Chapter 3 – The Calm Before The Storm

They hardly dare to meet his eyes and he wonders belatedly if that is because of his scent, strong despite the shower, telling everyone who can smell how strong an Alpha he is.

He returns to his room for a masking perfume he wears most days before he finally makes his way to the conference room where he will hopefully find both their leaders and information on recent developments.

When he enters, three pairs of eyes shoot in his direction, nostrils flaring ever so subtly. The atmosphere is so thick John is sure they have been arguing.

"Well, look who decided to join us," Marc drawls.

"Care to explain why you spent the past twenty-four hours with our heat-ridden hostage?" Irene is in full-on Alpha mode, glaring at him.

"I was obeying orders. I was in charge of his well-being -"

"Since when does mating qualify as taking care of a hostage?"

"You know as well as I do what could happen to an omega who's been supressing for so long if he has to suffer through his first heat alone! Don't tell me you wanted him to die!"

Marc falls silent. John turns to Bhabha, the only one in this room whose opinion truly matters to John.

The Omega considers him for a long moment. "Did he consent?"

"Yes. I made sure."

Bhabha nods, the gesture indicating the matter is to be dropped. Thoreau huffs and throws himself back into his chair.

"Any news from Mycroft Holmes?" John dares, although he fears he already knows the answer.

"His answer remains unchanged," Bhabha explains gravely.

"That is why we need to take drastic measures to show him we're serious."

"We're not torturing an innocent -"

"We've already abducted him, Bhabha."

"If you follow that logic, why not kill him immediately?"

"Enough!" Irene glares at the men. "The way I see it, we need to step up our game if we want to force Mycroft Holmes's hand. I must concede that torture seems a good option -"

"As is going public. Telling everyone how Holmes forced his own brother to change his nature to maintain his reputation is bound to have an impact." Bhabha visibly forces his voice to sound calm.

"And what then? We'll keep his brother as a pet?"

"Well, I'm sure our Captain would like that," Mark sneers and John feels the sudden urge to punch him.

Instead, he says diplomatically, "Isn't this a matter for the council?"

They agree, though reluctantly, and John is allowed to leave. Stepping outside, he collides with a civilian and almost sends them both crashing to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," the man stutters, then hurries off in the direction of the common rooms. John has seen him around before, though the fact that he can't remember his name proves how exhausted he really is. Rick? Richard? Richard B-something, he guesses.

He makes his way to sickbay, wanting to inform Sherlock of recent developments before he will collapse on his bed.

Sherlock looks up from where he is sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching a cup of tea. The open window has removed most of the smell but there is still a faint whiff of that spicy-sweet scent in the air that will haut John in his dreams for nights to come.

"You okay?" A brief nod. "I just wanted to give you an update. Mycroft declined."

Sherlock looks unimpressed and sips his tea. John muses it is to safe him from having to ask the question.

"It's not been decided what will happen next. Thoreau wants to torture you and send your brother a tape, Bhabha wants to go public with your status. The council convenes tomorrow morning to decide."

Sherlock still doesn't say anything and John almost reaches out to caress his cheek – but when did he get close enough to touch?

His feet must have carried him to Sherlock's side on their own accord.

This close, the scent is stronger and it takes all of his self-control to stop himself from inhaling deeply. The expression on Sherlock's face in unreadable, his eyes piercing but detached.

"Have a good night," John says and turns too abruptly. Sherlock probably knows every thought going through his head, can read him like a book with his powers of deduction, so he doesn't even wait for a reply before he leaves the room and returns to his own, where he climbs into bed, alone.

xXx

The next day, everything goes to hell.

Lubitsch wakes him at six in the morning and urges him to follow him to the council chambers. In a haze, John learns that someone leaked Sherlock's abduction to the press, including details about his omega status and how the Reformists were toying with the idea of torturing him.

"We have a mole," Irene declares, eyes darting around the room. "We need to find the person responsible."

John does his best but to no avail. He is reporting back to Adler, Thoreau and Bhabha when Ghandi storms in, shouting "Turn on the TV!"

Mycroft Holmes is giving an interview, responding to the news about his brother. John hears "We're not negotiating with terrorists" again, followed by "We are forced into action to protect the Empire", and then it is chaos.

They are sure Mycroft will push for new laws, stripping even more people off their rights, and Ghandi tells them about rumours that the Revolutionists in France are planning to launch an attack, and for once all three leaders agree.

"We need to be prepared," Thoreau urges and the others nod.

