Chapter 11 – The Last Bow
Summary: Moriarty planted evidence in 221B… New Scotland Yard is on their way to make arrests and search for evidence while Greg struggles with his loyalties.
Author's Notes: It took me long enough, but this story is finally drawing to an end. Featuring BAMF!John and epic showdowns… Hold on tight and enjoy!
ECDC = European Centre for Disease Control
In case you recognise phrases, it is because several are taken form "The Reichenbach Fall". Thanks to arianedevere for her amazing transcripts!
Also, a HUGE thank you to my beloved beta Iriya – I couldn't have done it without your constructive and detailed corrections!
xXx
Greg eventually reaches the station at seven o'clock in the morning, tired but feeling accomplished given the murderer he just brought in for processing. Solved within eleven hours and without the help of a certain consulting detective.
He has enough time to wonder whether or not Sherlock would be proud (rather unlikely, granted) before he notices the flurry of activity unfolding all around him. Officers are rushing about, faces grim and concentrated.
"What's going on?" he asks when he spies Dimmock. Greg usually avoids the fellow DI, but as the most superior officer in the room apart from Greg himself, he is most likely to know what all the chaos is about.
"Haven't you seen the papers?" Dimmock asks absent-mindedly as he checks his gun.
"I just got back with a murderer in the car, and where the hell are you going that makes you think you'll need so much ammunition?" Greg adds, for Dimmock is currently stuffing magazines into the police vest lying on his desk.
"Some reporter came into the station not half an hour ago," he eventually explains, fastening the vest after slinging it around his shoulders to put it on. "Had a testimony from some bloke who used to work for Mycroft Holmes, about how he and his Omega brother are behind this cure. Even broke into the ECDC to steal some poxvirus, and the vaccines for it were going to actually administer the cure. No more Omegas."
"And where is everybody going?"
"Baker Street, of course!" Dimmock says as if it were the most obvious choice in the world.
Suddenly it all falls into place. "Hang on, you're going to arrest Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah, and his brother. Also got a warrant for their flats and you bet we're going to find something. They're clever, but not that clever."
"Who is this source?" Greg scoffs, feeling his pulse quicken. "Surely they can't be trustworthy."
"The Commissioner thinks so, and his opinion's the only one that matters. Now excuse me, I got an arrest to make."
Dimmock pats him on the back as he passes, making Greg flinch involuntarily. Bloody hell, what a mess. Everyone already thinks Sherlock is a sociopath, so allegations like this will fall on nutritious ground… But anyone who knows the bloke wouldn't actually believe Sherlock would do something like that, would they?
Greg runs a hand through his hair, already aware of what he has to do even if it might cost him his career if it comes out. He's a damn policeman; he should be trusting the Commissioner…
Screw it, Greg decides. He has known Sherlock for years and there is no way whatever the source says is true. If anyone can find a way out of this situation, it's Sherlock Holmes. He just mustn't end up in police custody.
Glancing around to make sure no one sees him do it, Greg produces his phone.
xXx
"You really should stay, John," Sherlock murmurs close to his ear as long fingers trace an invisible line down John's bare chest. "Surely the soldiers can train themselves for a day."
"Your former boxer put me out of commission for one session already," John argues, desperately willing his body to calm down no matter how close Sherlock is or how great he smells.
"Yes, you can plead illness again. Come on, I have no case, you have no shift at the clinic…"
"Sherlock," John starts but trails of because he has no idea how to finish his sentence. Then his exhale turns into a strangled moan as Sherlock actually slides to his knees in front of him, intent clear.
"Please, John."
To think Sherlock is not even in heat. He gets like this, though, sometimes, eager and aroused without his body's chemistry telling him to, or without John initiating. He loves his partner like this, yet less so when he is almost running late for training.
Something buzzes in his trouser pocket, right next to where Sherlock's hand is resting on his hip, the ringtone echoing through the otherwise silent flat.
"See, that'll be the sergeant, asking if I'm actually coming like I promised," he adds pointedly.
Sherlock seems moments away from making some crude pun when John sees Greg's number on his screen, mumbling half a "What-?" before accepting the call.
"Greg, what's –?"
"Mate, listen," the DI interrupts without as much as a greeting. John's body immediately tenses, spine going rigid, which cues Sherlock in and makes him rise to his feet. "They're on their way to Baker Street. They've got a warrant and they're going to arrest Sherlock –"
"What, why?!"
"Some journalist's got some evidence, testimony from some bloke who says Sherlock and Mycroft are behind the cure."
"That's ridiculous!"
"I know, mate, why do you think I'm calling you!"
Oh. John glances at Sherlock, whose brows are creased in a silent question. "You think we should run?"
"Yeah, that's bloody well what I'm thinking," Greg barks back, but he seems to be trying to keep his voice down. Hell, is Greg calling from the station?
"Shite, alright, Greg, thank you. We're going now. Hang up, delete your call history, you hear me?"
"Yeah, yeah, good luck and be careful, alright?"
John is on the move before he even ends the call, pocketing his phone and grabbing some clothes, barking at Sherlock to get dressed and be ready to leave immediately.
"Who's coming for us?" his partner demands. "Wait, is it Scotland Yard? Of course, or Geoff wouldn't know anything. So why? What do they have on us? No, wait, it has to be me, you're the war hero and I'm – oh. Mycroft. Something to do with Mycroft?"
"Yes, now save your deductions for outside and get a bloody move on, you git," John orders and something in his tone seems to have had an effect for Sherlock stops talking and rushes to the wardrobe instead.
John takes his gun, throws ammunition and a few clothes into a backpack, grabs a beret he bought for last Halloween, then hurries into the kitchen to add a few bottles of water and a few energy bars before practically jumping into his boots. By the time he is at the door, Sherlock is buttoning his coat. They exchange a look. Sherlock averts his eyes first, allowing John to take point.
