"It's not like the movies, there's not a great spurt of blood and you go flying backwards."
Molly's voice was ringing in his skull, oddly cheerful despite the fact that Sherlock, moments ago, had been shot.
Everything around him was sterile while; Molly stood in front of him in a lab coat, still watching him, her face more serious now.
"The impact isn't spread over a wide area. It's tightly focused, so there's little to no energy transfer. You stay still, and the bullet pushes through."
Sherlock felt naked. He could vaguely feel warmth spreading across his chest, he knew it was a dire situation, but he couldn't muster the energy for a mental state above the severe disorientation he was currently experiencing. His every muscle was tensed, and the pain was excruciating, but it felt like a hole had been ripped through him in more ways than one. He needed someone other than Molly.
"You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."
Where was James? Christ, the last time Sherlock had wanted the criminal close this bad had been before—
"I said-"
"SHERLOCK!"
James.
"-focus!"
The detective was left reeling from the slap across the face. He was flashing in and out of reality, the eyes in front of him now a deep, dark brown. The James in front of him was clean cut, devilishly sharp in a perfectly tailored Westwood suit, his hair slicked back without a strand out of place. The other James was not so pleasant; swaying slightly in Sherlock's view. Wild eyed and desperate, face sheet white with hands that trembled. His expression was a plea; for what, Sherlock wasn't sure. All he was sure of was that he wanted the criminal to stay close to him.
"Sherlock, you need to fall back," Molly's voice was back, clearer this time.
"Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me. That's it. Sherl, listen to me."
Sherlock was getting confused. Too much information. Too many faces. James's thoughts were scrambled with panic and they were scrambling his, as well. He was being peppered by frantic kisses.
"Fall back."
"Answer me."
"Fall back."
"Sherlock? SHERLOCK?" hands grasped his clothing, feeling his face and his hair, as if they could tug him away from the blackness he was quickly descending down into. "God, no."
Suddenly, James's pulse, his emotions, his entire conscious spiked with anger. A white hot, monstrous thing, precise and lethal, which focused Sherlock's thoughts for long enough that he was finally capable of obeying Molly's command.
He fell back, completely unconscious.
(o0o0o0o0)
Before
The hardest thing about this, Sherlock theorized, was cutting James off mentally.
Of course, the rest of the procedure was going to pose a challenge or two, but nothing caused Sherlock greater discomfort than going back to the forced separation he and the criminal had put into practice, so long ago. He'd grown so used to James's constant, silent presence that going without it felt like showing up at a case shirtless. He felt exposed and surprisingly uncomfortable; the idea of simply going back to immediate contact was nothing short of mouthwatering, but he needed to do this. For the both of them. Then, afterwards, it would be smooth sailing, and it wouldn't matter how dependent he became on their connection.
Obviously, he couldn't kill Magnussen with James in his head the entire time. Not when the criminal was so opposed to him going. And it wasn't as though they could have gone together, even if they'd both wanted to. If Magnussen had bodyguards, and he got his hands on James, there was no telling what he would do to the criminal to create his ultimate story. At least this way, there was the possibility of calling on Mycroft to pull strings. It was easier to make excuses for a rash little brother than his criminal boyfriend.
Boyfriend. What a trivial word to describe James Moriarty. And yet, the same descriptor applied to him, didn't it? What other word was there to use when Sherlock had watched James sleep, carefully keeping his thoughts calm so as not to wake him, for no less than half an hour, before he'd left that night?
He wondered how angry the criminal would be once he found out Sir Boast a Lot was chasing dragons again. Surprisingly, James was still fast asleep. Perhaps that was due to the fact that Sherlock had put so many mental blocks up. It was good to know, he supposed, for when he got back. They might not have to coordinate their sleep schedules, after all.
Although…Sherlock really didn't mind that, too much.
The streets of London were shadowed as he walked, small flashes of James's dreams making themselves seen, despite the detective's walls. Sherlock caught a few blurry glimpses of himself, Sebastian, and even Mary.
A hot flash of anger heated his skin at what Magnussen had almost ruined—would ruin, if he had the chance. Sherlock checked his pocket to make sure what he needed was still there.
His glove touched a small glass vial, and the detective, mortifyingly, felt a small smirk tease his lips.
John would be disappointed in him, possibly afraid of him. He might think James had had a poor effect on him, after all. The criminal himself would be furious that Sherlock had gone without him, but what else was there to be done? Mycroft would roll his eyes and pull some strings for baby brother as usual and things would be cleaned up, easy.
