The Omega Sutra. Chapter Sixteen: The Road to Canterbury
The Omega Sutra. Chapter 16 - The Road to Canterbury.
author: ghislainem70
rating: NC-17
word count: 6545 this chapter, 92, 650 to date.
warnings: Omegaverse. Excessive masturbation, heat, knotting, kink, mpreg.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a secret life. John Watson shouldn't want to be part of it.
disclaimer: I own nothing.
I want to give my mind to gain, if I can, and not to explain our deceptions. For though I told them to you, your wit is all too bare to understand them. . ."
Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales: The Friar’s Tale.
Sweet dreams are made of this --
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas . . .
everybody’s looking for something.
Some of them want to use you,
Some of them want to be used by you.
Some of them want to abuse you;
Some of them want to be abused.
Avicii - Sweet Dreams (Cazette Meet at Night Mix): Listen here:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAfXG2fWgQQ
9:00 p.m., 30 October. Creechurch Street, the City.
Mycroft arrived punctually at nine’o clock.
"You’re right on time," Lestrade said.
"Punctuality is the courtesy of kings."
Only someone as innately regal as Mycroft Holmes could get away with this, Lestrade thought briefly, but he was too weary to tease him. He led Mycroft across the tiny flat (a matter of mere steps) to the equally tiny kitchen and uncorked the wine. He didn’t like to admit that Mycroft was his first visitor to his new residence. "Home" was not a word he used for this place; then again, his former house had not been a home for a very long time. With Mycroft here he felt an unexpected twinge, perhaps of longing, for that simple comfort and peace.
"What shall we drink to?"
"I usually drink to Her Majesty’s health. Tonight, I think ‘to the future’ feels right."
But the only future Lestrade could see was the immediate one: the Sleeping Beauties case. He turned to the thick files balanced on the counter bar that served for his dining table. Mycroft observed his preoccupation, and strode across the sitting room to the window.
"I do so admire your confidence," Mycroft said lightly, looking out into Creechurch Street.
"I’m glad to hear it. Why, especially?"
Mycroft was craning his elegant neck, looking up. From the window, one could see rounded edges of emerald green window glass.
"It’s not every man who can live in the very shadow of The Gherkin. . . . a Freudian nightmare, one should think," he pronounced.
Lestrade choked on his wine. As usual, he found it impossible to tell if Mycroft were deadly serious or jesting. This was aggravating. He felt he ought to be able to tell.
"I never thought of it like that."
"Naturally. I can attest that you have absolutely no reason to," Mycroft said archly. "Which brings me to an important question. Are we eating?"
Lestrade suppressed a smirk. He could never have imagined that Mycroft Holmes would be better able to lift his spirits than anyone else, and he was quietly glad now that Mycroft was here. More than any other case he could remember, the Sleeping Beauties case felt sinister.
Lestrade was not susceptible, as some other officers were, to the unique atmosphere that seemed to surround certain murders. But this case induced a sort of creeping sensation when he stopped long enough to notice his own feelings. And with Mycroft here, he knew why this case felt different. It wasn’t just the poor victims; though they were always present, driving him on and sometimes invading his sleep with their beautiful, still faces and accusatory eyes. This was about Mycroft.
Lestrade had almost canceled their engagement tonight. But he really didn’t want that, and had allowed himself to keep it on the self-imposed condition that tonight was strictly business.
"We are eating," he said, and distributed takeout Italian from the chic restaurant across the street. He never went there for himself, but in making his hurried plans for this night he had decided that Mycroft would probably find his usual standbys sorely lacking.
Mycroft approached as he climbed onto one of the barstools, pressed up against him, brushed cool lips on the back of his neck. It felt bloody marvelous, but he pulled back.
"Look. Mycroft. You’re making it much too easy for me to lose my head here," he said fast before he lost his nerve. "Tonight I just need to talk with you. I . . ." he stopped short in the face of Mycroft’s plain amusement. Which might be masking disappointment; he figured Mycroft wouldn’t let him see that.
"You . . . hardly know me. Is that what you were on the point of telling me, Greg? Or . . . should I call you Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Don’t be daft. Of course, call me Greg. And that’s not it. It’s just - this case. This Maxim is too clever by half. I need - we both need - to just focus on tomorrow. I need to prepare you for what to say, how to answer their questions. I can’t let myself -" He couldn’t say it, so he drank down some more wine, and pushed the glass away. No more Dutch courage.
Mycroft made a show of moving to the farthest end of the counter. "I quite understand. Don’t concern yourself. I shan’t touch you. Tonight is strictly police business then, I gather. My mistake. I suppose I had better have some more of that wine if you’re going to cross-examine me - Detective Inspector."
