Jim stared at the scene in front of him for a few seconds before the reality of what he was looking at hit him. Unscrewed vent cover lying on the floor, side table directly underneath it, faint footprints on the table and wall, lamp and clock tossed on the bed.
Oh, you damn fool.
Sherlock had escaped. Not only had he escaped, but he'd taken the most glaringly obvious route possible. How he had even managed to get far enough to unscrew the vent, the criminal didn't think he'd ever understand. Hadn't the Ice Man said he'd planned for all possible routes of escape? How the Hell had he overlooked this?
No matter. Jim didn't have time to think about this. There was only one thing to do, and that was to follow Sherlock. Whoever was watching the cameras was likely going to notice in seconds that something was wrong. They'd come and restrain him and then he and the detective would never get to finish their game.
You're going to regret this.
…
Where the fuck was Holmes? Why couldn't Jim hear him? The criminal was embarrassed to admit that the fact sent a spike of panic through him.
Jim took a breath to steady himself. He had to move now. There wasn't even time to go back to his room and grab a coat or shoes—that would only lose him precious time. Thanking his lucky stars he'd dressed comfortably today, the criminal snagged a spare pair of shoes from Sherlock's closet, and, after lacing them tightly, swiped a stray jumper to throw over his head, as well. Both were too big for him, but there wasn't time to remedy that. Trying to ignore the detective's scent on the clothes, Jim stepped up onto the table and hoisted himself into the vent, wriggling in on his stomach.
The slight warmth to the silver around him made the air harder to breathe, worrying the criminal. The idea of being roasted alive in here held no appeal to him, and because it was winter, it was very likely that this place would get very hot, very fast. Either if the guards decided to smoke them out, or the heat kicked on by itself. Was Sherlock honestly this ignorant? Did he not understand that this was the noisiest getaway they could have made? Not to mention the fact that these vents were made to carry air. Not people. If they fell through, they'd certainly have a mess on their hands…
Jim inched forward, pulling himself with mostly his arms and cringing at the way the ground underneath him wobbled with his every twitch. God, it was so claustrophobic here. And it was getting darker. He wished he had a torch.
His own movement was the only thing the criminal could hear, which he took to be a good sign. As long as there were no sudden clamors of footsteps from behind him, he had the luxury of taking his time and travelling quieter.
After a few minutes of crawling, Jim reached a crossroads. Halfheartedly, he reached out to Sherlock.
Don't suppose you're going to tell me to go right or left?
…
Feeling irritated, and still slightly worried at the lack of response from Holmes, the criminal searched both sides of the vent for signs that someone else had come through, to no avail. It was impossible to tell in the dim light, and eventually, Jim settled for the passage on the left, which seemed a bit better lit than the one on the right. At least that might mean it led somewhere. After making the awkward turn in the cramped space, however, the criminal heard a loud switch of machinery from behind, echoing and humming in the vent all around him.
Shit. Heat.
Jim increased his speed, no longer caring about the noise he was making, disturbed by the way the metal around him was already heating up. After only a few minutes, he was sweating, hot beads of salt water plastering his hair to his forehead. He was sure he looked deranged; a 'psychopath', as Sherlock liked to think. Maybe stealing the jumper hadn't been the best idea. It wouldn't do him much good to have an extra layer if he roasted before he could even make it outside.
The criminal wondered if the detective was still in the vents, and hated the way the worry slowed his pace for the few moments he dwelled on it.
No. You don't feel that way. You don't. Psychopath. Let's go with that…
The premise was strangely motivating. All Jim had to do was pretend he didn't feel and he wouldn't. Magnificent, the power of the human mind.
And ever so boring.
Nevertheless, the criminal allowed his willpower to light a fire beneath him, increasing his pace once again as he pushed emotion to the side. The heat was starting to get very uncomfortable, and Jim resisted the urge to cough every time he breathed in, as the hot air teased his lungs. The jumper, now that he thought of it, was probably a blessing in disguise, since all he'd had was a t-shirt, before. The criminal was starting to do everything he could to keep his hands from touching the sides of the vent, and he could only imagine how much having bare arms on it would have slowed his progress.