Sherlock felt a tiny bit guilty, more for the accidental smile than anything else. This wasn't something to be taken so lightly. This was the man who wanted to ruin James. Ruin them. And in spite of his blinding love for the criminal, Sherlock couldn't completely move past the fact that he was on the streets in the middle of the night, poison in pocket, intending to kill someone.
Magnussen is a grown Carl Powers, he told himself, he finds what makes people different and preys on them for it.
Coat billowing out behind him, Sherlock continued his silent journey, blending into the shadows like a wraith. His collar provided little relief from the cold.
He wished James was here with him. The silence was a bit lonely.
(o0o0o0o0)
Magnussen's home certainly was a castle for a dragon. To say the very least, it was massive. It gleamed dangerously in the low light, every wall made of massive windows that Sherlock was sure did a fantastic job of capturing heat during the daytime. The bastard's monthly electric bill was probably more than what 221B cost him and John in an entire year.
James was sleeping more fitfully now; he'd probably noticed the lack of Sherlock's conscious in his dreams. He'd be waking up soon, so it was better that this operation was hurried along. Killing Magnussen would be more difficult if James was nagging him the entire time.
Sherlock gave the night sky one last glance, taking a moment to find Ursa Major before turning back to the house.
He hadn't been able to look at blueprints without James seeing, so he'd have to find a way in from here. The windows were likely extremely thick, so simply breaking one wasn't an option, especially given how suspicious it would look. No, he needed something that wouldn't mean setting off a security system, something that would get him into the interior of the house quickly and easily.
Suddenly, a memory pushed itself to the forefront of Sherlock's mind. He remembered the way James's hair had been stuck to his face with sweat, how the metal had burned their skin as they crawled, unscrewing the air vent and rescrewing it behind them.
Christ. Of course this would happen again. But it was as good of a bloody plan as he was going to get. Big house like this would likely have larger airways to crawl through, allowing him to reduce noise considerably. Perhaps then, also, they wouldn't get so hot so quickly.
Although…it was quite cold out. Hopefully Magnussen liked his surroundings as cold as his heart, or else things were about to get a tad warm.
Sherlock started off towards the house, keeping his eyes out for any type of cameras or security equipment. The ground underneath his feet was frozen solid, icy and dead. He was grateful, however, for the lack of snow at the moment. No footprints was definitely a good thing. This would have been considerably more difficult if he hadn't been awarded that small mercy.
The shadows engulfed him when he made it, thankfully, to the corner of the home without windows. Hopefully, this was the living quarters; he assumed the more elegant part of the building was more of a formal sitting room—fantastic for gatherings, useless for everyday life. Unless Magnussen needed to take his tea on a sofa that cost 20 thousand pounds.
Keeping his back to the wall of the home, Sherlock turned his attention to his ears. The wind was harsh, blocking out almost everything else when it howled. He was grateful for the structure of the house to protect him against it and, in spite of himself, he almost was looking forward to the long, warm crawl through the vents.
He wished he was home with James, who was still, miraculously, asleep in bed.
The wind let up and, to his left, Sherlock heard a slight humming. Good. Where there were other appliances, there would be a way in. The detective followed the noise until his hand brushed against something metallic. Slowly, he turned, feeling around in the darkness to get an idea of how large the grate was.
Large. Almost a meter on each side. Perfect.
Sherlock felt along the edges for bolts, and when his fingers located them, started to work. Finding the notches to insert the small, silver spoon he'd taken with him (screwdriver would be too suspicious in case he dropped it, but a stray spoon in a kitchen drawer wouldn't be) was difficult, but ultimately doable. Finally, the detective silently pulled the loose grate up against the wall behind him. He'd find a faster way out and would have to re-screw it by hand.
The metal walls around him were warm, as predicted, but not nearly as uncomfortably warm as they had been when he and James had escaped Mycroft's cabin. Sherlock wondered how much of that had been temperature and how much had been the Bond they'd been resisting for so long. He could still remember how James's hair had stuck to his face, how his face had been flushed red, his pupils dilated in the darkness. He'd wondered, then, if the criminal would look similarly in other compromising positions, and it was satisfying to know that he could now confirm this…
Fuck, Sherl… James's thoughts were a murmur. He was half conscious, and dammit, Sherlock needed to get back to blocking him, but it was so difficult when the criminal was deriving just as much pleasure from the memory as he was.
