Chapter 10 – The Cure
Summary: The social climate in New Britain is growing tense with more and more hate crimes spreading hurt and anger. Sherlock cannot quite figure it out – until a newspaper article puts forth some grave allegations.
Author's Notes: This was intended to be the last chapter, yet it ended up longer than expected and I found a great point to end it. Lots of Greg in this one! I hope you enjoy it :)
xXx
Sometimes, Greg muses, it really seems like the universe is out to get him. There is no other explanation for the amount of bad luck and timing he has got lately.
First, when he finally manages to ask Olivia out, she smiles, says she would love to, but that she isn't ready yet. She is still in therapy and doesn't feel stable enough to start dating in a real life context without strings or pressure.
Then the country is minutes away from war with Russia. And then Mycroft Holmes of all people barters a peace treaty and manages to sneak his way back into Britain and the government, and Greg could just break something.
He does. Someone's nose, in fact. It belongs to one of his fellow detectives, Dimmock, who spent five minutes complaining about integration measures for Omegas within earshot of Olivia, who looked like she wanted to say something but was too scared to challenge someone so much further up the chain of command.
So Greg does. Non-verbally.
He knows he will be suspended for this, yet the satisfaction he gets from punching that daft berk and the smile Olivia sends his way are definitely worth one week without pay. Usually it's two, but the Chief of Police apparently agrees with Greg's assessment that Dimmock is an arse who needs an attitude adjustment.
Sherlock complains, however, because without Greg on active duty, the detective has fewer cases to work on since no one can handle Sherlock's arrogance as regularly as Greg is capable of. John does buy him a few apology-pints, though, so he guesses that's all right.
When Olivia asks to have a word with him, two weeks after Greg is back at Scotland Yard on the first Wednesday in February, and she tells him she is ready to give this a try, Greg really thinks his luck is looking up.
He takes her out for tea on Sunday (the original plans were made for Saturday, but a hate crime took priority and they ended up working) and it's easy, relaxed. Olivia is smart and humble about it, looking great and smelling even better. Greg spends most of his energy stifling the impulse to get closer and touch her, so he is too hesitant to kiss her goodbye.
She does it for him and Greg feels like he could burst into song or something he's seen Alphas do in the latest films when their Omega gives consent.
"Next week is Valentine's Day," he says instead and Olivia raises an eyebrow.
"Is there a question in there, Greg?"
He chuckles, shaking his head, which is still dizzy from the kiss.
"Yes. Would you like to go to dinner with me for our second date?"
"I'd love to. Be sure to get reservations, though."
"You know, I didn't make detective on my good looks alone," he teases, barking out a laugh when Olivia's closing line is, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, boss," before entering her apartment building.
Of course, getting reservations at a good restaurant for Valentine's Day when so many Alphas are trying to woo their partner is a lost cause and Greg could kick himself for not thinking about this in advance.
Desperate, he calls up John.
"Mate, how are you?"
"Why are you calling? Did something happen?" John asks instead of replying, and judging by his tone he has gone into full Captain Watson mode. Since Greg usually texts Sherlock for a case and his "Alpha nights" with John are also agreed upon through messages, he should have anticipated this.
"No, nothing. I just need a favour."
There is a pause as John releases a breath. "What favour?"
"Well, I might have invited Olivia out for a Valentine's dinner and I can't get reservations anywhere."
"What do you want me to do? I'm a soldier, not a chef."
"You're Captain bloody Watson, I'm sure you can talk some nice restaurant into giving me a table, right?"
On the other end of the line, John is laughing. "I'll see what I can do."
Which is how Greg ends up at one of London's top restaurants with a stunning Olivia and a waiter of their own "for the Captain's friend", as the hostess put it.
"Really, I can't wait until this politically correct propaganda stops," Olivia complains as they move on to desert. "If I see one more film in which the Alpha is overly considerate and immediately accepting of their partner's boundaries, I'll find a reason to arrest the entire industry."
"There should be idealised examples, right?" Greg argues. "I mean, most Alphas still think it's their right to just claim a mate when they're in heat, consent be damned."
"And you think romantic rubbish is going to change that?"
Greg is about to concede the point when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. "Sorry," he mumbles, only checking his phone since he gave Sherlock a case that afternoon and he might have found something.
Instead of Sherlock, however, it is John's name in the sender column.
Sorry, mate. I tried to stop him.