Lestrade cursed himself, the case. How many times had doing his job hurt people he cared about? It was a police cliche, and he was living it. Now, he'd blown things before they'd properly begun. Maybe Mycroft thought he was retreating; uncomfortable with having strayed from his orientation. Maybe he was. Things seemed confusing here in London. They hadn't in Mumbai.
Mycroft's eyes were weighing him gravely. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He was a detective -- he considered himself up to the challenge. And his promise to himself didn’t have to prevent him from getting to know Mycoft Holmes better. He put on an innocent expression as he cleared their plates.
"Right then. I’ll start with an easy question. What is it that you do, exactly? I mean at MI5. It is MI5, isn’t it?"
Mycroft smiled thinly. He was not falling for the innocent act. Lestrade immediately dropped it, and waited out the long silence for an answer. He was better at this than any other detective on the Homicide Squad and more than a few killers had confessed under his patient, judgmental silence.
"After a manner of speaking. What do I . . . do? That’s actually not an easy question. . .hmmmm. Protection, in the broadest sense. As to how that is achieved, well - let’s just say, I have a variety of resources at my disposal."
Lestrade nodded. He understood this. "Police protect, too. When we can. So we’ve that in common. In the Sleeping Beauties case we’re failing," he said bleakly. If he opened the topmost file, they would see an autopsy photograph of the latest victim. He appreciated that Mycroft didn’t offer him false reassurance.
Mycroft excused himself to take a hushed call on his mobile, then raised his voice harshly:
"Philips. I asked you to repeat it because I could not have heard you correctly. I expressly ordered you not to rely on tracking devices. He will always find them! You are quite certain you’ve lost him? How very unfortunate - especially for you, Philips. There are a number of open postings with frightfully high mortality risks. Anthea will contact you."
Mycroft was outwardly as composed as ever, but his eyes were very hard. He finished the last of his wine.
"Sherlock?"
"I’ve had him under very close watch since he returned to London. Well, I did have."
"But John -" Lestrade’s own mobile buzzed and he listened intently. "Doctor Hooper saw just saw John Watson at Barts. He told her I had called Sherlock in on the case. "
"You have not, obviously."
"I would have, of course, if it were any other case. But John also said that Sherlock is determined go forward alone."
"He always has done - until John."
Lestrade pulled out a bottle of fine scotch and poured them each a stiff glass.
"Something stronger, under the circumstances. John and Sherlock - well, you know they’re just back from that retreat. Scotland, was it? And, well, ah - now Sherlock’s -"
"- I see," Mycroft said quietly.
The scotch soothed them for a few moments, but the news of this pregnancy was so incongruent with Lestrade’s idea of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, that he almost couldn’t believe it - except for Mycroft’s odd expression. Whatever it was, it was not surprise: Mycroft had expected this. Another reason for Mycroft to have been watching Sherlock more closely. This led to thoughts of children, a topic seemingly unbroachable between two Alphas. He was frustrated with himself: his mind seemed determined to tear apart his agenda for the evening. These foolishly domestic thoughts were nothing but a dangerous distraction. Mycroft’s voice wrenched his attention back to the case.
"Do you know where is John now?"
"Doctor Hooper said John wouldn’t tell her where he was going," Lestrade replied. "She said . . . he frightened her. But she gave him something - Sergeant Donovan already fowarded it to me. It’s a note from the pocket of one of the victims." Lestrade could not be angry with Doctor Hooper for giving in to John; an Alpha had an almost unconquerable drive to protect his pregnant mate.
He pulled up his mobile and they both looked at the image of blurred ink that had been soaked by rainfall into the cloth of the victim’s trouser pocket.
"Hants, AHE V-D 12:50 P3"
They stared at one other, stricken.
"Hants. Hantsfield Hall."
"Yes. And V-D 12:50 P3. . . that’sa train. Victoria station, 12:50 to Dorking, platform 3. It’s the nearest regular train passing near Tatsfield, Donovan checked it out. "AHE" is All Hallows Eve, obviously. Our last victim was going to Maxim’s party . . . but he didn’t make it."
"John couldn’t know what to make of this. If anything he will think Hants means, Hampshire. Not unless Sherlock told him something different, and he obviously didn’t," Mycroft said firmly. "The real question is, does Sherlock know about Maxim’s little Halloween party? Because it cannot be a coincidence that today of all days, my brother has apparently decided to both evade my surveillance and devote himself to solving the Sleeping Beauties case."
"They’ve barely been back from Scotland for a day. Only to my closest officers know about this evidence, and none of them would share it with Sherlock Holmes without my authority. Even Doctor Hooper wouldn’t know what it meant. But I’ll take precautions."