Sherlock continued to crawl, feeling like a rat in a sewer. Perhaps…James's company wasn't a terrible thing, in such a dire situation as this.
Hush. Go back to sleep, the detective coaxed.
There was a moment of tense silence before Sherlock realized what a grave mistake he'd made.
…Sherlock? James asked, fully conscious.
Shit.
Sherlock?!
I can explain.
You went after him, didn't you? James's words were hot with fury, and Sherlock realized that he was sweating more, now. However, he saw another grate several meters in front of him, and decided he would rather take his chances sneaking around the house than roasting alive in here.
The detective didn't answer James.
Fuck. Fucking shit, I knew you would! You've always got to be the hero, don't you? And why are you thinking about sex with me when you should be watching for Magnussen?
Sherlock was indignant, I was not thinking about sex; this just reminded me of escaping Mycroft!
James was unmoved, Don't think sentiment will get you anywhere now. You clearly were blocking me and lost control. I can't believe you went without me!
Bolts squeaked as Sherlock twisted them out of the grate, making him wince. At this hour, in a large, open house like this, the smallest of noises may as well have been a gunshot.
The detective bit his lip, Mycroft can defend me. He can't defend you. We've been over—
Fuck that!
Sherlock balked at the irrational response.
You're letting your emotions—
Fuck it, Sherlock! Yes, I am! to the detective's horror, James seemed about ready to cry. The criminal's heartrate was accelerated with worry and panic, an anxious tremor in his every thought, I'm being irrational. I don't care about logic right now, I just wish I was there!
The squeaking stopped, and Sherlock bowed his head, I'm…sorry? I thought you wanted him stopped.
I do, but not like this. He's not stupid, Sherlock. And I know you've thought of everything, but what if he has, too?
I'll think of something else, then.
There was a long, stagnant silence.
I love you.
Sherlock wished, almost prayed, that James's words wouldn't twist in his chest the way they did. Apparently, there wasn't a star in heaven listening.
James—
Just…please be careful. I'll try to help and not hinder.
I love you, too.
Just come home alive so I can kill you myself, alright?
While declarations of love twisted in Sherlock's chest, it was that kind of thing the detective had really been afraid of James saying. The joke seemed to inject itself into his veins, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to pause with the realization that…this could be goodbye, if things went awry. Of course, they wouldn't, with James here to help him. Most of this worry probably just came from the criminal's own thoughts, but… if….
Now who's being emotional? James snapped Sherlock out of his reverie, though it was still very obvious to the detective that he was nervous about the whole situation, Start moving.
I've got the man who stole the crown jewels to help me, Sherlock attempted to lighten the mood, I don't believe I have much to worry about.
James presented a rather heavy thought just as the detective started to move the vent aside.
You don't, I do.
(o0o0o0o0)
Sherlock was even more astounded at the sheer size of Magnussen's abode now than he was upon first seeing it. It didn't even look like a house to him; there was too much open space. Perhaps a museum or a rather elaborate office building. Everything was so clean and sterile…it almost didn't seem like anyone lived there at all.
Stepping carefully through the shadows, the detective's vision was heightened, his every muscle tensed and all of his nerves concentrated on his surroundings. After doing a quick check to ensure he wasn't about to run into a security system of any sort, Sherlock started off to find the kitchen. While the detective was a fraction less on edge, James still held his breath, silently going over and approving every deduction as it was made.
Magnussen had a large selection of plants filling the bottom floor of his home, but Sherlock didn't derive any comfort from the confirmation that something, anything, could live in this place. In the darkness, their leaves appeared black, and from where he stood, they looked like obsidian statues. He wondered if whoever took care of them was somewhere around here, tending them at night so as not to be in the way during daytime hours.
He's got too many enemies; he wouldn't want anyone, not even someone neutral, to be here while he slept, James declared, Wait, stop!
Sherlock's pulse spiked, and he froze in his steps, heart hammering.
On your right.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the detective turned. There on the wall, a meter or so from where he stood, was a small box. A tiny light blinked on it.
Sherlock sighed, grinning weakly with surprisingly intense relief.
Thermostat, he confirmed, able to see a clean 20 degrees, faded on a small screen.
James wasn't so relieved, I'm just going off of flashes. He sounded less indignant at the lack of recognition his efforts were getting, and more frustrated that they weren't enough.
Starting to be more assured that the night would go as planned, Sherlock confidently walked past the thermostat, and did a silent cheer when he saw the gleam of what looked like stainless steel through a corridor to his left.
