The journey through Pennsylvania Avenue is mostly quiet. Neither Alpha acknowledges the other's presence as the car rides in silence past the various government buildings. John taps his fingers on his knee, not knowing whether Mycroft is taking him to a place of detention.

They get down near 17th Street. John clambers out of the weary car ride—he's never been in one, except for an uncomfortable lorry ride—and looks up at the large building. The streets are so wide that he is, for a moment, unable to figure out how or where to stand.

Finally, Mycroft gets out, and leads an awed John inside the State, War and Navy Building, "Close your mouth," is all he says, "No need to be impressed. The architecture is truly a monstrosity."

Finally, the door of Mycroft's office closes behind them, and Mycroft motions him into a chair. John watches the place warily. Mycroft peacefully settles across him and starts with some paperwork. John watches him silently as minutes trickle by, and Mycroft doesn't pay him any heed.

"You never went back to London," is all John says after fifteen minutes of tension and avoidance. Mycroft pauses in his writing, but otherwise doesn't look up, "Why?"

"May I ask, what prompts that question in your mind?" Mycroft asks quietly. John looks away.

"I thought you'd have returned, after. . . well, I certainly didn't believe you would've given Sherlock away back to that penguin after everything. You lived in London, so I thought it logical that you went back. I located the estate but. . . well, it was sold. . . well, auctioned—"

He stops when he sees the clenching in Mycroft's fists at the word 'auction', of the reminder that all their memories are seized by banks, "The estate was mortgaged, something we hoped to settle with Sherlock's betrothal to Trevor. But Trevor is dead now—"

"Dead?" John enquires sharply, "I didn't read that. But I did read of—"

"Of Sherlock making an exposé? And then faking his death to deepen the guilt on Victor Trevor, yes. That was a splendid event," for a second, there's almost a proud smile on Mycroft's face.

John gives an untimely chuckle, thinking of the 'fake death' murder they had solved aboard the Titanic, "Yeah, only Sherlock can do that."

Mycroft shoots him a look that John mostly ignores, "And then?"

"That's where the trail lies cold. Sherlock disappeared into thin air. I traced him till one week succeeding the exposé, and then he disappeared. I didn't have much influence back then, so I wasn't able to send people after him," his face turns graver, "I don't know what kind of people he might have fallen with. He is an immature Omega who hadn't seen the world at all, and. . ."

John waits, hardly daring to breathe. Where might Sherlock be now, and what horrors must he be facing now?

". . . And then came his supposed death."

John inhales sharply, "How did you know he was alive?"

"The body was that of an Alpha," Mycroft says, "The NYPD were too dense to figure it out."

At this, John looks shell-shocked, "Wait, Sherlock killed someone?"

Mycroft looks at John as if he's never considered that avenue. He blinks and frowns as John keeps his eyes on him. He shakes his head, "Look, Mycroft. Sherlock can never kill anyone. He's. . . he knows the sanctity of a human—"

"Perhaps," Mycroft's face hardens back, "desperate times. . . call for desperate measures."

John lets out a humourless laugh, but dismisses the topic altogether. He isn't here to sit in an office and figure out whether Sherlock really can. . . When he meets him again, he can hear it from his own lips.

Before pressing them to his own, John thinks, with a leap of his heart.

"So, the trail went cold after his "death"?"

Mycroft bites his lip, and then rises from his chair. Fishes around for something in a cabinet as John watches patiently. Mycroft seems to find something and passes it to John, "There you go."

John opens it. It's a collection of newspaper clippings, a photograph of a police report dates September 2nd, 1912. No post mortem report, just the name: Charles John Basil, aged 17 and nine months from January sixth.

"That's the official investigation report, closed a week after the death. I don't know why Sherlock would do something drastic as that, seeing as he had already ruined Victor. And if he was on the run from something, because that's what it looks like—faking death to avoid enemies, it's an old trick—I can only imagine the seriousness of the situation he must have been in to do something so severe."

