A Fold in the Universe

by darkestbird1

Alpha Sherlock and Omega John are in a relationship. Prime Sherlock and Prime John are not. So what happens when a freak fold in the universe switches one John for the other? Omega Verse, Friends to Lovers, First Times

10. In Which Sherlock Remembers Pink

Chapter 10: In Which Sherlock Remembers Pink

"Run it back."

"You've seen it three times already."

"Run it back, Mycroft."

Three keystrokes later, the footage began again. Though the CCTV that had best captured the images was in color, it was grainy, poorly angled, and distant. Despite all that, Sherlock didn't for a second question whether it was John: he would know his Omega anywhere, scent or no scent. Once more, he watched the screen with a tilted head and squinting eyes. For over an hour already, he'd been scrutinizing the video and was beginning to develop a headache and crick in his neck. It was still early, but though John was usually first up to prepare a full English breakfast for his morning-ravenous bond-mate, he hadn't even left the bedroom yet. It was just as well. John hadn't slept much the night before, and what with the attack, he was certainly still out of sorts. In any case, it gave Sherlock a chance to review the details without distraction.

And here he came again, walking down the deserted pavement with hands balled at his sides and back rigid—John was angry, and his gait showed it. But then, he'd appeared angry in every video, from the inexplicable pacing on the bridge that had lasted for hours, to trying to get into a nightclub on his own, to trying to purchase alcohol, to being accosted on the bus. Mycroft had shown Sherlock all of it; London's CCTV system was second to none in the world, and one had to be especially clever to avoid being seen. But what was John doing? What was wrong? Sherlock knew what Mycroft thought—he hadn't said it out loud yet, but Sherlock knew—and he refused to believe it. Besides, as his brother should have known, that theory did not account for all of the facts.

John was approaching the center of the screen, just at the lip of the mouth of the alley, when the three other bodies suddenly appeared behind him. For the fourth time, Sherlock watched with riveted attention and tensed muscles as the pack seized John by the shoulders of his jacket and manhandled him into the darkened alley and away from the CCTV's eyes, and it didn't matter that he'd seen it three times already. He could watch this a hundred times and still feel the same bottled rage, the same barely controlled impulse to lash out, hunt down, and destroy. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat, earning him another glance from Mycroft, but he didn't care. A pack had set itself upon his bond-mate with the intent to ravage and despoil, and that was an unforgivable offense, by law or otherwise.

Two minutes and fourteen seconds. That's how long he had to wait and wonder what, exactly what, was transpiring in that dark alley before John emerged from it again, quite alone. Standing upright and under his own power, he tossed something aside—the shard from the glass bottle—made a militaristic about face, and marched away with his nose pointed dead straight down the street. Not running. Not in a panic. Not desperately seeking help. He just . . . walked away.

Another thirty-two seconds, and the first of the Alphas emerged, seemingly unharmed, though his shirt was untucked and jacket was falling off one shoulder. All the same, he appeared perplexed. He looked up and down the street, making sure the way was clear before retreating once more. When he reappeared, he had the arm of one of his compadres slung around his shoulders; the second Alpha's nose was a mess of blood, and he was hopping on one foot. Behind him, the third Alpha was cradling an arm close to his stomach and bracing his jaw with his other hand. The three of them slunk out of the frame, in the opposite direction to where John had gone.

Three large Alphas. Sherlock still could barely believe his eyes. All logic and historical precedent dictated that John, an Omega-Y, should have been left behind in that alley, barely able to move. After all, he had been selected, hunted, and attacked, wolves going after a deer. There was no way he should have walked away from that.

"Do you require a fifth viewing, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, tone droll and slightly impatient.

Sherlock didn't deign to respond, just sat back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together in thought.

Mycroft clipped off the telly. "Tell me what you mean to do."

Shooting him a sharp look, Sherlock said, "Hunt the pack, of course. What would you think?"

"Of course. And concerning John?"

Sherlock set his jaw, trying to hide his distress. He looked to the hallway leading to the bedroom. Still dark. Not a sound.

"It is an unhappy topic, to be sure. But I know of certain . . . institutions . . . for Omegas like John. It would be very discreet."

