Summary: Just John and Sherlock being delightfully cute and horny kids and Mycroft and Victor being assholes and plotting against them.
A/N: I know that my version of John is too cheerful and adventurous, but let me remind you that he is still 20 years old and not the war hero PTSD fella. I'm trying to explore what he must have been before he went off to war and when he still had dreams, and of course I take the inspiration from Martin himself.
Sorry if you were thrown off by the S.S. Californian part in the previous chapter. This was one of the important things that Cameron had not put in his film, so I decided to add it.
John nods in understanding as Sherlock leads him silently through the bedrooms. Gregson enters by the sitting room door. The distracting scent of the pheromones blinds him for a moment, giving them a head start. He knows that Sherlock was there. He recognises the scent from the day before. He noiselessly moves through Victor's room towards Sherlock's like a bloodhound and keeps a steady grip on his revolver.
"Damn Estrus!" Sherlock hisses as he hears Gregson closing in on them, following his scent, "Come on!"
Sherlock and John come out of the stateroom, closing the door as quietly as possible. He leads him quickly along the corridor toward the B deck foyer, grinning at one another at their narrow escape. They are halfway across the open space when the sitting room door opens in the corridor and Gregson comes out. The valet sees John with Sherlock and hustles after them.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock and John resist every reflex to look back upon their shoulder. But when the valet does not seem to give up his pursuit, Sherlock grabs his hand before John can realise what was happening and they break into a run.
"Come on, John!"
They shoot across the Grand Staircase for the second time, surprising the few ladies and gentlemen about. Sherlock leads him past the stairs to the bank of elevators. They run into one, shocking the hell out of the Operator. A couple emerging duck out of their way frantically as they crash inside.
"Take us down. Quickly, quickly, you moron!" Sherlock cries, not deserting his delightful use of language even during emergencies.
"E Deck!" John cries in harmony.
The Operator scrambles to comply. John even helps him close the steel gate. Victor's valet runs up panting as the lift starts to descend. He slams one hand on the bars of the gate. Sherlock sticks out the finger at him and laughs as Gregson disappears above. The Operator gapes at him as John giggles.
"You're insane!" He declares, waving a dismissive hand towards the operator.
Sherlock gives him a smile that is cute and wicked at the same time, "You're just getting that now?"
Gregson emerges from another lift and runs to the one John and Sherlock were in. The Operator is just closing the gate to go back up. Gregson runs around the bank of elevators and scans the foyer... no John and Sherlock. He tries the stairs going down to F Deck.
Meanwhile, John and Sherlock hasten through the F Deck corridors, stumbling, laughing as they bump into stewards, postmen, maids and other people. John bumps into a steward wheeling a whole load of cutlery, smashing them to pieces.
"Oi! Watch out where you're going!" The steward calls after the retreating figures, "That's White Star Line property!"
"Call for Mycroft Holmes, suite number B-56!" Sherlock yells, "He'll refund it threefold for you!"
They stop for some time somewhere near the fan rooms, a functional space, with access to a number of machine spaces, fan rooms, boiler uptakes etc.
"What're we gonna do now?"
Sherlock looks around him, "Fool him. Run the old man around. At any rate, I'm enjoying this immensely!"
John breaks into undignified giggles, "Are you sure he's only a valet, this fella?"
"He's an ex-Pinkerton," Sherlock pants, "Victor's father hired him to keep him out of trouble... to make sure he always got back to the hotel with his wallet and watch intact, after some crawl through the, uh... less reputable parts of town..."
"Like we're doing right now- uh oh!"
Gregson has spotted them from a cross-corridor nearby. He charges toward them, adjusting his tie. John and Sherlock run around a corner into a blind alley. There is one door, marked Crew Only, and Sherlock flings it open, pushing John into it.
They enter a room roaring with the sounds of engines, with no way out but a ladder going down into the bowels of the ship. John latches the deadbolt on the door, and Gregson slams against it a moment later. Sherlock grins at John, pointing to the ladder, from which hot embers arise, "How far, do you think?" he yells over the noise.
John returns it, "Let's find out."
Sherlock's eyes light up with the promise of adventure yet his tone comes across as warning, "Could be dangerous."
But John simply backs away, letting Sherlock go first, "After you, m'lord."
John and Sherlock come down the escape ladder, scaling the drop of three feet, and look around in amazement. It is like a vision of hell itself, with the roaring furnaces and black figures moving in the smoky glow. An irresistible thrill of excitement passes through Sherlock's spine as he recognises it, "Boiler rooms!" he yells, "I've always wanted to come down here!"
"More coal for number one, mate!"