"He's reckless, but he's clever too. He must have escaped," is all John can mutter in admiration and a little bit of pride. Mycroft coughs pointedly at the present tense.

"But I hardly see any point of you hoping that he'll come right back to you after having forgotten you for two years."

"He took my name," is all John mutters to him, pointing to the name 'Charles John Basil'; a proof of Sherlock's faithfulness when a shard of ice pierces through his heart at Mycroft's words.

"You might hold to your chest what you had for three days, but if something like Titanic could founder, it's not hard to assume that the mating over three days could too."

"Oh, so you're comparing a Bond to a ship now, are you?" John challenges.

"It was considered unsinkable," Mycroft exemplifies, "You're too misguided by folklore, John. Nothing stays forever."

"Not all things," John corrects him stubbornly.

A sigh. "I know my brother. Although I wouldn't say that he is very adept at moving on, going by the way he refused to part with a poison oak shrub he had planted in the backyard of our estate, it's likely that three days of a fling have been overcome by the need to protect himself and to make his way in this harsh world. Besides, he thinks you were claimed by the Titanic."

John frowns at Mycroft, but wills himself to stay calm.

"How do you know that Sherlock hasn't moved on from you, John?"

John purses his lips and speaks after a long time, "He's Bonded to me."

"With his consent, another Alpha can Bond with him by knotting and then—"

"Stop," John growls, and Mycroft clicks his mouth shut, "I don't want to hear anything."

Mycroft shrugs, "Survival of the fittest. That is nature, John. Bonds are not as permanent as the folklore makes them out to be."

"I will puke on your desk if you say a word further, Mycroft," John looks away, "If I could be faithful to him all this time, so can he. I wouldn't worry about that. The only thing I'd worry about—is his safety. He's—I know he can take care of himself, just that, he," John shakes his head, reality gripping him cold and hard, "he is too reckless."

"You should worry about that too, John. You were forced to stay faithful to him—by biology. An Alpha is Bonded to an Omega, not the other way round, so as to "calm the wildness". Sherlock can. . . well, whatever he does, he can keep his Bond to you. Nature's way of ensuring that more and more offspring are—"

"One more word, and I'll end up doing something both of us will regret."

"Very well," Mycroft acquiesces, seeing that he is simply angering John more and more, "And if I turn out to be right, what will you do then?"

There's no change in John's demeanour—which is odd because his eyes are always so expressive. And then, comes a low Alpha growl, angry and betrayed, remembering the hurt Sherlock had felt when Mycroft had set John up as a cheating spouse, "I don't plan that ahead, Mycroft."

Mycroft nods. Reasonable enough, and who is he to argue? "How do you propose we start?"

John sags against his chair. Try finding Sherlock in a country like United States.

"We know that he hasn't left the country. If he did, my people would've alerted me to it instantly, like what happened with you."

John nods, understanding, "That leaves us. . . pretty much the rest of the country. Shouldn't take much time."

"John—" Mycroft begins, but he cuts across him.

"What—why didn't you search for him? He's your brother."

Mycroft's mouth does a funny thing at that, which he conceals behind a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"He renounced me the day he chose you."

For one second, John looks stung, and then his features harden and become bland, "He loved you."

"If he desired, he could have stuck with me the day he gave his statement. He values his freedom far more. . . you gave him that."

John seems to consider this, and then clears this throat, "Alright, so you're saying that you haven't tried to search for him even once?"

"Let's lay that to rest," Mycroft closes the files and rests his elbows on the desk, "what do you think Sherlock would do in America?"

John shrugs unhelpfully, "You must know. I was with him for three days; you, on the other hand, were with him for practically his entire life."

"And yet your relation to him is stronger, as you claim. Bond," Mycroft exclaims distastefully as if the word ought to be purged from the dictionary.

John shakes his head, "I did not say that. Besides, you're closest to his brain. You'll know."

"You're closer to his heart," Mycroft admits, "You'll know his instincts better than I would."

