The Buffalo. Chicago. Saturday. April 11th, 1914. 10:04 pm

"Food."

John's crusted eyes fly open at that voice. Feels energy suffusing into him in unexpectedly amounts. Suddenly, the lights are on, and John's eyes, still accustomed to darkness, close shut almost immediately. Then, for the first time, he sees how bloody and naked his body has been for the past few hours. Grabbing a torn piece of cloth nearby, he dabs on it to stop the bleeding from the broken skin in his back. The pain had been so intense the first time the whip had kissed his skin, localised, burning searing pain that would not travel elsewhere. But now, it's become a habit, a welcome habit. The ritual takes place every day: whipping, dabbing, cutting, feeding, inserting, but John isn't going to yield. How can he, when there's nothing to yield to?

Kick for the surface . . . and keep kicking. . .

A small tendril of life travels from his spine to his head, to his hand and legs, to lungs that are too tired to breathe. And he takes a lungful of oxygen and it hurts, but he doesn't really mind it.

For it's been five days since Mary had visited him last.

"Where . . . have you b-been?" John croaks, lifting his chest off the floor to try and sit up straight. Mary puts the food on the floor immediately, and rushes to support him. Every new movement begets a fresh, sharp dose of pain under his skin. It's then that he remembers, again, that he's as naked as the day he was born, but he doesn't even have the energy to even flush in embarrassment.

"Nowhere." she whispers, "Tess hasn't been taking proper care of you."

Two weeks ago, Mary, as John's nurse, had been replaced by a young girl called Tess, who, upon seeing a freshly whipped John, had lost both her nerves and her consciousness. But Mary had continued to visit him secretly with extra food and company under her bosses' noses. And John would know if she was coming. The loose floorboard would creak differently. The rats would scurry away as if they were even more afraid of her than any other person, even the Underboss.

John finds that odd, and funny.

"She faints . . ." he gasps at the pain in his rectum, "atleast once . . . each time she sees a wound that wasn't there before," he chuckles, and then realises something, "They don't . . . want you around me for long, do they?"

Mary tuts and presses the cloth around his bicep, avoiding looking between his legs, "Standard procedure. We keep a lot of, let's say . . . hostages, like you. Breckenridge knows his precautions."

John feels something very wrong with his . . . and then he realises with horror, in his arse. But he decides to keep mum about it, at least until Mary leaves.

"Good to know I'm not the only one."

Mary looks at him with stern eyes, with the slightest hint of smile on her lips, "And what about me?"

John frowns, ". . . You?"

Mary looks at him calculatingly, "Yes. Me."

And then she notices where the blood has been coming from, the blood she had been trying to wipe away. She frowns, and then cuts across the exchange sharply, "Turn!"

John gapes at her, "But I'm nak—"

"I said turn!"

Within a few painful moments, John reels in pain with his arse comically up in the air in front of Mary's face. John turns so that he can see Mary's face. She seems disturbed, much more disturbed than he has ever seen her. Tries not to gasp, or show any signs of pain. Whatever it is, Mary is still on their side. On enemy territory.

She had understood.

"No matter what I do," she speaks calmly, splaying her palms on John's buttocks, "You will not cry out. You must remain silent. Understood?"

John gulps, and closes his eyes, "Alright."

"It'll hurt," she wipes his arse-hole gently with a newer piece of cloth, "but then it'll be all fine."

"What if they find—?"

Mary's lips press into a thin line of determination, "Let them. There's no use subjecting you to such torture."

With that, she thumbs the ring of muscle around his arse, and pushes a thumb inside; spreading it into ease till it swallows her whole finger. John clenches his fist, the pain being even more excruciating than the first time. Mary senses the tension in his muscles and inhales deeply.

"Relax. Or this will take longer. I know it hurts, but just relax, Mr. Apparently-Holmes."

John feels his knees giving away, "John. My name is John."

"I know," she whispers, wiping the blood away, "Now, just relax."

"You have . . . nails," John squeaks.

"I'll be careful."

With that, he feels his arsehole expanding uncomfortably, and now, with two fingers just in deep enough, Mary searches around, till her finger strikes something foreign, hard and stony. He can hear her gulping.

"Push it outwards, would you? I can't reach it."

"How would I—?"

"Peristalsis motion. Just do it. Ignore the hurt and do it."

Within the last most painful moments, John pushes, and he feels the tightening of Mary's finger in him, and he knows she's reached it. Biting on his hand to stop himself from screaming, he gasps. And then suddenly, it is all void . . . Empty. Two thuds to the floor, and somehow, after three days of being filled, the hollowness feels so . . . unnatural.

"You're all fine. Don't move," she orders, "I'll clean you up."

"I can do that—"

But before he can finish, Mary pours the brandy over the deep pink would, and breathes sharply. With her breath, the spirit evaporates from his skin, chilling and cold.

"I've never," Mary's voice is hoarse, too hoarse for a woman, "I never thought they'd come down to . . . to this. How long have those . . . things been there?"

John finally collapses, all notion of shame having evaporated in the air like the brandy from the skin. Looks nonchalantly at the two bloody stones lying behind him, those that had been lying inside his behind. Tries not to cringe.

"Three days. Maybe four."

"Try not to move too much, or move slowly if you can. You're bleeding a lot in . . . there, and I'm afraid I can't help you with this."

John winces, "I'll be alright."

"What I mean was, well—" she laughs uncomfortably, "if possible, try not to . . . excrete before you heal."

John looks at her amusedly, "Of all the things in the world, out of blood, whips, excretion makes you uncomfortable."

"Well, I never was a big fan of potty humour."

"I didn't say you were."

She grins and hands him the cloth, so that he can cover himself up, "You really don't know anything, do you?"

John blinks, and tries to sit upright, now without the stones up his arse, "What happened to the bloke before me? Was he let go, or—?"

"I'm afraid not. John. He's buried in the backyard."

John blinks, and looks at her, breathing deeply, "Will I go the same way?"

She doesn't blink back, looks at him stonily, "If you don't escape, yes."

John chuckles resignedly, "Do I look like I still can?"

Mary licks her lips, "You are fighting for something, something that is yours. Now that I have told you that the real Mr. Holmes is in Chicago, you will not stop. You will leave."

John's self-pitying smile vanishes. He looks down at her legs, then whispers, "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"A few minutes ago, you asked me that very question."

She regards him with a sly smile, "Well, what do you think?"

John crosses his legs. The absurdity of nakedness has left him completely, "I think that you don't belong here. You should have been somewhere else, but since you are still here . . . you are in deep water. I'll have to go with stuck."

"Oh? And . . .?"

"You don't want to go back to where you came from . . . and you don't want to remain here forever."

She draws closer, and drops her voice lower than he's ever heard it, "That all?"

John examines her stonily, listening to the sound of her breathing, unconsciously mimicking it, "I'm not sure you want to hear any more."

She looks away, smirking, caressing the fingers on her left hand with those on her right, "Tell me more, about what you are pursuing. I'm not sure if I would've been able to endure what you have endured."

"You've been very insistent."

"Forgive my curiosity, John. It is a most innocent one."

"And what if I don't want to tell you?"

"Regrettably, one can only ask, not force."

John leans closer, "Have you ever been in love?"

Mary examines him carefully, lips curved into a smile that is inviting and challenging at the same time, "Once. I thought it was so. But then I realized that I didn't."

John frowns, "How so?"

"He betrayed me. I killed him and had no second thoughts."

"That does sound like you. How long ago?"

"Five years. He was my husband of two years. But," she bites her lower lip, "it brings us no closer to what I asked."

John looks deep into her eyes, pale green eyes that hold no emotion, in eternal mystery. He looks down at her clothed form, feeling aware of her, her energy, the magnetic aura of danger around her. The soft lights lend her face a soft irresistible sheen. She looks down at his body, failing not to let her gaze wander down, and down and down . . .

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I . . . want to understand. I want to . . . understand . . . you. That, when an Omega called Sherlock . . . comes into a pub . . . telling the world that his name is John," she breathes deeply, and John catches a brief whiff of her scent, ". . . and a year later . . . an Alpha comes into the same pub telling the world that his name is Sherlock . . ."

"I did not think through a lot of details . . ." John whispers, "I was too focused."

"And now?"

John leans in. Up close, her thin lips suddenly look plush, or is it John's imagination? A finger on his wrist, inner wrist, and then withdraws. John can chase that finger to the ends of the world.

"Now?"

Mary's eyes are too bright, too bright in the darkness around him, but he can't look away. She withdraws somewhat, "Yes."

