RECONSTRUCTION
Sequel to "Civil Disobedience"
After a successful revolution, the Empire is in pieces and New Britain has to reinvent itself. In the middle of it are Alpha John Watson, former First Officer of the Reformists, and Omega Sherlock Holmes.
xXx
Chapter 1: Missing scenes
Summary: Missing scenes between chapter 5 of part I and the epilogue. Information on the timeline: It took two weeks to execute the Reformists' plan that led to The Fall of the Empire (aka "the Fall"). The provisional government ruled for three months until the election of Bhabha as Prime Minister (which brings us to the Epilogue of part I).
Author's Notes: I am so sorry for the delay! Real life got crazy – I scored a big job but totally forgot to update because of it. My humble apologies!
This is part II :) I'm including it in the original fic because ffn doesn't let you link works unless that has changed.
Thanks so much to Iriya, my wonderful beta and brit-picking genius!
Matrix = uterus in male Omegas.
Which brings us to: Why is no one pregnant with all the knotting going on? Originally, I wanted to completely ignore that potential problem because Mpreg is one of my biggest squicks. But after a few inquiries I had to face the fact that, if I wanted to keep this a "real" Omegaverse, I would have to deal with the issue, or lack of an issue, since Sherlock seems to not have got pregnant between chapter 5 and 6. The whole mystery will be solved by the end of chapter 1!
xXx
Mycroft is sitting in one of the armchairs in 221B Baker Street, right hand playing absent-mindedly with his umbrella.
CCTV detected Sherlock twenty minutes ago. He should be here any minute.
Mycroft tries to ignore the warm feeling that spread in his chest when he heard Sherlock is alive, that he somehow survived the attack on the Reformist HQ. Compassion will not help him taking his brother into custody, nor help him put the collar around Sherlock's neck.
The collar is resting on the table in front of him. Sherlock will see it immediately and know what is to come. Mycroft would have preferred putting Sherlock back on Metamoxin, but ever since someone leaked his brother's omega status, that has become impossible. Sherlock needs to be collared, become a slave.
Anthea enters swiftly. Her nod tells him his brother is almost here, so he grips the umbrella tighter, focussing his eyes on the door while Anthea hides from view.
A few minutes pass in silence. Then, the door handle turns.
Sherlock freezes when he sees Mycroft in the chair but a split of a second later, he turns on his heels only to find his way blocked by Anthea who has come out of her spot in a corner.
"I have ten SAS people in the building. Every possible exit is guarded. You can't escape."
Mycroft watches Sherlock's shoulders slump in resignation. His brothers turns slowly, expression blank. His eyes fall onto the collar.
"So you finally make me your slave?"
Mycroft huffs. "We don't have a choice here, Sherlock."
When his brother remains still, Mycroft rises from the chair, takes the collar and approaches him, careful to keep his face as blank as possible as he closes the leather around his brother's neck.
Sherlock doesn't look up to meet his eyes. Mycroft sees his hand twitch as if it wanted to reach up, touch the fabric. It is the softest leather money can buy.
"Have a seat, Sherlock. Tell me about your time with the Reformists."
Sherlock doesn't answer. Stifling a sigh, Mycroft's eyes dart to Anthea who pushes his brother to the second chair while Mycroft resumes his seat.
Begrudgingly, his brother sits down and tries his best to lounge in the chair like he usually does, but his body language betrays his unease.
"What did they do to you?"
Sherlock merely holds his gaze for thirty seconds, then probably realises that he is not going anywhere until he answers.
"They kept me in a cell. I was fed and had access to a bathroom."
"How did you spend the heat?"
"Alone." Sherlock shudders at the memory. Mycroft can only imagine how it must have been like for his brother, losing control over his body like that, too stubborn to accept help.
"How did you get out?"
"I was on my way to the bathroom when the attack happened and used the surprise to overpower the guards. I found a way into the Tube tunnels while everyone was busy defending the HQ."
For the moment, Mycroft acts as though he believes every word. He knows his brother better than to take his words at face value. Yet this mystery needs to be solved another time, he decides with a look at his watch.
"Let me make this quick. You are now a slave, Sherlock, my personal slave. No one holds power over you but me." The way Sherlock's eyes narrow and widen shows he understands the implications: No one can touch Sherlock. "You will still work on cases for me, but under close supervision. We will see to what other uses we can put you. The collar stays on. It has a trace; don't try to run off, we'll always know where you are. There are only two keys of which I have one. Even if opened with a key, Sherlock, it will trigger a warning. So don't think you can simply escape. Anthea will teach you proper behaviour later."
There is no verbal response but Sherlock's eyes have gone icy.
Mycroft can live with his brother resenting him for the rest of his life, as long as Mycroft owns the collar that inspires the hatred.
Anthea guides Sherlock from the room down to where the car is waiting. Flanked by guards, Mycroft exits 221B Baker Street, looking around.
He is in enemy territory. But that won't stop him. If everything goes according to plan, there will soon be no more enemy territory, only his London.
xXx
Mycroft doesn't like torture, not per se. It has proven to be a useful tool, however. But Captain John Watson seems to be immune to pain of any kind and refuses to give away any information.