John goes back to the moment when he had proposed to Sherlock to elope. That was right before their lives had been steered into separation. There's in fact, yes it's there. What Sherlock wanted, what he had in his heart. In the last conversation that they had had. When the stern of the Titanic was at sixty degrees, John had said, about university, about medical college, about crimes.

"He liked solving crimes," John supplies. Mycroft looks stunned for a moment, at the horrendous choice of occupation for an Omega, but recovers within a second, "go on."

"There was this fraud-slash-murder on the ship," he struggles to remember the details, "Sherlock got them arrested by—by proving the charges against them. If there's anything Sherlock would do, it would be—he'd be some sort of a criminal agent or a detective."

"Detective?" Mycroft repeats dubiously.

"Yes, a really clever one, a good one. And. . ." John thinks hard, feeling overwhelmed that he's got something, a step closer to Sherlock, "that'd be hard to miss the attention of newspapers—a local newspaper perhaps. I'll. . . I'll know in a minute if you can dig something up like that."

Mycroft is staring at him intently, just like Sherlock used to—and it's starting to become vaguely disconcerting. John is about to open his mouth to ask if there's something wrong when a phone rings, thankfully shattering the unbearable silence.

Mycroft picks up the earpiece, brings it to his ear, "Yes?"

John can hear a gentle murmuring from the other line, and then Mycroft signals him to leave for some time. John looks at him suspiciously, but leaves anyway. There's gratefulness in his eyes, before Mycroft looks away and starts speaking into the mouthpiece.

"Not now," Sherlock growls as Erik Von Bork—Sherlock isn't sure if that is his real name, but he continues calling him Von Bork in his mind—continues to scent him from behind him. It's slightly disconcerting to him how John and his intermixed scent are slowly wafted away as Von Bork continues to rub against his backside, smelling the rich, musky odour of the heat-fuelled hormones. Sherlock tries to push it away and makes the gesture affectionate—but serious enough.

They're in Sherlock's old flat in Boston, the one he used as his base while he had been working for McCarthy. The next wave of Heat is due two hours—Sherlock had miscalculated and the Heat began earlier than he had expected it to be—and with the peculiar sustenance intuition that comes over an Alpha after a round of mating, Von Bork settles for making poached eggs, the sound of which is familiar to Tom by now. The infant—now quite sure of his hand movements and able to bang the steel mug right on Sherlock's head—instantly turns towards the source of the sound and points to it.

"Yes I know, poached eggs," he rolls his eyes, "Yes, you love the disgusting runny yolk."

Tom tries to roll his eyes, trying to imitate Sherlock. Fails. He throws a sulk at not being able to do such a simple thing. His cries have become silent, unlike when he was nine months old. More like John's stoic nature perhaps, Sherlock thinks automatically.

When Tom is unhappy, he makes it known to everyone in the house, much to Von Bork's displeasure. The two hours between the waves of heat-fuelled lust that Sherlock is supposed to have spent as only a watch on Tom with a pistol tucked away under the mattress of the sofa if Von Bork even touched him without Sherlock's permission is spent taking care of Tom, who is burning up. Sherlock's hands shake uncontrollably as he feeds Tom the medicine. Tom looks up at him, his eyes watery and sad, even heartbroken, and it twists something dark inside Sherlock, the thought that he had so selfishly given himself away to an Alpha while in Heat and ignored Tom's discomfort. Sherlock tries to keep off panic, of admitting him into ER over possibly a common cold and all sorts of crazy things that are coming into his mind. Despite the sort of screech that he had made a few minutes ago, Tom looks offended as Sherlock waves the bitter potion in front of his little mouth.

"Just this last spoon," Sherlock says tiredly. "Please," he tries.

Tom, all the while sobbing quietly, looks like he's giving it a sniff, and then fervently refuses the liquid. Sherlock splays one large palm against his tiny skull, petting his soft, silky hair, knowing that he likes it too much to ignore his mother. But Tom is way too bossy even for someone who's down with fever.

"Keep doing that," comes Von Bork's voice, who has now retired to the sitting room, "he'll never take the medicine."

