Are you awake?
James stirred, rolling over to that he was facing Sherlock. He blindly nuzzled in closer to the detective's warmth, sighing. They normally slept quite close, but today especially, they were a tangle of limbs, closer to one body, one mind, than two.
Am now.
You were waking up, I could tell, Sherlock asserted, I can see different parts of your conscious becoming active, but I'm always too drowsy to watch very closely. Terribly frustrating.
James sighed.
You just wake up?
"Mmhm," Sherlock switched to audible communication, and bedsprings creaked slightly as the detective sat up and stretched. The criminal blinked, wincing at the brightness his eyes were assaulted with. Everything around them was a crisp, sterile white, right down to the standard hospital sleepwear the criminal was dressed in.
"Why didn't they bother turning the lights off?" James complained groggily, squinting at Sherlock. The detective looked to be wearing normal clothing, his hair only slightly mussed from their sleep together, which made sense, because they'd been crammed into a single bed, rather than one of the doubles awarded to Soulmates. Sherlock must have just stopped by for a nap, rather than a full night's sleep.
"'S my fault," Sherlock watched his Soulmate with blue eyes just a tad apologetic, "When I fell asleep here, I forgot to turn them off." You were already out cold, so they told me I might as well sleep here to help your healing. I was really only half awake.
James raised his eyebrows in surprise. Now that he thought about it, his back didn't hurt in the slightest, not to mention his skin no longer burned where Sherlock had gotten too close to the flames.
The criminal eyed his companion's clothing, sitting up "John's alright, then?"
Sherlock paused before nodding, unsure if that was a hint of jealousy he was hearing in James's voice.
"Incorrect deduction," the criminal declared grumpily, "You're terrible with emotions."
A bushy eyebrow raised, and James sunk back into his pillow, exhaustion sinking into his bones once more as he ran a hand through his hair.
I don't know what to think of this.
But it was more than that. James felt…stupid, on several different levels. He wasn't really angry at Jo (Mary?) any longer, but that had been replaced with a general frustration with himself for investing so much energy where it was unnecessary. He'd let his emotions dictate his actions and because of that, he'd wasted time and energy on a production that, in the end, had endangered his life and his secrecy more than just letting her live. He'd been irrationally cruel, but then, on the other hand, he almost wished he could have held on to the reasons behind his cruelty a little bit tighter, so he didn't need to think about this. Meanwhile, he'd taken Sebastian under his wing despite the sniper being a petulant, incompetent brat, when he'd actually been helping Mary the entire time. Supposedly, there was no harm done, but what if the stakes had been different?
Then there was the fact that ordinary people felt just as strongly about things as he did, so essentially the reasons for his isolation were false and a large portion of his practice was in danger, because how the hell was he supposed to arrange murders for actual people?
And then they also had to consider how they were going to get out of here and continue living together when Mycroft was hell bent on severing—
Mycroft.
The consultants turned to one another.
"Who called the ambulance?"
"How should I know?"
"Mycroft knows we're here. We're lucky he hasn't already done anything while we slept."
"I don't feel different, do you?"
"No."
Sherlock was very quickly starting to panic. They were at the bloody hospital. Who knew how many security cameras they'd been past the night before? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Mycroft knew they were here.
"We have to go," the detective leapt to his feet, starting to drag James off the bed with him.
"Wait, Sherl-"
"Mm?" only Sherlock could make such a passive response taut with aggression.
James's stomach fluttered now that he had the undivided attention of Sherlock's sharp gaze.
Kiss me? In case Mycroft finds—
Sherlock's expression only half softened as he interrupted the criminal, pressing their lips together with just enough pressure to serve as a reminder they were in a hurry. James practically melted into the detective's arms.
Wanting more than anything to hold Sherlock close one last time before they potentially were split forever, the criminal's hands scrambled for purchase. He needed to remember what Sherlock's hair smelled like, the form of his shoulders, the colors in his eyes. But Sherlock was infinity, and James didn't have time to satisfy even one of those needs before the detective pulled away and started throwing clothing at him.
You'll need to put something decent on. I know you like to look put together all the time so—
"Sherlock," the criminal was still in a slight daze. Had that been their last kiss?
…John will be able to manage if I don't stop in one last time before we sneak out—
"Sherlock."