Greg's head whips up, eyes darting towards the hallway leading to the restaurant door, just in time to see a man in a Belstaff coat enter whom Greg would recognise everywhere.
With a groan he turns to his date. "I'm so sorry for this."
She opens her mouth to ask but before she can Sherlock is standing next to their table, grinning smugly.
"Gavin, there you are."
Heaving a sigh, he greets, "Sherlock."
"Why don't you ever use his name?" Olivia cuts in before the other Omega has a chance to share what he has come to say. "I heard you use his actual name when he's out of earshot."
"Old habits and all that," is Sherlock's curt reply. "And really, that dress? Are you trying to break his control on the first date or is this your idea of non-provocative attire?"
"Sherlock, why are you here?" Greg growls before the man starts deducing anything about how Greg chose his favourite shirt or how his choice in shoes shows he's ten seconds away from snogging Olivia senseless or something.
"Oh, yes – I solved the case."
"I gave it to you three hours ago."
"You gave it to me under the impression that it was an eight, though it barely reached a five. Here." He holds out his phone, displaying a picture of their victim's boss, entering a dry cleaning shop. "He paid them to keep quiet but once I deduced how many illicit activities they are involved in they agreed to hand over the clothes Paulson gave them if I left them alone."
"I take it there was evidence on them?"
"Quite a lot, in fact. Judging by the spray pattern he must have got some of the blood from slitting his secretary's throat on his shoes, which he then cleaned conventionally like the daft idiot he is. There should be enough evidence to convict him, even though his clothes had already been cleaned."
"Yes. Thanks."
When Sherlock doesn't move, Greg gestures at him to do so.
"What?"
"I said thanks, now go back to John."
"Yes, he isn't too happy with me since I 'have no respect for privacy' because I learnt of your whereabouts by going through his text messages."
"Which does not explain why you're still standing here," Greg tries again, noting that at least Olivia seems amused, judging by the smile tugging at her lips.
"What are you talking about, Geoff, we have an arrest to make!"
Greg pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Is Paulson a flight risk?"
"No. He thinks he got away."
"Then we can just as well cuff him tomorrow."
That brings Sherlock to a halt, his eyes darting between Greg and Olivia. "Hm."
"What now?"
"You must really like her if you're putting off work to spend time yammering about meaningless topics."
"Not everyone can have entire conversations with a look, Sherlock."
The detective grins, obviously proud of his and John's connection. To Greg's horror, however, his grin morphs into a calculating smile as he turns towards his date.
"He is completely gone for you. Given that Gavin is my partner's best friend, social conventions presumably dictate that I tell you what a great catch he is, how brave he is and how genuinely good to our kind, yet I feel warning you off will serve both of you better."
"Warning me off?" Olivia echoes and Greg wishes for a hole in the restaurant floor to swallow him whole. Or better yet – swallow Sherlock.
"Yes. As his two failed marriages and several other aborted relationships show, his partners frequently found themselves in a position in which they felt the need to cheat on him, which is not, according to my data, testimony to his lack of sexual prowess but to his inability to prioritise his other half over his work. If you are prepared to occupy second place, then enjoy your meal, though I do advise against the crème brûlée, the patisserie staff had sushi last night."
Where people before Olivia, when confronted by the full force of Sherlock's deduction speed, flailed and spluttered, Olivia merely blinks once.
"Since my priority right now is also my job, I don't see a problem."
Sherlock tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. "Interesting," he mumbles, and leaves without another word.
Greg groans and bangs his forehead against the table top.
xXx
Greg's timing does not particularly improve, yet after their second date ended with a passionate kiss, he is too happy to care.
Olivia and he exchange smiles; he brings her tea and tries to be subtle about it, though at least Sally sees right through him.
"You sure, boss?" she asks two weeks after Valentine's Day, her eyes darting towards where Olivia is sipping her tea.
"Yes," Greg tells her emphatically, and to his surprise that is the end of it.
Too bad his workload is increasing. Only it is not merely his workload, but a certain type of case that seems to appear more and more frequently. It takes four weeks for him to fully realise the pattern behind the crimes, mostly because they don't all occur in his precinct. Though when he does notice and makes a point to go through his colleagues' case reports, he cannot help but notice that London is experiencing the steepest rise of hate crime since the civil war.
