Epilogue: In Which the Universe Congratulates Itself
Two Days After the Bridge
Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well. Tonight, I will be leaving your world behind and returning to my own. But I am of two minds. As much as I want to return home to the world I know and the Sherlock I love, I feel like I need more time here, to set things right. I wish we had another day or two to talk through the mirror and sort things out. But this letter will have to do.
First off, an apology. I believe I got you sacked. In my world, I don't have a job, let alone so important a job, and because it took me so long to realize I wasn't in my own world . . . Well, I suppose I would have got you sacked either way, showing up or not. So I'm sorry for that spot of trouble. Maybe Sarah (was that her name? Sarah?) will hire you back if you ask nicely?
"Right there!" Sherlock declared, laughing. "I told you he was polite. Just ask her nicely, John!"
"Shut up, I'm reading," said John, though he smiled.
Sherlock gave his thigh a squeeze, and John continued.
Secondly, your friend Mike may think you had a bit of an episode. I ran into him in the park, and thought he was a stranger trying to pick me up—
Sherlock burst out laughing again, throwing himself back into the couch cushions. John whacked his leg, but his face was bright red from trying not to laugh at the embarrassment he couldn't identify as either first-hand or second. It was sort of both.
—so I ran away from him and declared I'd never met him before. I didn't know how to smooth that over, once I realized my mistake, so I'm terribly sorry to leave you that one, as well. Oh, and I got caught in a taxi without money, so I had to dash away without paying. You may have been caught on camera. Oh, and I haven't returned the library book yet, so there's that too. Sorry.
Third, and this is important: I went to see Harry . . .
John trailed off as his eyes read ahead but his mouth ceased to work.
"What?" Sherlock prompted.
"He . . . visited my sister. He says . . . they had a great time? They, holy fuck, they spent an hour laughing together and drinking Coke? What the hell?"
"This is bad?"
"No! This is"—he searched for the words—"bloody astonishing! How did he do that?" He felt suddenly a little choked up. How had the other John bloody well done that? "He says I have a date with her this coming Friday for more poker and drinks—but no alcohol. She's promised. Not when I'm there."
Overcome, he sank back to the couch and found himself resting against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's arm wrapped around him as he finished the letter.
. . . She really loves you. She just doesn't want to disappoint you, and she's afraid she's done that a lot over the years. So, what I'm trying to say is, be kind to her. And don't judge her on the cork tower. She said that specifically.
And speaking of those who love you. I made him a promise that I'd not say anything, but it's a promise I just can't keep.
"Oh, here it comes," said Sherlock, snuggling closer, and John heard the smile in his voice.
I know that what I told you, about Sherlock and I doing the sex—
Sherlock shot forward in the couch, inadvertently bringing John with him. "Wait, is that how he put it?"
"Shut up, I'm trying to get through this!" John laughed. He was finding it hard to keep going, he was smiling so hard.
—came as a shock, and maybe it's because you'd never thought about it before, or you never imagined that he had any feelings for you. But I promise you, John, I've never seen a man so in love, and that wasn't because of me. It was because of you. He is in love with you, only you, and he's desperately afraid to confess it for fear of discovering he is alone in that regard.
"I wouldn't say desperately," Sherlock countered. He rubbed John's back now, and let his fingertips tease the skin at the neck whenever they chanced there—John knew Sherlock knew John liked it. "He's painting me as some witless, besotted, hopeless romantic."
"Are you not? Ahem."
And the thing is, I don't think he is. Alone in feeling that way, I mean. Maybe you haven't come to know it for yourself yet, but I'm convinced you love him, too. I've read your blog a dozen times, and Betas be blighted if every word wasn't a love note to him.
"Betas be what now?" Sherlock asked.
"It's an expression from his world. It means something like, if this happens, then we're all doomed. Basically, he's saying it's impossible that I'm not in love with you."
"Good to know." Sherlock nuzzled his neck.
I cannot tell you how to feel, but I think I already know how you feel, and if you give it a little bit of thought, I think you'll know it, too. Being a companion to Sherlock Holmes is an amazing thing. Being his lover—
"Ooh, lover." Sherlock licked a stripe at John's collarbone and sucked gently.
—is even better. If you come to see that you love him, don't deny yourself, or him, a second longer. Tell him how you feel. Living these last few weeks in your world has been both terrifying and wonderful. I was left in awe at every turn, and so much of that was because of you and the life you lead. It's a kind of life I didn't know was possible, not for someone like me. I admit I've been jealous of you. I've experienced first-hand a day in the life of the companion to Sherlock Holmes. It's different from being his bond-mate. But I don't think it's either-or. I think it can be both, and that's what I intend to make of my life when I return. Maybe you can make it yours, too. I think that's where we'll find our greatest happiness.
I feel like there's something I'm forgetting, but the day is almost over, and before long, I'll be leaving for the bridge. So I must end this letter. Goodbye, John. I don't think we'll meet again. So I will think fondly of you, and Sherlock, and wish you both the very best, and a long and happy life in your strange universe.
Yours,
John
"Wow," said John, finishing the letter. "That's very bold of him."
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. He continued kissing John's neck. A hand began to rub his inner thigh, inching northward. "Very insightful."
