Chapter 8 – Shifting Alliances

Summary: Sherlock and John are closing in on David Caroll's following, and thus they are playing exactly into his hands.

Author's Notes: Here, have some gratuitous porn :)

Re: "Omega/omega" – depending on the POV, it's either uppercase or lowercase. Don't be confused. If someone doesn't see Omegas as equal, they wouldn't capitalize the word (at least in this verse).

xXx

As an Alpha, it is John's duty to ensure his Omega is cared for. He has no other choice – it is a biological imperative, his senses alerting him to any suffering on Sherlock's part, urging him to restore his well-being.

Now when evolution decided this was a great direction to go, it clearly never considered the extent of Sherlock's stubbornness.

A full week has passed since Sherlock's epiphany and by now John feels more like a nurse than a former soldier of the revolution. He has to practically force tea down Sherlock's throat or else threaten him with an IV drip while they are at the SIS, where John is happily exploiting his connections to gain them access to Belmarsh's records.

Currently John is watching Sherlock interrogate one of Caroll's visitors, Jessica Nielson, and working on a plan that will end in Sherlock actually eating a meal and sleeping more than three hours at once.

"When did you first meet David Caroll?"

"Can't you tell? You're supposed to be a genius."

"Oh, someone briefed you on me, then?" John can make out how Sherlock narrows his eyes through the one-way mirror. "Alright. You're a young, single beta who never had any special talents in her life. You are hungry for something, though, anything to lend meaning to your unremarkable existence. You probably met Caroll at a book signing, since you read a lot and would have read about Caroll's awful work in one of those literary magazines. He saw your hunger and decided to exploit it. Don't tell me – you believe what he is doing is art?"

"He teaches us to embrace our true nature," Nielsen snaps, a dark glint in her green eyes.

"Oh yes, by eviscerating innocent people."

"They are the scum of society. No one'll miss them."

"And now you're a murderer."

"You can't prove that, Mr Holmes."

"Would you bet on that, Miss Nielsen?" Sherlock's voice is cold and firm, enough to give her pause.

She is right to hesitate and reconsider. John himself watched an SIS specialist track her on a surveillance feed on the night of the murder Sherlock deduced she had committed.

When Nielsen remains silent, Sherlock straightens with a grin. "There is enough evidence to hold you and accuse you of murder. Any information you are willing to give us might lighten your sentence, so do talk this over with your government-appointed lawyer. Enjoy prison, Miss Nielson."

Sherlock stalks from the room as John keeps an eye on the blonde woman whose brows furrow in worry.

xXx

Thirty minutes later and they are back at Baker Street for the first time in two days. John's neck still hurts after spending a few hours on a sofa at SIS headquarters while Sherlock was busy tracking down IP-addresses of several people who corresponded with Caroll more regularly.

Sherlock adds bits and pieces to the wall, connects drawing pins with colour-coded garn and John leaves him to it in favour of cooking dinner.

"She is the leader, John, the first one he recruited. She won't talk, too indoctrinated, too loyal to the cause. We need to find more…" Sherlock trails off, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. When John refuses to answer, the detective finally looks over to where John is standing in the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed in front of his chest.

John knows he doesn't need to say anything. Sherlock will figure out his objective and complain, at which point John will argue and honestly, if Sherlock dares to do as much as even entertain the thought of refusing, John will knock him out and tie him to the bed, in a decidedly unsexy manner.

His resolution must have shown on his face for Sherlock sighs dramatically as if John is asking him to solve the current economic crisis. He does, however, trot into the kitchen and sit down.

The meal passes in silence. Sherlock seems to be sulking.

"Let's make a deal," John suggests, adding a stern "Sherlock?" when he doesn't receive a reaction of any kind.

"Yes, I'm listening."

"A deal. You are going to sleep for seven hours today and in return you get to do anything you want to me beforehand."

That has Sherlock's eyes widen. "Anything?"

John nods. "Anything."

"Five hours."

"Seven."

"Five and a half."

"Seven."

"Six."

"Sherlock, the alternative is I'm clocking you over the head and tying you to the bed. And I know how to lock the door so you can't pick it."

"Improbable."

"Try me."