Mycroft sighs heavily in the solitude of his room when he comes to a decision. Execution used to be the last option. Now it is the only option left.
xXx
"Sir." Anthea looks tense, which has only happened once before. Something has gone wrong.
"What?"
She hesitates. Anthea doesn't hesitate. "Captain John Watson isn't in his cell."
Mycroft narrows his eyes.
"He is nowhere to be found. It seems he escaped."
Mycroft analyses what he observed the past days, remembers seemingly insignificant details like Sherlock's gaze lingering a second too long on John Watson, and the puzzle solves itself in one horrible rush.
"And where is my brother?"
Anthea swallows. "His collar was found in front of a door that leads into the Tube tunnels. A search party is already in pursuit."
Mycroft is not a violent person, never was. But all of a sudden, he has the inexplicable urge to hit something.
Without Watson to execute, the Reformist's spirit will remain unbroken. What will happen if Watson finds his way back to them, Mycroft doesn't want to imagine.
xXx
The Empire falls in one night. This one night changes the lives of every Alpha, Beta and Omega, both in Britain and in the colonies.
The only consolation Mycroft has is that the Reformists have no time to celebrate: Reconstruction has already begun.
xXx
"Mr Holmes, you have a visitor."
Mycroft's eyes snap up from the book he is reading to the guard peering in through the window in the door. "And who might that be?"
He knows, of course. There is only one person he expects to drop by Belmarsh maximum security prison to see Mycroft Holmes in unflattering plain prison attire.
"Your brother."
With a sigh, Mycroft rises and extends his hand through the second hole in the door for the guard to cuff him, then follows the long way to the visitation area.
Sherlock took his time, he muses. He doubts his brother was busy with anything; Sherlock proved time and time again that he has no interest in politics and therefore Mycroft doubts he was involved in any of the reconstructive measures the Reformists have undertaken since his capture.
Democracy. Equal rights. Manumission for all Omegas. New trials for enslaved Betas. Independence for every colony that claims it. Appointing a provisional government.
Those rebels have been diligent already, though their aspirations are even more colourful, it seems if they are indeed aiming for a social upheaval that leaves everyone equal.
The guard points him to a chair in front of a glass wall that separates him from the man already seated on the other side. Mycroft is cuffed to the chair, trying to endure the procedure with as much dignity as he can muster, taking in his brother's stoic expression.
Sherlock looks good, he hates to admit. Confident, content even. Mycroft bets that if he could smell his brother now, he would not only catch his scent but that of Captain John Watson as well.
Captain John Watson. The flaw in Mycroft's plan.
"Hello, Mycroft."
"Sherlock."
"How's prison treating you? You seem to be finally losing some of that weight."
"Yes, they have a lovely wellness program here. Didn't you read the brochures?" Mycroft counters, trying to conceal his irritation.
His brother's mask gives way to a smirk and Mycroft knows he isn't fooling the consulting detective.
Silence falls. Mycroft's thoughts wander back to the moment he was taken captive. He was so sure that he would escape successfully, was wearing a rather smug expression if he was completely honest, when suddenly, he and his entourage were surrounded by more than forty reformists, led by no other than Watson.
It clicked, right then; and Mycroft wanted to kick himself for failing to acknowledge the signs. For counting on his brother's ability to alienate every single person he ever encountered, given enough time.
Mycroft could smell the fury radiating off Captain Watson, could sense how tight the grip on his Sig was, how much he longed to pull the trigger.
"Thoreau said you're the reason I'm still alive." Spat it, even, Mycroft remembers. Marc Thoreau's right hand was clenched in a tight fist as though the man was trying to keep it from reaching for a weapon.
Sherlock looks startled for a moment that Mycroft is the one who breaks the silence first. "Yes. I couldn't do that to Mummy."
"You've done enough." It is harsh, but true. Giving birth to an Omega was something his mother never forgave herself for, even though on the outside, she always was supportive when it came to Sherlock. Needless to say, Sherlock saw right through her from an early age on.
"I can't change my biology."
"The thing is – you could, and you did. You could have refused the pills at any moment." His brother is silent, clearly thinking about New Britain and the Equal Rights Legislation, and Mycroft can but laugh. "Do you honestly think anything will change, Sherlock? The system, the hierarchy – it's in our minds, it's under our skin. It's taken residence there decades ago. People will always look down on you for what you are."
"What people think of me doesn't bother me." Sherlock opens his mouth again but Mycroft cuts him off.
"No, the only one whose opinion matters is Captain John Watson." Sherlock's mouth snaps shut, which is all Mycroft needs. "So I'm correct. I have to say your connection with him surprises me. No one ever gets close to you, you never let them. You never had friends."
"Now I have one."
"What makes him different, Sherlock?" Yes, Watson is loyal and brave and – even though he will never say it out loud – one bloody strong Alpha. Yet, he seems like nothing special. Knowing Sherlock, however, there has to be something to make him unique.
He can see the muscles in his brother's jaw working as if he is considering his answer very carefully. Mycroft is even further intrigued. How deep is Sherlock's connection to the Alpha?
"It's not your concern, Mycroft. You're in jail."
"Not for long."