"So if it hadn't been for our, erm, dramatics the night I came back, maybe this letter he had slipped under my pillow would have been the nudge I needed."
"Mmmm." Sherlock's rumbly voice vibrated in John's skin. "I'm glad we didn't have to wait so long."
"It's been two days."
"Two fucking amazing days."
"A man of puns."
They laughed together, and John let the letter fall onto the coffee table so he could take Sherlock's face in his hands and snog him properly. It was all the signal Sherlock needed to grab John's lower back, lift and shift his hips, and press his back down onto the sofa where Sherlock stretched himself out on top of him.
"Wish I could tell him how well it's working out," John said with a gasp, tightening his fingers in Sherlock's curls (Sherlock moaned. Oh, how he loved when Sherlock moaned.) and stirring their cocks together between thin layers of clothing.
"Maybe if we're loud enough, he'll hear us," Sherlock said.
"Challenge accepted."
Five Days After the Bridge
"Where should I look?" asked John nervously as he took a seat in the cushy red leather chair. The lights above his head were brighter than he thought they'd be, and the stage was larger.
"Ignore the cameras, just talk to me," said Heather Hill of the Morning Hilltop Show. "Can we get a mic check? Testing, testing. The bonny Beta bakes a batch of brittle biscuits. Biscuits, biscuits, la la la la, Sam, is that feedback? I think my mic has feedback."
While the crew adjusted the lights and performed the sound check, John fidgeted and tried to find a natural place to rest his arms. Should he cross a leg? Plant both feet on the floor? He felt so out of his element that the most appealing course of action at the moment was to get up and walk right outside to the street and go home. But then he caught sight of Sherlock standing offstage, behind a cameraman. Sherlock flashed him a thumbs up and a wink, and he smiled tight-lipped in return. He could do this.
"And we're rolling in five . . . four . . . three . . ."
The camera man threw a two, a one, and:
"Good morning, I'm Heather Hill, and you're watching Morning Hilltop. With me today is the Omega-Y they're already calling The Goliath Slayer, Alpha Watson, and John the Defiant. Unless you've been lingering in a coma, you've already seen his incredible victory in last week's Marble Arch Dog Fight, which is being recorded—get this—as the first dog fight in history to be won by an Omega."
"Sherlock was there, too," John muttered, then shut up, not sure it was his turn to speak yet.
Her white-toothed smile didn't falter in the slightest, but she ignored him. "We're delighted to have you on the show, John. Welcome."
"Um, thank you. It's good to be here." You have no idea how true that is.
"So tell me, John. What's it been like for you, since defeating the Alpha pack?"
"Oh. Well, um. It's been a little crazy, actually. Letters have been arriving in buckets, I've had to turn off my phone, I keep getting stopped in the street, getting invitations to interview, all of that. I can hardly find time to breathe, let alone take it all in. People are pretty excited about it."
She laughed, but it struck John's ear as somewhat fabricated. "So are you ready for things to settle down again? Return to normal?"
"Um . . . No, I wouldn't say that. I don't want things to just go back to the way they were, you know? I want a better life. A changed life."
"Fame is addictive, isn't it? Let's go back to it: the moment that changed your life. When you stepped into the dog pen, the whole world went quiet. What was going through your mind?"
"Wrong moment."
"Sorry?"
"That wasn't the moment. You said, 'the moment that changed my life.' That wasn't the moment."
"Oh. What would you say—?"
"People are already forgetting what led to the dog fight in the first place." John took a deep breath, preparing to tell a story he had not been a direct witness to, and yet was now an indelible part of his own history. "I was attacked. I was bitten and scented, and if I hadn't fought my way free, I would have been forcibly knotted, too. It was that moment, Ms. Hill, that finally opened my eyes to the truth that Omegas are not safe in this country. It made me angry. And if it weren't for that anger, I never would have entered the dog pen to begin with."
"Oh yes, absolutely. We all agree: Alphas like that are despicable, their actions reprehensible. It's why we have laws—"
"Pass all the laws you want—it doesn't change two undeniable facts. One, Alphas believe they are entitled to Omegas, and two, Omegas do not have the tools to defend themselves. We're not expected to fight, so we don't realize that we can. No, it's worse than that. It's not just about expectations. Every day, every hour of the day, we Omegas have it beaten into our heads that we're inferior to Alphas and Betas, in every way. We're told that we're weak, and stupid, and incompetent. I believed it. I grew up believing it. And it was John who had to prove me wrong. That is"—he backpedaled quickly—"I saw a better version of myself, in myself. A stronger John. Someone that had been there all along, but I was too blind and too scared to let him out."
"So do you think more Omegas should join their Alphas' packs in the dog pen?"
John frowned. "Well, there are risks one can't dismiss, so I can't advocate that."
"Too dangerous for the average Omega, you mean?"
"I am an average Omega. And I've been living far below my potential. No, what I'm advocating is a more egalitarian approach to Alpha-Omega relations so that dog fights are no longer necessary. I'm advocating that Betas get off their arses and see that this isn't an issue that concerns only Omegas. If people, Omegas I mean, are going to take inspiration from what happened in the dog pen, I would hope that, yes, they do fight. Fight for better education. Fight for better jobs. Fight for respect and better treatment. Fight to know themselves and all they're really capable of, because we are capable of so much more."