It isn't limited to attacks on Omegas, either: There are quite a few cases in which Alphas are found severely wounded or even killed, and most of the time the perpetrator is one of the Alpha's former slaves.
Greg hates those cases because while he has to uphold the law, he would much rather pat the respective Omegas on the back because he can fully understand what drove them to commit murder. Doesn't make it right, but still.
He also hates what those cases do to Olivia – where she is usually an active participant in solving the case, she grows almost timid with these. Greg's theory is that it reminds her of some of her past experiences, but is too much of a coward to outright ask.
"Freak's here," Sally announces after opening his office door. "Want me to send him in?"
"He has a name, you know."
"You got one too, Gavin," is her pointed reply. Aware that getting Sally to call Sherlock by his name when the man himself is not around has proven to be a lost cause in the past and that today won't change that, Greg just nods at her.
Sherlock enters a few moments later with John behind him. John's eyes immediately dart to the three boards littered with pictures and notes standing to Greg's left. They make the office look cramped, but Greg didn't want to put them in one of the more public conference rooms.
The consulting detective, however, is not observing the data but regarding Greg with a creased brow.
"You haven't had sex yet."
It is a statement, not a question, so Greg ignores it as he gets to his feet. "That's why I called you – all these are hate crimes –"
"Why?"
"Because I need your brain to figure this out," Greg shots back with a sigh.
"You can't figure out how to have sex?" Sherlock asks then, prompting John to burst out laughing.
"Funny," is Greg's flat reply. "Can we focus on the case?"
"Right now this is marginally more interesting."
"What, you can't deduce the reason from the way I tied my shoelaces this morning?" Greg sneers, noting how John looks more intrigued than apologetic for his partner's behaviour.
"I'm afraid I cannot. You have been dating for a month. Even if her heat is still off, surely you had ample opportunity to take the next step. Why resist?"
John smirks, yet says nothing. Greg glares. Bastard.
"Well, we're going slow."
"Why?"
"Maybe because she has a traumatic past and isn't comfortable with too much physical contact?"
"Why? You wouldn't hurt her."
Greg groans, rubbing his face. "Psychology isn't your strongest field, eh?"
That gets a derisive snort in return. "Please. I care for science – pretending being breastfed as a child has any impact on someone's development is over-romanticising bollocks."
"Well, Olivia needs time, so I give her time. I can wait as long as it takes. Now could we please get to what I've called you here for?"
"What will you do when she goes into heat?"
"She is taking suppressants, now focus, you git."
Greg apparently added enough urgency into his command that Sherlock abandons his current bone, finally turning towards the boards and scanning the data.
"None of these hate crimes target the same subgroup or even group," Sherlock sums up a brief silence later. How the Omega can soak up information as quickly as he does will forever baffle Greg.
"A few have some things in common." He points towards the colour-coded circles next to the victims and perpetrators' names as well as the legend he put in the upper right corner. "My gut tells me there's something more, but I can't find it."
"And of course you turn to me when something surpasses your intellect," Sherlock adds unnecessarily.
John sighs, throwing an apologetic glance at Greg. "Why are you so sure? What made you notice?"
"We've always had some hate crimes, ever since the revolution, but never this much. So I did some prying and it's not just my division, it's all of London."
Sherlock hums, folding his hands underneath his chin. "If there is a connection, I'll find it."
"That's what I wanted to hear," Greg enthuses, unable to prevent the relieved sag of his shoulders. Sherlock declaring it boring and leaving was always a possibility.
For now, however, the Omega seems intrigued enough. Greg just hopes he will find something that will mean the past two sleepless nights haven't been wasted.
xXx
It takes two days until Sherlock bursts into Greg's office with an overly smug grin.
"You got it?" he asks, nodding at John who slips into the room after his partner.
"Of course."
"Well?"
With a flourish, Sherlock turns so that he faces the boards, then starts pointing at individual cases. "This Alpha's sister had financial troubles which immediately went away after he killed the Omega. This Omega was pregnant, presumably the result of a less than consensual encounter, yet the abortion was paid by someone other than her after she slit this Alpha's throat. Drug addiction. Debt. Mother's health care cost," he explains, moving from one case to the next in rapid succession, almost too fast for Greg to follow. "I could go on, though the pattern is clear."
The detective looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "Uh, well…" Then suddenly, it all falls into place. "Wait. Someone paid them to attack their victims?"
"Indeed."