"No."

"And I am personally acquainted with a number of renowned reparative specialists—"

"Dammit, I said no, Mycroft. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, his expression alone suggesting that he thought Sherlock was being obtuse; Sherlock had seen it before. Many times. This time, though, Mycroft Mycroft didn't hold back saying what he thought: "You're being an idiot. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"I think we're finished here." Sherlock rose to his feet and moved to the door, but his implied dismissal didn't deter Mycroft from finish what he had begun.

"Your Omega spent nearly four hours on the Waterloo Bridge, pacing, behaving erratically. Further evidence: he made not one but two blatant attempts to poison himself."

"We don't know that!"

"He was trying to gain admittance to a pub! What else would he be going in there for? We saw him trying to purchase two bottles of whiskey! You tell me, Sherlock, why else does an Omega try to drink?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? You saw the footage. He as much as goaded those Alphas into chasing him, going out alone after dark the way he did, separating himself from Beta crowds. He was walking meat. You know it as well as I. His behavior has been unmistakably—"

"Mycroft."

"—suicidal."

Sherlock stopped pacing and swung a finger at the door. "Out."

But Mycroft didn't even rise from his chair. "I'm sorry, brother mine, but with so few of them left and the genes already so unstable, we're seeing it more and more. Sometimes, without explanation, Omegas just crack."

"He fought back, brother mine. If he was really . . . that is, if he were anywhere close to wanting to . . . Look, he fought them off."

Mycroft put up his hands in false surrender: it was not concession. It was the action of refusing to engage further with a child on the verge of a tantrum. "You asked for my help. You know my advice comes with it."

"I asked for the footage. Beyond that, you can just sod off. I will handle this. The pack and my Omega."

"Handle me?"

Sherlock spun to see John, fully dressed and looking quite alert, walking toward them through the kitchen. In the light of day, he looked hardly better than when he had first stepped through the door the night before. The swelling on the side of his face had gone down, true, but the bruising had darkened to blacks and purples, and the scrapes looked just as red and mean as before.

"Good morning, John," said Mycroft. "You're looking remarkably well, for having been assaulted by Alphas."

It was John's habit to lower his head and appear smaller, as most Omegas did around Alphas who were not their bond-mates. It was simply a matter of biologically programmed respect. So it surprised Sherlock when, rather than exhibit submissive behaviors, John's jaw hardened and his shoulders squared. For a moment, Sherlock was transfixed—he'd never seen John look at Mycroft with such an expression void of deference and replaced with . . . what was that? Aggravation? He would have pondered the gall of it a second or two longer, if that same expression hadn't swung around to land on him.

"You called Mycroft? What for! What, are the two of you suddenly best mates in this wacked up universe?"

"Of course, he called me," said Mycroft in the tone of one addressing a child. "He's concerned about you." He stood abruptly with an inflated chest and took a menacing step forward to reassert his dominance.

But John didn't cower. "Don't patronize me. What's going on?"

Mycroft looked at him with knitted eyebrows, clearly not expecting this response. "Only what you would expect. My brother here is preparing for a dog fight."

"A dog fight," John repeated, as if he didn't even know what it meant.

"You don't think I'd let those Alphas get away with it, do you, John?" Sherlock said. "With the footage Mycroft brought me, we've been able to identify two of the three, and chances are, the third with the nose injury found himself at Alpha Emergency last night. He'll be easy enough to hunt."

"Hunt."

"I'll make short work of them, I assure you. You'll never have to worry about those three agai—"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now!" John exploded, and both Holmes brothers flinched but tried to pretend they hadn't. "I'm not worried about them! I handled them! If you saw footage—which I never asked you to look at, by the way—you would have seen that I was the one man left standing. I don't need you to play my knight and shining armor or go on some revenge kick. Frankly, Holmes, it's none of your damn business. And you"—he glared at Mycroft now—"you and your fat nose and your little puppet of a PA can just sod off, go back to your ivory tower, and pull someone else's strings for a while."

