Trigger/Content Warning:Some autopsy discussion and implications of bigotry (racial and sexual) in this chapter.


It was disappointing, but the initial autopsy performed the evening after the bodies had been found hadn't revealed much more than what Sherlock had already deduced. Quick blood testing had confirmed that the bodies belonged to an Alpha female and an Omega female, but that was the only immediate insight that could be gleaned from the situation. After seeing no sign of smoke inhalation in the lungs, Molly agreed that the fire hadn't caused the deaths. But even after a very thorough examination, there were no obvious signs of what could have killed them. There was food in their digestive tracks and no sign of serious dehydration. No blockages or crushed tracheas meant strangulation was out, and the lungs showed no evidence of other forms of asphyxiation. No stab, bullet, or blunt force trauma wounds. The only sign of any sort of violence were the patches of removed skin where their bondbites may have been. But not even that was much help. In the unlikely event that the victims had been alive at the time, the odds that it could have killed them were negligible.

Although the cause of death remained elusive, Molly was able to estimate that the victims had likely died within 24 hours of the discovery of their bodies. The burns made narrowing that down incredibly difficult, but from what Molly could tell from the state of the few soft tissues and organs that had avoided the fire, that window of time was far and away the most likely.

Sherlock had done what he could with the equipment in St. Bart's lab, screening for common poisons or drug overdose. All of those tests came up with nothing. As more and more potential causes of death were ruled out, Sherlock became increasingly convinced that they were dealing with a very unusual toxin. He was positive that something would show up in a full toxicology screening, but unfortunately that would take up to three weeks to complete.

In the meantime, there was the even more important matter of identifying the victims and thoroughly scouring their lives for any important detail which could factor into the case. Two and a half weeks after the bodies were discovered, the victims were finally identified. It was a long search indeed, full of scouring missing persons lists for bonded Alpha-Omega pairs and procuring and comparing dental records. But at long last, the poor, disfigured bodies had their names again: Alpha Myfanwy Evans-Qadir, a self-taught but promising freelance web designer, and Omega Zahra Qadir, medical student at Imperial College London, both age 22.

They'd been missing for nearly a month. Last seen leaving their favorite coffee shop, the two had apparently never made it back home to the tiny flat they shared in South Kensington. The flat was still locked when the police came to investigate the disappearance, and there was no sign of any struggle or of the girls packing and fleeing of their own volition. They had just vanished somewhere in the short ten minute walk between the café and their home.

Missing for nearly a month, but only dead for approximately a day at the time of their discovery. What had happened in those intervening weeks? Until the toxicology report came in, it was a matter of horrible speculation.

And it was time to tell their families the terrible news.

Greg always dreaded making The Call. Even though they were just two short words, they possessed such a grave and ponderous weight that Greg's shoulders felt heavy as he prepared to make the notifications. He never would have imagined how differently the two would go.

Unsure where to begin, he ultimately took the alphabetical route and called the Head Alpha of the Evans family first. Owain Evans' voice was like gravel rubbed across sandpaper, an ancient scratchy rasp of a nigh-impenetrable Welsh accent worn ragged over countless decades of breathing in salty sea air by day and pounding back whiskey with mates at night. Greg was pretty sure that the old man wasn't senile and that he actually was speaking English, but getting a straight, understandable answer out of him proved immensely difficult. It took just over an hour and countless repetitions to make sure he had the old man's statements correct, but finally Greg had Owain's account of his grand-niece's life.

Or part of it, anyway. He'd disowned the girl at age seventeen.

The Evans family had lived in Newport as far back as their records went which – as Owain boasted endlessly – was very far indeed. The family business relied heavily on fishing; the Alphas took to the sea, keeping their prized catches and selling or trading the rest with local markets and other fishing families, while the Omegas split their time between homemaking and staffing the family's popular restaurant and pub. Betas, as always, were exceptionally rare, and the sturdier ones joined the Alphas while those who lacked the constitution for the sea helped the Omegas.

Myfanwy had thrown a spanner into a system which, according to Owain anyway, had run without a hitch for centuries. Owain suggested that the girl had been shaken up "too much to fix" when a traffic accident claimed the lives of her parents when she was only six years old. Despite being raised in the home of her strongest and most boisterous Alpha aunt and being an Alpha herself, Myfanwy was rather meek, physically weak, and prone to terrible seasickness. She'd always been tall for her age, and the family hoped once puberty came along she'd fill out and find her strength and sea legs. Unfortunately, she remained skinny as a rail and far from athletic, favoring her studies and a burgeoning interest in computers. It only got worse when she entered sixth form and fell in love with an Omega.

