The Omega Sutra. Ch. 25: Fibonacci Sequence

[ghislainem70]

The Omega Sutra. Chapter 25. Fibonacci Sequence.

author: ghislainem70

rating: NC-17

word count:7,500 this chapter/135,000 thus far

warnings: Omegaverse,mpreg, kink, angst

summary: In an Omegaverse/Paranormal AU, Sherlock has a secret life. John shouldn't want to be part of it.

disclaimer: I own nothing.


"I am Large, I Contain Multitudes."

-- Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

"Mathematics is the language of nature."

BT: Fibonacci Sequence LISTEN TO FIBONACCI SEQUENCE

Mycroft was aware that Lestrade would not welcome an impromptu visit to his flat.

But with several long and empty hours stretching ahead until dinner with Mummy, he found his feet following Cheyne Walk. It was already dark so late in the year, and bitterly cold. The dampness was turning to mist. The cold, clinging damp felt unpleasantly similar to certain sensations he had felt in Hantswood Hall, and this made him feel the hopelessness of his situation even more.

This, however, was not the time or place to explore those impressions. He was scheduled for his second deep neural debriefing in the morning, at which time no possible memory fragment or sensory impression from All Hallows Eve would remain unexamined.

Meanwhile, he rehearsed what he would say to Lestrade, given the chance. He wasn’t sure he deserved one. It was such a convoluted speech that it took a great deal of concentration, and before he knew it, the Gherkin loomed and he was in Creechurch Lane.

Lestrade’s flat was in a block of a dozen newly-restored period flats. Mycroft wondered if Lestrade had chosen the flat because he appreciated old buildings, or for more practical considerations. This was one of those things that his occasional snooping into DI Gregory Lestrade’s personal life had not revealed. It was the sort of thing, he thought, that would be properly discussed over a bottle of wine in Lestrade’s flat, with none of this Sleeping Beauties business between them.

He wished now that he had not allowed Lestrade to keep him at a distance before the Hantswood Hall operation. In respecting Lestrade’s own Alpha perogatives, and also Lestrade’s professional competence -- within the strict dictates of his own clandestine duties -- he had lost an important chance to build on what had started in Mumbai.

###

Mycroft looked up to the glowing rectangle that was Lestrade’s single small window into the street: the window he had looked out of, making bold innuendos in an utterly stupid effort to be witty in order to cover his guilt. He knew that there was another window, smaller, that looked out from the bedroom. But of course he had never seen it -- other than in photographs and video images which Lestrade would no doubt find utterly infuriating. He made a mental note to simply purge that file.

He pictured the tall windows and french doors of his own Belgravia townhouse and thought he had never been as comfortable there as he had for those brief hours in Lestrade’s miniscule digs.

Down the street he could see the little Italian restaurant where Lestrade had gotten their takeaway that night. He hesitated for only a moment. “The Holmes are not cowards,” he repeated to himself almost as self-chastisement, remembering throwing those haughty words in Lestrade’s face, rather than telling him the truth.  Lestrade might not welcome an impromptu visit, but he would go all the same.  He could bring an offering of takeout; the worst that could happen was the door would be shut in his face.  Since it that was the situation currently, he didn't have anything to lose.  He approached the restaurant and opened the door, stepping courteously aside for a compact blonde Omega female.

With the rote discipline of a professional spy he mechanically catalogued her apparel: smashing designer coat, new; vampish high-heeled black boots, also new; glossy makeup and hair just a little spoilt by the mist and damp; over all, a great cloud of expensive French perfume - Omega Euphoria. She carried a bag of takeaway with a bottle of wine. She hurried across the street.

Mycroft didn’t need to watch after her to know where she was going.

Janet Lestrade, Greg’s ex-wife. Well, soon-to-be ex-wife. The final papers would not be issued for another ten days.

He smiled bitterly at the fact that he actually knew this bit of domestic trivia.

He took a seat at a table by the front window. From there, he could see Lestrade’s window. He ordered a glass of wine, and cut off the obsequious waiter. He consulted the time, and set his watch to stopwatch. He applied himself to his wine, then a second glass, leaving the excellent pasta untouched.

After precisely thirty-two minutes, ten seconds, the light in the Lestrade’s window went out.

Now he focused his attention on the door to Lestrade’s building.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. It started to rain. After a half hour, Mycroft was certain that Janet Lestrade was not coming out again. He promised himself not to look at the CCTV footage in the morning.

He felt the strange yet familiar sensation in the centre of himself, a magentic tugging toward Lestrade’s flat. As usual, the sensation made him feel a little dizzy. He resisted this feeling, but it was unusually strong. He understood why this should be. It was obvious.