The ensuing staring contest lasts several minutes yet eventually, Sherlock does the wise thing and agrees.

xXx

For a second or two John almost regrets the deal.

"I believe you're ready," Sherlock insists, running the soft cloth through his hands. "It's not like you can't escape them."

John swallows. They haven't been idle these past months. Sherlock proved to be very interested in sexual experimentation and quite liked being tied up from time to time yet John could never bring himself to try it, not with the memories of other times he was bound still fresh in his mind.

"You did say anything."

Sherlock's tone may be firm but his eyes are not. John knows that one word would be enough to make Sherlock ask for something else. However, John did say anything and Sherlock wouldn't suggest this if he thought John wasn't ready.

So John nods and promptly has an armful of eager Omega as Sherlock flings himself on him, capturing his lips in a kiss and pushing him against the bedroom wall.

John cups the nape of Sherlock's neck and as soon as he gasps, John moves in on his neck, licking and biting until the spicy-sweet scent of Sherlock's arousal fills his nose.

John releases him then and walks over to the bed, undoing the last buttons of his shirt that Sherlock hasn't opened yet. They undress themselves, eyes never leaving the other's. When Sherlock's pants hit the floor, Sherlock bends down to pick up the pile of clothes to throw them into a corner, granting John a view of his arse and the sheen of dampness covering his inner thighs. The image goes straight to John's cock and he lays down in a hurry.

Sherlock fastens his wrists to the bedframe, tight enough for him to feel it yet not tight enough to make him panic. And then the detective is on top of him, covering his body with his own, exposed skin on exposed skin.

John longs to touch but can't and it seriously messes with his head. The Alpha in him complains until there is a hand on his cock and Sherlock's scent intensifies, successfully distracting him.

"Shh, I've got you," Sherlock murmurs somewhere near the burn mark on his pectoral.

John's thoughts blur after that. He can feel Sherlock's tongue on his chest, the slick of him against his cock when Sherlock's thigh brushes against it and then Sherlock lowers himself down in such a graceful movement that never fails to send a wave of arousal through John yet at the same time, there are ropes around his wrists. Though, whenever John's mind takes a turn towards darkness, Sherlock whispers in his ear, strokes his side, kisses him breathless.

Sherlock circles his hips until John can feel his orgasm building, Sherlock's fingernails digging into his skin.

"Come for me, John," he growls, "come inside me."

John does with a force that knocks the wind right out of him, Sherlock following him over the edge – he must have held off, must have waited. John feels streaks of warm fluid hit his chest and abdomen and wills Sherlock to raise his hips a little to avoid the knot filling rapidly.

Thankfully the Omega has enough presence of mind to see that being knotted to John while the Alpha is tied to the bed might not be the best idea and flops down next to John on the bed, shuffling closer until his head rests in the crook of John's neck.

Even high from orgasm John manages to escape the ropes and finally can put a hand on Sherlock, pull him closer and press a kiss to his hair.

Cleaning up can wait.

xXx

"The opposition is organising, Mr Holmes! It's time to strike them down!"

Mycroft levels his most disdainful look at Alexey Voevoda, the Russian Union's Minister of Defence and currently the least intelligent man in this room.

"And how do you suppose we do that? Brute force?"

Voevoda smirks. "We suspend mobile services. If they can't text each other or post online, they will be blindsided."

Mycroft barely resists the temptation to roll his eyes. "Yes, and they will take to the streets. Let them talk as much as they want, Mr Voevoda, let them craft their resolutions and share their stories but under no circumstances force them to unite in person on our streets."

"What do you suggest, then, Mr Holmes? Do you have the solution to our problems?" the Alpha sneers.

"We need to change our tactics. Using terror and fear is not as effective anymore, which leads me to believe that the revolution's desperation has reached new heights. They aren't afraid of death anymore, sir," Mycroft implores Prime Minister Orlov. "The government needs to change its tune if it wants to avoid civil war. And you know what that did to another Empire not long ago."

"What are you suggesting, Mycroft?" Orlov demands, clearly losing his patience.

"We might have to consider giving into some of their demands."

"Are you insane?" Voevoda shouts. "And what shall we give them? Rights? Or better yet, equality? Freedom?"

Now Mycroft does roll his eyes. "Of course not. Something small to soothe their anger."