This earns him an amused eyebrow-raise. "Not even I see how you could slither your way out of this."
Mycroft merely smiles. He is working on it. Without much success so far, though his brother doesn't need to know that.
After they spent a few minutes in silence again, Mycroft leans forward, face serious.
"There are a little over 60 million people living Britain alone. That means that with your help, the Reformists freed 24 million Omegas. Omegas who are used to nothing but living as illiterate slaves. Now they are free. But what will they do with their freedom, Sherlock? What will become of the Empire? Do you have any idea what you have done?"
Sherlock's eyes have widened, yet it is the only reaction Mycroft receives before his brother stands up and leaves with a flourish of his coat.
xXx
London feels different when John walks the few blocks from 221B Baker Street to the nearest shop.
True, he only ever experienced it as a citizen for a few days after Afghanistan before he joined the Reformists and had to go underground, but still. Change is in the air.
It is not the wired kind of elation he experienced during the night of The Fall, when Michael Collins, leader of the students, proclaimed a New Britain with equal rights for all. New flavours have been added to the atmosphere, not all positive.
During his missions, John sees enough to fill in the blanks. Wide-eyed omegas, muttering "We're free" with no idea what it will entail. Former slaves at the free clinic whose backs consist entirely of scar tissue from too many whippings. Housing shortage. The provisional government organising emergency camps, converting buildings into housing complexes for the newly freed citizens. Alphas and Betas clinging to the old order of things, hiding their Omegas away in their cellar where neither light nor food reaches them for days until the patrols have passed.
John shakes himself out of his reverie when he enters the shop, checks his list and grabs a trolley, taking his time.
Lacking a current case, Sherlock has busied himself with an experiment that apparently allows no interruptions.
He is considering the tea selection when he notices the supermarket employee a few feet to his right has stopped restocking the shelves. John twists his head and meets the woman's – the girl's – eyes, sees her inhale deeply.
He concentrates hard and finds there is indeed something familiar about her scent.
"Pardon, sir," she says, head slightly bowed – an old reflex. She used to be a slave, John muses. "Are you Captain John Watson?" He nods. "Do you remember me?"
John considers her, the long blond hair and the deep, green eyes. Her name tag reads Vinette Robinson, which rings a bell. "Did I free you once?"
She nods. It's a short and jerky movement and her hands fidget with nervous energy.
"In Sussex, sir. You freed five Omegas and one Beta. You told us that you heard that our owners were torturing us."
Suddenly, John remembers. It was on his last mission before the Triumvirate sent him to kidnap Sherlock. He glances at the girl's neck, pleased to find it unbruised.
"I lost sight of you after we took you to HQ. How have you been?"
"Good, sir. I was moved to a secure location after the attack, along with many of the others."
John smiles at her. "You got a job now, congratulations." It is hard for Omegas to find work, especially since most of them can hardly read. John hopes the situation will improve once they have a newly elected government.
"Yes! I had a lot of luck. I learned to read from the Beta who was with us. And I'm young, so they can teach me and I didn't have any permanent wounds…" She trails of, her mind clearly drifting off to friends who weren't so lucky. Before John can think of something to say to ease her discomfort, she catches herself again. "It's minimum wage but the manager said that if I'm good, I will get a raise soon."
"That's brilliant," John says, meaning it. The provisional government fixed a minimum employers had to pay Omegas. It's not nearly enough but without rent to pay, life is manageable. "Did you get a room in the government facilities?"
She nods. "With a few roommates, but we've become friends. It's not much, but at least it's my own. If this is working out and I get a raise, a few of us will look into apartments. You know, with bathrooms of our own." She blushes a bit at that, probably afraid she said too much, but John knows how meagre the conditions are in the buildings.
"Did you get help? You know, after the Fall."
"Yes, I… I did."
John narrows his eyes. "But?"
Vinette glances around, uncertain. "Well, sir, three hours with a state appointed psychiatrist can't really do much about years of… being an Omega."
John can guess the rest. Three hours is what the provisional government included in their emergency plans, and true, John is glad that the former slaves at least got some help, but most of them need long term care.
Many patients at the clinic still flinch when John as much as moves too fast.
Psychiatric help, however, is expensive.
"I can look into that," John offers, feeling the need to take action. He knows Bhabha, still is in contact with him. He actually is in a position to help. "I can't promise that anything will change right away, but I'll do my best."
Vinette's eyes light up and she takes a step closer. "You've already done so much for us, sir. Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He looks back at the aisle, remembering that he was thinking about tea before. "You could do something for me, though," he adds with a smirk.
"Sir?" Vinette looks nervous again.
"What kind of tea would you recommend?"
When she catches up, she bursts into giggles and John joins in with a laugh of his own.
xXx
Back at 221B Baker Street, John unloads the grocery bags onto the living room table, since Sherlock is without doubt still blocking the one in the kitchen.
"Did you bring the vinegar?" is Sherlock's shouted greeting from around the corner.
"Yes, I did!"
A little rummaging later unveils the bottle and John makes his way into the kitchen. Every available surface is covered in utensils, phials, petri dishes… John can even make out a bunsen burner in the mess.