The stokers seem to work with the rhythm of something undefined yet instinctively recognisable as they hurl coal into the roaring furnaces. The "black gang" are covered with sweat and coal dust, their muscles working like part of the machinery as they toil in the hellish glow.
John and Sherlock are both sweating profusely, with the hot blast of sweltering air blowing in their faces, feeling like the sting on an insect. The heat makes them shiver. Sherlock turns around to see the little steam pressure dials. Full speed, he gathers. The iceberg warning from the morning hits him but all his thoughts are lost over the din.
"That way!" Sherlock yells, "We're somewhere in the middle. The engines are towards the stern, and I always wanted to see them-"
"Hey!"
They turn around to see one of the stokers scowling darkly at them, "What are you two doin' down 'ere?" John pulls Sherlock away in the opposite direction as they break into a run again towards the front part of the ship instead, completely disregarding the man.
"You shouldn't be down here!" He yells after them, baffled at Sherlock's quite respectable and very first class attire, "It could be dangerous! Oi!"
They run the length of the boiler room, dodging stunned stokers, and trimmers with their wheelbarrows of coal. They run through the open watertight door into another boiler room. John pulls him through the fiercely hot alley between two boilers and they wind up in the dark, out of sight of the working crew. Watching from the shadows, they see the stokers working in the hellish glow, shovelling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces. The whole place thunders with the roar of the fires.
"Carry on!" Sherlock yells as the men gape at the two of them running about just for the hell of it, "We're just being stupid... well, John's being stupid!" says he, receiving a slap across his back from him, "But you're all doing a great job!"
They all watch baffled as the couple darts past everyone, not having enough processing to register that there's an Unbonded Omega in Heat amongst them. One of them even lets go of the handle of the wheelbarrow as he watches the two dashing about like children. It trips over and lands on the feet of another, almost crushing his toes.
"Ow, you bastard!"
John and Sherlock escape into giggles. "Own it, lads!" says John, "High praise from the one and only Sherlock Holmes!"
In the First Class smoking room, amid unparalled luxury, Mycroft sits at a card game, sipping brandy. Victor mingles effortlessly with everyone, like always. But this time, his tension is quite evident as he keeps checking his pocket watch all the time. Mycroft gives him a slight nudge as Gregson returns to them.
"Will you excuse us, gentlemen?" says he, as the two of them rise and go to him. Gregson doesn't wait to submit his report.
"He was with him," Mycroft and Victor know very well who this 'him' was, "In your stateroom."
Victor's jaw muscles clench at this noticeably as he grits his teeth. Mycroft notices this and takes charge of the situation. He had underestimated John.
"What do you mean 'was'? Where are they now?"
Gregson looks down, feeling very small, "Outran me."
Mycroft closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, "Please fetch Andrea to our suite, Mr. Gregson. She'll be in the dining saloon probably. I'm sure Victor and I can find our way back."
He gives him and his employer a curt nod and walks away.
"We should probably check if something has been stolen."
Victor notes Mycroft's bland but determined tone and simply nods as they walk out of the smoking parlour and to the Grand Staircase.
Mycroft cannot describe how betrayed he feels upon hearing Sherlock's treachery. The silence between them is tense, like the sword of Damocles hanging upon them. At this point, he doesn't care about anything. He just wants his brother back, safe and sound and with his virtue intact.
Upon entering the stateroom, Victor almost collapses owing to the incredibly strong odour of pheromones still persisting in the air. It is nothing like he has ever sensed before. His mind, his defences are dissolved for a moment as he feels his throat constricted by the feeling. Mycroft, being a family Alpha, isn't much affected, but it is clear from his face that it is strong even for him. He goes and throws open all the doors for the suffocation to diffuse away.
Victor grinds his teeth together. The scent from yesterday was not even a fraction of this. Mycroft goes into the inner rooms, thinking the worst, looking for any signs of incriminating evidence. He doesn't find any.
"Check your safe," says he as he helps the incapacitated Victor to his feet. Andrea and Gregson also arrive at this point of time.
Victor goes and dials in the combination. Inside, he finds John's sketchpad and the note enclosed by the engagement ring. The rest of the party peek over as he stares at the drawing of Sherlock, his face clenching with fury. Andrea and Gregson look away, slightly embarrassed as Victor crumples the note, then takes the drawing in both hands as if to rip it in half. Sherlock has finally got to him, to his breaking point. He tenses to do it, then stops himself as Mycroft places his palms on his hand gently, restraining him.
"I have a better idea."
The furnaces roar, silhouetting the glistening stokers. John and Sherlock are now making their way back through the darkness, still running as far as their feet can carry them. Suddenly John stops and grabs Sherlock's elbow, pulling him closer, gasping for air. Sherlock leans down to kiss him just as John opens his mouth. He smiles before closing the distance, making the tone of the kiss as tentative as he always did. He gently pushes him till Sherlock's back is against the wall. He straddles his waist as he kisses him ever so gently and carefully, like he was afraid, even terrified to hurt him. But Sherlock shows no sign of discomfort other than the fact that he is incredibly aroused.