"Captain, organise the troops," Bhabha orders him and John is off, preparing the Reformists' forces for a civil war that might start within the next few days.

The news of a novel law, declaring all who sympathise with the Reformists - no matter their status - an enemy of the Empire and fit for severe punishment, reach John an hour after the law has been passed.

It is almost ten at night when he has enough room to breathe and hear his stomach growl.

Oh no. Sherlock.

"Captain, you need to take a break," Lubitsch comments next to him. "I can finish these plans, you need to rest and eat."

John nods gratefully, already on his way to the canteen where he picks up a few sandwiches and water, then hurries to sickbay.

Sherlock is pacing when he enters, something close to worry etched on his features.

"I'm sorry," John says, setting the food down on the bed. "I should have come sooner."

"It's alright. As you know I require little food."

It makes John smile for the first time that day.

"Still, it's not healthy. Dig in."

He leads by example, grabs a sandwich and relaxes into the chair. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him and wonders how much Sherlock knows without anyone telling him.

They eat in silence, but when he is finished, John rises again. Sitting makes him feel exhausted, makes him slow, but he needs to focus now, which is hard when Sherlock's scent is becoming harder and harder to ignore.

"You're tense, agitated, haven't eaten all day. I've heard people running around outside. Something's happened."

John stops pacing for a moment, takes a deep breath.

"We have a mole. They leaked the story about your abduction to the press."

Blue eyes narrow. "Yes, I see it now. Everyone knows, and my brother still won't negotiate. This gives him the perfect opportunity to push for new laws, which he probably already succeeded in, judging by how worn out you are. You're preparing for civil war."

Sherlock sounds almost bored, voice monotone, void of surprise or fear of what is to come.

"How can you be so - so cold about that?" John explodes.

"History is repeating itself," is all Sherlock says. His eyes are still on John, who grows even more restless under the gaze.

"There are lives at stake! People's lives! There're rumours about the Revolutionists launching an attack in France, can you imagine what that will do to London?"

"It will be the last spark necessary to ignite a civil war, I suppose."

John stares, dumbstruck by Sherlock's complete lack of care.

"Oh, don't be like that," Sherlock snaps, standing up. "It's all just petty politics. It doesn't matter if they call it democracy or Empire or federation. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled. Everything else is just semantics."

"You can't believe that. Sherlock, you're an omega, you've suffered your entire life because your brother supports a system that makes people believe omegas are worth nothing! Don't tell me you don't care if we can make this country a better place!"

"The chances you'll succeed are slim."

"With an attitude like that, definitely."

They stare at each other, blue eyes piercing his and suddenly, John feels exposed, as though the eyes could see right into his soul.

Sherlock sighs, expression full of realization.

"You're scared." John feels his shoulders tense. "But why …"

Sherlock steps closer and brings a wave of spicy-sweetness with him. John wants to drown himself in it, forget the impending civil war, forget that he is the First Officer, responsible for so many lives.

"Oh."

Just like that, Sherlock knows exactly what he is afraid of. John can see it in his eyes, they have gone soft, understanding, not empathising but not judging either.

"Yes. Oh."

John takes a few steps back, gathers the empty plate and his water bottle and leaves.

He has a war to prepare for.

xXx

Tension lies thick over the HQ the next day. John doesn't forget Sherlock's meals this time, but delegates breakfast, lunch, and supper to others because he is too busy.

Ghandi cheers triumphantly around noon, shouting about "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!" and how the French have started their attempt to overthrow their government.

John doesn't hear how it ends, though, too immersed is he in preparations. He notes how thrilled Thoreau seems at the prospect of civil war, but then again, he has always had an eager trigger finger.

Bhabha accepts their fate reluctantly and John can see the fear in his eyes. A lot of people will die, especially omegas. Adler is hardly around, helping other chapters set up their defences with Lubitsch and Wilder.

John runs on too little sleep and too little food but still visits Sherlock when he is done for the day. He doesn't have to, he knows he has been given food, but something in him yearns to smell the scent of him, if only for a little while.

When he enters, Sherlock is crouched over something on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"An experiment."

"Uh-huh. Care to specify?"

Sherlock looks up and puts down what seems to be a glass full of water.

"I've only lived as an omega for a few days. I'm conducting tests."

"Fair enough. As long as you're not trying to blow anything up."

"I'm not."