Sherlock doesn't glance up when he enters and places the vinegar near his elbow, but remains focussed on whatever he is watching on the microscope. Sherlock tried to explain it to him yesterday what exactly he is researching, but John couldn't remember the details to save his life.
Especially when Sherlock smells like that, content and focussed and strong, the spicy-sweet scent filling up the room despite the chemicals.
John rounds the table until he is standing directly behind Sherlock and leans forward, nuzzling Sherlock's neck. He freezes, hands still on the microscope.
"John, not now."
John licks Sherlock's pulse point, knowing fully well what kind of effect it has on the Omega. Sherlock shudders.
"John, stop –" The end of the sentence gives way to a gasp as John sucks down, hard, pressing his chest against Sherlock's shoulders and bringing his hands up to hold onto Sherlock's arms.
Another full-body shudder and John bites down, eliciting a moan but suddenly, Sherlock tenses, catching himself.
"John."
Reluctantly, he pulls away, kissing Sherlock's neck one last time before he makes to put away the groceries as well as possible with the kitchen in such disarray.
It is a well-rehearsed game by now: John initiates and either Sherlock allows him to whisk the detective away from whatever research he is doing or Sherlock stands his ground, no matter what his or John's bodies say.
When the eggs are finally in the fridge – far enough away from whatever Sherlock stores in the closed tupperware container – John retreats to the living room. He still has to write up their last case, "The Solidary Cyclist".
Two months have passed since the Fall and Sherlock has borrowed John's help – well, ordered John or simply told him to come along is more like it – for whatever cases Lestrade is sending his way. Apparently criminals don't care if the Reconstruction Era is upon them and take a break for a few weeks.
John can't help often; most of the time he is on missions, sometimes he volunteers in the Free Clinic, but he likes spending time with Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.
With a deep breath, John powers up his laptop and for a moment revels in the fact that in the apartment, their scents have mixed, become one. Either is still distinguishable, yet their continued presence has added another layer above their individual ones.
John refuses to think about the meaning of mixed scents. He refuses to think about a lot of things when it comes to Sherlock and him, because thinking would require labelling and that is something Sherlock hasn't shown any interest in so far. Neither has John. But then, he is not thinking about it.
It works, whatever it is. It is an easy balance and John has no idea how they achieved it.
xXx
As former First Officer of the Reformists, it is not too difficult to get into contact with Homi Bhabha, who is – along with Adler, Thoreau and Michel Collins – leading the provisional government.
John follows the secretary through the halls of Westminster Abbey, contemplating what he is going to say to Bhabha about his conversation with Vinette. Instructing him to wait for Bhabha, the Beta leads him to large, wooden doors which open to a spacious office.
John's eyes sweep the room out of reflex, noting doors leading to further rooms, large curtained windows, and a map. With a smile he recognises it as the same map that used to decorate the conference room at HQ.
"I grew rather fond of that map, I have to admit," Bhabha's familiar voice comes from behind John.
If possible, Homi Bhabha looks even more exhausted than he did during the final phase of the civil war. There are dark circles under the Omega's eyes and his trousers sit way too loose around his waist.
"Sir."
Shaking his hand, Bhabha asks, "To what do I owe your visit?"
"No time for pleasantries?" John raises an eyebrow, which seems to startle Bhabha a little.
"I'm so sorry, Captain. Everything has been so rushed these past weeks, my manners must have faded."
"Frankly, you do look overworked. Are you alright, Bhabha?"
"Operating on too little rest and too much adrenaline, but there's nothing I can change about my predicament. There's a country to rebuild."
Bhabha motions to the desk so John follows the Omega's lead and takes a seat across the table from him.
"How is it going?"
Bhabha's sigh is so heavy that it tells John more than any words could ever do. He has been around the man long enough to read between the lines, and what he finds there is something far from a perfect world.
"Apart from the traditionalists still scattered across New Britain and too many Omegas to find shelter for, a too high illiteracy rate, a colossal lack of funds, a public that has no idea how to treat an Omega who is now one's equal and an unstable economy? We're making progress. You're playing your part well, John."
"Thank you, sir. But all I do is bring freedom to those who are still kept from it."
"No, John," Bhabha says, shaking his head softly, "you're doing a lot more than that. You're a war hero. A beacon of hope! An Alpha who risks his life for Omegas and Betas alike and volunteers in one of the free clinics on top of that. Don't underestimate yourself."
John is acutely aware of the colour rising in his cheeks.
"But my secretary told me you had an issue to discuss?"
"Yes," John starts, explaining about how he ran into Vinette and how they got talking. "I'm serious, Bhabha, I've seen first-hand how traumatised a lot of Omegas still are. Three hours is not enough. You need to get them help, or soon you will have 24 million people with severe forms of PTSD or other illnesses."
Bhabha considers him for a long moment, then nods, though more in resignation it seems than in agreement.
"You're right, John, of course you're right. But what am I supposed to do? Practicing psychiatrist haven't exactly been happy about having to provide their services free of charge in the first place. Three sessions was already stretching their patience. How do you think they're going to react to more hours of free work?"
"But it's their job as doctors to help those in need! Especially in a time after a crisis!"