They are out of 221B moments later, walking down the street at a swift pace. The street is already busy with morning traffic. John leads them into a side street, fully aware of the traffic camera that covers the spot, though instead of continuing in the same direction, they double back. The stunt will hopefully confuse the police later when they try and retrace their steps. John pulls on the beret, hoping it will make him more unrecognisable, should they be caught on a camera despite his efforts.
It takes Sherlock a full twelve minutes to crack. "What do they have on us?"
"Greg didn't say but the police have warrants. They'd have arrested you before we could figure this out."
"What exactly did he say?" Sherlock demands, in that tone that indicates he won't stop asking until John relents.
"Something about you and Mycroft being behind the cure."
"That's preposterous!"
"No need to tell me, love," John mutters, abruptly changing direction as he spies a security camera. He has a destination in mind, though it will take some time to get there on foot. He would take the tube and drown in the masses of people, but neither of them has an Oyster card nor Contactless Payment and buying a ticket would leave them vulnerable, especially since every person in London is bound to recognise them.
It is going to be a long morning, and all that before his second cup of tea.
xXx
Greg diligently processes the perpetrator even though he is going through the motions, part of his attention continuously focussed on his surroundings. Either Dimmock will return with Sherlock in custody, or he will come back with accusations for Greg.
Dimmock might not be the brightest of the bunch, but he isn't daft either.
Unfortunately – for Greg, though probably not for Sherlock and John – the Alpha returns looking thunderous, his expression distorted by a scowl.
"Detective Inspector," Dimmock calls out as the first of his sergeants trail inside in his wake. "Would you answer a few questions for me?"
"What about?"
"You know bloody well what about, Lestrade," Dimmock hisses. "Baker Street looked like someone made a hasty getaway and how could Holmes and Watson possibly have known if you didn't tell them?"
"Tell them what?" Greg feigns innocence. He is aware that it will not convince anyone.
Dimmock's jaw clenches. "Take him to an interrogation room. And have someone in forensics take a look at the DI's phone."
Greg merely nods, ignoring the way his pulse is quickening. He remains silent during the interrogation, gets transferred to one of the more public holding cells while Dimmock waits on results from his phone, then has to suffer through Dimmock's smug speech when the other Alpha informs Greg that they confirmed the call to John Watson's mobile phone.
"I'm going to see the Commissioner right now, Lestrade," Dimmock tells him, "and you'll be suspended. Then there'll be an investigation and by the end of it you'll have no job, no prospects, and all for some nosy Omega like Holmes."
Greg does not rise to the bait, clenching his hands into fist so hard that his fingernails are digging into his palm. He tries to get comfortable on the small cot, staring at the blank wall across the bed, but it is a futile effort. The universe doesn't grant him any refuge either, for the next person to step up to the bars of the holding cell is none other than Olivia.
She just looks at him for a moment, though Greg is not sure what he reads in her eyes. He hopes it is sympathy.
"I take it you had a good reason? Or did you do it just because he is your friend?"
That has Greg jump to his feet. "You can't honestly think I'd give in to that kind of nepotism!"
"You tipped off a suspect, Greg!" Olivia argues back, her voice louder than before. "I don't know what to think of you right now!"
"Did you hear what they're saying? What this supposed source's been feeding them?" A terse nod, so Greg barges on. "I knew Sherlock Holmes when he was still passing as an Alpha and while he may have contributed to the revolution, he's never been politically interested. He's a selfish arse who only cares about solving puzzles; he doesn't care who's Prime Minister as long as he's able to work. There's no way Sherlock did this, but someone's trying to make him take the fall. I couldn't stand by and let them arrest him when he's the only one who can get us the hell out of this bloody mess!"
Greg's chest is heaving when he finishes, his heart beating in his throat. He doubts he will be able to make amends later should Olivia turn her back on him now. The moment stretches between them, seemingly endless, until she heaves a sigh.
"Alright."
"Alright?"
"I trust your judgement on this, Greg. Dimmock put me on one of the teams which are going to look for Holmes and Watson and I'll see what I can do."
For the first time that day, Greg feels a smile spread on his face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Olivia cautions. They share one lingering look, then she is gone from sight and all Greg has left to do is worry.
xXx
It takes them until long after the sun has already set to make their way down to the north of Brixton, but John prefers playing it as safe as possible rather than risk being caught.
The perfectly detailed map of London in Sherlock's mind is a great help, especially when coming across a police car and needing to outsmart the officers, which happens more often than John would like to admit. It seems as if the entire Scotland Yard is on their heels.
Once John even thinks he saw Olivia in the passenger seat of a patrol car, though he can't be certain.
"And what is at this address?" Sherlock asks for the umpteenth time.
"Can't you deduce it?" John shoots back as he checks around the corner of the building they are currently slinking by, then grabs Sherlock's wrist and pulls him with him.
"I have thirteen theories, though no conclusive proof that favours either of them."
"What does your gut tell you?"
"John, I do not base my deductions on something as feeble as a hunch."
"Come on, love, humour me," John teases, smiling over his shoulder. He hears his partner grumble.
"Fine. I think the most probable destination is the flat of one of your friends. Since I'm not too familiar with them, however, I cannot fathom which of them you would contact in a case such as this."
"You know, next time I'm out for a pint with them you really should come."
"And be subjected to listening to Alpha male posturing all evening? I can hardly wait!" Sherlock jeers, and John can't help but chuckle at the image of Sherlock trying to hold a conversation with his former Resistance mates.
"We're almost there. We'll need to get in through the back; I'm not sure he's home."
It takes a few acrobatics John knows he is getting too old for (though Sherlock completes them with a grace that is uncanny, or maybe all of Sherlock's movements look graceful to John, even climbing over a balcony railing), but eventually they have reached the balcony door.
