Chapter 2 – The Solution in the Eye
Summary: The story of New Britain after the election. And the story of Sherlock and John, who chase after a serial killer who gouges his female victims' eyes out.
Author's Notes: Posting this one day after the last update to make up for my accidental hiatus :) Thanks for the great reviews, folks, it really makes my day to read your thoughts!
Set immediately post-epilogue of Civil Disobedience.
This is the chapter that gave me most grief of all. I had a case, inspired by an ACD short story, but my muse simply didn't want to write it. Until I realised: It's just too boring. Thank you, Kevin Bacon, for inspiring me one weekend and ending my problems :) (so yeah, the case is inspired by "The Following")
Also, I didn't plan on writing any porn this chapter. John and Sherlock had other ideas…
xXx
With unsurprising majority, the Reformist Party wins the election and - equally unsurprisingly - Homi Bhabha becomes the first Omega Prime Minister of New Britain.
When John and Sherlock return to Baker Street after the celebration, John is thrumming with excitement.
"You're happy," Sherlock observes as he hangs his coat.
John grins and the step forward necessary to put his jacket away brings him into Sherlock's personal space.
"We have an Omega PM and you asked me to solve crimes with you. I have every reason to be happy."
"I knew you would like that." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, probably aiming to appear nonchalant, but the way his eyes flicker to John's lips give him away.
"Do you know what else I'd like?" John's voice is heavy with innuendo and right now, he doesn't even care if it's a clichéd line. He crowds Sherlock against the apartment door, bodies not quite touching, faces inches apart.
Sherlock's eyes dilate and John can hear his breath hitch before he swallows. The movement of his Adam's apple is distracting.
"Why don't you show me?"
John gradually closes the gap between their bodies, pressing their torsos together with relish. Sherlock remains still, leaves it to him where he wants to take this.
A slow movement of his hips has Sherlock gasping and he throws his head back, exposing his pulse point and John latches onto it, tonguing it, then sucking down hard. His hands are busy with Sherlock's tie and shirt buttons, then pull the fabric out of Sherlock's suit trousers.
John's mouth moves lower to Sherlock's collarbone, biting at the bone until Sherlock's breath becomes ragged and John has opened the fly.
In one swift motion, John pushes Sherlock's trousers and pants down at the same time, exposing his already hard cock.
Smirking up at Sherlock's half open eyes, John slides down and closes his lips around the tip of Sherlock's glans. He tongues at the slit, knowing fully well that the action drives Sherlock crazy and this time is no exception if the whine that escapes his throat is anything to go by.
John takes him deeper, so deep that he can feel the wet tip against the back of his throat, draws back and swallows Sherlock down again, setting a quick rhythm that has Sherlock writhing against the door, hips buckling, driving himself deeper into John's mouth.
John's right hand wanders from where it was holding onto Sherlock's hips down to his balls, massaging them just the way he knows his partner likes, before he inches further back.
Sherlock groans when the first finger enters him, immediately followed by a second and a third because John finds Sherlock already wet for him. He pushes down, burying John's fingers deeper inside him until they find his prostate.
Moments later, Sherlock arches his back and cries out as his orgasm washes through him and John swallows every last drop.
Sherlock's eyes are still half closed when he draws John up for a bruising kiss. Sherlock uses his height to push John down onto his back, lying half on the carpet, half on the hard wooden floor but he can't find it in him to care when Sherlock steps out of his shoes and trousers and throws his tie aside. He doesn't even bother with his shirt and jacket before he kneels over John, hands eagerly reaching for his fly.
John's trousers wind up around his ankles and Sherlock moves forward, gripping John's cock tight. He moans as he feels the wet heat enveloping him.
Fully sheathed, Sherlock starts moving, rotating his hips just so, again and again, quickly increasing the pace. Every sound that escapes John seems to edge him on more and John can't help but be amazed by how well Sherlock has figured out what makes him crazy.
Just before John can topple over the edge into his own orgasm, Sherlock changes the angle and slows down. Belatedly, John realises that Sherlock is hard again, his heat can't be far off. So he sits up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him in place. If John could form any sort of coherent thought, he'd be proud of himself for hitting Sherlock's prostate on the first thrust.
John can feel the blood pooling in his knot but wills it down, remembering they're on the uncomfortable floor - not a place to be knotted together for half an hour. Sherlock seems to share his sentiment because he doesn't bear down, doesn't force the knot into himself like he did countless other times. Instead, Sherlock moves faster up and down John's cock, meeting his thrusts until they both have their eyes closed and their breathing comes in spurts.