Heather Hill nodded vapidly. "Every Alpha deserves a happy Omega."
"Are you even listening to me?" John turned in his seat to face the camera directly. " .uk. I've started a website. If you're an Omega, and even if you're not, check it out. I don't need my voice filtered through people like this."
Then, in an action that at last wiped the insipid smile off Heather Hill's face, John unclipped the mic from his collar, pulled the battery pack out from his trousers, and left them on the armchair. Heather Hill, speechless, looked at the camera, not knowing what to do as her guest of honor stormed off the stage. Before they cut to commercial, there was the sound of clapping from the man standing just behind the camera.
Seven Days After the Bridge
On the narrow balcony of a flat on the forty-fourth floor of a high-rise in Canary Wharf, Sherlock was crouched, examining the body of a socialite who had disappeared three days ago—and apparently had been dead on this balcony the whole time. The birds had begun to make a meal of her.
There wasn't enough space on the balcony for more than the corpse and one consulting detective, so John, Lestrade, and some of the other officers waited inside for him to finish his examination.
John was so pleased to be on a case again, he could scarcely stop himself from smiling, which he realized was not an entirely appropriate reaction to a dead body. He had a newfound respect for Sherlock's delight over bloody crime scenes and kidnapped children. Sherlock was just doing what he loved. So what if a smile or giggle escaped from time to time? It was one of the things John had come to love about him. And now sympathize with.
Besides, there were new perks to the job. Sherlock, bent over, arse in the air . . . It was a lovely sight.
Lestrade elbowed him discreetly, and when he glanced over, he was met with an eyebrow waggle.
"What?" John asked, startled from his musings.
Lestrade made funny I-know-something-and-you-know-something-but-I'm-going-to-make-you-say-it-first kind of face. When John just stared at him in bemusement, Lestrade added words to his expression. "So? Anything . . . progressing in that 'department'?"
"Say what now?"
It had been a week since he and Sherlock had been, erm, actively engaged with one another, but it wasn't like they had announced the fact. It wasn't that they were embarrassed or anything. But for both of them, it was still very new, quite private, and, well, it wasn't like they'd left the house much in seven days. And if Mrs. Hudson suspected a shift in their relationship toward the intimate, she wasn't mentioning it. Though that morning, on their way out, John thought he caught her in the middle of a self-satisfied kind of smirk. But then, Sherlock had just pinched his bum at the bottom of the stairs.
"Did you finally say something?" Lestrade asked without parting his teeth, evidently trying to maintain a private conversation among Yard officers.
Wait, where was this coming from? How much did Lestrade know? Did the other John saysomething? John felt his heating blood darkening his cheeks, and as he blushed to the shade of a sunburn, Lestrade's eyes widened in delight.
"That good, huh?"
"Shut up."
Lestrade's grin almost broke his face. "So. You two are"—another eyebrow waggle—"back at it, are you?"
Yes, the other John had definitely spilled the beans. Which surprised him. After all, in the other world, the John and Lestrade hadn't seemed that close.
In answer, John returned his gaze to Sherlock's ass, cocked his head to the side, and smiled. Lestrade roared with laughter.
The officers' conversations in the background halted abruptly, Sgt. Donovan jumped, and out on the balcony, Sherlock straightened his spine and turned toward the room. He pushed open the door, an expression wavering between annoyed and curious on his face.
"Problem?"
Lestrade was still laughing and couldn't talk. John, face still red, just gave Sherlock a wink and said, "Back to work, Holmes."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, but when he turned back to the balcony to continue his observations, John was almost positive he gave his butt a gratuitous wiggle.
One Month After the Bridge
Molly and John sat on one side of the table, Lestrade and Sherlock on the other, each across from his or her respective partner. While Lestrade enjoyed a lager and Sherlock a scotch on the rocks, John took lemonade and Molly cranberry juice.
"Sherlock's taken up the violin," said John, proudly.
"Really?" said Lestrade. "But you're . . ." He trailed off, scrambling for something to replace what John knew he was about to say: But you're an Alpha. And Alphas didn't really go for delicate instruments like violins. Guitars, maybe. Electric guitars. ". . . a bit old to be starting, aren't you?" Lestrade finished.
"We weren't going to mention it," Sherlock griped, shooting John a reproachful look over the rim of his glass.
"He's really good," John said, ignoring it. "Only been a couple weeks, and already he's playing in the level three book. Two weeks ago, it was a scratchy Hot Cross Buns. Now you should hear him on Fur Elise and Downtown Boogie."
While Lestrade laughed, Molly smiled and said, "I'd like to hear that!"
"Come over sometime, and he'll play for you."
"John!" Sherlock protested.
"Wouldn't dream of missing it," said Lestrade.
"John's last interview has gone viral," said Sherlock, mostly to deflect attention, but John detected the note of pride in his voice as well. 'It's world-wide news now. More than fifteen million hits in under forty-eight hours, and still going strong.'
"Yes, we saw it on the news last night," said Molly. "I can't believe you've been asked to address Parliament. Are you nervous? I'd be nervous."