Stunned silence followed. And while John's chest rose and fell with infuriated breaths, Sherlock, who felt stunned to paralysis, saw Anthea out of the corner of his eye rising from her unobtrusive place on the end of the couch where she had been sitting quietly the whole time, knees pressed together, hands folded in her lap, as noticeable as furniture. But at John's words, she swiftly found her feet as if obeying his command.

Mycroft found his voice first, which was thin with anger as he lifted his chin and said, "Sherlock, get your Omega under your control at once. You will discipline him for speaking in such an insulting manner to an Alpha and his Omega."

"Your ome—?" John started, then snorted and shook his head while rubbing his face wearily. "Of course she is. The poor soul."

Sherlock matched Mycroft's tone, but it was a fair bit steadier. "I will deal with this. You and Anthea may leave."

Mycroft nodded sharply, threw a glare in John's direction, and gathered his coat. Anthea buttoned hers, and followed Mycroft out the door. All the while, neither Sherlock nor John said a word, moved a muscle, even took a breath, not until they heard the door close downstairs. Sherlock felt himself torn between amazement and anger and almost didn't know what to say, how to act. Then:

"Sit." Sherlock himself moved to his own chair, sat, and crossed a leg over.

"Oh you bet we're talking about this. Everything's bad enough already without that brother of yours sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. If you think for one minute that I'm okay with this, with any of this—"

"John, sit. Now."

John walked complacently to his chair and sat. Less than half a second later, he sprang back to his feet. "What the hell was that!"

"It's for your own good. You know I dislike Compelling. And I told you I would never do it. But then, you've never given me cause. Something is bloody wrong with you, and damn it, John Watson, you are going to tell me what it is."

John was shaking. The skin under his bruising was flushed red, his left hand, the one he has sliced and stitched, trembled, and he gripped it in his lap with his unbandaged hand as though to stop it. Then he put a hand to his mouth and for a moment looked like he was going to be sick. This was precisely why Sherlock never Compelled, even though by law and biology he had every claim on it. Nevertheless, He felt there was something inhuman about the act, something that demeaned them both, and it was the one point on the list of arguments he thought the Nothing Knotting movement had got right. Just the one.

He let John recover himself, let his breath return to normal, and even let him speak first. He waited him out patiently.

"Whatever that was," said John, but barely above a whisper; there was something of fear in his eyes now now, and Sherlock regretted seeing it there, "don't do it again."

"I won't. But you will talk to me."

"Is this what Mycroft meant by"—he swallowed, and his lips formed a grimace of disgust—"disciplining me?"

"He meant worse. You know that. And you know I wouldn't do any of that. I promised you when we bonded I wouldn't. And I wouldn't have Compelled you, either, if I thought there was any other way."

John's face fell into his hands, and Sherlock heard him murmur to himself, "This is so fucked up."

"Answer me honestly. Are you unwell?"

Slowly, John lifted his head. He looked to the ceiling, to the fireplace, to his clenched hands. Sherlock thought he saw a wet shine in his eyes, but two blinks later it was gone. After clearing his throat, John said, "Just a bit rattled, that's all. The, erm, attack last night. You're right. Kind of shook me up."

"No."

John was visibly taken aback.

"Last night's attack explains the contusions and sliced hand. It doesn't explain why CCTV captures you pacing the Waterloo Bridge for three hours and fifty-two minutes until the sun went down, shouting at the sky one minute and staring down at the water the next. Nor does it explain why you attempted to poison yourself."

"Poison myself?"

"I saw you trying to get into the pub on your own. I saw you trying to buy whisky at the corner shop!"

"Maybe . . . maybe I wanted to get wasted."

"Omegas don't get wasted. Omegas end up dead. I swear to you, John, if you ever do something so stupid again, I won't think twice. I will discipline you, and you'll be smarting for a month."

John's jaw had fallen open, and his eyes were wide in disbelief.

"So you're going to tell me the truth, right now, or we take more extreme measures. And don't think you can lie to me. I know what you're like when you're lying. You're rubbish at it. Is Mycroft wrong, or is he right?"

"About what?"

"That you're suicidal."

"What?"

"Are you, John?"

"No!"

