CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE

Summary: In a world where social status is determined by Alpha/Beta/omega dynamics and the American Revolution never succeeded, the British Empire is the biggest superpower. Omegas occupy the lowest step on the social ladder and are used as slaves and cheap workers. Betas can lead normal lives – though once convicted of a crime, they are stripped off their rights. Alphas hold the highest positions in government and the regime's powerful military.

Alpha Mycroft Holmes is the most influential man in the Empire – and he will not let the fact that his brother was born an omega change that. Sherlock has been living as an Alpha his entire live. It doesn't pose a problem – until a unit of the Reformist movement led by Captain John Watson kidnaps him and denies Sherlock his meds.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, dub-con due to heat cycles, slavery, torture, graphic depictions of violence

Author's Notes: This is the product of me studying for a Social and Cultural Anthropology test at university. I never did get around to do that much studying, but I got an A/B/o Slavery AU out of it :). I am rather proud of this one, so please, be gentle with ConCrit…

Thanks so much to merlenhiver for the last, beautiful beta job she did before a longer break from beta-reading! Another THANK YOU goes to Iriya, my beta for part II of this verse, who has taken the time and Brit-picked this part as well (and corrected some mistakes left while she was at it).

xXx

Chapter 1: The Hostage

John slows his breathing, adjusts the projectile, and pulls the trigger.

The tranquilizer hits the man right in the carotid artery, releasing the chemicals into the Alpha's bloodstream. He drops like a sack of potatoes.

"Alpha One down. Proceed," John orders his unit through the com line.

Five people move in unison towards the house's back door. John steps over the body next to the rubbish bins and follows his team.

Lubitsch opens the door and John peers into the room. Empty.

A brief gesture, into the next room, also vacant, through the hallway, then – voices.

Wife and daughter. Two shots necessary.

John and Lubitsch share a look, Wilder kicks the door open and then they are inside and the two Alphas drop to the wooden floor, unconscious.

John activates his com-line again. "Lion to Eagle. Alphas are down. Ready for extraction in two minutes."

"Understood, Lion," Irene Adler's voice answers.

The unit proceeds into the cellar and quickly finds who they are looking for: The family's six omega slaves – no, five omegas, one Beta, the scent is telling John – are bound to the wall.

The Beta seems a bit weak but otherwise unharmed, the women on the other hand have sustained a heavy beating. The youngest girl, perhaps 17 years old, sports a collar of bruises along her neck. The image and its implications chase a shiver down John's spine.

He has seen it often. Usually, Alphas treat their omegas fairly well; they are fed and clothed. Sometimes, however, they encounter families who would mistreat their slaves, exploit them sexually until their injuries made them useless as workers, and the family had them put down.
Any Alpha can put a bullet in an omega's brain and not lose sleep over it. Legally, omegas have no rights. They are property of the government or of private owners.

"Shh," John says and approaches the group of omegas with his hands held high. They smell his Alpha status; he can see the fear in their eyes. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm Captain John Watson of the Reformists. We heard about your owners torturing you. We're here to free you."

"Free us?" the girl croaks and John makes a mental note to have her checked for internal injuries. She apparently was the man's favourite.

"Yes. We'll take you back to our base. You will have a mattress, warm water, and plenty to eat. My friends will unchain you now, alright?"

He nods at Lubitsch and Wilder who crouch down to release the six people.

xXx

Once he has tended to their injuries and provided them with clothes, John leaves the slaves in the care of another comrade who would find them a place to sleep and a warm meal.

Their base of operation is located underground, getting in is impossible if you don't know where to search for the entrance. They are well equipped thanks to a few wealthy supporters in terms of food, clothing, medical and military supplies.

Still, the absence of windows always reminds John of the cellar in his family's house, cold, dark, unwelcoming.

People try very hard to make HQ comfortable by decorating the rooms or painting walls, but in the past weeks the Empire has been closing in and the atmosphere has become tense.
Panic is in the air.

"Well done, Captain." A sombre voice shakes John out of his reverie and he finds himself face to face with Homi Bhabha, one of the three leaders of the Reformist movement.

"Thank you, sir."