We're at Bart's. I know the entire hospital by memory, so I can find us a way out. I know a few ways off the rooftop that, while difficult to execute, may keep us out of Mycroft's—
"William."
There was only one haughty drawl that matched the one that had just made itself known behind them. The consultants turned around so quickly they almost got whiplash, to be met with none other than the hawkish face of Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock was already coiled like a spring, his pulse accelerated, but while they shared a heartbeat, James remained where he was, waiting and watching.
There was a tense moment of silence.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. James actually had to bite back a smile at the surge of protectiveness currently consuming the detective's emotions. Damn it all. He needed to focus, but part of him didn't want possibly his last moments sharing a mind with Sherlock to be tainted by negativity.
It looked like Mycroft was fighting the urge to roll his eyes, "Calm down, brother mine. People are trying to sleep."
"It's morning," Sherlock practically growled.
"And this is a hospital," Mycroft said condescendingly, "Not a place for yelling."
James noticed that Mycroft had bags under his eyes, his posture a little less straight than usual.
Sherlock started on the defensive, "If you've come to sever the Bond then-"
"Oh, save me the speech, that's not what I'm here for."
Sherlock blinked, shaking his head, "What are you-?"
Mycroft looked like he was in actual agony, "Sherlock, the two of you had my blessing the moment I saw how affected Jim's camera hacking skills were by his sentiment," he emphasized the word, "for you. The two of you are the least of my problems right now."
The tirade Sherlock had been about to start died in his throat as he stared at Mycroft incredulously.
Surely they'd heard incorrectly.
"Don't look so surprised," Mycroft added, looking down his nose at Sherlock, "We both went through proper schooling, although," he gave James a conspiratorial glance, "I'm shocked he made it through. We both know the biology of a strong Bond."
"Aren't we a threat?" Sherlock demanded, "What about the hazard to London's safety?"
"You're far more dangerous when you're at each other's throats. At least now that you're together there should be a consistent cycle of destruction. Imagine what would happen to the crime rates in London if you," he looked at James, "finally managed to off Sherlock. Or the chaos that would erupt if the top of the criminal empire was caught and jailed."
James's heart sank for reasons he wished he didn't have to confront. Of course there was no escape at this point. He'd fixing ordinary people's petty problems for the rest of his life.
The rest of his life with Sherlock.
The rest of my life with Sherlock.
They didn't have to hide anymore. Not from Mycroft, at least. Or the rest of the Holmes family. But where did they go from there? There still was the issue of Scotland Yard and the press. Surely, Mycroft was the biggest obstacle, and he could pull some strings, but how would they even make money? Were they going to live together? And still keep their current professions? Would John and Mary move into a separate flat?
"And after your other problems are eliminated," James started slowly, "Will we be back at the top of your list?"
Mycroft turned to the criminal, sizing him up a moment before declaring, "There are too many goldfish in the world to go around damaging the few good minds we have," he paused, and James silently took a moment to appreciate exactly how big of a favor he was doing them, even taking the Bond into account. He hoped it showed on his face enough for Mycroft to read his silent gratitude. "But I haven't come to discuss goldfish, I've come to discuss a shark."
Sherlock slipped out of 'protective boyfriend' mode and into 'consulting detective' mode.
James froze. Is that what they were now? Boyfriends?
Too mundane, the detective frowned, Consultants.
Consulting couple, James resisted an absurd urge to giggle. He was almost giddy.
A heavy sigh from Mycroft snapped them back to reality, "Do take into account," he pleaded, "That I cannot hear whatever you're talking about right now. If it pertains to Magnussen, do tell."
Sherlock, to his own great frustration, blushed, and judging by Mycroft's face, he'd already jumped to the worst possible conclusion.
The detective shook himself, eager to forget the awkward moment, "Why did Magnussen want John?" he cut straight to the chase, "And if we've had your blessing for some time, why didn't you tell us?"
Mycroft laboriously pulled a chair away from the wall, and made a great task out of sitting in it before he began what James hoped was a very lengthy explanation. It had better be, after all the trouble they'd been through.
"Brother mine, or, I should say," he looked at James grimly, "Brothers of mine. No doubt after all this is over we'll be hearing wedding bells in no time."
It was the criminal's turn to blush. A wedding? Surely not.