At first the Evans family had been glad that poor black sheep Myfanwy had found an Omega who could put up with her decidedly un-Alpha ways, but slowly but surely cracks began to form. Myfanwy began to speak up whenever the family would "playfully tease" (in Owain's words) her about how poorly she fit in. She began saying things about how Alphas and Omegas ought to find places they fit into as individuals instead of conforming to the narrow holes that had been hammered out for them centuries ago. The final, shattering blow came when the Evanses found out who their wayward landlubber had fallen in love with: Zahra Qadir, the feisty and ambitious daughter of Muslim Yemeni immigrants.

Owain gave Myfanwy an ultimatum: the family and its traditions or that… well, Greg pointedly did not write down the racial slur the old man had used to describe the Omega. Myfanwy had chosen Zahra, and the Evanses had struck her from the family tree and from their minds.

"She's been dead to us for five years," the old man had said. "Her body just finally caught up." With that, he promptly hung up.

Greg needed the strongest coffee the Met offices had to offer after all that.

Braced with enough bitter caffeine to restart a heart, Greg had made the second call. To his surprise, the call only lasted about ten minutes, largely because, despite the very obvious grief in their voices, the Qadirs insisted on making the nearly three-hour drive from Newport to London as soon as possible. Greg had only needed to say that Zahra and Myfanwy had been found and that foul play was suspected in their disappearance and death.

Greg pulled his mobile from his pocket. He needed to inform Sherlock about this. As soon as he thumbed in his passcode, he noticed that he'd received a text while he was making the notification calls from his office phone. He'd silenced his mobile and turned off the vibration, not needing a distraction to make him come across as scatterbrained and rude.

The toxin reports have come in. I'll be staying late if you want to go over them. – Molly

The message was about forty-five minutes old at that point, but he quickly fired off a reply stating that he'd be by as soon as he'd dealt with the family and for Bart's to prepare release forms in case they wanted to make immediate funeral arrangements. With that completed, he opened up a fresh text to send to Sherlock.

The victim's family is coming from Wales asap. Expect them here in about 3 hours. Can you make it? – GL

Which victim? Minus five points for lack of specification. – SH

Greg rolled his eyes. His points had yo-yoed up and down so frequently over the past few weeks that he was beginning to have trouble keeping track of where he was in the rankings off the top of his head. At least he had note in a memo app on his phone for keeping track. He punched out the next text a bit more aggressively than he needed to.

The Qadirs. Evanses are wankers. Did John learn Arabic in the Army? – GL

He picked up a few things here and there but concentrated on Pashto. Problem? – SH

No. They sounded fluent on the phone, but it never hurts to have a back-up. And again: can you make it?

A few minutes ticked by with no response. Greg huffed and prepared yet another iteration of the question. But as soon as he was about to press 'send', the mobile buzzed with an incoming text.

Will arrive at Scotland Yard in two and a half hours. – SH

Right. See you then. – GL

Oh, the sarcastic barbs just write themselves. – SH

It was always a waste of time to puzzle over Sherlock's texts when he was in an enigmatic mood or, in other words, most of the time. Greg pocketed his phone and got to work compiling his notes from his conversation with Owain Evans and securing a room for the impending meeting with the Qadirs.

Two hours and thirty five minutes later, he stood outside the headquarters' main entrance in the waning orange glow of the late afternoon. The day had been rather brisk to begin with, but now that temperature was dropping steadily as the sun sank below the horizon. Greg shrugged into his coat, watching as a bit of his breath curled up in a thin wisp of vapor. He glanced at his watch when he heard the voice.

"Greg!"

John's voice. So Sherlock had brought him after all. Greg looked up, and it was John alright. Just John.

In the few weeks that had passed since Greg discovered John's pregnancy, Greg still had trouble wrapping his head around the idea that John and Sherlock would soon be parents. Given the season and John's affinity for jumpers, Greg wasn't even sure if he was beginning to show yet. As far as the DI could tell, John looked the same as ever, though perhaps a bit healthier and brighter now that the morning sickness had finally passed. On the other hand, his scent left no doubt that he was expecting. When John and Sherlock had come by the Yard earlier that week, the Yarders had been mixed in their reaction. Half seemed to wallow in terror over the idea of Sherlock Holmes' genes persisting into the next generation, while the other half gleefully accepted their winnings in various wagers and betting pools.