Two omegas John recognizes as recently rescued slaves do a double take when they hear an obvious Alpha like John call an omega like Bhabha "sir".

"Adler, Thoreau and I are very satisfied. The SAS hasn't found any traces of us, according to our sources."

"Good."

Homi Bhabha possesses a calm that claims respect, a passion for their cause that claims loyalty and is – above all – an advocate of non-violent resistance. It is thanks to Bhabha taking a stand with Adler and Thoreau that John uses tranquillisers and not real bullets.

"Sir, I hear rumours about the SAS closing in on our location." It is neither a question nor a statement and Bhabha's reaction is telling John all he needs to know.

He swallows. "So it would seem." He doesn't say more.

xXx

"I'm not your puppet, Mycroft."

Sherlock's defiant gaze would have reduced lesser men to a cowering mess. Mycroft is no such man, however.

"No, but you are reliant on my help with certain, ah, issues."

Sherlock winces almost unnoticeably. Mycroft should feel guilty, he guesses, for using his brother's genetic make-up as a means of blackmail, but he is dealing with matters of international importance.

"It's a boring case."

"That flash drive contained invaluable information on secret developments."

"Then putting it on such a device wasn't a very smart move by your employees."

"Believe me, Sherlock, heads have rolled." Mycroft is speaking only half-figuratively. Heads might not have rolled, but the perpetrator is dead none the less. One less Beta in the world hardly matters. That flash drive on the other hand…

"So we have a deal?"

His brother draws a deep breath that is shaking with barely contained anger. At the end of it, however, he nods curtly.

Mycroft hands him the file.

"Make this your priority." Sherlock turns with a flourish of his coat. "Oh, and brother?" Sherlock merely makes an acknowledging noise but doesn't turn around. "I will know if you don't."

"I de-bugged my flat yesterday."

"I have more ways than that to keep an eye on you."

Sherlock turns to raise one disdainful eyebrow at him. "Your energy and time would be better spent monitoring the Reformists. Your assistants and staff are all tense; I assume they freed another family's slaves?"

It hits a bit too close to home. Mycroft remains silent, yet it is all the answer Sherlock needs.
Sherlock might be an omega, but they are still equally brilliant.

His brother huffs and leaves.

Only Sherlock could laugh at the current situation. The Reformists are gaining in strength, support amongst the people is rising and gradually, even the Betas are becoming restless.

If he doesn't play his cards right, civil war will be inevitable.

20 per cent Alphas. 40 per cent Betas. 40 per cent omegas.

It doesn't take a mind like Mycroft Holmes' to deduce their chances are looking bleak.

xXx

"The students are holding secret meetings. Speaking of things like equality and liberty. Must have heard it from friends in France, you know what's happening there."

Mike's words are still ringing in John's ears.

A dark shadow of foreboding lies thick over London as he makes his way back to HQ from St Bart's where he meets with his friend once a week. Mike teaches at university – he has a direct line to the young generation.

Of course John knows of France – all his comrades are aware that there is a revolution on the rise across the ocean. Still, the French have tried once before and failed. But the young outnumber the old and desperately want to step out of their parents' shadow.

John prays for them to be victorious. Liberal legislation, or perhaps even democracy only a few miles away from the heart of the Empire? That would energise their forces.

If they will hold out that long.

SAS activity has doubled over the past week. More raids, more arrests happen every day and John wouldn't be surprised if the government pushed for stricter laws within the next few days.

"Captain Watson?" Ghandi's voice. Ghandi is a white kid from Sussex named Colin but his love for the Indian reformer runs so deep that he has the Reformists call him Ghandi.

"Yes?" John hopes his comrade only wants a quick word. The boy is an omega and his heat cycle is approaching, merely 24 hours away judging by his scent, and on principle John keeps his distance from any omega when he or she is in heat.

"The Triumvirate sent for you."

"You know they don't like it when you call them that."

"Well, they're three leaders. Triumvirate."

"Don't let them hear you, kid. Off with you, back to your books."

Ghandi smiles warmly and runs down the corridor. If John hadn't known that omegas were as intelligent as or even smarter than the average Alpha before he met the kid, John would have been converted the moment he held a passionate speech about Henry David Thoreau and his work on Civil Disobedience that left John's brain in knots.