"Who?"
When Sherlock remains silent, John speaks up. "We haven't quite figured that out yet. "
"Then, why?!"
"We're still working on that as well."
"I have eleven theories, yet no substantial proof for any of them. However, I discovered something that will be of immense interest to you," Sherlock announces, then falls silent like the berk that he is.
"Yes?" Greg prompts just as John nudges his partner with a stern look.
"According to my homeless network, there are rumours that claim someone developed a cure."
"A cure? For what, cancer?"
Sherlock shakes his head and Greg suddenly realises that Sherlock's silence is not, in fact, the usual 'look at how much smarter I am' type, but something else entirely.
John clears his throat. "A cure for Omegas. It's supposed to turn them into Alphas."
Greg blinks. "You're pulling my leg, right? That's impossible!"
"Apparently not," Sherlock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Rumour has it there will be a demonstration that it is true."
"So stay alert, mate, alright?" John adds, rather unnecessarily.
Greg nods, thanks them, then waves them goodbye with worry spreading through his chest. A wave of hate crimes, and now a 'cure'? The repercussions something like that would have is unthinkable… Would Omegas want it? Greg's eyes dart towards his office windows, immediately finding Olivia standing near the copy room in conversation with one of her colleagues.
He shakes his head. It is daft to even think a cure can be possible. People's gender is deeply wired into one's DNA – there is no way anything could ever change that.
Then why spread rumours? Why paying people to commit hate crimes? What is that going to achieve?
Unrest. Chaos.
Realisation hits Greg like a bucket of ice water.
His phone beeps with a text message mere moments later. A look at the screen shows that Sherlock is the sender.
Have you figured it out yet? – SH
Greg swallows but picks up the phone to type.
It's Moriarty, isn't it?
Obviously. – SH
He takes a shaky breath before putting the phone down and burying his face in his hands. He has a hard time imagining positive outcomes. There is no scenario in which this will end well.
xXx
The beginning of the end unfolds on a Thursday night. Greg doesn't hear about it until eight hours later when he checks the headlines on his laptop at the breakfast table while Olivia, who spent the night cuddled against him trading kisses and nothing more, is drowning her porridge in honey.
"OMEGA BREAKS INTO ALPHA CLUB – 13 DEAD", the headline in the New British Tribune reads, next to a picture of the closed off crime scene.
On late Thursday night, an individual known as Marc Sutters gained access to one of the city's few Alpha Clubs, where he opened fire at the guests after declaring himself the solution to the gender problem.
Alpha Clubs are a very recent phenomenon and membership requires both money and Alpha status. They are a legal grey area, given their conception as non-political entities. Nevertheless they have been a thorn in the government's eye ever since their creation.
Through a mechanism the clubs have successfully kept secret over the past years, it is physically impossible for non-Alphas to enter the premises, and the club where the shooting took place was no exception.
Mark Sutters, however, known to his friends and family as an Omega, managed to enter the building. According to the only survivor, Marion La Fey, Sutters asked for attention, then drew a semi-automatic weapon. "I am the solution! Omegas will rise and show Alphas to their proper place!" the man screamed according to La Fey's statement.
Only one hour later, our newspaper was contacted by a source who wishes to remain anonymous. This person claims that Sutters is the first Omega who has been treated with a so-called 'cure', which successfully transformed him into an Alpha.
"The effects aren't permanent yet," our source explained. "But they will be soon." The person was unable to provide details as to who was behind the development of the cure or the attack on the Alpha Club, or if this heinous act was solely Mr Sutter's idea.
The police did not wish to comment on the case, stating the need for more time to finish their investigation.
Bloody hell. Why hasn't anyone called him? Greg curses mentally. This practically has 'in need of Sherlock Holmes' input' written all over it and neither of Greg's colleagues ever calls the detective on their own.
He shoves his chair back, drawing Olivia's attention.
"What's wrong?"
"I'll tell you on the way," he deflects, grabbing his jacket and motioning for her to hurry up. They are on the road within three minutes.
xXx
"Here you go, mate," John says, passing Greg one of the four paper cups he is carrying. "The canteen here isn't that great, but their tea's good."
Greg thanks him and watches the other Alpha walk across the lab to Sherlock and a young Beta named Molly Hooper where they are currently running tests.