"As previously mentioned, I knew after seeing Jim's hacking skills suffer that he felt something for you. That, and there were certain clips that slipped through that I was notified of. I saw the way he looked at you, Sherlock. No one that looks at another person like he looks at you could cause any real damage. Not the kind that I have a responsibility to protect London from. And then there was the chemistry of the Bond, too, which would inevitably bring you two close together. Bonds that end in death are almost always Bonds between one very strong individual and one weak one. Not two equals. Take into account, this was after the incident with Ms. Morstan. Looking at all the factors…emotional strain seemed to be the culprit of that. Coming to terms with the situation you two were in. Now that you're settled, I highly doubt something like that will happen again."
He gave them each a pointed look before continuing.
"Magnussen, however, is what kept me from telling you this earlier."
James raised an eyebrow, "Surely he can't have that much leverage over you."
Mycroft huffed, indignant, "Politics is a game, and he knows how to play it. He has information on a number of government scandals that he threatened to expose, unless we give him a better story. You."
It took James a moment to realize that it was him Mycroft was talking about.
"Me?" he raised his eyebrows.
"The consulting criminal," Mycroft's eyes glittered dangerously, "There's not a person in London who wouldn't read that story. Not when you've just gone and Bonded with the man who accused you of trying to blow him up, at your trial."
Oh.
"So he wants my story…for what?" James shook his head, "Money? Surely he realizes who I am? His logic makes no sense. If he knew anything about me, he'd know I could make him wealthier than any story he wrote about me could."
"Since when do you indulge threats?"
The criminal frowned. Mycroft had a point.
"Exactly," Mycroft continued, "Magnussen wants your story, because of the money, and because this is in his very nature. He picks people apart for all the world to see like they're frogs on a dissecting tray. He takes a malicious sort of joy in exposing the freaks of the world. No one who is different is safe. Especially not you. You could be his crowning glory, forgive my choice of words."
James flinched internally. So Magnussen was a bully, then. And a greedy one at that.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, "So John-?"
"Mary, is the next key factor," Mycroft interrupted, glancing at James, "I hate to break it to you, but Sebastian couldn't stomach what you did to that girl. He'd been keeping an eye on you for me for quite some time. Now don't look like that."
James balked, wondering how exactly he looked. Probably far from pleased.
"He is loyal to you, but he never was unconditionally loyal. He's still very young, Jim, and in far over his head. You cannot expect to expose him to something horrific like that and not expect him to come running to the only other authority figure in his life."
"Was he working for you?" James demanded, still feeling mildly betrayed.
"I suspect," Mycroft sighed, "That he was always working for you rather than me. But it's difficult to discern when the poor thing probably didn't know, himself. What matters is he told me about Mary, and in exchange for any information she could give me on you, for Magnussen, I gave her a new identity. A place to stay, at Baker Street, where she befriended none other than your John Watson."
Sherlock's face lit up with clarity, "That's why I never met her. James would have known, even if he never saw her. The Bond would have given her away."
"Or you're just a complete imbecile when it comes to human interaction," Mycroft smiled caustically, and James had to fight a strong urge to defend the detective. Instead, he continued the story on his own.
"So Watson was thrown into the flames because of Mary."
Mycroft paused, "…Unfortunately, you don't share much with your employees. Even the ones closest to you. She couldn't give enough information for me to give Magnussen, he got impatient, so John Watson went into the flames."
Sherlock nodded to himself, "And now he expects her to be frightened enough to talk, and give information she doesn't have," he rounded on Mycroft, "Why did you indulge him in the first place? Surely no government scandal could-"
"It's important, and it could lose me my position."
"Doubt it's that bloody important. What did you do, get caught stuffing cakes in your face by the dozen-?"
Sherlock… James chided quietly.
Mycroft's eyes glittered dangerously, though the criminal was certain there had to be at least a pinch of gratitude in there somewhere. They both knew Sherlock was capable of voicing far crueler insults, and he would.
"It is that important. And since I'm the only child who keeps dear Mummy from offing herself out of shame, I suggest that you treat it that way."
Sherlock and James grew very quiet, their blood running cold at the reminder of what could very easily have happened to Holmes…though not the Holmes Mycroft was referring to.
A mad theory crossed James's mind that perhaps Mycroft knew exactly what he was referring to. But no, he hadn't known they'd gone onto the rooftop, had he?