John finds the Triumvirate in their conference room.

Irene Adler looks stunning as always, though the fact that John is sensing an Alpha smell doesn't bode well. Adler was born with a genetic mutation – she can alter her status and appear as Alpha, Beta and omega. It is fascinating, though John suspects that the lack of identity takes more out of the woman than she lets on.

Bhabha is deep in discussion with Marc Thoreau, great-grandchild of none other than the same Henry David Thoreau Ghandi is so fond of. Marc holds many traits people have ascribed to his great-grandfather with one major exception: Where Henry advocated non-violent protest, Marc has an itchy trigger finger.

Whenever he and Bhabha argue, it usually boils down to that issue. Today isn't any different.

"You wanted to speak to me?" John asks loudly to be heard over the raised voices of the two men. The omega and Beta fall silent instantly.

As no one volunteers to address the issue, Irene steps away from the map of Greater London that is covering half the wall.

"Yes, John. We have a new mission for you."

"We haven't decided yet," Bhabha interjects.

"We have. Two against one. It's final, Bhabha."

"Thoreau, your ancestor would turn in his grave if he knew what you were suggesting!"

"Good thing that he was shot and burnt and doesn't have a grave to turn in."

"What's all this about?" John tries again.

"The government is closing in on us. SAS activity has tremendously increased." One can always count on Irene to cut to the chase. "We need to take action."

"But not like this!"

Irene ignores the omega. "We're not ready for anything large" – which John's mind translates to civil war in a moment of horror – "so we have to start on a smaller scale. Kidnapping and blackmail."

"It goes against all our principles -"

"We've surpassed the state of moral superiority; lives are at stake, Bhabha!"

"Who?" John asks. Who could hold such value that Irene and Thoreau think they could bargain with his or her life? Everyone knows that even the highest ranking Alphas aren't immune to assassination by their own people.

Irene's smile turns malicious as she pushes a folder towards John across the table.

Blue, piercing eyes meet John's gaze as he opens the file. The man has cheekbones that warrant a licence and dark curls that contrast beautifully with his pale skin.

There isn't much information. Sherlock Holmes, 34, Alpha.

"Holmes?" The name can fill even the most battle-worn Reformist with fear. John has never met the man in person, is glad for it, too, since hardly any Reformist lives to tell the tale. Yet John has always imagined him a bit older and less lean from the stories.

"No, not Mycroft Holmes. Kidnapping him would be suicide," Thoreau explains. "This is his brother."

John raises his eyebrows.

"Our informant has supplied us with enough information that we can devise a plan to take Sherlock Holmes down easily."

"What are we going to do with him once he is in our custody?"

"We use him to blackmail Mycroft Holmes." Thoreau seems convinced of his indestructible plan, yet John could blow several holes in it already without even drawing his Sig.

"Are you sure that is wise?"

"I keep telling them," Bhabha snarls, "that Mycroft Holmes is not the kind of man who would let the kidnapping of his brother change anything. He'd rather let the man die before considering giving in to blackmail."

"And as we keep telling you, it's two against one."

John closes the folder and straightens himself up to his full height.

"Isn't this an issue for the Grand Council?"

John is surprised they haven't sought advice from their council on the matter before calling him in. Major operations always go through this channel.

"It will take too long," Thoreau objects. "If we call a meeting, we will have a decision by the day after tomorrow if we're lucky. We need time to plan the operation before the SAS are knocking on our front door!"

Irene's eyes are fixed on John, as are Marc's. John belatedly realises they are trying to stare him down.

No. He was not going to kidnap a man – Mycroft Holmes's brother above all else – if the Council hadn't signed off on it.

"This decision is too big for three people to make. Call me when the Council has reached an agreement."

John slides the folder back across the table and leaves the room. It turns out to be quite satisfactory to be able to tell them no.

He is not only the commanding officer but also their best soldier and they know it.

xXx

Sherlock returns the flash drive to his brother just in time for Lestrade's embarrassing press conference about the serial suicides.

He would have loved to see the DI's face when all the journalists' mobiles went off simultaneously.