John heads straight to a pot holding a plant that has seen better days, carefully unseats the pot-within-the-pot in order to retrieve the key hidden there.
"I could have picked that lock," Sherlock protests, as if actually using a key is somehow more work than breaking and entering.
"I know you could have," John soothes him before opening the door and swiftly turning to the keypad next to it on the inside, punching in the appropriate code to disable the alarm.
"I didn't know the life of an SIS agent required this amount of security," Sherlock drawls and John can practically hear the raised eyebrow.
"Better safe than sorry," comes a voice from behind them and John would be drawing his Sig if he hadn't heard the exact same tone so many times already.
Richard Lubitsch looks good, healthy and happy, despite the slight crease of his brow that surely is the result of John turning up out of the blue. They share a quick hug and a pat on their respective backs, then John quickly takes care of introductions.
"It's a good thing you haven't come sooner," Lubitsch says, turning back from Sherlock to John. "This way I didn't have to lie when they asked me if you'd been in contact."
"I take it they also asked to call if you hear from me?"
Lubitsch snorts. "Yeah, as if. I saw the paper this morning, though. Do I even want to know how you got away before they kicked in your door?"
John shakes his head. "Unimportant. We just need a place to lay low and come up with a strategy."
"Make yourselves at home. You're lucky I'm still on leave until the day after tomorrow. The neighbours here get suspicious quickly."
"Fellow SIS, I take it?" Sherlock asks, speaking up for the first time. John notices his partner's eyes glancing about the room, undoubtedly absorbing every little piece of information on their host.
"You got it," Lubitsch confirms. "Now, tea?"
xXx
Sherlock's thoughts are running circles around each other, have been since they fled Baker Street and are still at it when he reclines on one half of the sofa bed. The agent has gone to bed; John is in the shower. He probably asked Sherlock to join him, though Sherlock is not sure. His thoughts have been too loud; he barely caught the outlines of the different strategies John discussed with his former comrade.
He knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jim Moriarty is behind the accusations, yet it still leaves a myriad of questions unanswered. If they had not managed to flee, would Moriarty have broken them out of prison? For surely the accusation would not have held up in court, no matter how much false evidence Moriarty planted. If not, what good would Sherlock do, fading away in a cell?
A hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his mind.
"We should get some rest, Sherlock," John advises, always worried about his health, telling him to eat, sleep, and drink his tea. John, who has been by his side ever since the Resistance captured him.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock finds himself asking.
John narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing implicated you. They would have let you go sooner or later. Why risk being charged for helping me? How can you be sure it's not all true, that I'm actually trying to topple Alpha rule?"
John blinks at him for a moment, his eyes filling with something Sherlock recognises as anger. Though instead of shouting or letting his feelings show, John takes a deep breath and sits down on the edge of the mattress, hand covering Sherlock's own where it is resting next to his hip.
"Listen to me, you daft git," John begins, his tone too fond for the insult to be grating, "I don't care what everyone says about you. I know you – I know you for real, and I won't let any accusation turn my head, you hear me?"
There is nothing Sherlock can say in response, so he gives into his body's first impulse. He leans up, gently capturing John's lips with his own. The kiss is chaste by their standards, but it feels so much more intense than even Sherlock's last heat. He hopes it will convey the warmth that has settled in his chest following John's explanation that Sherlock cannot find words for.
It works apparently, for he can feel John smiling against his lips as they part.
"Now get some sleep. We'll need to leave while it's still dark out."
Sherlock nods, shuffling closer to John once the Alpha has climbed under the covers. Their hands touch in the small space between their bodies and Sherlock strokes his thumbs over the back of John's hand, head still swirling full of questions but the even pace of John's breathing seems to calm them somewhat.
He does not know how long he lay awake before he hears his phone vibrate with a text.
At first it is hard to recall why this should bother him, yet then he remembers that they both left their phones back in Baker Street and all Sherlock took is his secret phone no one should have the number for.
Intrigued, he gently extricates his hands from John's, pausing to ensure the Alpha is still soundly asleep, before retrieving the phone from his coat decorating the back of an armchair.
You are a sneaky little creature, Sherlock. It is time we solve this. Meet me where it all began.
Sherlock stares at the text message. He does not even need to ponder the question of who sent it. Only Moriarty would have the intellect and the means to uncover this number.
He is about to turn around and wake John when the phone buzzes with another text.
Come alone if you value the Captain's life.
Sherlock freezes in his tracks, eyes darting to the window. Is Moriarty watching them? Does he know where they are?
He better not tempt fate, he decides as his eyes return to John's sleeping form. Sherlock steals John's gun on his noiseless way out the flat.
xXx
It is moments like this that John is utterly glad about how cerebral Sherlock is. If he weren't, he might realise that an Alpha will notice his Omega leaving in the middle of the night, no matter how fast asleep said Alpha was.
John is used to waking up when Sherlock escapes the covers and normally he would go right back to sleep, but given their current situation John wills himself to stay awake, to become more alert. He hears the front door open, however softly, and close soon thereafter.
He is out of the bed immediately. The first thing he notes when he puts his clothes back on is that his gun is missing and his panic immediately increases tenfold. It is not hard to infer where Sherlock would take a gun right now.
John takes a deep breath. He needs a weapon and backup. Good thing he is staying with a SIS operative, then.
xXx
Given that every person in London is probably looking for him, including cab drivers, Sherlock hot-wires a car. He keeps with every regulation, every speed limit, in order to avoid suspicion and soon glimpses what is left of the former Reformist HQ.
It seems as if the basement levels are still intact, yet the upper ones, which masqueraded as office rooms before the war, took a lot during the fights. Gaping holes expose the inside to the night where grenades tore off the stones. One corner is charred as though a fire claimed the area before it was extinguished.
Sherlock's destination, however, will not be found in in the upper levels.
