Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

John stared at the rain washing down the window. For all the effort that had gone into making this a calming and neutral space, the wild rain was the only thing that eased something in him. Ella was waiting, as she had for the last four sessions, waiting for John to talk.

“John, you need to say it.” She gently prodded, which was what she did instead of telling John something useful.

“Why?” He asked, not for the first time.

“You will understand when you say it out loud.” She replied, not for the first time either, though it had yet proved to be useful.

Closing his eyes for a moment let John reach for the soldier he used to be. “My mate… Sherlock Holmes… is dead.” His voice cracked and tears threatened, but he didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since he woke in hospital, doubly alone. “With his death…” His voice was gone for a moment, so John pulled on every resource of the man he used to be finish. “With his death came my greatest failure as I… lost our baby.”

John felt his body sag, depleted of the energy to sit up straight. Ella gave him a few moments to stare out the window and let the world cry for him.

“Very good, John. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’ve accomplished something here today.”

Accomplished was a stupid word, John thought. How could one accomplish anything or get closure when all it meant was more useless sentiment and emotion coming his way? He felt like a traitor for saying such things about Sherlock. Part of him thought he’d still expect Sherlock to come waltzing back in the door, even if they weren’t bondmates.

“Acceptance is a long road, particularly for omegas.” Ella was still talking, so John gave a halfhearted nod in her direction.

Particularly for omegas she’d said, and John hadn’t even curled a fist in annoyance. Mycroft had insisted John see a shrink, looking as if he couldn’t believe the words he was saying even as he said them. He’d at least had the sense and foresight to get John a shrink who worked with returning soldiers and other people who experienced trauma, instead of an omega shrink. This meant Ella would say textbook things about how different and extra fragile omegas were, but John found that acceptable. He couldn’t even get properly angry at her for it, but he knew he’d find his anger if forced to deal with an omega specialist.

Instead of neutral colors, that office would be full of soft edges and frills. Instead of a glass of water, maybe tea, he’d have at his elbow ‘nutritionally enhanced’ designer water. There’d be New Age musak and floral scented incense that neutralized alpha smells. They’d also be asking after his heats and his search for a new alpha. If he was having trouble finding a new alpha, they’d remind him (as if he hadn’t heard it his whole life) that his family’s head alpha would assist. All and all, John appreciated that he was with a real shrink, even if it wasn’t helping.

“There are positive influences in your life and you need to seek them out. Activities you used to enjoy that may feel forced right now but if you practice them, you will find your enjoyment returns. Anything like that you can think of?” Ella asked, and John thought about it.

He used to enjoy sex, but as an omega he couldn’t have that without an alpha; he only wanted Sherlock. Hadn’t even had a micro-heat since Sherlock. He’d enjoyed the army, being one of the crowd, one of the boys, all working toward a common goal. He doubted the army would take him back, what with being invalided out, shown to be lying about his gender which was a court-marshal offence, and now with a C-section scar and psychosomatic limp. He’d enjoyed being a surgeon, the world focused down to him and something he could fix. Shot through the shoulder of his dominate hand and getting nerve damage kind of ended that too.

“I enjoyed assisting Sherlock with his work.” That was something John could still do, physically and mentally, if only Sherlock was still around. It also shut Ella up for a few minutes.

“John, have you ever done anything creative?”

“Other than making a baby?” Ella winced, but John didn’t feel anything at purposely misinterpreting the question.

“Art, such as drawing or painting.”

“No, and with my shoulder messed up I doubt it’ll be worth my effort to start.”

“That’s exactly the point, John. You need to start something you’ve never done before. It will force you to change your thinking, concentrating on what is going on, as opposed to thinking about the past. Doesn’t have to be drawing.” She paused to look him over.

John was used to much more penetrating and all-seeing gazes, from either Holmes brother, so he didn’t respond at all. Drawing was a terrible idea; he hadn’t seen a beautiful thing since Sherlock. He hadn’t even seen the baby, or their funerals. He’d been in hospital still, and later Mrs. Hudson had taken him to the site.

A large black monument with a name carved into it, beside a smaller one that matched but said only Baby Holmes. Baby Holmes had died and been buried before anyone thought to ask John what name they’d picked out. Mycroft had made the final decisions and he’d never shown any interest in the baby he wasn’t genetically linked to. John had Sherlock’s money and could fix the baby’s grave, but John hadn’t yet. It would require effort and fighting; other parts of John that had broken with Sherlock.

“You carry notebooks.”

“What?” John had heard her; he simply didn’t know what that had to do with anything.