Found the kitchen, the triumphant detective bragged, hating that he wanted James to compliment him. He wanted the napoleon of crime to encourage him to do the wicked thing he was about to do and to eliminate the man who'd tried to tear them apart.
Stop, James wasn't swayed, Sherlock, this is serious.
Don't pretend you aren't impressed, Sherlock slipped the spoon he'd used to unscrew the grates into a crowded silverware drawer. The metal gleamed in what little light filtered into the room, tinkling slightly as the detective hid it from sight again.
A part of him knew he was being bloody stupid, that he was about to kill a man and he ought to at least be sobered by the act, even if Magnussen didn't deserve the least bit of respect, but he couldn't stop himself.
James was feeling sick to his stomach, Sherlock, please be careful. We can do this when you're home safely.
Sherlock smirked, Don't tell me the danger is too much for the criminal mastermind? Did you like the toxin I chose?
Of course I did, but this is your weakness, James insisted, You have to be clever all the time. Just once, for me, will you be conservative and just watch your-?
Are you driving? Sherlock asked suddenly, ears ringing.
James's silence was enough of an answer, and suddenly it was the detective's turn to be angry.
Turn around! I'm going to handle this. Good God, when did you get so boring?
I'm not technically driving, the criminal admitted ominously, fraying Sherlock's nerves even more. Of course now, James chose to be cryptic.
Who'd you bring?
If you ever listened, you'd know!
Sherlock flushed, a flash of silver going through the Bond.
Lestrade? Are you kidding me?
John, too. Look, they don't know, alright? I just told them I needed them to come with me to make sure you're alright. They don't even know where we're going. They don't even know I know.
Of course they bloody know! They'll guess, and then we'll both be in prison with this maniac to deal with when we get out!
I just wanted to keep you safe!
God, now you're sounding like John, Sherlock's head was pounding.
And you're sounding like a pompous arse. Do you have any idea how much I care about you? Does that even matter to you? Or is this all still just a game?
Sherlock knew the words weren't true to how he felt, but he said them anyway, I told you I loved you, what more do you want?
I want to keep loving you, that's what!
Well what I want is—
The tiniest of movements in the corner of his eye froze Sherlock and James's thoughts, shattering them like ice. The detective felt his stomach drop, the air again stolen from his lungs, and it struck him that most of the reason he felt this was not because he was frightened, but because James was. So intense was this effect that, in the car, John Watson actually asked the pale criminal if he was alright. James didn't know how to answer.
Sherlock stared at the archway he'd seen the movement by, heart thumping and muscles tensed.
Sherlock? James's thoughts were softened in volume, if not in tone.
Hush. I'm going to go look.
The detective grabbed a knife out of a nearby stand. The sheen of the blade in the darkness made him feel more like a murderer than he had anytime so far that night.
Foot by foot, he made his way towards the arch. His palm was sweating around the knife, and James's voice echoed in his head, muffled as though underwater.
"There's someone there with him," the criminal updated Lestrade and John.
Sherlock flattened himself against the wall, readying himself to round the corner. Just before he could, however, there was a rapid clacking of heels, heading to his left.
The detective practically leapt into the hallway. Heels, she's a woman and she's running. Mistress, perhaps? Who would be here otherwise?
The hall was empty and silent as the grave. Sherlock frowned, and James voiced exactly what he was thinking.
Something is wrong.
Indeed, it was. He hadn't even thought about it until this point, but there was something off about the fact that he hadn't encountered any kind of security all night. Magnussen had many enemies; the idea that he would have absolutely no protection at night, while he slept, in the form of a system or bodyguards or something, was outrageous. It was laughable.
No, what was laughable was that Sherlock had overlooked it in his eagerness to run off with James and rid themselves of all their worries.
"He knows I'm here," the detective, resigned, murmured to himself.
A light flicked on in the kitchen, and a terribly familiar voice called to Sherlock.
"Love doesn't suit you, Sherlock Holmes," said Kitty Riley.
(o0o0o0o0)
Disgust flooded through the detective as he turned back into the kitchen; he wasn't sure how much of it was his own and how much belonged to James.
I thought she worked for you?
She worked for Richard Brooke.
She'd only be here if she knew the truth about you. Why isn't she afraid?
We both know the answer to that. We're Bonded. I'm just a person now.
A smirk twisted Kitty's perfectly glossed mouth as she regarded Sherlock, "Are you talking to him now? Give James my regards."