Perhaps something to discuss later, Sherlock suggested.
Intrigued, James silently agreed, clearing his throat after what must have been a substantial silence.
The detective huffed, "Well there has to be some solution! One we're just not seeing."
But there wasn't. Either they made Magnussen lose interest by ruining James's reputation, or they ruined Sherlock's and James's by painting the entire thing as fake. Neither option seemed viable, and they certainly weren't going to deal with it directly by facing the press. If Mycroft hadn't seen a clean solution yet, there probably wasn't one.
An idea started to take shape in James's mind.
Sherlock, I could-
No.
The criminal's gaze was heavy when it met the detective's.
Sometimes it's the only solution. I'd make it look like he got into an accident. Or like it was someone else.
Sherlock considered.
He's never going to stop, James continued, People like him don't stop.
The detective fell quiet once more. Of course, logically, James was correct. And, this wasn't only their lives at stake—it was Mycroft and Mary and John, as well.
But they needed to work quickly, and James took his time when he planned things like this. Plus, Magnussen was far from stupid. If it somehow got out that James was to blame for his murder, they were as good as dead, too.
There was an alternative…
Absolutely not, James stopped that train of thought before it could leave the station. Sherlock frowned.
"I'll leave the two of you to think," Mycroft finally broke the silence, standing up with a pointed glance at Sherlock, "Don't do anything rash."
"Wouldn't dream of it," the detective muttered, already considering a very rash idea.
(o0o0o0o0)
Alone once more, James sighed, dejected. They had one made it past one obstacle, only to find another, even larger one in their path.
"We'll find a way," he raised his voice slightly, "And not your way. I should be the one to-"
"It's easier for Mycroft to pull strings for his brother than for you. It's easier for him to skirt around things and for people to give the benefit of the doubt when family is involved."
"Don't do it," James frowned. I don't want it to be you in John's place next time.
You can't tell me what to do. I don't want to lose you, either.
Perhaps part of the criminal's dilemma was that, objectively speaking, he was one of the last people on the planet who deserved to have his beloved risk their life for him. Especially when the person in question was an infinitely better person than he was.
I'm the one considering murder, Sherlock pointed out.
I believe 'considering' is the key word.
The detective glared, but James decided to change the topic.
"Thank you for being here. Instead of with John. I know he's your…" friend, but…
Sherlock suddenly felt quite tired. He sat down next to James on the bed, leaning on the criminal despite his superior height.
"He's got Mary. Don't couples like to be alone?"
James inwardly flinched at the name. Mary Mary Mary. What the hell was he supposed to do about her? She'd done exactly what he'd feared, and spilled every secret about him she knew to another party, and yet, he wasn't even sure he felt angry about it anymore. A part of him was, but those thoughts were screaming underwater. The noise was muffled, soon to be drowned.
Obviously, he couldn't leave the web or hand it off. So he couldn't allow her to continue. But he doubted she'd been all too eager to expose him in the first place, if Mycroft had used any form of interrogation like what he'd experienced.
And she couldn't very well bite the hand that was giving her protection from her old life. So, in a sense, it almost seemed like it wasn't her fault.
James got up, and Sherlock moaned, a quiet complaint.
Where are you going?
To put some real clothes on.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then what?
I'm going to find Mary.
(o0o0o0o0)
John had just finished shrugging on a sweater when Sebastian poked his head through the door. He was dressed in his clothing from last night—probably getting ready to leave, like the rest of them.
"Where's Mary at?" the sniper's brow furrowed as he gave the room a quick once over, as if she was cleverly camouflaged, hiding behind a cheap curtain.
"She went to grab something to eat," John answered coolly, "Is Jim with Sherlock?"
Sebastian shrugged, "I dunno. I'm avoiding him."
John wondered if the sniper expected for him to have any pity for his situation, "Are you going to lose your job?"
"If I'm dead, I can't work, so yeah."
God, he was more dramatic than Sherlock.
"Sorry to hear that," John said flippantly.
Sebastian gave him a dirty look, "Why are you so superior? You should be thanking me—I'm the one who told Jim and Sherlock in the first place you were in trouble!"
John sighed, still unmoving, "Because Mycroft told you to. You kill people for a living. Don't expect me to believe you did this out of any kind of empathy."