Sherlock pauses, gaining the steadiness of his hands, "Maybe, you can show me," when he turns to Von Bork, he looks at him with cool interest and challenge. Von Bork returns his expression in kind.

"I have been a father," he says.

"Don't say that," Sherlock chuckles, "It makes you sound old."

He raises one eyebrow, "We'll see about that later, won't we? Now go rest on the sofa, I'll see to this troublesome child."

Tom gives him the look that acutely says my own mother couldn't get me to take the medicine, how will you? Without asking, Von Bork takes the spoon from Sherlock's hands and waves the spoon carefully around him like a drone. He fusses and kicks his legs, frustrated at being unable to communicate anything across verbally except 'da-da' and 'no' and 'go' and not being able to let the man in front of him understand his dislike. Von Bork softly chuckles and begins to speak to him, not baby-talk. Just how. . . normal adults talk, and Sherlock is impressed by the difference it makes.

"I'll need those suppressants," Sherlock finally says as Tom looks betrayed that Mr. Von Bork had lied to him about the taste. He rises and scoops Tom up in his lap, feeling the soft, smooth skin burning, "He's feverish."

"There's a Beta couple downstairs," Von Bork says, not keen to miss a single round of coitus, "They can keep him for tonight."

Sherlock chuckles, "I thought you were a father."

"I think I left out 'paranoid'."

"So you did. But I'm not going to leave my fever-down boy with some strangers."

Von Bork shrugs, "Well enough. One day less, consider that in your calculations."

Sherlock changes his plans for the night as Von Bork turns away with a devilish smirk and closes the door behind him. Feeling his abused entrance with a wince, Sherlock puts Tom down and looks at his suppressants with distaste now. Without another thought, he devours them.

"Altamont?" John repeats.

It's been a week since they began their 'Quest for Sherlock Holmes. Their search for a rude detective who is unquestionably efficient with his analysis of crimes concludes with one Irish-American unofficial detective, John Altamont who hails from Chicago. There is the heinous case of a missing tea cup, of a bank robbery and of the murders of a mother-daughter family where he stayed as a tenant in.

"Matches. Height six feet, raven-haired, pale complexion, obviously posh 'git' and certainly not an immigrant, claims the sub-inspector," Mycroft chants, "parades as an Alpha. He always wanted to be an Alpha."

"Can he do that?" John says dubiously, ignoring John's last statement, "Sherlock is—"

"An Omega who'll be affected by Alpha scent around him. Sherlock controlled himself around Alphas all the time, if you remember. No need to be so. . ." he trails off.

John frowns at Mycroft before continuing with his analysis, "Well, it's a dead end. Assuming that Sherlock is this Altamont person—"

"—he's run off yet again," Mycroft finishes, "and is a suspect in the murder of Martha and Louise Jefferson."

"Christ," John buries his face in his hands, "is there any. . .photograph?" he asks hopefully, wanting to see a glimpse of his beloved. Mycroft shakes his head.

"He was already pretending to be dead. Do you think he'd be that stupid?"

John gives a forced chuckle. Mycroft heaves a tired sigh and moves on, "However, you might find his trail."

John looks up, "Sorry?"

Mycroft tosses the files on his desk, "I had a word with the kind Captain the day before yesterday. 'Altamont', being an Irish-American, frequented a club called the Breckenridge's. I can't imagine why he'd lower himself to that but it's a start."

John looks at Mycroft directly, "So, when do I go down?"

Mycroft smirks at his willingness, "Not even a briefing, soldier?"

"I know how to do an Irish accent," John informs him, ". . . somewhat."

"That's what you'll do, would you?" Mycroft chuckles, "Go down to them, pretend that you moved in and then ask them about Altamont, and they'll happily give you the information?"

"I like it," John replies drily, "nice and easy to remember."

Mycroft's clenches his jaw, "Oh yes. Pray tell me what your avenue of action would be?"