Sherlock sits back on his heels, looking up at him and suddenly, John is very much aware how close he is standing, that Sherlock could easily extend a hand and open John's fly –

He takes a step back. The moment is broken but the air is still tense around them.

"There's a revolution in France. Mycroft is hunting down sympathisers. I don't have more news."

He wishes that Sherlock would just look back down at his experiment so John could open the door and disappear again. His exhausted brain consumes every bit of the spicy-sweet air and he can feel something stir inside him at the sight of Sherlock, eyes still on him, sitting back on his heels.

The blue eyes leave his, but not to return to the experiment. Instead, they wander down his body, taking in the creases in his uniform shirt, and come to rest on his fly. Sherlock's mouth is slightly open, invitingly so.

Sherlock's gaze refocuses on his face, expression pained and almost ashamed. That is when it hits John, a wave of Sherlock's intense smell. He can almost smell the slick dripping out of Sherlock, can definitely smell his interest, and his own blood rushes south.

"Sherlock…" he begins, trying to make sense of the situation.

"I can't stop it," he grinds out, pushing himself up from the floor. "I can't stop these thoughts, it's torture. My mind never stops and now there's even more in it."

Sherlock is frustrated, confused, and John can't help that he thinks it is adorable. Sherlock has never learned to cope with his biology, to control his urges like John did. The pills did that for Sherlock and now he is at his body's mercy, which of course, upon the arrival of an Alpha, has taken interest, has started self-lubricating in anticipation of what might be to come.

"You will learn to cope," John reassures him. His feet want to step towards Sherlock, his hands itch, but he remains where he is, a few feet away.

It is Sherlock who draws closer, gradually, his steps indecisive at first, then firm as they close the distance between them. Sherlock is in his personal space, his scent filling up John's nose, pale skin mere inches away.

John's hand starts to shake from the effort of not touching and Sherlock notices, long fingers coming up to stroke up and down John's biceps through the fabric of his uniform. He is one second away from flinging himself at Sherlock, explicit consent be damned, ripping off all his clothes and taking him right here on the floor.

John closes his eyes, wills the image away. He jerks when he feels fingers against his lips, eyes fluttering open. Sherlock is even closer now, pupils wide enough to almost swallowing the blue entirely.

"Please, John."

Sherlock's voice quivers a bit, his eyes granting John permission to take it, take it all and within a second John is on him, spinning him around and pushing Sherlock against the nearest wall.

John presses close until they are touching each other from thighs to chest, and Sherlock gasps, mouth opening slightly in invitation.

John pins Sherlock's wrists against the wall as he loses himself in the heat of his mouth, sucking on Sherlock's tongue. A roll of his hips against Sherlock's has the omega moaning into their kiss, hips buckling for friction and John complies, pushes forward hard and fierce.

"Don't move," he growls, and then his hands are at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, almost ripping it open. He wriggles it off Sherlock's arms and throws it to the floor before pinning his wrists against the wall again, reminding him to keep them there before his hands leave his wrists again. It takes all of two seconds until Sherlock's trousers follow and John frees his cock, leaking already. Sherlock whines when he gives him a few strokes, his hands moving away from the wall and grabbing at John's shirt.

"I said don't move," he commands and slams Sherlock's wrists back against the wall, pinning them with his left hand while his right opens his shirt and then his fly. He toes off his shoes, socks and trousers, air hitting his erection.

"Hold onto me," he orders and Sherlock complies without hesitation. His obedience sends a shiver down John's spine before he takes a hold of Sherlock's thighs and hauls him up. Instinctively, Sherlock winds his feet around John's waist as he presses Sherlock's back hard against the wall.

It takes a little bit of fumbling but then John drags the head of his cock over Sherlock's hole, making the omega jerk. John can feel he is wet and ready as two of his fingers enter the tight heat, stretching Sherlock as fast as he can.

Sherlock's head falls onto John's shoulder with a moan as he adds another finger, then hastily takes himself in hand, aligns and pushes in, antagonisingly slowly. Sherlock whimpers at every inch, desperate little sounds that make John's head spin.

When he is buried deep he lets Sherlock adjust for a moment before he begins to move, hands at Sherlock's hips, guiding them up and down.

He can feel Sherlock's fingernails digging into his back, and he speeds up, pounding into Sherlock who arches his back and rubs his cock against John's stomach.

When the strain in his thigh muscles becomes too intense, John's arms support Sherlock as he lifts him from the wall and lays him down onto the floor. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark, clouded with arousal and want and lust and John sets a brutal rhythm that has Sherlock shouting and screaming because John hits his prostate at every thrust. He balances himself on one hand, the other curling around Sherlock's cock, not moving.