John leans forward to maintain the gap between them, the gap that must not expand, and more importantly, must not reduce, "I don't know."

Mary looks at him as if she's seen something wonderful, as if he is suddenly the loveliest thing in the world, "I brought food for you. Are you going to eat or not?"

John draws away, not failing to notice her smile, the one at the corner of her lips, waiting to spread across her face, "Of course. I'm famished."


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday. April 12th, 1914. 7:03 am

Black overcoat. Top hat. Grey suit. Briefcase. Moustache visible when he checks for any pursuers over his left shoulder.

Sherlock's brows crease. Pursuit is often the more boring part of the chase, but not for this one.

Over the course of his hunt, the Beta has given Sherlock a nice sightseeing of the port and the town, of the bank, the Academy. Of course, he is insignificant, but the very fact that he is a rat—and smelling out rats is one of Sherlock's strong suits—makes this very insignificant man the subject of Sherlock's chase, for rats always scurry back to their holes, and hole is what Sherlock wants (pun most vehemently not intended).

He left for his chase at 6 am in the morning. Thomas always manages to cry him into wakefulness. Thankfully for Sherlock, their host's old mother can delightfully manage a bundleful of demanding and screaming rounds. Some nursing and packing moments later (and checking whether the colonel had really left before he had even woken up), Sherlock was ready for his job, despite the distraction over the increase in Thomas' apparently disturbing behaviour.

For Sherlock knows one thing. No matter his engagements, Sherlock has a bond with his child that he himself cannot completely understand. Whatever it was, Thomas' cries were usually out of his need for constant, unwavering attention, and demand. Not spontaneous.

The Beta suddenly takes a left into the alley, and Sherlock, slightly distracted over Thomas and his behaviours, almost misses the sharp turn. He increases his pace, in no mood to lose him. However when he just takes the turn into the alley, there's no Beta in overcoat. It's a mini-junkyard, water leaking from pipes, dirty; a yellow-eyed cat purrs at him and walks away, uninterested. Before he can blink in confusion, there's something metallic against his hip, and he stills. Behind his ear, he can smell the filthy breath of the Beta he has been chasing. He tries turning his head slowly, and the barrel of the gun presses deeper into his hip.

He catches one look of the Beta; he's never seen him up front. A quick movement later, the tables have turned, and Sherlock is the one pressing the gun against the Beta's thigh. No exchange of pleasantries, simple eye contact with visible signs of struggle evident on each other's face.

But the Beta is far too strong for Sherlock, and Sherlock gives up, for there's no point fighting a lost battle. He thinks of Thomas, at home, with that old woman and her wannabe son, and in the proximity of a mercurial Colonel.

"Let me live, will you?" Sherlock whispers.

There's an undercurrent of sarcasm in the Beta's laugh, "Certainly."


Barrel against the small of his back, Sherlock and the Beta walk out of the alley pressed chest to back. Sherlock scans the entire street; it's close to a stinky dump yard. A nun in her late-forties, dressed in her white and grey habit with a basket of fruits rushes in their direction and slips a chit to his captor. Sherlock watches as she rushes away, her hips swaying. His captor hands the chit to Sherlock, and pushes the barrel harder into his flesh.

His voice is raspy, and his accent Spanish, unimportant, "Read it." Sherlock acquiesces.

" 'South of DelMonte Co. Sky blue.' So they give you cars, do they? Nice establishment."

"Shut up and move. I will deliver you alive if you don't provoke me."

Sherlock considers him, "It's not a bad deal, but I can improve upon it with some additional clauses of my own, if I may."

The Beta says nothing, and Sherlock takes it as a cue to continue.

"I tell you about yourself and you kill me the moment I'm wrong."

The Beta starts to laugh hard, and Sherlock closes his eyes. The safety is off and the gun could fire at the slightest mishap.

"I'll take that as an affirmative. First: you are the younger brother. The elder is an Alpha, and works with the same establishment as you."

The laughter dies away. No bullet in him yet. Oh, this is fun.

"Second: your brother knows who I am. As a result, he knows what I am, and that's why he sent you, a Beta, and not any other of his Alpha thugs. After all, delivering an Omega to him is the only time you were useful to him. Delivering an Alpha, on the other hand, well, that's not within your strengths."

The gun presses harder into his back, almost painful, "I am resisting the impulse to do a clean job of you straightaway."

They take a turn from the alley and almost into the main street. DelMonte Co. is a departmental store across the street and a sky blue automobile revs up and at the sight of them, "Game over. Get in."


Thankfully, the Beta hadn't had the sense to knock him unconscious. And so hadn't his partner, the driver.

Veracruz is a lovely port town, Sherlock discovers on his way to their destination, which is somewhere near the more dilapidated section of the town. Automobiles here are far rarer than in Boston, and children, not much younger than he, point excitedly whenever they see one. Some younger ones even run after it, screaming and giggling with happiness. Black smoke billows into their eyes, telling them to stay away, but who are the children to care about black smoke?

Hands bound behind his back, Sherlock is uncomfortable and sore. Makes no attempt to free himself until it's the right time.

The car pulls up, and Sherlock groans. Oh, why are the criminal classes so unimaginative? Of course, it had to be a run-down warehouse. It's always one of these places.

And it's not like he hasn't expected to be caught. He's relied on that.

The door opens and rough hands seize him, as if he needs manhandling at all. The Beta takes out a penknife and cuts through his binds. He is strong, for those ropes were strong too, but he seems to be working with one hand only. Deformed, then. The driver watches Sherlock from afar, curious sidelong glances. Sherlock risks a glance at his own chest and sighs. All fine.

Two Negroes, Alphas, join the party, and the Beta gives him up, with his slight Spanish accent, he whispers, "I've checked him . . ."

"Move," their English is unmistakeably American. They grab Sherlock and check him from top to bottom, only to recover a box of matches from his pocket. Sherlock shrugs casually, and they put it back into his pocket. He scrutinises the area. The car is parked near the building. He smirks.

Perfect.

Hands tied behind the chair he's seated on. Sherlock's neck and shoulders ache from exertion.

Miguel Gonzalez. The Alpha in front of him is just as Moran had described him. Almost.

Huge, unnecessarily so. Posh, distastefully so. Unclean, irritatingly so. Henchmen, four of them. Bulky, slow, armed, tall, to Sherlock's disadvantage. Oh, two of them are twins.

The Alpha says something softly to his Beta brother in Spanish, who nods, and walks off. Then he converses with his henchmen, and all of them walk out, shutting the door behind securely. Sherlock smirks. Somewhat in his favour, the odds are. Even though the exits are only one.

Sherlock entertains him for some time, soaking in all the gibberish he's speaking, telling Sherlock that he's been watching him for a while, he knows where he's heading and it'd be best if he stopped now. Or there'd be dire consequences . . . and Sherlock bears it and bears it until he can bear no longer.

Sherlock leans in and whispers. The Alpha stiffens. He smirks at the predictable reaction.

"So, my dear sir," Sherlock glances around the room, pretending to be nonchalant while victory courses through his veins like blood, "when shall I be corresponding with your master, Senor Gonzalez?"

Of course he's not Miguel Gonzalez. Of course it's not. It's still a rat, and it has yet to scurry away for its life, to its pied piper.

A deafening blast of noise pierces Sherlock's ears and that of his Alpha captor, distracting the latter. Sherlock ducks his head as much as he can as cracks appear in the wall, travelling up from ground through the pillars of bricks to the roofs, as if the earth were shattering underneath them. The wood in the chair vibrating against his skin, as if a life caged inside it were screaming for release, and Sherlock rises as much as he can with his hands tied behind him to the chair. The room fills with clouds of dirt and sand, and the light coming in from the only ventilator obstructed by the thick dust. It's indeed a miracle that the warehouse did not collapse.

He smiles to himself, his plans having worked wonderfully.

"What was that?" the Alpha has lost his cool, and for the first time, his façade comes unravelling like loose fabric.

"An explosion," Sherlock coughs and covers his nose in his shoulder, "in the car that your Beta brother brought me in. They're all dead, even the henchmen twin at the door, hence the silence outside. Going at the rate of dirt entering this room, we'll be choked to death in the next two minutes, not to mention the very valid possibility that the building might collapse upon us."

The Alpha responds by glancing at his surroundings in dismay, and then rushes shamelessly to the door, turning the handle lever repeatedly without any success. Sherlock lets out a low laugh.

"Unlike you, I am a talented lock picker, and we can make a deal."

The Alpha turns to him, "What?"

