Chapter Text
Coda
John crept through Sherrinford’s gardens, the dimness of the pre-dawn light making it difficult to see his companions. He hoped they were equally difficult to see from the house.
It had taken them longer to get here than he’d hoped — Moriarty had brought in reinforcements, there were Alphas patrolling the grounds in pairs. They’d painstakingly eluded all but one patrol, and they’d been forced to eliminate the two Alphas. Now time was of the essence — they had to get inside before the pair were missed.
Outside the kitchen door, Farthingale stopped them. There was a body on the ground, laid out by the hedge that shielded the rubbish bins.
John knelt and examined it. For a millisecond, he feared it was Sherlock, but this man was shorter and stockier — and he was an Alpha, he could still smell it on the corpse. He wondered what had happened to the man. Had the Alphas turned on one another? Or had Sherlock killed him? Or Greg? John could well imagine the Beta policeman taking out an Alpha in his attempt to rescue Sherlock.
“Strangled.” John breathed to Farthingale and Greene.
He had been acquainted with the two domestics since he’d stayed at Mycroft’s townhouse — after Moriarty first kidnapped Sherlock and himself. But the drive to Sherrinford tonight had revealed things that John had never guessed.
Greene had stripped off his morning coat and tie, his waistcoat and formal shirt to reveal the torso of a marble Apollo — he looked like the cover of a men’s magazine with the tag ‘ABS!’ emblazoned above him. He donned a black, blade and bullet resistant shell over a long-sleeved, black t-shirt. He had guns holstered under both arms and another on his ankle. He checked that they all were loaded and in good nick, and stowed extra ammunition in several pockets cleverly hidden in the vest. Once he knew what to look for, John recognised there were more pockets. He wondered what they contained.
But an even bigger surprise had been the cook. Middle aged Mrs. Farthingale had always looked ready for the dojo in her loose-fitting shirt and pants, but that wasn’t simply personal style. She wrapped a black belt, with a number of subtle grey stripes at one end, around her waist and tied it. Then she donned deceptively simple looking rigs on her forearms that each held a knife just above the inside of her wrists. They were hidden from view by her sleeves, but with one smooth motion the knife was in her hand. John watched her go through what must have been a ritual set of moves, the knives appearing and disappearing, flipping from hand to hand and from handle to blade, finally ending up balanced on the tips of her fingers. Then with a lightning fast movement, they disappeared up her sleeves again.
Farthingale strapped more knives to her calves and into her black belt. John had no doubt that there were others. Then she assumed a meditation pose and closed her eyes for the remainder of the trip.
John had been given a bulletproof vest and a silencer for his gun. He felt inadequate. He’d been a pretty good street fighter when he’d presented, he’d worked hard in James Sholto’s classes, and his army training had been rigorous. He was a crack shot and ok with his fists... but nowhere near the class of Agents Farthingale and Greene. He didn’t want to be a hindrance.
But it was his mate they were going to rescue... he hoped. John still couldn’t feel Sherlock through their link. It was the worst feeling... like half of himself was missing. He felt absolutely bereft. He understood now how Omegas couldn’t live without it — John wanted to curl up and die. And he wanted to carve a rage-fuelled path through the hearts of everyone who had taken Sherlock from him. Only Mycroft’s conviction that Jim Moriarty wanted Sherlock alive kept him going.
If Mycroft were wrong — if anything had happened to Sherlock — Jim Moriarty would not survive the morning.
Farthingale moved past the door, indicating — unnecessarily — they should be silent, and crept along the house to the windows. She eased up carefully and peered in. She signalled there were three people in the kitchen.
She slunk back to the door and with economical gestures told them the positions of the Alphas in the room and that John should shoot the one sitting at the table. Greene would take out the one nearest the door and Farthingale herself the one farthest. Greene nodded and pulled something from one of his pockets.
Farthingale gave John a look that equated to ‘keep out of our way.’ He nodded, staying perfectly still and alert, his gun drawn, safety off, his finger off the trigger.
Greene stepped up and silently turned the door handle. It was locked. The butler produced a set of lock picks from one of his many pockets. He knelt and eased the picks into the lock, twisting them with care to make as little noise as possible. The bolt slid back with what seemed like a deafening ‘thunk,’ and they all froze. John counted out thirty seconds in his head. There was no apparent reaction from inside.
