Three days.
Three damn days.
Three days of Mycroft and Lestrade with their platitudes and reassurances (hollow though they were) – three days of Molly Hooper regarding him with the saddest brown eyes imaginable. Three days of everyone at Scotland Yard (no thanks to Anderson and his propensity towards gossip) greeting him with the sorriest expression they could muster. It was…
…it was maddening, vexatious, tedious.
But - it was not nearly as horrible as the quiet of his mobile, or the knowledge that the one person he loved desperately, in truth, was lost somewhere in the great brick and mortar jungle of London…if he was still in London. Sherlock didn't even want to entertain the possibility of John having been spirited away to some other city, or worse, another country altogether.
It took Mycroft less than 48 hours to gather everything the British Government had on Sebastian Moran. During this time, Sherlock accosted the restauranteurs listed in the receipts from the study. One by one he visited their establishments, questioning, seeking answers from the owners.
Soo Lin Yao was the most helpful. She was a sweet young Omega woman, from China originally, with a heart shaped face and large, dark eyes. When Soo Lin spoke it was in a hesitant, stilted sentence pattern that identified her as a recent immigrant, having known but probably not regularly spoken English for very long. She worked (and lived) in a small restaurant named the Jade Garden, running it along with her quiet Beta brother.
When Sherlock showed her the hastily printed military mugshot of Sebastian Moran, she recognized him immediately.
"He comes by here sometimes, other times we deliver. My brother usually takes the orders," she pushed a lock of shiny, black hair behind a small ear, "but I deliver on my bicycle."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, catching the scent.
"Tell me where," he said, commanding and forceful. He did not feel guilty when she stared back up at him, eyes widening, small glossy pink mouth open in awe. The apex Alpha knew then that she would do anything he asked, answer any questions - show him anything he wanted. He knew this familiar push and pull of pheromones and sex, and he always knew how to be the dominant partner. A lesser person might have thought this kind of power unethical, but Sherlock, this was part of who he was, after all…and this was all for a reason. He needed to find his Omega.
His Omega.
John.
It was always John now, the small man with the blond hair mixed with grey like shimmery, silver threading in a tapestry. He kept Sherlock right - and he would continue to do so when Sherlock found him. They'd stop their tiresome little mating dance and finally have each other, be with each other, when John was free. Sherlock knew this, deep down in his chest and deep down in his gut; where his Alpha instincts bubbled and rolled with a fierceness he was never fully able to suppress.
And he knew John felt the same, because Sherlock was almost never, ever wrong.
In the end, it was only a distance of three short city blocks until Soo Lin pointed at the seemingly abandoned and condemned warehouse. On the outside, there was no indication that it had been occupied or even used in any capacity in years. This was on the outside though, and as the old adage says, it's always what's on the inside that matters.
He wanted to run in 'guns blazing' (as the Americans say) immediately, he wanted to call Mycroft and Lestrade and let them know if he didn't return in an hour with John, then send in the Royal Army. But, he stayed his hand, and let the cool salve of logic soothe his manic brain. Instead, he quickly informed the powers that be of his new discovery. Unfortunately, this led to an intense surveillance detail that lasted nearly 24 hours.
Sherlock was beside himself.
"What the hell is taking so long Mycroft? If it was some kind of warehouse full of pies and cherry tarts, we wouldn't be sat around here twiddling our thumbs! Oh no, you'd be in as soon as you could manage!" Sherlock twirled away from Mycroft's Partner's desk, woollen blazer stretching dangerously tight to his lean form.
"Patience Sherlock," his older brother intoned, leaning back on his antique chair, the oil painting of Queen Victoria resplendent behind his well-tailored back, "you of all people know we should not rush these things. We have no idea what kind of security system they have, or if this is even the right address. My men, along with the Met, will gather the information needed before we 'storm the castle,' as it were."
"Every moment, every second we spend out here, John continues to remain in danger. Is this nothing to you?" Sherlock spat, turning round again slowly.
Mycroft sighed, a long and impatient sound that rattled around the dark walls of his office.
"I know what he means to you, brother. But I also know that these are ruthless people that have killed many, and I will not put my own blood in danger unless I know for sure we are headed in the right direction," his voice raised in pitch, ever so slightly, "shout at me all you want, Sherlock, but rest assured that when the time is right, we will strike. You will get your John."
Sherlock held his brother to his word.
And so, they found themselves outside of the warehouse, sun having set an hour ago, and three damn days after John's disappearance and much, much too long after all this had begun.
Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder with Lestrade and another young officer from the met, Officer Murray (just call me Bill, please), a small but powerful Beta that Mycroft had personally recommended for the raid. The very atmosphere was tense and quiet, the silence only broken at odd intervals by the irregular static of a handheld two-way radio. Unmarked police vehicles lined the streets, as inconspicuous as possible, and groups of men had gradually been gathering and taking their places for the raid that was soon to come. Sherlock felt very nearly like this was the calm before the storm, the quick, rapid flash of pure light before the thunder and rain came barrelling down.
"Right," Lestrade whispered with authority, wiping his face against the mist in the air, "you two are purely here for John. Our other teams have circled round back, ready to move in at Mycroft's command. It's their job to do the dirty work. You two are only here for John, is that clear?"
In the diffuse lamplight, Lestrade's salt and pepper hair glinted dully, but he was in his element. It showed in the readied stance (hands flexed but loose around his radio and gun) and the gruff cast of his voice as he issued his orders.
Sherlock leered at the young man next to him, irritated that, in the end, it was Mycroft who was in charge of the John Rescuing Operation (as he called it in his mind). A longer glance, and a well-timed inhale, concluded that this man was a Beta (more or less neutral, but leaning towards Omega tendencies), with two cats and a, quite frankly, terrible case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
"Why do I have to go in with him?" Sherlock managed to keep his abrupt opposition out of the question, but it was a near thing. He was never really any good at feigning nonchalance when emotions ran high.
Lestrade sighed, attaching the radio on his belt and checking the bullet proof vests both men wore for protection one last time.
"You need someone trained in combat with you Sherlock, we talked about this. Your brother agreed."
"I am well trained in combat - I have a black belt in Baritsu, as you well know," the Alpha paused, he didn't recall being present for this so-called conversation with his brother and Lestrade, "you really do everything my brother tells you, don't you?"
Lestrade levelled the younger Alpha with a vicious glare - he was heading into dangerous territory.
"He'll be your protection Sherlock, and I don't want to hear another word about it."
Officer Murray remained silent throughout the entire exchange, eyes moving back and forth from the consulting detective and DI like he was watching a particularly engaging tennis match.
"Look," he offered, his tenor splitting the tension between the other two men, "if it makes you feel any better, I'd much rather be home watching Top Gear. They're showing the one with the Reliant Robin again," he snorted with amusement, "classic."
Silence – then one long, long measuring glance from Sherlock Holmes.
"Fine," Sherlock sniffed, looming over the smaller man, "are you proficient with that gun you're carrying?"
Murray shrugged, checking the magazine and clicking the safety off. "As proficient as you are at being a poncy git."
Sherlock sighed, high-pitched and overdramatic. "Fair enough."
That last sarcastic remark was punctuated by a fair bit of crackling over Lestrade's radio that quickly gave way to the voice of one Mycroft Holmes, issuing the command to begin operations.
"That's it, that's the signal. You two wait till we have the entrance secured, then go in and get John. Don't do anything stupid, alright? Their security is pretty light, just a few ex-military and maybe a dozen hired security guards. Should be fairly easy to handle, but I don't want you to use that as an excuse to be careless."
Sherlock nodded once, his entire body tensed in readiness, excitement flowing through his veins as a companion to the blood that nourished his tissues and vital organs. He managed to listen, vaguely, to Lestrade as he explained the entrance they would use (a rusted set of double doors on the south side) before everything went to hell, quite spectacularly.
John leant over the body of his would-be lover, grimacing and pressing the palm of his right hand against his wilting erection.
That had been almost fun. That had been exciting. John had never felt so overtly sexual, so utterly and distinctly powerful.
That John could feel all these things about seducing a complete stranger, a boy really, was entirely worrisome. It was probable that the Alpha was only here on orders and truly didn't mean him any harm (though honestly the Nuremburg defence was really no defence at all), and that was the only thing that prevented the erstwhile soldier from planting a bullet directly into the Alpha's frontal lobe.
John stiffened, gun still grasped in his left hand and smeared with a thick swath of the other man's tacky blood, as red and blue lights suddenly filled the white-tiled room in a strange visual tattoo of warning. There was no sound, only lights, rapidly pulsing on and off in a strobe-like pattern, obviously signalling some kind of silent alarm.
"Fuck," he spat, straightening, feeling all the strength in his body redistribute to his core in a tell-tale flight or fight response. He glanced quickly at one of the dark, bubble-like projections in the ceiling, knowing full well it was a camera and someone had seen him take out his personal sentry.