“I can see it in your pocket, a little notebook.”

“Habit I picked up working with Sherlock. Writing down his observations, things that happened, and any questions I had.”

“Excellent. Start a blog.”

“What?” John parroted his earlier confusion.

“I want you to start a blog, and send me the link. I want you to spend an hour a day, at least, writing down what’s happening to you.”

“Nothing happens to me.”

Sherlock woke to the familiar sensation of waking up exhausted from a drugged sleep. He knew he was in a hospital without really knowing how he knew it, but this was enough information to let him wake calmly. When he noticed how heavy and detached his limbs felt, he worked his eyes open instead of struggling instinctively against the restricted movement.

Mycroft was sitting in a chair, watching him wake, so that was calming in its own way. Sherlock would never admit it, but never-changing Mycroft was a grounding influence when he woke disoriented. Both of his legs and his right arm were suspended from the ceiling, casts around the left femur, the right leg from thigh to foot, and the humerus of his right arm.

“John.” He said, but his voice cracked and creaked, making the word indecipherable.

“Have some water and allow me to tell you about John.” Mycroft replied anyway, holding out a cup with a straw. “Sip it, otherwise you might become nauseated.”

Sherlock wanted to retort but the tepid and stale water tasted heavenly.

“John is safe and unharmed. He is quite intelligent and observant. When he saw the red light from the assassins target scope he knew that it was a threat to force you to comply, as no real assassin relies on visible laser dots that give away their intentions. So he calmly moved out of sight and called me. Naturally, I told him to go to 221 C and hide. Instead he put on a wig and large overcoat and got a cab to you.”

Sherlock made a sound of distress, hating that his nightmares seemed to be based in facts.

“Yes, he saw you fall. He made it to you as you blacked out but before he could touch you or take your pulse as he was attempting to do, the crowd noticed he was a distressed omega. They pulled him away and got him medical attention, which is just as well, since he went into stress induced labor. The baby did not survive.”

“John?” The word was understandable this time.

“He is suffering, but mainly because he believes you to be dead.”

“What?” Sherlock sputtered, trying to move so he could kill his brother right this second and go to John. The traction and casts kept him pinned, so all his thrashing tired him out and stretched his left arm across his chest to gesture at Mycroft.

“Calm down or I shall not explain.”

Sherlock forced himself to present a calm exterior, but only because the injuries had him trapped.

“The bond is still there and you can feel it if you try. It is weak and John believes what he feels is a familial bond with me. Originally, this deception began when the doctors could not assure me that you would survive the fall. It continued because the swelling on your brain may have caused permanent damage. After it was shown that you would not suffer such an indignity, I had them keep you in a medically induced coma until your injuries had healed. When the doctors told me it would take six to twelve weeks for your thigh bone to heal, I believed you would find a coma preferable to daytime television.”

Sherlock could see the logic to that statement and would have agreed if not for one little thing. “John.”

“I decided not tell John you were in a medically induced coma until your ‘transport’ healed enough to be useful again. I have not told him this yet because a new threat to John had been revealed. Moran had a deadman switch on his person; as soon as he fell a text was sent out to all of his contacts. It gave all the particulars, including address and several pictures, of your John. It also informed the contacts to collect the reward from the standard broker.

“John’s targeted?”

“Not directly. These killers were offered a million pounds for each of the John Watson-Holmes children, confirmed by genetic testing, dead or alive, good for the next ten years.”

Sherlock erupted into a flurry of rage and futile movement, his left arm beating uselessly against the cast on his right arm. When exhaustion made him stop, he panted and glared at Mycroft.

“I expected you would feel that way. Which was another reason to leave you asleep until your body was healed. The casts come of tomorrow, by the way. I am telling you all this so you can sleep on it tonight. While we have caught most of the people Moran had in his address book, the person or persons holding the reward has remained elusive. As such, rumors of the reward persist and different people are beginning to watch John now.”

Sherlock growled, but didn’t rattle his chains again.

“Moriarty’s organization has weakened now that Moran is out of the picture and we are making excellent headway in dismantling it. With your help and complete focus, it could be done much quicker. I woke you up today, instead of tomorrow when you are cast free, so that you may think about the decision before you.”

Sherlock was curious now and knew Mycroft saw it.

“You can return to John and have your joyous reunion, knowing desperate people would go to any length to abduct your children. Or you could stay dead and find who holds the money. Remove the reward and these people will leave you alone, though your reunion with John is postponed a little while.”

“You just want him for yourself.” Sherlock said.