"Then explain."

"It's not . . . like that."

"Then what?" Nothing. John seemed to be biting his tongue—literally—and he wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. John was being deliberately evasive, and Sherlock was getting impatient. Being uncivil with Mycroft was one thing. Objectionable, yes, deplorable even, but . . . kind of entertaining. But being impertinent with him, John's own Alpha? Unacceptable.

"I can wait you out all d—"

"Charlotte Bernstein," John blurted out.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Who?"

"News story. Yesterday. A thirteen-year-old girl died because, um. Because of her . . . that is, she had her first per— went into heat, and her mum and dad were being neglectful. She was alone, you know. I mean, God, she was only thirteen! She shouldn't have to . . . Well, the point is, she got sick . . ."

"Estrus poisoning," Sherlock supplied. John, in his emotional state, seemed to have difficulty finding the words.

John sighed. "Right. That. And . . . it killed her." He shrugged a little pathetically and looked down again at his hands, which he flexed as though trying to get the blood circulating again. He scraped fingernails against the bandaging. "Guess it kind of upset me."

"Betas like that disgust me," Sherlock said with a scowl. "They hardly have the instinct to care for an Omega child to begin with, but wilful ignorance is reprehensible. They're being tried for murder, I hope."

John nodded mutely, his face having drained from crimson to ashen.

"Good. Well. That settles it. I understand. Of course a story like that would upset you. Would enrage you." Yes, it explained so much. Like all Omegas, John had a special kinship with his own kind, but he had always seemed particularly sensitive to Omega care, Omega rights, and Omega issues, generally. And though he had never heard of it happening in an Omega, he knew it was physically possible for an individual—worked up, pumped full of adrenaline—to perform incredible feats. Those Alphas had clearly chosen the wrong Omega last night. Bottom line: he had just gotten overly emotional. "Those Betas failed to protect their Omega child, and it's unforgivable. I can assure you, John, that I will always protect you. The Alpha pack won't hurt you or any other Omega ever again."

He leaned forward, offered John a consolatory pat on the knee, said, "Glad we cleared that up," and rose to his feet. He had work to do, after all, and the day was already waning. Kitchen first, for a quick breakfast and a strong coffee, then—

"Is that all then?" John asked, and Sherlock's feet halted beneath him. It was back: the tight voice, the tendril of anger. He retreated two steps to stand by John's chair.

"Is what all?"

"What about this dog fight?"

Sherlock frowned in annoyance. "I just told you. I'm hunting them down, and I'll kill them."

"You're not serious." And when Sherlock gave him a dead-serious look, he shouted, "Kill them? They didn't even have a chance to do anything!"

With the speed of a viper, Sherlock shot forward, grabbed the armrest, and loomed over John, his face so close to John's that their noses almost touched, and John shrank back in his chair. Sherlock only crowded in on him even closer. "They went after what's mine!" he shouted, and John flinched visibly. "Don't you dare try to use that line on me again, that you 'handled' it. You! Ha!"

John turned his head to the side, blinking rapidly, but Sherlock wasn't done. He couldn't bear to look at his Omega anymore, but he wasn't done. He threw up his hands and began to pace.

"You 'handled' them and bloody left them alive. And if they're still alive and still walking, they're still prowling, still hunting. And if they're not walking, it's almost worse, because what do wounded Alphas do? They join a bigger, stronger pack. You have made a dangerous situation worse. So I"—he jabbed himself in the center of the chest—"I need to clean up your mess. I have to go out there and cut them off at the pass. I have to do what I should have done last night."

"Oh, you have to, do you?" said John sullenly.

"Yes, John, don't be obtuse."

John pushed his feet. "Then I'm coming."

"Like hell you are. This dog fight is mine." He whirled away and went for his coat hanging on the back of the door. "You're going to stay home and calm down. Recover yourself."

"You're treating me like a helpless child. I'm not helpless. I thought I proved that last night."

Sherlock punched his arms through the sleeves grinded his teeth. "What you proved to me, John, was that you're reckless when you're emotional. You got lucky. If the wind had been blowing any other way, you would likely have ended up dead."