The doctor gave an apologetic nod as he trotted up to join Greg. "Sorry I'm a bit late. There was a delay in the tubes." His expression took a turn for the sour. "And as for Sherlock…"

Greg sighed. "He never planned on coming, did he?"

"Nope," John replied. "He got a text from Molly about the toxin results coming in today and he's been fixated on that ever since. He headed over to Bart's about an hour ago to pour over every last letter in that report. I told him I wasn't going to do this unless he let me hand out some merit points for you. He wanted to set the cap at ten points, but I haggled and got it up to thirty. He didn't want to give me any more since he knew I'd just give them to you the moment we met up."

That got a small smile tugging at the corner of Greg's lips. He turned aside, gesturing for John to go ahead of him as they headed inside out of the growing chill. "And are you?"

"Sure am." John grinned as Greg took out his mobile and added the points to his tally app. His face lit u in recollection. "Oh yeah, almost forgot. You should see the hideous thing he's rigged up in the living room." He pulled out his own phone and flipped through a few pictures. "See?"

It was a rectangle made of white tape which stretched from the ceiling to the floor. There were a few lines of red tape at the bottom, almost like the base of a thermometer in a cool room. There was a sign next to the ridiculous chart which read "LESTRADE'S POORLY-CONSIDERED QUEST".

"I wish I could say I was surprised," Greg muttered. "But I'm really, really not."

"It's going to be a nightmare getting that shit off without tearing the wallpaper," John said.

"Says the man who's got bullet holes in one of his walls."

They spent the next half-hour in Greg's office with John reading through the notes from the conversation with Owain and getting a copy for Sherlock to peruse later. Finally, there was a knock on the door.

It was a sergeant, a young Alpha woman with light brown hair and a trail of freckles across her nose. "Sir, the parents of Zahra Qadir have arrived. They've been taken to the room you requested."

Greg thanked her and let her go about her business. He looked at John, who answered wordlessly with a grim nod. They gathered up their notes and made for the questioning room.

The first thing Greg noticed about Jumana and Latif Qadir was how haggard and exhausted their expressions were as they sat across the table on the other side of the room. Their dark tan skin had an ashen quality to it and hung with a slight looseness around the chin, implying an extended period of poor nutrition. Jumana, the Alpha, was slim with features that must have been very graceful in her younger days. Her black hair was streaked heavily with rows of gray. The beauty of her dark brown eyes was undercut by heavy bags and deep, sleepless lines. Latif, the Omega, was tall for someone of his gender, standing at least two inches taller than his bonded. Most of his closely-shorn hair and beard was fully gray, though he looked no older than Jumana. To Greg's surprise, he did not wear one of the traditional modesty scarves around his neck like many Muslim Omegas did. There was a bonded Omega technician in Fingerprint Services who wore one, and even though she had extremely progressive views about her gender and religion, Greg had never seen her without it.

"Thank you both for coming on such short notice," Greg said as he and John took their seats opposite the grieving parents. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade; we spoke over the phone. This is Dr. John Watson, who's a consultant on this case."

"Dr. Watson," Jumana murmured to herself. "The same Dr. Watson who is bonded to Sherlock Holmes?"

"That's right," John answered. "He's on this case but isn't here because he's at the hospital where the autopsies were performed. The results for the cause of death may have come in today."

"What is it? What did the monster who stole our Zahra and Myfanwy from us do?" Latif demanded.

"We won't know for sure until we examine that report, but we suspect some kind of poisoning," Greg said, working hard to keep his tone level. "I can tell you more about what we know, but I have to warn you that it's not pleasant."

Jumana and Latif exchanged a long, intense look. Finally, they turned back and Greg's gaze met two pairs of solemn eyes. "Please tell us," Jumana said. "It is our duty to know. We must share what they suffered."

And so Greg shared all they knew about what had happened to Zahra and Myfanwy. It was gut-wrenching to watch the Qadirs' faces contort with loss and pain as Greg recounted what he could share with them. As he wrapped up the report, he took a deep breath and said, "I read up a bit on Muslim customs when we identified Zahra, and I sincerely apologize that – on top of everything – you haven't been able to do the normal funeral rites in the proper time frame."