John's orgasm hits first and he clings to Sherlock like he is his lifeline, trapping his cock between their bodies. Sherlock rides John through the aftershocks, rubbing himself against John's abdomen, until he, too, finds release.
They collapse next to each other on the floor, the wood hard against their lower backs.
It only takes a minute until they notice exactly how uncomfortable their position is, and by unspoken agreement, head into the bathroom together to clean up.
They throw their clothes over the back of the couch haphazardly before they hurry up the stairs to their bedroom, because Sherlock's bed still functions as a surrogate shelf for God knows what, and climb under the covers.
Sherlock half covers John, head resting in the crook of his neck, arm thrown across his chest. The position has become so familiar, it feels like a second skin already.
"Thanks for coming with me tonight," he finally says.
"If I'd known what'd be waiting for me when we got home, you wouldn't have had to spend so much time on convincing me," Sherlock mumbles into John's skin and he can feel Sherlock smiling.
Chuckling, John kisses Sherlock's hair and takes a deep breath, allowing their mixed scent to fill his lungs.
He falls asleep with a smile.
xXx
Bhabha doesn't smile when John tells him that he is retiring to help Sherlock Holmes solve cases.
"New Britain needs you," he insists, but John stands his ground.
"The Reformists needed me. I'm no diplomat, Bhabha, and my men are perfectly capable of handling everything from here. I've bled enough during the revolution."
"Is there anything I can say that will sway you? I'd offer you more money but I know that's of no concern to you."
"Bhabha, I like helping Sherlock. And can you really imagine me heading the Ministry of Defence some day? I need to be out in the field."
It takes a while, but in the end, the Prime Minister agrees, though reluctantly, and only because John promised that he would help out in case of an emergency.
xXx
With the official government in place, the time has come for a new legislation.
The Bill of Rights and the Equality Act are passed three weeks after Bhabha takes over as PM, suspending the Empire's old constitution.
Slowly but surely, New Britain is getting on her feet, weak as they may still be. Literacy campaigns are enforced and a lot of the budged flows into the funding of Omega employment.
The courts have their hands full with Betas who were degraded to Omega status for crimes they committed and who are now facing a fair trial. Some regain their freedom, having paid enough for their sins while others will spend a few more years in prison.
Anti-discrimination laws look good on paper but as it turns out, not many Omegas have the means to make use of them if needs be. The government is urging all citizens to keep a watchful eye out to ensure equality the people fought so hard for.
Of course, Sherlock is unfazed by any of this - his attention belongs to his cases, but John still follows the news, hoping that everything will work out and that the new system won't come crashing down around them.
The first two months with Sherlock pass in a blur: Scotland Yard has enough investigations pending, now that Omegas can't be turned into convenient scapegoats anymore, requiring the reopening of several old cases.
Sherlock and John go through as many cases as the rest of the Yard put together and in the rare moment that they're not busy, Sherlock swings by St Bart's Hospital and talks a young pathologist into giving him a few spare body parts to experiment on.
The moment John finds a severed head in the fridge makes the list of the most scary moments of his life. And he fought in a civil war.
xXx
"A severed head? What does he want with one of those?" Greg wonders, nose turned up in disgust. He sets his beer down on the pub table again.
"Don't ask me, something about coagulation? Most of his experiments are beyond me."
Greg snorts. "Don't put that in your blog, though. I doubt that's legal."
"The thought hadn't even occurred to me." He resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"You know what you're gonna call your latest case?"
"No, but something with splinters, seems fitting." Sherlock was at his best - he identified the murderer by splinters of her nail polish he found at the scene.
Greg takes a sip from his pint, then focuses his eyes on John again, wearing a curious expression. "So, have you and Sherlock finally had the talk?"
"What talk?" John deflects, but knows it's a laughable effort when faced with a DI.
"The one about who's turn it is to bake a cake for Anderson's birthday - come on, you know what I mean."
"Did Judy give you an answer yet?"
The jab at his potential wife has Greg glaring. "Stop deflecting."
"So that's a no? I don't know, I always thought if someone asked me to marry him, I wouldn't get over a week to think about it," he teases. Being around Sherlock has already sharpened John's deduction skills. Though in the face of his flatmate's mental acrobatics, his accomplishments are still nothing short of pathetic.
