Chapter 9 – On the Brink of Destruction
Summary: In the aftermath of Irene Adler's assassination, hate crimes increase while the country struggles with its debt and the Russian Union is on the brink of civil war.
Author's Notes: Economics and things are not in my field of expertise so forgive me any blunders… It's an AU, so I hope your belief is suspended sufficiently to accept my version of European politics.^^
xXx
The site of the explosion is almost worse than the horrors John has seen during the war. An entire part of the West Wing has been torn to shreds, debris is littering the surrounding patches of green. The inside of the building is in similar disarray.
John tries to make sense of it all while Sherlock is busy inspecting the scene, treading carefully through shards of glass and destroyed furniture.
"How did they get in? A bomb this size must have attracted attention?" John looks to his side where Homi Bhabha is standing, shoulders slumped and his eyes clouded.
"We're not sure. A convenient glitch in our security system seems to have covered their tracks, whoever they are."
"Traditionalists?"
"Maybe."
"But you doubt it?"
"Irene's death will unsettle the public," is all Bhabha says, leaving the attackers' motivation up to John's imagination.
"Oh, for God's sake," Greg curses as he arrives next to them. "Sherlock can't climb about the bloody crime scene!"
"You try to stop him," John suggests. "See how that works out."
Greg does try – and fails miserably. Eventually he settles for glaring in Sherlock's direction while forensics are swarming all over the explosion site and the rest of Greg's team hovers a few metres away, casting awed glances in Bhabha and John's direction as far as he can tell.
When Sherlock finally returns, his coat is covered in dust, his shoes caked with dirt. He jumps down from a pile of rubble and straightens his clothes, completely unperturbed by both the forensics officers and his ruffled appearance.
"Did you find anything, Mr Holmes?" Bhabha is the first to ask.
Sherlock, of course, sees this as a reason to grin broadly. "Indeed. Whoever did this used explosive materials that the Traditionalists employed during the civil war. What's left of Mrs Adler is, unfortunately, rather little – it'll take your idiots days to sort out whose charred bones belong to whom," he explains at rapid speed and without sympathy. "Now, if someone opposed to the government's politics wanted to send a message, why blow her up? Surely a public assassination by headshot or a stabbing would have worked much better, but no, the bombers opted against these options – why?"
Bhabha and Greg are both gaping at Sherlock. John, long used to his break-neck thought process, ventures a guess.
"To get rid of the evidence? Also, the attacker needn't be in her vicinity – the bomb could have been set off from a distance."
"Excellent, John, you'd have made a great terrorist."
"In the eyes of your brother, I did make a good terrorist," John shoots back, earning a chuckle from his partner.
"True. So what evidence did the bomber want to get rid of?"
Sherlock gazes into the distance where the nearby Green Park is visible because the walls separating the inside from the outside aren't there anymore.
"Well, what?" Greg finally asks.
"I'm not sure." He is perfectly still for a moment, then a sudden wave of energy sweeps him up again. "Tell your incompetent officers to inspect everything! Every corner, every particle! If someone ate a chocolate bar in here I want to know about it."
"Sherlock, you're not actually my superior," Greg chides, taking a deep breath that probably won't do anything to calm him down, John assumes.
"In intellect, sure I am."
"Sherlock, this is my crime scene –"
"Why are you here, anyway? Isn't this more of a problem for the SIS?"
"We're here to help them as a personal favour to the Prime Minister –"
"Oh yes, because the SIS is still understaffed and only marginally more competent that you lot -"
"Oi," Greg snaps, raising his voice and John prepares himself to drag Sherlock off the crime scene in the not too distant future. "My staff is hard-working and highly skilled in their respective fields –"
"Well, but none of them are me."
"Sherlock, I have the power to arrest you and I don't care what the papers will say."
The detective snorts and his next words are dripping with derision.
"Please, if you just shagged her already you'd be in a way better mood and you'd just ignore me like you always do, so please do us all a favour and get over yourself, Lestrade. Besides, the smell of sexual frustration is extremely distracting."
For a moment John is sure that Greg will actually punch his partner and he is nowhere near inclined to stop him. Yet all Greg does is take a very deep breath, clench his hands into fists and then turn towards John with a dangerous glint in his eye.
"Take him home or I'll actually cuff him. I'll call when I have results and until then, Sherlock is banned from every crime scene in London."
John just nods, bids Bhabha goodbye, and grabs Sherlock's hand, pulling him along. Sherlock, of course, won't stop talking.
"I'm serious, John, even that just now! Of course, he can't hit an Omega, not even one as obnoxious as me, because he's an Alpha and that would be harassment or a hate crime or whatever you want to call it, it's so tedious, really…"
John tunes him out but still gathers from his monologue that Greg is apparently interested in an Omega on his unit but won't make a move because of his status and gender.