Meet me where it all began, the text said. It does not require a clever mind such as Sherlock's to conclude Moriarty is referring to the place that became Sherlock's prison and kicked off the entire revolution, in a sense.
The only remaining question now is – where exactly in the building will Moriarty wait for him, and above all, what exactly does he want with Sherlock?
xXx
John's eyes are trained on the vehicle just barely within view. Lubitsch is driving and able to show off his skills at subtlety as they follow Sherlock's stolen Ford through the London streets.
"Where's he going?" Lubitsch wonders as Sherlock turns right. "He's got to have a destination in mind."
"He took the phone with him, so I have no way of knowing."
"Come on, Watson, you're clever. You said it's probably Moriarty who contacted him. Where'd that bloke want to meet?"
Pursing his lips, John shifts in the passenger seat. "Somewhere away from the public eye. No matter what he's got planned, I'm sure a patrol stumbling over them is the last thing he wants."
"Libraries? They're closed at night. Or a museum?"
"I don't know, it sounds so random…"
"Well, there's the civil war exhibit at the Natural History Museum. That wouldn't be random, would it?"
John is already shaking his head. He cannot say why, but somehow a museum just does not feel right. Although the connection with the civil war may deserve some thought.
"Do you know what became of our old headquarters? After the Traditionalists ambushed us?" he asks out loud.
Lubitsch shrugs, shifting gears as he takes a corner. "I think it's under monument protection or –"
That is as far as Lubitsch gets before he has to spin the wheel around because of the motorcyclist suddenly barrelling towards them.
John grips onto the doorframe but the momentum is too great. Lubitsch loses control of the car, which scrapes the nearest street lamp before coming to a stop, thankfully without rolling over or other stunts John is considerably too old for.
Without hesitation, both he and Lubitsch fall back into soldier mode. The approaching motorcyclist, now on foot but with a semi-automatic in his hands, has barely raised his weapon before a well-aimed shot to the shoulder from John catapults him to the ground.
Lubitsch disarms him, flipping him onto his stomach and pressing his knee down into his shoulders to keep him incapacitated.
"Who sent you?" John asks, though he doubts they will receive an answer.
"Just shoot me now!" the man – Beta, late twenties, Asian roots – demands while wriggling on the ground.
"And why would we do that?"
"It'll be quicker." It is barely a whimper and John shares a look with Lubitsch over the Beta's struggling form.
"You're saying Moriarty will hurt you because you failed?" A frantic nod and John finds himself grinning. "Well, thank you for confirming who sent you."
Underneath Lubitsch, the man grows still.
"Listen up, mate," John continues, "we're going to tie you up and leave you for the police to find. But you know what might help your case? Telling us how many more people like you are ready to shoot us, eh?"
"I'm not telling you anything!"
John cannot say he would like to test that statement. Fortunately they do not have the time to, so eventually they really just fasten the man to a lamp post with some ropes Lubitsch keeps in his car boot for emergency missions, "Just in case!"
Give their car's less than fortunate state they have to continue on foot. Maybe it is for the better – this way they are quicker to see any more of Moriarty's henchmen approach.
"So where to, Watson?"
"The old HQ."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Alright, then."
They exchange tense glances, then continue on their way.
xXx
Sherlock has forgotten all but a few scarce details about the former headquarters of the Resistance. He kept the important facts (which mainly consist of various shades of John), yet deleted the rest, so it is like entering the building for the first time when Sherlock sets foot in it again.
He wanders the halls in a way that would appear aimless to an observer, but there is a technique behind it. One never knows when a quick escape route will come in handy.
It is when he sees the yard, flanked on two sides by the building and divided by walls between neighbouring houses, that Sherlock knows where he will encounter Moriarty.
He steps onto the grass, which has grown green and strong despite the obvious lack of care. The bench to Sherlock's left is withered – no one has been tending to it in quite some time. He has John's Sig at the ready as his eyes sweep the area.
"You know," a voice sounds suddenly and Sherlock's muscles immediately tense up, "I was going to make it look like you broke out of custody. Never thought that detective had the gall to warn you. Saved me a lot of work – should I send him flowers, what do you think?"
"I think that would confuse his girlfriend," Sherlock replies slowly, holding his breath until he can see a tall figure emerge from the building's other entrance to his right.
Moriarty looks exactly like he remembers; only today finds him in a more expensive suit.
"Oh, we wouldn't want that. Besides, I have bigger plans."
"The cure?" Sherlock chances a guess, though he does not quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Moriarty raises a manicured eyebrow, as if challenging him to comment. Sherlock sees no reason why he should not oblige him.
"There never was a cure," Sherlock states, and watches how Moriarty's lips curl into a grin.
"That's right." Then the man pulls a face, a distorted imitation of someone in the middle of pondering one of life's most difficult questions. "But how did I manage to have an Omega break into the Alpha's Club?" His voice dips low, only to spiral higher again. It is starting to annoy Sherlock gravely. "Have you figured it out yet?"
He can barely contain a snort. "Easy," Sherlock says instead. "All you need is the right person. Sutters was a shifter, just like Irene Adler, who you blew up instead of merely having her assassinated because you wanted to get rid of the evidence. A shifter, just like you."
Moriarty grins broadly. "Very good. But you fell for it, didn't you? The cure."
Sherlock swallows. He cannot deny that. But Moriarty is shaking his head at him patronisingly.
"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act," he adds, pausing after each word.
Sherlock's brows furrow. "Do it? Do – do what?" What can he possibly want with me? I fled prosecution, I'm working on a way to prove the evidence was planted, there is no way anyone would believe I was behind the cure, so – Sherlock's mind suddenly crashes to a halt.
"Yes, of course," he murmurs as another piece of the puzzle slots into place. "My suicide."