As expected, Scotland Yard put Greg on the case almost the second he set foot in the precinct with explicit orders of doing everything in his power to solve it (which is code for "Call Sherlock immediately!"). His team is out, interviewing friends and following leads, while the detective in question is trying to find traces of the 'cure' in the perpetrator's bloodstream.
Suddenly the door opens, abruptly enough that Greg sees John's hand dart to his weapon, but it is only two agents in suits who slide inside, sweep the room, then yell "Clear!" to whoever is listening.
John stands to attention when Homi Bhabha enters. Molly's eyes widen as she goes still. Sherlock ignores everything except whatever he can see underneath the microscope. Greg chokes on his tea.
"Miss," Bhabha greets the woman first, then nods at each of them in turn, "gentlemen."
Thankfully, John takes over at this point, conducting introductions. Greg's chest swells when Bhabha remembers him from the explosion site.
"I'm glad we have one of Scotland Yard's finest on the case," the Prime Minister adds. "What is the status of this investigation?"
Greg can actually feel his cheeks heating up a bit at the praise, but he sobers quickly. "We are currently looking into any possible leads, trying to figure out if Sutters acted alone or if there was more at work," he explains, "Sherlock and Miss Hooper are taking a closer look at the blood work. According to his family, Sutters made a few new friends a few weeks ago and has been about town a lot. Our theory is that whoever he met also got him in contact with whoever supplied the so-called cure."
Bhabha nods, then turns to Molly. "Anything conclusive?"
"No, sir, uh, I'm sorry," she stutters. "So far there was nothing. I ran every toxicology test three times. Biologically speaking, Mr Sutters was in perfect health and most definitely an Omega."
In that moment, Sherlock pushes himself off the table with a frustrated huff. "We're missing something," he grumbles. "It's staring us right in the face."
"Maybe this cure actually exists," Bhabha wonders. "And designing it so it cannot be traced after its effect has worn off does make sense."
"Nonsense," Sherlock immediately disagrees and Greg catches John's amused expression. One would think at least the Prime Minister warrants some sort of respect from the detective. "Our gender identities are fixed, spelled out irrevocably in our DNA. One can suppress the hormones, change the expression of those genes, but nothing will ever change the amino acids. Alpha Clubs test on a genetic level, which means the cure is in fact a grand deception, some sort of trick. It cannot be real."
"Is there any way to prove this?" Bhabha asks, clasping his hands behind his back, his face blank.
"It's science!" Sherlock insists.
"What he means," John cuts in, "is if we can prove it to the press."
Greg snorts before he can stop himself. "Good luck trying to make those sods see sense. This cure makes for a great scandal – they're worse than a hungry dog with a bone, no chance they're letting this go."
"Surprisingly the good Inspector is quite right in that regard," Sherlock drawls, making Greg scowl at him. "It is likely all the rumours of the cure are supposed to achieve is spreading discord and increasing tension."
"Be that as it may," Bhabha interrupts, "that still doesn't explain how a biological Omega succeeded in entering an Alpha Club."
All eyes in the room flicker to Sherlock who runs a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. "Alright, everybody out."
"Sherlock, you're not throwing out the Prime Minister to go to your mind palace," John scolds his partner. Greg has a hard time supressing a grin.
"Then be quiet, for Christ's sake!"
They all comply, after a brief moment during which John explained the concept of a mind palace to an intrigued Bhabha, and Greg observes Sherlock with interest. It isn't often that he gets to witness the Omega's deduction process this close. His eyes are moving rapidly underneath his closed lids, his raised hands twitching minutely.
After a minute of silence, Greg glances at John, whose gaze is fixed on his partner and so fond it could be an image right out of the latest rom-com. Greg wonders if he looks like this when he watched Olivia do great detective work.
"Oh!" Sherlock gasps suddenly, startling them all. His eyes are open now, incredibly wide, and there is a Cheshire grin playing about his lips.
"What?" Greg asks immediately, but Sherlock seems incapable of anything besides expressions of awe.
"Of course! Oh, this is brilliant, absolutely ingenious…"
"What?" John takes a step towards his partner, who opens his mouth – hopefully to explain – though is cut off by the sound of the door opening, revealing an out of breath Olivia.
"He's a switch!" she pants, then startles when the guns of Bhabha's bodyguards are aimed at her.
"She's with Scotland Yard," Greg hurriedly explains and Bhabha signals his men to lower their weapons.