John thinks it's time to go for a pint or two with Greg again.
xXx
John gets the chance to do so two days later. Preliminary results from the crime scene told Greg nothing Sherlock had not already known, and he is keeping his ban in effect, which leads to Sherlock taking over the kitchen and a large part of the living room with some kind of experiment or other.
Sherlock is in complete and utter focus-mode, barely acknowledging John at breakfast on Friday and even less inclined to eat. On his way to work, John asks Mrs Hudson to check up on the detective and returns her now empty biscuit plates to her later that day after his return.
"Sherlock, I'm going for a pint with Greg," he tells him, leaning in to kiss the Omega's cheek. John inhales subtly, relishing the scent of concentration and passion that hits his senses.
"Hmm," is the only reply he receives. No surprise there.
Chuckling, he leaves the flat and hails a cab. When he reaches the pub, Greg is already nursing a pint at a table sitting snugly in a corner.
"This bad?" John asks, but Greg waves him off.
"Nah."
"You sure?"
The DI shrugs. "Maybe I should ask Sherlock – he's good at ignoring his biology, right?"
John blinks. "Not always. Why?" He doesn't ask what is going on since that question is implicit, at least he hopes so. John hardly snoops into people's private lives – except for their medical history – but he can't help his curiosity when it comes to the fellow Alpha.
Greg gives him a long look. "How much has he already told you?"
"Just that you're interested in an Omega but can't make a move because you're her superior."
"Figured as much," he growls and drains his pint. "Let's get you one, too."
Once they are both nursing a drink, John simply settles into his chair, waiting until Greg has found a way to start.
"Her name's Olivia, she's a sergeant. Fresh out of the academy and really, really bright."
"And fit?"
"Oh yes, and shy about it, like she doesn't know it. Haven't talked to her much outside work, but she's had it pretty rough, I guess."
"Must be doing well if she made it into the academy."
"Yeah, her evaluations are all in order. And she's great to have on the team for when we deal with Omega witnesses who're weary of Alphas and sometimes even Betas."
"So what, does Scotland Yard have any regulations against fraternisation?"
That comment makes Greg shift in his seat. John leans forward, intrigued.
"Not as such," the DI replies slowly. "But it's discouraged."
"Then what's the matter? You like her – bloody well ask her out then! You're not forcing her to say yes."
"But aren't I really?" Greg shoots back. "I'm her boss, mate, and an Alpha – think about the power difference? What if she doesn't want to but says yes anyhow because she figures she has to agree to stay on my team?"
John sips his beer. "Don't you think she's smart enough to know you're not that kind of Alpha?"
"What if I am?"
A moment of silence. "What do you mean?"
"It's just… Jesus, this is embarrassing…"
"What?"
"Well," Greg begins, his eyes not really meeting John's. "It's her scent. It's… I immediately know when she enters a room because I pick up on it. And I got to stop myself from stepping closer in the lift just so I can…"
"… smell her?" John ventures a guess, his voice shaking with barely contained laughter.
"Oi, bugger off, it's not funny, mate!"
John finally allows himself to laugh, much to his friend's chagrin, and Greg makes a show of getting up, pretending to leave until John stops him with a hand on his arm.
"Sorry, Greg, it's not funny, alright?"
"You're still laughing."
"Yeah, sorry, stopping now."
It takes half a minute, but eventually John has reined himself in once again.
"Alright, so you think she's smart, and fit, and the Alpha in you really loves her scent?"
Greg nods.
"Does she like you back?"
A pained expression takes over Greg's features. "I don't know. I think so. She never seems uncomfortable when she's talking to me and she's told me about herself once or twice, but I'm not sure it's because she wants to or because she feels she's got to."
John is not a person people come to for relationship advice. Hell, he kidnaped his partner before he even knew him. Granted, different circumstances, but the point still stands that John is not an expert at conventional relationships, just an expert at Sherlock.
So yes, Greg sitting across from him, glaring at his beer like it personally affronted him, waiting for John to tell him… something… is not anything that is in John's realm. But Greg's a friend, so he will do his best to help.
"Listen, mate," he finally starts. "Here's what you're going to do: You're going to bring her coffee or tea or whatever she likes best on Monday, and maybe get something form a bakery on Wednesday, and do another thing on Friday. Then you'll ask her out. Tell her you'd like it to be a date and that she can say no and you will forget about it, it won't impact her job, something like that. And wait what she says. Take it from here."
"You sure? How'd you come up with that?"
"Saw it on the telly once."