"Why do you think you don't want to breach the subject? What's Sherlock gonna say? 'Sorry, but this is just a fling after all'?"
Seeing no way out of this conversation, John groans in frustration and buries his head in his hands.
"I don't know, Greg. We've just never talked about any of this. Never. It's always been natural between us. And Sherlock doesn't do emotions very well. It would just be awkward."
"If it's so natural, why can't you answer whether you two are mates or not?"
John regards the Alpha across the table, wondering how much he can give away. They've been meeting semi-regularly these past weeks after the election, have become friends but John isn't sure how much he is allowed to give away.
"Before we met, Sherlock didn't have any friends, and even then, we weren't friends… We were a hostage and a kidnapper. We talked, yes, and I always felt drawn to him but… We weren't friends. We were an Alpha and an Omega. I can't tell you when it changed. Jesus, I guess even that first heat was intimate in a completely different way from anything I've experienced before. Perhaps that's why I can't put a name to what we share - it's always been like this. You and Judy, you met, you got closer, you dated, but Sherlock and me - we skipped that completely."
With a sigh, John looks up. "Did that make any sense?"
Greg barks out a laugh. "You want to know my opinion?" John shrugs and the DI goes on. "I've known Sherlock for quite some time. I've seen him around Alphas, Betas, Omegas, important officials, politicians, ministers, millionaires… He's always distant, always wears a mask. I only ever saw him smile around dead people - until you came along." Greg shoots him a smile. "He's different with you, John. Acts like he actually does have a heart. He values your opinion and he actively seeks your company. What does it tell you when a man who never lets anyone get close makes an exception for one person?"
John ducks his head, eyes regarding his beer as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
"The way I see it, you're both just two blokes who are crazily in love but no one's man enough to admit it."
"So what do you suggest I do?"
"Bloody well talk to him already! You fought a civil war, one should think you could handle a conversation."
"I don't want to lose him, Greg."
"You won't. Trust the DI."
Greg sounds so sure and if he's completely honest, John knows the truth as well, but… No but. Greg is right, John needs to talk to Sherlock about this.
"Alright."
Greg raises his pint. "To mates!"
John clinks glasses. "So you're sure Judy will say yes?"
"Shut up and drink, Watson."
Just when they set down their beers and John wants to change the subject to safer matters, Greg's phone rings.
The DI is grabbing his jacket before he even ends the call.
"New case?" John raises his eyebrows questioningly.
"Yeah. I'll text you if we need you." Greg leaves a few bills on the table and rushes towards the doors.
xXx
As it turns out, Greg really needs them.
The cab is pulling up outside an apartment building in Chelsea, one of the nicer parts of town, which actually survived the revolution unscathed for the most part, and John sighs in relief. This might be the first case in a long time that has nothing to do with a new legislation, jealous Betas or a wife whose husband decided to leave her for their former Omega slave girl who now is a citizen with full rights.
Greg meets them outside one of the spacious apartments at the blue and white police tape. His expression doesn't bode well.
"I take it the victim is young, either Alpha or Beta, and has been murdered in a brutal way," Sherlock says before Greg has the chance to open his mouth.
The DI nods curtly. "Annie Wilson, 20, second year at college. The rest you better see for yourselves…" He holds the tape up for them to pass through and John follows Sherlock into the flat.
They find Annie Wilson in the living room, splayed out on the sofa. Her killer must have arranged her pose, for her arms are lying next to her and there is no way a girl who has her eyes gouged out wouldn't thrash wildly about before dying.
She's also been eviscerated, her intestines flowing out of her stomach and onto the ground. The smell almost makes John gag.
Sherlock is already right next to the body, standing between sofa and coffee table, considering the girl with cool-eyed detachment.
"She has been dead for a few hours, putting the murder sometime between four and seven pm," Sherlock starts, eyes darting around the room. "No forced entry suggests she knew the killer, so we need to focus on her immediate circle."
"What do you think the eyes mean?" John asks, stepping closer. He can sense Annie's smell underneath the odour of decay. She was an Alpha.
"I suppose it fits the rest of her wounds," Greg cuts in. "The killer was brutal."
"Not necessarily. If the killer used the same weapon for both the abdominal wound and the eyes, you might be right, but I have a theory that the weapons won't match."
Sherlock is moving around the room now, John realises he is following Annie Wilson's line of sight but apparently she is simply staring into the distance, eyes focussed on somewhere on the ceiling.