He took deep breaths and spent a few quiet moments making sure he was under control.

“Do you trust me?”

“No, I don’t.”

He was not, absolutely was not, going to project himself through the window of Lestrade’s flat to spy upon them invisibly from above.

He paid the bill and hailed a cab. Time for dinner with Mummy.

# # #

Lestrade pulled his hand from Janet’s grip. The wine was finished; she had tossed down three glasses in quick succession to his half-touched one.

Janet leaned back against the sofa, trying to tug him down with her. The cloud of Omega Obsession was giving him a headache and a hard-on at the same time, but he understood that was just scent memory. Janet had worn that perfume for years; his body remembered. Recent events notwithstanding, he and Janet had had some pretty spectacular heats together, over the years. But they had never bonded.

And that was all right with Lestrade.

Janet was apparently having second thoughts. Lestrade observed a faint bitemark on her throat and figured her latest encounter in the Alpha dating pool had left her disappointed. Janet always was.

Lestrade sighed.

“Come on, Janet. You’ve had a few too many. You know this is a bad idea.”

“It’s a brilliant idea, it always is. Don’t you remember?”

“‘Course I do. But at this stage of the game, I thought you’d consider it hate sex. Wait -- do you?”

“Would it make a difference? Which do you prefer?” Janet said archly, proffering her throat. He looked away from the mark. He also pushed away thoughts of other bite marks on pale skin, made in darkness.

“Look, Janet --” He stepped back from the sofa and put his hands up to stop her coming up after him. “It’s getting late. I’ll get you a cab. I’ve got an early meeting in the morning. Let’s just say, we have some good memories left. I don’t want to make any more bad ones."

Janet’s lower lip wobbled and tears sprang up in her eyes, as they usually did when she was drunk. Lestrade was still affected, he had never been able to remain hardhearted in the face of women’s tears. Maybe this was why they had stayed married far too long.

“You arrogant prick. Since when did you get to be such a prize? I won’t be tossed out in the street like a -- like a--” her voice was starting to slur.

Lestrade turned off the light and gently took Janet’s hand and pulled her to the bedroom. “Awww, Greg, that’s a lad,” she murmured, trying to nuzzle his neck.

He pushed her down on the bed, swung her feet up and took off her boots, then covered her with the blankets.

“Go to sleep, Janet. You’ll feel better about this in the morning. You’ll be glad you didn’t shag your prick of an ex-husband. You’re right, as always -- I’m sure it’s my loss.”

“Damn straight,” she said defiantly, before turning over and falling immediately asleep, her lipstick staining his pillowcase.

He told himself he would toss it out into the rubbish in the morning.

###

Lestrade shut the bedroom door quietly and grabbed his warmest coat from hook by the front door. He went to the window and looked down into the street through the rain, remembering when Mycroft had stood right here, making him smile even in the midst of the horrible case.

He watched a large umbrella folding as its owner climbed into a taxi across the street. The umbrella was very like one Mycroft Holmes habitually carried. Not that he had had so very many opportunities to learn Mycroft’s habits. He closed his eyes. He was really going to have to get a grip. He was starting to see Mycroft everywhere.

As angry as he was with Mycroft, he regretted that night-- even if he couldn’t bring himself to regret having punched Mycroft in the face. Maybe if he had behaved differently, not pushed Mycroft, Mycroft would not have turned to Maxim so easily. Not that that was ever going to happen again. He still remembered the satisfying heft of his gun in his hand. But instead of the sound of his bullet, now it was sounds on that tape that rattled around his head. He knew he ought to be able to shake those sounds from his mind. But he couldn't. Not tonight.

As hard-working and dedicated as he was, Lestrade was not prone to obsessing about things, not even his cases. He figured he knew what it meant that he couldn’t stop thinking about the tape of Mycroft with Maxim. He also figured that he was going to have to decide what to do about it.

He lay down fully clothed on the sofa and pulled his coat over himself like a blanket, watching the changing light from the street as it flickered across his ceiling. Alone in the dark, his mind began to play tricks on him.

He was back in the hotel room in Mumbai. His cock hadn’t gotten the memo that he was furious with Mycroft Holmes because at this first unwilling jolt of those memories, it filled tight and hard against his jeans.

He hadn’t come for days, a quick wank in the shower where he very determinedly didn’t think of anything but getting it over with. He was irritated at Janet now too, for having brought her cloud of Omega Euphoria into the flat, a scent that once had driven him wild with lust but now only mocked him. He reached down, unzipped his jeans. Janet was out cold, she always slept like the dead. Anyway, he couldn’t stop now even if he tried.