Greg snorts. "You're a prat."
"And you're desperate. Come on, Greg – you want to ask her out, so ask her out. Show you've got good intentions. It's not against the law."
The other Alpha stares at him for a long time, maybe trying to come up with a strong enough counter-argument, yet in the end Greg grumbles a "Fine," and orders another round.
While John is glad that his curiosity was satisfied, he is even happier when the conversation takes a turn towards sport and non-romantic things.
xXx
At the back of his mind, Sherlock knows that John makes for a very apt strategist – he has proven himself during the civil war and beyond – but sometimes it slips Sherlock's mind.
Until John employs a clever scheme to remind him, that is.
They have a Sunday free of any prior commitments or cases, given they are still waiting for the bumbling idiots of the SIS and Scotland Yard to finish their report on the explosion site. It gives Sherlock time for another experiment that has been on his list for a while now and currently he is standing in the kitchen, microscope and petri dishes scattered about the room (only because John banned him from the living room yesterday in a truly arousing display of Alpha authority).
Sherlock has been up for a few hours, leaving John's sleeping form behind. The Alpha needs his sleep after all the sexual post-argument escapades they engaged in.
Upon waking up, John might have pressed up against him – Sherlock can't really tell, he was and still is too absorbed in his experiment and if John wants morning sex, he will have to wait a bit.
Only John seems disinclined to wait. Yet instead of being straightforward and obvious about it, Captain John Watson simply makes some space in the living room and starts his workout.
This isn't unheard of. John sometimes misses his training sessions with his troops that Bhabha roped him into doing, so if he wants to keep up with recruits half his age, he needs to put the hours in. Which Sherlock appreciates because, quite frankly, the results are delicious.
What he doesn't appreciate is John conducting crunches while Sherlock is trying to concentrate. The gasps that filter into the kitchen in themselves are distracting, let alone the mental images Sherlock's mind supplies. Devious strategist, indeed.
Sherlock tries to hold out, he really does. He finishes the next stage of the experiment and he really should continue right away since any delay might screw with the results yet in that precise moment, sounds from the living room indicate that John has switched back from press-ups to crunches.
Just imagining the muscles rippling underneath John's skin has Sherlock's pulse quickening.
Sherlock shakes his head, focussing on the microscope once more. Only what was the next step?
With an angry huff, Sherlock rips his gloves off and stalks into the living room.
"I'm trying to concentrate!" he complains, sucking in a surprised breath when he sees that John is actually shirtless. A slight sheen of sweat is covering his chest and abdomen, muscles pulled taunt as John pauses mid-crunch.
"Don't you have earplugs?" He looks up innocently as if this weren't all part of his plan.
"Damn it, John, your libido has to wait."
John executes another crunch, pausing with his torso raised from the floor to answer. "My libido is currently waiting, Sherlock, I'm just working out." He even has the audacity to smile.
"Fine," Sherlock grits out and returns to the kitchen.
In the following five minutes, he manages to break not one but two petri dishes (empty ones, thankfully) and tries to ignore the dampness in his lower regions. Betrayed by his body. Wonderful.
Sherlock grips the countertop, trying to clear his head. John switches from crunches back to press-ups… which fills Sherlock's mind with images of John's bare back, droplets of sweat accumulating between his shoulder blades and Sherlock's only thought is how much he would like to lick them off his skin. He is half-hard in the loose confines of his pyjamas and lubricating fast.
Bloody hell.
He is back in the living room in a heartbeat and the sight that meets his eyes is just as erotic as he imagined it. John doesn't stop, just follows up one press-up with another, even though he has to hear Sherlock's dressing gown and T-shirt hit the floor.
John does pause when he feels Sherlock's tongue on his back, licking up his spine and tracing his shoulder blades through layers of muscle and skin. Time for another experiment, then, Sherlock decides as he winds a hand underneath John's torso and places it over John's crotch, never ceasing the movements of his tongue.
"Jesus," John groans, still holding himself up on both arms but his muscles are starting to complain, tiny tremors running through his body. Sherlock grins into his skin, palming his erection through his workout trousers while kneeling next to him.
John gasps, then drops down onto his side and Sherlock pushes his hip in order to make him roll onto his back. Sherlock starts with the hollow of his throat, licks his way down John's sternum and then traces his abs, nose filling with the growing scent of John's arousal.
Two can play devious games.
Sherlock moves to straddle John's hips, pressing their groins together. He sets a slow rhythm, their erections rubbing against each other through two layers of fabric at a pace that will soon become torturous while his mouth never leaves John's skin.
John's hands clutch at his bare shoulders, caressing just the right spots that make Sherlock shudder.