Lestrade called in a watch for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes in the vicinity of Tatsfield and began rehearsing tomorrow’s operation in his mind. Some minutes must have passed, because Mycroft cleared his throat politely, standing up.
"I'm very flattered you wanted to make time for me tonight, Detective Inspector. But I can see that you have more pressing concerns. I'd better leave you to it. We can meet at the Yard in the morning," Mycroft said formally. Lestrade put out his hand to stay him, remembering Mumbai and hands reaching for each other in the dark.
"No, I do want you here - I need to try harder to shut it off, sometimes."
"I quite understand. I should think serial killers are the worst cases."
"The truth is, there is still a lot needs doing before tomorrow. I'm waiting on the wiretap team."
"But you needed to eat. And you will need to sleep. But if you want me to stay, we ought to go over the plan, yes?"
"Yes." Lestrade opened his laptop and pulled up a satellite map of the town of Tatsfield.
"It’s a small village. And this Hantswood Hall stands apart from the village, on high ground. We just can't storm up in police vans. We’ll be sending plainclothes officers in separate cars. But Mycroft - about wearing the wire. . . you're really determined to do it? I know one or two likely young constables that would fill the bill."
Lestrade knew Mycroft would think this was the real reason he had kept this dinner engagement tonight: to talk him out of wearing a wire to Maxim’s house. He couldn't help it; imagining Mycroft with Maxim made him feel apprehensive and aggressive all at once. Neither of which was helping him keep his head and do his job.
"Do you really think that wise? Leaving this to a raw constable?" Mycroft wasn’t hiding his feelings now. He was offended. "These Omega boys. . . Maxim doesn't converse with them, I shouldn't think. He won’t be unguarded around some new boy. No, I have the best chance to catch Maxim saying something . . . incriminating," he said decisively.
Mycroft had deftly avoided telling him why he was so confident that Maxim would admit him to his private party and possibly, confide in him. It was pointless to pull his own not-insignificant rank with the Met to change things now. Mycroft would simply go over Lestrade’s head. He was choosing to ignore Lestrade’s feelings, which must be quite obvious.
Maybe he should make Mycroft pay more attention, Lestrade thought darkly, dimly aware that this was quite inconsistent with his intentions here. Strictly business.
"Just listen, Mycroft -"
"- There really isn’t anything you can say to dissuade me. If that’s why you brought me here tonight, I’m sorry to disappoint you. The Holmeses are not cowards," he said frostily.
"God! I never said - of course that’s not why - "
Mycroft’s face was stony. Lestrade shut his mouth. There was a long and uncomfortable pause.
Mycroft was actually called "the Iceman" in some quarters. This was wrong. Cool on the surface, yes; no one cooler. For example, after his prohibition tonight against touching, Mycroft had behaved with perfect decorum.
Too perfect.
In Mumbai he had felt what was underneath. But this was London. He was the one that needed a cool head now. Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck where it felt hot. Mycroft's very self-restraint was provocative; he seemed to be feeling it under his skin.
Lestrade thought that Mycroft knew this very well, and was quite enjoying letting him have his just desserts.
* * *
Finally his team called with a report. Now there was nothing to do but wait for tomorrow: All Hallows Eve.
Mycroft took custom-blended suppressants, and the aristocratic, arrogant scent was making him feel both aggressive and desperately needy. The presence of another strong Alpha for so long at time in his new flat was having its natural effect. This, he thought, would be a very good time to ask Mycroft to leave.
But there was one last thing that needed doing. He loosened his tie. Mycroft’s haughty, bold stare made him feel undressed.
Undressed. This was exactly what they needed to talk about.
"So . . . have you ever worn a wire before?"
"Naturally."
Lestrade didn't know what that meant. He plunged on. "I meant, in a situation where you would expect to submit. . .to a bodily search."
"I see. Then I admit, no. My sort of operation does not usually involve . . . such scenarios."
"Ah. . . " Lestrade tried, and failed, to picture what they did involve. "Look, there are two kinds of criminal that will always be on the lookout for a wire. Drugs gangs, obviously. And what we call extreme pornographers: Torture. Paedophiles. And snuff. After Mumbai, it’s clear that’s what we’re dealing with. These are snuff films they’re making."
"But do you really believe that is the motive for the killings - to create these films?"
"Motive’s not a necessary element for the Crown to prove murder. But it’s hard to see what other motive there can be. I think these Omegas are dying for the private amusement of an international sex ring. But without all the elegant trappings, these "Mysteries," if that’s what this is part of - it’s still just murder." What he had learned of Maxim’s practices - the Mysteries - fascinated and repelled him. He had a strong feeling that Sherlock was not the only Holmes who had some experience of the Mysteries. Lestrade was coming to realise that Mycroft might in some ways be more like Sherlock than he had known.