Scared shitless, thought John, who enjoyed a much more profane inner monologue these days. But he'd been hiding his fear and self-doubt a lot for the past couple of months, and even he was beginning to believe himself braver than he was.
He enjoyed these nights out with Lestrade and Molly. It had been a long time since he'd had friends. At least, not the kind you went out with on weekends, just to socialize. And especially not another couple. He and Sherlock had always been the staying-in sorts, and the keeping-to-ourselves sorts. But these days, they were constantly coming and going, often together, but not always. John had meetings with the leaders of the revamped Nothing Knotting organization, and rallies with the newly burgeoning Omega Rights movement. But aside from that, he socialized with new friends, like tonight, or went out on cases with Sherlock. That was probably his favorite kind of outing. The cases. They were terrific fun, and he enjoyed watching Sherlock show off, seeking to impress his bond-mate in a way he'd never sought to impress before.
So nights in, given that they were now fewer, had become more . . . special. So despite all the stresses of becoming a revolutionary, quite independent of his own desires, John had never been happier.
Beneath the table, he and Sherlock was playing footsie.
"I'll manage," John told Molly. "What about you two? Still getting on, I see."
Molly ducked her head, blushing, but her hand was atop Lestrade's on the table, and she gave it a little squeeze.
John liked Molly, and although he was still getting to know her, he felt like they shared a real connection. Much of that, of course, was owing to whatever had happened between her and the other John. He regretted that he himself was not privy to those apparently friendly, confidential conversations, and he would probably never find out. He'd picked up a few clues, but he couldn't ask her outright. So he just had to build on what he knew of the history they shared and what they were now building together. But one thing he had come to understand was that he, John, was in a large way responsible for her positive outlook, despite the horrible things that had happened to her.
"We've found a good sub," said Molly softly.
And that was the other thing: one did not discuss the matters of subs casually. It was awkward conversation for anyone involved. Even as close as John was with his own sister, she had only, ever, just once, alluded to the fact that she and Clara had a sub. They were necessary in Beta-Omega relationships, to see the Omega through a heat, because Betas were of no biological use in that time. People knew about them; they just never talked about them. It was no one's business, really. So the fact that Molly was sharing was a sign of highest comfort and trust in her new friends. John thought he understood the impulse—she'd never really had close friends before, and having them now was . . . liberating.
"Oh?" John asked politely.
"Yes. An Alpha-X. I can't really stomach the thought of even being around the Ys anymore." She smiled apologetically at Sherlock. "Present company excluded."
"I am entirely sympathetic," Sherlock said.
"She's a bit older, and very kind. Very gentle. Her bond-mate passed away a couple summers ago, and she had no interest in bonding again. And we like her. Don't we, Greg?"
"Very lovely Alpha," Lestrade agreed.
"And do you stay for the duration?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock!" John said, kicking him under the table. What a scandalous question to ask!
"What? It's a natural curiosity."
"It's not your business."
"They brought it up."
"They didn't bring up that."
"Yes, I do," said Lestrade, cutting in. "A partner should be there during the heat, bonded or not. It was Molly's request, and I agreed with her. And that, Holmes, is the extent of what all the juicy details you'll get out of us."
Sherlock chuckled. "I'm just glad you've worked it out."
"Oops, that's me," said Lestrade, as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stepped away from the table, and John, Sherlock, and Molly continued chatting. Molly was toying with the idea of writing a book, she said, giving John a knowing look. Aha. John had in some way inspired or encouraged the idea, so he smiled back like he understood. When she mentioned that it would be a detective novel, Sherlock immediately started pestering her with questions (Was it a police detective or a private detective? Did she need help envisioning the details of the murder? It would a murder, wouldn't it? And not something pathetic like a cat-napping?) until Lestrade returned with an apologetic look.
"There's been—"
"A murder!" Sherlock declared. "Marvelous!"
Patrons at the nearest tables turned to give them bemused and scandalized looks.
"—an incident," Lestrade finished. Then, sighing, "And yes, it may well have been homicide. They just pulled a body from the Thames. I'm sorry, Molly, I have to run. Maybe Sherlock and John can escort you home?"
"That's all right," she said, pulling out her phone. "I'll just call for an Omega Uber."
"You're sure?"
The Omega Uber service had popped up within the last couple of weeks, shortly after John's first interview: staffed entirely by Betas, it was a free service, funded by the proceeds of regular Uber cab rides, to transport lone Omegas wherever they needed to go after sunset. John had used it himself, mostly just to check it out, and he was quite impressed.
"Yes, I'm sure," she said. She lifted her face to his and gave him a kiss. "Sherlock and John can go with you."
Lestrade looked at Sherlock and John. "Do I even need to invite you?"
But Sherlock was already dropping enough money on the table to cover the whole bill. "On our way. John?"
That delicious thrill chased up his spine and he pushed his chair back. "Ready when you are."
Six Months After the Bridge
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! My God!"
John practically threw a nurse into the wall as he pushed past her to reach Sherlock's bedside. He mumbled an insincere apology and she straightened her nametag and left in a huff.
"Let me see your eyes."
He took Sherlock's face in his hands and angled it to meet him, then he pulled the skin down at the cheek to keep him from blinking.
"Dilation seems okay. Any dark spots? Double vision?"