"You know what happened to Jim's last first in command that tried to quit after betraying Jim's trust? She was buried alive."
John was silent.
"Don't tell me that you didn't consider how many people she must have killed."
"Do you feel shame?" John asked suddenly, "For the things you've done?"
The room fell silent, and that was answer enough for both of them. Of course he felt nothing. It made John feel a twinge of concern for Sherlock alone with Jim, but then, they'd been over that what felt like a hundred times. At least Sherlock balanced the criminal out. This one had no one to keep him from doing anything rash; no moral compass. John was about to shake his head in disgust when the sniper's shoulders sank.
Sebastian seemed to physically deflate in front of him. Suddenly, he looked about five years younger, wide eyed and confused and fickle.
"I didn't used to," he said softly, eyes on his feet, "It was easy at first. I used to think killing was the only thing I was good at. It was fine until I met Molly and saw what happened to Mary."
That sounded familiar.
Slowly, John nodded. He knew very well how strikingly easy killing could be when your target was reduced to a disembodied thing. It was only after being reintroduced to humanity that the true horror of it struck.
"How'd you realize you were good at it?" John wasn't sure he even wanted to hear the answer.
"I ran away to join the Army," Sebastian mumbled, and John raised his eyebrows, surprised to have anything in common with the man (boy?) in front of him.
"You were in the-?"
"How did you think I got so good at sniping?" Sebastian raised his eyes to meet John's, and the doctor's expression softened.
"Why did you get into crime, then?"
"I got a DD."
John waited, curious in spite of himself.
Sebastian frowned, "I got drunk and accidentally killed someone, okay? So where was I supposed to go? I had no high school diploma, no money, and I could shoot a gun really well."
John hated that he was starting to feel sorry for Moran. He didn't deserve a single bit of sympathy.
But then again…did any of them? All of them had killed in the past; and sometimes a uniform didn't do much to justify the blood on it. Mary had been in Sebastian's exact same position, a few months ago.
Sebastian's voice grew very quiet, "I think I might go home."
The doctor balked, "But didn't you say you just ran away?"
"I made a mistake," Sebastian raised his voice slightly, "I talked to Jim about it. I was being a brat. And now that I've talked to you and Molly and everyone I can't stop thinking about the other people I've killed-"
"You talked to Jim about your family life? And he gave you advice? He called you a brat?" That didn't even sound like something Sherlock would do, besides the name calling. What was the world coming to?
"He's smart," Sebastian stared John down firmly, "You should try it."
John was mildly concerned about the quality of advice a consulting criminal could give about family. "…Sebastian, don't go back to a bad home just because Jim-"
"It wasn't a bad home, though! I was wrong!" Sebastian exclaimed, looking about like he was ready to cry, "I miss my little sister and her stupid hair curlers and pink nail polish and magazines and shit, and I miss my mom and all that organic crap she swears by, and I miss screaming over football with my dad even though neither of us really know how the game works. I miss them, and it was stupid to even try this stunt, but I feel like it's gone too far and I'm scared that nothing will ever be the same again, or that maybe they really do hate me now after what I've done to them."
John waited a moment for Sebastian's breathing to calm down, completely frozen to the spot because right in front of him, Jim Moriarty's 5'11" first in command looked like he was ready to cry over organic produce and lawn flamingoes.
He was just a lost kid.
Sebastian sniffed, "I don't know why I'm telling you this. Jim's gonna fucking kill me anyway for helping Mary."
John sighed heavily, "If he's giving you family advice, he's not going to kill you. I think being Bonded to Sherlock has softened him up."
"You think he'll let me leave?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
John bit his lip, thinking of Mary. About Mary, about Sherlock, or anyone else that Jim had attempted to hurt in the past.
He ended up shrugging.
"Would you rather live a life you hate, or risk death for the one you want?"
(o0o0o0o0)
Sebastian was startled when, just a few paces away from John's hospital room, he turned a corner and very nearly crashed into his current dilemma.
"Oh, Jesus. Sorry, Boss, I was just going to…"
Jim raised dark eyes to meet Sebastian's, and the sniper found, for the first time, that he was able to meet them. Reading them, however, was a completely different story.
After a moment of silence, the criminal raised his eyebrows, "Yes?"
Sebastian's mouth was open, but no words were coming out. He settled for a few that had no meaning.