"I will call you as soon as forensic has had a look." Greg runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. "In the meantime I will send you a list of her closest friends we found on her laptop. I'd like to announce we solved this at tomorrow's press conference."
Sherlock is still lost in thought so John nods in his stead, watching the DI as he produces his phone and pushes a few buttons.
Seconds later, Sherlock's mobile chimes and John retrieves it from the other man's pocket without hesitation.
"We'll get started right away. Sherlock?"
He snaps out of his reverie and follows John without another word.
He is on Sherlock the moment they are in the cab. "Spit it out, what's your theory?"
"The eyes, it has to mean something."
"Any idea about what exactly?"
"Several." He doesn't specify and John doesn't push for he knows better.
xXx
It's almost ten when they leave Annie's third college friend's house and John's phone alerts him to a text message.
"There's another crime scene," is all he needs to say before they are both hurrying to find the nearest taxi.
xXx
This time, there are two young girls: Amy Shirley, 21, Beta, and Britney Paxton, 24, Beta. Annie and Amy both attended University College London while Britney went to the King's College. A quick check showed that several of Amy's and Annie's courses match.
"So what role does Britney play?" Anderson asks from his position next to the eviscerated Amy. Her eyes are gaping holes that John tries his best not to focus on.
"The killer was aiming for Amy, of course," Sherlock snaps curtly, again inspecting the victim's line of sight from what John could tell. "When it turned out her roommate was there as well, the killer changed his plans."
"His?" Anderson raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"Use your senses, don't you smell the lingering masculine scent?" Sherlock answers irritably and sure, when John inhales and concentrates, there it is. He can't tell wether it is Alpha, Beta or Omega, but it's definitely male.
"Why the eyes, though?" Sherlock mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
"Perhaps the girls saw something they weren't supposed to see? A crime, maybe?" John tries.
"It would be a tad obvious but it's a possibility. Still, they knew their killer, no forced entry, they let him in. They were offering him something to drink, too."
John follows Sherlock's gaze and finds a cupboard door ajar, revealing a selection of whiskey and vodka.
Sherlock is murmuring under his breath, moving around the room, eyes gliding over the spines of books, DVDs, pictures on the walls until they return to the two victims.
"We are looking for a man Annie and Amy knew and liked enough to invite in for a drink. A man who enjoyed killing."
"Are you saying you think we are dealing with a serial killer?" Greg has gone pale. John can empathize - a man on a killing spree is nothing London needs in unstable times like this.
"Only the next murder will tell," Sherlock concludes with a smile.
John clears his throat and takes a step closer to his room-mate. "Sherlock, stop smiling."
The man in question merely raises an eyebrow at him.
"Three girls have been killed."
"Will caring about their deaths help us catch their killer?"
"No."
"Then I will continue not making that mistake. Come on, we have suspects to interview."
Only slightly horrified, John shakes his head, shoots an apologetic smile in Greg's direction and follows Sherlock out the door.
xXx
Two days pass and the best they have come up with is Matt Dahler, fellow student of Annie and Amy.
Upon their first meeting, Sherlock deduced Matt is madly in love with a friend of Amy's, Jennifer Mason. The only problem was that Amy and Annie thought Matt was a veritable nutter and kept up their smear campaign for so long that Matt decided to take matters into his own hands.
Or at least that was what the Met turned Sherlock's assessment of Matt's obsession with Jennifer Mason into. John can almost see it - Matt definitely was a bit barmy, with all the stalking and secret photo taking he was up to. But why eviscerate them? Why gouge their eyes out?
He says so much on Monday when they're in Baker Street, taking the first break since Annie Wilson was found, and Sherlock snorts.
"Of course it wasn't Matt. When the next body turns up, Lestrade will see that as well."
"Why are you so sure there's going to be a next body?"
"The killer wants his work to be seen. Why else would he put so much effort into arranging his victims? Why gouge their eyes out when it doesn't mean anything?"
"Perhaps he's hiding his true motif, tries to throw us off his real motivation by laying a false trail?"
Sherlock shakes his head and picks up his violin. "Criminals like that always miss something. There was nothing out of place with the last three victims. He has no hidden agenda."
He lifts the violin and starts to play.
xXx
Tuesday starts way too early with way too much blood involved. All of it belongs to Molly Lipton, 27, and Omega attending the Imperial College London on a scholarship who has no ties to the previous victims whatsoever. She gained her freedom after the civil war and has been trying to build a life ever since.