"Your brethren locked the door from the outside, and now they're all dead. You cannot flee unless you let me help."

Hands are around Sherlock's throat, thumb pads pressing, choking, bruising, "What's to say I kill you now? For all I know, they're not dead at all."

Sherlock chuckles, "Oh yes, of course. Let's wait it out until the dust suffocates you. I hadn't thought of that at all! Free me, and you'll have a chance of escape."

Sherlock can almost imagine the rusty gears creaking in the rat's head as his hands leave him. Oh how could anyone be so stupid to take so much time for something so obvious?

But then, the man has a most unexpected reaction. He grabs Sherlock's collar and punches him, almost breaking his nose and disorienting him, "You killed my brother! You villainous—"

Now's not the time, "If you'd called him in before, things would've turned—"

"—whore!"

Sherlock's insides crawl up at that word, at how it's identified. It usually precedes the most horrifying experience he had ever had. Oh no, not again—

"Senor, you can get out of here and you can take him to a doctor," Sherlock's rising panic smothers him, "I assure you, you and your brother are not what I sought for. Let me get you out of here, and you can still save him. I left the bomb in the car but he might not have been in its proximity when—"

"Shut up!"

"There's still time!"

A moment of decision flashes on the Alpha's face, and the next instant, Sherlock's bounds come undone, slowly. Those ropes are as thick as snakes, bruising in their bounds. But the Alpha needs to work faster. The room's filling in with dirt the more every minute, at the Alpha coughs and rubs his eyes as he works. Sherlock feels despair looming; he won't be able to unlock the door in time, at least not before he passes out with the dwindling oxygen supply, or they are both crushed under the enormous weight of the teetering and very old warehouse.

Sherlock's hands come free.

The air around him is opaque.


Washington DC. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 7:53 am

They had the description of the Alpha with Sherlock.

Mycroft's head resting on his palms, collars and cuffs still unbuttoned, tie near his morning tea and the morning daily. Thinning hair askew, reddening. The instant he received the message, he had locked himself inside. Staring out the window listlessly. He can hear anxious footsteps outside his door. He should've left for office, but . . .

Oh brother, what's become of us?

He regrets sending John down the Devil's hole. He regrets ever letting go of Sherlock. He regrets being ambitious and even suggesting a war in the first place. To think that Sherlock would be so stupid, to go along and fraternize with such a dangerous enemy as Colonel Moran.

He sips his tea quietly. He must go to his office. He must take steps.

Sherlock, his Omega brother, has a child out of wedlock. Has Colonel Moran's bastard child. He had overestimated Sherlock's devotion to his Alpha. And now he can't get Sherlock back from the clutches of that dangerous man. For if they know about Sherlock, they know about him. They know that he exists.

No, he won't play into their hands. He won't bother about dealing with an insignificant man like Colonel Moran and possibly endanger Sherlock's life. He will wait and watch. He will keep his cards close to his chest.

His eyes linger over the Wanted! notice in the morning daily. By the New York Police Department. Of the arrest of one Sebastian Augustus Moran. A man of considerable merits. Perhaps he should keep an eye out, to see who the man behind him is.

Let the man roam around freely for some more time. Rats come back. They always do.


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 7:55 am

Sherlock stumbles out of the stuffy cellar in the warehouse, his breath filing with fresh air around him as he collapses to the ground. Breathing's never been less boring.

A severed leg is the first in his field of vision, followed by what looked like an open shoulder. Blood and guts everywhere. Like a battlefield blown apart.

Oh, they got out almost in time. He can see Thomas again. He could.

A kick to Sherlock's side, and he doubles up in pain, curling into himself, all breath that was regained was knocked out once more. Despite personal safety issues, Sherlock feels jubilant. His plans have worked. Almost everyone was dead, and a scared rat always ran to safety.

The Alpha limps past him, looking for his Beta brother, looking into every lifeless, bloody face, at every splintered body part. Throwing a hateful look at a crawling Sherlock, he cries out for his brother, only to be answered back by a voice in obvious pain, by a Beta who was supposedly the closest to the explosion and had yet survived.

Lifting himself off the ground, Sherlock wipes off the blood from his almost-broken nose and rushes forward. The first part of the plan was done. Now for the second, harder one.

The Alpha impersonating Miguel Gonzalez runs, and collapses to the ground as a couple of more unstable bricks fall apart from the system, narrowly missing. Sherlock hides in the only corner that seems safe, watching the scene, brushing the dust and pebbles off his clothes. The Beta brother is still alive, breathing, ever so slowly. He could die at any moment. This was a complication Sherlock had not anticipated. Of course, sentiment. He needs his rat to rush to his boss, not the hospital to save his brother.

Behind that corner, a dark dusty corner of refuge, he watches the scene unfold. The Alpha's leg is hurting, he knows. Huge man like him, can't bear the weight of his brother with that injured leg. But the tenderness in his eyes, it's something Sherlock's not expected to witness. And oh, the transformation from that seemingly wicked and cruel man to this empathetic brother is certainly enlightening. Sherlock watches in rapt attention, the dynamics between the two brothers, the snarls, the disdainful glares, as the Alpha picks up his dying brother despite the obvious resentment between them. It reminds him, of himself and . . .

He pushes his thoughts down. He has a mission to complete.

People are starting to trickle down the street, perhaps attracted by the bang of the explosion. Sherlock ducks out of the building, watching their direction, even though it is practically useless as they were probably going to a hospital. They are asking around to people, for assistance, for vehicle, looking behind their shoulder for him, perhaps. Sherlock sighs. He'd have to track them to the hospital, and then keep a watch, but he doesn't have enough time for that—

Just then, his prayers are answered. Another automobile, black, glossy, expensive, comes driving in, rushing, tires screeching, exhaust burning black and sooty. Stops near the brothers as Sherlock watches in jubilation, at the license plate, and the Alpha pushes his brother inside, followed by squeezing his Herculean figure into it. The car bounces off an undulation on the road, and Sherlock finally finds something productive to do. He runs, runs, finds a parked bicycle, breaks open the lock and rides it until he can see his target at a safe distance.

Now for the chase.


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 8:31 am

"Eso es todo el pago que recibirá por el momento. Resto será pagado a usted después de que el trabajo está terminado. Y recuerda, el niño debe llegar a ningún daño. Debe ser sano y feliz cuando llega a mi agente. Aquí está el sobre. Encontrará otros datos y documentación necesarios aquí."

That's all the payment you will receive for now. Rest will be paid to you after the job is finished. And remember, the child must come to no harm. It must be healthy and happy when it reaches my agent. Here's the envelope. You'll find other necessary details and documentation here.

Colonel Moran prided himself on his Spanish since his Oxford days. But back then, he had not thought that this is where he'd have to employ his fluency in the language.

Thomas had initially been a tricky bet, when he and Von Bork had hatched their plans. They couldn't stage a kidnapping; it would lead Sherlock to abandon everything else and search for the child, and that is the last thing they need: a desperate mother. Staging a murder, however, would break Sherlock, but would at least not divert his energies.

But he needs Thomas alive. Even if he were to procure the dead body of a similar-looking blond baby, Sherlock would know. Sometimes Moran hates Sherlock's cleverness.

Oh, it would've been better if he had not listened to his conscience and just got that bastard child murdered like Von Bork had told him to do.

And then he had found out, among some of his lost contacts, about a Mexican boy who owed him a favour. Irepani. And now, he is his host. And his soon-to-be accomplice. And his old, frail mother.

And when Moran saw her fondness for Sherlock's child, and dislike sparking between the two mothers, the plan came into clarity.

Their hostess would have to be the one to stage the murder. While he was away on business in Tijuana, of course.

"Ahora dime lo que va a hacer." Now tell me what you will do.

"En la noche del 19, me deslizo en la habitación en la esquina noroeste de la primera planta de la casa. Es decir, cuando el niño toma su siesta." On the evening of 19th, I slip into the room in the northwest corner of the first floor of the house. That is when the child takes his nap.

"¿Entonces?" Then?

"No habrá nadie en la casa. Yo le roban," at this point, even the boy looks uncertain and doubtful, "y voy a salir al patio trasero." There will be no one in the house. I will steal him and I'll go out the backyard.

"Véase, muy fácil. ¿Entonces?" See, very easy. Then?

"Me quedo con el bebé, y la comida te dejaré con el meta del mesón de vuelta de la esquina." I'll take the baby, and the food you'll leave with the keeper of the inn.

"Muy bien. La dirección de la posada se encuentra en el sobre." Very good. The address of the inn is in the envelope.