"I, well…"
"I would hope you have something important to say, after what you've pulled."
Sebastian's face fell, "…I couldn't let her die like that, Boss," he said quietly.
Jim sighed, frowning, "You're an adult, Sebastian, and in this industry-"
"But I don't—I don't know if I want to-"
"Don't want to what?" the criminal snapped.
Sebastian looked away. Why had he thought this was a good idea again?
Jim was incredulous, "No," he paused, studying Sebastian, "Are you actually trying to quit?"
Fix it. Go back to America. So yeah; quit.
The entitlement of Jim's tone gave Sebastian a confidence boost. He straightened up and looked him in the eye. Time to tell it like it was.
"Look, I know that you did what you did to Mary because she quit, but I don't care. I can't kill for a living anymore. I miss my family. And I know this is an unforgiving business, but I also know that when Mycroft sent me to tell you guys about John, you helped Sherlock save someone you didn't even know. And when you saw Mary you didn't immediately lash out, either. And even though I lied to you, I never actually did any real damage to your empire. The only person who did that was Mary, and even then, it couldn't have been a lot, because Magnussen clearly wasn't happy with her. So I think I deserve to go home without you hurting me."
Jim's jaw was practically on the floor.
"And," Sebastian added as an afterthought, "I think you'd probably rather talk about philosophy or something with your…boyfriend, than spend your evening plotting my death. So," Sebastian nodded to himself, satisfied, "there. I'm quitting, and you can find yourself a new favorite."
Jim's face was a study in personal offense as he watched Sebastian go.
"Do you know how many people would kill to have your position, Sebastian? Do you know how many people I've killed for smaller infractions?"
"Don't know," Sebastian had an insane urge to giggle as he continued to walk away, "Don't care!"
"Sebastian!" Jim's voice was even more filled with disbelief than before as he called after the sniper, who kept walking.
"Sebastian?!"
Left, right, left.
"Sebastian." The last call was spoken rather than shouted, but was also physically closer. Jim had followed him. The sniper slowed his steps, allowing Jim to catch up completely. Slowly, he turned around.
Now it was Jim's turn to stammer.
"I'm not," his forehead creased, like he was thinking, "I'm not going to fucking kill you," he paused, his stare going blank, "It's probably for the best."
"I won't tell anyone anything-"
"I'm sure you won't," Jim held up a hand, interrupting him, "What convinced you to go?"
"I-"
"Sebastian," the criminal stared him directly in the face, and the sniper, for a brief, mad moment, wondered what on Earth Holmes must see in those fathomless black eyes. "What convinced you to go?"
The sniper couldn't help it, "I was talking to John and-"
"I trust you have enough funds to carry you home," Jim, to Sebastian's horror, was already walking away.
"Boss, don't-!"
"It's Jim now, and I most certainly will!"
(o0o0o0o0)
"Speak of the devil."
James just barely caught Watson's quiet utterance when he pushed open the door. Wonderful. So that was how it was going to be. John was already on the defensive, muscles tensed at the ready, the tremor in his hand calmed. It was still shocking to the criminal that he caused the same psychological reaction armed combat did.
All factors considered, Sherlock chided softly, not that shocking.
Hmph.
"I caught that, you know," he decided to call John out on his little comment.
The doctor watched him with cool blue eyes, "Hurt your feelings, did I?"
James stared. He felt…drained. Getting into a fight with Watson was the last thing he wanted to do. Any other day, he'd have bit at the bait without a second thought, but now he only had a taste for answers.
John sighed deeply, looking away, "Alright," he said quietly, as if to himself, "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."
"You took my sniper from me, you're dating the woman who betrayed me…one would think you'd want to at least try to stay on my good side," James warned gently.
John smiled infuriatingly, shaking his head, "Oh, no. I don't care about being on your good side."
James was running out of patience, "I never wanted to be Bonded with Sherlock, Watson."
The doctor looked like he wanted to stand up from where he sat, but was holding himself in the chair merely by his two white knuckled hands.
He met James's eyes again, gaze almost unnervingly steady, "Why then?" he demanded, "Why the hell were the two of you on the rooftop that day? Why shake hands in the first place? You strapped me to a bomb, you damn near ruined Sherlock's reputation, so how could you two be…?" he trailed off, and the room fell into silence once more.