"It's very noble that you hold that opinion but I'm afraid not many colleagues share it. I'd love nothing more than to pass a law that mandates psychiatrist to provide their help to Omegas and Betas in need. I'm just not sure I can convince the rest."
"Could you at least try? Because what I see in the Free Clinic alone... Bhabha, they need help."
This time, Bhabha's nod is more resolute. "I will do my best."
John rises from his chair, extending a hand. "Thank you."
Bhabha moves as well, leading him to the door. He pauses with a hand on the knob. "Oh, before I forget: After the election in five weeks, we are having a celebration, no matter who wins. I'd very much like you to come."
A party. John can't help but smile at the thought. "Of course I'll come."
"And see that you bring Mr Holmes as well?"
"I'll drag him there if I have to. Which I probably will," he chuckles, Bhabha joining in soon after.
xXx
John accepts the coffee from Greg with a grateful smile.
"Don't thank me till you tried it," the DI warns, but when John takes a sip, it tastes normal.
"This is good coffee, why shouldn't it taste good?"
"Donovan prepared it, I'm still not entirely sure if I would put poisoning you to get back at Sherlock past her."
John chuckles. "She deserves being called out if she believes she can keep up her affair with Anderson without Sherlock knowing about it."
Lestrade huffs a laugh and glances towards the door to the room Sherlock ushered them out of.
"Everybody out, I need to think!" he bellowed and John knew better than to argue, as did Lestrade; only Donovan and Anderson looked a bit cross.
In moments like this John is still a bit dazzled that an Omega can simply order around a group of Alphas and Betas in this new world. And he is sure that Donovan and Anderson would like the situation, if it weren't Sherlock Holmes and his special personality they had to deal with.
"By the way, John, nice going with the Solidary Cyclist, great title for that case."
"Thank you," John replies automatically, then narrows his eyes. "You read my blog?"
Greg laughs heartedly. "Of course. The whole Met reads it, I guess."
He shrugs and tries to mentally scan his articles for any sort of derogatory comments about the police.
"Stop worrying, John, we're all fans. Maybe not of your other half, but of you and the blog."
He raises his eyebrows at that. "My other half?"
Lestrade chooses not to answer but smirks instead.
Just when John wants to object, because he and Sherlock still haven't explicitly talked about whatever it is they share every time Sherlock goes into heat and the weeks in between, or when John cooks and makes Sherlock eat because he would starve otherwise, or when they cuddle before falling asleep.
Of course that is when Sherlock calls, "John!" and he is halfway down the hallway to the door before he realises that he might have just proven Greg's point.
John turns to find the DI grinning.
"You are so whipped, Captain."
And John probably is, he muses, warmth spreading within his chest as he prepares to be ordered around by the best consulting detective New Britain has ever seen. He finds he doesn't mind in the slightest.
The Omega's body is where they left it upon giving Sherlock the room to himself: On the shabby carpet floor, covered in blood from a wound to the lower abdomen, gagged by what appears to be a scarf. The man's shirt has been ripped, exposing the edges of the wound.
"Thoughts?" Sherlock asks from his position at the small window a few feet away.
John leans over the body, closer inspection proving his theory. "The man was still alive when they cut him open. He'd have died within a few minutes, given the depth and length of the incision."
His eyes travel further up, spot a bruise on the victim's temple. "He was unconscious when the murderer made the cut. Also explains why there are no defensive wounds and why the victim was gagged. The pain woke him, but the gag silenced his screams."
Nodding, Sherlock takes a step in his direction. "Look closer."
Intrigued, John leans in, inspecting the cut – then freezes. "The matrix is missing." A glance at Sherlock shows John that the detective's eyes are scanning every inch of the room, intrigued. "Why is the matrix missing?"
"I have four – no, five, theories."
"Can you prove any of them?"
"Not yet."
A noise alerts them to the door opening, revealing an apologetic looking Greg and a smug Anderson, which means their time is up.
"Anything?" The DI asks Sherlock.
"Five possible solutions. The victim's missing matrix is the biggest clue. Either someone wanted the organ to sell it, matrixes earn quite a sum on the local black market" – why Sherlock would know that, or how, is beyond John – "or we're dealing with a hate crime or someone who wants to make it seem as such, but instead it was a fellow Omega who held a grudge against the victim, or just a crime committed in the heat of passion. Or–"
"How many more 'or's are there?" To John, Greg looks a bit overwhelmed.
"Just one more, obvious."
"Well?" The DI prompts and Sherlock rolls his eyes, probably at their minuscule intellect.
"Or whoever collected the organ needs it for some kind of ritual."
Anderson snorts. "What kind of ritual would I need a matrix for?"
"Your mind, Anderson, must be a relaxing place." Before the man has a chance to reply, Sherlock explains, "There are several cults, spiritual communities or religions that worship a Mother goddess, even here in London. Some ancient rituals required the sacrifice of humans or human organs, and the fact that the murderer removed the matrix, while the victim was still conscious, makes my last theory most likely. Especially since the Omega was approaching his heat cycle, which corresponds with the requirements of some fertility rituals. If this man was murdered because someone wanted to sacrifice matrixes to a goddess, there will be more bodies. I would imagine even magic can only trap the matrix's energy for so long," he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm and already on his way out the door.
