Chapter Thirty-Four: Alpha and Omega

Sing Sing Correctional Facility, Ossining, New York. Sunday. June 1st, 1919, 12:05 pm

Sherlock has had a fair amount of sex throughout the years with various alphas. Most of it was fuelled by the demands of his Estrus cycles, and he has painstakingly avoided Bonding and another pregnancy through the two years he had spent believing he was a widow. And almost all of the sex was with one alpha: a vile man who believed sex was only about power and always took him as all vile alphas did: unsympathetically and from the back.

John is no such alpha, even in the deepest clutches of Heat.

John can get a bit rough at times, yes. John likes to pin Sherlock's arms above his head before fucking him into the mattress. Whenever Sherlock gets down on his knees to return the occasional favour, John gets carried away in the passion and the pheromones when Sherlock takes him in his mouth and tastes the irresistible alpha scent of musk and pine that belongs to John alone.

But when John makes love to him during the first hallowed phase of Sherlock's Estrus, it's always in one position: lying side-to-side with Sherlock, foreheads linked together, one muscular arm cradling Sherlock's head and another hooked around Sherlock's legs raised in the air as he pounds into him from behind and steals open-mouthed kisses. In that moment, surrounded by John's intoxicating alpha scent and his protective arms, in the eye of the hurricane of pheromone-induced pleasure, Sherlock often feels like a fetal newborn, watching his Bonded with wide eyes and slack-jawed awe.

It's not just an act of reclaiming his omega, it's a feat of halcyon intimacy, a love whose depths Sherlock knows he'll never truly discover. Where did love begin and end with John: the Bond between them, the child they'd created together, the tragedies they had shared and the sacrifices John had made to keep Tom and him safe? That impossible alpha with his inexplicable instinct of throwing himself in front of bullets and criminals twice as tall as him and four times smarter for him without expecting anything in return. That impossible alpha who had survived a sinking for him and crossed continents for him and killed men without hesitation for him.

So there's really nothing to be done for Sherlock in the end. Except to moan shakily every time John's cock hits his prostrate with unerring accuracy and surrender to his invasive tongue and kiss him harder and deeper. John's hands wander all over his body, grabbing and massaging and exploring with a possessive edge Sherlock adores and he gives himself up for the taking.

"Harder, John!" Because Sherlock needs more. He's close and he can feel the knot at the base of John's cock ballooning, John grunting in fervent pleasure behind him. How John manages to make something as prosaic and biological as intercourse so terrifyingly intimate, Sherlock will never know.

John buries his nose in the scent glands at the base of Sherlock's neck as he thrusts harder and bares his teeth. Sherlock throws his head back to allow him to renew his Bond bite once again.

"Sherlock, you're. . ." John presses his tongue to his glands, chasing desperate whiffs of Sherlock's scent with each breath, "how you. . . how do you. . . so good. . . every time. . .?"

"Fuck, John! Harder!" There it is. Sherlock can feel the cock swell and pulse inside him. Any minute, John would knot him.

"Oh God, yes, Sherlock!" John lets go of Sherlock's legs and in a swift move and without pulling himself out of Sherlock, hooks his slender legs over his shoulder and looms over his omega, "Say my name, Sherlock."

Sherlock closes his eyes, "Oh, John. . ."

John's thrusts grow faster and more erratic, the slap-and-thud of their sweaty bodies signifying how close their climactic end is. John presses one wet kiss to Sherlock's knee before leaning forward to envelop Sherlock's head in his arms. The warm, steady weight of John's body and the electrifying bass of his heart makes Sherlock's own go into overdrive. Body on body. Alpha and omega as connected as nature intended.

"Again."

"John," Sherlock lets his name drawl off his lips the way he knows John likes it: slow and sultry.

"Ah," John groans and bites into Sherlock's Bond bite. Sherlock buries his fingers into John's damp flesh and feels John's pheromones growing more intense, so powerful they hang in the air like opaque mist and Sherlock inhales a heady lungful of it like a drowning man.

John lets out a final grunt before shoving his ballooned knot into Sherlock and the fullness of it makes Sherlock come unabashedly into the space between their bodies, hot, sticky fluid erupting from the depths of him, signifying the end of the first, breathless phase of their Heat. The intensity of the climax takes Sherlock a while to regain his breathing or any semblance of rational thought. When he does, he finds himself in John's tight, safe grasp and fluttering kisses that started as passionate but are now dissipating like dying stars in the wake of a brilliant supernova.

"I love you," John gasps and the slight twinge of the Bond bite returns to Sherlock. The room has become less stuffy. John's knot is still inside him and with every little grind of his hips, Sherlock, much to his satisfaction, finds he can still make John moan and his cock pulse lazily inside him, shooting the last streams of John's seed inside him.