It doesn't take long for John to tilt his hips up, trying to increase the pace, or take over entirely, yet Sherlock won't let him. He bites at John's jaw, twists a nipple between his fingers, plays every card he has to keep John as distracted as possible.
"Christ, Sherlock," John groans, "come on!"
Sherlock ignores him in favour of sucking a mark on John's right pectoral muscles, symmetrical to the burned tissue on the other side. John loves it when Sherlock marks him and this time is no exception.
He can tell John is moments away from taking over, simply using his strength to seize control, yet Sherlock also knows that John won't, not without a sign from him that it is alright.
"Damn, Sherlock…" John's voice is ragged, almost painful in its intensity.
"What do you want?" Sherlock purrs, licking at the shell of John's ear.
"Anything, just get a bloody move on!"
"No, sorry, you'll have to ask more nicely," Sherlock chides, teethes closing around the nipple next to the mark he left.
John takes a few quick, deep breaths, eyes unfocussed and staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock can't quite keep the smug grin off his face.
"Please, Sherlock, please, just – anything."
"That's more like it," Sherlock growls and finally pulls his pyjamas down, then makes quick work of John's shorts and pants.
He doesn't get right to it, however. He slides his body forward until he can feel John's cock slide against his opening, his body's lubricant easing the way. John reacts with an unintelligible sound, his hands pawning at Sherlock's hips.
Sherlock ignores the burning desire to accept John into his body, just a little longer, and keeps up the rhythm of his hips. His own cock is beading precome against John's abs and Sherlock commits the image to memory. A flush is rapidly spreading from John's neck down to his chest and up to his cheeks.
"I get it, I get it," John blurts, "I'm sorry I distracted you from your," a gasp, "experiment," another gasp as Sherlock increases the pressure on John's cock, "but please, just do it already!"
It's all Sherlock wanted to hear, so he lifts his body and grips John's erection, rock-hard in his palm – John won't last long – and lines it up with his own leaking hole. For leaking is the right word; he can feel droplets of slick trickle down the inside of his thigh.
Still, he takes his time as he lowers himself back down, his body engulfing John's cock slowly. John flexes his hands where they have returned to Sherlock's hips but doesn't push him down, doesn't urge him, merely bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut.
John relinquishes control to him, and that in itself is maybe the greatest aphrodisiac in the current situation. Sherlock strokes himself, watching conflicting emotions flicker across John's face, witnessing how he quells the desire to just take over again and again.
He can feel John's knot fill and is careful never to sink down too low. John whines, clearly not thinking about the time they would have to spend on the floor if Sherlock took his knot after all, yet Sherlock feels generous. He switches the hand on his cock and slips the right one between their bodies, fingers closing around the knot with enough pressure to give the illusion of penetration.
John growls, snapping his hips up hard enough that Sherlock feels it everywhere, hurtling over the edge not long thereafter.
The strain in Sherlock's thighs threatens to become painful yet Sherlock loves the feeling of John coming inside of him, so he holds still, stroking his cock frantically until he, too, reaches his climax.
He all but collapses onto John, who gazes at him through half-lidded eyes. Sherlock has the sudden urge to kiss him, so he does, luxuriously slow and almost lazy.
"I love you," he murmurs against John's lips, unsure what compels him to do so. He doesn't say it often. Maybe not often enough. John's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't say anything.
He merely pulls Sherlock closer and kisses his hair while Sherlock buries his head in the nape of his neck, enjoying the warmth spreading through his body.
The experiment won't be salvageable… if only Sherlock found it in him to care.
xXx
It is a Tuesday when Gavin finally makes an appearance at Baker Street, a thick file in hand, presumably the communal effort of SIS and Scotland Yard.
Sherlock accepts it wordlessly, scans the pages yet does not find anything unexpected.
"Like I thought," he comments when he gives it back to the detective. "Nothing stands out."
"Please tell me that tells you something."
"Of course, Gavin, don't be daft."
Lestrade rolls his eyes, whether at the false name or his demeanour, Sherlock neither knows nor cares.
"Well, would you share it with the class?"
He grins, registering John's sigh from his right. "With pleasure. Your men have only looked at the physical evidence, but it won't yield any results. Irene Adler was an important figure, not only here but also in other countries and her death has already spurred several reformist groups into stating or restating their demands. Someone went to great length to kill her, not assassinate her, and to avoid leaving evidence. Now, who would profit from this?"
The DI blinks at him, his brain trying to come up with an answer from the looks of it. "Rebel groups in other countries? But killing off one of their own to fuel their fights is a bit too much, isn't it?"
"Yes, which is why that answer is stupid."