"Anyway, sit still - right where you are. Please. I need to test your wire."
"Very well. Who's going to fit me up tomorrow?"
Lestrade was taken aback. He swallowed hard. "Jesus. Mycroft. You don't think I'd leave it to anyone else? I'll do it myself. No one but me is going to be responsible for you, do you understand?"
He heard his voice getting louder. Mycroft lifted a brow.
"Quite," he said.
* * *
Lestrade pulled a little box from his pocket and held out its contents: a long, hair-thin filament tipped with a minuscule computer chip. Lestrade carefully threaded it in Mycroft’s hair. He could feel Mycroft’s breath against his face as he ran his fingers through it more than was really necessary, telling himself he was just making certain the wire was very secure.
"What will happen? If they should. . . search me, I mean."
Lestrade's heart skittered.
"If they do. . .maybe they'll just try to feel over your clothes. If they're really serious, they'll feel underneath, or even make you, ah . ." He could not say it. A warm flush crawled over his skin.
"Disrobe?"
"Yes." Inside he thought, No, not happening. He reached for Mycroft's collar buttons, loosened that impeccable Asprey tie, and secured the end of the filament at the nape of his neck. The device was invisible and highly sensitive: they would be able to hear everything said between Mycroft and anyone in the room with him. If it worked. Wires were notoriously temperamental.
"They may do a very ...thorough search."
Mycroft was regarding him cynically. This was really annoying and Lestrade scowled back at him. "You don't have to pretend to like it - but you can't seem nervous."
"I assure you I won’t. Detective Inspector. But perhaps you would prefer to make certain of my nerve."
Now this was a direct challenge, Alpha to Alpha, and Lestrade was very tempted to give a demonstration. He imagined thrusting his hands under that crisp shirt, feeling the skin beneath. And more than that, he knew that now. His lifelong experience of Omegas had conditioned him to certain cravings, and his body was demanding satisfaction. He swiftly withdrew the wire and put it away, trying to mask this sudden surge of Alpha drives.
He took a deliberate breath. Mycroft exuded definite and precise territorial pheromones. The scent of an Alpha staking a claim. If he accepted this claim, even laid down one of his own. . .what then? He hadn’t felt this alive, wanted and wanting, in years. But vivid images of what he truly wanted frustrated him. His body would always want it and he didn’t know what to do about it.
For an Alpha to submit to penetration by another Alpha was extraordinarily difficult, physically and mentally. It was effectively taboo, an act unspoken of: what he did know, he had learned from his work in vice. He felt hotter imagining whether Mycroft had ever tried.
"Do you trust me," he asked impulsively.
Mycroft said simply, "Of course."
The answer disappointed him. It felt like maybe Mycroft didn't think he was much of a challenge after all.
"Do you trust me," Mycroft asked quietly.
His hands were around Mycroft’s arms, gripping hard. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He wanted to kiss him; his tongue in Mycroft’s mouth would soothe his craving a little. But he had to tell the truth. For better or worse, Lestrade possessed no artifice.
"No," he said honestly. "I don’t."
Mycroft didn’t seem surprised. "Good. It gives us something to work for."
He liked the sound of that. This close, Lestrade wanted to be done with holding back: he wanted to bite, to mark Mycroft’s throat. More than that. At their most primal core, Alphas needed to fuck; and so, his impulse was to fuck Mycroft: yes, that was exactly what he needed. He held himself very still. Together their pheromones were making something new and strange.
Mycroft leaned forward, and whispered against his ear.
"Do you know that I can scent you, what you want . . . right now?"
"I can’t help it," he gasped. This was not heat, but every bit as potent. "You don’t know what it’s like - you’re on suppressants, you don’t go with Omegas. I know it’s wrong." He backed away, tried to clear his head. "Go home. We’ll meet at the Yard in the morning. I’m sorry."
"Don’t be. And it is you who are wrong," Mycroft said enigmatically as he closed the door behind him.
Alone in their respective beds, they did not sleep. In a few hours, it would be time for Mycroft to go to Maxim.
###
Nine o’clock, 31 October. The North Downs Way. Near Tatsfield, Surrey.
An ancient track crosses Surrey along the North Downs, extending as far as the White Cliffs of Dover. Possibly the most famous story-telling contest in literature was held by pilgrims traveling this road, on their way to Canterbury. The road existed before even Chaucer’s time: fragments of Roman road are still to be seen there.
A tall figure and a smaller one tramped silently along the ancient track on a pilgrimage of their own. They endured a raw cold wind as the road climbed higher and a thick clinging mist swirled around them. At this line of latitude, there was no higher point until one reached Moscow: on a clear day, it was possible to see the tallest London landmarks - such as the Gherkin, which overlooked the home of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police.
