Author's Note: Hello everyone! I appreciate all your favorites and follows so much! This had been the biggest writing project I have ever done in my life and I am almost finished ! OH MY GOODNESS! All of your kind words and reviews make me so happy! Thank you! Only three more chappies to go! - Blue
Sherlock gingerly poured a bit of milk into his tea, allowing the thick liquid to swirl in fanciful wisps before finally settling in a homogenous mixture and granting the tea a lovely caramel colour. He brought it to his lips slowly, conscious of the steam still lifting from the surface, but he cared little as to whether or not it had cooled sufficiently for drinking. The first sip seared his tongue, and the tacky membrane of his inner bottom lip stuck momentarily to the gilded edge of the teacup as he pulled the antique china away from his mouth.
He stared at his brother, his face a mask of disappointment and ill-disguised, dark amusement.
"The woman escaped the clutches of Mycroft Holmes?" he queried, his voice mocking and intentionally provocative (but not without a hint of concern), "why however did that happen?"
Mycroft Holmes sat across from his younger brother, one leg swung casually over another, the bottom of his trousers lifting ever so slightly to reveal the argyle pattern of his dress socks. Beside him, his ubiquitous umbrella rested upright against the plush, brocade arm of the chair. He rolled his eyes, gathering his hands in his lap before responding in an icy tone.
"Your sarcasm is neither endearing nor offensive enough to goad me, brother mine - needless to say, it involved the injection of a sedative of questionable nature, and at least more than one co-conspirator in our midst. We are still trying to puzzle out exactly how she managed it." He brought his own teacup to his mouth, sipping gently, his face so impassive that it was impossible to tell whether or not he enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's tea making skills or not.
"Puzzling out?" Sherlock scoffed, plopping his small half-empty piece of china back on the serving tray with a clatter of porcelain on enamel, "I fail to see the great mystery. She has an accomplice, simple as that. Someone behind the scenes, obscenely powerful – someone who, I believe, funded not only the London study, but the others as well."
"An excellent theory," Mycroft admitted begrudgingly, "but our surveillance and chatter analysis have led to no such conclusion. It appears Wilkes and Adler were acting on their own…even Dr. Frankland was but a peripheral component in their schemes."
"Ah yes, whatever happened to the good Dr. Wilkes?" Sherlock leant back in his chair, placing both arms wide against the armrests, legs crossed, mirroring his older brother.
"He was detained two days after Adler whilst trying to board the Eurostar at St. Pancras, attempting, but failing, to flee to Paris. Quite an unimaginative man, you'd think South America, or even Southeast Asia would have been more appropriate for fleeing the British Government."
"And Dr. Frankland?" Sherlock was only vaguely aware that, had this been any other case, he would already have all of these little details processed and filed away. However, his focus was less and less on the perpetrators of the horrible experiment and more on the Omega laid up in hospital with a gunshot wound to his right thigh.
"Also detained…I suspect neither of them will see anything other than four solid cell walls for a good long time. They are charging Wilkes with the deaths of least twelve young men, and Frankland as an accessory."
The apex Alpha nodded, gathering his hands in front of his chin and running his thumb over the smooth, downy underside of his bottom lip.
Both men glanced to the window when they heard the muffled sound of a car door closing, followed by voices, several of which were very familiar.
Sherlock shot up from his chair, momentarily upsetting the tea tray, though it merely wobbled, spilling bits of his tea on its smooth painted surface. He flew to the window, pulling back the lacy curtain with needless force. He stared for a quick few seconds then whirled, turning on his brother with barely contained excitement disguised as indifferent haughtiness.
"I grow tired of your presence dear brother. Leave now." Sherlock dashed over to the mirror, checking the way his curls laid just so over his forehead in the way he knew drove John crazy. He ran two large hands down his bespoke white dress shirt, buttons almost straining at the slim fit (too tight, some would say). It showed off his lean but muscled physique in a way no mass produced garment ever could. "What do you think of this shirt?"
Mycroft sighed, eyes bulging and lips pressing together in a frog-like frown. "I daresay he will probably not notice, since he'll still be in a great deal of pain and –"
"Never mind. Not important, get out Mycroft. John is home."
The older man stood, unable to affect the simple grace his brother possessed, and gripped his umbrella as he did so.