He slipped his hand around his cock, freeing it from his briefs, too intent to take the time to get his jeans off. His Alpha musk was strong, there was no question his cock needed some serious attention. Even though he never took suppressants, he hadn’t been in heat in a long time. Too long.

He imagined Mycroft’s hands, they were large and much stronger than he had suspected, stroking him possessively and hard, as they had in Mumbai. He groaned, bit his lip to keep it in. His cock and balls were on fire. He missed the rich musky Alpha scent that Mycroft gave off, wished he was covered in it, and just that thought made him shiver.

Now he thought about straddling Mycroft with his cock shoved up against his arsehole and before he could think it through, his own fingers were tentatively exploring down there. It was hot, and it felt thrilling and illicit. He thought he could almost come just from these light, intoxicating touches to his own skin. His hole shuddered, and he knew what he wanted. He flushed in the dark, groaned softly.

An Alpha did not allow penetration. That was not their nature.

His cock was already near to bursting and he’d barely started. His fingers, at first feeling thrilling down there, now felt dry and intrusive. There was nothing to hand to slick himself. He thumped his head back against the sofa.

Fuck it, he thought. Fucking. Since being with Mycroft, it was all he could think about. Was he really that base, that depraved?

Apparently, yes.

###

One of the downsides to his new flat had been that the sole bathroom wasn’t en suite. But he thanked the stars for that now, because he was able to duck into the bathroom and shut the door without Janet noticing a thing, even if she was awake in there, which she wasn't. Anyway, this was familiar territory -- sneaking a wank while his wife was asleep.

He switched off the light. Now there was only the orangey glow of the nightlight. He shucked off his jeans and grabbed the bottle of lotion from the cabinet. His hand was almost shaking as he pumped his fist full of cool, fragrant slickness.

His breath was coming in heaving pants and he knew he wasn’t going to stop now. Logistics puzzled him for a minute, but he made a quick decision and closed the toilet lid and planted one foot on the floor, and knelt with the other knee on the lid. He leaned forward and rested his head against the wall, surprised to encounter coldness until he remembered this wall was covered with a large mirror.

In vice, there were evidence closets full of contraband vids. Alpha/Alpha penetration was among the acts deemed “likely to cause internal injuries”, and therefore obscene per se; it was prohibited by the Sex Crimes Act, as “tending to to deprave and corrupt persons who read, see or hear the act”. Pornographers observed the four-finger rule: - anything larger than four fingers penetrating an Alpha was contraband. There were sex toys intended for the satisfaction of Omegas, in varying sizes, and he had seen flashes of films and seized photos of Alphas being penetrated with such toys. It looked impossible. It looked incredibly, obscenely hot.

He closed his eyes against these images, even though he couldn’t see a thing. He definitely wasn’t trying for four fingers.

Was he?

He massaged his hole with his own fingers, which felt awkward and electric. He was feeling desperate for it and knew he wasn’t giving himself enough preparation, but suddenly all he wanted was to feel this unknown sensation. He pressed his middle finger in, slow but steady, amazed at how something so simple could feel so carnal. He shuddered at the new sensation, and his cock gave a deep throb, but he didn’t stop.

He thrust up harder, gripping his cock with the other hand, feeling the thickness of it, imagining its girth slowly breaching an Alpha’s tight arsehole. He groaned softly, let the illicit images wash over him. It was Mycroft he was thinking of, here in the dark he could admit that. Mycroft deserved to be bent over, to take his cock, he thought darkly. At that, he gave himself his first really strong thrust with his finger, which made him gasp out loud, it felt so perfect. Something deep in his core wanted this, and much more.

He imagined if Mycroft’s driver hadn’t been there at Battery Wharf, he could have pushed Mycroft down in the back of his car, his legs spread under him. He wondered what Mycroft would have done then.

His cock was running with precum now and he wasn’t far off from the orgasm that had been needing release for days now, the orgasm that Mycroft could deliver, but he wasn’t here. Lestrade felt cocky and pressed in with a second finger, and that felt even more perfect than just the one. He stopped, breathed deep, just letting himself adjust, his arsehole tightening and quiverng. It burned, but it was a burning that he could come to crave, he could already tell.

Now it was time to pick up the pace, his cock couldn’t hold out much longer. He couldn’t reach his own prostate from here without some serious acrobatics and he satisfied himself with pumping his hand up and down, fucking himself, matching the rhythm on his cock. He felt his balls drawing up urgently and knew he couldn’t take much more. He wanted to draw it out, but it was impossible, the sensations were too intense, too real.

