Warnings in advance: Death and violence in general, given the disaster of Titanic's sinking and the WWI. A few non-con situations. I won't say that this is smutty but yeah, there's lots of sex, consensual and otherwise. Two major character deaths, one is justified (I think but I shouldn't say that about anyone) and one (spoiler alert! Because it hasn't come in the story yet) not. Omegaverse, my version so some of the traditional fan-fictiony views are not there. That being said. . .
Oh yeah, it doesn't end with Titanic. Well, in a way it does, but not the immediate end. So you could say that this is an AU inspired by the movie but the part II plot is more original.
Part I: The Ship Of Dreams
Chapter One: All Set For The Journey
Southampton, England. 10th April, 1912. 11:35 am
The gleaming black and white body of the gigantic White Star Line leviathan called the RMS Titanic stands beyond the rails, ready for her maiden voyage. Some say that she is unsinkable. God Himself could not sink the ship. A crowd of hundreds, consisting of numerous White Star Line officials, tearful family members and joyful youths blacken the pier next to Titanic like ants on a jelly sandwich. Crewmen move across the deck, dwarfed by the enormous size of the steamer.
She is a gorgeous thing, the 'ship of the dreams', designed so that none could ever challenge its might. She is said to be the largest thing ever made by human hands and the most luxurious cruise in the whole world. First class ticket holders board the massive thing via an elevated boarding bridge, very keen to avoid the smelly press of the dockside crowd. People down, mostly third class passengers crane their neck upwards, trying to take in her sheer size at one glance and failing at it.
Sherlock peeks out of the window of their slow-moving car at the towering mammoth of a ship and imagines a Kraken splitting it in half and taking it down to the bottom of the ocean.
The car comes to a stop and the driver throws open Sherlock's side. A personal valet opens the door on the other side of the car.
"I don't see what all the fuss is about, Victor," Sherlock huffs, not wanting to get down on the pier. Not because it is crowded, but because once he does, he'd have no option but board the ship. "Yes, it may look like an extra ninety feet longer than the Mauretania, but that's something hardly worth changing the reservations at the last moment."
Sherlock steals a glance at Victor, the alpha who leaves their car. At twenty five years old—impeccably dressed in a grey three-piece suit and gazing at the ship like a father at his son who has done him proud—he reeks of alpha arrogance and money beyond imagination. He peeks back into the car when Sherlock refuses to leave it and rolls his eyes dramatically.
"You can be blasé about some things, darling, but not the Titanic! Not just over a hundred feet long, but far more luxurious. It has squash courts, swimming pools, a Parisian cafe. . . even Turkish baths," he winks.
Sherlock's strategy of non-cooperation wilts away at the insinuation of 'Turkish baths' and decides to relieve himself from Victor's lascivious scrutiny, turning his back on the hand that the older alpha offers him to de-board the car. Victor simply shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders at the second alpha descending from the car behind them.
"Your brother is much too hard to impress, Mycroft."
Mycroft spares a polite chuckle for Victor. "So, this is the ship that they call unsinkable."
"It's not unsinkable, Mycroft," says Sherlock, glaring at Victor, "Mr. Thomas Andrews proclaimed that it was practically unsinkable. The press simply dropped 'practically' to make it sound like Noah's ark!"
"It is unsinkable, Sherlock," Victor raises his voice loud enough for both brothers to hear, "Even God Himself cannot sink it if he wanted to!"
"It's made of iron and steel and glass and clay. Of course, it's not unsinkable!"
"You know why it's unsinkable, Sherlock?"
"Why?"
"Because I'd be aboard it, and you have very good luck, don't you?"
Sherlock resists a sarcastic, insincere stretch of his lips. "Do I?"
"Of course, you do. After all, you've bagged me as your alpha, haven't you?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and stalks away, Mycroft close behind him. Their valet and a maid emerge behind them, stunned into inaction by the massive ship they were going to stay in for the next one week. A White Star Line porter scurries towards them, seemingly harassed by their last minute boarding.
"Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, through that way—"
His eyes dilate as Victor thrusts a five pound note into his hands, "I put my faith in you, good sir!" He indicates towards his valet, "See my man," he dismisses him as the porter thanks him profusely. The valet, a tough, dour ex-Pinkerton cop, drags him away, showing him the overwhelming amount of luggage: all of the Holmeses' belongings as they emigrate to America to Victor's estate in Sierra County, California.