When he passes a revolted looking Anderson, Sherlock's blue eyes survey him briefly before he smirks.
"She won't agree to the date."
Following Sherlock out of the door and into the hallway, John shoots the man an apologetic look but knows better than to hope that Anderson will convince Donovan to go on a date with him. Sherlock's been right on every account when it comes to their affair – much to both of the Beta's chagrin. And their colleagues' amusement.
xXx
As soon as they have left the housing facility, Sherlock makes a beeline for a homeless woman at a corner, passing her a twenty pound note that holds a small slip of paper John has seen Sherlock write on the way outside.
The homeless network never ceases to amaze John.
Only thirty minutes after getting back to Baker Street, though, where Sherlock is playing his fiddle to think and John researches Mother goddess and fertility rites, they receive a call from Greg.
There are two more bodies.
xXx
That night, Sherlock is pacing the living room with John watching him from the sofa, laptop balancing on his knees.
The homeless network knew of three religious cults that follow the Mother goddess in one way or another; yet none has ever been known for their violence. "That's the point," Sherlock sneered, "they're all one with nature and at peace with themselves."
Their killer must be an Omega, since only Omegas are allowed into the housing facilities, a rule intended to protect the inhabitants from Alphas or Betas discontent with the new status quo. Besides, the security footage of both houses proves there was no unauthorised entry.
And other than the cloth used to gag the third victim, which belonged to the killer and not the murdered Omegas like the scarf and neckerchief, they have no further clues. Or rather, John has no further clues, Sherlock keeps muttering about the circles the victims travelled in and how they are nowhere near spiritual groups.
"But the killer must have known them, or he couldn't have known where they lived or that their next heat cycle was approaching," Sherlock says, turning around and resuming his pacing.
Suddenly, John remembers Vinette.
"We need to know more about the lives of Omegas who live in the housing complexes."
"You suggest we simply ask the next best resident?"
"No, I happen to have a contact."
Sherlock takes one look at him and nods. "When did you meet them again?"
"At the supermarket. I found her on my last rescue mission before your kidnapping, by the way."
They share a wordless smile, remembering their first encounter and everything it led to, before John shuts the computer, grabs his jacket and follows Sherlock down the stairs.
xXx
Vinette proves to be quite helpful, despite them keeping her form her work.
"Well, there are a lot of activities we're organising. Game nights, movie screenings –"
"Movie screenings?" John asks, astonished.
"The housing facilities come with TVs," Vinette explains. "We also have discussion and self-help groups."
"Do you talk about your heat cycles?" Sherlock Holmes, blunt as ever. Thankfully, Vinette doesn't take offence, although she blushes a little.
"We do... It's not easy, spending a heat alone. So we exchange tips."
"What about spiritual groups?"
"A few. But Mr Holmes, I don't know that much about them. I... Religion is not really for me."
"I didn't ask about some catholics putting up crosses," Sherlock dismisses her statement and John intervenes before his flat mate becomes offensive.
"We heard about groups who worship a Mother goddess. Mother Earth, or Nature. Have you ever heard of anything?"
Vinette furrows her brows, thinking. "A few times, perhaps. One of the women on my floor, she talks about energy flows a lot. I think she mentioned something about Mother Earth once. Oh, and she goes to some meetings, too. I just always thought it was religious. That must be one of those spiritual groups?"
Sherlock is nodding frantically. "Perfect. Can you get me in?"
"In where?"
"Into the building complex. Introduce me to that woman. I need to go to one of these meetings."
A laugh escapes John before he can stop himself. Sherlock at a meeting of a spiritual group? He won't manage to investigate before they ban him from the room for his sarcastic remarks.
Vinette doesn't seem phased. "Alright. Meet me at ten past eight at the back entrance."
xXx
John's phone rings at ten thirty.
"I know where the next murder will take place." Sherlock says without further ado. "There's only one Omega going into heat soon and the murderer will probably have to conclude the ritual within 24 hours of his first matrix harvest, which gives her until shortly after midnight."
John can infer what happened: Sherlock convinced the woman to take her to the gathering and Sherlock deduced who is at the beginning of his or her heat cycle. Finding out the potential victim's name and room shouldn't have been too difficult for a fellow Omega.
"Tell Lestrade and come here. We can catch the murderer red-handed."
xXx
Getting past the guards in front of the building complex proved to be more difficult, especially with two Alphas and a Beta.
"Sirs, if you can't prove you have probably cause, I'm sorry but I can't let you in."
"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. We received a tip that there will be a murder taking place in room 336."
"I'm sorry," the security guard insists emphatically, "but I have my rules. Without obvious probable cause or a warrant or any other form of legal document, I can't let you in."
John reluctantly draws the only ace up his sleeve. "Sir, we appreciate your persistence. I'm Captain John Watson and Detective Sherlock Holmes is in there right now, waiting for us to back him up on a hunt for a murderer. Please, we need you to let us through."
The guard, a Beta with more muscle than John and Greg put together, seems hesitant at least.
"I promise you, Mister, letting us in won't have repercussions. I'll make sure of that, you have my word."
John tries hard for his most sincere look, holding the Beta's gaze for at least half a minute.
