About an hour and a half ago:

The Countess of Rothes is a popular figure in the London society, known for her philanthropic ventures, her blonde beauty, bright personality, graceful dancing and the diligence with which she helps organize lavish entertainments patronized by English royalty and members of the nobility. Mycroft and his Father were always very fond of her and of the Earl. But his mind couldn't be at ease even in the presence of her cheerful chatter, even in the sunny surroundings of the Palm Court Restaurant.

He ponders over his row with Sherlock. He wonders if he has done the right thing. He still wants to believe that Sherlock had not meant the words he said, but the look in his brother's eyes does not fail to haunt him. He gives the Countess a strained smile as she goes on about her Red Cross ventures and her charitable work with the Duchess of Devonshire. She does not fail to perceive his anxiety.

"Mycroft," her voice is low and a little worried when she finishes, "Is there something wrong?"

He is slightly stricken when he realises that his emotion is there on his face for public display. He composes himself in an instant, "Nothing, my dear Noëlle, just the usual."

"I didn't see Sherlock today. Is he ill?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Noëlle blushes at his insinuation, but then she becomes more worried, "Oh dear. Where's Victor then?"

"Out. For some air, perhaps."

Mycroft knows where Victor is, and what he is probably doing. And he knows that he should've done something to restrain the younger Alpha when he excused himself upon finding that he couldn't resist a Sherlock in his first Estrus. But there was no other option left. It's scandalous to leave an Unbonded Omega alone with any Alpha other than a family Alpha, more so in one room, but Sherlock wouldn't listen. They were getting married anyway, and Sherlock would have to submit. The earlier, the better. Bonding brings about the obedience and the devotion that befits an Omega, or it is said to. Mycroft is never really sure about anything when it comes to his brother.

"Does he know?"

Mycroft shakes his head in denial.

He feels like a failed man, a failed family Alpha and above everything else, a failed brother. Sherlock's parting words haunt him. Although he knows that his brother is intelligent enough to see more sense than simply end his life, he also remembers that this is Sherlock. His stubbornness and impatience naturally outweigh his discretion.

He sometimes wishes his father hadn't fixed Sherlock's marriage at all.

He sometimes wishes, however impractical it is, for Sherlock to have remained the four-year-old whose gender had still not been determined, who scoffed at the story of 'The Princess and the Frog', declaring the Princess as stupid for having even thought of kissing a frog, and the eight year old who hated wearing trousers.

The four year Sherlock would not recognise the seventeen year old at all, maybe even laugh at him for choosing the frog over the Prince. But that is dealt with. John Watson was not a stupid man. He would take the threat seriously. He would never come after him again.

Frankly, he never expected that this is how Sherlock felt about his betrothal to Victor, that he would die than marry an Alpha. But, there is no way out. They won't last six months without the money, and Mycroft cannot imagine a life on the streets with an Unbonded Omega near him, with him and the rascals twice a month tearing after them during Sherlock's Estrus when he himself is almost an invalid when it comes to physical and strenuous activity.

He gets distracted from his thoughts as he sees Andrea coming towards him. He rises and goes to her.

"No sign of Mr. Trevor on the ship anywhere else, sir." She confirms his suspicions. Mycroft nods and resumes his seat, while Noëlle turns to seek Andrea's more pleasant company.

What have I done, he tries not to think.


Walking along the B-Deck, John has the suit in his hand. Returning it to Molly Brown is only an excuse to go see Sherlock and get this feeling out of him. He doesn't care if Mycroft or Victor see him. The only thing which worries him is how he is going to get to the B Deck staterooms without being sent back. Fortunately, Greg had a black coat and a bowler hat arranged for him. He could pass for a gentleman, only till the promenade. Almost, he reminds himself again, could pass for a gentleman.

Then he remembers that it's almost lunch time. It had taken him an awful lot of time to get the suit properly cleaned and dried.

But when he reaches the B Deck promenade, he sees Mycroft seated with Molly, the Countess, the Astors and Mr. Ismay. He wonders where Victor is, and more importantly, where Sherlock is. He mentions to a steward, who does a double take at him. He knows that he won't be allowed inside. He sees it in the steward's eyes.

"Listen, can you call that lady over there?" he points to Molly, "I need to return her these." He shows him the formalwear. The steward does not seem to believe him, but the suit in his hands does look very fine. He goes in, and John watches him whisper into Molly Brown's ears. For a second, he's almost worried that she has already forgotten him, but when she glances to see Mycroft lost in his thoughts and smiles benevolently at John, he sighs in relief. She walks outside, giving him a motherly pat on the shoulder and leading him to the B Deck staterooms, smirking at the properly washed and starched suit piece.