Victor breezes on, leaving the minions to scuttle about and enjoying the effect of money on unwashed masses. He leads the two men, taking Sherlock's hand in his possessively. Sherlock tries to extract himself from his grip, but too late.
"Victor! Let me check whether my—"
"We better hurry up. We're already late, darling!"
Sherlock grits his teeth, looking over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson struggling to drag his chemical apparatus with her. Warmth blooms in his chest at seeing how she hadn't left it in the clumsy care of Victor's manservant, despite the discomfort it was causing her.
Victor indicates the way towards the First Class gangway. They move out of the crowd with Mrs. Hudson, the Holmeses' maid/housekeeper/cook, and Andrea, Mycroft's personal secretary, hustling behind them, and Sherlock finds the perfect opportunity to break from Victor's grip and rush towards Mrs. Hudson.
"Give me that, Mrs. Hudson. You don't have to—"
"Mind the gap, dear," she indicates at the gangway and the thin strip of churning ocean beneath it.
As he drags the luggage with her, Sherlock appraises how the tables have turned on their entire life. Once, one of the richest in South England, owner of the several indigo plantations across East India, the Holmeses had had no shortage of servants who'd rush to pick a dropped handkerchief before it even reached the floor. Then, Germany had come up with synthetic indigo and their businesses shut down rapidly, causing the elder Holmes to put a pistol in his mouth the previous year.
And now Sherlock is dragging his own luggage up the pier, with only an old housekeeper and Mycroft's personal secretary who had long ties to their family. He glances up at Mycroft walking ahead of them, unwilling to look back and confront the reality that this is all that was left of the mighty Holmeses. At least, Mycroft won't have to pretend for long. Sherlock, on the hand, would have to pretend for the rest of his life, just in a different manner.
Sherlock's marriage to Victor is supposed to straighten things for the Holmes family, give them economic stability. To them, it was merely a contract to ensure their survival. And according to Mycroft, they were being "well compensated" for Sherlock's "trouble". After all, Victor is an alpha over whom any omega would throw himself without a second thought. Handsome, rich, heir to half the Alleghany mines in California, sophisticated, well-mannered and educated.
Sherlock casts a cursory glance over the action taking place on the pier, the health inspection queue to the other quintessential upper class families, not unlike themselves, boarding the cruise. Not much of interest, he decides, before turning his attention back to the snobbish alpha in front of him.
"Here, let me help you with that, darling."
Sherlock frowns at the endearment and pulls his things away from Victor petulantly.
"I love it when you make that face," Victor chuckles and picks up most of his luggage. Sherlock walks away and, furious that his efforts at driving him away are not working properly, joins his brother. Victor smiles knowingly and dumps all the equipment on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders once again, freeing himself to admire the splendid liner.
"Honestly, Victor!" Mycroft turns to him. "If you weren't forever booking everything at the last moment, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family."
Sherlock does not understand his brother. They aren't any less broke. Why does he still need to pretend to be the master of the universe?
"All part of the charm, Mycroft. At any rate, it was my darling fiancee's rituals which made us late."
"You should have informed me earlier. I would have packed all this stuff beforehand!"
Sherlock knows why he wasn't informed. He had once tried to run away from home shortly after his engagement to Victor. Mycroft would not have wanted a repeat of that. Brother of the year, really.
"It's not a question of when, Sherlock. It's a question of how much. How much stuff could you possibly need?"
"What else do you expect me to do for one full week with less than 300 metres of length?"
Victor raises one eyebrow in wry amusement. "300 metres is less for you? I thought six inches should've been enough?"
Mycroft pretends as if he hasn't heard it. Sherlock glowers at Victor, not wanting to acknowledge how Victor has been slowly peppering his jabs with sexual innuendo over the weeks, but he can't resist this one. "Only six? My disappointment knows no bounds, O mighty alpha!"
Victor licks his lips at the implied insult. "Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites. . . and you act as if you're going to your execution."
Sherlock looks up as the hull of Titanic looms over them: a great iron wall, Bible black and severe. Victor motions him forward, his hand in his, and he enters the gangway to the D Deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread.