The criminal's temper flared at her boldness, and Sherlock's lip curled as he regarded the journalist, "You haven't the faintest idea what James Moriarty can do to you, do you?"
Kitty's grin widened, "Oh, Sherlock," she took a leisurely step towards him, and Sherlock took notice of how fragile her ankles looked in those heels, "I think he hasn't the faintest idea what Charles can do to him. But I will say, you make a great couple. I always knew you were a psychopath. Just take a look at yourself."
In spite of himself, Sherlock turned to look at his reflection in an oven door. His hair was disheveled, the knife was still in his hand, all his muscles were clearly tensed…perhaps he did look a bit mad.
Don't listen to that cunt.
Sherlock ignored James, turning back to Kitty.
"You knew I was coming. How?"
"Hospital cameras. And we've got more than your plans for the night."
Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes narrowed, "We…?"
"Mr. Holmes, you didn't think Kitty was capable of this all on her own, did you?"
Magnussen's familiar coo sent a disgusted chill down Sherlock's spine. Kitty seemed at most irritated by the slight, at least unfazed. Sherlock was outnumbered, and they knew it. One of them on either side of him was a bit much when all he had was a knife and (was that? it was) Magnussen had a gun. Kitty was a bit more intelligent than that misogynist would give her credit for—she could testify against him if he went through with the plan to kill her newest employer. And it wasn't as though Sherlock could, or would, kill her. He couldn't do it, as much as he hated her.
James's heart sank, as did Sherlock's.
Just work with it. We'll be there soon and we can figure it out. Just keep thinking. Don't do anything rash.
I'll go to prison. He has Mycroft's hands tied. They have footage. Of us. Likely of me with a knife in Magnussen's home. I was a fool to believe he had this little security.
Darling, it's entirely likely we'll both be in prison.
They'll make us out to be dangerous. They'll separate us, Sherlock started to panic at the thought. They couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't live without the Bond. He couldn't live without James. Without each other, they were nothing.
Just wait. You did what you did out of love.
And now they're going to take it away.
Over my dead body.
Please don't say that, Sherlock thought miserably. Separation, which they'd begun to dismiss as but a nightmare, once Mycroft had given his blessing, suddenly seemed a very real, very terrible possibility once more. If the public had a low enough opinion of him and James, if Magnussen got in the way of any influence Mycroft had…they were left to the government to deal with. And the amoral detective with body parts in the fridge and the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind weren't exactly going to be a winning couple.
They'd be separated without a thought. Without remorse. Sherlock ached for James. He had a very clear vision in his mind of clinging to the criminal with all his strength as hands all over him tried to pull him away, harder and harder, but Sherlock's knuckles whitened and he let his hair be pulled out, because this couldn't happen, he had to stay close…
"Are you talking to him now?" Magnussen regarded him from behind spectacles Sherlock wanted to break, "Your lover?"
The detective gripped the knife tighter. For the first time in a long time, he was nervous. Now the feeling hit him full force, creating a sensation almost like nausea. It would have been nice to have something, anything like a retort for Magnussen, but any possible quip he could think of sounded weak before he even spoke it.
"Kitty," Sherlock turned back around to face the journalist, "He doesn't respect you, he—"
She laughed before he could finish his appeal, "And you did? You took one look at me and labeled me a washed up fangirl masquerading as a journalist. Jim pretended to be a character for me. At least Magnussen treats me like a businesswoman."
As much as Sherlock loathed them both, it was difficult to resent Kitty quite as much as Magnussen when he was regarding her as a dog did a fresh steak.
"Holmes, I'm disappointed in you," Magnussen's voice was soft and cruel, "You see, this is the difference between you and I," he moved into the detective's range of vision, "I'm honest about what I am. I'm but a man of business. I want money, but quite frankly, who doesn't, these days? You pretend to be a hero when the reality is, you snuck into my house to kill me in my sleep with the same poison James Moriarty used on a twelve year old while he was in primary school. You tried to kill me because I threatened to expose your lover for the psychopathic serial killer he truly is."
Sherlock, he's just trying to— James continued to ignore the tantalizing pull of Sherlock's anger.
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, unsure if he wanted to cry or strangle Magnussen—probably both.
"In fact," Magnussen continued, "If you hadn't come tonight, I mightn't have published the story. But you've broken into my home like a common criminal, and I'm in a mood to expose to the world perhaps the greatest Bond scandal in modern British history."