"Sherlock," John chides in that tone of his that always indicates Sherlock is being unsociable or arrogant.
Sherlock merely rolls his eyes. "This was the work of a powerful individual who was capable to breach Palace security and had the means to build that bomb. We are looking for a person with a past of instigating conflict, only this time he has taken his operation to an even more international level."
"You're not saying?" John cuts in, always the first one to catch Sherlock's drift. Sherlock sends his partner a fond smile.
"Yes, I am saying."
Lestrade looks from John to Sherlock and back. Whatever he sees seems to make even him connect the dots. "What? Moriarty?!"
Sherlock nods. "He tried to extend the civil war when it first waged, now the Russian Union is falling apart and becoming ever more unstable. If it weren't for my brother," he spits out with as much venom as he can muster, "the satellite states would have already taken up arms. And the Reformists inside the RU are growing stronger, too. Killing Adler may not ignite the powder keg, though it shall be a powerful contributing factor."
"So you do watch the news after all?" John asks, raising a bemused eyebrow.
Before Sherlock can answer, Lestrade pipes up. "So what now? Arresting Moriarty on a hunch is not going to work."
"Oh, you'd need to find him first, inspector. All we can do now is stay vigilant. This won't have been Moriarty's last move."
"Wonderful," Lestrade sighs. "Well then, I better get back to the SIS."
Sherlock waves him away, his thoughts already somewhere else. He almost startles when he feels John step up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against John's chest.
It does not help Sherlock relax.
"You seem worried."
Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response.
"We've escaped him once, Sherlock, we'll do it again."
John places a light kiss on the nape of his neck, as if some of John's optimism might be transmitted to Sherlock. He would love for it to work, yet he cannot shake the uneasy feeling that something much worse than civil war might lie ahead.
xXx
Mycroft has not slept well ever since December began. If there are no meetings to keep him awake until well past midnight, his own thoughts manage to do the same. To his surprise, Yelena appears to be genuinely worried about him, bringing him tea and other more traditional concoctions to aid his quest for sleep.
When the week before Christmas rolls in and Mycroft has long since given up on being warm or well rested for the foreseeable future, the omega finally gathers the courage to ask him.
"Everyone in the Kremlin is afraid, sir, but why? Your concessions to the Reformists worked. There have been fewer uprisings."
This time Yelena neither trembles nor draws in on her self after speaking, which Mycroft counts as progress on her part, then mentally chides himself for caring about his assistant's wellbeing. He blames it on the sleep deprivation.
"It is not just about the Russian Union anymore, Yelena. Britain has been talking about default and devaluing her currency. If Voevoda had his way, we would already be preparing for an attack."
"Uh, why?"
"Well, if Britain defaults, all her debts become invalid. She owes most of them to this country, and given how unstable the political climate already is, default won't help the Russian Union. It might be her right to invade Britain, which would have catastrophic consequences for both nations."
"Is that why you haven't been sleeping? Are you looking for a way out?"
"I am, indeed. The Prime Minister values my input, yet he cannot be perceived as weak in such a time of unrest. Doing so might invite the rebels to mount an attack."
Yelena swallows, though Mycroft does not ask her to divulge any information she has learnt in the past few weeks. He can read between the tense lines of the slaves' foreheads, infer enough from the locked jaws of omegas he sees day in, day out.
"Do you have a plan, sir?"
"I always have several."
"Will one of them…" She trails off, seemingly at a loss at how to phrase it.
"Maybe."
Her eyes narrow, confusion spreading across her face.
"I aim to do what is best for this country, Yelena, which does not include civil war."
"But you started one," the omega blurts, then covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes widening.
Mycroft's smile is tight. "My soldiers wouldn't have needed to fire if the rebels hadn't shot first. Be that as it may – I thought the country wasn't ready for such sweeping social change. A large part of the British Alpha population still is not, yet they are in the minority. I will not make the same mistake twice, Yelena."
He watches her closely as she processes his admission, sees the moment it comes together. She makes an aborted sound, almost like a squeal of delight, before schooling her expression once more. But the corners of her mouth are still curling upwards.
"That will be all," Mycroft tells her firmly. She curtseys before leaving. Maybe it is his imagination, but he thinks he sees a spring in her step.
xXx
"You want to what?!" The Minister of Defence practically shouts, the outrage on his face mirrored across the room.
Only a handful of officials are intrigued, including Pyotr Orlov who is the only one that counts.
"A meeting. Where we talk about the impending situation like the civilised human beings that we are," Mycroft explains, aiming a sneer at Voevoda.
"We have nothing to discuss with that omega," the Minister objects as expected. "If they default, we will attack. We cannot afford to be seen as weak, Mr Holmes."