It's a ship of dreams to everyone else, but to him, it is a slave ship, taking him away from everything he loves to America in the chains of matrimony. Outwardly, he is everything a well brought-up omega could aspire to be.
On the inside, he is screaming.
The steamer's whistle blows across Southampton. But John, in a run-down pub filled with working-class alphas and betas smelling of ale and sweat and cigarette smoke, can't be bothered to pay attention to it. Not yet. Not with the high-stakes gamble in front of him.
Two Swedes, thirty-ish, on one side of the round table, and Mike Stamford, his constant comfort throughout the twenty years of life spent in a fast-revolving smoke-filled world, beside him. What began as an innocuous game of poker twenty minutes ago is threatening to transform into a rags-to-riches story for John—especially when the Swedes had bet their third class tickets to the RMS Titanic along with most of their money—because third class tickets to the largest, most luxurious ship in the world and the opportunity to study and work and make a living in America is the richest John can get.
John exchanges glances with Mike as a sullen argument in Swedish begins unfolding across the table.
"Hit me again, Sven," John assesses the Swedes. He takes a card and slips it into his hand. The fellow named Sven looks at him intensely, as if attempting at figuring out his hand about from his poker face. Tough luck, John thinks with an inward smirk.
He glances at Mike. He's holding his end fairly well, but the slight tremor in his hand could be giving him away.
The Titanic's whistle blows again. Final warning.
"What if we lose?" he whispers to John.
"Nothing to gain, nothing to lose, Mike. Alright then. Showdown, gentlemen!" John looks at them sharply, pursing his lips. "Someone's life's about to change."
They all put their cards down, except John who keeps his cards close to the chest.
"Hmm. . . let's see, Mike's got nothing. Olaf has nothing too. Sven. . . uh, oh, two pair. . . bugger. . . Sorry Mike."
The Swedes exchange a look. John has the distinct impression that only Olaf knows some broken English because he gives Sven a hopeful look at John's words. Mike, on the other hand, is furious. "What sorry? Did you lose all my money? Wait, did-did you bet all of it—?"
John waves his free hand to calm him down, "Mike, Mike, lemme finish. Sorry that you're not going to be able to see your mother for a very, very long time because. . ."
He slaps down his hand on the table, revealing a full house, ". . .Cause, we're going to America! Full house, gents! Woohoo!"
Mike screams out in delight, "Holy mother of—!" He pulls the John into a crushing hug, "I love you, John! Love you! We're going to America!" He presses a kiss to John's cheeks in elation.
"Yeah, yeah," John pushes him away, half elated, half awkward. "Too much happy, too much happy, Mike. . . Christ, hey, HEY!"
The moment of jubilation only gets better as Olaf grabs Sven by the collar and punches him in the jaw, making him topple out of the chair. John and Mike laugh gleefully, and John climbs on his friend's back, demanding to be paraded around the smoky pub like some sort of local hero.
"Yeah. . . we're going to America," Mike sings, kissing the two tickets and stuffing them in his pocket, "To the land o' the free and the home o' the brave and real hot dogs! And on Titanic! We're fucking rich, John!"
"No mate," the barkeeper points at the clock, "Titanic go to America. In five minutes." It's five minutes to twelve. They glance out of the small window. Sure enough, the steamer's all set to leave, billowing thick black clouds of sooty smoke.
"Bugger! Come on, Mike!" They stuff all the coins into their bags and pockets and make a run for the door, determined to catch the luxury steamer. John comes to a dead stop when he sees the hull of the huge ship. Mike runs back and grabs John, almost dragging him to the bottom of the boarding ramp, as soon as it is detached from the gangway doors.
"Hey, hey, hey!" John cries out, "Wait, we're passengers!"
An officer of the ship—Sixth Officer Moody—looks at him like he doesn't believe them. Upon producing the tickets, he casts his eyes over them,. "Have you gone through the health inspection queue?"
"Yeah, of course, man!" he lies smoothly, and then adopts a terrible Texas accent, "We're Americans, man! Both of us, man!"
"Sven and Olaf. American, huh?"
"Hail Columbia, happy land!" Mike wheezes.
"Yes, yes, don't overdo it," he replies, rolling his eyes, but them lets them come aboard anyway.
Once out of sight of any officers, Mike and John hug again, high from their win and their stowaway escapade. "We're the luckiest sods in the whole world, John!"