Greg rubs his eyes and thankfully accepts the coffee John brought for him. "I really don't want to hold that press conference."
"Look on the bright side," John tries, "perhaps someone will come to you with a clue."
"How will someone know anything when even Sherlock can't find the killer?"
John has no answer for him.
xXx
Sherlock is becoming more and more frustrated with every suspect that provides a bulletproof alibi.
Things go from bad to worse when they find two more victims in quick succession on Thursday night and Friday morning, one of them is student Jennifer Mason, Beta. With Matt Dahler still in custody they now officially have no prime suspect.
Louise Mead, Alpha, 32, is a yoga instructor and doesn't fit into the pattern just like Molly Lipton did.
"So what, is he just picking girls at random?" John feels the desire to hit something and he doesn't know how many more eviscerated girls with empty eye sockets it will take to break what is left of his self-control.
"There has to be a connection!" Sherlock shouts, frustration prominent in his tone. He hasn't been sleeping these past days and John can see the dark circles under his eyes.
"The solution has to be the eyes," John insists, knowing fully well that they have considered thousand possible angles already. There was nothing lodged in the victims' eyes, they weren't looking at anything, their computers and phones were all intact with nothing erased, the weapon used on the eyes never varied…
"It is and I know I'm this close," Sherlock hisses, head in his hands. "This close! The killer is taunting us. Showing off. Either he will get sloppy or he will add another clue. He wants to be appreciated for his work."
"And what if he decides we need to figure it out by ourselves? What then?"
"Then we will figure it out."
There's no sleep that night either, for both of them. John has failed to coax Sherlock into bed with him, not even offering to blow him worked.
"How can you think of sex when there's an unsolved case?" Sherlock snarled at him, batting his hands away.
"Well, if you want to stay up all night, please. I'm getting some rest. Perhaps if we both were able to think more clearly, we'd have a new theory already."
"My thinking is fine," Sherlock snapped back and threw himself into the armchair while John made his way up to bed.
But sleep escapes him - instead his mind is turning over every crime scene in his head, every suspect, every possible motif and murder weapon, again and again until the sun rises on Monday and John surrenders.
xXx
It is already noon when her cleaning lady finally discovers the seventh victim. John's heart doesn't even jump anymore when he sees Greg's caller ID.
The smell of decomposing flesh is also something he has become used to again, months after the civil war has ended,
"Debra Torres," Greg begins when Sherlock and he have gathered around the whirlpool. The water is red with the young woman's blood. Her intestines are swimming close to the surface. The blood that flowed from her empty eye sockets has long since dried on her cheeks. "23, Alpha, attended University College London. We're checking which of her classes matched those of Annie and Amy. She's been dead at least twelve hours."
"And she's propped up in a pool," Anderson points out.
"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," Sherlock drawls but John can see a spark in his blue eyes. This is new, this is interesting, this is what they've been waiting for.
"Well, what does it mean?" Anderson asks defiantly, crossing his gloved arms in front of his chest.
"He is playing with us. The whirlpool is a clue. First the eyes, then the whirlpool…"
"What is a bloody whirlpool supposed to stand for?" Anderson asks, but Greg doesn't wait for answer.
"I don't really care, we need a new lead, Sherlock, or the-"
"EVERYONE QUIET!" Sherlock bellows and the room falls silent. John has to suppress a chuckle at how Sherlock, the Omega, is intimidating a room full of Alphas and Betas rather successfully. "Let. Me. Think," Sherlock grinds out, massaging his temples.
The tense silence that follows is one of the most uncomfortable ones John has ever experienced. Anyone hardly dares to breathe.
Then, startling them the movement is so abrupt, Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes wide, mouth open in realisation.
"Poe."
Everyone looks questioningly at Sherlock, then at John, who equally has no idea what his flatmate is talking about.
Sherlock surveys the room, takes in their blank expressions and sighs. It must be really nice inside his head, John wonders and not for the first time.
"Edgar Allan Poe! Eyes were a recurring symbol, as was a whirlpool. Poe believed the eyes to be the window into one's soul. In 'MS Found in a Bottle', the whirlpool symbolises insanity. Books of Poe were in Annie Wilson's, Amy Shirley's and Jennifer Mason's apartments."
Stunned silence ensues. John is the first to break it.
"So what does this mean for our killer?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath before answering. "I don't know. We need to find a Poe expert."
Before Greg or anyone else has a chance to say anything, Sherlock is out of the room, John at his heels.