"You're unbelievable." John folded his arms crossly. "I mean, I always knew you were a prat, but you know something? You're a bit of a monster as well."

Sherlock paused in the doorway, his hand on the doorjamb. Slowly, he looked back over his shoulder. "John," he said, allowing a menacing growl to color his voice. "Stay home."

Then he slammed the door behind him.

xXx

His hunt that day was unsuccessful. He had three names, three faces, two hospital records, and the additional tracking of the Metropolitan Police. But the pack had gone underground, and Sherlock's search was ineffective. His brainpower was diverted, his thought processes were hampered, he was distracted. Apparently, he had left a portion of his brain back on Baker Street.

Okay, he was feeling a little guilty. He would own that much, at least. It gave him no pleasure, leaving John behind in the flat like that, all agitated and bafflingly upset. Preoccupied with that morning's row as he was, Sherlock could barely clear space enough for the far more important task at hand, and he was floundering. Even Lestrade, dimwitted detective though he was, noticed something was wrong with him.

"That's it, for your own sake, let's call that a day, shall we?"

Sherlock sneered at the suggestion. "The sun has just gone down. They'll be active. And you want to quit now?"

"Scotland Yard never quits, you know that. I'll have boys working through the night. But you have an Omega to look after. We're all relieved nothing worse happened, but from what you told me, John took a good couple of licks. You should be there to comfort him."

He won't let me, thought Sherlock. It had been nearly twenty-four hours, and the most John had let him do was cleanse the bond mark. It didn't make sense. There had been that one evening, about a year after their bonding, when John finally told him about the trauma of his one and only estrus poisoning, owing to the incompetent Alpha Service. He was embarrassed by it, but more than that, he had been scared. He had spent the rest of the evening curled up in Sherlock's lap, allowing his Alpha to stroke his back and his hair and whisper assurances that he would never have to suffer like that again, not now that Sherlock was in his life.

What had happened to that John?

"If we find them, you'll be the first call we make. The fight is yours. Bring your pack. Just remember: no firearms, no blades, no explosives, no blunt instruments—"

"I know the laws of a dog fight," Sherlock said. And he stomped away and hailed a cab.

As he ascended the steps to the flat, he felt himself feeling a little apprehensive, which was perfectly ridiculous, because dammit, this was his house, and dammit, he was the Alpha here, and dammit, he had had every right reacting the way he had to a recalcitrant Omega. Other Alphas he knew would have done far worse than impose house arrest, and he would hardly blame them. John should count himself so lucky.

He didn't know what to expect when he walked through the door. Had John calmed down and returned to his former amicable old self? Or were they in for another row? Taking a deep breath, he squared his chin and pushed open the door.

There, he found John seated at the table by the window, in the chair facing the fireplace. He had his laptop open and his hands were at the keyboard. The table, Sherlock saw, had been cleared of all his own things, including his laptop, and was now strewn with small stacks of paper, and the printer was humming with another page coming out. John, busy at work, didn't look up at the sound of the opening door, but Sherlock knew that he heard him come in, because just as he closed the door behind himself and opened his mouth to speak, John, without taking his eyes off the screen, made a sharp gesture with his hand, saying, "Have a seat."

A little befuddled, Sherlock slowly removed his scarf and coat while keeping a steady eye on John, who continued to type, unperturbed. As he crossed the floor, he tried to read the expression on John's face, but from the side all he could see what a black-and-purple splotch, a memento from the night before. He needed to see him head-on. So he acquiesced and sat himself in the chair across the table, folded his hands in his lap, and waited.

John struck a key with a decisive nod, closed the laptop, and reached for one of the stacks of papers. Sherlock, glancing at them upside down, saw that sheets were printed from news sites: The Guardian and The Daily Mail and The Times, among others. What was he doing, looking at all of this? What was it for—?

After selecting the page he wanted, John flipped it around and slapped it in front of Sherlock. The he leaned back in his chairs and crossed his arms . . . crossly.

The headline read "Serial Suicide Count Reaches Eleven in Six Months." Sherlock frowned.

"What's this?"