"I hear you!"
John and Mike burst through a door onto the aft well deck. They get to the rail and John starts to yell and wave to the crowd on the dock. Mike looks surprised.
"You know somebody?"
"Of course not," John yells, the adrenaline still surging through him. "But that's not the point. Goodbye, everyone!"
Mike clambers onto the rails as well, following John and waving furiously, revelling in the exhilaration of the moment, "Bye bye, I'll miss you all very much! I'll never forget you!"
The crowd of the cheering well-wishers waves back as the black wall of Titanic moves away from them, tugged by small boats. They feel the engines starting, initiating the steady vibrations. The two men keep on waving until they're tired enough to retreat back to their quarters.
"This one's it, John!" Mike pushes open the door to reveal two more Swedes sitting and talking in low voices. They look at the newcomers suspiciously, and John has a hunch that they probably knew Sven and Olaf. Regardless, John shakes hands with them, introducing himself and then turns to find that Mike had already occupied the top bunk.
"Who says you get top bunk, huh?"
"Hey, your name starts with 'W', mine with 'S', so I get top bunk. Didn't nobody teach you this?"
"W for wanker!" John aims a punch at his friend's face but turns away at the last moment, "Want to see the view from the bow part? I bet there'll be whales there!"
Victor traipses around the private promenade deck of the "Millionaire Suite", comprising of two bedrooms, a bath, a wardrobe room and a tastefully decorated sitting room. Sherlock is busy setting up his experiment apparatus in his room, running from one place to another. Mrs. Hudson helps him with a fond smile, doting on him matronly as he utters a near-unintelligible string of instructions about what instrument is used for which purpose. Sherlock smiles back at her, a small grateful beam, but only when she's not looking. Victor's valet is ordering the room service and the porters around, putting each thing in its rightful place.
"This is your private promenade deck sir," says the butler. "Would you be requiring anything, sir?"
Victor dismisses him with a wave of his hand. The butler gives him a short bow and retreats away. Mycroft has his separate suite so Sherlock and Victor can court before they get married, although, at the former's fervent request, they went with the one separate bedrooms. Not that it matters. It is only an engagement for formality and societal purposes. They are as good as married. As for Sherlock, he'd figured he'd be happier not to be stuck with his insufferable brother in the same suite for seven days, bickering and arguing about inconsequential matters like for the past fifteen years. Now he regrets his earlier decision.
"Oh, come on!" the alpha's voice travels over through the room and reaches Sherlock sitting on his new bed, "Not those stupid experiments again! Darling, you know that if you blow something up, I'll have to reimburse the whole amount! The Murphys' suite is the closest. For God's sake, don't embarrass me in front of them."
Sherlock appears at the doorway, trying to look busy to mask the little jab of hurt that rises within him at those words, "I'm your fiancee, darling. You'll have to pay, won't you?" He says 'fiancee' and 'darling' with sarcasm, but Victor, to his dissatisfaction, chooses not to hear the underlying mockery. "And my experiments are quite safe, I assure you. I never blow anything up!"
Victor leans against the doorframe, leering at him. "Your brother won't agree with you, dear."
"Does he ever?"
Victor and his valet share a laugh as Sherlock storms away. "Pretty mouthy for an omega, huh?"
"Oh, you have no idea. He doesn't even know how adorable it makes him look!"
He walks into Sherlock's bedroom, where Mrs. Hudson is bombarding him with her endless chatter, "It's all so new. . . the sheets have never been slept in and I can still smell the paint. Like they built it all for us. I mean. . . just to think that when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll be the first—"
Victor smirks at his valet as Sherlock turns to face him, "And when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll be the first."
Sherlock turns away, uncomfortable with the innuendo, torn between throwing a tantrum and pointing out to Victor that they have separate bedrooms. Mrs. Hudson blushes a little and excuses herself out of the room as Victor advances over to him and wraps his arms around his waist. It is an act of possession, not of intimacy, and Sherlock loathes that there's nothing more he can do than a sulk or a tantrum. He presses a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead, "The first and the only. Forever."
He looks down at Sherlock's lips with barely-contained lust before biting into them.
Sherlock does not kiss back. He never does. His eyes stay open. Dead and impassive.