James felt quite naked. It felt a bit twisted that he was telling John about this before Sherlock, but perhaps it was good practice.
He closed the door behind him, sighing heavily, wondering if he still looked hostile to the doctor. Probably.
James licked his lips, heart pounding as he unlocked a mental doorway.
Don't look yet, don't listen, he requested silently, We'll talk about it later.
Alright, Sherlock agreed.
"I brought a gun, John."
The doctor tensed, "To shoot Sherl-?"
"No," James raised his voice slightly, "No."
Oh...Sherlock had listened anyway, and silently chided himself when James noticed.
Realization dawned on John's face, "For yourself." He kept his expression mostly neutral.
"I wanted to shake his hand," James hated how his voice caught, "I was already thinking about it, right before we Bonded. It was there in my pocket. And I was so close," he shook his head, "I was so close, and he didn't even notice I shook with my right hand."
John breathed, "Well, he misses things when he gets flustered."
The statement was surprisingly gentle. James let it wash over him like cool water.
"So you wanted to die, and Sherlock-?" John prompted.
"We were both supposed to die," James confirmed, "That was the final problem."
John shook his head, looking quite pained, "Tell me you know how twisted that is."
James wished he could say that much, but he couldn't pretend his old logic hadn't made sense, in the context. He was still quite unsure about it, himself.
"We get bored, John," he said softly, "I thought it was the perfect way to end the game. So that nothing would be tainted by anything ordinary."
It took a moment of staring, eyes wide, for John to speak again.
"You can sit down, you know."
James obliged, pulling up a chair to sit across from the doctor. He was vaguely reminded of a certain meeting with Sherlock, though that one hadn't hurt so much.
"I'm not going to apologize, you know," James said moodily, playing with his sleeve.
John was perplexed, "Do you understand the things you do? I mean, that they hurt real people?"
"Of course I understand," James glared, "And it's made everything more complicated."
"I thought you wanted complicated."
Oh, that was fucking clever. James hated that it was clever, and that John probably didn't even know how clever it was. Because that was exactly what the criminal didn't want to think about.
"Alright," John continued, "What about all that old stuff with Sherlock? Is that gone, now? You're done wanting him dead, his reputation ruined? Or do you still-"
"Of course it's over!" James snapped, raising his voice just a tad too loud. He didn't miss John's flinch. He hated that it pacified him. "Yes," he hissed, "It's over."
"So you don't hate him?"
James rubbed his temples, "I don't think," he mused, "I ever hated him. I don't think any reality exists in which we aren't Bonded, on some level or another. He was an adversary. That doesn't mean I hated him. I just…" he trailed off, unable to find the words he wanted.
Because, at some level, he'd always cared for Sherlock. He truly had. The fact that he'd been so bloody stupid about it wasn't one he was overeager to confess to Watson.
John sighed, "Maybe I'm too ordinary to understand," he said curtly, "Have you two at least talked it over?"
James bit his lip, "On the agenda…" he muttered.
"Oh my God!" John exclaimed, making James jump a bit before he realized that John was smiling, actually smiling, at him. "You know, this is exactly what I'd expect from Sherlock, too. You're Bonded and you haven't even talked about the fact that you've tried to kill each other in the past?"
A smirk quirked up a corner of James's lips, "It, ah," he looked away, "didn't seem important."
"Incredible," John laughed, but the noise lacked a bit of warmth. "Well, I don't forgive you, and I probably never will, for the Semtex."
James met the doctor's eyes again, half heartedly smirking, "Understandable."
"But I suppose I'll have to get used to seeing you around, so I think I can handle one more murderer amongst my daily companions."
"Who did Sherlock kill?" James asked the question to Sherlock as much as John.
No one.
"I don't know," John teased, "You tell me. I've always wondered about his skull."
James broke into a full grin, "Gift from Molly."
"I'm sure."
The criminal stood to go, actually feeling considerably better than he had when he'd showed up.
"Oh, and, uh, Jim?"
James raised his eyebrows.
"Sherlock told me you were with him at the bonfire. Why?"
He had no answer for that. Maybe even the devil felt like being a hero sometimes.
The devil is a fictional character invented by religious leaders to coerce their followers into adhering to a certain lifestyle.
Do you mind?
Don't tell me what to do.
Shit, Sherlock was upset. Better see what that was about.
