Chapter 7 – The Second Coming
Summary: John struggles with his sister's mental state. Mycroft finds himself inside the Russian Union's government, trying to keep the Eastern Empire from crumbling down around him while New Britain has enough problems of her own.
Author's Notes: Oh gosh, I am SO SORRY! I forgot to update ffn the last few times I published new chapters… Shame on me. But now I'll be able to continuously post until this fic is finished, how about that?
Warning: Politics ahead! I've done some research yet I don't claim economical or political accuracy for anything. Because global economy is confusing…
Timeline info: It's June 2012 and there's a large time gap near the beginning, so we will find ourselves two years after the election of Homi Bhabha.
xXx
In the first week of June, Mycroft and Anthea exit the Russian Embassy and slide into a non-descript car, which will take them to Sergei Mikhailov's private jet. Their destination: Moscow, heart of the disintegrating Russian Union.
The bright sunlight is fading, slowly replaced by dusk. They will reach the jet under the cover of darkness.
So far, knowledge of their whereabouts has not reached the public and Mycroft intends to keep it that way until he is safe on Russian soil. Having had an eye on the news ever since his imprisonment, Mycroft knows that Russia only dares to grant him asylum since New Britain is in no condition to demand his extradition.
As far as Mycroft is able to gather, the new government has manoeuvred itself into a tight corner, and will be standing on the brink of a financial crisis within the next twelve months. It is rather unfortunate that the country's largest backer is Russia. There will be problems.
Thankfully, Mycroft has both the experience and the connections to mitigate the situation, ensuring that New Britain as well as the Russian Union emerge unscathed and as well as circumstances will permit.
Yet there are still doubts gnawing at the corners of his mind as to why he is here, on his way to another country. It all seems to lead back to Yuri Kapov's friend, who happens to be a friend of the Kreml's. Mycroft doubts it was Prime Minister Pyotr Orlov's idea to transfer him across the ocean and into Moscow, which begs the question: What interest does this friend have in setting Mycroft Holmes free?
He huffs, taking his last looks at London through tainted windows while the car continues, the last rays of sunlight disappearing from the city.
xXx
"Where will I go, John?" Harry's dark-blue eyes are questioning, full of fear and insecurity.
"You're not healed yet, Harry –"
"The doctor mentioned they could release me soon," she argues tentatively and John closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"I know, Harry. We'll talk about it later, alright?"
Harry nods immediately, then shakes her head, hands tightening their grip on the sheets of the hospital bed. "N-no," she stutters, voice wavering. "You've been evading my questions for days now. Doctor Francis said I have to – I'm allowed to, to ask."
John swallows around the lump in his throat, cursing whoever trained his sister to be such an obedient Omega who caves whenever an Alpha is in the room, and cursing himself for exploiting this fact to avoid uncomfortable topics.
"I'm sorry," John says finally, unsure how to tell his long-lost sister that he has no idea where she will live. "I'm working on it, alright? I promise I will tell you as soon as I know something."
"What about Mum and Dad?"
"They're both too old to take care of you, darling. You know that, don't you? They need care themselves."
Harry nods and pulls the blanket tighter around her. "I'm tired, John."
"Then I'll let you sleep. I'll see you soon, Harry."
He kisses her forehead, ensuring that she can see him move towards her slowly and prepare for the action.
Outside the room he collapses in a chair and runs his hands over his face. He doesn't know how long he has been sitting in the exact same position before a familiar spicy-sweet smell makes his nostrils flare.
"How is she?" Sherlock asks softly, although he must have already deduced everything from John's body language.
John leans back, eyes turned towards the ceiling as if it held the answers to his troubles. "She wants to leave the hospital."
"And go where?"
"She keeps asking."
"And you don't know."
"Exactly."
"Only I think you do know."
John doesn't answer.
"All the other Omegas you freed are going to live in the nursing home. It would do Harry good. She would receive care, be around others who share her fate, could find her way slowly back onto her feet and perhaps even back into society. It's the logical conclusion yet you refuse to acknowledge this. What I can't discern is why."
A smile tugs at the corners of John's mouth when he hears the frustration in Sherlock's voice. Yes, the puzzle of sibling relations. Of course, with a brother like Mycroft, Sherlock's image thereof would be somewhat lacking.