Sherlock gets the drift and he fucks up into John's hand while John is thrusting deep and fast, mouth at Sherlock's collarbone, licking and sucking and biting.

John sinks his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, deep enough to draw blood, and Sherlock's crying out, back arching off the floor as his orgasm washes through him.

John raises a come-covered finger to Sherlock's mouth, which opens and takes the finger in, licking it clean. John grunts, loses his rhythm briefly, but then Sherlock's eyes are open and he grabs John's wrist and labs at the other fingers, tasting himself on John's skin and John loses it. He feels his knot swelling and buries himself deep inside Sherlock, coming with a shout.

He collapses on top of Sherlock's lean form and has enough presence of mind to roll them over. It should be awkward because Sherlock is a little taller than him but he fits perfectly into John's side, knot still in place inside him.

It takes a while until John comes down from his high and opens his eyes. He finds Sherlock staring at him, brows furrowed in concentration.

"What?" he rasps, curious what kind of revelation Sherlock got from their actions.

"You can make it stop."

"Your mind?"

Sherlock nods and lies down again, fingers tracing patterns on John's chest muscles.

"How long?" he asks, intrigued.

"I'm thinking again."

John doesn't know what to make of that, so he doesn't comment, simply lies there on the floor, aware of the come sticking between Sherlock's body and his, but they won't be able to move until John's knot goes down.

He watches Sherlock, whose eyes are tracing the movement of his fingers, but he seems far away, deep in thought. John wonders what it is like inside Sherlock's head, constantly deducing. Being held hostage must be torture for him.

To think that Sherlock would have ended up as a slave if he hadn't had Mycroft Holmes as a brother is unbearable. This brilliant, amazing man being nothing more than someone's servant or companion in the bedroom is something John can't imagine.

All the more reason to fight for their cause.

"John?"

The question pulls him back to reality.

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

It occurs to John that it might be nothing more than an experiment for Sherlock, testing his newly found inclination, that he doesn't care that it is John and not any other Alpha, but he smiles and says, "Of course" anyway.

After John pulls out, they both go to the bathroom together to clean up and Sherlock returns to his experiment without another word.

John stands at the door, watching him for another moment before he leaves again.

xXx

News of France hit HQ around breakfast time. The government has fallen; the Revolutionists have declared a new, temporary government and plan on holding elections soon. Democracy prevails, close to the heart of the Empire.

Mike is excited when he tells John about how his students are secretly organising and arming themselves.

"The young are ready, John," he cheers. "The Empire will fall."

John fakes a smile because he doesn't want to dampen Mike's mood with straight facts about how the SAS is better equipped than their own forces, how the Reformists are at a strategic disadvantage.

John hurries back to HQ, eager to leave London above ground level for the atmosphere is ripe with tension. It is a powder keg that could explode at any second.

He spends the afternoon getting everything in order and in the end, he is almost satisfied. They are as ready as they will ever be.

Civil war can come.

xXx

Sherlock takes charge that night and John is happy to let him. He takes his time, exploring John's body, mapping out every inch of him and eventually riding him leisurely.

John marvels at the sight of the man, sweat glistening on his skin in the dim light from the nightstand. Sherlock's eyes are clear, concentrated almost, as he rotates his hips and discovers everything that has John buckling up, moaning and shouting, slowing down when he notices John is getting close and starting all over again.

He slides off but shuffles back quickly, lapping at John's cock still slick from entering Sherlock and the sight takes the breath out of his lungs for a moment.

"I want to feel it," Sherlock murmurs against the head. "Can I?"

"My knot?"

Sherlock hums eagerly, mouth already swallowing John down again.

"Keep going," he instructs and Sherlock does, hollows his cheeks as he sucks, drags the tip of his tongue along the shaft, hands massaging his balls.

John focuses on the tight heat, the heavenly pressure of Sherlock's tongue, feels his knot filling and Sherlock gasping around him as he notices.

He pulls off but continues fisting John's cock with one hand while his tongue licks experimentally at the blood-filled knot. John feels a spark of electricity jerk through his body, again and again as Sherlock laps at it, sucking and teasing until John thinks he is going to pass out from sensory overload. It is when Sherlock takes him in his mouth again, so deep that he can feel the back of Sherlock's throat and those lips close around his knot that it is all too much.

He shoots harder than he ever has before, white flashing before his eyes.