"We will not. I promise you that Homi Bhabha will go to great length to avoid a war."
"Do these lengths include lifting their sanctions against us, Mycroft?" Orlov wonders out loud and Mycroft nods.
"We will not step away from this without concessions of our own, but we will emerge strong and in peace."
Silence falls, and Orlov's expression makes it clear that he is giving Mycroft's proposal some thought.
"You cannot be considering this, Prime Minister!" Voevoda rages. "We're not passing any more laws in favour of omegas! We must not!"
"There is no way in which we can afford a war on two fronts, Minister," Orlov cautions. "War with Britain will ensure civil war, and have you forgotten that the omegas make up the majority of our population? We would need them in a war against Britain but they will not serve us in the current climate. I agree that peace is our priority. Lifting the embargo would help our economy as well."
When New Britain had placed sanctions on its dealings with the RU and several old colonies followed suit, many so-called experts predicted that Russia would be crippled economically. They forgot, however, as Mycroft likes to remember when he needs something to cheer him up, that a large part of Russia's economy takes place in the shadow networks of organised crime, which is a part embargos do not have any power over.
"I will contact Mr Bhabha and ask him for a meeting. Mr Holmes will accompany me."
"This is preposterous!" Voevoda rages and several members of the government join in, yet neither Mycroft nor Orlov pay them any heed.
Mycroft exits the room after exchanging a quick glance with the Prime Minister. He has negotiations to prepare.
xXx
They meet on Christmas Eve, in a hotel in Gdańsk because it is halfway between Moscow and London. Neutral ground. No reporters, only Homi Bhabha, Marc Thoreau and Theresa Williams, one of the student's movement's most renowned omegas who has taken over as Home Secretary after Miss Adler's death.
Thoreau and William's glare could fell a lesser man than Mycroft.
"Sir, Ma'am," he greets them, extending his hand to Bhabha after the omega releases Orlov's hand. "Mr Bhabha."
"I'm not sure how I feel about shaking hands with you, Mr Holmes."
Mycroft withdraws his arm. "Maybe when we part, then."
Bhabha's gaze is considering, glinting with something that might be hope. "Well, let's get started."
They take their seats, the new Triumvirate on one side of the table, Mycroft and Orlov across from them. Mycroft spent the past few days working on what follows now and if he weren't as versed in politics, he might have been more nervous.
"Gentlemen. I will forgo possible niceties of diplomacy and be frank with you. You wish to default. The Russian Union cannot afford to waive what you owe her, yet I'm certain I speak for everyone in this room when I say that a violent alternative is not in anyone's interest."
"Damn right, it isn't," Thoreau snaps. "You killed enough people in your lifetime, Holmes."
Mycroft ignores him. "Which is why we need to come to a different conclusion."
"I take it you already have a few suggestions?" Williams asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest in a blatant display of pre-emptive refusal.
"Yes. You default as planned; you devalue your currency as planned. The RU accepts the default under the condition that you lift the embargo imposed on us and we will be your primary money giver in the future yet with a higher interest rate to compensate us for our losses."
"What, so you can cripple our economy with more debt?"
Mycroft stifles a sigh. Williams is proving to be exactly the kind of young, inexperienced hothead he expected.
"Of course, future reimbursements depend on your economic situation, and we will grant you a grace period before initiating paybacks."
"Your suggestions are good," Bhabha eventually speaks up, earning himself some scorn from his colleagues. "Yet you forget that you are not in a considerably stronger position than we are. We will need one more concession from you."
"You seem to forget whose is the biggest country here, Bhabha," Orlov sneers. Mycroft would have hit him for his hubris if they weren't all grown men.
"Omegas make up the largest part of your population," Bhabha continues, unperturbed, unknowingly echoing the same thing Orlov has told his own cabinet. "In case of a war with Britain, these Omegas will rebel and you can be sure that Britain will provide assistance."
"Which is a good point, sir," Mycroft cuts in before the Russian Prime Minister can let his pride get the better of him against his better judgement. "What kind of concessions did you have in mind?"
"I'm sure a man of your intellect has already figured it out."
Mycroft smiles. "You wish for the RU to end the oppression of omegas."
"Yes. Britain will not deal with a country that violates basic human rights."
"I am sure you know that this change you are demanding will not happen over night."
Bhabha heaves the sigh of a man weary of how the world works. "Of course. It would be counterproductive to ask you to implement changes immediately and in full. Yet we will demand that you commit to transforming your society in stages."
"This sounds reasonable," Mycroft concedes, and finally Orlov puts the puzzle together.
"You already have the process outlined, do you not?"
