "But he's your brother!"

"He is one person who was stupid enough to shake hands with a man just as mad as he is," Mycroft said coldly, making the doctor's mouth fall open, "I have little sympathy available for people who get themselves stuck in these types of situations, then come crying to the government for help."

"He could have just as easily shook hands with Jim before he knew he was Moriarty! Would you care then? If it wasn't his fault? He's a victim!"

"John-" Sherlock started quietly, finishing his thought within the confines of his mind, I'm not a victim.

Jim noted the detective's words before his thoughts were dragged off on a quite unpleasant tangent. God, did they all have to be so loud when they argued?

"Wait, Moriarty?" the nurse's eyes widened as he finally saw the criminal for what he was, "Were you the one with the jewels-"

"Yes," Mycroft rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, "Thank you for catching up."

"Ah," the nurse shook his head, as if to clear it, "Listen. You lot can argue when I'm gone, alright? Right now, I just need to check a few things with the new Soulmates. If you two could either be quiet or leave, that would be fantastic."

Mycroft and John quieted down, resorting to silent glares. Jim was still picking up on Sherlock's adrenaline from the argument.

"Now, I need you to both quickly show me your Marks."

The consultants complied, and the nurse gave each of their palms a quick check up, lingering on Jim's and then dropping it quite abruptly, looking a little bit unsettled afterwards. Maybe he forgot he was holding the hand of a criminal overlord.

"Alright, two right palms," the nurse mumbled to himself, making a note on his clipboard, "Now tell me, have either of you been experiencing any pain since you woke up? Especially headaches or burning near the Marked area?"

Jim and Sherlock shook their heads.

"Good," the nurse nodded, making another mark, "Your Bond is definitely fully formed. Now, one last thing, and then I'll be out of your hair. Whether you two have a platonic Bond or not, the first few weeks are likely to be a little bit hectic, thanks to hormones and a load of things explained in the pamphlet."

Uh oh, the whole room seemed to think in unison, and this didn't seem to escape the nurse's notice.

"What I mean is," he explained, "Emotions will be a little bit crazy for you two. For platonic Soulmates, this often means they get very clingy with their Mate. For romantic and sexual pairs, you can imagine what happens. Just make sure to be safe with whatever you do and-"

The nurse seemed to become aware, at this moment, that four very dangerous men were looking at him as though wondering how best to lodge a knife in his forehead.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat, "That's it then. No use keeping you at the hospital when you're," a nervous glance at Moriarty, "um…good to go home. Just make sure you check out and-"

Mycroft sighed loudly, and the nurse finally took the hint to leave. The door swung shut behind him with an air of finality, casting a blanket of silence over the room. Jim was starting to feel suffocated; out of his element with zero control, surrounded by people he hated. It was exhausting being here.

But then again, the idea of having to go and deal with getting rid of Sebastian…no, Moran, was also equally distasteful. The only thing that really sounded good was being back on the rooftop with Sherlock; a gun in his pocket. It would all end so simply, so easily…

His lips would be chapped against yours, slightly chilled from the wind…

The criminal discarded this intrusive thought, taking care not to glance in Sherlock's direction, in case he had heard. Must be the damn hormones.

"Well," the detective broke the silence as he stood up, "While I would love to stay and chat with you lot all day, John and I really should be on our way-"

"Actually," Mycroft interrupted, "You're not going anywhere, brother mine."

Ooh, seems the Ice Man has a capacity for endearing terms, after all, Jim thought snidely.

Sherlock shot a glare over his shoulder towards the criminal before turning back to his brother with an equally savage glint in his eye, "And why is that?"

The eldest Holmes laughed humorlessly, "Ha! You're Bonded to a criminal now, Sherlock. Possibly the most wanted criminal in not only London, but the world. Do you really think the British government is going to pass up an opportunity like this?"

"Wait," John's eyes widened in fury, "You're taking him hostage?"