Twenty-four hours later his eyes are still burning from the alarming shade of pink the third victim wore the previous night. Lestrade would have a fit that Sherlock took the case but as far as the DI is concerned, Sherlock is an Alpha and Mycroft Holmes' brother on top of that.

Besides, he solves half the Yard's cases for them anyway. Lestrade should be kissing the ground Sherlock walks on in gratitude.

Though despite the myriad of different crimes Sherlock has seen and solved, nothing can quite match the thrill of this one.

His hand isn't shaking when he takes the pill. It is almost in his mouth when the shot rings out and the cabbie drops to the floor.

For a split second Sherlock stands still, searching the window for the source of the shot, but the next thing he hears are footsteps on the stairs so he leaps forward, pressing his foot into the wound that is oozing red liquid and soaking the cabbie's shirt.

"Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name."

The man shakes his head weakly. Sherlock presses down harder and he gasps in pain.

"A name." Another pained sound. "NOW!" Sherlock notes that the footsteps have stopped in front of the door.

The imminent threat registers but curiosity overrides it as Sherlock puts his entire weight onto the killer's shoulder.

"The name!"

Then, finally, drawn out in agony, the cabbie shouts, "Moriarty!" His body stills as life leaves him.

Before Sherlock can consider what or who Moriarty is, he feels a sharp sting in his neck. He raises his hand and turns towards the door.

The last he sees before he loses consciousness are five men, guns drawn.

xXx

When Sherlock drifts back into the world, he finds himself in a small room.

Four by four metres, about two metres high, bare walls, door locked from the outside, no handle. No windows but a ventilation shaft. The lid looks unyielding.

Sherlock would try to support his observation by trying to unhinge it, but whatever the men have injected him with keeps him firmly on his back.

So he stays put and bides his time.

xXx

"The mission went smoothly. The mark took over the investigation and followed the cabbie to the building. When the mark took the pill from the killer I shot him from the neighbouring house. Lubitsch and the rest of our men took Holmes without a problem."

John hates debriefings. Being the member of an underground opposition frees him from the paperwork he had to endure during his time with the military, but he still has to report to the Triumvirate or in this case, the Grand Council.

"Did Holmes not struggle?" Bhabha asks with an air of suspicion.

"No, sir. Lubitsch described the scene he encountered to me. Apparently, the mark was more interested in obtaining information from the wounded cabbie than in defending himself."

Irene Adler snorts. "That's to be expected. From what I can gather, the man lives for puzzles. He'd rather take a risk than pass on an opportunity to find out more."

Intriguing. Doesn't this man have any survival instincts?

"Captain Watson," Thoreau begins, utterly pleased with himself and the way Bhabha is glaring at him, "as commanding officer and the only Alpha experienced enough to handle the situation, we place you in charge of Sherlock Holmes."

"What are my duties?"

"Keep him healthy and get him to talk if you can."

"I won't torture him, Thoreau."

"I wasn't asking you to. We want to use him as leverage, not as a means to an end in himself. Don't let him escape or get a message to his friends."

"Understood."

xXx

He is on babysitting duty. Bloody brilliant.

Despite his annoyance, John feels a thrill of anticipation as he is making his way to Sherlock Holmes' cell. Not that the HQ has cells. It is a common room, actually, with a few modifications to the lock.

John positions two guards on the door and enters, vigilant yet confident.

The man scrambles into a sitting position. Of course, the tranquilliser wouldn't allow him to stand up just yet. John quickly scans his body for any sign of discomfort but finds none.

John senses the blue eyes on him and feels as if they were taking him apart. He wishes Sherlock's file contained more information on the man.

"Who are you?" For a hostage, Sherlock seems to be quite rude.

He holds Sherlock's look for a few seconds to leave no doubt about who is in charge. "John Watson. I'm your handler while you're here."

"Handler?" Those blue eyes narrow. "And how long will I have to spend here?"

"That depends on your brother."

The man catches on surprisingly quickly. Understanding blooms on his face which then contorts in a bitter sneer.

"Please. Blackmailing Mycroft with me as leverage is pointless. Shoot me right now and spare yourselves the trouble."

"You seem to have little faith in your brother."