He fucked himself faster with his fingers. "Ohmygod," he whispered to himself as a shiver marched up and down his spine. It felt unbelievably good to be filled like this. He wanted to roar aloud with it. He leaned hard against the mirrored wall for support. If he turned the light on, what would he look like?

If Mycroft were here, what would he do if he saw him like this?

"Oh, My--" That did it, his frustrated cock exploded and his entire centre shivered with contractions that hit him like a punch to the gut. He cried out a curse, what he didn’t know, and grabbed a towel to stifle his groans as his body tried to accommodate the strong aftershocks that came from the intrusive feel of his own slick fingers buried in his arse.

Panting, he gingerly withdrew his cramped fingers and turned on the light again so he could wash up, relishing the foreign burning emptiness inside him as he wiped away the last traces of lotion. He considered himself in the mirror. His face was positively glowing. He grinned at his own reflection.

"You're corrupt and depraved," he whispered to the mirror.

###

Lady Anne Holmes' House, Prince's Gate Mews, Mayfair, London

Dinner at Lady Anne Holmes apartment in Prince's Gate Mews was never an informal affair. Mycroft handed his umbrella to Henry, the butler, and swiftly counted three strange umbrellas in the stand, one daintier than the others. Mycroft met Henry's discreet gaze.

"Who is it this time?"

Henry leaned close. "That Miss Olivia Urquhart again, sir. From Mr Carlton Davies' office," he murmured sotto voce. Lady Anne had preternaturally keen hearing.

Carlton Davies was the youngest MP ever appointed to the Security and Intelligence Committee, which reported directly to Number 10. Olivia Urquhart was Davies' Chief of Staff.

Mycroft briefly considered going right back out the door, claiming an emergency meeting. He knew well why Miss Urquhart was here tonight. But he really didn't feel like facing his empty house, and Olivia Urquhart was at least always pleasant company, unlike most of Lady Anne's circle. He allowed Henry to take his damp coat and went into the reception room to greet Mummy.

Lady Anne was tall and slim, like both of her sons, but her bone structure and clear grey eyes would reveal her anywhere as Sherlock's mother. Mycroft was more like his father, Sheridan Holmes. The Holmses did not kiss or embrace one another upon meeting, even in private.

"Good evening, Mother. Thank you for making room for me on short notice."

"Mycroft. It's lovely to see you." Her cool, formal tones did not entirely bear out her words. "And it's a wonderful coincidence that Miss Urquhart is able to be with us tonight. Her schedule is more gruelling even than yours."

The other guests were a married beta couple, the Monktons, whom Lady Anne had met on an adventure cruise to Antarctica. Mycroft surmised that a fourth dinner guest had been given a hasty excuse for breaking this evening's engagement so that Mycroft could be paired with Olivia Urquhart.

After dinner, Lady Anne led her other guests into the library for a nightcap, leaving him alone with her. He accepted a brandy and considered what was on offer.

Olivia had a keen mind, a ready wit, and was possessed of a dark, strong Scottish beauty: pale skin, abundant black hair and winglike dark brows above greenish blue eyes not very different in colour to his own. Lady Anne had once remarked upon this, seemingly in passing. It was then that Mycroft recognised that Lady Holmes had dynastic hopes there.

"I heard that you have lately been in India," Olivia said warmly. "And more recently, closer to home-- Surrey, wasn't it?. I hope your trips have been successful."

Mycroft fixed her with a neutral gaze. He attributed her knowledge to her work with Mr Davies on a certain secret subcommittee of the Security and Intelligence Council. It was not exactly within bounds for her to have mentioned it publicly, even in the privacy of Lady Anne's dining room.

"It's a bit difficult to define 'success,' don't you find? It all depends upon one's perspective."

"I think it all depends on what you want to achieve," she replied.

She leaned closer into his space, and although he knew her only slightly, it felt like an unexpected intimacy.

He belatedly realised that he had hardly been out in public at all since stopping the suppressants. The unadulterated Holmes scent signature was distinctive, and notoriously seductive. He ought to back away, he ought to excuse himself and find a masking spray.

Olivia Urquhart was an unattached Omega, known in Whitehall circles to be unattainable. It didn't stop the Alphas trying, but thus far she had held firm. Mycroft respected a person of any permutation holding out for the best. He had grown up under the example of his own parents' arranged match, made for dynastic considerations. Anne and Sheridan had a passionless, sometimes bitter relationship that had disappointed them both. They had permanently separated when Sherlock was old enough for school.

The Holmses, with exceedingly rare exceptions, did not bond.

###

"Number 10 was very grateful when you agreed to take on this operation for Whiteshadow. This business up in Tatsfield, Maxim Purcell-- do you think it's contained?"