"It's for the greater good, Dr. Watson," Mycroft drawled, "You do care about the well being of all the little people, don't you?"

"He's your brother!"

"Yes, very good deduction. That's the second time you've made that one today."

"Leave him out of it," Sherlock interjected, "I'm not going quietly. I won't let you imprison me for the rest of my life. I have work to do."

"If you do this, I'll let the world know about it!" John stood beside his friend, back ramrod straight, "The public will know that you imprisoned an innocent citizen-"

"No," a cruel smile twisted Mycroft's features, "They will know that the fraud detective and murder suspect Sherlock Holmes is imprisoned with an actor no one has heard of who attempted to steal the crown jewels, presented no defense at his trial, and somehow walked free. Honestly," the elder Holmes turned to Jim, eyes glittering, "You've made this all very easy, Mr. Moriarty. You have my utmost gratitude for that."

The criminal was finding it hard to look intimidating in pajama like hospital clothes, but he nonetheless responded with a smooth, "The pleasure was mine," through the teeth.

"You're sick," John hissed. Jim noticed that his hands didn't hold their usual tremor. He was stressed. "Some brother you are."

"We can keep an eye on him where we're going," Mycroft's tone remained monotonous as ever as two large men in suits threw open the door behind him, one marching briskly towards each consultant.

Jim tensed, immediately running over his options. Running didn't seem good right now. He'd had bargains with Mycroft Holmes before, so he'd likely be able to find his way out rather quickly. Still, this was an inconvenience, both to his empire and plans for Sherlock. Not exactly a win.

The criminal was roughly grabbed by one of Mycroft's thugs, and, irritated, he swiftly tore his arm from the man's grip, glaring at Sherlock's brother.

"I don't need an escort," he said coolly, "I'll comply."

"The day a wanted criminal behaves better than my own brother," Mycroft gave the detective a patronizing look, "is a sad day for the Holmes family. Sherlock, do you remember what we used to say about misbehaving?"

Jim could feel the detective trying very hard to repress a memory that seemed to be labeled mostly with embarrassment and irritation. When the criminal tried to access it, however, all that showed were blurs of colors and muddled words. Whatever it was, Sherlock clearly didn't want him to see it. Hm. Curious.

Something ordinary, probably.

The detective initially struggled against Mycroft's employee's grip, but now that Jim didn't need his own, Sherlock had to fight not just one, but two men. Despite his nimble nature, days without food and an undetermined amount of time spent essentially in coma was not doing anything to help the detective win. Eventually, Mycroft nodded for Sherlock to be taken from the room, and the younger brother was dragged out, nothing but pure hatred for the Ice Man radiating through the Bond. It was starting to even make Jim a little irritated.

God, this damn Mark was disgusting.

John glared at the two of them, and both the criminal and Mycroft watched him passively.

"I won't let you do this," the doctor shook his head, smiling sadly, "Either of you."

"I didn't ask for this, Johnny," Jim finally decided to engage Sherlock's pet, "However," he turned to Mycroft, "Having some decent clothing to wear would be divine."

"All your needs will be met once we reach our destination," Mycroft smiled sweetly, and the criminal huffed in response.

"What am I supposed to tell Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson? The press?" John's voice was bordering on hysteria, and Jim rolled his eyes. How Sherlock tolerated that all day was beyond him.

"The same thing I'm telling them," Mycroft answered, "Nothing."

And with that, the Ice Man and the criminal left John alone, the door swinging shut behind them, and Jim feeling a foreign emotion that he was unable to place for a moment. Anxiety? Boredom? Exhaustion.

Lonely?

No. That wasn't it. He was tired. This was hormones. Hormones. That was all. It probably explained that in their lovely pamphlets.

Hormones.

The criminal could have sworn he heard Sherlock scoff.

A/N: Alrighty, hope you guys are liking this. Leave me your thoughts/hopes/dreams/ambitions? Doing so lets you hit Mycroft in the face with a pie. Actually, he would probably like that ^_^