"Hantswood Hall is there," Sherlock said to El Brujo at last, pointing to the next hill. It was crowned with a structure that glowed with artificial light through the mist.
Sherlock had been somewhat surprised to learn of Maxim’s purchase of the Hantswood estate. Their relationship was limited to sexual and erotic games, and neither was remotely interested the another’s domestic lives. But Sherlock knew enough to be aware that Maxim did not care for suburban life. Maxim had residences in cities the world over, all minimalist modern penthouses - excepting the tea estate at Kamala Kangra.
But regarding Hantswood Hall, as in so many other things, Maxim was secretive. Sherlock’s detective’s instincts were unaccountably provoked, and so he searched out the history of the estate. Tatsfield, the nearest town,was from the Anglo-Saxon, ‘Tot-hyl,’ meaning a watch hill. Concerning Hantswood Hall itself, an old tract of the district said:
"Hantswood was the name of the former wood here, meaning ‘a haunted wood,’ which is no more than a wood superstitiously supposed to be frequented by a ghost, or spectre, which haunts, hunts or pursues every person who enters it."
The same tract informed the reader that in the year 1643, the townspeople had accused the eccentric squire of Hantswood Hall of entering into a pact with the devil. The Hall was burned to the ground. No one could say whether the fire was started by the frightened townspeople or the squire himself.
Some said the fire caused by the Devil himself, coming to claim what was his by binding contract. When Maxim purchased the estate, only a few blackened walls remained.
"I will come with you as far as the gates, and watch for you," El Brujo said. "Remember, Sherlock, what I have said."
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said abstractedly. With a few hours distance he found himself imagining what he might have done differently, which was highly uncharacteristic - Sherlock never spared a thought for anything resembling guilt or regret, emotions that he was quite unaccustomed to. Even with these uncomfortable sensations troubling him now, he could not imagine how he could have prevented John from coming with him, or stopping him. There was nothing else he could have done.
He kept picturing John entering 221b, reading his hurried note. Looking at the pink test strips. He realised he had forgotten to ascertain exactly how long the pink "plus" signs would remain visible, and had an anxious feeling that perhaps the little symbols would have vanished before John could see them. His note might seem meaningless then. But then again, John was an actual doctor, and undoubtedly even he could deduce the meaning of his note: "Look in the bathroom," with the test strips, lying there.
No, by now, John knew that their lives were going to change, there would be a child. This still seemed completely unreal. He told himself he would think about it later. Nine months was a very long time to think.
El Brujo was interrupting this unprecedented chain of thought and admonishing him to remember, and so he tried. He never deleted El Brujo’s words, even when they seemed as obscure and trivial as the orbits of the planets had been to him. This thought brought forth another image of John, roaring at him in 221b: "But it’s the solar system!" And of John at Loch Linnhe, gently mocking him as he tried to compare John’s warmth to the sun. Even here, so many miles from London and Baker Street, he felt John with him. But the feeling was not warm. He shivered. Now it was All Hallows Eve and the sun was long gone.
Because El Brujo had made a point of reminding him, Sherlock recovered his words.
# # #
"No place is free of history, Sherlock. This road is spoken of in one of your country’s oldest books, ‘The Canterbury Tales.’"
The name evoked an unpleasant memory of translating Middle English in school. Even then, Sherlock had divided knowledge into two simple categories: that which could, and that which could not have possible application to the solving of present-day murders. He had promptly discarded Chaucer as having no features of interest whatsoever.
"I fail to understand why you would read that rubbish," Sherlock had said, rummaging but failing to retrieve any reference in the feeble remnants of his memories of Chaucer to pheromones. That is what he had thought they were talking about before El Brujo had abruptly changed course.
"Because, Sherlock, not all knowledge can be gained through what you call evidence. Texts of all languages and of all times teach us about light and dark, good and evil, yin and yang - creation and destruction."
"The Omega Sutra is one, I suppose."
"Of course. And The Canterbury Tales, another. You were confused about the difference between these things - light and dark - not so long ago. You could have been lost, Sherlock. Think of why you were not. And you will know what you must do."
Sherlock had shaken his head gently, placing his hands almost fondly on the old man’s shoulders. He knew that El Brujo was trying to say that he was still in danger, what he would probably call a danger of the spirit.
"I don’t believe in supernatural powers . . . there are no powers beyond the human mind and body."
"What is mind? What is body? Chaucer warned of what in those days were called demons. This must be fate that tonight of all nights, we should be on the very same road; if we were to keep walking to the east, Sherlock, we would be on the Pilgrim’s Path to Canterbury, just as Chaucer’s pilgrims."