"A continuación, voy a viajar a Texas City, donde su agente se reunirá mí." Then I'll travel to Texas City where your agent will meet me.

"Usted sabe qué hacer después de eso. Muy bien. No voy a estar en la ciudad hasta el 21 de este mes. Asegúrese de hacer su trabajo correctamente." You know what to do after that. Very well. I will not be in town till the 21st of this month. Make sure you do your job properly.

"Sí señor." Yes, sir.

"Bueno." Good.

And now, he'll have to pay their hostess, Sesasi, a nice visit. She's the main link in the chain after all.


Off the Veracruz port, Mexico. Sunday, 12th April 1914, 9:02 am

If not for the Cassandra, his lovely yacht with the tigerskin of some beast from India, and the absence of a brig for his prisoners, Miguel Gonzalez would've surely been a pirate. And a famous one at that.

But alas, he remains one of the most unknown names in the Western world. A steep price to pay for lousy businesses that only gave him cheap things like money.

For weeks, he's watched in dismay as the port that once bustled with trade and commerce and Mexicans filled with bloody English-speaking, white-skinned, thrice-damned pompous cunts called the Americans. They say patriotism is the death of a businessman. For Miguel, patriotism is the reason he's become the Alpha he is.

He goes inside the yacht, back to his guests sitting around the table, discussing terms in hushed tones. One or two of them can be counted upon, he muses. Rest will have to be dumped into the sea. . .

Later. He hasn't slept the night. They will all have to go away.

"Muchas gracias a todos por su tiempo." Loosening his tie, he says abruptly, causing everyone to turn up and look at him, startled, "Eso sería todo. Para hoy." Thank you all very much for your time. That'll be all. For today.

Watching his guests, people who wanted to squeeze Mexico and its people dry, leave is mercy, he muses. Goes back to his parlour, alone, makes himself a drink. Sighs. His boys haven't returned yet. He'd sent them out to draw out Von Bork's men, or rather, an Alpha going by the name of Claude Stoughton. Bloody motherfucking Americans.

But his boys had smelled out an Omega. Apparently, Claude had his Bonded brought along. And Miguel had tried to recall how long it had been since he had last had a Bonded Omega in his bed. He did not remember, but he knew it had been a long time.

Omega or not, Von Bork surrounds himself with clever, able people. Miguel knows that he'll have to be careful. He had put the last shipment of arms and gunpowder to better use than what Von Bork had told him to do. He'd given them to Huerta's army. Huerta was the last hope of a strong and free Mexico, a Mexico free from the bullying of Wilson. And arms were better used than destroyed.

So he'd taken refuge here, 2 miles off the coast of Veracruz without his bodyguards, where no one apart from his invitees can touch him. He wouldn't have hidden from any American shithead, or any other shithead for that matter. But he'd got the measure of Von Bork long ago. Neither was he American, nor a shithead. Sometimes it was better not to tackle problems head-on.

Deep in contemplation, he did not hear the creak in the wooden board in the yacht deck. A window bangs against the sill, and Miguel turns to see water on the floor. Before he can react, there's a knife against his throat, and wetness against his back. He knows better than to protest. The sweet smell of an Omega behind him as a deep voice whispers in his ear, "¿Te impresiona ahora?" Are you impressed now?

Miguel smirks, keeping his hands where the Omega can see them. Outsmarting his men and swimming all the way to his yacht? Not yet, "Muéstreme su concha, y tal vez lo estaré." Show me your cunt, and maybe I will be.

The Omega laughs behind him, "Por suerte para ti, estoy siempre caliente después de matar a alguien." Luckily for you, I am always horny after I kill someone.

Miguel laughs, his hand trying to reach for the Omega's body, his legs. Oh, he's a bony little bird, Claude Stoughton, or whatever his real name may be, doesn't take care of the poor thing. The knife presses harder, cutting into his skin a bit. Oh, the bird can kill. He's heard of Omega assassins, but this one isn't one. This one serves himself.

"Cuanto más se mueve la mano, más difícil Voy a pulso el cuchillo," the Omega whispers. The more you move your hand, the harder I'll press the knife.

Miguel chuckles, "¿Cuál es la vida en comparación con el coño de una pequeña cosa dulce como usted? ¿Cuál es tu nombre, querida?" What's life compared to the cunt of a sweet little thing like you? What is your name, dear?

"Sherlock Holmes." The voice is confident and like iron. Miguel is more than sure that the Omega is giving him his real name.

"Ah, British. I knew." Miguel looks at him, making no attempt to mask his accent like other stupid chameleon bosses around Mexico, "Let me see your face, Sherlock Holmes."

He can feel the Omega called Sherlock turning around, and then revolving the chair around to face a mirror. Miguel stares in wonder at his young, smooth, pale face. Sherlock Holmes is probably the most beautiful Omega he's seen in his lifetime. What's an Omega so beautiful and pure doing in a desolate world like this?

He removes his hand from his thigh.

"What do you want from me, Omega? Has Von Bork sent you to kill me?"

Sherlock chuckles, pulling out a coil of rope, "You're an idiot if you really think that."

"Careful, now. I like you. Does not mean you can say anything you like."

"Well," Sherlock seems amused, "it's not like you have any other choice but to listen."


When Sherlock's tied Miguel securely to a chair, just because he wanted to do it, he goes out, takes control of the sails and the wheel and the anchor, and sails the boat away, to a direction more to his liking. Away from land.

When the yacht is safely anchored off the shore of an island about five miles from the port, Sherlock returns to the captive Alpha. Over six feet in height and with rippling muscles, Miguel Gonzalez could have easily overcome him. But he didn't. He can see that, although Miguel finds him attractive, he feels no attraction towards him. He does not know what came over him—maybe a stroke of recklessness that Mycroft often said he was born with—that he gave Miguel his real name, but in those few precious seconds he knew one thing—Miguel had no reason to hurt him, or to come after him. Whether he likes it or not, he's only a pawn in the "grand scheme" of things.

"So, Sherlock Holmes," Miguel exclaims in heavily accented English, his intelligent eyes twinkling, "I have done like you desire. I have sit in this place silently while you tie me in your heavy ropes. Do ropes excite you?"

Sherlock chuckles, "You probably don't want to know what excites me."

"Why?" he observes amusedly, emphasizing on every single word slowly, "Because you are a dangerous Omega?"

"No, because I'm an Omega who knows more things about you than the entire world combined."

Miguel narrows his eyes, "You sure?"

Sherlock tuts, "You are a patriotic man. Odd, for a criminal."

"If I am a criminal, then what are you?"

Sherlock ignores that, "Over the mantelpiece, there's the Mexican flag, and a picture of you and the dictator. So, that part is obvious."

Miguel smiles, "What else?"

"You move slower to your right. You have tea in the morning. Not very Mexican, that, is it?"

"A man has tastes. What else?"

"There's a reason you're here. You're in hiding. From Von Bork. Why? He's just a businessman."

He looks him square in the eye, "I did not know that. Tell me more."

This wasn't going to be easy, Sherlock muses. Takes a chair, and sits down. "I know about your sister. Her American husband."

Miguel laughs, "Some trash you pick up from newspaper. Speaking of newspapers, I heard a similar story about you. And your brother."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Oh yes, that."

"A symbol for the suffragettes, I hear."

"That was me, not my brother."

"And there was another one. About a beautiful, blond baby with eyes like sapphires."

It's harder for Sherlock to maintain his complexion. Miguel heaves a tired sigh.

"So let us not joust around like your forefathers did, Omega. It matters no more what we know of each other. I know what you want of me, and I know what you want."


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday. April 12th, 1914. 2:15 pm

It's late afternoon by the time Sherlock returns to his guest house, to his child. Miguel was a rare specimen of Alpha: extremely intelligent and perceptive, which is more than Sherlock can say for either Von Bork or Moran or any other stinking Alpha he's ever met. Even though they had known each other for less than fifteen minutes, Miguel seemed to understand that even though Sherlock was under orders, he was no agent of Von Bork. He served himself.

Miguel hadn't told him all, but he'd told him enough to draw conclusions about the rest. Sometimes he loves being an Omega. People always underestimate Omegas.

So he knows what Miguel did. Well, he had an idea beforehand, but the thrill of proving himself right was better than the thrill of simply knowing that he was right. Miguel Gonzalez is no ordinary businessman. He runs a network of underground agents across the various anarchist secret societies in Europe. And then he'd told Sherlock that he knew he had been part of one. But it wasn't enough. The information he can leverage to Von Bork against the freedom of himself and his child.