“Don’t be so dull, brother.” Mycroft got to his feet and turned away. “John is safe, until he becomes pregnant or you change the situation. Think about what I have said.”

“You won’t get him! John loves me; he said so. It’s not just biology making us come together, and he won’t take you as a poor substitute.” Sherlock was shouting though it made his throat ache.

Mycroft walked away, ignoring the words and their speaker.

Soon enough Sherlock was quiet, surrounded by medical staff asking inane questions. He answered without thinking about it; already damning his brother for being right all the time.

“How’s the blog?” Ella’s question seemed to reverberate around the town car as John was driven back to Mycroft’s house. He hadn’t posted a word, though he’d written several in the laptop. He’d deleted most of them, but he was sure Mycroft’s goons had a copy somewhere. He’d try to detail his day, only to be so bored by it all he gave up before lunch.

Breakfast with Mycroft was dull, as Mycroft asked rote questions he knew the answers to. John would nibble on his food and drink his tea, replying with the same words he’d used the day before. Mycroft would go to work and if John didn’t have a therapist appointment, he puttered around until he didn’t eat his lunch. Then it was a long afternoon until he picked at his supper and drank tea until bedtime.

Even when he had almost continuous nightmares of the war, John hadn’t had this much trouble sleeping. Since omegas were vain little things, it was easy enough to hide the evidence from Mycroft and Ella with a little makeup, a concealer the servants purchased with his other needs. He’d get caught out eventually, but in the absence of suppressors his deteriorating health kept him from being fully bonded to Mycroft.

As much as he’d like to think his body would never accept an alpha who wasn’t Sherlock, John had too much training in biology. Probably the only time his medical knowledge had been such a major disadvantage, except maybe when he knew exactly how long it would take him to bleed out from that shoulder wound in Afghanistan. But in the war zone, he’d had back-up he could trust. Now he had bodyguards disguised as mild mannered chauffeurs. There, he was somebody; now he was a brooding broodmare.

Today’s deadly driver was waiting to turn up the last street before Mycroft’s London home. They’d pull up, the gatekeeper would open the door for John, which also let him block John from any snipers. The gatekeeper would walk John the twenty feet to the front door, and John would try not to get annoyed by the whole thing. He thought Mycroft’s security should concentrate on Mycroft, since John wasn’t in any danger. Without Sherlock or Jim’s child, John wasn’t worth killing.

Today, John didn’t feel like getting trapped in Mycroft’s high walled garden and immaculate house. “Oi, Charlie.”

“Yes, sir?” Charlie replied, eyes only flicking to the rearview mirror to see John.

“Let me out; I want to go for a walk around the neighborhood.”

Charlie paused, his orders contradicting each other. They were supposed to protect John while he went about his life, but so far he hadn’t tried to have a life. While Charlie worked out if John was allowed to take a walk outside the garden, John opened his door. Charlie had been too focused on John asking permission to lock the doors or simply drive away, trapping John in the car until Charlie could come to a decision.

John fought his way out of the car, leaning heavily on his cane, and tried to worry about how much trouble Charlie might get into. John was quickly lost in the effort involved in walking with his cane. On that day, in his mad dash from the cab to St. Bart’s, he’d been more focused on the roof-top fight than the road. A bicyclist had also been watching the fight and knocked John down.

From the ground, John had watched Sherlock fall. He was running, reaching for Sherlock before he was even aware of untangling himself from the bicycle. After that, everything was a grey wash of pain until he’d been in hospital for a week. The more they’d made him get up and walk, the worse his leg had felt.

There was no medical reason for it, so he was given an omega shrink. Beta woman who specialized in omegas, since no omega could possibly be smart enough to be a shrink, and John’s anger had chased her out after ten minutes. He’d been given a cane, taught to walk with it, and sent to Mycroft’s house. It had been weeks without improvement to his limp before Mycroft had forced John to see Ella. John had gone simply to get out of the house.

Mrs. Hudson came for Saturday tea, Greg for Sunday lunch, and John had therapy with Ella on Tuesday and Thursday. Daily breakfast with Mycroft, unless there was a major emergency, and Mycroft made time to eat lunch with John and Greg on Sunday, all equaled the sum total of John’s life now. John tried to talk himself into the antidepressant medication Ella wanted him to take but for now he wallowed in his anger and pain. Breathing was a reflex action now; otherwise he’d have stopped breathing when Sherlock had.