"How did it go with Sherlock, Watson?" He is surprised to see that she remembers his name.

"S'cuse me?" John tries to look unaffected through the disappointment that floods through him.

"Do not play dumb with me, Watson," she chides coolly.

He shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance, but nothing misses her eye, "Bailed on you, did he? Come on," she takes his arm, "I didn't give you that suit just to gawk at him all night."

"I. . . didn't," John looks away whilst thinking that the upper classes could easily detect what he is thinking by his facial expressions. Molly only responds with, "Goodness, look at the poor boy! I saw the way you were looking at him despite my lovely chatter yesterday. You couldn't take your eyes off him."

John knows that he's busted. He simply smiles sheepishly in acquiescence.

"I know what you're thinking. Sorry to tell you, but Sherlock is ill."

"Ill?" John wonders guiltily if the ale was responsible in any way.

"Yup. Hasn't been out the whole day."

She enters her stateroom, which is one of the first ones, and he hands her the suit, standing outside the room, "You have my thanks for yesterday evening, Mrs. Brown. I don't know what would've happened if I—" he looks down at his clothes. Sherlock was right, they were crumpled from sleeping in them.

"Hey, don't mention it! You've done a better job than any of those damn drycleaners!" For emphasis, she pulls out another suit and waves it in front of the cleaner suit, making John smile.

"Alright, then, Mrs. Brown. Thank you. It's been an honour."

"Just say that you want to accompany me back to the restaurant. Bleedin' Alphas, even the ones poking their heads out of the egg shell! I'm better here, I've had enough ship and rich talk without Jim on my side."

John's smile widens and he excuses himself out of the suite and back to his own cabin. It would be best not to disturb Sherlock while he recovered. There's always time for tomorrow.


"So beautiful," Victor whispers against his skin, the pheromones and the lust still unable to camouflage that deceptively calm voice of his, "You want me, don't you?"

He watches the Omega writhing underneath, trying to extract himself from his grip, but to no avail. It's a half-hearted process. Sherlock's body is fighting against his wishes. He has no control over himself.

"You want me inside you."

A whimper is all he gets as a response to a lick to Sherlock's weeping scent gland.

Sherlock's mind is unable to stay aloof to the lust building up inside him. He has never felt the emotion, he isn't even sure that it is an emotion, it's so terrifyingly dark and powerful. He tries to summon the last shreds of rational thinking and tries to force himself into doing what he wanted to do: throw Victor off him and break off the engagement, while claiming that he had attempted to take advantage of him. Oh, this gave him the perfect window of opportunity, Sherlock would have marvelled at his good luck, but on second thoughts, he would have to get rid of him first.

And that is going to proving to be very difficult.

No, it should be possible, to stop the Estrus, somehow. It isn't even a proper Estrus cycle, Sherlock knows. An Alpha so close to his Omega body all evening had triggered the pseudo-Estrus that should've made said Alpha scent him, thus ending the courtship and beginning the process of mating. He tries not to think of John. He tries not to think of any Alpha. Or the one rutting against his burgeoning arousal. He has to get away before Victor scents him, because not doing so will just initiate the Heat in full force. Once he is away from any Alpha who isn't family, his pseudo-Heat will be over within a matter of hours.

He hadn't read the clues when it mattered. The stimulating dreams created by the remnants of John's Alpha scent on him, that certain something that only Victor and Mycroft, being Alphas, could detect. Why Mrs. Hudson couldn't perceive anything like that. Why he was asked to stay inside and why he was asked to wrap that scarf around his neck. Why he had an angry outburst, and why Victor was trying so hard to please him. It would serve a double purpose, as he had declared. True indeed.

He should have known, he should have foreseen his pseudo-Estrus. The start had been there, plain as day in front of him. He was too slow, too self-absorbed in the previous night's events to have noticed it.

He feels his cognitive processes diminishing rapidly as Victor's hands travel all over him, tearing his shirt off and laying his chest bare. His hands move southward and Sherlock can't help but lean into his touch, into the pleasure that was pooling there. Victor mashes their lips together, making him feel weirdly nauseous. How he wishes to throw up, just to get this tyrant off him, just to punish him for being so jealous about a drifter, so much jealous that he jumped at the first opportunity which presented itself.