"How did you know?" Sherlock has somehow crossed the lab and is currently standing in front of Olivia who narrows her eyes at him.
"How do you know?"
"Yeah, and who is a switch?" John cuts in.
"Sutters," Olivia says, followed by an "Obviously," from Sherlock.
"Oh, yes," John drawls, "perfectly obvious."
"Think about it!" Sherlock shoots back, whirling around to look at his Alpha. "It is the only explanation that accounts for his entry into the Club as well as for his posthumous gender."
Greg blinks. "How the bloody hell did you figure that out?"
"Irene Adler," is Sherlock's crisp reply. "Whoever killed her wanted not only to end her life but also to get rid of the evidence, only which evidence was not clear to me before. They wanted to eliminate the possibility of an autopsy, ensuring no one would find out a switch's biology turns them into an Omega after death. Up until now science has never endeavoured to find out, simply because switches are incredibly rare and, before Miss Adler, mostly pretended to be an Alpha or Beta to avoid the fate of becoming a lab rat, which they undoubtedly would have."
Greg nods, taking a deep breath before addressing Olivia. "And how did you find out?"
She smiles, just briefly but it is so proud and confident that it makes warmth spread in Greg's chest.
"One of Sutters' friends let slip that he sometimes moonlights as a prostitute whenever he has financial troubles, under the pseudonym Nate. I found the bar where he solicited, made some enquires which yielded nothing, until a woman approached me. She asked if I was looking for Nate. We got talking – apparently Nate didn't offer his services as an Omega, but as an Alpha. The woman paid him to help her through her heat. Given everyone else thought he was an Omega and how ridiculous the notion of a cure is, I figured the only way Sutters could do this was if he were a switch."
Greg is grinning now, practically preening. "Bloody great detective work, Sergeant."
"Thank you, sir," Olivia replies softly, also smiling and holding his gaze.
"Well," Bhabha interrupts, shattering the moment. "Does that mean we can conclude there is no cure?"
"Obviously." Sherlock looks piqued – probably doesn't like it when someone else shows him up like Olivia just did. Greg thinks he should probably give her a raise just for that.
After that, Bhabha is quick to leave, thanking them for their effort and telling Olivia he is going to put in a good word for her with the Commissioner, and giving Greg a quote to include in the press release he has to type up now. Public relations will probably have him give a conference as well. What a joy.
At least the case is closed and the investigation doesn't stretch into Saturday. Maybe the universe has finally taken pity on Greg.
xXx
CAPTAIN WATSON AND SHERLOCK HOLMES VISIT OMEGA PALACE
By Kitty Riley
Usually the former soldier and his detective rarely venture out in public and both are notorious for their No Comment policy. It came as a great surprise to the owners of Omega Palace, London's first Omega-owned restaurant with a Michelin star as of the start of April, that these two were among their guests last night.
According to co-owner Patricia Al-Hamdan, the pair reserved a table under a pseudonym. Instead of hiding their identity, however, both Watson and Holmes used the front door, amiably chatted with other guests who came to say hello, and left as they had come (see picture).
"They're so in love!" one of the other guests told us. "You can see how in tune they are, and Captain Watson is such a considerate Alpha. Every Omega's dream, really!"
The same cannot be said for Sherlock Holmes, who is known for his antisocial streak and his ability to infer intimate details about people with a look.
"Bloke told me what I had for breakfast. It's uncanny," says Warren Wessington who had the table right next to the celebrity pair. "He's a bit rude, though. Watson just let it pass, though. Really laid-back, that fellow."
Well, that should be an obvious counter to those in our country, who still doubt Omegas and Alphas can function well together, despite their differences. Holmes and Watson are a prime example of how it's done right. Granted, their love story is one for the pictures, but they serve as a great role model to –
John stops reading at that point, seconds away from crumbling up the newspaper. It is good to see Bhabha's plan is working, but John still hates the media attention.
"I need you to be seen together, outside," Bhabha said when he called him after Greg had held his press conference. "People are worried. They need positive examples of Alpha-Omega relations."
Homi being an old friend and having a point, John agreed. Over the past six weeks there have been countless 'sightings' of Sherlock and him, happy and together, and John had to promise Sherlock to make the farce worth his while for him to cooperate. Well, a little bit of sexual experimentation is hardly a hardship. He just hopes they can stop all this before the reporters decide it is all right to stalk them again like they did right after the war ended.