"I'm fine, John. It was just a bump."
"It was not just a bump. The man cracked your bloody skull with a crowbar! I watched your eyes cross just before you hit the ground cold."
"My eyes did not cross."
"They bloody well did, you bloody bastard." He gently lay a hand over the bandaging swathing Sherlock's skull. Then, in a much softer voice, he said, "I may have freaked out a little. I let the man get away, and the ambulance took forever to get there because of the snow—"
"I'm okay, John. Really."
"When you collapsed, I thought—"
"I know." He kissed the inside of John's wrist, as it was the closest bit of him he could get to.
"And those morons who wouldn't even let me see you!"
"Who?"
"The doctors, the nurses," John huffed. He lifted a leg, and Sherlock shifted so John could sit on the hospital mattress more easily, and their fingers slid together. "You know how it is. The family-only policy is strictly enforced while patients are in the ICU. But it's not like Mycroft was hanging around. Apparently, he's in Brussels. Asked if you would live, and when I said yes, more likely than not, he said fine, and hung up on me."
"He always was my favorite brother."
"It was bloody maddening."
"Well, if you were my husband, this would be a non-issue."
John's teeth clapped together and his breath hitched. Then Sherlock, the color rising in his cheeks, sought distraction and started fiddling with the bed controls. But he didn't take it back.
"Sherlock Holmes," said John, pulling the controls out of his hands and setting them aside. "Did you just propose marriage to me?"
Sherlock sniffed. "No need to romanticize," he said off-handedly. But his cheeks remained inflamed. "It's a practical solution to an ongoing problem. This likely won't be the last time one of us winds up in hospital, and I don't fancy being on the other side of that door any more than you do. Besides, one can't discount the financial benefits of marriage, and as far as tenancy goes, it dramatically simplifies the paperwork. Travel, possessions, life insurance, it all becomes more tenable, spouse to spouse. And no court could order us to testify against each other, which we may one day need to rely on—mmf."
Minding the bandages, John, unable to restrain himself a moment longer, shut Sherlock up with a kiss.
His mind was spinning, heady with the fog of affection and devotion he felt for this man. He kissed him. He was so in love, it hurt everywhere, even in his toes, if he didn't do something about it. He kissed him. A future without Sherlock in it was no future at all, and he would do anything and everything he could to ensure that they stayed side by side. He kissed him. Maybe he hadn't given any thought to marriage before because he already felt that they were a fixed unit and nothing would change that, and the truth was, nothing could, but to think that Sherlock was even willing to entertain the notion, let alone desire it, suddenly, marriage took on a whole new level of significance, and now he knew that he wanted it too, and he needed to answer the proposal in the affirmative. He kissed him.
"Is that a yes?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.
"That's a hell yes."
He kissed him.
One Year After the Bridge
They were on the trail of the Teacup Burglar, the notorious crook who broke into people's homes, stole their teacups, and left behind dead rats on the saucers. He took money, jewelry, and electronics as well, but the teacup-rat swap was his trademark. So far, sixteen hits on London flats. One of the victims had contacted Sherlock the day before. He took the case.
But it was while interviewing a member of Sherlock's Homeless Network in a crowded park that John felt the first cramp, low in his abdomen, and his body flushed with heat. Sherlock caught the scent and cut the interview short.
"You should keep working," said John as they made a beeline for the road to hail a taxi. "It'll be a few hours." He winced as another pang shot through his gut, but he kept walking.
"Nope," said Sherlock simply.
To say that John's biology had escaped Dr. Stapleton's invasions unscathed would be untrue. Sherlock had been able to rid him of the mad-Alpha's scent and restore and reinforce his own scent, but whatever she had given him, and what other stressors he had endured, had thrown his heats off. His whole life, he had been forty-one and three. Now, he was unpredictable. He was anywhere between thirty-one and fifty-two days between heats, and their duration varied between twenty hours and eighty-nine.
He had been quite distressed during those first few heats, after the bridge. Heats already made him feel out of control of himself, but at least there was some consistency, and he knew how to handle that. Now? He was too often caught by surprise. He couldn't always plan around them, or plan for them. And after several consultations with his new heat doctor, Mike Stamford, who identified a hormone imbalance, he was beginning to accept that there might be nothing he could do to correct it.
"I lead a team," said Dr. Stamford, "dedicated to the study of Omega hormonology, and we're in the early stages of developing a drug that can manipulate hormones involved in heats. I'm afraid it's still several years away from market, though. In the meantime, you're just going to have to rely on your Alpha to see you through."
If it weren't for Sherlock, John didn't think he'd be so okay with the changes to his body. Shortly after his return, and then in light of his next heat, which was six days late, Sherlock told him everything he knew of what had happened in Dr. Stapleton's labs—as far as the other John had said and what more he had guessed. John was horror-struck when he learned of it. It seemed worse than the Alpha attack. He couldn't believe that the other John had gone through something like that, and come out of it with his wits intact.