"I am nothing if not prepared." Mycroft allows himself a smug grin which only seems to anger Thoreau.
"Let's hear it, then," the Alpha demands, his face dark.
"We have already passed laws about the treatment of omegas several weeks ago. The next step will be to give first, basic rights to the omega population, so that they can leave their Alpha masters and establish themselves as individuals who have access to schooling, housing, jobs and more. With the embargo lifted, there will be more employment opportunities to fill. We will establish a Secretary for Omega Affairs within the government, and a task group to determine future steps."
"You will have to change the constitution!" Williams reminds them, though Mycroft looks to Orlov for a response.
"As Prime Minister I am allowed to suggest changes, and I will demand for this one as soon as the news of our agreement is made public. Given that I have the power to fire any member of government, those opposed to the change will either have to keep quiet or find another occupation."
At times like this Mycroft remembers why he prefers authoritarian rule to democracy.
After a long pause during which both Thoreau and Williams seems to struggle with whether or not they should object to such blatant blackmail, Bhabha nods.
"Then we have an agreement. I think it best if we draw up the treaty immediately, and sign it as soon as both our governments have approved it."
Which is the opening Mycroft needs to pull a thick folder out of his briefcase.
"I have come prepared," he explains as he retrieves the draft of the treaty he has spent the past nights devising.
Bhabha surprises him with a smile, which Mycroft returns. It makes him think… Maybe there is one more thing Mycroft can achieve today.
xXx
The news breaks on the last Saturday in 2013.
It is eight in the morning when Sherlock and John return to 221B, both high on post-case endorphins after a night spent chasing clues and criminals. Now that their perpetrator has been effectively cuffed and is on his way to prison, John looks forward to spectacular post-case sex in their flat, so he hurries after his partner, climbing the stairs two at a time.
Sherlock is most pliable after solving a puzzle which John intends to exploit ruthlessly today. He has the Omega pressed up against the wall two seconds after the door falls shut behind him.
Sherlock allows himself to be lifted up, wrapping his legs around John's waist and burying his fingers in John's hair while they are rutting against each other like animals.
Of course, the mood immediately evaporates when Mrs Hudson's voice penetrates the door. "Boys! Have you seen the telly?"
"We've just come back!" John shouts as Sherlock lets his head fall onto his shoulder, fully aware that Mrs Hudson will not leave them alone until they have done what she asks them to.
"What is it?" Sherlock snaps after his feet hit the floor and he opened the door, revealing Mrs Hudson's excited smile.
"A peace treaty, didn't you hear the news?"
"What?" John asks before Sherlock can declare the topic boring and listens intently as Mrs Hudson relays what she heard on the telly just minutes earlier.
"Isn't it grand?" the landlady says, shaking her head as if she still can't believe it. "And I mean, I still despise him, Sherlock, don't get me wrong, but they say that Mycroft's been a driving force behind the negotiations. That he actually wrote the treaty!"
"He can write instruction manuals for a kettle for all I care," Sherlock grumbles and John places a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, thanks for telling us, Mrs Hudson."
"Sure thing! I know how busy you boys are. Oh, I will bake some biscuits, how about that? To celebrate, what do you say?"
"That's a great idea, Mrs Hudson, off you go now," Sherlock replies before John can, successfully ushering the woman out of their flat, pointedly closing and locking the door and then turning around to level a heated gaze at John. "Where were we?"
xXx
In 2015, Britain's steady economic decline grinds to a halt after the government defaults on 1st January. Shortly thereafter the administration devalues the Pound, which means that John receives less pay but also that certain products cost less.
He is by no means an expert in economic relations, but the devalued currency seems to lead to more exports since their products are cheaper on the world market. Add to that the lifted embargo on the RU which means state and firms residing in that country are allowed to buy things from Britain again, plus a growing Russian Omega population becoming able to afford products like electronic equipment, and three weeks after the transition Britain's economy is starting to improve.
As far as John can tell, the social transformation in Russia is working equally well. There were protests, groups of elitist Alphas and oligarchs issuing a lot of threats, and the military had to intervene a few times when things turned more violent than peaceful, but all in all the country is on its way to equality.
Things are looking better and most importantly the soldiers John helps train twice a week won't be deployed any time soon.
He is on his way back from such a training session when he meets with Sherlock for dinner at their usual Italian restaurant where the owner Angelo treats them to a bottle of wine like he always does. Not going to prison for murder seems to make every Alpha grateful.
It is fairly late when they find their way back to Baker Street. John pays the cabbie and pulls Sherlock down into a kiss before the Omega can produce his keys to unlock the door.
After John finally releases him, Sherlock turns – and freezes.