Victor attacks his neck again, drowning himself in the delicious aroma, while his fingers caress his inner thigh. It takes Sherlock a mountain of effort just to remove his fingers from Victor's hair and to stop his hand from touching him.

"No. . ." is all he can mutter, while trying to shove Victor off and kissing him at the same time. John's memory serves to make his resolve a little stronger. Victor can sense his inhibitions, and somehow that serves to turn him on more than ever.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"


Mrs. Brown watches till he's out of sight, smiling to herself. She knows that John does not realise how smitten Sherlock was during the dinner party. Sherlock had been barely eating, not that he usually did, but this time the reason was completely different. Regardless of whether he had left John, she had never seen him so excited and so participating during the dinner time. Most of the time, Sherlock stayed still like a figurine. He only talked to Mr. Andrews, asking him about the construction details and the why and how about it, and made occasional witty remarks when prompted, mostly at Mycroft's expense.

No matter however ill he was, she was certainly going to tell the young man that John had come looking for him. Although she knew that Sherlock pretended to be aloof and cold, she could not contain herself just to imagine the aloofness trying and failing to mask the true happiness behind his eyes. She knows that Sherlock isn't exactly in high spirits about his engagement to Victor, and it isn't her place to intervene but. . . well, she just couldn't help this. It would be just so refreshing to see another young couple in love, instead of the contract that Sherlock was bound in.

She knows that of all people, Sherlock likes her the best. Well, if 'like' were truly a relative term and if you were not to count Mr. Andrews. He would never dismiss her the way he usually dismissed others.

So she dons a shawl over tea dress , puts on her hat and walks to B-52 only to be greeted by the cold eyes and the bland face of Victor's valet, Mr. Gregson. She frowns when he stares at her like at an impostor, instead of allowing her inside.

"I wanna see Sherlock," says she. She does not know what is happening inside, for she thinks that Sherlock is alone in the suite.

"Mr. Holmes is indisposed for the day."

"Yeah I know that. Step aside."

When Gregson does not comply, she frowns, quite irritated, "What the hell's wrong with you? I'm asking you to open the door!"

"He's very ill."

"Well, go an' call a doctor then. And what's he doing here inside instead of being in the Hospital room?"

"No one is allowed inside, ma'am. Mr. Trevor's orders."

Molly frowns, "What the hell? He's only sick, not a big—!"

And then it hits her, Sherlock locked for the whole day inside the room, his "illness", Victor's unusually good mood, his sudden absence, man posted outside their suite.

"Open this door, man!" She cries out, "Or I'll call all the stewards and make a scene over here!"

She looks quite intimidating, but it has no effect on Gregson. Some people passing by look over to see the source of the commotion. Some even gasp at her ungainly manner, muttering, "Goodness, what a vulgar woman!" But she pays them no heed.

"I'm going to tell you one more time, you pigheaded bastard! Open the goddamned door! Where's your sense of morality?" Gregson looks confused to see so many pairs of eyes darting in his direction, "There's an Unbonded Omega there with an Alpha, for God's sake!"

At the mention of this, several people let out an audible gasp, knowing the said Omega and the Alpha, but they do nothing to help her. At last, a steward pushes through, "What's the matter, ma'am?"

"He won't open the door! My son is in there!"

"Ma'am, please! Sir, please open the door for the lady," he tries, but Gregson is adamant.

"Listen, if you don't open the door, I'll have the master-at-arms here," she turns to the steward, "Fetch the master-at-arms, sonny!"

The steward tries to go away, but Gregson holds him in place, showing all of them his revolver. Most scurry off, clearly frightened.

"What is the problem?" says one of the last women left, "Why're you arguing with the lady? She wants to see her son, open the door."

"I'm not afraid of guns," says Molly, "I grew up in America and I shot coyotes when I was a girl, damn it! Come on, sister. Help me a little here."

"No need to call the master-at-arms!" says he, "I was a cop myself!"

"Then you better start acting like one. I'll have Mycroft down here, I swear, now hand over the keys!"

Gregson looks a little spooked at Mycroft's name. It is clear that his formidable demeanour has not failed to make an impression on this tough ex-Pinkerton cop. He hands them the key most reluctantly, "You're not allowed inside," comes Gregson's voice from behind her, as they both burst in, but the other woman only glares him into silence. Molly Brown comes to a halt when she hears it.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"

She bursts into Victor's room to see both of them half-clothed on the bed, with Victor on top and Sherlock thrashing underneath him, unable to scream. He turns around at the intruder and is shocked to see her. He grabs his shirt, just as Molly reaches to push him away from Sherlock while trying not to see them indecent.