Sherlock never pulls off, drinking it all down while he is touching himself with hard, quick strokes. It doesn't take long and he comes all over John's hips, thighs and part of his stomach and John almost protests before Sherlock leans forward and licks him clean, blue eyes meeting his, an evil glint in them.

John doesn't expect Sherlock draping himself across his chest, not without the knot binding them together, but Sherlock does it anyway, a content smile on his lips.

He wants to ask if he found out what he wanted to know from this experience but chooses not to in favour of caressing the soft skin of Sherlock's shoulders.

Tomorrow they will be at war, so he may as well indulge.

xXx

In the end, it is the students who ignite the powder keg, marching to City Hall and declaring revolution.

It is half-planned, half-spontaneous but John and his soldiers are ready, armed, and uniformed, marching with the students.

Several lose their lives that day on both sides, but John carries out his mission as swiftly as possible, taking his best men with him inside City Hall, taking out guards with real bullets this time.

They are operating in the basement and hardly meet any resistance as they place the explosives where they will do most damage.

It is more symbolic than anything; neither John nor anyone else is naïve enough to believe that Mycroft Holmes or any of his colleagues are still in the building. Still, it is a pretty sight when it blows up, showering the heart of the Empire in black smoke and steel.

John returns with his team to HQ after that. There is going to be a long fight ahead, yet he is carefully optimistic.

A lot of civilians have joined them, barely armed but full of ideals, Betas, omegas and even Alphas fighting side by side against the ancient system of slavery.

He makes a bit of time to gather food and takes the plates to Sherlock's room. He can see several people shooting him glances, some judging, some appreciative, yet he ignores them all.

"Well, if you have time to cook, I take it you have overthrown the government already," Sherlock comments when he enters.

"A cold sandwich hardly qualifies as cooking," John replies with a startled laugh. "And no. City Hall is nothing but steel now yet it won't hold your brother back for long. This is the calm before the storm."

Sherlock nods and accepts the plate.

They eat in silence, John's thoughts wandering what will happen to Sherlock and if he shouldn't simply release him. They can't keep him here forever.

"So what happens tomorrow?" The omega is watching him closely and John knows any attempt at schooling his expression is a lost cause.

"I honestly don't know. We fight, I guess. Try to win."

"When will you have won?"

"When we have Mycroft in custody." He doesn't have to give the alternatives – when we have shot Mycroft – because he knows Sherlock is aware enough of the hard reality of civil war.

John can't promise he will spare Sherlock's brother, not when his finger itches to pull the trigger on a man who forced his own flesh and blood into an existence he never wanted.

Sherlock's finger brushes against the cut on his cheek, left by a passing bullet for all he knows.

John can see the man swallowing, jaw working, trying to figure out whether he should say something or not.

He keeps quiet, in the end. None of them says a word as they undress each other, but their kisses have a new edge to them and for the moment John lets himself believe that Sherlock will miss him when the morning comes and God knows what happens.

The illusion is complete when Sherlock, head resting against John's chest, their bodies locked together, says without looking up: "Stay."

xXx

They don't talk the next morning. John takes a quick shower and puts his uniform back on.

He holds Sherlock's gaze one last time before he opens the door and goes to retrieve his gun and enough ammunition to last him a week.

xXx

Only – there's a flaw in the plan. The Reformists aren't seeking the battle; the battle comes to them instead.

The alarms go off as John is meeting with Irene, Thoreau, and Bhabha, alerting them to a security breach.

"They found us out," Irene hisses and suddenly, everyone moves.

They have emergency protocols for this and John knows his men are already defending their HQ, so his thoughts jump to the omega, alone and unarmed in sickbay.

John hurries off, exchanging meaningful looks with the Triumvirate, and picks up a second gun on his way.

He knows all security codes so opening Sherlock's door is no obstacle. Blue eyes meet his the moment he is in the room. Sherlock's body is tense, not as scared as John would have expected.

"Do you know how to fire a gun?" he asks and Sherlock nods. John throws him the Sig and ammunition, then jerks his head. "Follow me."

Sherlock doesn't question him, then again he has probably worked out what is happening and can fill in the details as John guides him away from the noises of gunshots and shouting to a door that leads to the tunnels of the Tube.

John kicks the door open violently. "Go!"

A moment of hesitation, then Sherlock steps through the door and looks back, expression unreadable in the darkness.

"Thank you," he says softly, then disappears. The door swings shut behind him.