Notes:
This is a soft version of Omegaverse. If you enjoy intense and gripping Omegaverse stories (and I do too), you might find the Omegaverse in this story to be too watered-down for you. However, if you like alpha/omega dynamics and are looking for something lighter and more romantic this might be it.
Chapter one
"How dare you question me in front of doctors?! You think you can make me look stupid?!"
"I'm sorry, Harvey! I wasn't questioning your judgement. Please Harvey, I just need to know−!"
"Shut up!" Harvey ground out. "You've never learned you place!" he snarled.
Sherlock heard a low moan in the room.
"And don't try to turn away! You'll listen to everything I have to say to you unless you want me to break your God-damned neck!"
Sherlock, who had been rooted in place outside the private hospital room door listening to the ugly tirade inside, heard a rapid scuffle in the room accompanied by a sharply indrawn gasp and waited no longer. He acted on instinct, lunging through the door and into the room. He saw a heavy-set Alpha with a flushed face, one hand gripping his Omega's hair, the other hand twisting the man's jaw, forcing his face toward his own. His mate had been trying to cower into the pillows, his face as white as they were.
Harvey turned and faced Sherlock, his expression twisting with rage, "Who the hell are you!? Get out! This is a private room!"
Sherlock flashed Lestrade's police ID. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. I'm here to interview John Smith if he is well enough to answer some questions. And you would be …ah…I believe I know, his husband…Mr...er…Harvey Smith, if I'm not mistaken?"
The man flushed an angrier red, not wanting to back down but then gave a harsh laugh. With a contemptuous look at his mate in the bed, he said to Sherlock, "Well, you want him? You can have the frigid bitch." He turned with a sneer to his mate, "I've got no more use for your dried-up arse! I'm divorcing you and don't think that you'll get anything out of me because you won't. You can die in the street; no one else is going to want you now either, that's certain! And if you don't like it, you've got no one but yourself to blame."
Sherlock, who had seen and heard a lot of ugly things during the course of his work, nevertheless felt his heart and stomach wrench at Harvey's brutal treatment of the fragile man in the bed.
But John's biology held him a prisoner it seemed, for as his mate turned his back on him and walked out the door, he lurched desperately as if to try to follow, tearing the IV tubes from his arms and croaking, "No! Please Harvey! I need − come back! Please!" And when the door swung shut leaving the room in silence, he gave a curdling wail of despair and would have collapsed off the bed if Sherlock hadn't caught him.
John was a dead weight in Sherlock's arms, unconscious and barely breathing: the trauma of losing his pregnancy and the abandonment by his bonded partner were sending him into shock. He was even whiter than before with the ugly exception of the bond mark on his neck, highly visible where his head lolled against Sherlock's chest and now burning into a dark red, the colour of dried blood. As Sherlock watched in disbelief, it rapidly turned to black and began rising like a blister. He had never seen anything like it; without a doubt John was going to die if he didn't receive immediate medical intervention.
Sherlock yanked frantically on the emergency bell, pressing it wildly while trying to aid the stricken man in his arms.
"John! John! No! Breathe, damn it!"
He laid John out on his back in the bed and was within seconds of starting resuscitation when the door swung open and a medical team flooded into the room, shoving him aside and descending on the limp figure on the bed.
John had no one it seemed, his Alpha having abandoned him. So Sherlock stayed, he would have anyway for he needed to speak to the man as soon as he was well enough to be interviewed, but somehow too it seemed like the right thing to do…the consideration of which would have surprised Sherlock's acquaintances had they known of it.
Sherlock knew he was a cold man, he'd been told it many times, but what he had experienced this evening was unsettling him. Of course he knew about domestic violence and abuse; he had seen the impact of it often in the course of his work. But this was the first time he had ever witnessed it and he was unused to the feeling of helplessness he'd felt in the face of such brutal cruelty being perpetrated against someone as vulnerable as John. He'd gambled on Harvey backing down when faced with a police officer, knowing that as himself there would have been little or nothing he could have done to help John.
Did anyone know about this or had John borne it alone? Almost certainly John had been alone: isolation of the victim was a defining feature of this type of crime. And the thought of the man he had seen tonight suffering alone year after year made what he had witnessed all the more terrible.