Sherlock urges him forward, clutching his shoulders and running his fingers through his sweaty hair as John slowly plies his mouth open, not able to control any longer, slowly snaking his tongue inside.
"J-ohn..." he moans softly, rolling his hips forward against his without being fully conscious of it, his knees giving away at the feel of their tongues mingling together, sending sparks and shivers down his spine.
Sherlock has never felt anything like this, nothing so arousing and so overwhelming. To feel John straining through his trousers, and to think that it was for him, and when John takes his lower lips between his teeth and bites gently, while running his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip, he completely loses it, shuddering violently and forcing him forward, tightening his grip on the nape of his neck.
"John," he moans, triggering goose bumps all over his body.
But it's nothing compared to the feeling of John's mouth travelling away, his lips trailing over his cheekbones and to his earlobe. Sherlock lets out a shuddery gasp as his eyes widen in surprise, causing John to almost snort into his neck. He tastes the sweat trickling down from John's forehead as his knees give away for real this time and he slides down to the floor, collapsing under the feeling of John's tingling breath. His breath picks up again, worse than it has ever been as he grabs a handful of John's blonde hair. His heart jumps in and out of his chest as he feels John's grip on his waist tighten.
"God!" John gasps as Sherlock pushes him away. He looks confused at his remarkably calm expression in the face of so much heat, both inside and outside. Sherlock leans forward, stealing a quick kiss.
"Not here," he pants, the only indication that he too was turned on, "I believe you have more sense than to deflower me in the Boiler rooms, Mr. Watson!"
John turns an extremely fatal shade of crimson, if that was even possible, at Sherlock's bold suggestion, "God, Sherlock! You can't kiss me like that and just push me away!"
Even in the noise and the din, footsteps are discernible. All he needs is a look and they both scurry off and out of there, not wanting to be spotted by any of the stokers.
Victor stares at the younger Alpha ridiculously, "What the hell is this, Mycroft? What have you to say for yourself and your disreputable trollop of a brother?"
"My dear Victor," Mycroft takes the drawing from him and places it carefully inside the sketchpad, the veins in his forehead standing out clearly when Victor calls his brother a 'disreputable trollop', "Sit down in one of the chairs in the promenade for a moment and let the air around you clear away. You are not in a position to talk-"
"Not in a position to TALK?! Of course I'm not, Mycroft! Your brother - my fiancée - just ran away with a steerage rat, damn it!" He kicks a chair in anger and then restrains himself, breathing out his words, "I will not have this - wanton Omega," he almost spits it, "as my mate."
Mycroft's heart stops right there. He sucks in a breath and his anger at the older Alpha, wanting to retaliate with dissolving the whole engagement itself, accusing him of trying to rape his brother, but he tries to calm himself down anyway, speaking in the only language Victor could understand, "You know I would not deal dishonestly with you, Victor. I assure you that nothing has happened, or will happen. Watson is a gentleman-"
"So-so... you're standing up for him, now?" Victor hisses, taking full advantage of his height, his eyes paranoid and psychotic, his carefully cultivated composed self entirely forgotten to fury, "You're taunting me like he did? He's in Heat, Mycroft! Even God cannot stop an Alpha from taking an Omega in Heat..."
For the first time, Mycroft realises how wrong Victor is. He has seen the evidence for himself. Nothing had happened in there. And if one considered Sherlock, if anything had to happen, it would have been in Victor's stateroom. He just wants him back. Whether back with Victor or not is now out of the equation as he slowly sees what his brother had to deal with till now. He regrets his decision to let Victor and Sherlock stay in the same stateroom and the consequences thereafter. However, he hardens his heart and does what he thinks is best for his brother.
"The only way to get Sherlock back," says he with a hard heart, knowing perfectly well that this could break his brother, "is to break his trust in that man... Andrea dear, please get me the list for the Third Class passengers. And take him," he points to Gregson, "a good gun always comes in handy."
"Yes, sir." A click of heels and she's gone with Victor's valet.
"What are you doing?"
Mycroft flashes a false smirk at him, "What I do for a livelihood."
Victor calms down as his scheming mind comes into foreground, looking thoughtful, "I have this," he pulls out Sherlock's 12 carat ring and shows it to Mycroft, "might help." But Mycroft simply waves it away.
"You underestimate my brother, Victor. He'll fall to no such thing. He'll know that we've put it in Watson's pocket, if that's what you're suggesting."
"Then?"