John seems a little lost for words, but he begins resolutely, "Well, I can provide a story of a car breakdown, so that they accept me into the club without much question. I'll begin chatting about Sherlock, make up some story. Sherlock must've been a recognisable character in there, if he was such a famous "unofficial" detective, and I'd say that Altamont was my long-since friend and that we were set to meet in the club. They're bound to give something, yeah? I mean, they may be fairly decent blokes, Irishmen."

Mycroft nods, contemplating this.

"And then I go to my next destination, and keep searching till I find Sherlock."

Daring, risky is all Mycroft thinks, "And you expect me to finance your. . . expedition?"

John scans him, "I'll not run away with your money, if that's what you're implying. I will return with him, Mycroft. You're his brother, and you two have the full right to see each other."

"Very well then," Mycroft rises and John follows suit, "I suppose I have no choice but to trust you. Every time you enter or leave a city, you will dial me up with your next directions. And if you don't, I will make it impossible for you to leave the country, John."

"I don't know why but I believe you," John replies coolly. "But if he does not want to see you, I will not be able to guarantee making the two of you meet."

Mycroft is stony-faced for a moment, and then he extends his hand, "Then we have an accord?"

John looks at his hand briefly, shakes, "Just one more thing. I'll require one more equipment."

"Yes?"

"A photograph of Sherlock."

Mycroft is a little surprised, for he frowns, "Photograph?

"I think they'd be idiots if they believed me with just a name. Besides who knows, Sherlock might have made every alias for every place he's settled in. So, do you have a photograph of him?"

Mycroft paces around, "All our belongings were claimed by the Titanic. . . but there's a newspaper cutting of Sherlock right before he disappeared. It's not very clear, but—"

"Good, I'll. . . have that," John says, his heart rate becoming sickeningly light and rapid. His fingers tremble and it curls around a fragile piece of paper detailing in cheap newsprint ink his face. The ink had been smudged, the paper old and crinkled. Sherlock's face is partly hidden by the collar of his coat and of the magnesium flashes of the cameras. John couldn't have named one flaw on him.

When he closes his fist, he can almost feel Sherlock seeping into his skin, burying himself into his very core. He briefly considers kissing the photo as if the contact could reach through paper and the hundred miles between them, and then he remembers Mycroft standing there, watching him, "I'll leave now. I'll set tomorrow morning by train."

"Until then," Mycroft utters, "Godspeed."

I'm coming, love, is all John thinks as he gets out of there, his primitive plan slowly developing towards more finesse.

The second day of Estrus is bearable, and blindly pleasurable. Erik slams down his prick hard into Sherlock again as the Omega pants, writhes against the sheet, moaning and begging.

"More," Sherlock demands breathlessly.

"You want more?" Erik grabs his hair and tugs at it, devouring Sherlock's mouth, "I'll give you more!"

"Oh yes," Sherlock begs, "Harder!"

They move against each other frantically, trying to hold onto something. Sherlock has his hands fisted in the bed sheets, rutting when Erik touches his dusky flushed prick. Erik mounts him and clamps down on his flesh, panting and wheezing and growling all the same. Sherlock is aware of the slap-and-thud of their hips and he simply joins in with more fervour. It's always so fast, and over so quickly, the heat-fuelled-sex, it leaves barely any time for intimacy that mating is supposed to bring, or was that just some other Alpha?

"I'm—oh, yes! Oh hell, yes. More, Erik, more!"

"You like that?" Von Bork laughs, "You greedy little bitch?! God, you're so magnificent like this. . ."

Sherlock closes his eyes, "Feels so. . . oh, I'm—I'm coming, love. Oh God, I'm coming!"

The sensation is too unbelievably perfect. The feeling of something so huge, making him feel so stretched as Von Bork pushes the ballooned knot into Sherlock with a barely-contained groan of pleasure makes Sherlock's toes curl and makes him want to snap his legs shut. Sherlock opens his eyes to see him still atop him, eyes closed, breathing raspily as he rides out his climax like that, simply by feeling Sherlock clenching around him. There's no hot liquid gushing in him, the one feeling that truly comforted him during his first time, but still, an experienced Alpha is much preferred to one not so.