"Me too," Sherlock lets out a slurred whisper, his entrance still itching to be fucked. How John manages to utterly finish him off and yet leave him wanting for more, he'll never understand. Sherlock finds that, when it comes to John, he certainly doesn't understand a whole lot of things. But he finds himself not minding the bliss of the ignorance and that's the particular brand of charm only John Watson possesses.

John picks up on Sherlock lazily rocking his hips against him and let out a low, amused growl against Sherlock's skin, "Want more, do ya?"

"You know me, John. I'm a beast."

John lets out a chuckle into his collarbone and the beautiful sound reverberates through Sherlock's lungs, "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Become a stowaway on a ship and tried to talk me out of doing something stupid?" There are a hundred other things John has done, but Sherlock lets them slide by. If he starts ticking off every single thing John has ever time, they'll need two more conjugal visits to cover it.

"Sounds like me," John flashes a cheeky smirk before leaning forward to capture Sherlock's swollen lips in a long-drawn snog.

It's only after the end of the second phase of his Heat that Sherlock feels completely spent. Fortunately, John is sated and exhausted too, because his knot shrinks and slip out of him earlier than it did than last time. However, he doesn't let go of his grip on Sherlock, choosing a few more minutes of cuddling, revelling the hazy post-orgasm glow.

"How long. . ." John murmurs, his voice a heartwarming murmur, ". . . how long before the next one?"

Sherlock wipes the sweat off his forehead. "We should be good for a while. Probably should take a bath."

"No," John growls, and Sherlock stiffens at the instant bout of arousal that licks the base of his spine, "do it at the end. I like your scent like this."

"Claimed, you mean."

"Exactly. . . So, what do you have for me this time?"

John chuckles and sits up next to Sherlock on the bed, but his touch still lingers, as if reminding himself that Sherlock is still here. Sherlock wants nothing more to tell John that there's nowhere else he'd rather be, but chooses to reach out for the bag he brought with himself. First things first.

"Tom's things, as usual."

He hands John the notebooks and John opens them reverently. His rough fingers glide over their son's writing, and John clenches his jaw as if he were able to touch Tom right through the barrier of paper and distance.

"He's grown," John's voice comes out choked. Sherlock rests his head in the crook of John's shoulder, exhaling contentedly. He reaches out for one calloused finger and imagines their family together, the way they should've been. The way they would've been if not for Mycroft.

"You say that every month."

John opens his palms up, letting Sherlock trace the new bruise patterns over them. John is tough, he tells himself. Prison alphas can't do any more damage to John than John can.

"Does he," John holds in a difficult breath before continuing, "mention me?"

Sherlock can hear the tendril of hope blossoming in the garden of despair in John's voice and there's not much to water it with, "A bit. He remembers you."

John lets out a self-pitying chuckle. "Small mercies, I suppose."

Sherlock doesn't like that note, not on John, no. So, he tips John's cheek up and brings their lip together till they meet, tender and hesitant and pliant. The ghost of John's warm breath whispers sweet nothings on Sherlock's wet lips and Sherlock can taste himself in John's probing tongue in his mouth. He traces the tendons of John's neck and kneads on the flesh there. John tilts his head to deepen the angle of the kiss and even if Sherlock's eyes are closed, he can see the imprint of John's lustful expression on the back of his eyelids.

My alpha.

John finishes the kiss with a wet pop and nuzzles his forehead with Sherlock, inhaling deeply. Sherlock finds one palm has gravitated to John's heart, measuring his breathing to the solid, lively beat of it.

"He hasn't. . ." John begins tentatively, ". . . hasn't got that flu thing that's going around, has he?"

"They closed schools during the first wave. . ."

"But now they've reopened?"

Sherlock knows that John would usually not engage in such chitchat; he would efficiently extract information, process it and provide his thoughts on it. But Sherlock also knows he is John's only link to humanity and the outside world, and it's a tremendous responsibility he must execute with the utmost sensitivity.

"The flu has left New York. It's more serious out in the west, as far as I know, so they're allowing. . . schools and shops and everything else to open."

John's fingers trail over Tom's penmanship, and he lets out a fond chuckle, "This. . . he writes 'r' the way you do."

"Have you just noticed that?"

John's smile dies, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being such a terrible Sire. . . if I'd only. . ." John begins, shaking his head, "I shouldn't have. . . I should've been cleverer, Sherlock. And now Tom, he'll forever be known as a murderer's son—"

"Stop," Sherlock commands, and John bows his head in regret. He hates this, loathes how weak and vulnerable John looks, "John, you did the right thing. Moran came after us and you. . ." he grabs on to John like a drowning man to a log of wood, "You did. . . good."