"My brother is a politician. He wouldn't lose a minute of his beauty sleep over me. But of course," Sherlock's smirk turns wicked, "having a sibling of your own, you can't comprehend how anyone could so easily abandon a brother."

John tenses, his hand shooting to his Sig. "How do you know I have a sibling?"

The man holds his gaze, unwavering. "The same way I know you're an army doctor who's been invalided home. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John knows he is staring and shakes himself out of it. Sherlock Holmes probably has an entire file on him, courtesy of his brother.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

At that, Sherlock actually smiles. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the way you examined me with a look when you entered the room says medical training, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is still slightly tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You roll your left shoulder subconsciously, wounded in action, sent home or otherwise you'd still be fighting in Afghanistan, the Empire wouldn't let a fit soldier go otherwise."

Unbelievable. "You said I had a sibling."

"That was easy. Your inflection and tone when you told me the plan was to blackmail Mycroft told me you are operating under the illusion that you can relate. Also, the watch you're wearing is expensive, too expensive for a Reformist, but then it's quite old. A gift, then. It's a man's watch, so brother it is. He is in trouble of some sort, probably gave you the watch as a token to remember him by. It's still in nearly perfect condition, so you spend much time tending to it."
Sherlock focuses his intense stare on John once more. "Your neck is tense, you've just come from a meeting. Probably where they told you that you would be my handler. You're a man of action so you don't like the prospect of babysitting me; though your body language has shifted subtly since you entered the room so your attitude has changed slightly. You're no longer overly annoyed, only mildly, but intrigued."

The man finishes with a click of his tongue and rests his back against the bare wall, eyes closed.

"That… was amazing."

At that, Sherlock leans forward again, eyes snapping open in surprise.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." He isn't lying. That man has only just laid eyes on him and he can tell most of John's life story.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'."

John can't help but smile at that. He knows several people who would have told Sherlock exactly that, perhaps even in a few more colourful ways.

"So, was I right then?" Sherlock looks up at John from the mattress and for a second John registers how long the man's lashes are.

"Almost. I don't have a brother."

"How is that -"

"I have a sister."

Sherlock lets out a frustrated sound. "There's always something. Sister. That was a tough one."

John shakes his head in disbelieve since his hostage – yes, hostage, not guest, John – appears to be seriously angry with himself.

"Are you hurt?"

It distracts Sherlock from his self-berating. He shakes his head.

"Good. The effects of the tranquilliser should fade within the next six hours, so if you still experience the sensations tonight, let me know." Sherlock doesn't nod but John assumes he must have heard him. "Are you hungry?"

"No. I require little food."

"Why?" Usually, Alpha biology also heightens a person's metabolism.

"Food distracts me from thinking. My body is nothing but a vessel."

John lets that remark stand there for a moment.

"I'll ask you again at lunchtime. We'll see if the vessel needs fuel by then."

John nods at Sherlock and turns to go, though stops when the man asks, "How did you know I would be in the building?"

John moves to face Sherlock again. "It was a trap. The whole cabbie thing."

His eyes widen. "So he wasn't the real killer?"

"Oh, he was. We just managed to push him in your direction," John says elusively. He has given away enough already.

Sherlock considers him for a moment but doesn't say more, so John leaves the cell.

xXx

The army doctor keeps his promise to come back at lunchtime but Sherlock merely looks at him and the Reformist departs without another word.

He probably regrets being overly talkative with his hostage.

Captain John Watson is a paradox. He holds himself like a real soldier, with the sort of confidence that only stems from genuine skill. He is one of the strongest Alphas Sherlock has ever encountered and could have easily climbed the ranks in the SAS, yet here he is, helping a bunch of idealistic fools.

Something must have happened. It is a puzzle.

Though to solve it, he needs more data.

By mid-afternoon, Sherlock is able to stand on his feet again. As he predicted, the lid of the ventilation shaft is unyielding. His lock-picking kit is in his coat, which the Reformists took from him. All they left him are his trousers and his purple button-down. And his socks.

He manages to occupy himself with walking about the sixteen square metres for approximately eight and a half minutes (in which he has determined the chemical make-up of the walls) before his brain is screaming in agonised boredom.

When a key turns in the lock, Sherlock snaps back to real life immediately.