"You perverted bastard!" she cries out, draping her shawl across Sherlock's shoulders and cradling his head even though he does not need it, "Wait till I get Mycroft here!"

Although thrashing earlier, the loss of contact from the Alpha makes Sherlock want to push Molly Brown away and go back to Victor and cling to him. He suppresses his craving only by holding on to Molly, his anchor at the moment.

Victor only looks at her, still in a daze owing to the pheromones saturating the room. She glares at him as Sherlock slowly starts to recover from the yearning that hormones have created within him.

"Get outta here!" She growls at him, while attempting to comfort the Omega.

"Mrs. Brown," he is fully clothed now and he comes over to them, trying to be dominating but not even an fraction of his natural demeanour, "Need I remind you that this is my suite and—!"

"And he is not married to you yet!" The adverb 'unwillingly' hangs in mid-air, "Just because he's in Heat, it doesn't mean that you can take advantage of him. A gentleman, for Heaven's sake! Only God knows what could've happened if I hadn't come here!"

And before Victor can anticipate her next move, she takes Sherlock and leads him away from him into the sitting room, taking advantage of Victor's dimmed reflexes. The woman outside looks shocked as Molly grabs his shirt and his jacket, helping him into it. She sprays some perfume onto him so that no one can detect the scent of the pheromones. Being a woman, they did not affect her. But the atmosphere, she had to admit, was intolerably thick. She wondered what it would do to Alphas, if she being a woman, was able to detect them.

"It's alright," she whispers, patting his back, when she sees him trying to regain his composure as quickly as possible, "Relax. I've got you. We'll go to my room and stay there till Mycroft arrives."

Sherlock takes her hand in his and shifts it away from himself politely. Molly Brown seems to understand and she retracts her hand away. He has never felt so helpless in his life, so trapped. He is still willing, and he despises himself for it. There's still arousal heavy in his trousers. He can still feel his scent gland weeping, and it should've brought Victor straight towards him, not caring about people watching, only to mark Sherlock as his mate. But he doesn't. One wrong move, and Victor's whole life can come falling down as a result of his less-than-gentlemanly act.

Sherlock's very body had just almost submitted to the carnal pleasures that Victor. . . oh Lord, what would have happened if Molly Brown hadn't decided to drop by?

He wants to get away from this room for the moment. The pheromones, although subduing, were still affecting him. Victor comes into the sitting room, his hair ruffled and his waistcoat buttoned in all the wrong places. He isn't affected in the slightest by the glowering looks Molly Brown bestows upon him. He looks defiant, and if Sherlock happened to look into them, he would see order written in them, an order he, being an Omega, must follow without question.

The pseudo-Estrus slowly diminishes as more distance is put between them. The world around him looks more normal than before. His head is slowly clearing. His skin is not prickling anymore and waves and waves of pheromones gradually come to a stop.

Sherlock looks around at the suite or wherever Victor does not happen to be there, and then at Molly, "Mrs. Brown," he's surprised that words come to him after all, in spite of this frightening and shocking incident, "If it's not too much trouble, may I—?"

But he never finishes as Mycroft hurries into the stateroom. He takes in one whiff of the room, processing instantly what had happened, or rather what was going to happen. He looks, for one second, immensely relieved, but then his expression becomes bland as he sees Molly Brown and realises that this is a result of her intervention. Regret is the final emotion that manages to cross his face as his eyes settle upon Sherlock.

"My suite. Now."

Sherlock does not want to go to Mycroft and neither to Molly's. He wants to be left alone, something that people don't seem to understand and appreciate. He turns the situation in his mind and manages to look up at his brother's eyes. He stands up to his full height, not willing to look helpless and victimized.

"Sherlock, are you even listen—"

He puts up a hand, and does a take at Victor: defiant, unrepentant, mildly furious at his plans gone awry.

"There you are, Mycroft," says Molly, "I—"

"You knew."

It is the only logical explanation. Sherlock has seen Mycroft come out of worse situations, like a cork floating back to the surface. And it is highly unlikely that Andrea did not see Victor entering the stateroom. Mycroft had allowed for this to happen, done nothing to stop it.

Molly whips around at Sherlock's words, noting the slight anger, the disbelief underlying his tone. Although she knows that this is not her place anymore, she doesn't want to leave Sherlock's side.