"Demons!" Sherlock scoffed. "I assure you that Maxim Purcell is very much a flesh and blood man. Though if he is the Sleeping Beauties killer, people will certainly think him evil."
Sherlock understood more now about "good." John taught him these things, about goodness, and he could recognise this in John - even if he usually could not understand how or even why he was supposed to follow his example.
He also understood the concept of a thing being forbidden. As to "evil," however, Sherlock felt it to be an unrealistic emotional construct. There were acts which were illegal, of course. The taking of a life without reasonable cause was first on the list of "wrong things" in every human society.
Sherlock had met, and spoken with, many murderers. They were usually very ordinary persons. The police and press were perpetually surprised by this - "He seemed so ordinary, such a likeable fellow! Never harmed a fly!" But Sherlock never was. Something over ninety percent of all persons had at one time or another, mentally planned out the actual steps to murder someone - even though they never carried it out. When asked why they did not commit the murder, they said it was the fear of being caught that stopped them. Killing, Sherlock knew, was human nature.
True, some murderers were mentally disordered; sadistic and cruel. Was this what was meant by "evil"? Sherlock reserved judgment. It was not necessary to his methods to put moral labels on the conduct of criminals in order to catch them.
El Brujo was looking at him with an expression that was probably disappointment, Sherlock decided. He was more sensitive to the emotions of persons other than John, since the crossing. Was this his Omega nature, coming into its prime? He didn’t know. But he didn’t like the way he felt when El Brujo was disappointed in him; not as bad as disappointing John, but still.
And so he said, "Tell me, then, what Chaucer said. About - demons."
"Good. Listen, then. In Chaucer’s story, the demon says: ‘We will make ourselves into such forms as are most fit to capture our prey.’ Just as Maxim concealed his true self from you, Sherlock."
"Until the end."
"But we are not yet at the end, Sherlock."
With this warning lingering in his mind, Sherlock left the road to that led to Canterbury and turned his feet toward Hantswood Hall.
# # #
10:00 p.m., 31 October. Hantswood Hall, Surrey.
A slender Omega boy with curling reddish-brown hair and the suggestion of an almost juvenile moustache walked the last mile to his destination. From the hills above he could see police hidden in the wood. But this Omega had preternaturally sharp eyes, and they were easily avoided.
He silently approached Hantswood Hall from the rear via a construction gate. Earth-moving machinery towered over him, cthonic hulks crouching in the mist. There was a great deal of freshly turned earth spread over the ground and his feet sank down in it. The sensation put him in mind of newly dug graves. Which did not discourage him in the slightest from digging an exploratory hole, but there was nothing at all but hard ground and dead grass beneath.
The new Hantswood Hall was adjoined to the old in violent incongruity, postmodern cubes grafted to crumbling stone walls. The Omega boy rounded the corner and slouched toward a guard. His invitation card was inspected. No one really noticed where he had come from, and he was allowed to enter.
Of all the boys that had arrived for Maxim Purcell’s Halloween party tonight, this one seemed the least memorable.
To find out if the Sleeping Beauties killer was here tonight, he would need to walk the same path as the victims had. But he had no intention of meeting with the same end. Sherlock Holmes inhaled fresh pure air, almost as protection, before crossing the threshold.
###
It was a blindingly lit white room. An inlaid table held domino masks: red or black. The "guests" could not conceal a pheromone mask under a Halloween mask, then. This was the only visible sign that this was supposed to be a Halloween party. A male beta displaying utter disinterest handed Sherlock a red mask and waited for him to put it on. Knowing that unseen eyes were judging him, Sherlock projected frailty and craving as he put on his mask and stepped into the next room.
This was a candlelit space with indeterminate boundaries. Sherlock was slightly startled to find that there were both male and female Alphas here, numbering more than twice as many as the Omegas. A wave of strong odor drove home the Alphas’ intentions. Which were predatory. Rapacious. Yet the Omegas gave no alarm signs, no scent of fear. This was uncharacteristic of Omegas in a strange environment - and it was obvious to Sherlock that none of them was familiar with this place. He had expected the Omegas would be drugged; now, observing them, he was almost certain they were not. They were under a different kind of influence.
Outside of heat, such delicate Omegas as these should sense their danger, especially in a vulnerable group such as they made: lambs encircled by famished wolves.
Two Omegas, a male and a female, approached Sherlock; appraising. Sherlock and El Brujo had laboured to the utmost of their combined art and science to create the refined pheromone oil that transformed Sherlock to an innocent young Omega. All trace of Sherlock’s true scent was banished: that of a strong Omega who had taken the crossing, of a fertile Omega bearing the child of his bonded. He now presented as dull, uncomplicated and easily overmastered. It would have been less authentic if he had made himself unappealing, or even neutral. The Alphas closed in.