"That is because there is nothing normal or proper in what has happened," Latif said. His voice and body trembled slightly with barely contained emotion. Grief? Rage? Perhaps both in equal measure. "My daughter and her bonded have had their lives stolen in the prime of their youth, before they even had a chance to really live. If this world were 'normal' and 'proper', they would have had long, fulfilling lives and be buried with utmost respect and dignity by their children fifty years from now. Not… not the despicable thing that has happened to them."

Jumana frowned, her lips drawn thin and tight. "Please understand. We have worried about this since the moment Zahra and Myfanwy went missing. And now we have had our worst fears confirmed. One long month with this nightmare lurking in the shadow of our hearts, and now it has come true."

"No, no, that is completely understandable," Greg said. "The fact that you can come here so quickly and be so willing to answer questions despite that pain is remarkable. You clearly loved your daughter very much."

"Of our five children, she was our youngest. Our only Omega," Jumana said. She took in a long, shaking breath and held it, hoping to retain her composure.

"We will do anything to see vengeance come upon the monster who did this," Latif said.

"In that case, we are very much on the same side, Mr. Qadir," Greg said. "Now, this may be painful to think about, but… before I called you, I talked with the Head Alpha of the Evans family-"

Latif hissed something in Arabic which made John's eyes widen in surprise. Apparently the Arabic he'd picked up while in the Army wasn't as rusty as he'd thought, at least where profanity was concerned.

"I've got no idea what that translates to, but I think I agree wholeheartedly," Greg said. He sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Not exactly the most understanding family, that's for sure. But… do you think they would have wanted Myfanwy and your daughter dead?"

"No," Jumana answered. Latif scowled, but nodded his agreement. "They are stubborn racists, but they are not murderers." She shook her head. "I don't know why anyone would do this to our Zahra and Myfanwy. Zahra is… was such a strong, smart, and bold girl-"

A bark of bitter laughter cut her off. John and Greg turned to look at Latif, whose shoulders were quaking with the harsh and mirthless sound. "That is why!" he exclaimed. He stood abruptly, nearly sending his chair toppling over. "The world hates an Omega who is all these things. And everywhere, it is all the same. I thought we were wise. I thought we had picked a lesser evil. I thought our family had moved from a land of great injustice to a land of smaller injustices. Yet my daughter is dead all the same."

He turned his back to the others, still shaking with barely-contained force like a lidded pot filled with vigorously boiling water. He raised his trembling right fist and, with a shout that was half misery and half fury, slammed it against the wall with all his might. The lamp overhead jittered and swayed.

"Latif," Jumana murmured listlessly. Greg took a single step toward the grieving Omega, but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was John. The pregnant doctor shook his head, a grim look on his face.

He ushered the three Alphas to the door. "Let me talk with him alone," he said quietly. "The last thing he needs right now is to be crowded by Alphas, even if one is his bondmate." He gave Jumana a sympathetic glance.

Jumana gazed sorrowfully at her mate's back for a moment before her eyes slid shut and she gave a weak nod. "Yes, I understand. That is for the best."

"C'mon," Greg said, opening the door for Jumana. "I'll see if the next room over is free. We can talk there."

Fortunately, the room was not in use, so Greg and Jumana moved over in silence. Once the door slid shut behind them, the woman practically collapsed into the chair. She pressed her hands over her eyes, and it wasn't long before tears were streaming down her cheeks and falling in plump droplets from her chin. "He is so much like her," she croaked when Greg drew near, putting a comforting hand on the other Alpha's shoulder. "Even though I am the Alpha, I could never match their strength. Zahra and Latif were cut from the same cloth – brave and bold and fierce with their morals. And I am much like Myfanwy – quiet and calm and meek. So, though we love all our children equally, we were especially close with them. Zahra and Myfanwy wanted to do as Latif and I did. He is the one with the higher education and the wonderful job. I raised the children at home, even though he was the one who bore them. We would never have been able to do this if we stayed in our home country."

"You can talk about it if you'd like," Greg offered.

Jumana sniffed and nodded, drying her eyes with a handkerchief she brought forth from her pocket. "He was arranged to be bonded my elder brother, who can be a… harsh man. He is set in the ways of how Alphas and Omegas should be," Jumana said. "It would have been trouble for both of them. But I became Latif's intended when my brother chanced upon an Omega who had entered his first heat unsecured and bonded with him in the frenzy. The poor boy was his parents' only child, and his family was foolish and thought he would become an Alpha. Nothing could be done, as it is a terrible crime in my homeland to sever a bond. They will kill you for it if you do. They say Allah guides Alphas and Omegas together and bonds their souls as one, and the boastful men who kill the bond before its time are as ignorant and destructive as moths chewing holes through an intricate tapestry."