Kitty cleared her throat.
"And I'm certain," Magnussen added, an afterthought, "That Kitten feels the same."
Kitty pressed her lips together.
"Kitty," Sherlock tried once more, his earnestness not even forced, "Listen to me. If James gets out of this—as he always does—he's coming for you first, so I'd suggest you think carefully about-"
"You'd let him murder me?" she asked, regarding him icily.
"I-"
"You can't use him to threaten me anymore," Kitty silenced the rest of his sentence before it even was fully articulated, "Your hands are tied, and so are his. We've got the footage, we've got living proof," she gestured towards his palm, forever gleaming silver, "And you've been beaten, Sherlock."
He started towards Magnussen, tightening his grip on his weapon, "Not if I-"
"Ah, ah, ah," Magnussen waggled a finger, and Sherlock, in spite of himself, stopped in his tracks, "You kill me now, we've still got Kitten to testify. You wouldn't kill her, now would you?"
Sherlock wondered if he would. For a lifetime with James, it seemed a small price to pay. But of course this could be traced to him, now.
"Famous consulting detective didn't fabricate arch nemesis," Magnussen crooned dreamily, "But Bonded with him. London's murder couple, I like that."
"Shut up," Sherlock wished it sounded more an order and less a plea.
"It's really no wonder," Magnussen raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, "You kept the body parts in the fridge, everyone thought you were a bit off. And now you're dating the sadistic serial killer. Blows people up for fun. I'm sure he makes your heart pound in more ways than one…"
Sherlock flushed, "It's not like that. We had no control over what happened. We didn't want it at first."
"Oh, but you had to give into temptation," Magnussen gushed, "And with the footage we've got of you nuzzled up with Mr. Moriarty on the rooftop, I'd say once you gave in, you went the whole hog."
Sherlock went bright red at the thought of what they'd done that night, half from embarrassment and half from fury. That had been private. It had been part of a personal, private romance and it was absolutely no one's business but his and James's.
"Never took you for the dominant type, but, sometimes that catches people off guard…"
Hang in there, James urged. Magnussen's talk was starting to get to him, as well.
Sherlock didn't bother responding to either of them. He just stood there and took it.
"But to go for tragedy or horror?" Magnussen mused, "At this point, I'd say it's more likely a horror story than anything else. The hero, the private detective that's saved countless lives, Bonds to the most evil man in London…and accepts it. Gladly. The true character of people is shocking to realize, sometimes."
"James Moriarty is not the most evil man in London," Sherlock spat. By God, he wasn't the kindest, either. Neither was he remotely even moral but…all of those things were subjective. All Sherlock could think about was James's laugh and the way his eyes lit up when he was happy. Surely all that couldn't mean nothing, just because he'd killed? Sherlock had never pretended to be moral himself, so the fact that this should come as such a shock to anyone was a shock to him.
Well, no it wasn't. People refused to think about anything they were remotely uncomfortable with.
Kitty half gasped, half laughed, "Not the most evil man in London? He's certainly killed more than anyone else! He kills because it's fun; how is that not evil, to you?"
"Oh, I see," infuriatingly, Magnussen chuckled, "He thinks I'm the most evil man in London. Because I broke his fantasy."
"Nothing is broken," Sherlock countered, "Not yet."
"Is that a threat?" Kitty raised her eyebrows, "Christ, you're further gone than I'd thought."
"We just want to be left alone," Sherlock said tiredly.
Sherl, don't bother, they're stupid.
"You don't actually think he cares about you, do you?" Kitty demanded, watching him with a sort of morbid fascination, "What's it like to be in that head?"
"If he didn't care, I wouldn't be here," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
"You don't even realize how truly mad the both of you are," Magnussen marveled, and, to the detective's dismay, Kitty seemed to be eating it up. She nodded solemnly.
"I agree. How can you hear a murderer's thoughts, day in and day out, and end up loving them?" she wondered aloud.
Sherlock, you don't have to explain to them—
But he did. There were a thousand reasons why Sherlock loved James; why he was willing to overlook the fact that he'd been Moriarty's target more than anyone else. He loved that James loved him. He loved the ease of conversation between them. He loved being seen as an equal, neither a freak nor a god among men. He loved being Sherlock, not Sherlock Holmes. He loved the quiet nights as much as he loved the adrenaline rushes, the gentle caresses as much as he loved hands pulling at his hair. He loved the petty banter as much as the deep conversation. He loved James; every part of him, including his past. That was what he loved about this—loving unconditionally and receiving nothing less in return.