Jim was just starting to wonder how much longer he'd have to spend in this Hellhole before he turned a corner to find, halfway down, two blue eyes staring at him.
Sherlock's face was illuminated in stripes from a vent underneath him, and didn't appear to be incredibly caught off guard by the fact the criminal had followed him. The detective, nonetheless, cocked his head to the side slightly, squinting at Jim as though studying him. The only emotion readable from his end of the Bond was mild interest and…no, there it was. Surprise.
What the Hell are you doing? Jim widened his eyes to accentuate the statement.
…
The criminal watched the detective with a dangerous expression, Talk, Holmes. Might as well. You're with me or against me.
With an audible huff, Sherlock finally replied, Fine. What does it look like I'm doing?
It looks like you're throwing me to the wolves.
Hm. Wonder why I would do that.
Gritting his teeth, Jim crawled forward until he was face to face with the detective, irritation coming from both ends of the Bond now. It crackled between them, doing a pleasingly good job of concealing the other emotion they were both working to ignore.
Is that my jumper? Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
It's freezing outside, and hot in here. It seemed useful.
Why not take your own? I was happy to be rid of that thing.
Aw. A gift from Mother Holmes? And haven't you been listening to me this whole time? How have you been blocking me?
No. And no. I had better things to think about. I heard everything you said.
You just didn't respond.
Did I hurt your feelings? Sherlock sneered at Jim, twisting the criminal's stomach.
Yes, I don't know how I'll recover, Jim answered sarcastically, I trust you have a plan to get out, now that we're here?
Instead of answering, the detective leaned down over the vent between him and the criminal, surveying the room beneath them.
Clear. We have to get down-
Sherlock's train of thought ground to an abrupt halt as a loud, disturbing creaking noise vibrated the metal around them.
Shi-
Both consultants practically leapt back from the grate beneath them, Sherlock hitting his head on the low ceiling, but it was too late. The sudden movement sealed their fate, and Jim didn't even have time to curse before the bottom of the vent gave way under their combined weight, dropping both consultants from ceiling to tiled floor in a tangle of limbs, metal, and plaster.
All the air was pushed from the criminal's lungs as he hit the floor with an 'oof', burdened with not only the pain of hitting the floor himself, but also with what Sherlock felt, as well. They lie there a few seconds, allowing the dust to settle. Unfortunately, this gave them both time to realize the position they were in.
Once again, the consultants were touching. Only this time, it was more than a hand. Jim could suddenly feel Sherlock's every heartbeat, his every breath. His nerves were tingling with the possibilities of close proximity, and it pushed his heartbeat through the roof. Not in the slightest reassuring was the fact that the criminal could hear the detective's every thought, and because of this knew they matched his Sherlock had the exact same symptoms as Jim, and for some reason this validated them in a way that frightened the criminal. After a few seconds, Jim finally managed to breathe, and the detective groaned.
Dimly, the criminal realized that, underneath him, Sherlock was trying to roll over. The detective coughed, putting a hand on Jim's shoulder to push him off. Unfortunately, this seemed to suck all the oxygen from the criminal's lungs all over again.
Flushed cheeks. Pupils dilated. It's well lit in here. Stark white, actually. Sweat on forehead. Panting. Glaring at you. You could make him look like that, if you wanted to…
No. Get ahold of yourself.
Jim snuck a glance at Sherlock, but the detective looked just as he felt. Every emotion between them seemed to run parallel. Fuck…
Sherlock got up impatiently, brushing plaster from his coat and giving his hair a ruffle. Jim copied, glancing at the row of computer monitors to their left. Seemed this was the room where the security guards usually watched the cameras. So where were-?
Oh. They had run off after Sherlock and Jim. That had been the detective's strategy. These probably weren't high paid men—not likely to be extremely well educated in strategic matters. It was a risky card to play, as they'd be realizing their mistake any moment now and running back to their posts, but it seemed to have been effective, nonetheless.
When the criminal looked back at Sherlock, the detective was smirking at him wryly.
Jim rolled his eyes, Clever, but flawed. They'll come back.