Reflexes stopped the colorful ball that darted out of an open gate and toward him on the sidewalk. John looked up from his right foot, resting on the stopped ball, to take in his surroundings and wait for the owner of the ball the show up. She waddled out, too pregnant to run, and John was relieved it was an adult coming, and not a child who would run into the street without looking. Picking up the ball, John offered it to the omega but couldn’t offer a friendly smile with it.

“Thank you.” She took the ball with a real smile before looking at him with some confusion. “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock had attracted some attention before his death, though most of the media was more concerned with speculating about his death, but either way, John wasn’t of any interest.

“You’re the male omega!” She said with a bright smile, reaching out to grab his free hand. “You moved in, not too long ago, a few streets over. Nobody knew you or who your alpha was, so we couldn’t invite you to our monthly baby showers.”

She hadn’t let go of his hand, so John found himself being dragged inside the open gate. He could have forced his hand free, might have if he thought she posed any sort of threat, but for now he just followed her. Inside the gate he was suddenly the center of attention, with several people walking over to them. His hostess/captor seemed proud, as if she had accomplished something great.

“Everybody, listen.” She commanded, though the group wasn’t necessarily the loudest John had ever heard. “You remember the male omega that moved in a few months ago? This is him.” She gestured with her free hand to John, and he suddenly felt like a prize on a game show.

“Hello, I’m John.”

That was all he got to say for a while, as he was lead around and introduced to about twenty omegas. The only other male omega was a tiny thing, maybe eighteen years old, what John thought was called a twink. There was an assortment of children around them, mostly the ones too young to leave with a beta sitter. For each omega John was introduced to, he was aware of a beta bodyguard watching closely. The omegas told him their names, how many kids they had and such, but it was all at such a rush of sound that John didn’t think he’d retain any of the information.

Between the bodyguards, the neighborhood, and the clothing, it was clear these were the trophies of rich alphas. It seemed their monthly baby showers were a standard meeting on the last Friday of each month. It had been moved up a day because the hostess, Maggie, was going out to her country estate for the weekend. Maggie’s garden had a gate that opened it to the road, so her families’ cars could be parked in the garage. In bad weather, the gathering moved into the house, but today was nice enough to gather in the garden.

Had he picked any other day for a walk, John wouldn’t have been pulled into this group. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but it seemed this was to be his life from now on. Before that thought could get an emotional response, Maggie was pouring him tea and showing him to a chair. Sitting down and taking a sip, John found they were all watching him, waiting for him to say something. Back to being the center of attention it seemed.

“Right. I’m John, my alpha, he died. Yeah, and I lost the baby.”

Their immediate outpouring of support and grief was a wash of background noise as John fought back his emotions. When he was ready to focus on them again, they had mostly settled for sympathetic looks.

“So, I moved in with my mate’s brother, the head alpha of the family. I’m not really ready to talk about it, but thank you all.”

There was a long silence before Maggie broke it; apparently ending such silences were part of her hostess duties. “John, Petra is having her first baby in a few months, and we like to give first time mothers what advice we can.”

John smiled half-heartedly in the direction of Petra, or at least the direction everyone else was looking. Petra turned out to be very pregnant, even though she looked about fifteen. John repressed his curses about babies having babies.

“From what I remember, the afterbirth is just as painful as the baby.” He hadn’t delivered babies in years, and those had been beta women, but he remembered that.

“What is afterbirth?” Petra asked, but several of the faces were turned on him and shining with confusion.

“The placental expulsion.” The confusion was stronger and John hadn’t even finished. “All the stuff surrounding the baby when it’s inside you, such as the tissues and fluids feeding the baby and protecting it, and the other end of the umbilical cord. After the baby or babies are born, the body shoves all this stuff out. Sometimes is slips out easily, but mostly it’s as if you are giving birth to another child.”

John startled at the crying behind him and looked for the source. This woman was about twenty-five, old enough to have had several children. The omegas around her were trying to comfort her but she shook them off by standing.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me? I’ve been going insane; grieving for dead children, thinking every one of my three kids was a survivor of their twin’s death. Do the doctors think it’s funny that I’m this stupid?”

Nobody seemed willing to answer; they stared at their feet or the sky before daring to look at her. John decided to break this silence.

“They don’t let us finish school and don’t provide tutors so we stay ignorant. Then they tell us we’re stupid and that’s not true at all. An omega could be a doctor or anything if they were allowed to, instead of breeding at second puberty. More babies would be healthier when born if their mothers were allowed to finish growing up, but with the alphas in control we’ll never get proper research on that.”

“I invented a bra that uses breast friction to charge electronics.” Petra said, staring down at her baby bump. “Won a place at a fancy prep school, but they gave my place to the runner-up when I presented. She’s going to university and I’ll be lucky to see my kid graduate from one.”