"I wouldn't expect you," Sherlock said simply, "To understand."
"He's psychotic!" Kitty's voice was nails on a chalkboard, "People like the that need to be locked up. And separated, so you can't plot together."
"We'll die if we're separated," Sherlock snapped.
"But it's for the best," Magnussen drawled, looking at Sherlock with pity, "You don't even realize what's wrong, do you? But I believe in the greater good, and so for the greater good, dangerous people should be…taken care of."
"I realize what's wrong, but it's more complex than that. I simply-"
"If you knew right from wrong, Mr. Holmes, you wouldn't be sympathizing with a murderer."
"No, you're not LISTENING!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on a countertop, "It's more complicated than what you're making it out to be."
"No, Mr. Holmes," Magnussen said, his words seeming to slither off his tongue and into Sherlock's ears, making him suppress a shiver that was two parts rage and one part disgust, "I think you've always been like this. You've always been different. You've always been mad, you just needed an excuse to let it out."
On the other side of the Bond, James's heart pounded, the criminal himself in a sort of daze, listening but not listening.
"Stop," Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"You've always been a psychopath," Magnussen continued his onslaught, fraying Sherlock's nerves more and more, "And Moriarty is the proof. People like that need to be locked up. People like you put all the rest of us in danger."
Sherlock's ears were ringing, "Stop," he growled.
"Because deep down," Magnussen purred, "You know you've always been a dangerous frea-"
"Stop it, STOP IT NOW!" Sherlock, at the end of his threshold, took a step towards Magnussen.
A shot rang out, seeming to freeze time. Magnussen stopped running his mouth, Sherlock's mind stopped racing, and the room fell silent, save for the tiniest of gasps, behind the detective.
"Oh my God…" Kitty's voice now sounded very small and uncertain, "I, I…"
Magnussen unfroze and slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, turned to the journalist behind Sherlock, his gaze no longer tauntingly calm but suddenly icy with rage.
"What," he demanded, "Have you done?"
"I…" Kitty stammered, "He…he had the knife still and I…"
"You stupid, bloody CUNT!"
Time unfroze, moving at what felt like twice the normal speed.
Magnussen pushed past Sherlock to get to Kitty, whose screams to stay back were muffled to the detective's ears, as though underwater. Just as he started to feel warm scarlet trickle down to his stomach, however, just as he was wondering why he didn't feel any pain yet, it hit him.
And God, did it hurt.
Not as much as it had during the first days of his Bond with James, but who the bloody hell needed a comparison? Sherlock certainly felt as though a hole had been torn through him with a piece of metal. He felt nauseous, his brain overwhelmed by what was happening around him. A dish smashed somewhere behind him, and Kitty yelped. There was muffled shouting in the distance, and it was so much, it was all so much. Sherlock's vision was turning red, his torso worryingly warm, the pain sending so many signals to his brain at once that he did the only thing he could do—flee to his mind palace.
(o0o0o0o0)
James couldn't help but cry out as a violent pain ripped through his torso, his sudden exclamation in the silent car making John and Greg jump just as much as the sudden change in momentum.
"Jesus!" Lestrade exclaimed, taking his eyes from the road for a moment to gape at the criminal, who was still reeling from the initial shock, gritting his teeth and trying not to moan.
"James!" the name—his name—sounded strange coming from John's mouth, but he responded nonetheless, as best as he could.
The pain was spreading through his torso. Not enough to be lethal, he didn't think, but he felt as though a hole had been ripped through him; as though if he put a hand to his chest, he'd feel the same wetness there that Sherlock did.
The detective's mind was strangely quiet, all of his panic from Magnussen's words disappeared to be replaced by a deadly, ringing silence.
"Sherlock's…" James wheezed, "Sherlock's been shot. Through the back, out the front."
Lestrade gave him a concerned glance, his expression weak with worry.
"Jesus, I'll call backup and an ambulance."
The criminal nodded, trying to calm his breathing.
"Who shot him?" John Watson's voice was like a razor's edge, the voice of a warrior, and James found that all he could do was shake his head in response.
His hands were trembling, his head was spinning, and God, he hurt, but he couldn't risk distancing himself from Sherlock's mind and the pain. He needed to organize his thoughts, to stay calm for Sherlock. He needed…
The car screeched to a stop, and James blinked dazedly at the massive structure that apparently served as a house in front of them.