There had been no hint in the files of the ugliness behind the façade of the five year marriage. The records had pointed to them being a devoted couple, not social but who simply enjoyed a quiet home life. John was a part-time social worker and Harvey a manager in his father's private security firm. It was true the couple moved frequently but presumably Harvey was advancing his career by managing successively larger offices. But in light of what Sherlock had just witnessed he realized frequent moves were also a way of ensuring that community connections were never formed and any violent altercations between the couple that were reported could not be followed up on by authorities. He shook his head in frustration and leaned back in the hard waiting room chair.
At least John would live. The doctors told him that much. Thank God.
The night wore on into day and then day into another night. Sherlock remained at the hospital for he was unable to proceed with his investigation without speaking to John; let the police think what they might, he knew this case was at a standstill until he could interview John. And he was not about to risk someone else getting to John first, so he stayed. He was counting on the doctors allowing him access to John when he was well enough to speak; his chances were good for there were no family and friends who could object.
His strategy paid off; the doctor responsible for John's care was clearly uncomfortable but at a loss as to how to handle a patient with no family so he agreed to ask John if Sherlock might speak to him.
Sherlock was surprised but relieved to learn that John had apparently agreed. He hadn't wanted to resort to subterfuge to get to John although it would have been easy enough. Even if lives were at stake, the idea of deceiving John, who had obviously been shown little respect in his life, felt wrong.
It was over 24 hours after the events of the previous evening when the doctor informed Sherlock that he could visit John. John was recovering physically, he said, although regaining his full strength would take some months. He had had emergency blood filtering and skin grafting procedures to remove all traces of Harvey from his system, for if anything of his previous bond partner remained it would only poison him. The bond was now cleanly severed but at great cost to John's body, already traumatized by the loss of the baby. This was to say nothing of his mental state, which the doctor did not address.
Sherlock had gleaned enough from his hours in the waiting area, which was adjacent to the nursing station outside the intensive care unit, to know that Harvey had done exactly as he had threatened; the papers ending his responsibility for John had been signed and filed by mid-day. Infertility was a legitimate ground for divorce but the man must have some influence somewhere because he had been able to complete all the medical and legal requirements for his own benefit within 12 hours of walking out on John. Infuriatingly from Sherlock's perspective, Harvey was a free man.
Sherlock opened the door of John's room and entered. It was quiet and dark apart from the indicator lights on the medical equipment monitoring John's vital signs. But there was enough light coming from the city through the open blinds for Sherlock to make out John's still form lying on his side facing the window.
He approached around the end of the bed and said, "Good evening John, my name is −"
"Oh, so not DI Lestrade then?" The voice that cut him off was weak but its thread of sarcasm was unmistakable.
Sherlock was taken aback. Unsure how to respond he paused a moment. But before he could say anything further, to his surprise, John spoke again, his voice frayed but insistent. "They won't… tell me….. Do you know...is Harvey….still here?"
Sherlock's heart clenched. Was there no limit to the cruelty in this place?
"No, John." He spoke quietly, his heart twisting with equal amounts of frustration and pity. "Harvey has gone."
John exhaled; his "thank you," a dull whisper.
The room was quiet again with the exception of the low hum of the monitors.
John spoke once more, his voice still a whisper. "What do you want?"
"John, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a consulting detective, at present investigating the so-called chapel murders. I would like to hear about what happened in the church yesterday, when you feel well enough to tell me."
John was silent, his breathing almost imperceptible, before he whispered, "I don't… know anything…and I saw…nothing. You can leave now."
"John, please reconsider." Sherlock's voice was urgent. "You may know more than you realize that could help to solve these crimes. I think you do and if I think so, there is a murderer out there who may think so as well. That puts you in danger John."
"Danger, Mr. Holmes?" John's whisper was harsh. "There is no danger that matters to me now."
This was unexpected. Sherlock hesitated and then finally said, "But it matters to me, John. And it matters to me very much that criminals not get away with their crimes."
There was bitter hiss from the bed. "Mr. Holmes, in my experience they get away with them all of the time."
A significant pause ensued before Sherlock said, "You've never heard of me before, have you John?"
"No."
"Criminals never get away from me, John."
John's voice was flat. "Well, you are too late in my case aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock didn't pretend not to understand John's meaning but for the moment had nothing to counter with so he didn't respond to John's indictment of him. Instead his asked, "Where will you go from here John?"
"I don't know and I told you, I don't care."
"I see. Then you won't object if the hospital discharges you into my care? I'll make the arrangements shall I?"
What little fight that remained in John after yesterday's events dissolved. Weak and sick, he closed his eyes and withdrew into himself. He had been telling the truth, he really didn't care what happened to him now.