Eventually, the guard sighs. "Alright."
They appear to have come just in time. In the hallway to room 336, a man rushes in their direction, Sherlock at his heels.
"Catch him!" Sherlock shouts. The Omega turns abruptly and disappears through a door. "The victim needs a doctor!"
John, posed to follow the Omega, aims for the room Sherlock stormed out of instead.
Sherlock passes him and John can hear Lestrade, Donovan and Sherlock going after the murderer while he pushes into room 336.
The woman on the floor is a whimpering mess, gagged with a scarf, pressing what looks like a shirt against her bleeding stomach.
Sherlock must have taken a moment to make her press the cloth against the wound, John muses as he takes over for the woman while he removes the scarf single-handedly as fast as he can.
Blood is oozing from underneath the shirt – the knife must have damaged the artery.
John whips out his mobile phone and calls for an ambulance, then shouts at the top of his lungs for help.
xXx
The victim is barely alive when the medics reach the room but she clings to life and slips into a coma at the hospital.
In what Greg describes as a highly adventurous chase, Sherlock, Donovan and he managed to get a hold of the murderer, an Omega called Maurice Stephens.
"Sherlock took one look at him and could tell us everything." The DI sounds amused rather than anything else.
"Please," Sherlock snorts. "He was wearing a wristband with a male name on it. Those bands are regarded as Omega engagement rings since Omegas weren't allowed to marry until the Fall. Maurice was at the meeting I visited, alone. His fiancée Dan probably doesn't even know of his involvement in the group, I'd assume, either because he doesn't approve or because Maurice and Dan aren't talking to each other that much anymore."
"So why did Maurice kill four Omegas for their matrixes?"
"Fertility ritual, obvious." Sherlock snorted. "I overheard Maurice talking with another Omega about homeopathic tinctures to increase fertility, but the tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't really interested. Because he had found an ancient ritual which requires organ sacrifices. Obvious."
John's eyes widen. "Are you saying Maurice just wanted to get pregnant really badly?"
Sherlock nods, mouth tight. "A child would have saved their relationship, at least that was Maurice's logic."
To Greg, Sherlock must look judgmental but John can see the hint of sadness in Sherlock's eyes. Why would Sherlock be sad?
"Where's Maurice now?"
"Holding cell. We're drawing up the charges," Greg explains. "He will be the first Omega trialled for murder and not simply executed."
The fact sends a shiver down John's spine.
xXx
When they get back to Baker Street, John is seriously confused. The previous times he witnessed Sherlock in the aftermath of a successful investigation, Sherlock was always full of energy, but positive energy. Today, there is a strange edge to his excitement, something that seems to be holding him back.
He doesn't, however, say anything about what's bothering him. Not that John expected him to.
Inside the apartment, Sherlock basically flees to his room. There's no other word for it. A few moments later, John hears the now familiar sound of a violin coming through the door.
Sherlock doesn't take well to being disturbed while playing the violin.
So John makes himself a cup of tea and starts to think.
An epiphany hits while he is sipping his third cup, glancing at the date.
It has been a little over 15 weeks since John and Sherlock met for the first time. Which means that almost four months ago, Sherlock went off the Metamoxin.
Metamoxin, apart from suppressing an Omega's scent and the heat, also serves as birth control. While on Metamoxin, an Omega can't get pregnant.
More importantly: An Omega who used to take the pills, no matter for how long, needs to wait at least four months until he or she is able to conceive.
Sherlock is worried about getting pregnant.
John snorts, putting his cup away. Of course Sherlock would freak out at the prospect of bearing a child. His body is transport; the man can't even take care of himself, he wouldn't be willing to support another life.
So why is Sherlock so strung out about this?
Perhaps he thinks I want kids, John realises with a start. Ever since his return from Afghanistan, he hasn't thought he could ever have children. As First Officer of the Revolution, it just never registered as an option and he hasn't given it a second thought since.
That is the moment Sherlock emerges from his room, if possible even more tense then before.
John can't stand the tension in the room so he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.
"Sherlock?" All he gets is a non-committal noise. "I just realised that it's been over 15 weeks since you went off the Metamoxin. Do you need me to pick you up a pack of birth control pills from the Clinic?"
John doesn't doubt for one second that Sherlock will see straight through his reasoning.
Yet when he turns to meet Sherlock's blue eyes, he finds them ice-cold and distant, as if he is forcing himself to keep his expression as emotionless as possible.
It takes a long moment before Sherlock answers. "That won't be necessary."
Without another word, Sherlock leaves the kitchen. For a second, John is too stunned to react, but when his mind unfreezes, he hurries after the Omega into the living room.
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you hear me? Gosh, all these explosions must have rendered you deaf." Sherlock's voice is dripping with sarcasm. John knows he's trying to make John lash out, throw a fit and leave, or something else that doesn't involve talking to Sherlock further.
"Yes, I heard! But what does that mean?"
"That you don't need to procure me any pills."
John sighs heavily. "Sherlock, you don't need to..." He doesn't know how to finish that sentence, though. What exactly is he saying? "It's your body, Sherlock. You shouldn't make that decision likely."
A bitter laugh escapes Sherlock's throat and it is so uncharacteristic of him that it throws John off.