Less pain, more Sherlock, James urged himself, Less pain, more Sherlock. Distance the pain, not Sherlock.
Despite the pain he was in, James was the first one out of the car. The world around them, he knew, must have been mostly silent as they rushed into the house, save for Lestrade contacting help as they ran. However, all the criminal could hear was the ringing in his ears, making it all too obvious how quiet Sherlock was being.
Sherlock could die.
The idea was so abhorrent, so unthinkable, that James felt physically sick thinking of it. The pain of the gunshot times twenty could not compare to the torture of even considering life without Sherlock. Not that they would have that if he died. If he died, they both went.
And everything we could have had, every possibility for the future, every measure taken to ensure we could spend an indefinite amount of time together, will have been for nothing.
It was, logically speaking, silly to think this could have gone on forever, but James was outraged at the idea that logic even deserved a say in the matter. He loved Sherlock. Sherlock was the only thing on this Earth that had ever made him happy and to think that that could be taken away from him, not because of old age or disease or complications with a case, but because of Magnussen, an ignorant, greedy bigot who wouldn't know love if it slapped him across the face, made him feel nothing short of bloodthirsty. Or it would have, if he wasn't having such a difficult time getting ahold of Sherlock. James's chest physically ached for the detective, and not only because of the gunshot.
The house passed by him in a dreamlike sequence of shadowed gardens and sharp corners, so that when they entered the cacophony of sound that was the kitchen, James felt he was waking from some kind of a trance.
Kitty looked furious, but she was crying, cowering and surrounded by broken china that James assumed Magnussen, who stood over her like a hulking beast, had put there. She was bleeding from several cuts on her forehead and arms.
Sherlock stood as if he'd been shot mere seconds ago, seeming to stare at something no one could see. He blindly grabbed for the counter to support himself, dropping a large knife, and James ran to him, finally finding his voice. Everyone was yelling, but only James was truly calling to anyone.
"SHERLOCK!"
The criminal wrapped the detective in the gentlest and most desperate of embraces, hands scrambling both to assess damage and to ensure that he hadn't yet become a ghost. Without Sherlock, James was a ghost.
The detective's eyes vaguely focused on his own, and somehow, it only hurt James's heart even more, "Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me," James begged, "That's it. Sherl, listen to me."
There wasn't much of a response, and the criminal ignored what must have been John's firm hand on his arm. There were more dishes breaking again, and Lestrade was screaming into his phone for his backup to arrive more quickly.
"Answer me," James demanded, not breaking eye contact, or what he wished was true eye contact, with Sherlock, whose gaze kept fading in and out of focus.
Horrifyingly, the detective started to lean backwards.
"Sherlock? SHERLOCK?" James scrambled to lower the detective to the floor, his phantom gunshot wound burning as the only person he'd ever loved closed his eyes.
"God no," James couldn't keep his voice from cracking. He couldn't breathe, only try to reach the unconscious Sherlock even as the Bond started to drag him under with his Soulmate.
He was vaguely aware of John next to him, kneeling by Sherlock, trying to tell him to move so that he could properly examine the detective for vitals. James continued to cling to his love, because while John seemed almost nonexistent in the reality he was currently experiencing, Magnussen seemed to be growing brighter and brighter, still harassing Kitty, who was backed into a corner.
Perhaps he should have sent John off to intervene, though perhaps he also had overestimated Watson's morality. Of course he would choose his best friend over the journalist who'd helped James frame Sherlock.
Fury at the injustice of it all reared its ugly head, a monster James hadn't danced with in what felt like forever. Magnussen had done this. Magnussen had to target them; it was what he did. He sought out the freaks of the world, just minding their own business, and put them on display like circus animals, for all of London to see. Magnussen was a bully. He was a bully and suddenly he wasn't Magnussen at all—he was Carl Powers and he was James's oblivious parents and he was James himself. He was everyone the criminal had ever hated, everyone he'd ever been wronged by.
A shot rang out, and like a neutron star, his anger collapsed in on itself, leaving James with nothing but despair in his heart. He hadn't anticipated a broken heart to feel like this; he hadn't thought it would be this real. His heart physically ached in the absence of Sherlock's company, and he was so very, very tired suddenly.
James, draped over Sherlock, laid his head to rest on the uninjured part of the detective's chest, taking care just before he fell unconscious to link their palms together, leaving them as intertwined as two lovers, without a care in the world.