They arrived back on Baker Street, and John had barely made it through the door into the flat when another vicious cramp took over his body. He groaned, clutched his abdomen, and bent over. Sherlock steadied him, supported him, rubbed his back, and waited for the wave to pass. Then, as John straightened, sweaty and panting, Sherlock lifted him into his arms and headed for the bedroom. It was too soon do anything—his body needed anywhere from two to five hours to adjust in preparation for taking the knot—but if he had to be in pain, this is how he preferred it: lying in his bed, clothes off, a light sheet over his skin, and Sherlock near at hand. As his scent intensified, so did Sherlock's, and just his proximity was enough to calm him.
For two and a half hours, Sherlock was in and out of the bedroom, getting water, preparing meals, holding his bond-mate, putting holds on his emails and other business, stroking John through a particularly difficult cramp, turning on the AC, turning off the AC, and doing everything necessary to make John comfortable, until—
"Now, Sherlock. Oh God, now, now."
Sherlock undressed quickly. He pulled back the sheet. John was ready for him, on his back, with knees splayed, eyes blown wide with need. Sherlock was ready for John, penis erect and straining, fingertips tingling with want, heart thrumming with desire. Before the bridge, their mating had always seen John on his side or on his knees, with Sherlock taking him from behind. Since the bridge, they always met like this, face to face. Sherlock crawled onto the bed, between John's knees and hovering over his body as John reached for him. And as he drew Sherlock's face to his for a kiss, Sherlock slid inside of him in one, long push. John gasped; Sherlock trembled. And after three, passionate thrusts, John's pain dissolved. He swam in pleasure.
As the hours wore on and the nights and days passed, they would assume other positions, try new things. John had discovered a certain liking for being on top and riding him to heaven while Sherlock stroked his cock and groaned out his own fulfillment. There was the one where Sherlock sat with his back against the headboard and fully seated in his lap. There was the wall, and the shower, and sofa, and the table. But always, at some point, they returned to this, just this, lying in bed, facing one another, and making love as they kissed.
At the end of three and a half days, as they lay sated in each other's arms, Sherlock's phone dinged with a text. He half-rolled on top of John to reach his phone, then squinted to read.
"Whozit?" John murmured sleepily into his pillow.
Sherlock's lips found the back of his neck before answering. "We've just become godfathers."
John rolled onto this back, smiling. "Molly had the babies?"
"Two little x's. Both Betas."
"That's fantastic."
"They're naming them Sherlock and John."
John blinked. Then he saw the teasing light in Sherlock's eyes. "You liar," he laughed.
"Margaret and Lucy."
"That's better. Come on! Let's go meet them."
John started to rise, but Sherlock's arm wrapped around him and pulled him back, flush against his chest. "John. It's two in the morning. Let them rest."
John looked to the window and saw that it was night. "Oh." He exhaled and snuggled closer. "All right then. Just got excited." He rested his cheek against Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock began combing fingers through his hair. They would need to shower and clean the room soon. But not yet. Morning. "I'm very happy for them."
"Me too. Our pack just got a little larger."
"God, I love you."
Sherlock's hand paused. "I love you, too. But what brought that on?"
"I felt it. So I said it."
"I see. Well. You know what happens when you say things like that to me."
John lifted his head smiling. The heat was over, but that didn't mean they were. "What?"
"I get . . . amorous."
And with that, he slipped his head below the sheets. John started giggling, and didn't stop until Sherlock's next actions took his breath away.
Two Years After the Bridge
"Right there, Sherlock. Yes, yes, you got it, just like that. A little to the left. Perfect."
John gasped.
Because right at that moment, the wooden chair slipped, and Sherlock, who had been balancing on it as he leveled the mirror on the wall above the mantel, leaped to avoid crashing to the floor. But the mirror wasn't so lucky. Not yet stabilized, it pitched forward, and fell, as though in slow motion, but it was lost. Next second, it shattered against the hearth.
"Oh shit," said Sherlock.
They had removed the mirror to begin with in order to repaper the wall after the unfortunate exploding-toads incident (it took them three more days to track down the elusive Reptile Bomber), and now they were trying to set the sitting room to rights. Mrs. Hudson was one of the most tolerant landlords in all of England, but the toads tested her resolve and she hadn't been back up to the flat since it happened, and swore she would not, until she could walk through the door have be none the wiser.
They spent the next half hour sweeping away broken mirror shards, hoovering the rugs, and disposing of the destruction. "Don't tell Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "We'll replace it, and she won't even notice."
But that evening, Sherlock found John standing alone and contemplative in the sitting room, facing the bare wall, with something of remorse about him.
"What's wrong?"
John was startled out of his thoughts. "Hm? Oh. Nothing. It's nothing. It's just—Nothing. It's stupid."
"Tell me."
John sighed. "The mirror. I guess . . . I guess I've been holding on to the foolish hope that, one day, somehow . . ."
"You'd see him again."
John laughed at himself and rubbed the back of his neck. "I just wonder, sometimes. How things are for him. For both of them."
"I do, too." Sherlock came up behind him, wrapped arms around his shoulders, and squeezed gently.
"It wouldn't work now anyway. The mirror. The only reason it worked before was that part of me was there, and part of him was here. We shared space. My mind in his body, his in mine. But now, being fully separated . . . It just couldn't work. And even if it could . . ." He shook his head, laughing regretfully. "Mirror's gone. And that's that."