Then Miguel had told him something priceless. A cargo-steamer called SS Ypiranga was scheduled to dock at Boston on 16th of April, meant to deliver arms and ammunition to Huerta by skirting the arms embargo, a deal that Miguel, out of his staunch support for Huerta, had helped broker. However, he had been approached by a better offer, an offer that any businessman would have taken without question.

An offer that Miguel did not tell him, for if he went around telling everyone, or even the person who was about to kill him, about the deals he made or was made, he'd not remain a trustworthy businessman.

As it turns out, Sherlock did not need to be told of the deal Miguel was made, for Sebastian Moran told him of it, in his own, indirect manner.

"The contents of that ship are valuable," he said, in the midst of penning down a letter he was to post the next day while Sherlock breastfed a hungry Thomas, remembering the threat Miguel gave him. "The ship must reach Boston safely."

Sherlock's worked long enough with the colonel to know what he thought of him. The colonel thought of him as a brash little Omega child who had to be manipulated into doing things that they wanted. And Sherlock's lived long enough with Von Bork to know how he thought. He knows what he regards a victory, and what he thinks of as loss.

The only reason Moran would enlighten him about the paramount importance of the vessel means only one thing. Moran wants Sherlock to not let it reach safely, or at all.

Sherlock's thought of it from Von Bork's perspective. Which would profit him more: safe delivery of arms to a doomed Huerta regime and helping a small country like Mexico, or no delivery of the huge shipment of illegal arms and thereby causing a profitable long-term supply-and-demand? The answer was obvious, and concurred with the results Moran wants.

The easiest way to ensure that the ship doesn't dock is to destroy it before it docked.

And that's when it hits Sherlock. How would Von Bork recuperate the losses from the destruction of SS Ypiranga and why would he make such a dangerous bet for a more-or-less uncertain future? They'd obviously file insurance claims. And that's when Sherlock realizes that if so, then it must mean that Bridgeport Projectile Company, Erik's ammunition-manufacturing firm, was all a hoax, a façade. A dummy corporation whose sole aim was to create gunpowder shortage in market.

But the problem is that the cargo would be arriving at Boston. Which means that Moran wants Sherlock to leave for Boston, because Moran knows that he won't leave such an important mission in the hands of a paid agent. And if Sherlock has to leave, make preparations for destroying the steamer, and come back without rousing Moran's suspicions, he'd have to leave Thomas in the home. And that strikes Sherlock as odd. He's made his love and commitment to his child clearer than he wished he had. Did they forget that he would never leave Thomas, no matter what?

Thomas gives a mid-feeding whimper, as if reading through his mind.

Sherlock rewinds through what Von Bork and Moran expect him to do: leave for Boston undercover and make preparations to set the ship ablaze, thus serving their ends while making Sherlock think that he had thwarted their plans. Stupid Alphas. He was way cleverer than falling for such petty lies and manipulations.

"When will you be leaving?" Sherlock asks suddenly. There's trouble on the horizon, and he intends to stay out of it, or rather, to keep Thomas out of it.

Moran stops writing, and turns to look sideways at Sherlock, "After a couple of days, at the earliest. Tensions mounting between the States and Mexico. Not safe for us here."

Sherlock chuckles, "It's not safe for us anywhere."

"True," he muses. "You did good work today. Better than I expected. I did not expect Gonzalez to be a talker."

When Thomas is done, Sherlock wipes his mouth gently and buttons his shirt, "Well, like you said. I'm an Omega. So he talked."

He stands up and picks Thomas up in his arms, setting the boy on the bed, content to watch him playing with his feet and curling himself into a ball in the process. Sherlock tries to unsuccessfully disengage his feet from his mouth, "You've just had milk, Thomas." But the baby gives him a sullen look and continues to play regardless.

"Did he touch you?"

The question catches Sherlock unawares, "I beg your pardon?"

Moran looks at him irritably, "I asked if he touched you."

"And I heard you the first time. Why would you ask such a stupid question?"

Moran is quiet, and if Sherlock can make anything of that strange look, almost ashamed with himself. Sherlock tries to push him further, "You sound like you have plans to ask Miguel Gonzalez what touching me felt like."

He shoots him a cold look, followed by an unexpectedly derisive snort, "If I had any wish to know that, I'd have asked Mr. Von Bork myself."

"If you had the balls to ask him."

"It's nice to see you trying so hard to provoke me."

"And it's even nicer to see that you think I care enough to spend my efforts provoking you."

"Enough!" Moran barks, and it's the first time Sherlock's defeated him in a verbal spar. The jubilation at that thought is sweeter than honey.

"Of course. You write your letter. I'll lay Thomas to sleep and be on my way. Would you be so kind as to ask Sesasi to watch over him after I've left the house? I know she loves Thomas madly but she's irritating."

A grunt from behind Sherlock. He smiles to himself, making his eyes wider when Thomas spots him. It's lovely to see how excited Thomas becomes when Sherlock makes his face at him. He's made that face at himself in the mirror, and it was frightening as hell.

Little blue eyes close and Thomas drifts off to his baby-dreams. And just as Sherlock is about to leave the room, Moran calls out, "Sherlock."

No Mr. Holmes this time. Sherlock stops on his toe, for he knows that this time, it'll be words without any hidden meanings, "What?"

"Your beauty is a pleasure to behold. Don't ever spoil it for me."


The Buffalo. Chicago. Sunday. April 12th, 1914. 1:30 pm

For a Sunday afternoon, Buffalo seems to be far too crowded than usual. Lights are dimmer, the laughter is louder and far too raucous for Mary's liking. Certainly, she did not have a good life in mind when her father couldn't pay the ranch owners the money he owed them and she was taken away as payment. She had imagined all that her mother had told her to be cautious of would become true. She had, long story short, imagined far, far worse things.

Until the day she stole a horse and was caught by her impressed late husband. God bless his soul.

But now, having to serve chilled beer to loud, uncouth, lecherous Alphas with the supposedly Earl of someplace-she-didn't-care-about-shire proposing to her and bemoaning about his lost lands and estates and 30-bedroom chateau in his tedious English drawl, she knew all her fanciful imagination of pilfering men had come to a climax. This is certainly worse than the worst things she had imagined.

"Another drink, my Lord?" she enquires in her mock-sweet voice.

"Oh yes, my dear Mary," the apparently-Earl is a 50-something Alpha with balding head, and a long-pointed nose and bags under his eyes, "your innocence, it is so sweet and pure. It's pitiful you have to work here with sweaty men and distasteful company in this god-forsaken country."

Speak for yourself, "Another coming right up, my lord."

"I was 20 when my father arranged my first marriage," he is almost tearful, "Oh, she was beautiful, Agatha was. The sound of her laughter, so sweet. We spent two months away on our honeymoon in absolute ecstasy Cornwall. Oh, that chateau was so beautiful, my precious."

Mary forces a smile. More chateaus, or chateaux? Oh, why couldn't he just go away?

"Oh Agatha, I'd tickle her under her arms, and she'd laugh, and I'd go down and, oh, her beautiful pink southern nipple would—"

Mary pushes a drink in front of his face before he can speak any further, "There you go, my Lord. Another drink to cheer you right up."

Brenda comes up behind her, almost startling her "What did you do now?"

"Selling an old, irritable, horny man drinks, you mean—?"

"No," her voice almost trembles, and Mary turns to look at Brenda who is white as a sheet, "Why is McCarthy asking around for you?"

Mary casts the Earl a sidelong glance, and leans in, "I'll be right back, my Lord. Enjoy the evening."


Brenda takes Mary's hand, and the two women dart past several intoxicated Alphas and Betas with easy smiles. A particularly perverted one pinches Brenda's arse, but none of them stop. Mary looks around them to make sure no one is watching them. Breckenridge was gone on some town business, and McCarthy wasn't around.

Only once they are behind a secret, secured door does Brenda heave a sigh of relief. Mary watches her in concern.

"What is it, Brenda?" she whispers, "What did he ask you to do?"

"He asked me to keep an eye on a prisoner," Brenda gulps, "Mary, what are you up to? Please tell me, I'm your friend."

Panic seizes Mary, but she doesn't let it show, "What prisoner? Which one?"

"He—he said, he asked me about what—how I know you. Not just me, but all the others."

Oh, her sins are catching up with her. So he was going into her history. And what if they come to find out that she was responsible for everything, for delivering the younger Holmes brother to the—

Feigning ignorance, she makes a confused face, "But why would he ask you to watch over a prisoner, I don't understand—?"