Greg's shoulders sank a bit as he looked down at his covered wrist. He swallowed, hoping the action might combat the heavy lump that had formed in his throat. Subtle as it was, Jumana saw his distress. "There are many reasons why Latif and I made our home here. We do not wish you ill for your severed bond, Detective Inspector."

"No, sorry, no – it's not you," Greg said, stumbling over his words. "It's just bad memories."

Jumana nodded. "And that is why Latif and I have trouble believing the claim that all bonds are divinely chosen. We may fit well together, but what of the poor, unhappy people like my brother's bondmate? My brother was the heir who would one day control the family. We could not have him arranging bonds for our children. So Latif and I came here, where our children could find mates who fit them best without having to rely on luck. Because luck runs out."

After getting so much off her chest, Jumana fell silent. Greg gave her a few respectful minutes to compose herself. Finally, a knock on the door broke the silence. "Come in," Greg said.

The door swung open and Latif and John entered. The grieving Omega was carrying a small leather case; Greg supposed he'd missed seeing it under the table in the other room. Latif knelt by his bondmate, where he whispered something in Arabic to her. His voice had gone thick and hoarse, and Greg could only assume that he had broken down in a similar way with John. Jumana murmured something back, and she pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her Omega's jawline just beneath his ear.

"You should tell DI Lestrade what you told me, Mr. Qadir," John said.

Latif took a seat by his bondmate. "Zahra was a passionate and vocal worker for Omega rights and gender issues. She volunteered and protested whenever her busy study schedule allowed. Everyone at Imperial College knew her and her convictions, and she got into many arguments for it. Three weeks before they disappeared, someone destroyed their bicycles and left a terrible message. They sent a picture."

He reached into his case and pulled out a picture of two bicycles completely taken apart with the frames and spokes bent and twisted, most likely from the powerful blows of some kind of hammer. Carved into the pavement by the bikes were the words "KNOW YOUR PLACE SLIME" and "KNOTLESS PUSHOVER".

Greg frowned. "Three weeks before they disappeared, you said?"

"Yes," Latif said. "They filed a police report but nothing came of it before…"

"Before they were kidnapped," Greg finished. "I'll get ahold of that report and add it to our files. Right now we just don't know if it's just a coincidence or if it could lead us straight to the killer."

"There is another picture we want you to have," Latif said. He reached into his case. This time he and Jumana gazed at the picture for a moment, their eyes clouding up with tears again. Finally, he handed the photo to Greg.

Two young women smiled brilliantly for the camera. The taller of the two had pale skin with freckles speckled all across her cheeks and down her arms. Bright blue eyes peeked out from beneath the fringe of her chin-length dishwater blonde bob. The shorter winked playfully; she'd wrapped the long, intricate braid of her black hair around her bondmate's shoulders like a furry python. Like her father, she bucked tradition by proudly displaying her bondbite. Both girls had one hand up in a c-shape; pressed together, their hands formed a heart.

"Think of them like this," Jumana said. "See their faces, not their corpses."

Although St. Bart's was the next destination for Greg, John, Jumana, and Latif, it was decided that the best course of action would be for the four of them to separate. The Qadirs would be escorted by a pair of sergeants to claim the bodies of their youngest daughter and her bondmate so they could finally begin funeral arrangements. Meanwhile, John and Greg would join Sherlock and Molly in the lab and see what the toxicology report had to say. In any case, Greg and John agreed, it was for the best to try to keep the Qadirs from coming across Sherlock and his irascibility and bluntness.

By the time Greg and John made it to Molly's usual lab, the Beta woman wasn't there. Sherlock was, however, and he was clicking away at Molly's laptop like a man possessed. It took a few attempts to get his attention, but he finally snapped out of his intense focus.

"Where's Molly?" Greg asked for the third time.

"She said something about... something." He shook his head and gave a little growl. "Deleted it instantly, wasn't necessary to the process. I was and am gathering information."

"I said, 'I need to go sign off on the bodies since I performed the autopsy'," Molly said as she entered the lab.