Now they were getting to it. This was the real reason Olivia Urquhart had come to dinner tonight. Number 10 had not been placated with his preliminary report. There were concerns. As well there should be.

"I hope so, for all our sakes," he said.

"I would have thought you of all people would have made certain of it," she said, fixing him with her intense greenish eyes. Her tone left it an open question whether this was meant to be a warning, or a rebuke.

He gazed back until she was forced to look away first. For all her poise, he was still an Alpha, and much, much more powerful than even she knew. Mycroft had been recruited into Whiteshadow while still a young agent with MI5 and had come very far indeed since that time.

"If anybody could have made certain of it, it would have been me," he agreed without a bit of vainglory. Simply stating the truth.

"The decoy operation-- the Sleeping Beauties case-- that was inspired. 'Hide in plain sight.'. We can't have another bin Laden debacle."

"No one will put it together that the paranormal espionage program was the driving factor there. Excepting my brother, of course; one should never underestimate Sherlock. But he can be trusted not to go to the press. I promise you we won't have another bin Laden affair."

It had recently come out in the press that the Ministry of Defense had employed 'volunteer psychics' in an attempt to find Osama bin Laden to much public derision. Now the Whiteshadow Program, the highly clandestine unit established by Churchill during WWIl for paranormal espionage, by policy employed legitimate operations as decoys to coneal its paranormal investigations.

###

Mycroft had been unsurprised to receive the summons to Whiteshadow's secret facility in North London upon completing his courses at Cambridge. His own father had been recruited into Whiteshadow at the age of 18.

The Holmes line was renowned in the halls of clandestine power for its strong strain of paranormal ability. Sometimes, however, those powers would not manifest without the proper trigger applied to the psyche.

"Holmes, we don't understand you," the then-director of Whiteshadow had said to him bluntly. "Your country needs your powers, just as it needs your father's."

"My powers...are not my father's."

"You haven't given us an opportunity to fully test that, Holmes. You haven't given yourself that chance."

"I made my choice long ago.". This was true. "I can serve in so many other ways."

"No one questions your talent. But no one can serve England as you can. Damn it, Holmes, one would think you were afraid to complete The Program."

Mycroft drew himself to his fullest height. He towered over the Director. "I am not afraid. Believe me when I tell you that my father....trained me very thoroughly. At home," He said. "But I'm not sure I can control it. That is the trouble."

The Director sighed, as if he had expected the answer but was deeply disappointed, anyway. He fixed Mycroft with a speculative gaze. "Ah, well. Perhaps you are right. And we always have your young brother, Sherlock."

Protective Alpha anger rose up in his chest. "Never. You aren't to touch him, is that clear? Anyway, Sherlock is a sociopath. I know you've read his file. You won't be able to draw out his powers. They are buried very deep. He is not at all introspective. And sociopaths don't experience pain. Or fear. Not like we do."

"No, not like we do." The Director was temporarily taken back to The Labyrinth, the literal maze of bottomless pain and endless terror that was the heart of The Program. It was the fastest and most reliable means of forcing complete soul projection; the dissassociation of the soul from the body.

The subject could not escape from The Labyrinth until he or she achieved soul projection, and learned sufficient control to direct the soul to surveil the operators of the maze to discover the escape key.

###

Mycroft vividly remembered the first key he had obtained, out of body for over an hour, suffering the extremities of terror and agony inflicted by The Labyrinth in order to free the soul. He observed the numbers of the escape key, but they were disordered. It was a test, could he control himself to the extent of ordering the numbers?

He strained to hold himself still and coherent in order to assemble the numbers, order them correctly. This was done by targeted pulses of what the Eastern mystics and practitioners of the Mysteries called the subtle body, upon a specially constructed reactive plate, as measured by the Observers.

The numbers suddenly made sense and fell inevitably into place. Almost a gift-- the first and only gift he ever received in The Program.

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8. . .

It was a Fibonacci Sequence.

He kept computing and entering the numbers, faster and faster, to escape all that pain, all that fear : 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181, 6765, 10946, 17711, 28657, 46368, 75025, 121393, 196418, 317811, ...

until the Labyrinth fell away and he was safe in the pure warm light of the Recovery Room.

Later, he was unable to remember how many Fibonacci numbers he had computed, and no one would tell him even though he knew perfectly well it was in his file. But it was considered a unique feat that Mycroft could use his analytical mind in that fashion while out of body.

And it had been an elegant key: the Fibonacci Sequence described the perfect spiral that a soul made when projecting out of body under the control of a conscious projector, just as it described so many other spirals in nature: a nautilus shell, DNA, galaxies.