Orlov raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"A law controlling the treatment of omegas, forbidding their owners to exert disproportionate force and severity. Instate controls. You have the manpower. Use it."

Silence reigns in the room.

"Are you sure?" the Prime Minister eventually asks.

"It won't give them any rights but improve their situation. They won't be able to accuse you of not caring."

Orlov takes a deep breath. "Very well then."

Mycroft nods and lets himself out of the room.

xXx

Russia has changed Mycroft more than he could have ever imagined. Upon his arrival he thought he knew how omegas were being treated in the country and its satellite states and that it wasn't much different from British practises.

Oh, it was so much worse.

It starts when he moves into his rooms in the Kreml district and finds a female omega shackled to a wall of his bedroom, naked and frightened out of her mind.

While Mycroft believes that omegas need a firm hand and an Alpha to protect them, he has never condoned abuse. The oppression of omegas is a relict of the past that enables societies to survive, to establish order, yet cruelty? Cruelty paves the way to falling Empires. One only needs to look at what happened to Rome. And while Britain never was as nefarious in its treatment of omegas, there were a few brilliant minds that had organised and found a way to rile up the masses.

"Why are you here?" Mycroft asks the girl more than once. It takes a full hour until she has calmed down enough to explain, in a terrified stammer, that she is to be at his disposal for everything he would need.

"I can't bear children. That won't be a problem. And if you are unsatisfied, you will be provided with another slave, male or female."

Even weeks later her words still send a chill down Mycroft's spine.

He hasn't used her. One secret no one has ever been privy to is that Mycroft has never knotted an omega. Not even a Beta. Biology doesn't interest him like that, it never has. Sherlock had to stay celibate to hide his true nature; Mycroft's abstinence was self-elected.

Mycroft hasn't handed her back to the Alpha supervising the household staff either. The young woman, Yelena, turned out to be well-trained in various things like making tea, mending clothes and taking messages from Anthea when Mycroft wasn't available.

She could also answer questions, provide insight in the Russian Union's treatment of omegas – not the official stand but the actual reality. And that was enough to make Mycroft's stomach turn.

xXx

Three weeks pass before there is another murder and this time they arrive on the scene in time to actually save the victim, a sixteen-year-old hooker living in the streets, from Sam Boone whom Sherlock's homeless network has been monitoring.

Boone doesn't talk, not a single word and Sherlock can't deduce anything new that what he has already found while investigating possible affiliates of David Caroll.

"There has to be something!" Sherlock shouts at their crime wall, or, well, walls may be more accurate now since the evidence and clues have taken up the space surrounding the windows as well.

Just then Sherlock's mobile rings.

Their eyes meet briefly before Sherlock jumps over the coffee table and picks it up from his desk.

"Lestrade?" John watches as Sherlock's lips quirk into a smile. "We'll be right there." He hangs up and throws John his jacket while putting on his coat. "Come on, they found something!"

'Something' turns out to be an envelope containing an encoded message.

"Can you read it?" Greg asks, blinking at the cipher. Several other officers are scattered around the room, watching them in anticipation.

Sherlock doesn't deign that with a response and his eyes are far away. John shakes his head minutely, signalling the DI to give Sherlock a moment.

"It's rather simple, actually," Sherlock drawls. "It's the Caesar cipher."

When none of them react the detective groans. "What's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so relaxing. Is it nice not being me?"

"Sherlock," John growls because there are still lives at risk. This is not the time for his partner to flaunt his intellect in their faces.

"Caesar's cipher is a shift cipher – each letter in the alphabet corresponds to another letter a fixed number of positions down the alphabet. All you need to know which letter is A and you can decrypt it."

"So there are twenty-six possible solutions?" John asks.

"Only one will make sense," Sherlock argues, taking the slip of paper and pinning it to the wall with a piece of tape he nicks from a nearby desk.

XEZBG TOX YBOX U

Before John has even begun thinking about possible solutions, Sherlock gasps.

"Already?" Greg wonders, exchanging a few looks with his colleagues.

"Frankly even a child could solve this," Sherlock shoots back. "E is the most common letter and which letter is used the most in here? X. Which means A corresponds to T so it's a T cipher. And the message reads…"

Sherlock takes a pen and starts writing.