"Yes, something to that general effect," Sherlock muttered distantly, once again coming dangerously close to getting caught in the throes of his research.

"Mm, well, those were my exact words. Everything's all signed now, though, so I suppose it doesn't matter. Hello, Greg, John," Molly said. She stooped a little until she was face-level with John's middle. She gave an enthusiastic little wave. "And baby."

"Why are you waving? It can't see you," Sherlock said dryly. "Even if it weren't beneath layers of skin, muscle, and tissue, it doesn't even have proper eyes yet."

"Yeah, well, I do," John said. "And I appreciate the thought, Molly. Thank you."

Molly smiled. "How are things going so far? Have you felt it move yet?"

"So far so good," John replied. "It's just the 14th week, though, so I haven't felt anything yet. Probably won't for a few weeks, unless it takes after its father and starts having big dramatic hissy fits."

Sherlock scoffed but otherwise remained glued to the computer search.

"Hopefully not," Molly said. "I've already found an adorable present for it to wear, and it would be so disappointing if it fussed and hated it."

"If you're referring to this pyjama suit with cat ears and a tail in your search history, it's very… you."

Molly sighed. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment."

"I'm not sure it matters when he's looking through your search history without permission. Cut it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention. He'd come across something that made his left eyebrow rise in amusement. "Well, Molly – or perhaps I should say 'meowlly' – this tumblr is certainly illuminating. I never would have taken you for the type to reblog so much Alpha-on-Alpha erotica. I thought you'd go in for soppy, overly-romanticized, excruciatingly normative Alpha-Omega romance with an emphasis on wish-fulfillment, and while it looks like there's some of that, it's the overwhelming minority."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, mortified.

"I wonder how many times the word 'knot' appears in this story you've linked," Sherlock murmured. "Just from a cursory glance, I would estimate-"

The laptop shut abruptly as Molly slammed her hand on its lid. Her face burned bright red. "Th-th-that's enough of that!" she squeaked. "A-and I'll have you know, those stories u-usually have really good plot and world-building! Besides, you said you needed to use my laptop to look up information for the case."

"Which I did," Sherlock said. "They're in the other tabs in your browser. Very useful information, by the way. It would be a shame to not have such good visual aids."

Molly sighed, "Fine." Sherlock grinned and reached for the laptop, only for Molly to grab it and hold it tightly to her chest. "But I'm the only one who gets to touch it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sprung up from the computer chair. Molly sat and, taking great care to ensure that nobody else could see the screen, closed out a few tabs. "Okay, it's… it's all cleared out," she muttered, her face still bright red with embarrassment.

"Start with the first tab, Molly," Sherlock said. He glanced over to John, who was giving him a glare. "Please. And I'm sorry you have questionable taste in…" John's glare intensified. "I'm sorry for looking at your search history."

"It's alr- well, no, I suppose it's not alright. But thank you for apologizing," Molly said. "This tab?"

Greg and John moved in to get a better look at the two pictures in the browser. The one up top was of a marshy field with a red tint to it. The second was a close-up on one of the plants, which had many clusters of small, blood red flowers.

"Cicuta rubra, commonly known as the red water hemlock," Sherlock stated. "Colloquially known as bondbane, bondwort, and reaper's kiss."

"From the sound of that last one, I'm guessing it's poisonous," John said dryly.

"Extremely so," Sherlock said. "Like every member of the Cicuta species, every part of the red water hemlock contains deadly cicutoxin, a poison that wreaks havoc on the central nervous system. All the other Cicuta plants just poison and kill you. But this plant doesn't stop there. No, it's got a far nastier trick up its sleeve. What you are looking at is the primary if not only active ingredient of every bond-severance treatment medically available."

In a flash, the memory of the terrible aches and illness Greg had suffered through his bond severing process washed over him. It was only there a moment, but it left his heart pounding and his stomach churning regardless.

"Next tab, Molly," Sherlock commanded. Molly clicked, revealing a picture of an old Germanic wood-carving. A man holding two fistfuls of bondbane stood between a prone and weeping male Omega and a snarling male Alpha, who was being held back by two other individuals. Two richly-dressed Alphas stood at the side. "For centuries, bondbane has been used by healers as the only way to sever a bond. Of course, given how easily the treatment is to botch as well as how controversial bond-severing is to begin with, practitioners were often labeled evil witches or sorcerers and handled accordingly. But it seems rich merchants and powerful politicians have always been willing to secretly deal with the devil in the name of protecting their property and business transactions."