Now, he knew he didn't have time to fuck around. While he wasn't sure who exactly this alarm was alerting, he was fairly certain it would result in lots of men with lots of loaded guns.
His blood thrummed in his veins, turbulent and hot, his muscles singing with the extra perfusion of energy and nutrients. He hadn't felt so keyed up and focussed since his time in Afghanistan. It was a feeling he'd sorely missed.
"Right," he quipped, cocking the gun and checking the mag, "now or never, John Watson."
He didn't stop to think what kind of sight he made: a scruffy, too skinny, and underfed Omega, furtively darting around the room with the seat of his pants soiled by his own secretions. At this point, it didn't really matter; his mind had assessed his situation, stamped down on any non-essential bodily functions, and formed a plan of attack. While he knew nothing of the layout of the place, he knew how to fight, he knew how to damage sensitive soft tissue, and he knew how to do it quickly and silently. The gun was only a last resort.
John leant down into a crouch, his movements slow and controlled as he crawled towards the door. The body of the younger Alpha remained blissfully still by the cot, and John surmised it would probably be a bit longer before he woke up.
Two separate pairs of footsteps echoed down what sounded like a long corridor just outside his room. This was not unexpected, and John inhaled a readying breath, positioning himself low and to the side of the entrance. He could hear quick breathless whispers, and was able to deduce two men (Alphas by the thick smell of them), itching for a fight and most likely dispatched by the alarm.
Well, there were only two after all, and John hated to disappoint.
Just as the profile of the first Alpha passed the invisible barrier of the open doorway, John attacked. He swung his right arm away from his side, clenching the barrel of his weapon, and delivered a murderous blow with the butt of the gun to the man's nose.
It exploded in a spray of blood, sprinkling John's hand and forearms in fine, carmine droplets as the man screeched and made to bring both hands to his face. While he was still startled into inactivity, John darted in front of him and grabbed his cheap black tie, pulling it roughly down and towards him. The man flew forward with another startled cry, and John cocked his knee upwards, ramming the man's temple into the dull, blunt surface of patella. John grunted in satisfaction as he heard a distinctive crunch and the man sagged down heavily towards the floor.
Everyone who ever met John had always underestimated his physical capacity and proclivity for violence. This attack had only taken seconds, and the other Alpha who'd answered the alarm only stared down at his unconscious comrade with abject astonishment. John wasn't sure if he was lucky, or if this man was just so inexperienced that he allowed himself to be caught off-guard by a wee bit of grappling and hand-to-hand. No matter, don't let anyone ever say that the Omega wasn't one to take full advantage of his enemy's shortcomings.
John lurched over the downed and bleeding security guard, clenching his left fist as the remaining guard scrambled backwards in terror. The Omega then struck a hammering blow straight to his mid-section, harshly gripping the man's gun arm as he doubled over. With a move borne of years of intense training and practice (really, it was just like riding a bicycle), he swung the man around roughly, lifting the Alpha's arm behind his back so forcefully, he could see the sharp jut of his scapula through his cheap suit as the man's bones twisted and shifted to accommodate the unnatural position.
The Alpha bellowed, his hand spasming and releasing the gun, while John smiled in dark amusement as he heard the low thunk of metal hitting the ceramic floor. He slammed the man face first into the white wall, practically crushing his ribcage, sneering as he did so.
"Tell me where to find Irene Adler," he demanded, his body flush against the other man as he tucked his gun inside the waistband of his scrubs. It wasn't exactly a snug fit, but it would do for now.
The other man gasped for breath, squirming in pain, his free hand clutching uselessly against the wall.
John reached up, grabbing a coarse handful of the man's dirty brown hair. He pulled his head back with a snarl, fancying he could hear each and every vertebrae twist and grind as he forced it backwards with devastating strength.
"Tell me where she is!" John didn't bother to raise his voice, he kept it low and direct, savagery and inherent bloodlust implied.
The man cried out again as John continued to hold his neck back painfully. Eventually, he managed to gulp in a few stuttered breaths of air, working his mouth noiselessly until he found his words.
"I – I…please stop!" He begged, voice thick and choked with obvious pain.
"Answer the question!"
The Alpha shifted, barely containing a whimper.
"She – she's down the hall, to your right. First door - agghhh," he gasped again, "f-first door to the left! Is that what you wanted? Christ, let me go!"