That draws an outright laugh from the other man. "'Genius detective proved to be instigating revolution'. I read it in the paper, so it must be true," he drawls, his voice fused with fake hysteria before dipping lower, turning hollow. "I love newspapers."
Sherlock's throat is dry as he shifts his stance to buy himself more time to think. He has yet to see what Moriarty's endgame is, and not knowing is gravely unsettling.
xXx
"On your left!" John hears Lubitsch shout behind him. He whips around, aims, fires – another man in dark clothes drops to the ground, his semi-automatic escaping his grip.
It is the third thug they discovered and by now they have given up any hope of making them talk. Lubitsch uses the last of his rope to tie the man up – another twenty-something, this time an Omega, maybe trained as a mercenary abroad. John has heard of places where Omegas are favoured fighters, given they can also barter with sexual favours.
The former headquarters are right around the corner, though John doubts this was the last of Moriarty's men.
"Where do you think they'll meet?" Lubitsch wonders, pocketing the last of the ammunition they lifted off their last opponent.
"Maybe somewhere with easy sniper access? Moriarty seems to like having them around." Red dots on Sherlock's chest are still a major part of John's nightmares, on the rare occasion that they still plague him.
"Well, that rules out most larger rooms below the ground."
"And the roof was pretty damaged, I heard," John adds.
"What about the garden? You know, that patch of green, without flowers or trees where we used to grill sometimes? The one the building shared with the ones around it?"
John hums, nodding slowly. "It's our best shot. We should split up – you take out the snipers, I'll be on the ground and hopefully I won't be too late."
"You got it, Watson. And look what I have."
John turns towards his comrade, expecting a lot but not the dictaphone as well as the pair of miniature walkie-talkies, one of which he hands to John. "That's brilliant, mate!"
"I am to please," Lubitsch replies, a smug grin on his face. "Let's get this party started, shall we? Don't you dare move until I secured the perimeter, you got me?"
He rolls his eyes, giving the other man a playful shove. "I might not be on active duty anymore, agent, but I still know the basics."
Lubitsch leaves with a hushed laugh. John takes his time, exercises precaution while entering the building, trying to stifle the memories that come with the place. They hardly ever strayed to the higher levels, but being back after all this time is still uncanny.
The radio crackles shortly after. "One sniper down. Do not engage before I finish the sweep."
"Understood."
John has reached the hallway leading to the garden, an open door granting a view of two lone figures, one unmistakable Sherlock. It takes all of John's self-control not to barge into the situation right then and there.
His walkie-talkie is set to the lowest volume, so he dares approach a little more. As soon as Lubitsch gives him the all-clear, he is going to shoot the obnoxious arse that is Moriarty once and for all.
xXx
Sherlock clears his throat, tightening his grip on the Sig. "What do you want me to do?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty shoots back, his tone crisp.
Sherlock narrows his eyes, thoughts galloping through his synapses at lightning speed. "You chose this location for a reason. You want me to kill myself here, because it is-"
"Exactly where your fall from Alpha grace started," Moriarty interrupts, finishing his sentence for him. "And you're going to leave a note."
Sherlock is momentarily tempted to ask why when the answer emerges from the turmoil that is his mind at the moment. "You want another revolution. I am to incite the Omegas into rebelling with my note, am I not?"
Moriarty claps his hands together, the sound of his applause bouncing off the walls surrounding them. "Knew you would get there, Sherlock. It's your fault the last civil war was so brief. Hardly any anarchy."
"Well, it's a nice plan," he sneers, "but what makes you think I will help you start this?"
Moriarty does not answer right away, probably pausing for effect if Sherlock had to take a guess. However, the next sentence out of his mouth makes the blood freeze in Sherlock's veins.
"There are snipers targeting your precious pet, Sherlock. He followed you. Just like that military friend of his. Now they have red dots on their heads… Just one wrong movement and the trigger gets pulled, unless I call them off. You do as I say or you will lose your mate forever."
Sherlock's head fills with a constant stream of nonononono while his eyes widen and his chest feels like Moriarty is forcibly squeezing it together. He realises too late that he did not object to the terminology.
Which of course does not escape a man like Moriarty. "Oh? Is it official yet? When's the first cub due?" he jeers, and Sherlock cannot deny the slight jab of pain he feels at his words. "I was wondering, Sherlock, why hasn't he bred you yet? Now you'll die childless."
Instead of engaging him, Sherlock clears his throat. His voice is still a little shaky when he speaks again. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."
"Oh, just kill yourself," is the immediate counter. "It's a lot less effort."
His eyes dart to the guns still in his hands before Sherlock can control his reaction. He can see how Moriarty wants this to play out: he will direct the gun at himself, Moriarty will make sure someone finds the body and everyone will believe Sherlock ended his life because the truth of his devious plan was uncovered.
Moriarty must see, though, that Sherlock is still considering alternatives, for he steps closer with an eerie grin. "Your mate will die if you don't do as I say."
Unbidden, his hand starts to shake, the tremors visible in the slight movements of the gun.
"Unless my people see you die."
Think, damn it! Inside his mind he is shouting, screaming, tearing open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that will get him out of here. He could just shoot Moriarty, what is one murder, really, compared to what will happen if Moriarty gets his way?
A few metres away from him, all Moriarty does is laugh.
"Oh, Sherlock, your face! It's precious. But all the scheming in the world won't help you now. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger except seeing you die. The love of your life will die... unless..."
Swallowing around a pair of invisible hands choking him, Sherlock mutters, "Unless I kill myself – complete your story."
Moriarty nods, content. "You've got to admit that's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace."
"Of course," Moriarty agrees immediately, looking as though he cannot for the life of him fathom why anyone might not understand that. "That's the point of this."
Panic is rising in his chest. There is no way out, no secret card to play, no ploy to conduct, no deus ex machina for Sherlock to activate. He will have to die for John to live.