John's pulse immediately spikes.
"What is it?"
"The knocker. It's been straightened."
"Mrs Hudson?"
"She never notices that I leave it askew."
Which is a strange compulsion John noticed Sherlock to have. "So who was it then?"
"It can't be."
Before his partner deigns to fill him in, however, Sherlock has already unlocked the door and is climbing the stairs, John hot on his heels and drawing his gun, suddenly grateful that he always brings it to training sessions.
On the other hand, holding a gun when encountering Mycroft Holmes in his flat might be a little too tempting for John.
"What the hell is he doing here?" he snarls, aiming his weapon right between the older Holmes' eyes, a burning rage filling his chest and coursing through his veins.
Sherlock merely snorts. "Didn't you see this coming, John?"
"No, I bloody well did not!"
"Now, now, Captain Watson. I come in peace. Literally, in case you have kept up with the news."
"I don't care if you've thwarted the next World War, get out of my flat," he snarls in response.
"It isn't, however. Yours, that is."
John releases an angry breath and cocks the hammer of his gun. Apparently he looks threatening enough for Mycroft to lift his hands, palms up and empty.
"What do you want?" John growls, not changing his stance.
"I came to inform you in person about my return. Given what has transpired between us I felt it prudent to do so as to prove my good intentions."
"Which translates to 'I'm an opportunist and negotiated my way back into the government of the very rebel movement I tried to defeat', in case you were wondering," Sherlock explains, eliciting a chuckle from his brother.
"There is nothing opportunistic about my return, brother dear."
"Enlighten me then."
John casts a careful glance at his partner for any sign of… of what? Panic? Flashbacks? Sherlock's nightmares might have passed with time yet if seeing Mycroft again isn't a trigger then nothing might be.
"Everything I have done was with Britain's best interests at heart. I serve the country, not my gender, Sherlock. I miscalculated when it came to the Reformists, Mr Watson. I did not believe the country was ready for revolution, which is why I fought it as vehemently as I did. I learnt from my mistakes. Did you not see what I achieved in Russia? Now I am back to help Britain onto her feet once again."
The tension in the room is almost solid in the ensuing silence. John takes in Holmes' words – they sound nice enough, yet he will never trust the man again. Contrary to his brother, who has to know what is going through his head, for Sherlock speaks up then, breaking the silence.
"As much as I'd love to see you shoot him, John, he's telling the truth."
It takes him a long moment to decide, but he really doesn't want to go to prison over scum like Mycroft Holmes, so he uncocks the hammer and puts his gun back into its holster.
"Good choice, Captain. I hope one day you will –" Mycroft begins, but John will never learn what the Alpha hopes because he puts his entire weight and training behind his arm and punches Mycroft Holmes as hard as he can.
His fist connects with the man's nose, breaking it on impact. His knuckles hurt, though John will never ever let it show.
Mycroft, meanwhile, cries out in pain, hands shooting up to cover his nose, blood splashing everywhere.
"I don't fucking care," John tells him. "You've said what you came to say, now bugger off and if you ever come near Sherlock or me again, I promise you that I will break a lot more than your nose."
It is immensely satisfying to see Mycroft Holmes straighten up with blood oozing from his nose as he tries to exit the flat with as much dignity as he can muster. It isn't much.
"That was brilliant, John!" Sherlock shouts two seconds after the door snaps shut behind his brother and suddenly John has an armful of Omega.
He knows Sherlock is not snogging him senseless because he wouldn't have been able to defend himself against his brother. Or because he needed John to protect him. John knows Sherlock is kissing him like this because it wasn't Alpha posturing but John protecting the person he loves.
His equal.
xXx
Anthea raises an eyebrow when Mycroft slides into the backseat of the car.
"Not one word," he orders, not missing the soft smile on her lips.
"Do you want me to organise an icepack, sir?"
"I'll have Yelena mend it," Mycroft comments offhandedly while he tries to stop the bleeding with a handkerchief.
"Oh."
"What."
"I wasn't aware she was staying with you."
Mycroft knows better than to interpret Anthea's tone as jealousy. She knows him better than anyone, so if the fact that Yelena followed him and that he allowed it surprises her, then that is saying something. Maybe Mycroft should have made the Omega stay behind.
"She asked. She is a competent housekeeper and has grown accustomed to my intricacies. Why shouldn't I have granted her request?"
Anthea says nothing, yet she is probably thinking the same thing as Mycroft – that he really is growing soft in his advanced age.
xXx
End Notes: That punch felt really cathartic… And yes, I abstained from ending on a cliffhanger this time :) All is fine right now, but don't forget, we still have Moriarty lingering in the shadows.