"She's my responsibility," John explains, his voice eerily calm. "Handing her off to a home feels like I'm cheating my way out of caring for her. Perhaps I should be the one to nurse her back to health. I'm her brother. I'm the one who gave up on her."
Sherlock takes a seat next to him. "You broke her out of a brothel, John. Besides, why should you sacrifice your life to take over the work of a trained professional?"
"I know, I know, alright! This isn't about what's logical; this is about my responsibility as her brother!"
A sigh tells him his partner is growing bored with their conversation and John can't blame him. For days now his mind has circled around the same lines again and again, trying to find a solution.
"Ask the psychiatrist, what's her name? See what she thinks. Isn't she the undisputed authority when it comes to your sister's health?" Sherlock suggests and even though he is clearly eager to resolve the topic, John has to agree with him.
Which is why he makes an appointment with his sister's psychiatrist who tells him in no unclear terms that in her professional opinion, putting Harry into the controlled environment of the nursing home for former sex slaves is the best option available.
"So that's decided, then?" Sherlock states more than asks that evening when John fills him in during supper.
John swallows and takes another bite of his eggs.
"You will be able to visit her, won't you?"
John nods.
"She will have round-the-clock care, won't she?"
John nods.
"Well?"
He meets Sherlock's eyes and nods for a third time, this time a little surer of the decision than before.
"Good," his partner smiles, "now you can finally help me find a new case!"
xXx
One year later - August 2013
The talk show logo flitters across the screen, the suspenseful theme sounding from the speakers until the image clears, showing Joel Norton, a lively Alpha nearing fifty, sitting on a chair next to a large sofa.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Joel Norton special, 'The Years of Change'. It's exactly twenty-four months after Homi Bhaba has been elected the first Omega Prime Minister –" applause from the audience interrupts the host briefly, "- and New Britain is struggling in the aftermath of the Revolution. Please welcome my very political guests of the evening, Prime Minister Homi Bhaba himself and Kevin Watmough, leader of the opposition."
Thundering applause greets the politicians. Both look healthy and rested, though this might merely be the effect of the magic the make-up department worked on them.
"So, Prime Minister," Norton begins after the exchange of polite greetings, "what is your resume two years after the election?"
Bhabha smiles. "An optimistic one. As of last month, literacy amongst Omegas has reached seventy per cent with almost all Omegas under the age of eighteen being able to read and write. Our employment incentive measures have yielded results and provided former slaves with jobs and an income while granting tax advantages to the enterprises recruiting untrained Omegas. And above all: We now live in a country where all people are equal, regardless of their biology."
Another rumble of applause goes through the crowd and Norton turns to his second guest, shaking his head with a weary smile.
"Something to add, Mr Watmough?"
"Oh, many a thing. I mean, I enjoy the symmetry of having instated Irene Adler as your Home Secretary and Marc Thoreau as your Secretary of State, Prime Minister, and your endeavour to change the natural order of the world are inspiring. However, I can't help but wonder whether you have ever considered the economical ramifications of your campaigns?"
"I have, indeed," Bhabha answers calmly.
"Surely, sir, it hasn't escaped your notice that the national debt will reach staggering percentages within just a few months – almost one hundred per cent of the GPD. My party has asked you before and I will ask again in this environment: What are your strategies in the fight against the threatening financial crisis?"
"Now, now, there's no need of fear-mongering, Mr Watmouth. New Britain is in no danger of such a crisis."
"Oh please, Minister, explain," Watmough drawls, sarcasm rolling off his tongue like honey.
"The government is already devising strategies to combat the growing debt. I know it won't be popular but we are considering implementing a new tax for wealthy individuals-"
"Alphas and Betas, you mean-"
"Please let him finish, Mr Watmough," Joel Norton cuts in and Bhabha shots him a quick smile.
"Aside from a new tax and cutting the state's expenses, another option would be to default. There are currently three task forces at work, trying to determine the best cause of action."
"Where would you think cutbacks can be made, Prime Minister?"
Bhabha sighs, his jaw clenching almost unnoticeably.
"There are several areas, some of which might entail less pleasant consequences for New Britain's citizens than others."