"Please don't forget to share this new information I've left for John," he motioned to the manila folder residing just beside the soiled tea tray, "our interviews with Mrs. Adler proved most informative before her unexpected escape."
Sherlock grunted and moved past Mycroft, opening the door to the landing as an outright invitation to get the hell out.
Mrs. Hudson's warbling, high-pitched voice emanated from the ground floor, gushing and lamenting over the state of poor John Watson. The Omega, his voice a perfect, sweet tenor, answered with mild amusement and many reassurances. A third voice, gruff and loud, soon joined the conversation.
Sherlock closed his eyes in a desperate bid for patience. Why, why, did everyone insist on being alive and present and chatty when all the Alpha wanted to do was welcome his Omega home in privacy.
Mycroft stared at his brother in outright amusement, though only those very close to him would be able to tell. The man was a master of facial neutrality, but the mirth behind his eyes was obvious to those who knew what they were looking for.
"Well then, shall we?" Mycroft began, moving out towards the landing and onto the steps, the accompanying tap of the umbrella alerting the small group in the foyer of his imminent arrival.
Sherlock followed closely behind, suddenly impatient beyond words to catch even a glimpse of his strong, brave, intelligent, and desperately handsome army doctor.
"You'll move in with me, of course."
John shot a glance at Sherlock; spoon raised halfway towards his mouth, which had fallen open with appropriate surprise.
"Sorry…was that a question? Or, some kind of, I dunno, royal decree?" The blond kept his tone light, but there was an underlying current of strength that reminded Sherlock he was not someone to be taken lightly.
"Don't be absurd John, I would never force you…I'd never – how could you…? Why –"
John laughed, a bright and sudden sound in the room, placing his Jell-O cup back down on his hospital tray (he didn't have the stomach for it anyway, it was the third time he'd had lime this week).
"Calm down, was just winding you up anyway." The smaller man wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, frowning as alarmingly large bits of electric green gelatine came away from his mouth – he wasn't aware that he was such a sloppy eater, must be the medication. He folded the napkin thoughtfully then, placing it to the side of his mostly full plate, suddenly unable to make eye contact with his Alpha.
"You really mean it then?"
"Mean what?" For once, Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.
"You really want me to move in with you?" There was a hopeful note to John's voice that he couldn't suppress, not even if he tried.
The detective let loose a rather exaggerated sigh, moving the hospital table (carrying the tray, et al) away from the side of John's bed so he could scoot closer. He clasped one of John's smaller hands in his own, bringing the knuckles to his cheek in a proprietary fashion. It wasn't that he needed to scent the Omega - that had been taken care of every day, and quite thoroughly in fact. The room positively reeked of Alpha, a clinging and possessive presence that claimed John as taken and no mistake. However, this touch was gentle, speaking towards a trusting and pure love that John saw reflected in Sherlock's parti-coloured eyes.
"I want to be near you, always. I want you by my side…I…thought you'd want that too." The uncertainty in his voice was heart-breaking. It was strange how quickly Sherlock could go from a ridiculously self-possessed and dominating Alpha, to insecure and practically begging for John's good graces. It was charming, frighteningly so. John would never in a million years think he could affect a man like this in such a way.
"Of course I do, Sherlock. My God, of course – but Sarah, Julia and Brandy – I can't just leave them. Marcus –" John's voice wavered then and stuck in his throat, his saliva a little too thick. A hot rush of tears flooded his eyes, though he was able to keep them down, for now. He kept his breathing in check, which helped.
Sherlock nodded in understanding, giving the man's hand a squeeze before straightening.
"I anticipated your concern for the women; they will be taken care of, if you wish. Mycroft has many resources at his disposal –"
"They won't want charity, Sherlock. They are proud and strong, I…don't mind if you help them a little but just, let them make their own decision about what they want to do, okay?"
The younger man nodded, pressing his lips together in a neutral expression that seemed dangerously guarded. The entire atmosphere of the room suddenly changed in a single breath, Sherlock's scent broadcasting anger and protectiveness.
"You – you know I killed him, for you."
It didn't occur to John to speak just then, only he held Sherlock's gaze with his own depthless navy blue eyes.
"I knew who he was and what he did, and I'm not sorry for it."