###

The Labyrinth was endlessly programmable. No one had ever completed all of its levels. Mycroft himself had entered The Program as a Level Three projector. His father had trained him at home using rituals unique to the Holmes family, handed down generation by generation.

Although much less refined than The Labyrinth, his father's methods had involved sufficient pain and fear as to easily provoke projection in Mycroft, starting at the age of twelve.

Sherlock was now fifteen; and so far, Mycroft had been able to shield Sherlock by emphasising to the family as well as to Whiteshadow that Sherlock was brilliant, but far too unstable to be a reliable agent.

But Sherlock's extreme brilliance had become too notorious, too tempting a prize. There was only one way.

"I've been holding back. I admit it. But promise me to leave Sherlock alone, and I'll take any level of The Labyrinth you think will strengthen my abilities."

"Your brother's abilities, forgive me for saying, seem likely to outstrip yours."

"In some things. But not in this. I've never seen the signs in him. You'll just destroy him trying to make him something he's not. And Sherlock-- he'll think it's a game, a game he can win-- until it's too late."

"Hmmmm. How far do you think you can go, Holmes?". The Director was looking greedy now. It was very hard to cross new thresholds in projection. They had never yet had an agent who could survive intact past Level Six. They both knew this.

"Level Nine," Mycroft said coolly. "But only if Sherlock is left untouched. Completely. If I find out otherwise, I'll withdraw entirely.".

It was a fundamental fact that paranormal abilities could be enhanced by a variety of means, including psychic torture in The Labyrinth. But they could not be forced if the subject chose to withdraw.

"Very well," The Director said. "Good luck, Holmes." They shook hands.

Whiteshadow had greatly benefitted from Mycroft's bargain. Within a year -- a year that Mycroft assiduously suppressed from his active memory -- he had broken the barrier to Level Ten.

And Sherlock Holmes became The World's Only Consulting Detective.

###

"And Scotland Yard? They suspect nothing?"

"No. I let it be known that I had . . .personal reasons for wishing to cause Maxim Purcell to be investigated and publicly charged with murder. The officer in charge of the Sleeping Beauties case...never suspected I was conducting my own investigation of Purcell for Whiteshadow."

"After the bin Laden affair, all of our larger operations need legitimate cover. You've done well, Mycroft. Number 10 is most anxious for a briefing on what exactly you think we are faced with here. Your preliminary report says, possible soul transference."

He kept his expression impassive. He had already decided that the case was much worse than just soul transference. But he couldn't be sure. He needed to talk to Sherlock, and to John.

Even more, he needed to talk to Lestrade.

"Yes. But beyond that, you, and even Number 10, will have to wait until I have completed my analysis. It's been just a week. It is a ...difficult case."

"I have every confidence in you, Mycroft."m She placed a delicate hand over his, just a moment too long. Her hand was warm, and her Omega scent superficially enticing, but no more.

Lady Anne appeared at the door.

"Here you both are! You've been dominating Olivia's time, Mycroft. It's very late, it's after midnight. I've barely had a chance to speak to her, and the Monktons have gone home. You are rarely so unsociable, Mycroft -- unlike Sherlock -- but in this case I can't say I disapprove."

She dropped down elegantly beside them and lit a cigarette.

"Now then. We're all grown-ups here. I'm getting rather too old for diplomacy. So I'll just put it to you both. I've done my part to bring the two of you together. I don't do it for my own amusement. Are you ready to do your duty? Mycroft, you've put off your responsibilities far too long. Don't bother to mention Sherlock's folly. John Watson is a fine man but he has no breeding at all. The baby will be quite amusing for us all, I'm sure. Well, probably not for Sherlock. I have no expectations there, really. But you, Mycroft, are the eldest and are our heir. I know that means a great deal to you. And Olivia, my dear, I can appreciate a woman, an omega, holding herself out for the highest offer. I did, when I was your age. Believe me when I tell you you'll never do better than my son."

"I shall have to insist you not speak of John in that way, Mummy. And it is not folly."

Lady Anne simply shook her head as though to shake away an irritating memory and ground out her cigarette, then left them alone, shutting the doors firmly behind her. Mycroft listened. He didn't put it past Mummy to lock them in until she got her way.

Mycroft's head felt light and the room seemed very hot suddenly. Mummy was, of course, quite right. He had a responsibility to the family, even to his country, to breed an omega and deliver an heir or two, so that the Holmes line, and its strain of rare power, did not fail.

Seeing Sherlock and John so deeply fulfilled by their bonding had made him hope against hope that he, too, could still find such a mate. Something more than the cold convention that bound Mummy and his father. Perhaps his lifelong indifference to omegas could be overcome. After all, John had only ever been with females, mostly betas at that, before Sherlock.