They were looking at each other now, Sherlock with furrowed brow and John with a look of . . . what was that? Disappointment? Disapproval? He could barely name it, he was so unfamiliar with the expression. Not from John, anyway.

"You tell me."

Withholding an irritated sigh, Sherlock scanned the article quickly, recalling the details. "This was a couple of years ago now. A pattern of suicides, linked: all the victims took the same poison, all self-administered, all were found alone . . ."

". . . in places they shouldn't have been, yeah, I know. Why didn't you stop it?"

Sherlock blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Eleven people died, Sherlock. Eleven. You were supposed to have stopped it."

With a snort of derision, Sherlock shook his head, saying, "They were suicides, John. I had no hand them."

"Wrong. They were murders."

"They weren't."

"They were. Did you shut your brain off or something? Think about it again, Sherlock."

"That was two years ago. The evidence is stale, at best. At the time, sure, I thought I was onto something, but in the end, both the police and I agreed: nothing about those deaths suggested anyth—"

"Pink."

Sherlock almost laughed at the interruption. "What?"

"Pink, Sherlock. Pink. Jennifer Wilson. She wore a pink suit, pink rain coat, pink heels, even pink fingernails."

"So?" Where was he going with this?

"And her suitcase was missing." John's eyebrows shot up, giving the impression of a schoolteacher who expected his pupil to take the next step. "You remember that?"

"Well, yes, there was the backsplash on her stockings, strongly suggesting she had, at one point, been dragging a small roller suitcase behind her. You only ever get that kind of backsplash from . . . but it didn't matter, because we never found . . ." His brain rapid-fired, and suddenly he saw the scene again as if someone had suddenly thrown a flood light on it. R-A-C-H-E scratched into the floorboards, which had then been dismissed merely as an unfinished note to a dead daughter. But the suitcase was missing . . . And pink! The small roller suitcase had to have been pink, and it never found it! It was an incredibly significant detail! (Was it significant? Yes, yes, it had to have been. It was!) It meant, it had to mean, that someone had removed it, had to get rid of it, because the color was too loud, too noticeable. Pink was a mistake, but not Jennifer Wilson's: it was the mistake of a killer, and Sherlock had missed it! How could he have missed it!?

"Oh my God," he said, staring at the article. "Suicide count reaches eleven . . ." And Jennifer Wilson had been only number four. "These people were murdered, John! We need to reopen this case! We can still catch the killer!"

"Bet you a thousand pounds he died of a brain aneurism," said John bitterly. "Which would explain why the so-called 'suicides' suddenly stopped, eh?" He reached for another pile and tossed it to Sherlock with cool disregard. "This one was ruled a suicide, too."

The headline read "Man Dies Jumping in Front of Train."

"All the papers agree," said John. "Andrew West killed himself by stepping into the path of an oncoming train. He also happened to be involved in a top-secret missile defense project. Any reason the truth didn't come out that he was actually murdered?"

"John, this wasn't even my case. I remember, I turned it down. I had plenty else on my plate at that time."

"You could have solved that one from the couch. Andrew West—Westie to his friends—was found with a bashed in head but very little blood, right where the track curved, a track that, only a couple of miles south, runs right under the window of his future brother-in-law, a future brother-in-law who happened to be a debt-ridden drug dealer, a debt-ridden drug dealer who was desperate enough to filch a rather important flash drive off his inebriated soon-to-be-relative with the hopes he might be able to barter his way into the black. Not much of a head scratcher, is it?"

"How did you—?"

"And let me guess. The flash drive was never recovered."

"No, but like I said, it wasn't my case. So you can hardly blame the bombing of Latvithuanistan on me."

"Where? You know what. Never mind. This one, I'm sorry to say"—he reached for yet another page and tossed it over, and his eyes flashed in anger—"actually is a suicide."

The third headline was from The Daily Exeter, not exactly a national paper. It read "Local Man Found Dead in Dewer's Hollow."

"Do you remember him?" John asked stiffly. "Henry Knight, do you remember him coming to you for help?"