"In other words, you can't reduce military expenses for there are still enough riots to necessitate every single soldier and operative. Also, cutting into the educational sector is too early and would endanger the literacy of many Omegas, just as decreasing benefits would mean a lot of Omegas would suffer from lack of employment and health care."
Watmough shifts on his spot on the sofa, leaning back against the cushions.
"Which means that you either have to raise taxes or default. Though, please remind me again, Minister: Which country do we owe most our money to?"
Bhabha's expression hardens as he realises which card his opponent is playing. "That would be the Russian Union, I presume."
"Indeed. The same Russian Union who is losing satellite state after satellite state to revolution, whose economy is becoming less and less stable and who will insist on being reimbursed from New Britain, especially when the default hinges on reformist policies favouring Omegas?"
"What are you implying?" the Prime Minister barks, his annoyance with the Alpha showing clearly.
"That, should Britain really default, we would be in great danger of an invasion."
Norton's shrill laughter catches everyone's attention. "Surely that won't happen now, would it?"
Watmough raises an eyebrow. "Considering the Empire has invaded debtor countries before to recover her money, for instance Egypt in 1882, I wouldn't bet on the Russian Union's benevolence in this reg-"
The television screen switches off, the colourful picture replaced by a pitch-black screen.
John throws the remote back onto the coffee table in front of him. Keeping up with current events is turning into a depressing affair. It seems as though the Reformists' hard work has been in vain. Yes, they have equality now, their colonies are finding their own way on the world's stage and Omega Empowerment spreads further and further every passing day…
Yet a country can't live off idealism alone.
John has seen Homi Bhabha a few days ago when he dropped by the care home to check on both John and his sister, not as Prime Minister but as a friend.
"How are things really?" John asked outside Harry's room.
Bhabha let his head fall back against the hospital wall in the deserted corridor, sighing as though the world was bringing him down.
"Not well. We had to launch every single campaign that we did, John, I hope you see that." John nodded. "But the opposition is right. We can't continue spending money like this and I hate to think of what might happen when we're implementing counter measures."
John looks back at the telly and groans in exasperation, trying to marshal his thoughts, which are circling back to phrases like invasion, default, Russian Union until his head is spinning and he can't supress a shudder.
xXx
A week later, Greg hands Sherlock a compelling case that takes the detective ages to solve. John tags along as he always does, plays mediator between his partner and potential witnesses and after a few days, John catches the first hint of Sherlock's scent intensifying.
John's, "You're going into heat" goes ignored, like it usually does during cases. Yet when two more days have passed and John can see Sherlock trembling every now and again, the Alpha in him has to put his foot down.
By the time their investigation requires them to finally return to 221B, there is sweat on Sherlock's brow.
"Sherlock –"
"We haven't solved the -"
"Screw the case, Sherlock!"
"There're lives at risk," he snaps back. "Isn't that always your argument, John?"
Since apparently, reasoning with Sherlock won't change the situation, John changes tactics and in one swift movement, he pushes him against their flat door.
"You're hurting yourself and I won't allow it."
Sherlock wants to protest but whatever he intended to say morphs into a low moan as his erection brushes against John's hip. His blue eyes are blown with desire and finally, he gives into his body's urges.
"Make it quick," Sherlock pants, ever the romantic, but John obliges, the Alpha in him urging him to take care of his Omega. John walks them over to the sofa and spins Sherlock around, bending him over the backrest. John covers Sherlock's back with his body immediately, grinding his hard cock against Sherlock's arse and relishes the sound that escapes the detective.
John makes quick work of their trousers and pants, opting to let them pool around their ankles instead of taking them off. John pulls Sherlock's cheeks apart, drinking in his scent before he licks a single stripe up the cleft that has Sherlock twitch and his breath speed up even more.
"John," Sherlock pleads, tone both impatient and aroused. John smiles to himself as he lines up his erection and pushes in. For all his defiance that this wasn't necessary, Sherlock is soon pushing back wantonly, encouraging John to shag him harder, faster, yes, John, yes.
It is messy and rushed and leaves them both a sweaty mess where they collapsed on the floor. All too soon, Sherlock shakes his head, jumps to his feet (and almost stumbles over the trousers still entangled with his limbs) and crosses the room to get to where clues are littering their living room wall.
John sighs. Life with Sherlock Holmes has not become easier over the past year.