Sherlock smiled tentatively. Submissive, but not yet inviting. Things were moving faster than he had expected. If he tried to move away he would draw unwanted suspicion upon himself. And then he would find out nothing.
This close, the Alphas’ eyes were odd behind their black masks; that was the first thing Sherlock noticed. They shone with a mirror-like gleam. Sherlock wanted to observe them more closely but could not do so without seeming to challenge their dominance. He carefully looked away.
The female was very close to him now. It dawned on him that he should be concerned that he hadn’t fully taken female Alphas into account in crafting his disguise. There wasn’t enough time to make a proper scent shield, El Brujo had muttered. They had gone with the probabilities. Well, operating without an appropriate number of base facts yielded wildly inaccurate results. Here was the proof.
And this female was trying to scent his every note.
"You’ve never been with a female before," she finally announced definitely, touching his cheekbone with a sharp black fingernail. Sherlock held himself still and considered the appropriate reaction. He decided to display reluctance, even revulsion.
"No, never. . . and I didn’t come here - for that. I wasn’t told about this part," he whined unpleasantly. He immediately expelled inhibitory pheromones. These would penetrate the Alphas’ neurons, signaling that here was a flawed specimen, not worthy of their attention and certainly not a candidate for reproduction. He felt a deep twinge of discomfort that was his consciousness of his newly pregnant state, and the feeling made him nearly panic. He did not know how to handle it. It was a sensation between unaccustomed vulnerability and the instinct to defend his body, and what it shielded, at any cost. He was already imagining the necks of these predatory Alphas snapping under his hands and he struggled to master his heartrate.
The Alpha female was not moving away. He was not sure how he would endure contact with her, or any of them.
Sherlock felt that Maxim was intentionally challenging both the Alphas and the Omegas with pairings that clashed with their natural permutations. There was nothing so especially novel in that - there were places where ‘permutation virginity’ was prized, and even sold. Some of the more exotic pairings involved Alphas and betas; but any pairing outside of a person’s natural orientation was considered deviant by many.
Maxim’s tastes were actually surprisingly narrow, time and again seeking out a particular Omega type. Yet Maxim’s sensibilities were also far too advanced to orchestrate this scenario for sheer entertainment’s sake. Orgies were not Maxim’s style: Maxim had to have a purpose other than mere titillation, Sherlock thought.
If he went with these Alphas now, would he find out if it was murder?
# # #
As with the concept of "evil," Sherlock did not understand "deviance." Sherlock had scornfully announced to John in 221b (before they had become bonded) his own conviction that gender and permutation were boring and irrelevant. What mattered was whether the mysterious powers of chemistry and attraction made a pairing worth fighting for, worth having. It was what bonded he and John together now, it was something that he and Maxim could never have had.
Now the air was abruptly changing: their faces were caressed by a warm, luscious cloud. It savoured of Maxim’s art. Sherlock sighed, focused, and dissipated the compounds through minute adjustments to his own neurochemistry - but he was again distracted by thoughts of the tiny life inside him. El Brujo had silently placed his hand over Sherlock’s still-flat stomach as he departed for Hantswood Hall, and Sherlock remembered this gesture now and almost unconsciously placed his own slender hand in the same place.
The female Alpha seized Sherlock’s other hand and arrogantly pressed it tightly against the bulge in her trousers. It was as she had said - he had never touched a female Alpha in this way.
Other than John and Maxim, he had hardly ever touched anyone at all.
Sherlock could feel the outline of her Alpha ridges. During the knotting, her ridges would swell and harden, binding her mate to her. Inescapably. A process that was notoriously more invasive than the knotting of a male Alpha. It was thought that female Alphas had evolved in this way to enable them to subdue and impregnate their chosen mate despite their relatively smaller, less muscular frames.
Sherlock avoided looking behind the Alpha’s mask into her strange mercury-like eyes. He thought he heard Maxim’s voice - from her lips? Behind him? Inside his head?
He didn’t want to listen, but the fact that he was hearing Maxim at all gave Sherlock an idea of what might be happening here. Just a short while ago he had said to El Brujo,
"I don’t believe in supernatural powers . . . there are no powers beyond the human mind and body."
He remembered the cold stone room at Kamala Kangra where he had been confined by Maxim. Maxim had tried many times to invade Sherlock’s subtle body with his own; it was the stimulation of the subtle body, Maxim had taught, that was the basis of the Mysteries. The subtle body, though, could not exist apart from one’s physical body, any more than one’s heart or limbs could. Sherlock believed that the nature of the subtle body was neurochemical.