Sherlock scanned the article quickly. The details were scant but clear: Knight, who, for twenty years, had suffered from paranoia and delusions after witnessing his father get mauled to death when Henry was still a child, had finally cracked, put a gun in his mouth, and killed himself.

"Vaguely," he said, setting the story aside. John continued to give him a hard look. "He came for a consultation. Believed his father had been devoured by a werewolf." He snorted. "Preposterous. I didn't take the case."

"You should have."

"It was a twenty-year-old case! I didn't see the point! What Mr. Knight really needed was therapy, and I am not a therapist. Are you going to tell me that he was murdered, too?"

"No. But his father was. What Henry needed was to put his father put to rest. You could have given him that, Sherlock."

There were dozens more stacks and print-outs, so it surprised Sherlock when John suddenly pushed his chair back and stood. "Your dinner is in the oven," he said. "Baked chicken marsala. Take it out in ten minutes, let it sit for five." And he started to walk away.

"Wait, John, stop."

John obeyed.

"What is all this?" He swept his arm over the table and to what surely amounted to hours' worth of work.

"That," he said, "is two years' worth of cases. Your cases, and the ones that should have been."

John was forcing him to say the one thing above all things that Sherlock hated saying, so when he did, his mouth was small, his lips reluctant. "I don't understand. What does it mean?"

"It means, Sherlock, that you're a good detective. But not much more than that. In another life, you and I solved those cases. All of them. Both of us."

Sherlock couldn't have been more stunned if John and out-and-out told him that he was a bad detective. "Don't be absurd. This is history. Unchangeable. What's the use of these hypotheticals? Besides, what do you even mean, both of us? You're not even a detective!"

"Yeah? Well, turns out, without me, you're run-of-the-mill at best. Brilliant, yes, I'll give you that. But yours is the kind of brilliance that needs a sounding board, a lightning rod, a conductor for your incredible light, to give it focus and purpose. What am I to you, Sherlock? Besides a warm body you make use of every forty-one days, I mean."

He made to leave again, but something forestalled him, and he rocked back on his heel.

"And one more thing. You said you would never do that mind trick thing on me again. And in the next breath, you did. So you're not to be anywhere near me tonight. The couch should serve you just fine tonight."

Nothing more was said. Sherlock couldn't find any more words, and John was finished talking. In the seconds that followed, he listened to John's footsteps disappearing into the bedroom and the soft but firm click as the door closed behind him. It was the last sound he heard John make for the rest of the night.

xXx

Sherlock couldn't sleep, least of all because the couch was too narrow, short, and uncomfortable. His brain wouldn't quiet down, and it was driving him mad. He was driven to spend the night thinking, puzzling through everything John had said and done, wading through all the paper and notes John had left on the table.

On a pad of paper, John had listed them out, categorizing them as cases accepted or rejected, and if accepted, solved or unsolved, and if unsolved . . . John had made notes, speculations, as to why not. Not all of it made sense though. For instance, under John's note for "Van Coon," he had written isolated phrases, like jade hairpin, and London A-Z, but Sherlock didn't know what they meant. That idiot Dimmock had wanted to rule Van Coon's death a suicide, but Sherlock knew it had been a murder. The left-handedness was clear as day! But though he made substantial progress on the case, including discovering the Chinese ciphers and number code outside the Lucky Cat and getting help from the Chinese girl (Sue Lyn or Sun Li or something like that) before she was killed, he didn't have much to go on other than a few random characters, and he never found out what the code was based on. Sherlock never did find out what those Betas Van Coon or Lukis had been smuggling. But at least he had discovered who was responsible.

There were a string of solved cases (like Julia Stoner's, which John had labeled "speckled blonde" and Matthew Michael's, called "aluminium crutch"), which ultimately outnumbered the unsolved cases (like Chris Melas's case, or, as John referred to him, the "geek interpreter), but he kept going back to the first one John had mentioned: the one about the serial suicides.

He thought through all the evidence again, very carefully, and with the subjectivity of a computer analyzing data, until he was convinced. They had all been murders, all eleven of them, and Sherlock had let a serial killer escape justice. How had that been possible? Had he not considered all of the facts? More importantly, how had it been done?