Greene stowed his lock picks and the thing he had held before was back in his hand. With a shot of adrenaline, John recognised a garrotte. Greene eased the door open and he and Farthingale silently entered, two shadows in the dim mud room.
As the agents sprang into action, John shot his designated Alpha in the head from the doorway. Greene rushed the big, muscular Alpha nearest the door, looping the garrote around her neck before she had fully turned towards him. He pulled the wire tight, holding her as she struggled.
Farthingale’s guard across the room stopped in the act of raising his gun as a knife bloomed from his neck. He staggered and fell, bleeding profusely. She had pinpointed his jugular from five metres away.
Greene’s guard was failing, her struggles weakening — but abruptly she had a gun in her hand and was raising it towards Farthingale in a last, desperate act of aggression. John swung his gun, but before he could sight her, Farthingale whirled under the Alpha’s arm and grabbed her hand. With a brutal, cracking twist, she broke the Alpha’s wrist. She snatched the weapon from her grip as the Butler strangled her viciously with the garrote. The Alpha died, her face beetroot red, her eyes and tongue bulging obscenely.
It was a blitz attack, over in under a minute. None of the Alphas, had uttered a sound louder than a surprised grunt. They had not had a chance to alert their fellows.
Farthingale handed the Alpha’s gun to John, and he held it stupidly for a moment before checking that the safety was engaged and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. It didn’t have a silencer, so he would avoid using it if he could. Farthingale walked across the room and retrieved her knife from the Alpha’s neck and wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt before it disappeared up her sleeve. With efficient hand signals, she indicated that Greene should hide the bodies from the casual viewer by stacking them together on the far side of the table, then search the first floor. She and John would climb the back stairs to the second. They thought the bulk of Moriarty’s henchmen would be on the second-floor balcony, pointing rifles at the upcoming showdown with Mycroft below in the great hall.
“That’s what I’d do.” Mycroft had said. “Have the hostages by the stairs, giving the illusion that escape is possible, whilst the snipers cover all of us. It fits with Moriarty’s previous MO.”
“But we can’t assume.” Mrs. Farthingale had cautioned. “We must be ready for anything.”
John followed Farthingale up the back stairs. The Beta reconned the upper floor’s hallway. It was deserted. She motioned John forward.
They heard a car outside, doors slamming... they heard the front door opening.
Mycroft’s distinctive voice was just audible, followed by Moriarty’s sing-song cadences.
Farthingale ran forward silently. She indicated six snipers on the balcony.
As John moved to join her, she turned suddenly and executed a gravity-defying, twirling kick, her heel striking the head of the Alpha that had just stepped from one of the bedrooms. John flung himself at the stunned man, looping an arm around his neck and covering his mouth. The man flailed wildly until Farthingale slipped a knife between his ribs and into his heart, stilling him forever. John eased him noiselessly to the ground.
The bedroom the Alpha had exited was Sherlock’s — and he’d left the door ajar. John stepped closer...
He heard a muffled cry!
He tapped Farthingale and pointed to Sherlock’s bedroom door, signing that he’d heard something.
She nodded and signalled that they should split up. With a finger to her lips, she cautioned him to keep silent.
As he stepped away, a shadow moved by the back stairwell and John had his gun aimed instantly. Farthingale caught his arm as Greene emerged.
John pulled his finger off the trigger and pointed the gun upwards, adrenaline screaming through his veins. The butler gave him an apologetic look as he joined Farthingale. The two of them moved noiselessly down the corridor towards the balcony.
John approached Sherlock’s bedroom and listened carefully — footsteps, the clink of glassware, a low moan... Sherlock’s voice!?
John shoved open the door. He had a split-second look at the tableau: a table covered with Erlenmeyer flasks, test tubes, pipettes, a Bunsen burner and all the other things John associated with chemistry. Sherlock, alive! Alive and naked, legs wide apart, duct taped to a wooden chair, his eyes glassy with fear. A neat row of loaded hypodermic needles next to him. A brutish looking Alpha standing over Sherlock, hypodermic in hand. Another big Alpha, much closer to John, whirling around and raising her gun.
John shot her point blank.