Around him, the monthly baby shower dissolved into bitter stories of the lives given up too early and more than a few tears. Misery might love company, but John felt bad for bringing down the party like this. John watched the beta bodyguards shift, fighting between embarrassment at what they were witnessing and an instinctive desire to make the omegas happy. John noticed Allan, the gatekeeper of Mycroft’s house, had joined that ring of bodyguards. John fixed and drank another cup of tea until there was another lull in the noise levels.

“Has anybody ever heard of Miss Kitty?” He asked as casually as he could manage.

“I read her posts.” Maggie said. “I didn’t believe it, thought it was a hoax.”

“I tried it.” Another woman says, one John thinks is named Joni. “I couldn’t seem to figure it out. I guess I am stupid, since it was supposed to be natural suppressants you could make at home, but it never worked for me. But I can’t cook either, so advanced chemistry really is beyond me.”

“What are we talking about?” The other male omega asked, and several of the younger omegas made noises of agreement.

“It was a webpage that appeared back when the internet was kind of new. Miss Kitty claimed to be an omega living on suppressants she made from things you could buy at the grocers.” One of the oldest omegas there answered, surprising John.

He would have thought Miss Kitty was after her time, unless she was looking for a way to stop having kids. In his secret heart, John wouldn’t mind two or three children, but ten or fifteen just sounded exhausting.

“It worked for some.” John offered with a shrug. With so many beta witnesses, he didn’t dare tell them more about how the current wave of late presenters were a result of Miss Kitty’s work. He also didn’t dare tell them about how he’d hidden for years, with knowledge of pharmaceuticals and advanced chemistry. His Dad had only been a druggist, but he’d shared what he knew with both his children.

Petra burst into tears and ran for the open gate. A beta peeled out of the ring of bodyguards and followed after her.

“Wish I’d heard of her.” The twink said, before walking out the gate. His beta followed at a much more sedate pace than Petra’s had.

“I’m sorry.” John muttered to the assemblage. They didn’t seem to hear as they went about gathering up children and bags, so John slipped out. Allan was soon at his elbow, directing him to the town car. John went readily, his mind on a new problem.

John didn’t see Mycroft until breakfast, so his unplanned walk the day before wasn’t dire enough to drag Mycroft away from his work. Relieved, John ate more breakfast than normal and pretended not to notice when Mycroft’s eyebrows showed he’d noticed. The meal passed and Mycroft left, so John had the whole day to himself to think and plan. It would be Saturday’s breakfast that had him starting a conversation.

“Mycroft, I’ve found something I want to do.”

Mycroft didn’t read or work at the table, choosing instead to devote all of his attention to eating. This was part of a diet strategy John had been told to offer people in medical school; by thinking about the food you were supposed to feel fuller, quicker. Mycroft seemed to be trying it, though John doubted Mycroft could still his brain enough to think only about one topic at a time. John watched as Mycroft finished chewing and took a drink of tea before replying.

“I am pleased, as the doctors recommend activities to help you recover.”

“Right. Well, as you can tell from the blog I started, that’s not really going to help me.”

Mycroft inclined his head.

“Thing is, I think I could like the writing if I had something to write about. I want to try writing about the cases I worked with him, um, Sherlock.” They both knew who he was talking about, but another of Ella’s suggestions had been to use the name as much as possible.

“Are you sure that is wise, John?”

“Won’t it make me worse, you mean? I thought about that, but I think it’s more important that I have some way of remembering him. We don’t all have eidetic memories like you two, and I’m afraid of forgetting something.”

“As you have contemplated it, I approve of this activity.”

John bit back a sarcastic retort. “I’m glad, because I’ll need a few things from you.”

Mycroft took another sip of his tea before replying. “I have told repeatedly told you that you only have to ask.”

“This is me, asking.” John forced a grin on his face but let it fade quickly. “I need a new laptop, one that can be disconnected from the internet with a physical switch. I also need it to be hack proof, even by your goons.”

“John, you realize that many of the restrictions in place are there for your safety.” These words came with a disbelieving eyebrow, but otherwise Mycroft showed no reaction. “The laptop you have now is very secure and more than adequate for your writing efforts.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know all the things I wrote for the blog and then deleted without posting?” John raised his own disbelieving eyebrow right back at Mycroft. “Or is that key logger for my protection as well?”

“It is a standard feature put on any electronic devices that go through my division; I will have it removed.”

“I’d really rather have your word that the new one will be private to me and those who can guess my password.”