John's nostrils filled with the overwhelmingly acrid smell of fear and urine. The Omega frowned and looked down, taking in the sight of the man's trousers slowly darkening with fluid. This man, this Alpha, had just wet himself. Right then, John had had enough. He couldn't allow even a smidgen of sympathy or sentiment to enter his thoughts now. He needed to escape, find Irene, find Marcus's killer, get the hell out of here, then find Sherlock.
John grimaced, tightening his grip on the man's hair once more and maliciously shoving it forward to slam his head against the cold, unforgiving tile of the wall. The Alpha howled in pain, and John noticed a bright splotch of blood on the wall, staining the grout and contrasting nicely against the white. He did this one more time with unerring brutality, and the man, like his comrade before him, fell to the floor, limp and pale. The spot of blood bloomed larger now, dripping in long scarlet stripes down the vertical surface. John managed to suppress a visceral rush of gratification, but he couldn't ignore the inappropriate tingling and firmness all the excitement brought to other, more intimate areas of his anatomy. He adjusted himself with a dark grin, shaking his head with rueful purpose; he hadn't had a reaction like that in years. That would need to be explored a little more in depth…later.
Though he had downed three of his enemies in rapid succession, he couldn't allow himself to relax now. Guards were like cockroaches, if you see one, there are likely dozens more. He quickly checked the pulse of the two unconscious men, making sure their heartbeats were strong, before standing and pulling out his own gun once more. The first guard would likely wake up with nothing more than a headache, the second would have a broken nose for sure, the third – well, John was maybe a little too rough with that one. He'd certainly need to be treated for a shoulder sprain, at least. After all, John was a medical doctor - he knew how to sprain people.
He swiped his bloodied forearm against his brow, displacing heavy beads of sweat and smearing fine lines of blood across his forehead. What did the man say?
Down the hall to the right, first door on the left.
Right.
Sherlock sprang into action immediately, ignoring the hissing curses of Lestrade behind him.
This was bad.
This was worse than bad because it wasn't immediately clear what set off the alarm – and now the entire warehouse was alerted and their window for getting John out of that hellhole had just shortened dramatically. He shoved the first policeman that dared to get in his way away with a dangerous growl and barrelled forward, a singular purpose in mind.
A kind of controlled chaos erupted around him, now that stealth was no longer an issue, Lestrade and the other team leaders began barking orders left and right. It made no difference that Adler and others knew they were coming, something had tripped the alarm, and time was now of the essence.
Murray, to his credit, was a noiseless shadow behind him, following his lead and exuding a quiet confidence that reminded Sherlock of his own oft-underestimated Omega.
"Are we sticking to the same plan?" The Beta asked, dextrously sidestepping another officer as they made their way around the large building.
"There's no reason to change our course now. We continue with the information we've been given, but when we get inside…" Sherlock stopped, only for a moment, to regard to the smaller man, "how are you at improvising?"
Murray answered him with a sly grin, "I'm no slouch."
"Good," Sherlock loaded his own gun with a metallic clink, joining the group of officers gathered at the double doored entrance on the south side of the warehouse.
The order was given, and two broad-chested Alphas gripping a small but dense battering ram came forward. With a coordinated countdown, they swung the Enforcer, slamming it into the seam of the doors. The steel tube trembled, almost as much as the run down doors quivered against the impact. One of the men holding the ram grunted, flexing a heavily gloved hand against the vibrations.
It only took two more blows before the door finally gave way. The left side swung inwards with such force, it clacked against the inside wall with a bang, releasing dust, dirt, and bits of rust particles kicked up by the violent entrance.
The trained officers swarmed in first, fanning out and into the building with military-like ease. Sherlock and Murray came behind them, less interested in securing the premises as they were in reaching John and extracting him, unharmed, from the warehouse. It was their mission, after all.
It was Sherlock's only mission.
John crouched, moving down the hallway slowly, back curved and body weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Every long, elegant line of his body was taught with potential energy, it simmered under the surface, ready to be sprung at the slightest provocation. He carefully moved one foot in front of the other, gun grasped in both hands in front of him and pointed towards the floor. No one else had come for him, but he wasn't counting himself free of danger just yet.
He wiped a sweaty palm on the surface of his thigh, then replaced it against the warmed grip of the gun. Taking one more cursory glance down the hallway behind him, he set his sights forward and onto the door, wherein he was told he could find Irene Adler.
He really, really hoped she was in there. John needed answers, he needed to know why, and he'd be damned if he was leaving without them.