"I've often wondered about them," Sherlock said, laying his head against John's as he continued to hold him fast; John placed his arm along Sherlock's, his hand atop Sherlock's hand, and absentmindedly stroked the band around his finger. "It's a shame, really, that we can't just pop over for a visit. I'm kind of jealous."
John snorted. "Yeah? Maybe next time the universe can swap you. See how you like it." Then he grinned at the thought.
"I would have been an Alpha, though, wouldn't I? And the other Sherlock? He would have gotten the humbling of his life."
They laughed together, imagining how things might have gone differently, but they had talked about this before, and they knew that what had happened had happened the way it did for a reason. It was good the other John had come here. And it was good he had gone there.
But two years had passed, and the further and further away they got from it, the more it felt like a dream. And Sherlock thought he understood how John felt about the mirror. It was like just one more link to those few, strange, life-changing days two years ago had been snapped.
Five Years After the Bridge
"From a patient of mine," said Mike Stamford, in answer to the question of where he had got the idea for series of drugs that could act as suppressants and regulators of Omega heats, now in the final stages of human testing. "An Omega-Y, who shall remain anonymous, expressed his frustrations over the nature of his heats, and his desire to have control over them. That's what planted the seed. And from there, after thinking on it for a long while, it began to germinate."
Mike sat at the long table with his colleagues. The press release was being aired live, and the panel was anticipating hard-hitting questions from the press.
Another reporter stood.
"Dr. Stamford, you claim the drug can control an Omega's scent. Inhibit it, in fact, so that one can't be identified as Omega in public. Won't that have a negative or, at the very least, interfering effect on bonding?"
"We're actually discussing a range of different drugs. So no, actually. The drug you are talking about, the scent inhibitor, is designed for unbonded Omegas who do not want to be identified as such on the streets, thereby offering that Omega a certain level of protection against Alpha packs. It does nothing to alter their heats however. That requires a different drug. And the former has not been proven safe for bonded Omegas, because of the nature of their chemistry, which includes the Alpha scent. We're still developing a drug for bonded Omegas that can also hide scent from any Alpha other than the bond-mate. But further research is required in that area."
"Dr. Stamford, regarding the scent inhibitor: what side effects, if any, have you observed in trials?"
"In initial trials, test subjects complained of fever, nausea, headaches, and disorientation. After a series of modifications, we have been able to refine the drug to eliminate any fever or nausea whatsoever. In the most recent trials, one in every ten subjects experienced mild to moderate headaches, and about half complained of disorientation. We believe that the disorientation is owing to the nature of the inhibition: they can smell others, but not themselves, and it's a confusing thing. Alphas on inhibitors often have the same complaint, so it's not an unexpected result. But trials have also shown that it's a matter of adaptation: in short time, these same subjects learned to become accustomed, and so disorientation is now described as a temporary effect."
"And how long does the drug last?"
"It's a fast-acting drug, taking effect within ten minutes of oral administration, and depending on the dosage, can last anyone from two hours—the length of a brief shopping trip, for example—to twelve hours. It is not recommended, at this time, that Omegas take an inhibitor for more than forty-eight hours at a time. And, it bears saying, during that time, Omegas can become orientated within the first hour of inhibition. I dare say many would be willing to accept this minor, temporary discomfort in lieu of the alternative. And it also bears saying that we are continuing our work to keep improving the duration and lessening the disorientation. But we're very pleased with the product as it is, and we think Omegas will be, too."
"What do you say to those Alphas, Omegas, and even Betas who are angry about these drugs, calling them unnatural and dangerous?"
"One, they are not dangerous. There are no adverse effects whatsoever to an Omega's health. In fact, one might argue that there is rather a positive effect, if it helps prevent assaults. And as for the unnatural part?" Dr. Stamford shrugged. "For Omegas: Don't like it, don't take it. And for Alphas and Betas: It's really none of your business."
Applause rippled throughout the room.
When it settled again, Dr. Stamford ignored the newly raised hands and said, "Look. Not in our lifetimes, but on the horizon—two, maybe three centuries from now—the human population will be comprised of only Betas. Evolutionary biologists and geneticists agree: the trend seems irreversible. People talk about the disappearance of Omegas, followed by Alphas, as if it means a species is going extinct, but that's not true. Alpha and Omega, these are biological traits, not the beginning and end of the human race. And sometimes, traits disappear. Sometimes they're introduced. Thousands of years ago, we were all Betas. Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe nature is correcting for that now. But we as a species are not going extinct. It's just our characteristics that change. If people stop being born with blue eyes, that doesn't mean those same people stop being born. They've just traded one trait for another. That's reproduction. That's evolution. It's all fine. Let nature paint her canvas. In the meantime, let us do what's right by our Omega brothers and sisters.
"Maybe one day Alphas and Omegas will exist only in the history books and as legends. What legacy will they leave behind? One of oppression and unhappiness? Or one of complementary parts, working and living and loving together? Now is the moment in the history when we choose the latter, and work together to ensure it."
On Baker Street, where John and Sherlock watched the press conference on the telly, Sherlock clapped John on the back then squeezed his arm, pulling him in for a hug.
It was another victory.