"My body. Yes, that's true."
"I'm sorry, I didn't... What I mean to say is: You can say yes to the pills. I won't mind." Sherlock narrows his eyes and John splutters. "And if you really want to not take birth control, it's okay, too. It's your body, your decision."
Finally, Sherlock's mask is slipping. Yet instead of relief about how supporting John is being, Sherlock looks devastated. There is sadness etched in the lines of his face and probably without noticing it, Sherlock is drawing in on himself.
As soon as it happened, it is gone again. Sherlock straightens, face blank, eyes distant.
"Well, John, no matter what I decide, it won't make a difference."
"Why?" John can feel his frustration mounting. Something is going on and and it is hurting Sherlock; he needs to find out what it is.
"I can't conceive."
John releases the breath he hasn't realised he was holding. "Give it time. Even if you've been taking the Metamoxin since you were –"
"This has nothing to do with the Metamoxin."
"Then what is it, Sherlock! What?" John shouldn't be shouting but he can't help it. Sherlock is hurting and the Alpha in him burns with the urge to protect, to make everything better.
Sherlock swallows, eyes wide but looking anywhere but John.
"I had an operation."
"What kind of operation?"
"It left me infertile."
"I'm sure we can reverse it if that's what you want," John offers, lacking anything better to say, as he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, turning the man around so that he would meet his eye.
But Sherlock only squeezed his eyes shut.
"It's irreversible."
"I'm sure there's something we can do, Sherlock –" he starts, but Sherlock jerks away violently.
"No, there's not!" John has never heard him scream like this – desperate, hurting. John can't but stare at Sherlock as he takes a deep breath before saying, "They removed the matrix."
The silence that follows is like a thick blanket over the apartment, suffocating them.
"When?"
"I just turned thirteen." Beginning of puberty. When Omegas and Betas become futile. When Omegas enter their first heat.
"But you were already taking the Metamoxin," John more states than asks.
"Mycroft didn't want to take any chances. The pills aren't infallible."
Yes, John is aware of that. Of the one per cent chance of Omegas on Metamoxin conceiving despite taking the drug.
"Mycroft did that to you?"
Sherlock nods and the resignation in the movement, the meaning of it, leave John shaking with anger.
"Why? Why did you let him? Why did your parents –"
"My parents were in favour of the operation. Their consent was needed."
John can't believe what he's hearing. "So you're telling me that your brother not only forced another identity on you but also simply decided to make you undergo an unnecessary operation and your parents were okay with that?"
"YES!" Sherlock bursts out, finally opening his eyes. "My mother never left out an opportunity to show how much she regretted having an Omega as a son. I was the black sheep of the family, John. Not only was I socially awkward and always years ahead of my peers intellectually, I also was an Omega and removing my matrix was the only possible solution to keep that dirty little family secret hidden forever."
John wants to hit something. Or kill someone. Preferably Mycroft Holmes. Or Mrs Holmes. He isn't too picky right now.
"I shouldn't even care." Sherlock's voice is barely above a whisper and John doubts he is really meant to hear it.
"Then why do you? I thought your body was just a vessel." John aims for light-hearted but misses by a mile.
John doesn't catch his answer.
"Pardon?"
Sherlock raises his eyes, movement slow and tense as if he is forcing himself to look up and meed John's gaze. "Because of you."
"Wh- Why?" John is completely out of his depth. He is not as familiar with Sherlock's logic as he thought, it would seem.
"You're an Alpha, John. You're going to want children. Children that I won't – and can't – give you."
And it clicks.
Slowly, John crosses the few steps that separate him from Sherlock and he draws him into a tight hug, ignoring Sherlock's half-hearted struggle. Sherlock Holmes can be heartless again tomorrow.
"It's okay," John soothes, "it's okay. Yes, I'm an Alpha but I don't want children. I've just survived a civil war. I wasn't even sure I'd be alive so long. You don't need to worry about children, okay?"
Sherlock is still tense in John's arms. "You will change your mind. It's your biological imperative to breed."
John can sense what Sherlock is implying. "Sherlock, I'm not with you because you're an Omega. You're a brilliant man, and even if you can't bear children, you'll always be brilliant. Don't worry about it." John draws back so he is whispering directly in Sherlock's ear. "I won't leave you alone, Sherlock."
It was the right thing to say. He can feel Sherlock relax, tension gradually seeping from his body as John keeps holding him tight, rubbing soothing circles in his back. Sherlock doesn't cry but he starts to tremble and John draws him closer until it subsides and Sherlock buries his face in the nape of John's neck, inhaling deeply.
The Alpha inside John purrs, content that his Omega isn't hurting anymore.
xXx
End Notes: Yes, I know, it's a harsh way to solve he whole mpreg-thing. I guess my inner aversion to mpreg steered me in that direction. So, no, there will be no pregnancy in this fic. EVER.
Also, it might be important to note that Omegas in my AU have no special value. In other AUs, they are cherished because they can have kids. Here, normal biology still works, no matter if you're a female Alpha, Beta or Omega . Only male Omegas can actually bear children. Like I said- mpreg squick ;)
I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know, reactions always make me very happy :)