John swallowed, a hot, clenching sensation wringing his throat.
"He was a bad man, Sherlock. I don't want you to be sorry."
"I would do it again, in a second, in a heartbeat, for you."
The Omega looked away, tears threatening again, knowing the sheen of his eyes was too bright and too glaring.
How did he end up here? Here of all places – with this man? How did the comedies and fractal iterations of life land him, a crippled army doctor, here within the esteem and love of a man so beautifully flawed it pained his heart to look at Sherlock's face and know his feelings were fully reciprocated.
"We need to find his family, they deserve to know." John worked on his breathing again, feeling the rush of emotion ebb ever so slightly with the familiar cadence of respirations.
Sherlock trailed a soft line up the back of John's hand, following the powdery blue veins against his skin.
"Molly's already working on the dental records; she will find Marcus' family."
John stood by the doorway, feeling tired but happy and expertly fielding Mrs. Hudson's rampant affections with good humour. Lestrade eyed both Sherlock and Mycroft as they came down the stairs, satisfaction and resolution glinting in his cocoa-brown eyes.
"This entire situation, oh it's so terrible John, really." Martha Hudson veritably gushed, running her small hands down his arms in open adoration. "And Sherlock, he's been such a mess, you wouldn't believe –"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you, yes." Sherlock interrupted rather forcefully, inserting himself between the elderly woman and his Omega. He smiled then, true and with genuine delight, meeting John's gaze with a fierce warmth that lit John's belly with a fire he was certain he could never extinguish.
"Hello." Sherlock murmured, low voice rumbling, the sound waves vibrating and winding their way into John's most secret and inappropriate places.
John stared up at him, a small answering grin growing on his face - to say he'd been looking forward to this moment would have been an egregious understatement.
"Hello, Sherlock."
And it was if the rest of the people in the foyer disappeared. Sherlock and John had only just seen each other yesterday, but that was within the confines of a hospital room. This – this was real, true life. This was a life they were meant to start together.
This, this was Christmas.
Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade all suddenly felt like the third, fourth, and fifth wheel in this little gathering, and eventually moved along. Lestrade and Mycroft paired up, exiting out of the door and talking lowly about the case and the repercussions of Irene Adler's escape. Mrs. Hudson twittered nervously about the entrance to 221A, bemoaning the fact that she'd already left her best tea serving tray upstairs, and as such was not directly able to make them fresh tea, as the newly properly reunited couple deserved. She vanished into her own apartment, promising tea in a bit, should they wish to wait.
Neither man answered, engrossed as they were in each other. It was heady and new, this freedom, this ability to just appreciate each other without obligation and the threat of imminent pain or death (not the best of ways for one to start a new relationship, John realized). There was no case on now, no study, no dead bodies. It was just Sherlock and John, as it was meant to be.
"Those uh, stairs…" John motioned to the seventeen steps up to 221B, "might need a little help."
The Omega flexed his hand, the grip on his metal cane sweaty and warm. He didn't need to mention it to Sherlock twice.
"Of course, just…lean on me."
So together they made their way up to John's new home, a thought so new and perplexing to his mind that it had taken the entirety of his two weeks in hospital to get used to the idea.
His thigh ached, competing with his shoulder and hip for attention. He didn't allow himself to linger on his wounds for long; that was too much for him to handle right now. He hadn't made any significant long-term plans (except to be with Sherlock, of course), only forcing himself to concentrate on getting better and increasing healing and range of movement, and possibly getting rid of the damn cane.
His doctors were all cautiously hopeful. It was a through-and-through, after all, and the muscle damage was considered manageable. His rehabilitation team had every confidence they could get him back to 100% working order in six months or less, if he was fully committed – and he was. He was fully committed to Sherlock, to joining him and creating a new life together, possibly helping on cases or helping out at the flat…maybe, maybe he could even work as a doctor again. The future was new, it was bright, and it was terrifying.
John slumped into the maroon and cream brocade chair (his chair now, after all), as Sherlock perched across from him, legs folded up to his chest in his own leather and metal monstrosity. John was out of breath, sweating, and feeling entirely cranky and useless. It would just…take time, he realized. On the coffee table in front of him lay a dirty tea tray, presumably Mrs. Hudson's, and one thin manila folder.