Ten Years After the Bridge
In her will, Mrs. Hudson left 221 Baker Street and its three apartments—a value of over three million pounds—to its occupants of twelve years: husbands Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
"If it weren't for her," said John, as they returned from the funeral, "if she'd not been renting, we never would have met." He threw his jacket on the sofa and stood in the center of the sitting room, looking around, trying to remember that first day, so many years ago.
"No. The story would have been different, but we would have met all the same," countered Sherlock. He stepped around to face John squarely and rubbed his upper arms, consolingly. "And then we would have been looking for a place to rent. Mrs. Hudson would have become a part of our story, one way or another. I'm sure of it."
John nodded mournfully. "I'm going to miss her."
"I told you. We can have her stuffed. Keep her in the foyer, greet her whenever we come home."
"You cock," said John, but Sherlock's attempts to lighten the mood did crack his face into an unwilling smile. He reached up and Sherlock encircled him in his arms, and they laughed their saddened laughter together in a warm embrace.
She hadn't been ill long, but when she took a turn, it was a fast downward slope. At her age, there wasn't much the doctors could do. So Sherlock and John did all they could to make her comfortable and happy in her final few days, before she quietly—and quite contentedly, she insisted—slipped away.
John hugged Sherlock tightly, enjoying the comfort of their chests pressing together and sharing a single heartbeat. For a long while, they stood like that, John stroking Sherlock's neck, Sherlock rubbing John's back, and then John opened his eyes, and he saw himself in the mirror. But he was surprised to see just how splotchy his face looked, how red his eyes. He didn't realize he had been crying.
Because . . . he hadn't been crying.
"Sherlock," he whispered, as his reflection's wet eyes widened slowly. "I want you to turn around. Slowly."
Sherlock made a curious humming noise and slowly broke the embrace. He rotated slowly. John kept a hand on his arm, and together, they faced the mirror, the one they had bought after the first was destroyed. There, on the other side, in a different universe, another Sherlock and John stood together, facing them.
The Johns broke into smiles. The Sherlocks stood in dumb shock.
"How is this possible?" Sherlock asked, breathless.
"Don't lose eye contact," John coached, and though he still gripped Sherlock's arm, he went for the nearest notebook and pen within reach.
"It's them," said Sherlock. "It's really them. It's the other world."
"I know, I know," John said, scratching excitedly onto the paper:
You're still here! You're still with us!
At the same time, the other John, who had launched for his own pad and pen, said:
You survived the bridge! Thank God!
John's eyes burned with happy tears as he nodded, looking between the other John and Sherlock. Sherlock. He looked just like his own Sherlock, of course, but a little taller, slightly broader, but seeing him now, a flood of decade-old memories flooded back, and John swore he could almost smell him, too. The other Sherlock looked at him, and something passed between them, an understanding he would never be able to quantify or articulate, but it was real, and powerful. Something similar was passing between his Sherlock and the other John.
Over the next few hours, the wonder of the mirror didn't falter, and they filled pages and pages of written communication, the four of them together. The Sherlocks were filled with questions; the Johns caught each other up on everything that had changed since the bridge. Some things were the same: Lestrades had married Mollys; Mycrofts had become Prime Minister; Mrs. Hudsons had passed away three days ago.
But there were differences, too: in John's prime universe, Lestrade and Molly had twin daughters; in the other John's, they'd had twin Beta-Xs, twin Beta-Ys, and an Omega-Y. In the prime universe, John and Harry had reconciled, and their relationship had never been better. The Harry and Clara of the other world had become leaders in the Omega Revolution. In the prime universe, Mycroft remained single and aloof; in the other, Mycroft, reformed on the issue of Omega-Alpha relations, had done something radical, and allowed a Beta-Y to mate with his Omega, and Anthea had given birth to a healthy Beta-Y Mycroft claimed as his own son: Mycroft's scent, part of Anthea, was present in her child.
We have a very large pack these days, the Sherlock of the other universe wrote, proudly.
The Sherlock of the prime universe was thunderstruck.
For their own part, John explained how he and Sherlock had married nine years ago and Harry had served as his best man, and Sherlock chimed in that the photographer had tried to murder one of the guests, making it a perfect wedding day. While the other John looked dismayed, the other Sherlock nodded approvingly. Then John showed John the faint scar left behind when Sherlock had bitten them, their first time together.
A bond mark!?
As it were.
The other John wiped away tears of happiness.
Sherlock has one, too, in a less . . . visibly accessible location.
The other Sherlock threw his head back and laughed.
From the other John:
I knew you two loved each other. I knew it.
The sun set, and midnight crawled closer. He couldn't describe it, but John knew that soon, the connection would lessen, and then break. And that would be that. This, the chance to reach across a great void, was gift from the universe, and one they would not be given again. He could see in the other John's eyes that he knew it, too. And they were both at peace with it. The universe had righted itself, and so how could they feel anything but peace, and joy?
Thank you, John, Sherlock. [John showed his final message to the mirror.] For changing our lives.
Thank you, John, Sherlock. [The other John raised his notebook at the same time, his last words to cross time and space.] For changing our world.
They held gazes, offered grateful smiles. Sherlocks held their Johns. Johns lifted hands in farewell. And slowly, the connection faded, and John and Sherlock were looking at their own reflections in the mirror, as, really, they had been all along.
The End