"He came after you because of me, Sherlock. Because I was. . ."

Sherlock traces a vein on John's arm tenderly. "You know that's not entirely true."

But John recedes from him and Sherlock wonders whether he should tell John about what Mycroft has asked of him. He doesn't like keeping things from John, but he estimates the whole thing would be finished before his next Heat cycle, so he can get away with not telling John about it.

But he and John don't have secrets anymore. That's what a Bond is. Two people becoming one. And two people who've become one don't keep secrets from one another. Four years ago, Sherlock would've skipped town in a heartbeat without keeping John in the loop. He's done that too many times and it only caused discord in the past. Not anymore.

"By next month this time, you'll be out, John."

John lets out a chuckle beside him. "I've heard that before, Sherlock. Mycroft won't—"

"This time," Sherlock reassures firmly, "he will, John."

The room is draped in silence, save the occasional chirruping of crickets outside. John stiffens beside him and Sherlock closes his eyes, clenching his jaw. The tightness in John's muscles is enough to tell Sherlock that John, even though he doesn't know the extent of it, has figured out to a point what Sherlock has been up to these past few weeks. The Bond between them is too strong not to let his apprehension spill into his alpha.

"What have you done, Sherlock?"

John retracts his warm, grounding presence and assesses Sherlock with narrow eyes that resemble the vitriol of copper. Sherlock gulps.

"A deal with Mycroft."

John leans in to brush Sherlock's cheekbone with a gentle thumb and Sherlock finds himself leaning into the touch, "Why?"

"It will take one month. After that, he'll get you an executive pardon and you'll be a free alpha."

John shakes his head. "If a pardon was in his power, he would've gotten it by now."

"It's not a lack of agency, John; it's a lack of will."

"And who says he's not dangling me this time?" John's tone is beseeching, verbalising Sherlock's inner thoughts, "How do you know he'll not renege again?"

He won't, because this time, Sherlock is older, wiser, smarter. "He'll not. I'm sure of it."

"How?"

"He wants me to. . ." Sherlock knows John will baulk at the prospect. John has always been warm, patient and kind. Well, sometimes he truly is, but Sherlock also knows John banks fire deep down inside. He can be, and has been, crueller, more unforgiving and more terrifying than the wildest tsunami.

So, Sherlock proceeds with caution, not because he is at his most vulnerable now, but because he doesn't know how John would come after Mycroft once he got out.

". . . He is in trouble."

John arches a sceptical eyebrow. "Mycroft is in trouble?"

"Yes. He's being. . . 'interrogated', to put it bluntly. Mycroft believes someone has dug up a significant amount of dirt on him and sent it to his bosses."

The suspicious eyebrow doesn't relent. "Someone?"

Sherlock recognises that accusing tone, but knows better than to fan the flames, "And he wants to know who without getting out of Washington so he can. . . remedy the situation. He can't trust anybody else on it," he adds in an afterthought

"You've never been inclined to help Mycroft!" John scoffs.

"Not usually. But this time I must. Your pardon depends on it."

There's a dangerous twitch in John's jaw. "What sort of 'help'?"

Sherlock avoids his gaze. "It will take me out of the state."

The effect of John's temperament is instantaneous. Looking away, he withdraws his touch and growls, "Where?"

"Not in the pandemic states, don't worry."

That seems to calm John down somewhat. "And Tom?"

"He won't be with Mycroft."

"So you're taking him with you? On this stupid mission across the country while there's a pandemic going on!"

Sherlock shrugs, hoping the intense calm he feels about the road trip can infect John too, but no such luck. "No other choice."

"You do," John's fingers curl around Sherlock's wrist as if he has to leave that very moment, "You let me stay here and bide my time. . ."

That's the problem, Sherlock thinks. He can't let John rot away in a penitentiary, battling disease and hard labour and other incarcerated alphas. He glances down at the red broken skin around John's knuckles and doesn't let go when John tries to hide them. They are Sherlock's wounds as much as they are John's.

The silence that falls between them is pained yet companionable. If only quietude meant equilibrium, Sherlock would have stayed in the moment forever but he can't. Even moments of peace must come to an end in favour of a conclusion.

"But I also know," John's hoarse but determined voice continues and Sherlock's ears perk up, "you'll do your thing even if I tell you not to."

Sherlock can't argue with that, but he gives it one final valiant attempt. "It's not like that, John."

"It is. So tell me. Where?"

Sherlock hesitates but answers, "South."

"South where?"

"Beaumont. Texas."