Mycroft carefully didn’t twitch at all, showing no signs of noticing any loopholes. “I believe that sounds reasonable. You have my word that I will provide a new laptop that is up to your specifications.”

John pushed through to his next need so that he wouldn’t gloat about pulling one over Mycroft. Sherlock had always been able to deduce John’s password, so clearly Mycroft thought he’d be able to as well. Let him try. “I need to go to Baker Street to do my writing.”

Mycroft’s expression closed down; he wasn’t even pretending to consider it.

“I know it’s a security risk, though why you’re so protective of me I don’t know, but that’s where I knew Sherlock. I know you’re still paying rent, waiting on me to decide what to do with it all. Not only that, his notes, and mine, are all there. Going through it all this way, reliving it, will allow me to move on, where nothing else will.”

“I can have all his notes and case files brought here easily enough that I am disinclined to allow this.”

“Let me write in our flat, before returning here every night, and I will give you a very valuable bit of information.”

Somewhere between insulted and annoyed, Mycroft only stared at John. It was clear that if it was worth knowing, Mycroft was pretty sure he already knew it.

“I’ll take your promise on this as well. If I give you my information and you think it’s valuable, you’ll let me use Baker Street as an office. If you don’t agree on the value, then I’ll let you bring all of Sherlock’s stuff here.” John didn’t think Mycroft could refuse that, and he hoped Mycroft wasn’t a big enough liar to claim the information wasn’t of value to him.

“I agree; I will allow you to work out of 221 B, Baker Street, if your information is valuable to me.”

“Good. Now, understand, I’ve know this for a while now but I wasn’t sure what you would make of it until recently.” Really recently, like when John noticed that Mycroft came to Sunday lunch because Greg was there. Clearing his throat, John went for it. “Greg Lestrade thinks you are sexy.”

A faint blush was staining Mycroft’s cheekbones, but otherwise he didn’t answer.

“His words, the first time it came up, mentioned he wouldn’t throw you out of bed. When Sherlock irritated me, I’d go for a walk or met up with Greg to gripe about him. Several times he asked after you but didn’t want me to set up a date or anything. He thinks an alpha like you could have any omega on the planet, so you wouldn’t want a beta.” John shut up and waited. Matchmaking wasn’t really his thing, but if Sherlock was a big idiot about John desiring him, why wouldn’t his brother be similarly blind? John was kind of counting on Mycroft to have missed Greg’s infatuation.

“Yes, John, that information is valuable.” Mycroft said at last, his voice almost normal. “I believe you will be able to start working with your new computer and Baker Street office this Monday.”

“Thank you.” John said, managing not to sound too pleased with his success. “Should I become a little ill just in time for tomorrow’s lunch?”

“That will not be necessary, though I do not believe you will need to walk the grounds after lunch.”

“Nope, I’m sure my leg will be acting up then.” John couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed around Mycroft, so he sipped his tea and enjoyed it.

Sherlock searched out weaknesses in Moriarty’s web between exhausting sessions of physical therapy. A medical coma might be a good way to avoid crap telly, but most of his muscles had atrophied to some degree. His internet searching muscles were the first to recover. His hospital was in Ystad, Sweden, and he didn’t speak the language, so the crap telly would have been even worse. He might have accidentally learned Swedish, and then had to delete it all when he was healed.

He knew the location meant that he would be harder to be found by any enemies, but he also knew it would make it harder for John to feel him through the bond. As much of Moriarty’s web was in England, he wondered how Mycroft would prevent John from noticing. Mycroft might send John to another continent, but Sherlock secretly hoped the bond would tell John he was alive. It would save Sherlock from an awkward conversation, and he could blame everything else on Mycroft. For real this time.

When John was seven months pregnant, he’d been so big they’d given up running through London. John had been slowing down for a while, but at seven months even Sherlock’s long ignored instincts wouldn’t let his pregnant mate hunt killers. John had mumbled about it and only agreed if Sherlock also cut back on the hunting. It seemed John thought he had to protect Sherlock, simply because of the number of times he’d needed to.

A week of being confined to the flat together was enough to send Mrs. Hudson into a screaming rage at the both of them, so Sherlock had to adjust. He was allowed on Lestrade’s cases only if he was in sight of Lestrade at all times. Lestrade gleefully snitched on him, texting John at the slightest bending of this rule. Even a genius should be allowed to pee on his own.