This will buy us time.
Sherlock started pressing buttons, disconnecting cables, and keyboard smashing like a madman. Suddenly, the criminal realized that he still had the knife from earlier tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. Taking the slightly warm metal in hand, he managed to saw through a few safe looking wires before an alarm started to go off, blaring against the consultants' eardrums like an angry red siren.
"Time to go?" Jim shouted, covering his ears.
The detective nodded, and a loud, distant curse word served to illustrate the point. Without a moment's hesitation, the two broke out into a sprint, throwing open the nearest door and skidding on tiled floor into a hallway.
"Oi! I found 'em!"
Without glancing in the direction of the voice, Sherlock ran in the opposite direction, Jim close on his heels, lagging slightly due to his borrowed shoes. A number of guards were clearly behind them. The consultants rounded a corner to the right, then to the left, then to the right again.
I hope you know where you're going!
"Ha!" Sherlock laughed aloud, and it echoed throughout the hallway.
Suddenly, the detective skidded to a stop so quickly that Jim stumbled trying not to crash into him.
"WHAT ARE YOU-?" the criminal started to tell off the detective before a hand was unceremoniously clamped over his mouth.
Get…get OFF me! Jim was having trouble thinking due to the rush of sensation brought by the contact.
Then be quiet! Sherlock tugged the criminal into a small room, hidden off to the left of the main hallway, shutting the door quietly behind them.
Hopefully, they'll think we went right again, Jim thought, inferring the detective's strategy. His skin still tingled where Sherlock's palm had been. He was not going to think about Sherlock's hands. He was not going to think about Sherlock's hands.
Yes, the way the detective thought the word was borderline erotic, and he wasted no time in rushing towards the large window at the front of the room, acting as the only illumination in the otherwise quite dim chamber.
The detective wrenched the glass open and was greeted with an icy spray of water to the face.
Perfect! Maybe we'll get thunder if we're lucky.
Jim inched towards the open window cautiously, already shivering. He almost missed the hot air vent.
Sherlock stuck his head out the window, giving a quick look around left, right, down, and, finally, up, before stepping out onto the ledge directly outside without so much as a glance back at the criminal.
With an indignant huff, Jim followed him, shocked by the cold of the water when it hit him.
"Close the window!" Sherlock shouted over the howl of the wind. The criminal obeyed, accidentally slamming it a little louder than he'd intended. Jim looked down at the drop off in front of him.
The cottage was one story, but was positioned on the land in such a way that the consultants were directly in front of a rather steep drop off into the woods. Despite the lack of height provided from the house itself, the slippery terrain coupled with the incline of the hill, and the vegetation covering it, gave Jim reason to question how they were supposed to get down. The criminal looked at Sherlock, who was clearly reaching the same roadblock. Jim had a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, however, once the detective met his eyes. There was something glimmering there that he didn't like…
I. O. U.
Before the criminal had time to react, a hand was on his back, sending him tumbling off the ledge with a yelp of surprise.
(o0o0o0o0)
Jim tried to stop his momentum, to no avail. Dimly, he was aware that Sherlock was having a more controlled descent down the hill behind him, but that wasn't as important to the criminal as protecting his eyes from branches. Within seconds, he was soaked to the bone and freezing, hands covered with thin scratches as he tumbled downwards. Finally, after at least one crack of thunder and three thorn bushes, Jim slowed to a stop on flat, forest ground. After a quick self assessment, the criminal determined that nothing was broken, though his leg was bleeding. Given that his sweatpants weren't torn, he assumed the knife must have nicked him while he'd been crawling through the vent. Unfortunately, Jim had dropped it at some point. Cursing his carelessness, he was shaking twigs out of his drenched hair when Sherlock slid to a smooth, controlled stop next to him. The detective grunted in what sounded incomprehensibly like pain, and the criminal had just opened his mouth to point this out when he remembered.
"Unfortunately, if one of you is sick, or in pain, the other will feel it, too," the nurse's voice echoed in Jim's memory.
Ha! The criminal threw a triumphant smirk at the scowling detective, Not such a good idea now, is it, darling?