Brenda's lips tremble, "You aren't thinking of r-running away, are you?"

Mary looks at her, commiserating. If only she could rescue all the women who worked here. If only.

"You know I can't. None of us can. But which prisoner, Brenda?"

A pause, mistrust right there, but she says it anyway, "That short blond one. Sherlock Holmes."


Veracruz, Mexico. Tuesday. April 14th, 1914. 3:30 pm

When Moran tells Sesasi that he has a job for her son that will pay him very handsomely and enable them to move out of their house into a grander, more lavish one, she sheds tears of joy, taking his hands in hers as she showers her blessings after blessings.

When Moran tells her that in order for her son to get the job, she must do him a small favour, Sesasi is instantly alert. Favours that came with rewards too good to believe in were always to be treated with suspicion. Moran admires her caution, and then tells her what he needs her to do.

"No señor. No voy a hacer esto," she breaks down when he remains unyielding in his demand, "No puedo hacer esto. Soy una madre. Estoy listo para hacer otra cosa. Pero esto no." No, sir. I will not do this. I cannot do this. I am a mother. I am ready to do anything else, but not this.

"Es un pequeño favor que te pido," he said softly, cooing her, "Para de llorar. Shh, Sesasi. Voy a encender el fuego para usted." It is a small favour that I ask of you. Stop crying. Shh, Sesasi. I will light the fire for you if needed.

"Él es su bebé," she whimpers, terrified eyes darting to Thomas' sleeping figure on the bed, "Me encanta que los niños como mi propio." He is your baby. I love that child like my own.

Moran chuckles darkly, "Yo estaba hablando de un bebé, no es mi bebé." I was talking about a baby, not my baby.

Two pillars of his grand plan to get rid of Thomas were erected. And now for the stage.


The Buffalo. Chicago. Wednesday. April 15th, 1914. 9:03 pm

"So you're telling me that poker is not a game of chance?"

John chuckles, "Now you're insulting the game." He looks at her fondly, "It is a matter of odds, probabilities. The player with the best hand wins. Short and simple. Another game?"

An evening ago, Mary had brought him a deck of cards she had sneaked from the parlour. And over the course of the next two evenings, over dim light dinners and growing intimacy, John taught Mary how to play hold 'em poker, or rather a two-player version of it, something he considers himself to be extremely adept at.

"No, let's stop for now," she heaves a tired sigh, "If someone comes up to check . . ."

John gives her a sly smile, adjusting to rest his weight on the left half of his bottom, "Oh, so you're being like that just because you can't win? No, I completely understand."

Mary's eyes narrow challengingly, "Oh, so poker makes you an arse as well. Good to know."

He laughs, "Just like it makes you insecure."

"I am not being insecure, John! And anyway, you've taken all my money and I have nothing to bet!"

"I can always return it. You're simply making excuses."

Mary shakes her head, smiling, "You are insufferable!"

John's smile fades a bit, remembering the last time someone had called him insufferable . . . on the Titanic . . . an Omega . . . jumping . . . for the largest ship in the world was too small to escape. . .

And here he is, playing poker, life scattered, his will to escape diminishing with every single moment.

He swallows, and gives Mary a forced smile, Mary whose eyes are bright, and all too knowing, "Right. One last game," he hands her a few pennies, "Now you have something to bet."

She snatches it away with an impish smile, "I'll be dealer this time."

"Oh, that's fine with me. I don't see how you think I'm cheating here. You're too easy to read."

"That's one explanation."

John narrows his eyes, "And what's the other?"

She leans in and whispers seductively, "You're cheating."

"Oh no, I'm not."


Five minutes later, John has regained almost three-fourth of the total money, and Mary looks at him with helpless indignation. She turns over the three cards, and looks at John, stony-faced. Not a favourable hand, he surmises and steals another look at his own card. The best he can have is a flush. He'll bet some more, not yet wanting to go all in. Mary's cards were, after all, just like her. Full of surprises.

But his plans are short-lived as he notices the short-lived disappointment on Mary's face. Smiling inwardly, he waits for her to check, and then he places a bet, "10."

He can see the audible gulp in Mary's throat. She has less than 25, can't do anything, not even a raise, in the next round except to go all in. She turns the next card. The nine of hearts.

However, she surprises him by smiling, almost invitingly, and throws a 20 on the floor, "Raise." John looks at her rivetedly. Mary's not a fool to do something as idiotic as what she's just done.

"You do realise that you don't have any more cash to buy in, don't you?"

"And what if I say that I . . . do?"

John laughs, "Right."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Oh, I do. Because I also believe that you are an idiot."

The look in her eyes is malevolent, pure evil, as she rests her chin on her knuckles and looks deep into his eyes, "Wait and watch, Mr. Gambler. Wait and watch."

John sighs and throws a 20, "Right then, call."

Mary is still watching him intently. Too intently for John to realise that something is wrong. Because Mary isn't an idiot and yet she believes that she has more money. He remembers a distant poker game, in a pub in Southampton . . . where Sven had bet his third-class Titanic tickets in frenzy.

"How long have you been playing poker, John?"

John smiles, "Long enough to see a ship sink."

She leans in, interested, "It drowned, didn't it? How did you make it?"

He looks at her pointedly, "Alive. Your turn."

"Of course," she looks at him, as if confident that she would win, and turns over the last card, and then, throws the rest of the money from her pile onto the floor, "40."

And then, before John can say that she doesn't have any money left, she renders him speechless by taking off her blouse and setting it down on the floor. John gulps, his mind racing far ahead of the game.

Bugger.

"You can't do that." NO, no she can't. She shouldn't.

"Oh yes, I can," not the slightest worried about her modesty, "If two people can play poker without a full time dealer, then I can certainly bend the rules as well. And anyway, it's high time I started playing by my own."

"But—" John croaks helplessly, and Mary cuts across him.

"Your turn, John."

John steals one look at her naked arms, and looks away pointedly.

Her skin is creamy, slightly freckled, like it's aching to be touched, to be explored, for all sorts of freckles must be there in all the right places, and John's mind races to every single of them.

"Call."

"Showdown, then." She turns over her cards: a two pair. A lower hand.

John licks his lips, and then goes against his own primal judgment, his mind spiralling at the thought that if he shows his cards, then in the next game, Mary, having no cash left, might lose some more, more and more . . .

And if she ever went all in . . . all out . . .

No.

"Fold."

With half his money, along with Mary's blouse, returned to her, she smiles triumphantly, "What did you have, if I may ask?"

John waits until she's worn back her blouse. Then he can think more clearly, "Flush."

Mary's jubilant smile fades into an odd look, a look that is cross between surprise and admiration.

"Alright. You are a complicated man. Next game."

John folds his legs closer, not wanting his hard-on to be noticed through his flimsy clothing, "Isn't it late—?"

"Not even close. I'm just getting started."

Upon seeing a reluctant John, she urges him, "Come on, you deal this time. Where's that eager John? Giving up after just one loss?"

One unfair loss, he thinks, "Alright."


This is bloody ridiculous, John thinks.

All 100 on the table, along with John's pistol, the one that Mary has smuggled back for him, his bandages, dog tags and Mary's earrings, blouse and skirt. Not to mention that he can hardly look Mary in the eye now. Her curves are soft, there's hair in her underarms and her body seems flushed, like she's . . . pleased to be the way she is now. Her eyes rake his body, and John, already half-naked because of his daily torture ritual, feels like squirming, like an insect in its burrow.

Even if it were without the distraction, the game would've been quite difficult now. Within 10 games, Mary has become as good as John at bluffing. John looks at all his limited possessions. He doesn't even have proper clothes to bet on, unlike Mary.

Although, Mary's clothes, John reddens at the thought and Mary smirks at his discomfort, are far, far priceless than his bandages, and he'd rather lose his bandages than . . .

"Tell me, John," she whispers, pitching her voice lower, and John feels as if she is seducing him deliberately, like on the first day, "why do you like to gamble? Raise."

John looks at his cards once again, "Same reason you like coming back to me. It's addictive," he takes off yet another bandage from a fresh wound and winces as some newly-formed skin tears off with it, "Call."

"And if I don't come back tomorrow?"

"Then, your clothes . . ." John speaks hesitantly, "I'm afraid, won't be yours."

"That is assuming that you win. If you lose . . ."

He leans forward, "I will win. At any rate, I can stay without my bandages."

"And if you stay too long without your bandages?" She drops her handkerchief on the floor, "Raise."