"I never—"

"You knew." Same tone, cold, hard, disbelieving, angry, betrayed.

Sherlock cannot have expected anything more from Victor. To him, life is a profit and loss statement, nothing else. Every single of his actions are devoted to the end goals he set for himself. That is what Sherlock probably is to him, an end goal, a prize to be locked inside his glass cabinets that he can admire and take and pull the reins whenever he wants. If he read him correctly, he would come and apologize to him later. A more apt description would be apologizing without a trace of sincerity.

But Mycroft knew. Or at least he had figured out Victor's plans for the afternoon. Mycroft does not meet his brother's gaze. He looks down at his attire again, his fingers reaching out to pick the imaginary lint. Molly sees this too. All his disgust towards Victor's actions is nothing compared to the bitter hatred he feels towards his calm, collected brother.

"Mrs. Brown," Mycroft straightens up, "I trust I can take it from here."

Not even a thank you. Only an order.

Sherlock gives her a terse nod at which she, although slightly unconvinced, excuses herself. He walks out of the room, toward Mycroft's suite, only to be stopped by his brother's voice.

"Sherlock," he swallows, "I did not wish this."

"Who cares what you want?! You could have stopped him, and you didn't. That's all that matters."

"Victor, if you could please—" Mycroft begins, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

"By all means, get out of my sight! I don't want to see you anymore!"

Victor leers at him, sending an involuntary shudder down him. He wants to tear that smug smile on his face, the satisfaction that he could make him do whatever he wanted him to do. Mycroft shuts the door behind him.

"How dare you involve that vulgar 'Brown' woman in this?" he growls.

"Involve?" Sherlock feels outraged. Molly Brown had done what Mycroft should have done, "You were the one who—"

"I came. I'd have rescued you."

Sherlock tries to suppress a snort as he opens the door, pointing outwards, "That lowlife would have knotted me," he spits the word in Mycroft's face, not caring about the way his brother flinches when he hears the vulgar word leave Sherlock's mouth, "before you even came here. Father was right about you. You're a coward."

Mycroft backs away, noting the vehemence and the spite with which his words were delivered. Sherlock grabs the keys to Mycroft's suite and turns away towards the door, only to stop for one last retort.

"Are you not coming back to your rooms?"

Mycroft frowns out of surprise, but follows him to outside his suite, only to feel the ornate door of B-56 slam in his face, literally, giving Sherlock whatever little satisfaction he can derive from it. Mycroft massages his nose and looks at Andrea, standing there like a statue.

"What now, sir?"

He suppresses a sigh, "Get me Victor."


There's a soft knock on Sherlock's door. Before he can stop Mrs. Hudson, she flings it wide open to find Victor at the doorstep. Sherlock can hear his laboured breathing, and Mrs. Hudson's sharp inhale as she processes his presence. Sherlock is just thankful that it has been hours since his pseudo-Estrus dissipated, and that Victor will not be tempted to have his way with him again. If it were up to her, she would have driven him away with a broomstick. But she remains silent, and gives him a curt, disrespectful bow, something which makes the Alpha's lips twitch into a grimace.

"Could you excuse us, Mrs. Hudson?"

She glances at Sherlock anxiously, afraid to leave him in the same room as him. Sherlock, knowing the expression on her face, turns around to relieve her. She turns around and stations herself near the door, just in case.

He lets the violin rest on his knee, his expression changing from impassive to outright murderous. He remains disconcertingly still, before his frustration takes hold of him, his voice taking a slightly ominous tone, "What are you doing here?"

"What you expect me to do," he says simply.

"I expect you to pack your things and throw yourself into the Atlantic."

Victor succumbs to laughter, "Admit it, Sherlock. You were enjoying it."

His last words are absolutely fatal. Sherlock's breath picks up against his wishes as Victor draws closer, only to stop at a torturous distance from him. Maybe the pseudo-Estrus will not go away, not when his body is already prepared for the possibility of a successful mating (oh, how he hates his biology and the complexities which govern it).

"See what I mean," he backs away, inspecting his perfectly manicured nails with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock's grip on the instrument tightens. He resists the urge to bash his head with it. The violin isn't worth it, he decides.

"I own you. If you think otherwise, then you're only fooling yourself."

Sherlock looks him in the eye, insubordinate, bold and with bottomless loathing, "You—do—not—own—me."