As John entered his eighth month, Sherlock had been dragged into a meeting with Mycroft. Admittedly, the meeting would have been much shorter if Sherlock had let Mycroft talk, but he was in the mood for a good argument. It was the usual offer about working with Mycroft, but now with the specific goal of destroying Moriarty’s resilient web. It also came with a time frame, promising Sherlock he could walk away when John was ready to run the streets again.

He was still debating taking Mycroft up on his longwinded offer when he’d walked into the flat. Begging forgiveness for being incommunicado hadn’t worked, so he’d blamed Mycroft. Told John about the offer and asked John’s opinion. That had worked so well Sherlock made a mental note to ask John about other major decisions. Not just as a diversionary tactic, but also because John’s light conduction properties extended to these things as well. That reunion had gone well, giving Sherlock hope for the next.

He thought of John and their reunion pretty much anytime his brain wasn’t focused on the case. Sometime he would think of the child, but not as often as he thought of John. He knew this was callous, and maybe a bit psychopathic, but he felt what he felt. Maybe he wasn’t the sociopath he claimed, but clearly there was something wrong with him. He hadn’t even gotten properly angry at Mycroft since he woke him up with the news of his death.

Mycroft had an end goal, one of his multilayered plans, but Sherlock couldn’t see it. It might have been alpha instincts, but part of him insisted that Mycroft wanted John for his own. The rest of Sherlock wasn’t sure and looked for another reason for Mycroft’s actions. He needed more data to really unravel Mycroft’s plan. For now, Sherlock let himself fall asleep, exhausted from the physical therapy, and dream of running through London with John.

The first week back at the flat, John spent more time staring at everything than writing. He carried his new laptop back and forth and locked it in his bedroom whenever he was at Mycroft’s. John didn’t really expect Mycroft to figure out his password, but he had to give the appearance of keeping the computer safe. Slowly though, John was beginning to write. It was slow going with his typing method but he was motivated.

What references he needed that weren’t on Sherlock’s shelves among the medical texts, were hidden under the loose floorboard in bedroom. That had been Sherlock’s hiding place because he believed he could convince anyone that found it that it belonged to Mrs. Hudson or a previous lodger. He couldn’t fool John, who took to reading passages out loud to entice Sherlock into bedding him. Almost forty alpha-omega bodice rippers were stored in that small space.

John did work on typing up reports of his cases with Sherlock, he hadn’t lied about that. Those required agonizing effort and focus, as he searched for the proper way to describe the indescribable Sherlock. He worked on those at the end of his day, when common words had been wrung from him by the romance stuff. Those tawdry words seem to come faster than he could type, even though it wasn’t anything he enjoyed reading anymore.

John had read his fair share of bodice rippers before he presented, as his Mum left them in the bog. John’s first masturbatory episode had been to one of those overly descriptive yet vague sex scenes; he was a teenage boy and could come if the wind blew too hard. Then he’d found real porn, which was much more interesting until he presented. After realizing he was an omega, his sexual nature had been something to fight against and control.

Now here he was, in clear view of forty years old, and writing the things. He knew his sex scenes were a little more realistic and a great deal more helpful than anything he’d ever read in them. Maybe this was a stupid idea, but it was the only one he had at the moment. If he lacked the ability to end his life, he might as well try to find something useful to do with the time he had left.

Mycroft’s minions had set up this hotel and identity, so the hotel was posh and the identity was rich. These things attracted attention, so Sherlock was already making plans to get rid of both as soon as he’d finished his business here. There wasn’t supposed to be much running around in this case, so he could walk around with the cane until his limp went away. Hopefully, he’d be taken as a posh twat using the cane as an accessory instead of a broken man who needed it. The strange part was the amused twist of his lips Mycroft got every time he saw the cane.

The Caribbean was a tropical paradise when you were by the ocean, but a few miles into Haiti and you were in a sauna. Sherlock’s skin wouldn’t thank him for stripping down to minimal clothing, so he stayed with the expensive clothing and fancy hotel this identity provided him. Near nudity would also expose the little wound at the back of his neck, with a lump under the bandage. A Swedish surgeon had installed it just before Sherlock was due to be released. Mycroft had watched the surgery, after carefully explaining it was a reversible process that would block his mental bond with John. Sherlock would have fought it, if this whole thing hadn’t been to get back to a safe John as quickly as possible.

Inside his suite, he took a long moment to glare at the enormous bed. The Royal Oasis Hotel in Petion-Ville wasn’t the poshiest hotel he’d ever been in, but in such a poor country it was opulent. His target was a corrupt government official, so he’d need to be rich to attract the man’s attention. Still, he was mentally comparing the room and king size bed to the inn he’d stayed at with John, in Dartmoor. This hotel was much nicer, having all the modern features a traveler could need.