"Too long or too late?"

"Both."

John blinks, "I don't mind."

"And," Mary thumbs the strap of her brassiere, much to John's distraction, "what about your daring escape plan?"

She, he notices, squeezes her legs together and bites her cheek. The room is suddenly too sweltering for John. He should escape, oh God, he has to. His member is hard under the loincloth he is wearing, and he knows it is now common knowledge, for Mary has her tell-tale smirk on. The smirk that knows all that should not be known.

"Mind your own business," he snaps almost rudely, and Mary looks infuriatingly amused at his discomfort, "What about yours?"

"Perhaps, we can . . ." she bites down on her lip, "collaborate."

John blinks. He hadn't thought of that. The idea that he can escape, with Mary . . .

"Call."

John gulps, and then realises his mistake. Mary has no way to do a raise. She has nothing left except. . .

"I'm all in."

John digs his nails into his right thigh. Bugger. Of all deals that he's been made in poker, of RMS Titanic tickets, and supplies and cooking duties, this one is the worst.

Mary looks him in the eye as she does it, slowly unhooks her brassiere as John watches in rapt, horrified attention, like a scene unfolding, a scene which shouldn't have happened. Hooks her thumbs into her underwear, and slowly, the last of the fabric on her body lies atop the pile of her clothes, and Mary, beautiful and confident in her sexuality, sits in front of him like a queen, while he, the helpless, minimally-clothed peasant, can do nothing but stare and want and stare.

"Well?" She smirks, and spreads her legs, just a little bit, and John's mouth is open and his heart is galloping, afraid, desirous, tempestuous. She draws closer to him and he's paralysed, all parts of him except one. She touches his thigh, and he jolts into action.

Mary looks at him, and John, who's only ever felt fascination for breasts during his time as a street artist, and has never really touched them, his eyes go straight for them and they stay there, for they are so beautiful in their imperfection and asymmetry and they call to him . . .

"Say you're all in," she breathes almost into his mouth, and John can do nothing but comply.

"I'm all in," he whispers inaudibly, and Mary's mouth presses into his just as he utters 'all'. Bodies pressing together and suddenly John has no loincloth, and John has no wounds, and all he knows is the throbbing, the deep, incessant throbbing in his manhood, and that must cease, and Mary's arms and legs are around him, and she's jerking against him, on top of him, and oh, such closeness, how can she be so close? And John's arms envelop her completely and he kisses back, for he's wanted her so much and she's teased him long enough about it, and oh, oh, oh, the sweet ecstasy, the warmth of a woman's supple flesh, and they are so soft. And there's charcoal once again on John's hands, and the room is noisier and colder. . .

Waves, they break against the walls, as if someone has taken The Buffalo and thrown it into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, and oh, it's the Heat, the Estrus. John looks at his body. He's younger, slimmer and underneath him is someone far younger and far slimmer. And oh, the skin, Mary's freckles are gone and the skin is whiter, the white which comes from never having been exposed to the sun. Oh, John can kiss that skin for ages and ages and ages. And those hipbones, they are jutting out and John traces out the hip, kissing as he goes down to the legs, and oh, there's no Mary, for Mary hasn't arrived yet . . .

"John," Sherlock closes his eyes, and warmth blossoms in John's heart, warmth that calms the storm inside. And John wants to see him, and he can see him, but he can't open his eyes, and oh mate, my mate, my Bonded, and yes, he wants to make him pregnant, and oh yes, he has made him pregnant . . .

. . . with those titties bouncing on his man-chest . . .

John's eyes fly open, and he withdraws his mouth from Mary's, but it's too late. Mary looks like someone has shot her in the head, as she jerks against John, rubbing herself against his manhood, and it takes an enormous amount of restrain on John's part to not penetrate her. Her eyes are closed, her face is flushed, and John feels, among other things, most prominently, disgust. Not at her, but at himself.

"Hurts," Mary exclaims. John's grip is bruising, and his eyes are closed, for desire won't come to him now, just won't. It should've been so sweet and beautiful and liberating, but it's not; it's a nightmare and betrayal and cheating . . .

"Mary," he chokes on his saliva, and her lustful eyes steal one glance of his wide, worried ones, and John knows what's coming next. She isn't going to stop, not until she gets what she wants, what she's wanted, what they've both wanted.

So John lets her. He's cheated both her and Sherlock. He'd bear it. After all, this is what they mean when they say that Bonded Alphas are almost incapable of infidelity.

He closes his eyes, but he can't close his ears to her sighs and exclamations of "John" and "take me" and to John, who is extremely shy about his own sexual desires, it all seems so unusual to have someone who is so outspoken about it all.

And then, just like that, Mary stops. Her breathing is still heavy, and she's lying on top of him, breasts hanging from her chest, and John hates his instincts which make his eyes go to them, for they are so endlessly fascinating . . .

No. Stop.

"You're still hard," she exclaims, and John flushes horribly red upon hearing his state being described so . . . accurately. He looks away, feeling like an utter failure.

"I'm sorry, Mary," is all he can say, "I'm sorry."

She pulls away, but makes no attempt to cover herself up, "Time for bed." John looks at her face. She's disappointed in him. The terror that her expression strikes in his heart knows no bounds.

"Mary, listen. Listen to me," he pleads, "please."

"Gretchen will bring you food tomorrow."

Her voice is low, and although there's no explaining left to be done, John has this irrational need to do some. As if saying something will undo all that happened during the evening.

"You're so beautiful," he stammers, and then there's nothing left to say. She looks at him, poker-faced. Oh, why did he teach her this game? Why isn't she saying anything?

"I'm so sorry, Mary. You," he gulps, "deserve better than an infidel Alpha like me."

She is still stony-faced, "And you think your Bonded would deserve an infidel like you?" She gathers her clothing, and wears them quickly, while John processes the extent of her words.

She rises, and collects the cards into a deck, "Goodnight, John. It's time for bed."

It is, indeed, time for bed. Things have gone too far. He has a mission that he has to complete. He must escape. He is here for a reason. A reason he can't remember very well.


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 19th April, 5:00 pm

Moran is officially supposed to be in Tijuana now. Well, according to what Sherlock and his hosts know. Little do they know that he's just outside the port city in the guise of an old man, at a hotel across an inn, keeping his eye on the window of his room. An eye out for the man who is supposed to come with Thomas to collect the money and the food. Then, Thomas will have a good, stable home with better parents, and Sherlock will be able to work at the peak of his faculties.

That's what Moran has kept telling himself over the last twelve hours, as if to absolve himself of the terrible weight of some guilt hanging over his head like a dark shadow.

The child needs to go. The company of Alphas like himself and Charles is no good for fast-growing, intelligent babies.

Over the last few days, Moran often found himself comparing Thomas to his little pups. They'd been sucking at his Bonded's chest the last he'd seen them. And that is how they remain in his memory, all before he was discharged from military service. And to see Sherlock breastfeed Thomas, it reminds him of his Bonded, a Bond forged out of one reckless night of pleasure.

He closes his eyes, fisting his fingers harder and harder until his uncut nails drew blood. There was no time for second guessing. Procuring a dead baby the size of Thomas hadn't been difficult, but it was hard to say about the method employed to search for the aforementioned baby: whether it was a genuine search, or an on-demand thing.

It would break Sherlock, Moran finds himself musing, flinching inwardly at the thought.

And it would make him stronger, another voice replies. A voice which isn't persuasive enough.


Thankfully for Samuel, the child is a peaceful one, curious even. His blue eyes are radiant, and so is his sweet innocent smile, and the little teethless gums. Samuel has smuggled babies like this one, and he's never failed to form a bond with even a single one, regardless of however naughty they might have been at the beginning. It's easier that way. They all cry at the end, when Samuel leaves them to the agents responsible for taking them to their new homes. They are going to have a better life after all, Samuel reasons, proud of himself for making such a difference in the world.

The basket of food would be more than enough for this little thing. Armed with a canister of milk, and a package of napkins and some semi-solid food, Samuel walks around the inn to wait to get into a van to start for the border. Passing through the alley, he hears a whistle, as if beckoning him. He stops, and inspects the place around. This side of the town isn't as delightful as the bundle in his arms.

"Vamos, pequeño bebé," he says to Thomas, "Vamos a salir de aquí." Come on, little baby. Let's get out of here.

No sooner did he say that he feels his head coming in contact with something heavy. Pain shoots out above his ear, as he crumbles to his knees trying to get a look at his captor. Blond hair, blue eyes, like the baby . . . a huge man . . . six feet . . . eerily familiar.