ELGIN AVE FIVE B

"We have an address."

And with that, Sherlock storms from the room while Greg steps closer to the wall with an incredulous expression and John sprints after his partner.

xXx

There is a corpse inside Elgin Avenue 5B. Whoever gave them the clue wanted them to be too late and the thought causes Sherlock's blood to freeze in his veins.

"It makes no sense!" he bellows as the Met swarms the scene, having arrived only minutes shy of John and him. "Why lead us to the victim? Why give us more evidence?"

"Maybe he's playing a game?" Female voice. Young.

Sherlock turns, discovering an Omega fresh out of the academy. Ah, she is the one, then. Sherlock doesn't comment on his deduction – this is neither time nor place for gossip.

"A game?"

"Show us how powerful he is? How we can't –"

"- catch up," Sherlock ends the sentence for her. "There has to be another message here."

His eyes are already scanning the room. Expensive but vacant, owners on holiday, used for the murder. Maybe the victim was squatting but no, killed outside judging by the stains on his jeans. Transported inside to hide the body, then.

There.

An envelope of similar stationary, slipped inside a pile of documents on a desk across from where the body was lying.

Sherlock rips it open, reveals the message. ROT-13 this time, replacing a letter with the one thirteen letters after it in the alphabet. ROT-13 is its on inverse and Sherlock has always found it poetic, if simple.

The next address takes them south, crossing the Thames and stopping in Dulwich. Another cipher, this one more complicated.

Stratford. Lambeth. Holloway. Welling.

By now the ciphers have become complicated, take him longer to solve yet the Met is standing by, ready to pounce as soon as he has an address or a place. Sometimes it's the backyard of a restaurant.

Chiswick. Ilford. Poplar.

It is the middle of the night and Sherlock tries to connect the dots, tries to make sense of the pattern yet there isn't one and if there is, it doesn't reveal itself to him.

The victims are all low-lives that no one will miss; mostly Omegas unfortunately. Eyes missing, stomachs open gapingly wide. Sherlock doesn't smell anything besides the stench of blood after the fifth crime scene.

"Whoever's doing this is having fun," John grits out. "They're playing us and we can't do anything but follow."

John is taking this hard. As a man of action he is itching to do something – Sherlock has seen his hand twitch towards his gun more than once. Yet there is nothing. They are running from one end of London to the next, doing whatever their murderer or network of murderers wants them to do.

The next message takes Sherlock thirty minutes to decipher. Whoever encoded the letters must be highly intelligent, a lot more so than Caroll ever could be. Caroll might be smart yet he isn't clever. He is delusional. This is methodical.

It dawns on Sherlock much too late.

"It's been staring us in the face!" he shouts, moving towards the wall of the crammed flat where they found the last body. No pen in sight, so Sherlock produces a knife from his pocket and scratches the pattern into the tapestry.

"He's gone mad," Lestrade concludes but John interrupts.

"Hang on, is that a map?"

"Of London, of every murder," Sherlock confirms. "This isn't a random game. This is a diversion."

"Diversion? How!?"

"Right now every available law enforcement officer is on duty and on standby, waiting for the next address. Now look at the map, really look at it! What's striking?"

A moment of silence. Then the young Omega's eyes widen.

"None of them was near the centre!" Oh, she's a good one.

"Yes! We've been chasing clues like a dog chasing a bone while the cat found somewhere else to play."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John demands and Sherlock takes a deep breath, ignoring how annoyed he is that no one can see it yet.

"There will be an attack. I don't know when, I don't know on whom, but it will happen. Send patrols to Buckingham Palace and Parliament. Make sure everyone is accounted for."

Lestrade is off without argument and Sherlock can't stop the smile from forming. It is a brilliant plan, really.

"Sherlock, we've still got another message to decode!" John snaps at him, shaking him with more force than necessary.

Oh, yes. The cipher.

Still grinning, Sherlock looks at it again and in that moment, it just clicks.

xXx

They are in the car with Lestrade – on John's insistence given that they can't afford the cab fees or something like that – and ten minutes away from their destination in Wimbledon when Sherlock's phone beeps with a text alert.

He almost ignores it. Fortunately, he doesn't.