The Alpha’s fingernails dug into the flesh of his hand to keep it pressed where she wanted it. She was drawing blood, and she knew it: her lips parted with anticipation and arousal.
"I don’t feel well," Sherlock said, and staggered a little, not entirely playacting. This wasn’t right. Maxim was not here, not physically, Sherlock was certain of that. But he heard his voice and felt his presence. This was not an hallucination or a trick: he felt in perfect possession of his senses.
The male Alpha said, "Don’t play games, everyone knows what’s happening tonight."
The female Alpha said, "Soon you’ll be feeling much better."
"It’s time, Sherlock," Maxim said from nowhere and from everywhere.
This was a moment when he could have fled. Everyone was leaving the room, the door to the front entry seemed unguarded. But there was never really a choice. Sherlock Holmes would not run away. The Holmeses, he thought, are not cowards. He would finally discover what Maxim’s game was. No more secrets. He would save these poor Omega boys.
The Alphas grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the room.
###
9:00 p.m., 31 October. The Village of Tatsfield, Surrey.
Pantha du Prince, White Out: listen here:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwizQSCX0W4
John examined maps, train schedules. It was a welcome distraction, temporarily soothing in its very ordinariness. He didn’t remember hearing much about Tatsfield before; close though it was to London, he wasn’t entirely sure he had ever heard of it at all.
Tatsfield was a village of 1800 souls, 16 miles south of central London. It was not on any rail line. One could by circuitous routes take a bus, but he couldn’t waste the time; he elected to hire a car. As he navigated the M25, the radio announcer advised that it was the coldest Halloween on record. He imagined Sherlock in disguise, sleeping somewhere unsheltered, cold wind chilling his slender form. He almost missed the turning for the village. He glanced at the next car and zombie masks leered back at him, then sped away.
The roads were narrowing, climbing, and then to his surprise, the roads became rough and unpaved. He reached the village and parked in the high street. There was a small green, and a pond reflecting dark grey skies. There was a frigid breeze, but it was utterly quiet. There did not seem to be anyone about. He entered the apparent sole shop.
The Halloween decor was a few carved pumpkins like he remembered making as a boy, almost cheerfully snaggle-toothed, and a paper banner wishing him a "Happy Halloween!" There was a young man stocking shelves and listening to an iPod. John called out but the man evidently couldn’t hear. John tapped him on the shoulder and he leaped back as if shocked.
He was small and thin with brown eyes in a crafty sharp face. He regarded John with a hostile eye. "You gave me a fright. Creeping up on one like that." A beta. He rushed past John and stationed himself behind the register.
"Sorry. I’m looking for Hantswood Hall. I doesn’t seem to be on the map." John fingered the invitation card in his pocket. He didn’t know what sort of influence Maxim might have here. He decided to keep it to himself.
"You’re from London. The Hall isn’t on regular maps." The man turned his back, fiddling with something that John couldn’t see.
"So then you know I’m not from here. Can’t you just tell me the way?" John was getting itchy and his blood was restless.
The beta was clearly wary of John’s agitation. He evidently realised John would not leave until he was appeased, though, and finally produced a well-folded walking map from a drawer behind the counter.
"See, the Hall’s not actually in Tatsfield proper. Do you care about history? The parish boundaries were re-drawn -"
John shifted impatiently.
" - Well, you don’t want to hear about all that, then. Just take the turning off Gibbet Hill Road . . .you won’t miss it. They’ve made certain of that."
"‘They?’"
"The new owners, ’course."
"And who would they be?"
"Some foreign company - going to turn the old ruin into an hotel. We could use the custom. But the builders don’t stop here much."
He put the map away and pretended to busy himself with a stack of papers. The beta seemed in a hurry now for John to leave.
John didn’t budge. He was thinking about asking if he had seen anyone resembling Sherlock Holmes, even showing his photograph, and decided against this too. Sherlock would be in disguise and would want to keep his presence secret. He couldn’t allow himself to think of Sherlock confronting Maxim face to face. Thinking of Maxim’s face, he only saw his fists pounding it into a bloody pulp. He turned to go.
"You want to have a care," the man called after him. "There’s a fancy dress party at the Village Hall. All sorts of folk coming and going. Across the road."
John looked out the door, down the high street. Indeed, a few people in costume, ghosts and witches, were crossing the green. They were converging on what he presumed was the Village Hall.
"I’ll be careful," John said.
He climbed back into the hired car. Despite the man’s warning, there was no one in the street ahead.
But when he glanced in the rear view mirror John was surprised by how many more people there were, crossing the green.
To be continued . . .