John's jaw hangs open in incredulity. "In this heat?"

Sherlock ignores the remark retrieving a notepad from his bag, the notepad in which he took down the name and details Mycroft had provided him. "Some beta called Adam Worth, a hydraulic engineer working with Texaco oil. Then Muskogee, Oklahoma. A chemist called Standhope Watts. . ."

"Hang on," John puts up a restraining finger, "Why is he sending you to. . . who're these people?"

"Three of them are government employees. They should've been in Washington but they all went back to their homes before the pandemic broke and have stayed at home since. Another, this Adam Worth person, left government to go back to private sector. And the last one. . ."

"Yes?"

"Milverton. He became the new governor of Massachusetts last year. That's a state," Sherlock clarifies when John looks a little confused. His grasp of American geography is still woefully weak. "Something about that name is very familiar to me. Like a ghost from the past."

Despite the situation, John wolfs out a bewildered chuckle and Sherlock's heart aches at how fond and soft it sounds, "You? Getting Déjà vu?"

Sherlock quirks a half-smile. "Possibly. Must have read that name somewhere."

"Maybe when you worked on the Harland murder case."

The name sends shivers through Sherlock. This is the second time he's heard that name in two days: once from Mycroft, the second time from John, and that too after all these years. "I wasn't able to prove it was a murder."

Perhaps, Sherlock muses to himself, this witch-hunt will prove that it was a murder.

John shakes his head. "But you believed he didn't commit suicide, right? "

"No. That's always haunted me."

John responds by embracing Sherlock from behind in a deliberate, comforting fashion, beginning to scent him once again and Sherlock finds himself leaning into his solace. Now is the time to protect the alpha who's always protected him.

"I love you," Sherlock purrs. A promise, a prayer. The scents of John's pine and musk and tobacco mingle into Sherlock's honey and citrus, creating an olfactory melody than submerges Sherlock into an expanse of golden tanned skin and eyes so deep and blue he can dive into. The imagery of John entwining their fingers together only serves to careen him over the edge. The third phase of his Estrus is closing in and John can feel it too.

"Please be safe, Sherlock."

Herbert Yeats. Rupert Desmond. Standhope Watts. Adam Worth. Charles Augustus Milverton, Sherlock repeats in his head the names already written on his notepad and imprinted in his mental rosary. Indiana. Ohio. Oklahoma. Texas. Massachusetts. Five people. Five states. Why did they all have to be different directions?

"I will." He has to be. Especially with Tom.

John inhales their intertwined scents like an addict. "Do you have your gun?"

"Not in the apartment, but I'll retrieve it today."

John's grip on Sherlock's waist tightens: a tiny exertion of pressure denoting affection and deep, unspoken understanding. "Keep it away from Tom, please."

"I know."

"Don't fire it on walls or bottles and especially not in front of him. He will get frightened again."

Despite the situation, Sherlock lets out a chuckle. It's no laughable matter that he's the reason his son has grown up amongst trauma, but ill-timed humour brings a much-needed solace to Sherlock and in his situation, he has more things to worry about that what's inappropriate. "Never acknowledge that in front of him, John. He refuses vegetables after."

John suppresses a snort into Sherlock's shoulder blade and a pleasant heat pools in Sherlock's lower abdomen.

This is their last phase for this Estrus cycle, and Sherlock can tell John knows it too. After this, they must part ways, if only for a short, albeit unpredictable in quality, time. Time that must go on. If only it went about in a linear fashion and instead of circling an epicentre of suffering.

Williamsbridge, Bronx. Sunday. June 1st, 1919, 7:45 pm

Sherlock has never been as meticulous a packer as John. Shoving things into duffel bags and snatching last-minute supplies are more his style. But that was back when he was immature. He has a child now. He can't afford to be anything less than detail-oriented and overthinking. It's exhausting but it's worth it.

A whine wafts from the direction of Tom's bedroom, making Sherlock glance at the mirror hanging on the main door which reflects Tom in his bedroom, arms crossed over his chest too tiny to be taken seriously, determined in his petulant pouting. Sherlock eyes the dirt on his knees and his undone shoelaces and has to restrain the instinct to go and clean the boy up. Packing needs to be finished first things first.

Another round of whinnying. Tom wants his attention and Sherlock wants nothing more than to lavish it on him—the only living thing in the world Sherlock loves more than John—but he has to be rational in the face of his enemy: time. The particular Watsonian tokens of love are not sitting around and gazing hopelessly into one another's eyes, but to do things that are needed to be done. Which, at the moment, is simultaneous packing and making dinner.

"Wash your hands, Tom!" Sherlock calls out and glances at the mirror to see if he's being obeyed. Predictably not.