It is John, carrying a tray with what looks like toast, beans, and scrambled eggs on a plate.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not, I'm your captor, so when I say you eat, you do so."

Sherlock snorts. Alphas. So full of themselves.

He is about to decline when he takes notice of the smell. It has been quite some time since he has last eaten, he realises.

With a condescending glare, Sherlock accepts the food and nudges it cautiously with his fork.

"It's not poisoned. We need you alive."

That isn't what has caught Sherlock's attention. "This is self-made."

"Yes, my abilities surpass pulling a trigger, actually."

Sherlock tries the eggs and finds John's cooking quite satisfactory, which he is careful not to let on.

He feels the Captain's eyes on him a few moments later.

"You have questions."

"Yes. What exactly is it that you do?"

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one there is, given that I invented the job."

"I thought the police didn't hire amateurs."

"From what I deduced this morning, I doubt you'd still consider me an amateur."

The Captain is silent again and Sherlock sneaks a glance at him around a mouthful of toast. His neck has become even tenser and his left hand is trembling ever so slightly.

The tremor was non-existent this morning.

Something has changed.

"How long are you going to keep me before you contact my brother?"

John narrows his eyes. "It has been decided that we wait until your brother notices you're gone. Our leaders don't want to rush this."

"It won't take long. But until then, you're trapped in here."

"How did you -"

"There's a slight tremor in your left hand which wasn't there when we spoke this morning when you were operating under the impression that this hostage situation would be resolved within a day or two and subsequently you could return to the field. But now you're left in the dark with nothing to do but babysit me. For a man who thrives on adrenaline and action this, of course, would produce a psychosomatic tremor."

John looks at his hand and deliberately stops it from shaking.

"Amazing."

A smile tugs at Sherlock's lips despite his efforts not to show any reaction. He quickly changes the subject.

"Why are you with the Reformists?"

"Why, is that so surprising for an Alpha?"

"Not necessarily. Though you are quite a strong one and you have medical training – you would have made it far in the Empire, even if you couldn't be a soldier anymore. But with the right amount of physiotherapy, your shoulder wouldn't have been an obstacle had you wished to resume your military career."

He considers the Alpha for a moment and John almost grows uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I'm sure you have a theory. Let's hear it, then, shall we?"

Sherlock finishes the last of his beans, sets the knife and fork down and presses his fingertips together as he looks straight at the Captain from his position on the mattress.

"The watch – you hold it dear, it's meticulously clean and well-cared for. A gift from your sister, we've already established that. You haven't seen her in awhile; either because she left you, was taken from you, or died. She is an omega in every scenario. Having an omega as your sister would cause some degree of contemplation regarding the Empire's status rules. Yet you're not merely a sympathising Alpha, you're in the front row of the Reformist movement, playing an active part. That kind of loyalty and devotion needs more motivation. Something happened in Afghanistan. India's independence greatly influenced the side of the country not dominated by petty wars, and many of the ethnic groups don't adhere to the Alpha-omega order the Empire implemented any more. Of course, you would have witnessed how life was possible outside of biological constraints. There had to have been an incident, some kind of eye-opening experience."

John's eyes widen while Sherlock draws his conclusions, which confirms his theories without the need for actual words.

It isn't that extraordinary in the end. Knowledge of other cultures has led Homi Bhabha to the realisation that the social inequalities between Alphas and omegas are due to power discrepancies and oppression. There is no basic truth in the Empire's system, no natural imperative underlying the practice of slavery.

Bhabha provided the omegas with easily understandable phrases in his writings and gradually, the Reformists formed.

It is nothing new. Whether they call it Enlightenment or Revelation doesn't change that history is repeating itself.

But Sherlock is drifting off. His brain, when bored, tends to get carried away.

The pause evidently gave John time to collect himself.

"I was wounded in battle shortly before an explosion killed most of my team. I was sure that if I didn't die from my wounds, our enemies would shoot me." John's voice is low as the memories wash through him. "I woke up in someone's home. He was an omega and had suffered all his life during civil wars and political disputes but he… He could have killed me. He didn't. Instead he tended to my wounds and sent me back out there, knowing that I was an Alpha, representing everything that made his life difficult. He explained that, in his eyes, biology doesn't determine a person's worth. It's the ruling parties who enslave and take peoples' rights away."