You have been a clever Omega, Mr Holmes. I'll give you a treat.

Sherlock blinks down at the screen, waiting with bated breath for a follow-up that just has to come since on its own the message tells him nothing. Well, nothing except that the person orchestrating the crimes actually supports Omega rights if the upper case O is anything to go by.

Go to Cyprus Pl. An old friend will be there, yet he won't be waiting.

Cyprus Pl, near the University of East London, Sherlock's mind supplies. Who would be there? Hardly the place to find homeless people.

As if on cue – Coincidence? Probably not… - Donovan's phone rings in the passenger seat.

"Sir!" She sounds alarmed. Sherlock sits up straighter. "There's been an incident at Belmarsh Prison!"

"Not our division," Greg argues but Sherlock won't hear of it.

"Who escaped?"

Donovan hesitates one suspenseful second.

"David Caroll."

xXx

Even with police sirens, it takes them fifty minutes to reach Cyprus Place and once there another four and a half minutes until Sherlock has deduced which building they need to search.

Caroll escapes through the window shortly before the Met breaks the door in and Sherlock jumps after him, the sound of feet behind him confirming that John is right behind him.

They split up when they reach New Beckton Park and once again prove what a great team they make. John aiming his gun at criminals hasn't lost its appeal either… Sherlock shakes his head, forcing himself to concentrate on Caroll's furious grimace.

"How are you here?!"

"Did you really think you could escape so easily?"

"Yes, and I did," Caroll snaps. "Who told you? Who sang?"

"Sorry, professor. I won't tell," Sherlock sneers and then watches as John closes the distance and knocks Caroll unconscious.

xXx

After all is said and done, Sherlock is still pacing in a hallway at New Scotland Yard while the forensic team is trying to track the number that sent him the text. Not that they will find anything, Sherlock is confident to assume.

"Would you relax? It's over, Sherlock."

"No, it's not. Don't you see? Whoever sent those texts knew I had figured it out! They knew there were patrols near Buckingham Palace and that's why they sent me Caroll's hiding place."

"But they didn't find anything!"

"They haven't found anything yet, John. There has to be something."

Minutes drift by, then the sound of hurried steps echoes down the hallway – Lestrade rounds the corner a moment later, wide-eyed and thoroughly spooked. Sherlock doesn't ask what happened, just watches as the DI crosses the room and flicks on the telly in the upper corner of the waiting area.

"Breaking News" stands out in large, white letters against the red banner. The image shows a cloud of smoke ascend towards the sky, originating from a wing in Buckingham Palace.

"Who?" John asks when the commentator doesn't mention any casualties. Probably keeping it quiet and out of the media, Sherlock assumes. An attack on Buckingham Palace alone is enough to cause a panic.

"Irene Adler. The bomb went off in her quarters. Bhabha wants you both to head over."

Sherlock nods, looking to his partner for a sign of movement. John, however, is staring at the television screen, eyes distant and tension in his shoulders.

Oh. Yes, he fought with her, Sherlock remembers. This probably warrants some form of grief.

Sherlock grants him the moment, no matter how keen he is to get to the site of the explosion. The thankful smile John sends his way makes it worth the wait.

xXx

Bad news travels fast.

Yelena wakes Mycroft in the early morning hours, her expression apologetic.

"A messenger for you, sir. It is urgent," she explains and hands him a gown.

The carrier is a household slave, his collar prominent around his neck. Slaves in the Kreml used to frighten easily at the sight of him, yet somehow the effect has lessened. Mycroft wonders if this is partly due to Yelena who, while she won't outright state she isn't being used for sex, does strike Mycroft as someone who would spread word about his lenient treatment of her.

"Who gave you this?" Mycroft demands as he takes in the message.

"Detkov, sir. The news just came in."

"You may leave." The omega scatters but Mycroft is already on his way to the shower.

The assassination of Irene Adler, a mythical figure amongst omegas in the RU as far as Mycroft could discern, will have repercussions on a global scale.

"How do you think your kind will react?" he asks Yelena, having filled her in briefly. Sorrow consumes her eyes and it only proves Mycroft's assumptions. "Do you think it might be the spark needed to ignite the revolution here?"