"And the Omegas will be angry," he whispers almost absent-mindedly as he tries to recall what his last words to John were.
"And start another revolution," Moriarty concludes the thought. "Everyone's happy."
Except John, Sherlock thinks miserably, watching Moriarty pull a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. He unfolds it, holds it out. Sherlock can make out the words, justifications of his actions, a confession to stealing the virus, to conspiring with his brother, to wanting Omegas to step up and change the course of history.
"You only need to sign it," Moriarty says, his tone soothing. He is smiling, eyes wide open and meeting Sherlock's, unblinking.
A passing thought goes to faking his suicide, but a quick rundown of his options proves it impossible. Moriarty chose the location well. Moriarty played the game even better, Sherlock has to admit with a considerable amount of bitterness.
For John, he decides, and extends his arm to accept the note.
BANG!
The sound of a shot takes Sherlock by surprise, making him flinch away. When his eyes find Moriarty again, the shifter is crying out in pain, crumbling to the ground and clutching his left shoulder. Both their heads whip around to where the shot originated.
The sight of John, arm and gun still outstretched in front of him, his face grim and determined, has to be the best thing Sherlock has seen in his entire life.
A shrill sound fills the garden and it takes Sherlock a moment to recognise it as Moriarty's laughter.
"You can't escape this, Captain Watson!" he implores between fits of laughter. "The sniper already has his finger on the trigger."
John merely raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean the sniper who's been caught and taken into custody? That sniper?"
Moriarty pauses. Sherlock feels his eyes widen and his lips part in amazement.
Of course Moriarty interrupts the moment, cackling manically. "It doesn't matter!" he cries, shifting on the ground in order to climb to his feet again. "The newspapers have already run the story. The phials are in your flat. No one will believe you."
He clambers to his feet with a wince and a grin. But Sherlock is watching John – John, whose jaw has gone slack all of a sudden as if he had just had an epiphany.
"It was you, wasn't it?" he asks Moriarty. "Not just the bribes for the hate crimes and the jury – you had your hand in all the major cases we solved. Every single one dealt with social injustice. You wanted the people to be in uproar."
The other man gestures as if it all were self-evident. "Of course. The cure was just the final straw." He takes a step closer to John and Sherlock does not even think before adjusting his aim and taking a step closer so that he is almost between them.
He hates the way Moriarty's eyes trace the contours of John's body while he murmurs, as if to himself, "I should have made the effort to kill you after all, John. You're too much trouble."
Red, hot rage ignites somewhere in Sherlock's stomach at the suggestion, spreading rapidly through his entire body and filling Sherlock's mind with images of clawing Moriarty's eyes out with his bare hands.
John, on the other hand, remains completely calm. "Was that your plan when you revealed Harry's location to us? The informant – he was one of your men, wasn't he? Just like you orchestrated the case with the maimed agent at the same time?"
The other man allows himself a smug grin. "I knew Sherlock here wouldn't follow you when an MI6 operative had just been skinned." Then his face falls. "Or I thought I knew. I underestimated his attachment to you, John."
John nods. "That's why you set the sniper on me. To blackmail Sherlock."
"Obviously." Moriarty looks between them, something like woe colouring his features. "And you stopped him. Too bad. You will be tried as an accomplice, John. Do you want that?"
"No one's going to believe your story," Sherlock gripes vehemently.
Yet Moriarty is shaking his head, baring his teeth in his following smile. "Oh, but yes, they will," he whispers, his voice growing ever more reverent as he continues. "Just like the British accepted Mycroft Holmes' story about serving his country. Just like Pyotr Orlov believed me when I told him Holmes would be a great asset. Just like the prison guards believed my men when they distracted them with free food while your brother sneaked out." Moriarty draws a deep breath, releasing it as he spreads his arms. "Just like now. Chaos will rain on the nation as the Omegas take up arms against the government and enslave the Alphas, believing they are putting them in their rightful place. Other countries will follow and the world will burn!" he hisses in a frightful tone of voice.
Sherlock's stomach lurches as the full extent of Moriarty's character is laid out before him. A genius, but deluded, his mind transformed into something so far from everyone else. It must have been a lonely existence, Sherlock muses.
Out loud, he says, "You're insane."
Moriarty sneers. "You're only getting this now?"
They are his last words before his hand snaps to the back of his trousers and sooner than either Sherlock or John can react, there is a gun in his hand. A shot rings out. Brain matter is scattered across the grass and Moriarty's eyes are staring up towards the sky, empty of life.
The shocked silence lasts only for a few moments before John's hands dart to something on his belt, lifting it – a walkie-talkie. The sound of static fills the air before John speaks.
"Rick, did you hear that?"
"Me and the dictaphone both, Captain."
It takes a second for the implication to fully sink in. When it does, Sherlock feels a wide smile conquer his features as he turns to his partner.
He wants to say something, praise John for his foresight, his planning, but the words die in his throat as familiar arms wrap themselves around him, pulling him close against a firm chest.
John buries his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck. He can feel the Alpha inhale deeply and Sherlock mirrors him, letting the soothing scent of his partner wash over him, calm his pulse as well as his mind.
John draws back too soon, though a moment later his lips are on Sherlock's and everything is well. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and he presses closer, hands clawing frantically at John's shirt for a moment before the slow stroke of John's tongue against his own reminds him that there is no urgency. It is over and John is alive, warm and breathing and perfect in his arms.
Sherlock has so many things he wishes to say but when they part and their eyes meet, he sees there is no need to voice them. John already knows.
xXx
The following twelve hours pass in a blur. John hardly has time to catch his breath, let alone call his sister, who left several worried voicemails on the phone that Scotland Yard grudgingly handed back to him.