"That's why they were missing for weeks but only dead about a day," John said, frowning at the image on the screen. "Whoever was keeping them was severing their bond."

"They had to have been kept in separate places, then," Greg said, his voice rough and thick. He tried to clear his throat, but his voice kept the raw and scratchy emotion. "When I was… when I went through my bond-severance, my ex and I weren't allowed to see each other. The doctors said if we saw or scented each other during the severing process, it wouldn't work. And if we saw each other just after…"

He trailed off. He couldn't speak around the lump in his throat anymore.

"Next tab, Molly," Sherlock said grimly. Molly, who was giving Greg an openly pitying look, snapped her attention back to the laptop.

The next image was an old American poster from World War II. TO ALL THE RESCUED PRISONERS OF WAR, LATE-RETURNERS, RE-DISCISCOVERED SOLDIERS MISSING IN ACTION: THERE'S ANOTHER DEADLY DANGER LURKING JUST AT HOME!, the first line read. The poster continued in a much larger, bolder font: BOND SHOCK! Beneath those two provocative words was a picture of a female Alpha soldier holding a bouquet of flowers, about to knock on a door of a house where an Omega male in widowers' mourning clothes wept inside. The skeletal specter of the Grim Reaper lurked behind the soldier, his bony jaw set in a menacing grin.

If you have reason to believe that your bondmate has been (wrongfully) informed of your death, take utmost caution!, the poster informed. Bond shock is serious and can easily strike him or her dead! Do NOT surprise your bondmate with your return! Instead, tell other friends and family first to make sure your bondmate's mark hasn't faded. If it has, call the following number to arrange a (free!) rehabilitation service for you and your loved one.

"We were warned about this all the time back in Afghanistan, and I studied it a bit in med school. If I remember correctly, everyone ever afflicted with bond shock has ended up brain-dead at best," John murmured. Horrible realization dawned on him and he turned to Sherlock. "You think the murderer intentionally killed Myfanwy and Zahra with bond shock?"

"It fits with the cicutoxin levels in the report," Sherlock said. "When one's bondmate dies, or if one believes they have died, the body naturally produces an enzyme which slowly dissolves the bond. The process is very taxing physically, and if the surviving bondmate is old or infirm in some way, they often pass away soon themselves. Bondbane releases a chemical which mimics that enzyme; if the proper conditions are met and small doses of that plant's particular strain of cicutoxin are administered, it tricks the body into believing its bondmate has died. That is what happened to our victims."

Chills were running down Greg's body. His skin felt cold and clammy with the faint sheen of sweat that had begun to form after his voice had failed him. Even as his body began to shiver with the tingling sensations in his skin, his heart fluttered wildly. He took a few steps back from the computer as the others continued to stare at the accumulated information on the laptop. A faint hum began to drown out Sherlock's words as he continued to speak, making it difficult for Greg to hear.

"The killer kept them in complete isolation, steadily poisoning them. Then they organized a terrible reunion, knowing what would happen," Sherlock said. "Perhaps it's a blessing that the bond shock killed them. Even consensual bond-severance is deeply traumatic, physically and mentally. And like any deeply traumatic experience – "

Greg began to sway.

" – those who come out the other end alive – "

The world blurred as bursts of brightness ate away at the corners of his vision.

" – can suffer – "

His knees buckled.

" – flashbacks."

Everything went black as Greg hit the floor.


Author's Note:

1) If I made any grievous errors in the portrayal of the Qadirs as very progressive Muslims, please let me know. I did research and tried to be as respectful as possible, but I'm neither Yemeni nor Muslim, so it's very easy for me to make mistakes beyond what I intentionally changed as part of some Omegaverse world-building.

2) The species Cicuta is real, as is cicutoxin, though I made up Cicuta rubra and its effects. So that's where that dang fictional botany tag finally comes in.

3) I don't know if it really comes across in the story and it's ultimately not that important, I guess, but Molly has gotten over her crush on Sherlock and is generally a bit less shy for it. And I'd follow Molly's tumblr in a second. It's got all the best cat gifs and porn, and usually not in the same post.

In the next chapter:
Let's have that flashback. All about Greg's bond-severance and the complete physical, emotional, and psychological hell it is. But perhaps not all doom and gloom, as we get to see how Greg and Mycroft began to become an item.

Thank you for reading! Reviews/crit is welcome with open arms!