John folds the newspaper, eyes sliding briefly over the headline announcing today's trial before getting ready to go to the courthouse. It was Bhabha's idea, not John's, to have him attend the trial of the male Alpha, who had raped his female Omega subordinate, angry with her for getting her job because of governmental measures to decrease Omega unemployment. After Sherlock disproved his alibi, the defendant argued vehemently that the woman had provoked him, asked for it, but it was nothing more than the same-old victim shaming that has been around since Omegas gained equality.
Everyone expects a quick verdict, so when the jury returns after only a brief consultation following the lawyers' closing statements, no one is surprised.
The acquittal, however, comes as a shock.
Within hours after the verdict's delivery, a large crowd has gathered in front of the courthouse, protesting the injustice of it, but John only sees it on the telly since he is back at Baker Street, venting his anger at Sherlock who just returned from a trip to St Bart's.
"What the bloody hell was the jury thinking? They couldn't have believed that prick's arguments! That woman is traumatised but he thinks anyone's going to believe he's the poor sod who was provoked?"
"It's obvious, really," Sherlock comments, his voice perfectly calm.
"What? That the jurors are barking mad?"
"No. There is another explanation for why several jurors, one of whom a prominent civil rights fighter, would suddenly declare such a blatantly wrong verdict."
John stops pacing and looks at his partner, who steps away from the coat rack and towards him, his gaze expectant.
John ventures a guess. "Blackmail?"
"Probably."
"But who – ah." Of course, such a verdict would only fuel the discontent that has been spreading for the past few months. "Moriarty."
"So it would seem."
"What's his angle, though? People are angry, sure, but not enough to actually do something."
"This won't be his last move, John. I'm sure even you can see that."
Instead of rising to the bait, John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I just wish there was something I could do. A nice bullet between Moriarty's eyes, for instance. Wouldn't that be terrific?"
That draws a chuckle form Sherlock. "Very. Come now, I have a thirty-five-year-old former boxer to convict of assault and theft. Your military training might be useful during the confrontation that is bound to ensue."
xXx
Mycroft is infinitely glad that, somehow, his flat in Westminster did not only survive the civil war unscathed but was also preserved until his return to the country. Looking for property would have been tiresome, accustoming himself to new quarters even more so.
Instead he can slip right back into hold habits and enjoy the luxury of two floors with a grand living room, a dining room, a drawing room, a study, a respectable kitchen and a master bedroom, in whose wardrobes Mycroft discovered a few forgotten suits of his upon his return.
The flat also includes two comfortable guest rooms with their own en-suite, one of which Mycroft was glad to give to Yelena.
"My own room, sir?" she asked, eyes wide and something unbidden clenches in his chest upon seeing her startled reaction.
Over the past four months the girl has settled, though. Anthea has accepted her as Mycroft's second assistant and housekeeper, tasked with keeping the cabinets stocked, managing his dry cleaning and coordinating his schedule along with Anthea. Yelena's English has improved and by the end of April she hardly averts her eyes anymore when an Alpha other than Mycroft speaks to her.
Having her go out on her own to buy something for herself or just enjoy a sunny day at a park, is still a work in progress, but Mycroft is optimistic. Maybe it is for the better at the current climate – if the press were to discover Yelena's existence, they would surely have a field day. Never mind that Mycroft has never touched any Omega in his life, the media sharks would paint him as an abuser or something similarly ridiculous.
He cannot allow something like this to happen, not when he is about to give a speech on the continuous gender conflict in New Britain.
"Your notes, sir." Yelena smiles at him as she hands the documents over. "The car is waiting."
"Thank you. What do you think?"
He has taken to let Yelena read his speeches before delivering them, to make sure no one will misunderstand him or his intentions. It has proven a good decision in the past – as an Omega, she comprehends certain points differently.
"It sounds convincing, sir."
"But?"
"It might be too convincing. As if… As if you don't want there to be a cure. So you say there isn't, but you haven't found the ones saying there is yet, to get them to tell the truth."
"Yes, though I doubt they will be found unless they want to be."
If Mycroft were on better terms with his brother, he could collude with him in order to find out more about Moriarty. Well, the SIS is not completely useless, even if their speed is subpar. Not that he can expect anything else from the goldfish that they are.
He exchanges a few more words with Yelena, decides to keep the speech as it is since he prefers not to lie outright at press conferences, and makes his way to the City Hall.