The first police car at the scene comes with Olivia, who puts her foot down and makes the officers listen to Lubitsch's tape first before taking anyone in. After that, she gives them a ride to the station, without handcuffs, and calls ahead to inform the Commissioner.
It only takes one threat from John to call the Prime Minister for him to release Greg from his cell. The Alpha joins them after sharing a lasting hug with Olivia – it might have been more if they weren't surrounded by half of Scotland Yard.
"Thanks for that," Greg tells them, patting them both on the back in his good mood. "How'd you swing it?"
To John's surprise it is Sherlock who answers. "John and his friend caught Moriarty's confession on tape. Rather clever, wouldn't you say, detective?"
"No need to sound so surprised, Sherlock," John cuts in as he catches the glint in Greg's eyes. Whatever comment he had prepared would not have been funny, he is certain of it.
"I'm not surprised, John," Sherlock argues. "I have known for a long time how exceptional you are. I believe what I am doing right now is called 'boasting', something I'm sure Gavin here will do as well as soon as he learns of Olivia's feats out on the field tonight."
"Really?" Greg turns around to where his girlfriend is talking to the Commissioner who seems to be praising her as well as far as John can tell. "Well, I'm glad you approve of her, Sherlock."
"I think it's his way of thanking you for tipping us off, Greg," John offers with a smile.
"If he's really grateful, he could start using my name," Greg quips, mirth colouring his voice.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Geoff, I am perfectly aware of your name," Sherlock shots back, though John can see the corners of the Omega's mouth twitching as he tries to contain his amusement.
"Lestrade!" suddenly comes from their right and the Commissioner is waving the DI over to them.
"Let's see if he's happy enough with me to revoke my suspension and hand me back my badge," Greg sighs. "We'll go for pints, John. Take care." With that, the Alpha hurries over to his boss.
"Too bad we can't use Moriarty's testimony against your brother," John says after a moment. "Bloody immunity. Bet he won't be happy when he finds out it was Moriarty who helped him escape."
Sherlock chuckles. "Not at all. Do you think if I play nice that I'll be allowed to tell him?"
John grabs Sherlock's wrist eagerly. "Let's try."
Which is how they find themselves at a SIS facility later that day, being led down a hall of holding cells. The guard opens the last door on the left, revealing Sherlock's brother. Prison garb does not suit him, John muses, neither does the slight stubble he is sporting.
Mycroft narrows his eyes at them. "It has been resolved, I take it."
Sherlock nods. "Moriarty is dead. John caught his confession on tape. It was all rather impressive. I'm almost sorry you missed it."
"Save your false sentiment, brother dear," Mycroft drawls. "Are you here to set me free or to gloat?"
"I don't know why I cannot do both?" Sherlock's grin is all teeth and at that moment John is incredibly grateful that he is on the Omega's good side.
"We're also here to tell you that it was Moriarty who helped you escape and set you up with Russia," John offers. "How does it feel to know you've been played?"
"I won't give you the satisfaction of letting you see it get to me, Captain Watson," Mycroft insists. "As long as Britain is back on her path to prosperity and I am alive to see it, all is well."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No need for theatrics, brother. You'll have your work cut out for you, I fathom."
"Yes, so would you please vacate my cell and let me return to my post?"
"Of course," John agrees before retrieving the last ace from up his sleeve. "Who's Yelena?"
It is not so much an attempt to humiliate Mycroft as it is indulging his own curiosity. When Sherlock and he learnt that an Omega had also been taken into custody given her residence in Mycroft's flat, Sherlock had gone as far as narrow his eyes in confusion. If something about his brother baffles the detective, it sure enough intrigues John.
Mycroft's cheeks seem to be torn between blanching and flushing. "My personal assistant."
Of course Sherlock is quick in putting it all together. "Are you saying you took the Omega the Kremlin supplied you with back to Britain? Why? Are you suddenly interested in starting a family?"
Sherlock sounds as puzzled as John is feeling. Never in a million years would he have pegged Mycroft as the sort of Alpha to take a mate, even by force. He has always struck John as even more cerebral than his younger brother, with no room for anything sexual.
"Don't be daft, Sherlock, it does not become you. I am not a monster, no matter what you would like to think. Yelena is a capable person. I saw no reason to leave such an asset behind."
John watches Sherlock's expression turn even more pensive as he hums, though after a moment he seems to decide to let it drop. For now.
"Well, this has been fun," he says instead. "Come along, John. Let's leave my brother to revel in his shame in peace."
John chuckles, directs one last incredibly self-satisfied grin at Mycroft which he hopes conveys at the same time just how much he would still love to make the Alpha suffer for all he has done in his life, before following his partner out of the prison.
xXx
When all is said and done, his name cleared and his badge returned to him, Greg takes Olivia home, makes them both tea and huddles close to her on the sofa.
"I heard what you did at the scene today," he murmurs, stroking her back with his right hand. "I think even Sherlock was impressed."
Olivia blushes at the praise. "I don't know what got into me, but I… I just gave them orders, and they actually listened to me. They listened," she repeats, sounding dazed even twelve hours later.
"I'm proud of you," he whispers since he isn't sure whether Olivia picked up on it from his tone.
She shifts against his side, angling her face up to meet his eyes. "You approve, then?"
"Yeah," he replies. They hold each other's gaze for a moment, and Greg knows exactly what he wants to say. "I love you."
Olivia's eyes widen for a moment before a blush colours her cheeks. She buries her face in his neck; Greg can feel her nose brushing his skin there.
"I love you, too," she murmurs, and Greg's arm tightens around her.
They stay like that for a long time.
xXx
"Would you like some tea? And a late dinner, perhaps?"
Mycroft hesitates, taking in Yelena's exhausted posture. Even now she is still subservient, no matter how tired she must be after a night in a cell without knowing what the future holds for her.
"Why don't I make tea for a change and we order in?"