His heats are still erratic and will probably always be, which is to be expected after years of inhibitor abuse. Sherlock still tends to ignore his body while on a case, yet John never lets him get away with it.
Sherlock Holmes is still brilliant, still the Rising Hero, with John at his side during most cases. He visits Harry as often as he can – which unfortunately is once a week at the most when he is lucky – and trains groups of the armed forces twice a week (or once, depending on the cases) and still helps out at the free clinic as often as he can.
And he swears to God, if one more patient asks him for an autograph, he will stage an attack on a newspaper building. He has enough friends in the SIS to make it work, mind you.
At least, life is never boring. Harry is improving, yet overcoming years of trauma and abuse will take time. There are some moments when John doubts she will ever be able to live on her own. Whenever John brings up the topic, Sherlock holds his tongue but John knows exactly what he means to say.
Meanwhile, Greg has divorced Judy after Sherlock deduced for the third time that she is having an affair. "Why can't you just fuck off, Sherlock?" Greg asked after that particularly hurtful deduction (because why should Sherlock Holmes ever exercise tact?). "You will catch on sooner or later and when you do, your detective work will suffer. I am saving the Met a few embarrassing investigation reports."
Greg has started dragging John off to the pub more often lately, which never fails to make Sherlock grin and mutter something about "midlife crisis".
At 39, John might be prone to one as well, if it weren't for the rise in London's crime rate as of late – especially hate crimes. Something is going on but Sherlock hasn't been able to put his finger on it.
And sometimes when John watches the telly, he catches images of Mycroft Holmes in the background of the Russian Prime Minister, and wishes New Britain weren't so economically unstable. Then, they could demand his extradition and John wouldn't have to look at the face of the man who destroyed his partner's youth and childhood because Mycroft would rot in solitary confinement for the rest of his life.
Marc Thoreau has rather loud opinions on the matter, but there is nothing to be done. War with Russia over Mycroft Holmes? Not worth it.
xXx
Mycroft has always enjoyed a busy life. As leader of the British Empire, it was seldom that he had to endure boredom, yet as advisor to the Kreml, he sometimes wishes for more reprieve.
The world's map is like a chessboard in his mind and right now, the Russian Union is loosing. Satellite states are rebelling – however, Mycroft only wields power for so much damage control. If the people want independence, exerting brute military force will only make them crave freedom more.
Instead, Russia is negotiating treaties with each country, still binding them economically and ensuring their dependence without propagating it. Mycroft is rather proud of himself, especially since these treaties settle any territorial disputes which might erupt, thus preventing full-out civil wars between the new states.
However, so much conflict in so many corners of the enormous country that is the Russian Union will take and is already taking its toll. France and the rest of Europe smile down on their neighbour, delighting in seeing the one major power in the world that still holds onto Alpha supremacy crumble.
France in particular is helping minor states in their rebellion and frankly, Mycroft wouldn't be surprised if, over the next few months, someone staged a coup d'état. But Prime Minister Orlov is well-protected, so Mycroft doesn't worry excessively.
He has never met the ominous "friend" of the Kreml who ensured his freedom and the missing information is gnawing at his mind. Of course, he is the most skilled political diplomat Europe has seen in the past years and without him, Russia would be left with a lot less after this period has passed.
Still, the unease won't leave Mycroft's mind.
xXx
John and Sherlock are enjoying a lazy Sunday at 221B. After a luxurious round of morning sex, John cooked breakfast and then migrated to his laptop to update his blog, which is receiving more hits than ever, while Sherlock is conducting strange experiments featuring new kinds of tobacco ash. John will never understand how tobacco ash manages to hold his partner's interest for so long.
John is mulling over his conclusion when his phone rings. Checking the caller ID confirms his first thought.
"We need you," Greg says as a way of greeting. "Can you come?"
"Hang on." John gets up and finds Sherlock in the kitchen. The detective takes one look at John's expression and the phone in his hand before nodding.
Moments of non-verbal communication like this never fail to make John embarrassingly giddy.
"We'll be there. Text me the address."
"You won't regret it," the DI promises before hanging up, leaving John to change into clothes more decent than his dressing gown.
As it turns out, Greg wasn't lying.
Donovan is the one to welcome them and bring them into the building – apartment block, not too cheap, not too fancy – and up to the second floor which is swarming with officers who move out of the way immediately when they catch sight of John and Sherlock.