Olivia was ideal. Brilliant, ambitious, beautiful without prettiness, she could be his match in nearly every way. And they got on very well. There had even been a not-unpleasant undercurrent of flirtation there of late. They looked at each other, each imagining.

He unconsciously touched his cheekbone where, he knew, there was a visible bruise from Lestrade's fist. Was that the last touch he would ever have? He knew he wasn't ready to give him up.

And yet, duty called, and Mycroft Holmes never shirked his duty.

He placed a cool hand over Olivia's warm one.

"My dear, I wouldn't want you to think I need Mummy to plead my case. But I want you to know that in this, I happen to think she is right. Will you consider it? I would be very honoured."

Olivia regarded him gravely, looked at his large strong hand covering her small one. Inhaled delicately of his rich Alpha scent, unique to the Holmses, rarified and powerful. It spoke to her. It spoke for her.

"I think Lady Anne possesses excellent judgement in most things," she said. "In this of course I must follow my own judgement."

"No doubt," Mycroft said.

"Before I answer, I'd like to ask you for something."

"Of course. And you needn't answer at all, now."

"Will you kiss me?"

Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat. But in any alliance, he was going to have to be able to give of himself, even if only in heat. He bent down and took her in his arms, no hesitation. He kissed her as thoroughly and with as much passion as he ever gave to his Alpha male liaisons, who had never complained. To the contrary.

Which was still approximately one-tenth of what he felt when kissing Lestrade. His cock felt even less. Heat, of course, would overcome that difficulty.

But whatever it was, it was enough. Olivia melted a little into his embrace, and her mouth was warm and willing, if not eager. They smiled, satisfied. It would be a good match.

"Yes," she said.

Mycroft felt as though he had just jumped from one of his helicopters without a parachute.

###

He was about to suggest that they call Mummy back in for a celebratory drink when his mobile rang. It was not a call he could ignore.

"My dear, I have to take this. The case."

He was gratified to see that Olivia was not offended in the slightest. Her eyes sparkled a little with excitement, which was natural, Mycroft told himself with no little confidence. He could do this. His sociopathic brother had managed to do it, and he was practically heartless. Well, the case with John was entirely different. But he was going to have to let go foolish dreams of bonding. It only struck in the Holmes line once in every four generations, and Sherlock had claimed those odds for himself. He felt a shockingly deep pang when thinking about it.

In any event, it didn't matter. Whether or not he was ready to give Lestrade up, circumstances seemed determined to take him out of his grasp, anyway. Lestrade undoubtedly despised him now, and it was glaringly obvious that he had run right back into the arms of his wife. He was surprised at how much that hurt. They had never bonded. Then it made him a little angry, that Leastade should hold himself so cheap. He was worth so much more.

The call was from one of his subordinates tasked with surveillance on Baker Street.

"Sir, we've got a strange situation. I did a routine playback on the CCTV."

"Well?"

"Conrad wasn't there. He didn't report in like he should. He's not answering his mobile. But another man was there, in Baker Street. Not one of ours. I ran him, he's with Scotland Yard. DI Critchley. I didn't want to take it further without informing you. Do you have any orders, sir?"

"Yes. Find Conrad now, put as many assets on it as you need. Send me the ID on Critchley, I'll take it from here."

He opened the attachment. Critchley's Yard ID. Definitely the same man who had been with Lestrade when they burst into the library at Hantswood Hall.

His face burned remembering what had been happening at that very moment. He and Maxim. He had not fully been facing the fact that Lestrade had probably seen too much, and definitely had heard entirely too much, that night. He hadn't felt the same since.

He wondered if Lestrade could help him feel right again; the last time he had felt entirely himself had been with Lestrade, in his flat.

Just when it seemed that forces were pulling him away from Lestrade, they turned around and were sending him right back in his path. What did it mean?

Only one way to find out.

"Olivia, I've got an urgent matter that's just come up. Forgive me. Believe me, I don't want to go, not now," he lied. "But I want to have dinner with you, we have a great to discuss."

Olivia calmly stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Ring me when you're free, then. But not too long," she said lightly. "My calendar is looking very interesting in the next few weeks.". She left before he could comment of this direct assault.

Evidently Olivia was coming into her heat very shortly. He felt a thrill, imagining impregnating an omega, breeding an Holmes heir. He heard Olivia and Mummy's muffled voices in the library. He felt a wicked urge to project into the room, watch and listen invisibly from above. That would undoubtedly be very enlightening.

But he was eager to leave now, and couldn't spare the time either for the projection or the recovery phase, as a rule three times longer that the time out of body. He had an important call to make.