"A job almost well done, lad," Moran sighs, dragging a startled Thomas out of his strong grip and stuffing some greens into his pockets, "But I'm sorry. Just five minutes of blackout, and you'll be alright."


Veracruz, Mexico. Sunday, 19th April, 7:05 pm

When Sherlock returns to the guest house, he gets the distinct feeling that something is very wrong with the house.

It's sweltering hot, as if someone's lit a fire inside, but there's no conflagration, or noise or distress. Contrary to his racing heart, everything is still and quiet. Too quiet. He's learnt long ago to trust his instincts over everything else. His heart leaps into his throat.

Thomas.

Racing upwards as fast as he can, Sherlock almost slips at the stairs. Why's there no one with Thomas in his rooms? Why's there no activity, no sound?

The door to his and Moran's suite is ajar. The room is empty. No Thomas, no Sesasi . . .

Sesasi. Sherlock's blood boils. Where has she taken his baby? She was supposed to keep watch over the boy, while Moran was gone and . . . Moran. Did he . . . was he involved in this? All Sherlock is capable of thinking is that out there, somewhere, his child is there, and something horrible is happening to him.

A groan from downstairs answers his doubts. Sherlock listens carefully. There's sounds of crackling, the crackling of fire. Panicking, Sherlock rushes downstairs, through the corridor and into the main room.

He pauses in his sprint upon seeing Sesasi, facing bright hot flames that licked the top of the hearth. Her arms are outstretched, perilously close to the fire. In her outstretched arms is a bundle. In the bundle, the little toes of a baby's feet are visible.

His eyes widen as he realizes what she's about to do.

"NO!" Sherlock cries out, louder than he'd cried out when the Atlantic had rushed to meet him and John, louder than he'd cried out when Hunter had penetrated him, louder than he'd cried out when he'd birthed Thomas. "You evil woman!" he shrieks and runs towards her in a desperate attempt to stop her, "Put my son down!"

The roar seems to unsettle her for a moment, and her knees seem to buckle, but not before Sesasi tosses the child into the fire.

"NO!" is the only thing Sherlock could shout as the baby's little body catches fire before he can reach the fireplace. Almost diving into the fire, he pulls the little body out, paying no mind to the fact that his clothes were starting to catch fire. Falls to his feet trying to rescue his baby. Oh, the beautiful pink skin is melting, blackening. The hair is golden no more, and there's nothing he can do to undo it. Sherlock, trembling with shock and agony, turns over the burnt cloth now sticking to the child's face, tears blurring his vision. Even in the midst of chaos, Sherlock notices one thing: Thomas hadn't cried one during the whole thing.

"Usted es una mala madre,"Sesasi's voice trembles, as if she were reciting off a book. "Después de este sacrificio a Dios, va a ser una buena madre." You are a bad mother. After this sacrifice to God, you will be a good mother.

"He was my child," Sherlock croaks, unable to look away from the blurry vision of his burnt, peeling skin, "My only child."

"Sherlock!"

Moran's voice falls on deaf ears as numbing shock falls over Sherlock. The familiar da-da of Thomas sound like a figment of his imagination.

Until they appear in front of him. Sherlock creaks his neck just upwards to recognize the happy eyes and the golden hair of his Thomas.

Sherlock intakes air sharply, "I . . . hallucinating . . . Tijuana. . ."

"I'm come back, Sherlock," Moran's arms tremble as he offers Thomas to him, "He is safe," and then turns to look at Sesasi with a hateful glare, "I knew of this witch's intentions, so I kept your child safe and placed a dead boy in his bed."

Sesasi's eyes widen, "I no witch, senor. He tell me to burn the baby. He. . ."

The rest of her sentence doesn't matter to Sherlock as he takes Thomas in his arms. A very alive and healthy and happy Thomas. Sherlock chokes on his bile, swallowing the bitter saliva down and joining his forehead with Thomas, listening to his little heart beating, to the sounds of his gurgling, of his breath. So alive. Oh, his baby.

"My baby," his whispers, "You were in Tijuana. How . . .?"

"Shh," the colonel wraps his arms around Sherlock and Thomas, embracing them, and Sherlock feels his life returning to him, slowly. Oddly, he's never felt so secure before, in any other Alpha's arms.

"Seb," Sherlock whispers, "I thought she got Thomas. I thought she . . ."

The illusion of safety is broken at once when Sesasi tugs at Moran's hair cruelly and smacks him across his cheek, "¡Mentiroso! ¡Tramposo!" You liar! You cheater!

But no sooner had she struck him that Moran catches hold of her arms, holding her down. He looks at Sherlock solemnly, "Justice will be done, my dear." And with that, he drags a screaming and kicking Sesasi outside the main room.

Sherlock turns back to Thomas, who's looking at him with his now-serious eyes, "I'll never leave you alone with strangers ever again."


House Chamber, Capitol Hill. White House, Washington DC. Monday, 20th April 1914, 10:00 am

"I don't know what you're up to, Mycroft," President Wilson had remarked in his office, when Mycroft had told him that it would be unwise and, in short, illegal to detain the steamer in an attempt to undo the damage he'd already done, "You're a genius. But you're also young, and this is not how we do things in here. It's now a matter of national pride. The Congress will take some time, but they'll approve the occupation."

Mycroft had debated for the better length of the hour about how unnecessary the invasion would be, seeing as the Huerta regime was already set for deposition. He went on like he never had, he knew that his arguments were weaker than that of his boss, but in the end, nothing he said could deter the President from the course of events he had already set into motion. The steamer SS Ypiranga would be docking at Veracruz, and there was nothing Mycroft could do to recall that order. It was only one day away from docking, after all.

So Mycroft has to be content with standing in a non-decrepit corner of the House Chamber while Wilson delivered his address to the Joint Session of the Congress.

". . . Our feeling for the people of Mexico is one of deep and genuine friendship," Wilson has said, "and everything that we have so far done or refrained from doing has proceeded from our desire to help them, not to hinder or embarrass them. . ."

He'd looked around the hall. Most of the people had looked like they already knew what Wilson was going to propose.

". . . I, therefore, come to ask your approval that I should use the armed forces of the United States in such ways and to such an extent as may be necessary to obtain from General Huerta and his adherents the fullest recognition of the rights and dignity of the United States, even amidst the distressing conditions now unhappily obtaining in Mexico. . ."

Regardless of the fact that half the people had known, the hall broke into a smattering of discussion and exclamations. Mycroft had had his eyes on all of them. He knows every single of them.

". . . There can in what we do be no thought of aggression or of selfish aggrandizement. We seek to maintain the dignity and authority of the United States only because we wish always to keep our great influence unimpaired for the uses of liberty, both in the United States and wherever else it may be employed for the benefit of mankind."

Mycroft bows his head down low. Despite the discussion, he knows that the Congress would approve it. Wilson has won their opinions with his closing remarks.

"Oh, my dear brother," he whispers to himself. Not noticing the horror stricken look on the face of the representative of Worchester, Massachusetts. On the face of Senator Charles Augustus Milverton.


Veracruz, Mexico. Tuesday. April 20th, 1914. 5:30 pm

"Pack your things," is the first thing that Moran says to Sherlock, who had been trying to console a crying Thomas when he enters their suite, "We have to leave."

"What? Why? And what of Sesasi?"

"I don't give a damn about a satanist woman now. She can rot, for all I care," he takes out his portmanteau, after tossing a telegram in Sherlock's direction, "Read that."

Sherlock takes it in his grip, out of Thomas' reach. A telegram from Von Bork: GET OUT WAR IMMINENT GO TO CHICAGO STOP. He frowns. Why Chicago? Why back to the city he'd fled from?

"Why're we going to Chicago?"

Moran smirks, "To visit an old friend."


The Buffalo. Chicago. Tuesday. April 20th, 1914. 10:04 pm

John cringes at the sudden flood of light on the floor when the door opens without notice. John's heart leaps to his throat. It's Mary.

"We need to escape from here," she says, closing the door behind her, "I've been hearing things and it's too dangerous for you to stay here. And for me."

John gulps, "Mary . . ."

"Now's not the time!" she hisses, "Sherlock Holmes is in Boston. Along with my boss. I delivered him there, and now I'm going to take you to him."


A/N: History notes-

1) Wilson's speech excerpts: . /woodrow_

2) 21st April: US occupation of Veracruz. So these guys are running from that.

Also, as it seems quite obvious from the end, John and Sherlock finally reunite in the next chapter. Promise x

Read and review! 3