Snarling, he swung his gun towards the other Alpha, the one threatening his mate. But the man leapt at John and the shot just winged his ear. Then the Alpha was on him, inside his guard, and they grappled. The man was strong and he shoved John against the wall squeezing his hands around John’s neck. Unable to breathe, he pistol whipped the Alpha with his gun, striking his head once, twice, and the man’s hands loosened.
Gulping air, John twisted and ducked, shoving his shoulder into the Alpha’s gut and pushing him back. He felt the man grab at his waistband, groping for the second gun he’d stowed at the small of his back. As the big Alpha grasped it, John dropped and rolled backwards, pulling the Alpha with him, twisting out from under him and pinning him to the ground. He knelt on the man, one knee pressing savagely into his back, the other on his arm. The man kicked and bucked, but John growled, full of rage and strength. This Alpha had threatened his mate! He must die! John brought the butt of his gun down on the Alpha’s head. He pummeled the man, hitting him over and over and over until his skull was soft and squishy with gore. John’s instincts soared righteously at having killed the interloper.
Sherlock!
John leapt up and ran to Sherlock. He embraced his mate, wrapping his arms around the Omega, chair and all, kissing his face above the gag. “I thought I’d lost you! Oh god, Sherlock!” He pulled back to unbuckle the ugly ball gag, his fingers slick with the Alpha’s blood.
“Sherlock!” He whispered. “Sherlock are you ok?” His mate was right here and John still couldn’t feel him. Their empathetic link was defunct... dissolved... he gripped his Omega’s shoulders, the solid feel of his flesh reassuring.
“John?” Sherlock focussed on him.
“Yeah, it’s me, Sherlock.” He rubbed his mate’s shoulders briefly, not sure if he was trying to comfort his Omega or himself. Wiping his still-bloody hands quickly on his jeans, John fumbled out his pocket knife, and began cutting through the duct tape.
It took long seconds to saw through the heavy rolls of tape around Sherlock’s biceps and wrists, but as soon as Sherlock’s hands were free, he reached for John, embracing him hard. John kissed his face over and over. “I was so worried.” He said. “I can’t feel you... I didn’t know if you were...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“I know, John. Help me...” He let go John and began tugging at the tape holding him to the chair just below his knee. John cut through the big swathe around Sherlock’s waist, then moved to free his knees and ankles. His mate smelled distressed — musky, sweaty, his honey scent overwhelmed.
As soon as he was able, Sherlock jumped up, bypassed a stunned John, and strode directly to a small machine with a single switch. Sherlock clicked it into the ‘off’ position. A hum John had not been aware of trailed off — and suddenly he could feel Sherlock again!
“Oh, thank god!” John said.
The mix of emotion he felt from his Omega was unexpected — some relief, some joy at seeing John and restoring their link, but mostly an urgent, horrified anxiety.
“What’s wrong?!” John asked.
Sherlock was already at the table with the neat line of hypodermics and the chemistry equipment. “This.” Sherlock said gesturing at the lot. “It’s dangerous, poisonous! John! Help me get rid of it.” He scooped up the hypos in his hands and, unconcerned with his nudity, took them into the loo. John watched as he ripped them each apart and emptied the fluids down the sink, rinsing them frenetically.
John grabbed a rack of test tubes and a flask and followed his mate. “Sherlock...?”
“These are the compounds they injected into the captive Omegas.” He said, dumping the test tubes. “Before they were impregnated.”
“Did they... erm, did they give it to you?”
“No. Your timing is impeccable, John — they were just about to.” John felt a wave of helpless relief from his mate and Sherlock collapsed into his arms, scenting him, searching for comfort. “They almost got me... oh John... you came!”
John stroked the Omega’s back. “I will always come for you, love!”
Sherlock’s fingers gripped him almost painfully, then the Omega let go. “We must destroy all of it!” He said urgently. John felt his mate’s fear and loathing of the chemicals, his conviction that they were deadly.
They returned to the bedroom together. Sherlock honed in on a laptop. “Can you rinse the rest of those?” He asked, tapping away at the computer. “And the last hypodermic — it’s on the floor by the bed.”