"Well, you're right," he replies casually, "Not yet, but I will," he licks his lips lecherously, his voice escaping into a whisper, "It's a certainty," and back to normal, "But anyway, I have come to apologize," He announces, his words transmuting into a shameless drawl, not even bothering to hide the callousness, "I'm sorry for. . ."

But they are drowned under mindless screeching of the scraping against the fiddle that Sherlock begins to counter with. Victor stops within an instant. And so does Sherlock.

"He said you would do that. Mycroft" The tone was amused, tutting at his predictability.

"Leave!" says he, clearly annoyed.

"Oh, too bad," Victor rises from his chair and proceeds towards the door, "I had a surprise planned for you. Exclusively for you. A wedding gift."

And, as usual, his curiosity gets the best of him, "What?"

"No, it's alright. I'll go away. But, for the record, I talked to Mr. Andrews over dinner tonight."

Sherlock becomes more attentive to that, but at the back of his mind he decides to start wailing on the fiddle if the idea was boring, maybe the screech he had especially composed with the intention of the "piece" being played when they would exchange vows in front of the Reverend. His anger disappears momentarily as he visualises the appalled guests, especially Mycroft. So marvellous!

He snaps back to reality. Of his "wedding gift".

"Well, he said he'll lead a tour group, starting from tomorrow," Sherlock is starting to hate Victor's voice as well, "For two days. But you won't be interested, will you?" He gives him a grin made to rival the Cheshire cat, "Good night then, sweetpea—"

"When?"

"Right after the service, of course. You'll attend the service."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Another trick of Mycroft wanting to teach him all things a good little Omega should indulge in like praying to outlandish fantasies like God.

"Why should I?"

He chuckles darkly, "I wish you to." These words don't have any element of humour in them, and Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was slightly putting him on edge, "Do not think for one second that I've forgiven you for screwing around with that Watson in Third Class the previous night and for letting him scent you, you slag," his voice is calm even amidst the fury in his eyes. His hands crawl to the nape of his neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and urging Sherlock forward painfully. His lips are inches away from his, "You have seen what I can do to you, Sherlock. You're an intelligent Omega, and you know that I am your fiancé. That is the ultimate truth. You do what I want you to do. You think whatever I want you to think. Do you understand me?"

"Mr. Trevor," comes a voice near the doorstep. Victor frowns and turns around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He had never called him 'Mr. Trevor'. The severe tone of the younger Alpha's voice is all it takes Victor to send a calculating glare in Sherlock's direction and turn to Mycroft with his charming smile back on.

"I trust that it is enough apology for one day."

"Oh, yes of course. But let's proceed back to brandy?"

"I'll be a moment. Andrea dear, kindly keep Mr. Trevor company on his way back."

Victor extends his arm to her and smirks, "Well, shall we dear?"

Mrs. Hudson comes out after Victor has left, looking extremely anxious, "I don't know what goes around in that swollen head of yours, Mycroft Holmes!" Mycroft looks away, not liking to be told about his failures at all, "How could you let your little brother—?!"

"Mrs. Hudson, don't you have more important things to do?" says he, mildly annoyed. Though his tone is a little harsh, he can no longer hold her gaze and turns his head away, lowering his eyes.

Sherlock merely glares at him as she stalks away, "What now?"

"To remind you that you haven't had dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he snaps.

"Go and have dinner," he orders him.

"Well, you've had my portion, haven't you? Why trouble the sad cooks when they have you to feed?!"

Mycroft lets out an exasperated sigh, and looks down at his brother, regret curling the edge of his lips downwards, "I am sorry," it's the most difficult set of words he has ever uttered.

"I bet they have got cramps by now," says he, completely disregarding Mycroft's apology. The latter simply bites his lower lip.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"No."

"If you hadn't gone with that Watson down the deck rungs, this wouldn't have happened."

Sherlock clenches his fist. Mycroft is right; John's Alpha scent and his prolonged company with him had triggered the Estrus, a grave mistake. He closes his eyes. How could he not have thought of that the previous night? This misfortune wouldn't have happened.

"Give me the keys to Victor's suite, will you?"

Mycroft frowns, "Why?"

"I'm going out tomorrow for that tour. I wouldn't want every Alpha gawking at me, would I? I need to mask this awful lingering odour, smell like a Beta at least. Thankfully this isn't as bad as . . . well."

Mycroft hands him the keys with an all-suffering sigh, "Be back before—"

"Ten, I know. Now, go away. Leave!"