Anthea had had the foresight to send his car around to Mummy's house, and he climbed in. Taking a deep calming breath, he was about to ring Lestrade when another call came.

This time, the news was worse than before.

###

Lestrade quietly crept back to the sofa, where he sagged down with legs like rubber. His arsehole protested just at the pressure of sitting, and he hadn’t thought he’d been that rough with himself.

He wondered how long it would take to accustom his hole to something bigger, thicker. He let himself remember the weight and heat of Mycroft’s cock in his hand. Damn if his rebellious dick wasn’t getting hard all over again. He reached down to touch himself again.

That was when his mobile rang. He checked the clock. At 12:45 a.m., there could be only one reason for the call. Yard business. Even if he was suspended.

He groped for on the floor to find his discarded jeans and fished his mobile out of the pocket.

He looked down. Blocked number. With a raised eyebrow he answered.

“This is Detective Inspector -- ” he said quietly, not to rouse Janet. His voice caught in his throat, sounding so rough and husky as to be pornographic. After all, his belly was still tingling with aftershocks and his arsehold felt strangely empty. He shook it off and tried again, cleared his throat. “-- DI Lestrade.”

The soft intake of breath on the other end told him who it was before he heard the voice.

“Mycroft Holmes. I’m sorry to have caught you. . . at a bad time.”

I have been bad, Mycroft. Would you like to know how bad? He couldn’t help grinning at the ceiling.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” A few hours ago, he would have coated the words with acid and spat them. Now, he couldn’t help putting a little seductive twist in the word “want.” He felt euphoric, free. The past half-hour had been very illuminating. Both inside and out. He felt as if he were glowing with internal fire that could only be quenched one way.

He definitely knew what he wanted.

“Want? Ah, I’m calling about your man Critchley.”

Lestrade was seriously imparied. The blood had left his brain and was still throbbing in his groin. The name drew a blank. After a moment his brain came back online.

“He’s not mine. I mean, I took him on temporary transfer from Counter-terrorism -- just for . . . the operation. Wanted the best for your wire.” Now the venom did creep into his voice. Those sounds.

(“You’re trying to make me want what I asked for in Mumbai.”

“You weren’t asking, you were begging.")

“Did you put Critchley on surveillance at my brother’s flat?”

“What? I’m suspended, Mycroft -- you know that. I didn’t order anybody to do anything at 221b or anywhere else. I thought you were running the show.”

“I thought I was too. He was part of your team, I thought perhaps--.”

Lestrade sat up.

“-- No, not me. But the Sleeping Beauties case is huge -- a dozen victims, more if you count India. It’s a career-maker. Maybe Detective Superintendent Quinn is trying to find a way around you, Mycroft. Maybe Quinn sent Critchley to interview Sherlock and John. Or surveil them.”

“I thought that might be the case, of course. But you see, we’ve just found a panda car near Waterloo Station.”

Lestrade was already standing up, pulling his jeans on.

“Tell me,” he said, all heat draining from his body. He felt on edge, an edge that was transmitting from the tension in Mycroft’s voice.

“There was an officer in the passenger seat. Nobody noticed for a long time that she wasn't moving. Why should anyone notice a parked panda car? We’ve pieced it together that she had picked Critchley up in Baker Street and drove to Waterloo Station.”

“And?”

“She’s in a coma. Critchley’s vanished.”

The surreal happenings in Hantswood Hall came rushing back. His usually infallible cop’s instincts told him this was part of that nightmare.

"What can I do?". His frustration at his suspension made him feel maddeningly powerless.

"I have a team searching for Critchley. Unless you know anything about where he might be?"

"Not a clue. Back to his squad, I'd've thought. But I'll help, if you want my help.". He realised he still cared about the case, still wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened to all those omegas, what had happened on All Hallows Eve.

"I do want -- your help." There was a silence, and they listened to each others' breathing. "Will you listen to me now, Greg? I need to tell you what's really going on."

His body felt cold. His feelings of doubt and mistrust resurfaced.

"It would have been better if you'd told me before.". He said, more coldly than he felt inside. He sighed. "Okay then. I'll come to you."

"Thank you. I'm at Waterloo Station now. I'll wait for you."

"Look, Mycroft-- All I can say is, I'll listen. I've listened to loads of confessions," he said, and rang off.

He decided against leaving a note for Janet. The days when he had to leave guilt-tinged messages for his wife when he was called in by the Yard at irregular times were over. In a little more than a week she would be his ex-wife; he would be free.

He had never expected that by the time he earned his freedom, he wouldn't want it anymore.