Sherlock sat in his chair, and as the night wore on, he puzzled through the vexing question, coming to an uncertain conclusions: The murderer had been a cab driver. It made sense, didn't it? None of the victims knew each other, none of them had died in the same two places, and all of them had been found in places they had no business being. The only connecting tissue there was their utter randomness—random victims taken to secret locations. And who but a cabbie could hide in public? Who else could hunt in open daylight? It had to have been someone they all trusted, and yet someone who was a stranger to all. And what strangers do people trust? Who would, say, pick up a woman with a suitcase? A cab driver.

Obvious.

He was getting excited just thinking about it. He wanted to run into the bedroom, wake John, and tell him what he had discovered, ask him what he thought, and that was a strange thing indeed. He'd never asked John's opinion on something before; he'd never run an idea by him, certainly not one for a case. Detective work was Sherlock's business. John's was . . .

What am I to you, Sherlock?

He felt something nasty churning his insides, so he put that question aside, opened a laptop, and started researching based on his conclusions. Considering the time line, he started looking for London cab drivers who had retired at about the time of the final murder, and after forty minutes of searching, he settled on one name: Jeff Hope. And he hadn't retired; he had died.

Brain aneurism.

That answer sent Sherlock to pacing.

He had questions for John Watson, many, many questions, and come morning, it was the very first thing he was going to ask.

xXx

At least, it was going to be.

Just as the sun was coming up, Sherlock, who hadn't slept a wink all night, got a phone call from Lestrade.

"A break in the case," said the detective-inspector.

"Good."

"Not good. Not really. The Alpha pack, pretty sure the same one we're hunting . . . they attacked someone else last night. A gesture to reassert their dominance more than anything, we believe."

"Shit."

"Victim's just come out of Omega Emergency and is being transferred to Recovery."

"Yes, give me the details, and I'll meet you there."

After hanging up the phone, Sherlock—who hadn't even changed out of yesterday's clothes, went straight for his coat. But he had only one arm in a sleeve before he froze.

John.

He let the coat slip away and tossed to the couch. Stepping lightly, he made his way through the kitchen and down the hall, and he stood outside the bedroom and stared at a crack of daylight shining at the foot of the door. Chiding himself for his shyness, he lifted a hand and rapped on the door . . . lightly.

Three seconds later, a mild voice bid him come in.

Pushing open the door, he found John seated on the edge of the mattress, finishing the buttons on his shirt. He wore socks but no shoes, and his hair hadn't yet been combed. He didn't raise his head or eyes when Sherlock stepped a foot inside.

"Morning," said Sherlock awkwardly.

"Morning."

"So. Um." He made himself stand fully inside the room. It was his own room, after all. He shouldn't feel like an intruder in it. Only, he did. A little. "Lestrade's just phoned. The pack, they . . . went after someone else. An Omega-X."

God, why was he being so delicate with his words? Be clinical, detached, just say it: The Alpha pack raped an Omega-X. They scented and knotted her, and she's in hospital.

Finally, John's eyes came up, and they were filled with concern. "How bad?"

"Bad. But she's alive and in hospital."

"How bad, Sherlock?"

He sighed. "Scented and knotted. One of them forced a bond."

"Oh my God." John shook his head regretfully. "And, erm, her Alpha?"

"She was unbonded, so nothing severed. But she resisted, so she's fighting infection."

"I . . . should have . . . I'm sorry. You were . . . right. I should have, that is, if I had only . . ."

"Come with me," said Sherlock. And John's eyes went wide with astonishment. "That is, I'd like you to be there. When I talk to her. She'll find the presence of another Omega comforting."

"Right." John stood, hands akimbo as he looked around for his shoes. His head bobbed up and down repeatedly and he licked his lips. "Sure, okay. Two minutes, yeah?"

"Whenever you're ready."

He began to retreat, to give him whatever space he needed, but John forestalled him, saying, "Who is she? I mean, do you know anything about her? A name, where's she's from, where she was attacked?"

"I'll fill you in on the way," said Sherlock. "But she's a nobody, really. Just one of the unlucky unbonded. Name of Molly Hooper."