"I'm not going with you!" Tom declares in a voice far more serious than it sounds. Sherlock takes the time during selecting which of Tom's underpants to pack to exhale a sigh. He doesn't want to tell Tom that Tom doesn't have a choice besides travelling with him, because he does, but Sherlock is not going to verbalise that. Because that choice is unacceptable.

"Come on, Tom, your soup is getting cold." It's not entirely the truth; he hasn't laid out Tom's dinner on the table yet, but he's found giving children a ticking deadline cultivates a sense of urgency.

"You're lying!" Tom accuses and Sherlock curses himself internally. He's used the trick far too many times. "You always lie, mum!"

"I don't, my dear boy! What a horrendous accusation!"

"You promised I could go to Boy Scouts camp!"

Sherlock lets out a sigh. Tom's spirits from their 'fight' after collecting him from Mrs Bruno's daycare still hadn't subsided. "I did, but. . ."

"But what, mum?"

With that, Tom marches into the sitting room and Sherlock nearly heaves a sigh of relief. At least something got the boy out of his man cave. But his relief is swamped by the sight of Tom's angry, scrunched up face and it looks serious, for a change. It never ceases to amaze Sherlock how fast the boy is growing.

"Want to help me here?" Sherlock tries weakly but Tom, as imperious as a toddler can be, shakes his head firmly. Sherlock can hear Mycroft's arrogant, accusing voice in his head: you've spoiled the boy; he won't even help you with chores. It strikes a chord within Sherlock: here he'd thought he wasn't attentive enough to Tom, and now he's spoiling him? Where's the balance and how does one strike it?

Sherlock turns the stove to 'low' and abandons his packing to kneel in front of Tom.

"I don't want to go, mum," Tom's bottom lip quakes and Sherlock feels besieged by guilt.

"I'm sorry, pet," he cups Tom's cheeks, "I wish I could send you to camp this year but. . ."

"Last year, you said it was the flu," Tom gulps, "and the year before that you said it was the war. . ."

Sherlock sees it finally. Not going to the camp upsets Tom, but not as much as the thought that his mum might be lying to him. He sits down on the floor cross-legged and embraces the boy so that Tom can rest his chin against his shoulder. Sherlock pets his back in a way he hopes is comforting.

"You know I love you, right?"

Tom doesn't reply. Not a good sign.

"You know I'd never lie to you."

"But you do!" Tom insists, retracting and struggling from Sherlock's grip and it breaks his heart just how little his own child trusts him.

"I. . ." Sherlock shakes his head, "Those are small things, pet. I won't ever lie about not letting you go to camp, would I?"

Tom doesn't seem convinced. Perhaps in a child's world, morality is so black and white that lying about food getting cold on the table just to hurry the child up and an actual lie that ruins lives like 'Dr James Harland was a traitor to his country who committed suicide' are equivalent and interchangeable.

Tom looks down at his feet. "I wanna go live with Uncle Mike."

And then there's a sentence that can't be refuted without lies. "We can't, pet."

"Why not?"

Still pouting, Tom's eyes demand answers. Is this how helpless his mother must have felt when having to deal with Sherlock's onslaught of questions that had no straight answers? But it's best to not to lie to a child who's accusing you of lying.

"Because I don't want to." Because once you go to him, he'll never let you go and I'll probably lose you forever and you'll never see your Sire.

Tom contemplates the answer. "Do you hate him?"

Sherlock thinks back. Back and back to their escape from Chicago in 1914: he and John and Mary. To coming and finding their motel room empty and Moran's things missing. To have assumed the worst. To have lived two years assuming the worst. To Mary's slow, silent betrayal and Moran's chase and a hundred other things that had ended with John in prison.

"Yes. Now wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready."

[A/N]: Quick fun history note: Here, Milverton is said to have become the governor of Massachusetts in 1918. In reality, it was Calvin Coolidge who became governor in 1918 (then later became the VP and then POTUS after President Harding's death) so make of it what you will ;)

Hopefully, it now makes sense why so many OCs were introduced in Chapter 32

So, one kind reader pointed out that the Spanish Influenza was ravaging the US at this time and yet my fic makes no mention of it. Silly me, I was so obsessed with the political research that I completely missed out reading up on the pandemic.

Turns out, by 1919, the flu was mostly isolated outbreaks in some cities and died down in June so I suppose I can move the story with the assumption that Sherlock and Tom stay clear of Tennessee and the coastlines and take reasonable precautions (there's no denying how risky their countryside trip for Mycroft is going to be).

But I suppose Mycroft's monologues should've had a mention of the pandemic seeing as he's indispensable to running the country