Looking back on Sherlock and John's first meeting, we cannot help but to assume that the tension between these two upstanding young gentlemen will only grow stronger as their tale unfolds. However, while the reader has correctly surmised that the willful Omega known as John Watson will eventually fall irrevocably in love with his proud and stoic Alpha, said reader can't even begin to scratch the surface of the journey it's going to take our dear boy to get there. Luckily, the narrator's nails are the correct length needed to delve low enough into the story to soothe that unbearable itch...

Before going any further into the complexity of our prized couple, we must first take note of the events surrounding them at this particular time. While you may be shouting at your storyteller through whatever electronic device you are using to observe the brilliant narration put forth before your very eyes, it is highly recommended that you tap into whatever patience you possess and focus on the relationships outside of our Alpha and Omega. For you see, there comes a time in certain stories where the perspective of the narrator is needed so that you can process information necessary to understanding the bigger picture, a picture which, believe it or not, involves more than our main protagonist. Observe:

Let's try rewinding the scene where Sherlock locks eyes with John while hunched over the dead body of his wretched uncle. If the reader noticed anything at all, it was the unmistakable electricity flowing from Alpha to Omega, the thrilling emotion that takes place upon an Omega's first meeting with their mate. At that time, you were taken from the world by tour guide John and transported into his brain for the sole purpose of riding with him on the road to love, the whole lot of you starry-eyed waifs so busy focusing on the Alpha/Omega dynamic that you couldn't be bothered to see the actions of the people around you. That is a terrible shame, for, if you had, you'd have seen that it wasn't just our lovely Sherlock and John that shared a look, but a certain other couple as well. Your narrator doesn't put much emphasis on the word "couple" just yet, as these two share something that's much more than just attraction. They share a secret. They know-

Oh, you want the story itself to tell you? Well, then, you ungrateful douchebags . . . let's get on with it, shall we?

How did I get here? Why am I here? What the hell made me think this was a good idea?

Greg Lestrade couldn't find the right frame of mind to help him justify dining with the brother of Sherlock Holmes. After all, it was no surprise to anyone that Greg was John's best friend. That alone should have been enough to deter him from conversing with any member of the family that's helping put his bloke into a situation he doesn't want to be in. Unfortunately, certain circumstances prevented him from putting his sense of loyalty before his need for self-preservation, and the situation he now found himself in provided him with the opportunity to do what he never thought he'd ever do: keep a secret from someone he cares about.

Did it make him feel like a crappy friend? Of course.

Does he want to be here? Absolutely not.

Did he have a choice? Negative.

Welcome to hell.

"You know, I can't help but notice your distaste for the idea of sharing your company with me. I'd have thought it was my choice of restaurants, but something tells me the scowl present on your face has something to do with me being a Holmes. This is about John, isn't it?"

Greg looked up and focused his eyes on Mycroft, trying hard not to show his fear. "I shouldn't be keeping this from him."

"Why not? It's not that big a deal, is it? You said yourself that John hated Pontius. Why would he care that you're the murderer? I'd have thought he'd be overjoyed."

"You were the one that told me to kill him, Mycroft! You said that John's life would have been in danger if I hadn't."

"It would have been," Mycroft assured him calmly. "Please understand that there are forces here beyond your understanding, Gregory. I chose you for this task because I knew you could be trusted."

"How the hell did you know him anyway?"

Mycroft smiled deviously, like he knew something Greg didn't and was proud of it. "The Holmes' and the Watson's go back farther than you could possibly imagine. Their escapades have gotten certain members of both families in some serious trouble. It just so happens that Pontius was dealing with someone whose bad side I'd rather not be on."

Greg stared forlornly at his "date." "You don't plan on giving me any information, do you?"

"No. The less you know, the better."

Somehow, Greg doubted that.

Before the boy had a chance to construct a counter argument, his food arrived on sparkling white china dishes, color made beautiful by the dim light above their heads. It almost seemed like a cruel joke to order the pan-seared salmon, but how could he resist? It might have been Pontius' last meal, but it was also Greg's favorite, and damned if he was going to let that stop him from enjoying it.

Each bite of his food was heavenly. The arugula salad sitting beside his plate of fish went unnoticed as he shoveled the seafood deep into his mouth, moaning obscenely at the taste. Every once in a while, he'd look up and find Mycroft's eyes staring him down with an intensity he couldn't quite place, but quickly got used to. Sure, he felt the first stirrings of something unidentifiable take root in his belly, but he shoved all that aside in favor of finishing everything on his plate, laughing joyously at the incomparable feeling of being full.

"Damn. That was some good salmon, let me tell ya."

"You ate like a pig," Mycroft responded sternly, though there was no real passion behind it.

Greg grinned. There was something funny about a slightly amused Mycroft feigning disgust at his "date's" table manners. He could have fooled anyone with that scowl, but Lestrade somehow knew better. It was as if some invisible force gave him an insight into the man's mind that nobody else would ever share. It surprised Greg because that kind of intimacy was only shared by an Alpha and his Omega, so how he carried that ability was . . . was . . .

Oh, no.

The exact moment Greg realized Mycroft was his Alpha felt like a douse of cold water on the flames of his existence. Time stood still as both men stared the other down, each taking in the reactions of the other. The look on his Alpha's face transformed right before his very eyes, dissatisfaction giving way to an awareness of Greg's thoughts that left him vulnerable to the sensations ripping him open like knives through flesh. Mycroft's thin lips formed into a smirk that made Greg weak at the knees, heart pulsating in his chest hard enough that he could feel it's beat in his ears.