“Yeah.” John retrieved the hypo the big Alpha had dropped and carried it, a flask and the pipettes into the loo and rinsed them thoroughly — stealing a moment to rinse the red from his hands and his gun. When he came back, Sherlock was erasing the hard drive.
“We have to eradicate the formulas — this cannot be allowed to exist.”
“What does it do?”
“Besides kill Omegas?” Sherlock asked. “It has the potential to enhance the foetus... extended life span, intelligence off the charts... but it also can make them unstable, prone to mental illness and megalomania — I synthesised the compounds from the notes we downloaded at the brothel. I tested it on rabbits and pigs... the offspring of the test subjects are bigger, brighter, more robust and, I suspect, extremely long-lived... and sometimes extremely destructive. But the test subjects themselves, the dams, they always die, John. Always. And it’s not a nice death.
“But for the promise of an übermensch — governments will covet it, corporations... billionaires... they will do anything. Moriarty will sell it... and every Omega will be sacrificed on its altar.” The hard drive finished reformatting. Sherlock took the laptop to the loo, wrapped it in a towel and set it on the floor. “Stomp on it.” He said. “Destroy it, John.”
John crushed it under his heel, smashing the screen and breaking the keyboard. Sherlock put the plug in the bathtub drain and turned the water on. He picked up the pieces of the laptop and submerged them.
“I should dissolve it in acid.” He said.
John pried it apart. “Which piece is the hard drive?” He asked. “We can take it with us and destroy it completely.”
Sherlock fished out the relevant piece. John stuffed it in his pocket.
There was gunfire and they both froze.
“Mycroft was planning to confront Moriarty.” John whispered.
Sherlock looked wild. “Mycroft!? Why did he come!? He knows Moriarty plans to kill him!”
“Moriarty has Greg. No one could keep him away. No one could keep me away either, Sherlock.”
Sherlock had gone completely still.
“What’s wrong?” John asked, feeling the roil of fear and anger emanating from his mate.
“Lestrade... he was injected...”
John frowned. “But he’s a Beta.”
“No, he’s not.” Sherlock said. “He’s been passing as a Beta his whole life, but he’s an Omega.”
“Greg?! No, I don’t believe it!” But even as he protested, John felt his mate’s certainty and was convinced. “That’s... that’s… how do you know?!”
Sherlock shot him an aggravated look, along with the emotional equivalent of an eye roll. “John...”
“How did he hide it!? Greg’s an Omega! That’s so weird! Does Mycroft know?”
“Of course.”
“But they’re not bonded...”
“Not yet.”
“Mycroft knew and he didn’t report it!? That’s... oh God, he’s been consorting with an unbonded Omega — he’ll go to prison!”
“Not if they bond.”
“But... Lady Anthea...”
“He has to bond with Lestrade!” Sherlock insisted. “My brother — he’s changed since he began seeing Lestrade. He’s been working with Omega rights groups. He’s preparing legislation to end the guardianship of Omegas. He never would have done that before! He thought Omegas needed looking after! He’d still think so without Lestrade! They must bond!”
“The jabs... you said Greg got them... will it... will it hurt him?”
“I don’t know. Possibly... probably...”
John swore. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder. “John you can’t tell Mycroft. Or Lestrade, but especially not Mycroft. It would destroy him…”
“But we have to do something! They need to know before they bond.”
“If you tell them, Lestrade will never consent to bond with Mycroft — he’ll want to spare him, stupid man. Instead he’ll be sent off to an Alpha relative who will arrange a bonding for him — Lestrade will not be given a choice. He will be chattel — you know him, he won’t survive long like that. He won’t want to.
“With Mycroft not only will he be safe, he will be loved. He will be allowed to keep his independence and make his own decisions. And Mycroft will move heaven and earth to convince the Met to keep Lestrade on. Don’t you see? They must bond. It’s the only way.”
“But... not telling them...”
“I know… I know, but there’s nothing Mycroft can do… I... I’ll see if I can formulate an antidote... or a treatment... or something... “
“We just dumped out the compound, Sherlock, wrecked the hard drive. How can you make an antidote?”
“I remember it.” Sherlock whispered. “I stored it in my mind palace, it’s locked inside my head — if anyone suspects...” The Omega’s fear was overwhelming.
“You’ll be in danger.” John instinctually took an aggressive stance, glancing around for threats.