She grows still, eyes widening in shock. Mycroft doubts anyone has ever made the woman tea in her life.
"W-why?" she stammers, the fear in her voice reminiscent of those first few weeks she spent with him in Russia.
Mycroft does his best to give her a friendly, absolutely unthreatening smile. "Because I am sure you are exhausted. And, maybe, to show my gratitude for your work. I don't show it enough."
"There's no need, sir –" she begins, yet falls silent as soon as she sees Mycroft shaking his head.
"There is. You are a skilled personal assistant and one day you will be as content with yourself as I already am."
Silence falls, stretching between them for several minutes during which Mycroft can see Yelena's thoughts play out on the canvas of her face. Whatever conclusion she draws, it seems to be a positive one, for her lips transform into the most tentative of smiles.
"I'll be waiting on the sofa." She curtseys, then walks past him into the living room.
It is not too often that Mycroft feels completely at ease with his own self. Too much blood coats his hands, too many mistakes are shrouding his self-image in dark and heavy clouds. Yet when he receives another smile as he sets down the china in front of Yelena, he thinks he really might not be that much of a monster after all.
xXx
As soon as their door falls shut behind him, John throws himself into his armchair, finally allowing the exhaustion to get to him.
He would have drifted off within minutes, but Sherlock seems to have other plans for he climbs into his lap immediately, straddling John's hips.
"I believe I owe you a blowjob from yesterday morning, before we were so rudely interrupted," Sherlock whispers in John's ear. He can feel Sherlock's hardening erection through too many layers of fabric where it presses against his stomach and shivers in anticipation. Any exhaustion he might have felt dissipates immediately.
"Please," he gasps, which is all the consent Sherlock needs before he sinks to his knees, still graceful as ever, the git.
Hands are stroking up and down John's thighs while Sherlock's heated gaze meets John's from underneath long lashes. He watches Sherlock's tongue emerge to wet his lips and he can feel his cock twitch in anticipation.
Sherlock must have sensed it for his eyes immediately fall on John's crotch. Long fingers trace the contours of his growing erection through his trousers and John has to grip the armrests to keep himself from winding his fingers in Sherlock's hair and freeing himself.
His mate – yes, his mate, there is no denying that anymore, John realises with a jolt of pleasure – seems to think taking it slow is a good idea, for he opens John's belt at a torturously low speed. He has half a mind to say something if he weren't sure any comment would motivate Sherlock to lower the pace even more.
By the time John's cock is freed from the confines of his trousers and pants, it is almost painfully hard, pulsing from the faintest touch of Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock leans forward, stopping when his lips are a hair's breadth away from the tip of John's erection. The sound he makes is barely human, just strangled impatience, and his fingers dig into the chair.
"Please, oh Christ, Sherlock," John gasps, losing the battle with his hips, which jerk forward on their own accord until Sherlock's lips finally touch his bare skin.
Fortunately his mate does not draw it out any longer, tight heat enveloping him slowly as Sherlock takes more and more of him into his mouth.
His tongue traces the underside of his erection as Sherlock draws back, eyes fluttering open for a moment to give John permission. He moves immediately, gripping Sherlock's soft curls with a hand and exerting just the right amount of pressure to have Sherlock moan around his cock.
It would have been the perfect blowjob, a prelude to even better post-case sex, if the sound of the door opening around the corner had not made both of them freeze.
"Hello boys! Why didn't you say you're back, I made some biscuits," Mrs Hudson's voice drifts from the kitchen into the living room. "Do you want me to make you two some tea? I'm sure you're –"
That is as far as she comes before she finds them in the living room. As far as embarrassing positions to be caught in go, John figures, it could have been worse. He stifles a moan as Sherlock's mouth tightens around his cock when he swallows without releasing John's erection, his eyes squeezed shut.
Mrs Hudson flushes scarlet, averting her eyes. "Really, boys, hasn't anyone ever taught you to lock a door?" she chides, and John can feel his own blush deepen. "Well, I'll just leave the biscuits on the table, alright my dears? I'm sure you'll feel peckish after."
She hesitates as though wanting to say more, but thankfully thinks better of it and flees the flat. The moment they hear the door fall shut behind her, Sherlock lets John's cock slip out form his lips.
They manage to stare at each other for one full second before they erupt into laughter, the post-case giddiness mixing with embarrassment until Sherlock is panting against John's thigh, out of breath with laughter and John starts feeling dizzy from it.
Sherlock is grinning up at him, eyes open and happy, and his hand is gripping John's knee for support to keep him from doubling over as the last ripples shake his body.
John knows just as well as Sherlock does that they will forget to lock the door some other day in the future, even if they lock it now. He doesn't care. Sherlock Holmes is looking up at him with a glint in his eyes, the biggest threat of the past years has been eliminated, and they are both alive and well.
Somehow between wars and revolutions, torture and murder, John has become the most lucky bastard in the entire world.
He has found his mate, and nothing will ever manage to stop them.
The End.
xXx
End Notes: It's DONE! *cheers* I hope you enjoyed the finale as much as I did. Thanks so much to all of you who have commented and followed while this was a WIP. I appreciate it immensely!
Please don't hesitate to let me know what you thought of the finale, or – if you're reading this in the future – what you liked, what you didn't like, etc. Feedback feeds my Muse :)
As to future projects: It seems as if "Virus" will remain a WIP since my Muse seems to be in no mood for Harry Potter. Instead, she has latched onto a new idea… Bondlock! Aka a crossover of Sherlock and James Bond. It's going to be a post-Skyfall Season 4 AU (disregarding the Special) in four parts. Part one is two thirds finished and will be posted once I'm done as to avoid longer hiatuses like I made y'all suffer with this fic.
I can't give you a definite date, so maybe just follow me (or whatever the „subscribe" equivalent is on ffn) and you'll be notified once I post something new :)