John pauses, but Sherlock can easily fill in the blanks.

"So when you were invalided home, you left the military and joined the Reformists."

The soldier nods, defiantly proud. "And now, we're holding you hostage."

Sherlock huffs at the sudden change of topic. "A futile endeavour."

"Our leaders believe it is the best course of action."

"They don't know Mycroft."

"But you do. You work for him?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Smooth, how John is weaving questions in the conversation. A little bit of intel, Sherlock muses, wouldn't hurt.

"Sometimes he crumbles and draws on my intellectual superiority and deductive skills."

John smirks, probably at the arrogance dripping from his voice but doesn't react in any other way.

"The rest of the time, I take it," the Alpha goes on, "DI Lestrade gives you cases?"

"You already know that."

"Yes."

Sherlock holds John's gaze for a moment, making it clear that he isn't going to give up any more information.

John nods, takes the empty plate and turns to leave.

"Someone will come to take you to the bathroom shortly," he says and is out of the door before Sherlock can reply.

xXx

The night and the following morning pass in an endless stretch of nothing. Sherlock tries to numb his mind but doesn't succeed.

He knows that it is going to take at least another day or two until Mycroft notices he is gone. Sherlock tries to calculate how long it will take for him to go into detox, yet he has no data to draw any conclusions from.

Sherlock hasn't taken his medication for two days in a row. He has heard stories of antagonising detox when an omega would stop taking the hormones, but has no idea how long he has until the process will start.

John brings him breakfast and a bottle of water. He brings him lunch as well and Sherlock finds he quite enjoys the soldier's simple yet delicious concoctions although he keeps insisting that he doesn't require three meals a day.

"Anything else you need?" John asks when he takes the empty tray from Sherlock.

"I'm bored," he states and hopes it will suffice. John merely raises an eyebrow. "I could do with a book. Or a case."

John smiles indulgently. "Well, we're a bit short on those, you see, we're not quite legal so we're not allowed to investigate anything. But I'll see what I can do."

True to his word, John returns two hours later with a stack of books.

He pauses before he leaves the room, hand on the doorknob, and Sherlock refrains from asking what he wants, eager to see what books can be found in the Reformist HQ.

"Sherlock, why has no one noticed you've been gone for two days?"

"Mycroft, as even you might be able to deduce, is a very busy man."

The Captain rolls his eyes and angles his body so that he's facing Sherlock. "And what about your friends?"

"I don't have friends."

"What do you mean, everybody has friends," John replies, amused.

"Well, I'm not everybody."

John must have seen that he is being serious for his smile disappears.

"Please, spare me any awkward moments and simply leave. I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit me all hours of the day."

Sherlock only has one second to glimpse the emotion that flits across John's face before he schools his expression and leaves the cell.

xXx

There's no mention of his lack of social life when John brings him dinner, which Sherlock is grateful for. He manages to immerse himself in a series of crime novels, ignoring how obvious the murderer is every time, ignoring how bluntly the author drops hints for the readership.

Sherlock complains to John about it, and the reformist chuckles.

"I'm sorry, but our library isn't very well-stocked," he explains as he exits the room.

After showering under supervision – the Reformists, however, are keen to give him his privacy and the guard doesn't actually watch him shower, a gesture he does appreciate – he falls asleep but wakes with a start a few hours later.

He can feel pain, faint but definitely there, all over his body. His head aches and he is sure he is developing a fever.

No one is to notice, he decides. Especially not John, an Alpha with medical training.

Sherlock knows that it is a lost endeavour, should Mycroft not rescue him within the next day, which is highly unlikely. The scent alone will tell John everything he needs to know.

Still, Sherlock prides himself with incredible control over his body, and he is determined to hide his condition for as long as possible.

xXx

End Notes: I hope you enjoyed! If you are so inclined, please leave a review :)

Homi Bhabha, for those who care, actually is a professor at Harvard and the leading figure in post-colonial studies. Sherlock's account of his past draws heavily from Bhabha's real life.
Goes to show that I had the original idea for this AU during the lecture on post-colonial cultural anthropology :)