Sherlock grabbed the sheet off his bed and wrapped it around himself. “I have to go... Mycroft...” He stumbled, and John felt the adrenaline that had propelled his mate beginning to ebb.
“Hold on.” John pulled his gun from his waistband and went to the door. He looked out into the hall — and relaxed minutely. “Clear.” He murmured. He wrapped his arm around his Omega’s waist.
There were bodies on the balcony, and blood. Farthingale was taking sniper rifles from limp hands, and yanking a knife from where it was embedded in a neck. When she saw them, she hurried over and inserted herself under Sherlock’s other arm.
At the top of the stairs, John couldn’t believe the amount of blood in the grand hall. There was so much! The floor was awash in a gory red flood. Mycroft, cradling a battered Greg, was covered in it — his face, his neck, his chest, his hands, all bright crimson ...
Sherlock cried out and pulled away from John and Mrs. Farthingale. He rushed down the stairs. “Mycroft!” John wanted to go with him, wanted to keep his mate from further harm. But he dared not go near Mycroft right now. John’s nostrils flared as he scented the agressive hormones emanating from the Alpha.
The elder brother looked up. “Sherlock!” He touched his brother’s arm. “I am unhurt, brother mine.” He said, wiping the blood from his chin with his sleeve. John felt his mate’s relief. Sherlock cared about his brother more than he’d ever admit.
A few minutes later, as John was trying to stop Mummy from exsanguinating next to Moriarty’s mutilated corpse, he stole a glance at Mycroft crouched over Greg protectively... John could smell them over the blood, a sweet Omega scent — that for all its strangeness fit Greg somehow — intermingling harmoniously with Mycroft’s smoky whisky scent.
His mind boggled that his Beta friend, a police detective, a regular bloke with whom he grabbed a pint at the pub and watched rugby was an Omega!
But the sweet scent felt right. Even battered and exhausted, Greg was more vibrant, more complete.
But an Omega! Greg! So crazy!
He looked like hell — he’d been worked over thoroughly. He needed a Beta doctor right away. A Beta that Mycroft could be persuaded to trust and allow to treat Greg.
Because Mycroft... Mycroft was not just in love with Greg, they were mated. Whether he’d bitten Greg or not, the Alpha in Mycroft had claimed this Omega as his own, and Greg had accepted him. Moriarty’s bloody corpse attested to that.
John thought about what Sherlock had said, what the jabs had done to his test subjects — what they could very well do to Greg! How would he feel if it had been done to Sherlock? John’s Alpha instincts rebelled! He would rip anyone endangering his mate to shreds!
Mycroft... their Alpha instincts were the same, but Mycroft was different than John. He was extremely powerful and unafraid of using that power broadly.
If Mycroft discovered that Greg had been jabbed with what amounted to deadly poison, he would not rest until he exhausted every hospital, every doctor, every specialist… Greg would be the test subject for experimental treatments, far-fetched hopes, he would be poked and prodded and jabbed and measured… the hale and vital police detective would spend the rest of his life as an invalid, a pale shadow of the man he was now.
And if nothing worked, if Greg wasted away and finally died… John had had a taste of how devastating it was to lose the empathetic link with his mate. If Greg died, like Mummy, Mycroft would become a bitter, lonely, emotionally crippled Alpha. But instead of turning the blame inward as Mummy had done, Mycroft would focus his outward on anyone and everyone who had contributed to the eugenics compound in any way.
John could easily imagine that all that was good in Mycroft — everything that Greg brought out in him, everything he reinforced — would die with Greg. The howling pain would eat Mycroft from the inside out until all that was left was burning rage and an unslakable thirst for revenge — revenge that Mycroft had the power to exact. He would wreak havoc, not caring about friendly fire or innocent victims. He would destroy everything in his path, scorched earth.
No... John would not tell Mycroft. If he only had a limited time with Greg, let it be pure. Let them have undiluted happiness. Let it be full of love, not dread. Not terror and denial and panic and anger. And afterwards...
Well... maybe the Mycroft who experienced such great love could turn his bereft soul away from destruction... maybe...
And, John reminded himself, it wasn’t hopeless. Sherlock would search for an antidote. If anyone could manufacture a miracle, it was Sherlock Holmes.