"You just watch," says he, his eyes icy and cold, his voice transforming into a growl, "I'll have him back."
Andrea returns after some twenty minutes, the list tucked under Mr. Gregson's arms. He hands it to Mycroft, who after some moments of going through the names frowns in confusion.
"His... Watson's name isn't there," Victor stammers out, "he's a stowaway, travelling without ticket..."
"Give him over to the master-at-arms?" Gregson suggests.
"Of course his name isn't there!" Mycroft points out, "he said that he had won his ticket in card games. He'd be under some other name. We'll have to find which one. Andrea dear," he rose again, "kindly get me the health inspection log entries."
She nods and leaves without a single question, utmost faith in Mycroft's plans. Meanwhile, Victor frowns, not being able to understand what Mycroft was trying to achieve by finding John's alias name, "What are you planning to do, Mycroft? What else, I mean? If we give him away-"
"He'll simply go and find him!" Mycroft snaps irritably, making the older Alpha cringe, "The trust needs to be broken if they have to be separated," he gazes around at one of the smaller cushions lying on the divan. He picks it up, patting it slightly, "This will help immensely."
John and Sherlock enter and run laughing between the rows of stacked cargo covered in nets. John takes his coat off and deposits it on Sherlock's shoulders, hugging himself against the cold after the dripping heat of the boiler room. Sherlock wants to return it back after a cutting retort of him being as strong as a horse, but he doesn't as John's fingers wrap around his. Anyway, he wasn't going to need that, was he?
"Wow!" says he in amazement looking all around, "there's all important stuff here, isn't it?"
"Furniture," Sherlock agrees, forgotten that some of it belong to Victor as well, "Automobiles, heavy things."
Sherlock pulls him over against one of the wooden cargo boxes, smiling enticingly as he sits on it, John with settling between his legs. The surface is almost as wide as a bed. John puts an arm around his waist, loving and protective as Sherlock grabs the collar of his shirt and guides him towards him, settling against a box on top of the surface, looking into his eyes with such an imploring, pleading stare. It is the moment of truth and they both know it. John licks his lips as Sherlock's gaze stops on them. He strokes Sherlock's face, cherishing him with everything that he has. His hand rests on his cheek, his eyes wide and adoring.
Sherlock's hand rests on that of John's, running his fingertips over the knuckles, the rough skin. He wants to explore it all, memorise the patterns of his callosities. He presses the briefest of kisses to it, not breaking his eye-contact with him. He wants to look away and close his eyes, but he does not, in the fear the he would miss something precious. Every moment was so prized, so irreplaceable.
John looks down and raises Sherlock's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his fingers a little longer than a normal gentleman would. A small sound escapes Sherlock's lips, making John chuckle softly.
"What?" he asks breathlessly, covering up his embarrassment.
"Did that tickle?"
"Why should it?" he demands stubbornly, eliciting silent spells of laughter from John, "Hunting for compliments again? How very pedestrian!"
"You're only inviting me for a challenge, love," says he and kisses his palm this time, with tongue attacking his flesh tenderly. Sherlock does not make a single noise as every nerve tingles within him, making him want to seize him and press his lips to his. But he resists, always the rebellious one at heart; he does not want John to have his way. John only smirks at him from under heavy eyelids as he laps again, taking the soft flesh between his teeth for an electrifying moment. He barely notices the gooseflesh rising on his forearms.
Sherlock's breath hitches, his pulse rate has already reached its limit. It couldn't be any faster than it already was. John continues attacking his flesh with teeth and tongue while trailing his fingers over his hand, the veins, the tendons, the spaces between the fingers. Sherlock knew very well about what happened between an Alpha and an Omega, he had been taught all that back when his gender was determined. All the knowledge has never prepared him for this, the feeling of truly being with someone else, the feeling of stimulation, desire and want and need. He bites back a soft moan as he sees the arousal in John's eyes and when he registers the Alpha muskiness saturating the whole room. John's face is flushed as he finishes with a wet kiss on his fingertips. There's virtually no sign of blue in his eyes as he stammers out, "Well, that... was eventful."
By this time, both of them are half-panting and half-laughing at John's words. Their palms meet again, their fingertips gently touching and intertwining. The smile disappears from Sherlock's face.
"You nervous?" John asks. The tension is palpable and almost overflowing. How could Sherlock be nervous? It was meant to be.
"Au contraire, mon cher," He attempts to joke as leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. His voice is uncertain and yet so sure, "Make love to me, John."
E/N: Next chapter will take some time, probably after 28th of the month because my exams finish on that date, and I'm starting to realise that I have to start studying. x
I'm deleting the sex scene from here because of moderators here on . However I might do it on AO3, seeing as they allow explicit.