Dartmoor had offered a slanted roof over the bed, so Sherlock had to sleep with his head on the foot of the bed to keep from sitting up and slamming his head into the ceiling. There had also been a major draft from the old-fashioned window, and a string to pull to start the shower. But there had also been poisoning Lestrade’s coffee with infected sugar, and a pregnant omega snapping orders on a military base and getting respect. Lestrade had gotten a leg over with their client’s shrink, and John had slowly, carefully, worked the fear out of Sherlock’s body with caresses and promises of the future. Sherlock had woken John up the next morning by saying one word and confusing the darling man.

“Wha?” John had muttered before heading for the loo. The morning sickness was long gone, replaced by a bladder the size of a pea. He came back a bit more awake, but no less confused. “What did you say?”

“Hope. I think it would be a good name.”

“Baby’s a boy, and he’d get his arse kicked for what’s traditionally a girl’s name.” John had snuggled up to Sherlock despite disagreeing with the name choice.

“So we find a boy version, like from that movie you watch when you eat jello and onions.”

“Star Wars?” John skipped straight over the comment on his weird food cravings, which they privately attributed to Moriarty’s genetic influence on the child; he went for the movie Sherlock was referencing. John had no idea why he liked to watch those movies, particularly Episode 4, when he was hormonal. “You want to name the kid Han Solo?”

“And you thought Hope would get his arse kicked.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in a loving way he’d invented just for John. “A New Hope; that’s the name of that movie.”

“I think that’s supposed to reference how Luke Skywalker is a new hope in the fight against evil.”

“Exactly, and this new life has all our hopes for being better than his genetics.”

“So this is your roundabout way of suggesting Luke for a name?”

“We could go French, with Jean-Luc.”

“No, then we’d be mixing fandoms and like crossing the streams, you reserve that for emergencies.”

Sherlock had blinked and sorted through his mind palace for a long moment before conceding. “What?”

“Sorry, luv, should have known you wouldn’t get that. Jean-Luc Picard is from Star Trek, and crossing the streams is a reference to Ghostbusters. Never mind. I’m just not sure about this kick you have for naming to poor bloke after me. Being named after your omega mother is another good way to be punished by bullies.”

“You keep bringing that up, as if we weren’t going to teach him baritsu and military tactics before he even made it to school.”

John laughed, acknowledging that as a fair point. A laughing John was just about ready to agree with Sherlock, and they both knew it, so Sherlock’s grin was understandable.

“So, Jean-Luc?” Sherlock asked, pleased that he’d found a way, long and roundabout as it was, to get John to name the child after him. No part of Sherlock was convinced that the name John was all it would take to combat the insanity of Moriarty in the child, or so he constantly told himself.

“Convince me.” John said, voice a little closer to Sherlock’s range than normal.

Sherlock had gladly complied, taking advantage of his lover’s hormones while he could.

They’d stayed an extra day in Dartmoor and walked away with a name for their child. That drafty English inn couldn’t compete in luxuriousness, but it had sheltered John for a while and would always be better in Sherlock’s eye.

Shaking the comparison away, Sherlock shifted into character before going to get the attention of a corrupt official. This man has several million dollars to his name in the banks the rest of the government knew about, so he could easily be the moneyman behind Moran’s contract. Only one way to find out, so Oliver Wilkes brushed dust off his linen suit and went to find out whom to bribe to get the mineral rights to parts of the island.

John wasn’t an idiot, nor was his convinced of his own superiority. As such, he knew he needed someone to help him with this plan, so he had Mrs. Hudson go out and buy him a couple of thumb drives. Putting a copy of his bodice ripper on each one, he then used Mrs. Hudson’s phone to invite Molly to a Friday tea.

She was confused but polite, and easily fell into conversation with Mrs. Hudson. They were about to call it a day when John spoke, as if it was an afterthought.

“Right, I have a favor to ask of you two.” He continued before they could reassure him of their well-meaning offers of assistance. “I wrote something and I would like you two to read it. When you’re done, we’ll have tea and talk about it some more. Please, just keep it a secret until then.”

Handing out the drives and hugs, John escaped quickly into the waiting car. He was very nervous and hoped Mycroft didn’t pick up on it; he wasn’t ready to explain. Fortunately, Anthea was babysitting him at breakfast for the next few days, as Mycroft was out of town on business. Once John found out if his idea was going to work or not, then he’d be able to fight with Mycroft about it. Until then, he’d keep plugging away Sherlock’s stories.