Greg is looking grim when they enter and John can't fault him for that. The victim is a female Beta, probably in her early thirties, lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, which has just stopped seeping from her open stomach.
"When was she found?" he asks while Sherlock's eyes are scanning the room.
"About an hour ago; her brother came to surprise her. He must have just missed the murderer."
"He didn't," Sherlock says, "the balcony door is open even though the victim isn't dressed to go outside. The killer heard the brother come in and panicked. It's only a two-storey jump."
Greg blinks. "What else can you tell us already?"
Sherlock sweeps the room one last time before focussing on the DI. "There was no struggle which means she didn't see it coming. Also no forced entry – she knew the killer might be one explanation; however, this woman works at a strip club and probably supplements her income via prostitution so all the murderer had to do was make an appointment. Find her calendar and you will have your killer."
An emphatic, "Brilliant" escapes John before he can stop himself. Greg only looks confused.
"How could you possibly know she's a prostitute?"
"We passed her bedroom on the way inside – there is a bag on the floor containing a selection of different condoms; now if she had a boyfriend she would only need one kind, wouldn't she? Also her closet was open, showing several distinct fetish costumes. Over there," he glances at a shelf at the wall, "is her CD collection, Classic Rock Themed, yet one part of them doesn't match – remixes of popular songs, often used in strip clubs. Obvious."
Greg sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "All right, a client killed her. Why?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes at the woman on the floor.
When the detective remains quiet for a full minute, John exchanges an uneasy glance with Lestrade.
"Sherlock?"
"The killer was interrupted. We don't have all the clues."
"What are you saying?"
"That I'm not sure."
"Anything?" Greg buts in. "Any idea?"
"Jealous lover but this wasn't the heat of the moment."
Greg raises an eyebrow at John, silently asking him to explain his partner's deductions.
"The incision. You won't achieve such a deep cut with any common kitchen knife. And the angle is strange, almost deliberate."
John studies the woman's open stomach and finds himself transported back in time when this was a regular occurrence, finding women eviscerated in their flats. The only thing missing, or pointedly not missing, are her eyes.
"Have there been any similar murders?" Sherlock asks all of a sudden.
Greg closes his eyes, heaving a sigh. "Let's find out."
Once outside, John notices how Sherlock observes the DI more closely. Greg apparently feels Sherlock's eyes on him and grimaces.
"Shut up."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You were thinking. Stop. It."
Sherlock merely smirks. John is intrigued. He will have to question Sherlock later on this little exchange.
xXx
John stares at the wall littered with pieces of paper, crime scene photos and autopsy reports.
They have unearthed a pattern.
Stretching back three months, there have been twelve murders that fit the one of Shaniqua "Sugar" Monroe. Ten of the victims have been gutted with varying degrees of efficiency and proficiency. The other two are only missing their eyes.
All of them are either homeless or were selling their bodies – targets no one would miss too much. Until Shaniqua. Whoever killed her probably didn't know about her brother.
"David Caroll is still in jail, right?" John hasn't been able to think about how much these murders remind him of the serial killer and he is sure that if he made the connection, Sherlock will have, too.
"Yes."
"Because this looks like his work, but… in the early stages. As if he's practicing."
When he hears Sherlock gasp, John turns around to face him. His blue eyes are wide and there is a smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course!" Suddenly, Sherlock's hands are on either side of John's face and the Omega presses a rushed kiss against his lips. "John Watson, what would I do without you!"
The contact is over as soon as it began. John blinks after his partner who is putting on his coat and scarf. "Come on!"
"Come on where? What's going on, Sherlock?"
"Don't you see it? They are practicing! Someone is trying to pick up David Caroll's work!" John hasn't seen Sherlock this enthusiastic about a case since that brilliant school teacher disintegrated his victim's bodies with everyday chemicals.
"So we're going…?"
"To find out who visited Caroll in prison!"
"You mean he has a fan?"
"Oh no, John, much better." And there it is, the slightly maniac grin that never fails to cause John goose bumps. The grin that means something terrifying brilliant is going on.
"He has an entire fan club."
Case in point.
xXx
End Notes: Welcome back, David Carol! And by the way, there will be four more chapters before this story draws to an end.