Sherlock snorted, quickly straightening up and starting away from Jim. Thunder boomed and the criminal started after him. It felt like his jumper weighed ten pounds.
Where do you think you're going? Jim demanded, struggling to match the taller man's stride.
Away from you, ideally.
It's pouring. It's almost winter. We're in a fucking forest, for God's sake, Holmes. This was your operation, so own up to it. If something happens to me, it happens to you, too.
"I know that!" Sherlock snapped aloud before quickly clamping his mouth shut. They were still close enough to the cottage that someone could overhear them if they really tried. That is clear now.
You just don't care anymore, do you? Jim deduced, About the game, about anything?
Shut up.
You know, you are such a bloody idiot, the criminal snarled, not caring about professionalism anymore. Maybe it was Sherlock's emotions getting to him. So many different ways to escape, and you choose the goddamned AIR VENT? Do you know how dangerous that is? Not to mention how simpleminded? Good God, even Watson could have thought that one up…
"That's your weakness!" Sherlock turned to face Jim directly, grabbing him by the shoulders so they were so close that his breath fogged in the criminal's face when he spoke, "You always want everything to be clever!"
Realization made Jim relax in the detective's arms slightly, making him more aware of the fact that they were, once again, touching. Not to mention the fact that they were both soaking wet. And cold.
We could keep each other warm…
Stop!
For once, the refutation of Jim's feelings didn't come from his own mind.
Stop thinking about that, Sherlock continued, and the criminal wasn't sure if he was directly talking to Jim, or himself, or both, I hate this. I hate you. The game is over. You're a madman.
"I make mistakes, but I never make them more than once," Sherlock was looking quite deranged, "Do you know how that cottage is built? In the living area, the walls are all iron under the plaster. The windows are permanently sealed shut. Giving us knives doesn't matter when there's nothing to use them on! The only other way out is the front door, and that's so heavily guarded there's not even a fraction of a chance that we'll get through that way! Mycroft planned for every method of escape save for the very obvious—escape through the vents. He thought we'd assume he'd already fixed those so we couldn't use them, which is why he didn't bother. Air vents need to be adjusted often, especially in such a closed off place. It would be more trouble to seal them and unseal them than simply assume we'd never try. We spent just long enough moping around that Mycroft assumed we'd never try to escape. He thought it was safe to let a few of his guards go, since they weren't doing anything. Time is money, remember? I know how he works—I've lived with him. They weren't valuable employees. They were paid low amounts. Disposable enough to be layed off when their use ran out so clearly not incredibly intelligent. I knew they would all run as soon as I jumped in the vent. I had hoped they'd catch you before you followed. I was wrong."
Jim watched with fascination.
"All of this would have seemed obvious to you were you not so blatantly, unapologetically ordinary!"
The detective shoved the criminal away, causing Jim to stumble back a few paces. He frowned, starting after Sherlock, who was already marching away from him.
"Darling, you can insult me all you want, but the point is you did make the same mistake again."
"Shut up."
"Ooh," Jim cooed, enjoying the red hot flash of anger from the detective's side of the Bond, "You know it, too. Sebastian was going to get us both out of there tomorrow night. I was going to tell you when I found-"
"I heard all of it!" Sherlock's voice was starting to go hoarse from shouting over the rain, "I hear everything you think."
The two walked in silence for a long time, trying to cover ground quickly. Though, as the detective had rationalized, rain and thunder, coupled with cold, would make a group of low paid employees unlikely to follow them. At least, for far.
Jim gathered, eventually, from Sherlock's guarded thoughts that they were trying to find Sebastian. He supposed that seemed logical. Neither had their phones, and even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to get service out here, most likely. Still, the criminal wondered what the detective planned on doing to ensure his own safety. How did he know Jim wouldn't try to pull anything?
It was a long, cold night. And, despite the fact that two romantically Bonded Soulmates spent it next to each other, the only company either had was misery.
A/N: Holy shit, Jim has had a rough, day, wouldn't you say? Reviews let you give him and Sherlock hot chocolate and fluffy blankets.