Her answer doesn't need to be verbal. It seldom is to questions of this nature since she is still afraid she might let something slip that Mycroft can use against omegas somehow. However, the minute way her face shifts is sufficient to determine what is going through her head. She is not the most intelligent of omegas, but then again, basically every person on this planet is a goldfish to Mycroft. It was rather dull before he went into politics.

He spends the day in the office of Sergej Detkov, the man responsible for gathering foreign news. He learns about David Caroll and his Following, about the double-digit body count left in their wake and learns, curtsey of a member of the Met they paid off months ago, exactly what happened that night.

His brother seems to have attracted the attention of a powerful man who likes playing games and messing with European politics.

Mycroft spends hours pacing in his room, his thoughts circling around the murder spree, the mad professor and Adler's assassination. There are several possibilities, none of them with positive consequences for the Russian Union.

He sinks into an armchair with a sigh, burying his face in his hands.

The most likely scenario is that whoever is behind the attack – be it an individual or a group of people – wants to upset the current status quo. Mycroft translates "upset" in this context with "instigate a civil war". Either that, or a madman just wants to watch the world burn.

While Adler's death might strengthen Bhabha's government, it will cause ripples in other countries. Italy might eventually implode. And the revolutionaries in the RU might receive that final push they need to cause serious trouble. Omegas in Russia outnumber Betas and Alphas; not by much yet they do. There are liberal Alphas in the country. The situation is not unlike Britain's was; only the scale is bigger. More lives are at risk.

Mycroft can't suddenly change his course completely, he is fully aware that Orlov can just as easily extradite him if he is dissatisfied with Mycroft's council. The only thing he can do is gradually alter the government's course, maybe… covertly…

Plans are forming, possible reactions to every move of every piece on the chessboard in his mind. If he plays his cards right, there won't be another civil war.

"Sir?" Yelena's voice is soft, barely audible, unused to asking questions.

"Yes?"

She bites her lip and wrings her hands.

"Just say it, Yelena. You should know by now that I won't whip you."

She clears her throat, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, falling back on her strict training.

"Why not risk civil war? We're not armed, can barely fight."

As soon as she falls silent, she starts trembling pitifully. Mycroft considers her for another moment, wondering how much courage it must have taken her to ask, how curious she must have been.

It is a valid question, though.

"Despite my reputation, Yelena, I have always wanted what is best for the country I was serving. Britain has held onto slavery for centuries before I was born. It was simply the right system for the right country at the right point in time. Yet people's minds change, apparently. I underestimated the people's yearning for progress and lost everything due to my misconceptions. I won't make the same mistake twice. Britain is a shadow of her former self now, Yelena, weeks away from default and economical ruin thanks to a civil war that made the country bleed. I won't let the same happen to Russia."

Yelena chances a glance at him, obviously surprised.

"You should know by now that I am not a monster, Yelena."

She gives a jerky nod and retreats from the office. Mycroft feels a strange mood creep over him as he recalls memories he simply can't forget. They seem to resurface more often now. Mycroft retrieves his best scotch from a cabinet, bypassing the vodka bottle. Some Russian customs are better left to the Russians.

When he was a teenager – Sherlock had barely started taking his suppressants – Mycroft liked to take walks. The sounds nature has to offer were soothing and a perfect environment to think.

On the other side of the forest behind their family estate was a home for slaves without a master. Not a training facility, just a place to put those no one needed nor wanted. A series of unfortunate circumstances that eventually led to the shutting down of said facility, allowed four omegas to escape one afternoon.

They were older than Mycroft, had gone through their first heats long ago but were forced to suffer through them alone. If unable to find release or satisfaction over a longer period of time, heats can, in some cases, prove fatal, scientists found out later. It certainly leads to severe instability in affected omegas.

The four slaves that crossed Mycroft's path that day were nothing more than wild, feral creatures. He was too young, too weak to fight them off and he would bear the scars for the rest of his life.

Ever since then he saw why his parents were such firm advocates for slavery laws, why they couldn't stand the thought of their own son turning into such an animal.

Now, not for the first time in the past weeks, Mycroft finds himself wondering whether or not it might have been the concept of slavery that made them go feral in the first place.

xXx

End Notes: *hugs-Mycroft-despite-everything* The plot thickens and this story is nearing its end.