"Your face just changed," John observed.
"Sherlock's unhappy," James voiced, "And to answer your question, it just felt right at the time. I don't have an answer for you. It wasn't me that put you there, I can tell you that much."
"I know, Mary told me."
Oh.
James frowned. Dammit, he was barely upset with her anymore. The only person he could muster the energy to antagonize was Magnussen, for Christ's sake.
Strangely, he didn't mind it. It was nice not having to shoulder the world on his own, for once. Nice to have a few people he could trust, even though their minds worked ridiculously slow.
"Will you let her live? Please? Leave her alone?" John asked, surprisingly vulnerable.
He cared for her. Truly cared. James wondered how similar their feelings were to his and Sherlock's.
If that was even a possibility, he didn't have much of a choice in answers.
"Of course."
When James left, his eyes met another pair in the hallway. Grey, defiant, they reminded him of why he'd hired them in the first place. Jo was tensed, watching him carefully, like a zebra watches a lion.
He continued to walk past Mary, a woman he had no quarrel with.
(o0o0o0o0)
The air was cold on James's face when he stepped out onto the rooftop. His eyes immediately found Sherlock, who was stretched out with his back against a wall, huddled against the chill.
James silently sat down next to the detective, who proceeded to hand him an orange.
They didn't have apples.
The criminal would have chuckled, had the both of them not been in such a grim mood. He gratefully took the fruit, stomach rumbling, though he knew that peeling an orange in the cold was going to be a task he wasn't sure he could complete.
Sherlock dug his nails into his own orange, and the acidic smell of citrus entered the air, fainter than usual due to the breeze.
"The gun," the detective muttered ruefully, "I should have known. I knew you were lefthanded, I knew you had a deathwish. You shook with the wrong hand and I didn't bloody notice a thing."
"Didn't have much time to notice."
"I should have!" Sherlock's frustration was mounting by the second, "I should have. I was an idiot."
James sighed deeply, "Sherlock, I was trying to get you to kill yourself. Do you honestly believe I deserve any kind of sympathy for-?"
"Do you still-?" Sherlock interrupted with the beginnings of a question, "I'd…know, right?"
"Yes," James breathed, "You'd know."
It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. The thought that he could be a reason for anyone to live made his head hurt a little bit.
He started to peel his orange, and James watched his fingers move for a bit before speaking again.
"Don't go after Magnussen," James said suddenly.
Sherlock kept his eyes on the fruit in his hands, "Wasn't planning on-"
"I can read your mind, doofus. I know what you want to do." You stupid hero.
For a moment there was no sound but traffic and the wind.
"You said it yourself, people like him don't give up," Sherlock argued.
"Sherlock-"
"I'm taller and heavier than you. And I'm certified in boxing."
That made James smirk, just a little bit. Sherlock's memories of receiving that certification were quite…colorful.
The thought that initially crossed the criminal's mind was, What am I going to do with you?, but the words that he voiced were edited to fit circumstance.
As tantalizing as mutual destruction had been…it was nothing compared to what he had now. As fucking infuriating as Sherlock and the feelings that came with him could be, as ridiculous and childish as Moran could behave, as petty as John could be and as unpunished as Mary was…they gave the world color. James no longer saw the world in shades of grey and red, and it was all because of the silver on his palm.
He understood why John had been angry about the Semtex. And why Sebastian had to leave. And why Sherlock had needed to rescue John. Why Mary had wanted to leave and why Sebastian hadn't been able to stomach her execution. Why Mycroft worried about his brother.
This was why people commissioned him. Why the world was filled with people blinded by emotions and unable to see reason. People lost their minds over this.
But if it meant he could see color, if it meant he could feel, James would gladly, without hesitation, follow Sherlock to insanity.
"What would I do without you?"
Sherlock reached around James, and the criminal bent his arm at the elbow, awkwardly reaching towards his shoulder where the detective's hand waited.
Silver touched silver, a silent comment that no matter what the past had been, no matter what the future would be, at present they were sitting on a rooftop, overlooking a grey London winter, and they were in love.
A/N: I know it's late late late. I'm starting school, but I think for the sake of my mental health I need to keep writing. Plus, we're reaching near the end here. Just a few more chapters. Leave me a comment on what you thought? I for one am quite happy that John and James finally made up.