It takes him approximately four more minutes to collapse on top of a still knotted Sherlock and bury his nose in his neck. Sherlock cradles his head gently, kissing the crown and running a hand down his torso. Von Bork mumbles something incoherent, which makes Sherlock stir.

"What?"

Von Bork raises himself from the comfortable repose in Sherlock's neck when he says, "I think. . . I might be falling in love with you."

Sherlock smirks, and kisses him slowly, an open-mouthed drag of lips over lips and tongues entwined together, "And I you."

Von Bork examines him, "Do you, now? Prove it to me then."

"Have me any way you want tonight. I'm yours," Sherlock offers hoarsely, but Von Bork simply chuckles, grinding against Sherlock a little and making him moan softly.

"All this is already mine," he says, squeezing his breasts with both hands. Sherlock covers his hands with his palms and caresses his finger gently. To make his point, Von Bork fixes Sherlock with a sinful, predatory look, while he takes out a tongue and licks a nipple. The simple, sensuous act sends shivers of desire through Sherlock's entire body, "I'll run my tongue over your body and claim you so many times that that odour—that Bond bite," he says with revulsion, "will disappear into nothingness and all you'll remember is the touch of my hands on your body.

Sherlock gives a small inaudible cry as Von Bork pinches a nipple too hard but still manages in an even voice, "What would you. . . have me do, Erik?"

But the Alpha gives him a smirk and proceeds to take a breast in his mouth, lapping at it as thick, white milk leaks from it. Upon being given a dark look, Sherlock stutters, "It's a natural reaction."

But Von Bork continue to suckle the fluid down his throat eagerly while grinding their still knotted genitalia together. Sherlock's sighs and moans are again spilled into waste.

When Von Bork is finished with his ministrations, he gently pulls out of Sherlock and lays down beside him, "Do you. . . remember your brother, Sherlock?"

Sherlock makes a face, "Mycroft. Ugh, I hate him. Don't ever remind me of him during our times together, Erik. It's annoying."

"Yes, I slipped up yesterday, but I promise," here he gives Sherlock another dark look that says that Sherlock better set his game straight, "I'll finish today."

"You want me to get you to Mycroft?"

"You want yourself to get me to Mycroft," Von Bork corrects, "which will also involve you wanting yourself to get yourself to Mycroft first."

"So I must go back to Mycroft? I'm better here," he snuggles into Von Bork, "with you."

"It's temporary, my dear," the man strokes his chin, "You'll come back, and I will make sure of it."

Sherlock chuckles, "I'll always come back to you. which reminds me," he pulls himself out of Von Bork's grasp and reaches for a flask, "You need to drink this."

Von Bork peers at it, "What's this?"

"It's a much enhanced glucose formula, will keep up your energy during our next session."

Von Bork narrows his eyes, "Does that mean that I wasn't energetic during this?"

"Well, I'd have blamed it on age, but. . ." he eyes Von Bork's naked body, "you're a marvel."

The Alpha smirks, and slowly drinks it. The effects are almost immediate, because he hugs Sherlock's chest, mumbling some gibberish and then he is slowly asleep.

Sherlock glances at him, and then takes the suppressant pill so that he wouldn't be inconvenienced by Estrus for the rest of the day. He removes Von Bork's one hand from his breast, and lulls himself into sleep, hoping that Von Bork wouldn't remember anything of the conversation they had had after their climaxes. He'd go and get Tom from day care in the evening, nor trusting Von Bork with Tom at all.

After all, he had calculated the dosage, hadn't he?

Okay, I thought we were near the end, we're NOT near the end yet. I'll keep this storyline till 1917, since that's when US stepped into the Great War, followed by an epilogue. We're in 1914 yet, but I'll speed things up.

And don't trust whatever I say ;) I might change it anytime when I start feeling uncomfortable about writing in the past