What does he do? Where do they go from here? Would it be wrong if he acknowledged the bond he shared with Mr. Holmes? Would it anger John?

"Greg," Mycroft murmured.

Greg caught his eye.

"I know what you're thinking, but I can assure you, I'm not your Alpha."

What?

Mycroft was denying it. Greg didn't know how or why, but the man opposite him didn't want to think of Greg as his Omega. He didn't know why that stung so much, but the thought of being denied, even by someone he could never see himself with, made his self-worth plummet and fade into nothing. The air suddenly became too thick and he felt like he couldn't breathe. Why did he feel this way? Why did someone who might as well be a complete stranger have this kind of effect on him?

The smugness behind Mycroft's expression became strained, and Greg noticed the hand on the umbrella he always carried with him gripping the handle as if he was forcing himself to remain still.

No. It must be my imagination. There's no way he would ever want me. I'm unwanted; unloved. I need to get out of here. I need to leave. NOW.

"I-I think I should go," Greg blurted out, running from the table he shared with his Alpha. The other man made no attempt to go after him, a fact which did nothing to lessen the weight of misery pressing down on his chest. Upon reaching his house, two blocks from the place he'd just come from, he quickly darted inside, ignoring the questioning gazes of his meddling parents, and stumbled through the doorway of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him as he rested against the hard wood.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

The tears that landed on the tip of the boy's tongue tasted like salt, a bitter reminder of his deep pain. He'd never imagined being cast aside by your Alpha could feel like this, but the Omega hormones causing his emotions to bleed out of him made him sick to his stomach. He tried to breathe deeply, to shove his hurt so far inside of himself that he'd never find it, but it was no use; the pain was here to stay.

"Why me?" he said to himself. "Why me?"

To Greg's dismay, the room didn't answer.

"You cannot do this to me! This is not the price we agreed on."

John froze in the hallway when he heard the whispered hiss off his father's voice carry from the master bedroom all the way to where he now stood. It was always like this: his father going off on someone over the phone regarding matters that were of no interest to his only son. However, while this was usually seen as the norm, something in Ichabod's tone had John following the sound until he was directly in front of the room. The door was ajar, giving the boy just enough space to peer inside.

"Listen to me," Ichabod snarled quietly. "I will not be made a fool of. I was informed that the set price was 1,000,000 pounds. You assured me that if the money was delivered by tomorrow, John would be out of the question."

John's eyebrows twisted. What the hell does that mean?

"Fine. Fine. I'll give you the additional 500,000. I'll be damned if I'm going to give up the only thing stopping the Holmes' family from destroying everything I've worked so hard for. But make no mistake when I say that he'll never get his hands on that boy. You can try to feed me that bullshit about some stranger killing Pontius, but I know it was him. I've forked over enough of my time and resources to that man. After this, our business is done!"

John slapped his hand over his mouth, mortified at the small gasp that slipped from his lips. His entire body shook and he couldn't quite contain his uneven breathing long enough to get himself in control. Sweat dampened his clothes and hair, and he realized with horror that his Alpha father would smell the Omega's fear from inside the bedroom, a fear which was given voice when Ichabod's head shot up toward the door in surprise, the anger on his face making John retread into the shadows, holding himself steady in anticipation. Ichabod slowly came to the door, each step sounding like the quiet stalking of a predator.

Don't let him see me. Please, don't let him see me.

His father's head peeked out as he moved his gaze from left to right, sniffing the air as if he sensed an alien presence he wasn't quite sure was really there. He breathed in and expelled slowly, growling slightly. Whatever he detected from the hall was a secret John would never find out, as his father turned and shut the door without a word. John immediately disappeared into his own bedroom and sighed in relief when he was alone, happy that he'd managed to escape such a harrowing situation with his balls still intact.

John couldn't begin to formulate the questions running through his mind following everything he'd just seen and heard. He wasn't sure who was on the phone with his father, or what exactly it was that this mystery man wanted with him, but one thing was for certain: he was dying to find out.

The sound of his cell blazed through the quiet of his room, disrupting his thoughts. Frowning, he picked up and recited his usual "Hello?" into the speaker.

"John, it's Mycroft."

"Oh," John exclaimed, surprised. "Uh . . . hi? How did you get this number?"

Mycroft sighed. "It doesn't matter. Listen, I'm going to stop by your place tomorrow night with Sherlock."

John scoffed in annoyance.

"Try to contain your excitement," Mycroft said sarcastically. "Your father wouldn't want me coming alone, so I have to bring him and make it seem like it's a social visit serving as a courting ritual for you and your Alpha."

Now John was intrigued. "But that's not what this is?"

"Just be ready by 7:00. If you're lucky, I could be persuaded into bargaining with your father for a chance to snatch you away from your household so you can spend a weekend at a place of your choosing. I'll assure him that you're with Sherlock, of course."

A chance to escape from beneath his domineering father's iron fist? How in the world could he possibly say no? There was just thing he had to ask.

"Alright, deal. I just have one question: what is it you're so desperate to talk to me about?"

Mycroft's silence lasted longer than John was comfortable with, leaving behind a stillness that was both awkward and unpleasant when created between people who don't really know each other. When the man finally replied, his answer caught John off guard in a way that he didn't expect, the second shock of the night making him wonder if fate itself wasn't trying to give him a heart attack.

"Greg Lestrade."

Yep. The universe definitely wanted him dead.