The speech goes as expected. The journalists present are annoying, asking inane questions until one lady rises to her feet when it is her turn to speak.
"Kitty Riley, New British Tribune," she presents herself. "Mr Holmes, I have sources telling me the government is covering up the existence of the cure and that you were directly involved in its creation."
Only years of practice and iron self-discipline allow him to hold back a snort. "I promise you these allegations are untrue. Next?"
Riley sits down, yet there is an upward-curl to her lips that haunts Mycroft the entire rest of the day as a distinct sense of unease creeps up his spine. He asks Yelena to go through articles on the cure to see if she can find one written by this woman. She returns with several, yet only the one published immediately after the Alpha Club incident references another anonymous source.
Someone seems to be feeding the woman information. Mycroft will have to keep an eye on her, lest she conjures up some sort of conspiracy that will sow even more public discord.
xXx
As Mycroft discovers the very next morning as he picks up the New British Tribune, he should have acted immediately.
One single article with several pictures takes up the entire front page. The pictures are grainy, obviously taken from a CCTV feed, and show two figures climbing the few steps to a small platform underneath a bridge, leaving within minutes of one another.
The men's identity is obvious, but what really catches Mycroft's attention is the headline and he cannot stop reading once he has started.
HOLMES BROTHERS CONSPIRE TO EXTINGUISH OMEGAS
By Kitty Riley
At yesterday's press conference, Mycroft Holmes denied the existence of a so-called 'cure' that supposedly turns Omegas into Alphas. He could not explain why anyone would spread such a rumour if there were no truth to it, but our newspaper has discovered the true intent behind Holmes' lies.
A former employee of his has come forward. His name is Richard Brooks. During the civil war he infiltrated the Reformists' headquarter on Mycroft Holmes' orders and betrayed the location to the Traditionalists, leading to what has become known as the Grand Battle that triggered a more violent phase of the war and allowed Sherlock Holmes to escape the Reformists' clutches.
According to Brooks, the younger Holmes was secretly willing to return to his brother, yet pretended otherwise. Apparently the older brother was already aware of the existence of a cure, which at that moment was in its development stage. It is self-evident that man as powerful as Mr Holmes would be among the first to know of such a scientific miracle.
"Mr Holmes has always envisioned a world without the weakness of Omegas," Brook explained. The obsession was so strong that he put his own brother on suppressants, pretending to be an Alpha and made it his life's goal to ensure Alpha supremacy.
Two days ago, Brook obtained footage from a London CCTV camera, which shows how Sherlock Holmes met up with his brother under the Albert Bridge. Their meeting is hidden from view, but the timestamps show they were both in the same spot at the same time. This occurred just before Mycroft Holmes fled to Russia, where he helped keep the peace before returning to his home country.
As Richard Brook told our newspaper, the brothers met to coordinate their separate efforts to aid the cure's development. Brook himself functioned as informant, passing along information to both brothers, either in person (Mycroft) or through encrypted messages posted on Sherlock Holmes' blog, . .
The final okay to test the cure on Mark Sutters came from Mycroft Holmes. As far as Brook knows, the drug's developers are working on making the cure permanent. Once this happened, Mycroft Holmes was planning to administer it in the form of a large-scale vaccination effort in response to an equally widely dispersed outbreak of pox. The illness is extinct, yet scientists keep a few phials of the pathogen on hand in order to be able to produce vaccines, should it ever return.
Brooks said Sherlock Holmes had already broken into the lab and stolen the pathogens and was going to release them as soon as the cure-infused vaccinations were ready.
Obviously, this will not happen now, thanks to the bravery of Richard Brooks, who opted to come forward with this information. "They're blackmailing me, but I can't just let this happen," he told our newspaper through tears.
It is now in the hands of the police to stop the Holmes brothers' devious plan from becoming reality.
Mycroft's tea has gone cold. Richard Brook. The man he later discovered to be Moriarty. Was he the one to free Mycroft from prison? The Kremlin's mysterious friend? The footsteps that night under the bridge, was that really Sherlock? Did Moriarty already plant evidence?
As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Mycroft cannot move. He is frozen, with no exit strategy. Oh dear.
xXx
End Notes: Next up – the final chapter and grand finale! I'll post it tomorrow. Comments are also very much appreciated! Just in case I don't mention it enough ;)