"What's this then?" He motioned towards the folder with his hand, knowing the tea would be cold and, if he was very lucky, Mrs. Hudson might be up with another batch soon.
Sherlock hummed, fixing John with his laser-like gaze. "Transcripts from Irene Adler's interviews, Mycroft brought them by…I thought you'd like to see them."
John tried to hide his interest, but that was impossible in the end, there was so much he needed to know, not only about what he had become, but also about what he could expect in the future.
"So what happened to Irene then?" He questioned, pulling the folder to his lap and opening it up, loose sheets of paper falling with gravity onto his thighs.
"She…uh, she escaped." Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with divulging this particular bit of information.
"What!?" John jerked, muscles painfully pulling in his injured thigh. This…this was unacceptable, this was dangerous! That woman was already responsible for the deaths of a dozen men (and God knows how many more), the thought that she was free…that she could possibly do this to another latent Omega. Panic rose in his chest, searing hot panic. The flat flooded with Omega pheromones, dampened from injury but oily, frightened and thick.
Sherlock rushed to John's side immediately, nosing at his neck and putting both of his hot-warm hands on John's face. The sensation grounded the Omega as he forced his emotions under control.
"Please, please, John don't worry. There's no danger for you here any longer. Mycroft and the government will find her and put it all to rights. This is a safe place for you, I promise."
John moved his head away from the man, jostling his grip on his face. "It's not me I'm worried about Sherlock, it's…it's everyone else who was like me, all the latents, all the innocents who only wanted a normal life, but instead they got…" He tapered off, grabbing one of Sherlock's hands in his own, squeezing mightily. "How do we go on, knowing what we know?"
Sherlock settled himself on the floor, between John's legs, taking care not to place any pressure on his right thigh.
"We go on as we well as we can. There are measures in place to prevent Irene from taking root in any major city again. We are tracking her John, and we will never stop."
The Omega sighed, finally glancing down at the papers in his lap, askew now, and out of order.
"Where - where is my room? Where am I to sleep?" John asked honestly, guilelessly.
"Well I, I thought you'd sleep with me. My bedroom is through the kitchen, just past the bathroom. Don't you remember? You already woke up there once."
John remembered that evening with startling clarity. "Right, just after we met. I just…give me some time Sherlock, to look over this." He motioned down to the papers, and Sherlock didn't need further clarification.
It was late in the evening when John finally emerged from Sherlock's bedroom, cane pounding against the hardwood floor with gusto.
Sherlock himself was on the couch, pulled up into a ball, still in his own bespoke suit.
John carefully placed the folder back on the table with a sigh, "Sherlock?"
The detective turned away from the back of the couch to regard his Omega, face drawn and unsure. "Yes?"
"Have you read this?"
"I have."
"And?"
"And what?" The younger man queried, running a hand through his already mussed curls. "It doesn't make any difference to me, John, you are still you."
"Am I, though?"
"Of course you are, they didn't add anything to you, they merely…brought out what was already inside."
"Irene said she was like me, a…a vertex Omega. She said it was in my genetic code, dormant, and they made it active."
"Yes."
"These files, they were…informative." John sat back down in his chair, exhausted and emotionally spent. It had taken hours to fully read the files, to fully understand the impact the experiment would have on his life. "Do you think it's true?"
"What's true?" The Alpha spun, moving away from the couch lazily and finally curling up on his own leather chair.
"These things she says I could do - the power I have? Do you think that's true?"
"Well," Sherlock smiled, giving John a hooded, heated stare, "you certainly have power over me."
John snorted with little humour, running a hand up and down his face with worry. "You're biased. I mean it Sherlock, it says I can control people, control my heats…how does that work."
The other man shrugged, his blazer pulling on his shoulders. "I don't know, I suppose we'll find out."
"But what…what about my heats? My scent? Irene says it's almost irresistible but…my experience has been quite different."
"You've been injured since your change, John, there's no telling what effect that might have on your new biology."
John sighed, worrying, glancing towards the fireplace and wishing for all the world that there was a fire.
"But how are we to know? How am I to know? How – how do I live my life without a basic, core understanding of myself?" John sounded desperate, even to himself.
Sherlock spoke softly, but with earnest. "We'll figure it out, together."
