The Omega Sutra. Chapter Twenty: The Sound of a Bullet.
word count: 2,400 this chapter, 113,000 thus far
summary: Sherlock has a secret life. John shouldn't want to be part of it.
warnings: Omegaverse, mpreg, kink, angst
disclaimer: I own nothing
The winner of the game is the player who makes the next-to-last mistake. – Savielly Tartakover
Listen to Rob Dougan, There's Only Me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GRDm5KUB
“I’ve got to go back – there’s still a man inside,” Lestrade cried. The old man who had mysteriously appeared after he had shot Maxim Purcell had not followed them out of the burning Hall.
“No – look –“ John said. Climbing the hill behind the Hall was El Brujo, outlined in the glow of the fire. Two figures emerged from the wood to meet him.
“He’s all right,” John said, powerfully relieved. He had come to count on El Brujo’s wise, steady presence to guide his way in this strange adventure. He wished he would come to Sherlock’s aid now, but sensed that El Brujo was not one to submit to questioning by the police.
“Sir, shall I get after him?” Donovan asked.
Lestrade looked after El Brujo. He thought he saw him turn at the top of the hill. John was looking at him intently and he felt that John wanted him to let the old man go.
“No, that’s all right,” he said slowly. “He’s an innocent bystander. Let him be. We have all the witnesses we need.”
He wanted to talk to John and Mycroft, but not in front of the others; there had been no opportunity yet to talk about what had happened. And now John wouldn’t speak to anyone, anyway.
He was sick with dread over Sherlock, who was seemingly unharmed, yet remote and not himself.
Ambulances had been summoned for the somnambulant Omegas, and there was general disorder in getting them up the hill to Tatsfield in the dark over unpaved roads; the fire brigade was here, too, trying to douse the raging fire. John insisted on taking Sherlock to be examined at the nearest hospital, and was astonished when a private ambulance for Sherlock alone materialized, apparently summoned by Mycroft.
Mycroft quietly ensured that Sherlock was relatively unharmed and that John himself was fit to care for Sherlock, then gave instructions to the driver and watched until the ambulance turned a corner and out of view.
This business concluded, Mycroft then commenced a series of murmured conferences on his mobile.
# # #
“They’re here, sir,” Donovan hissed.
Flashing red lights announced the arrival of Detective Chief Inspector David Quinn. Lestrade stood up and tried to make himself presentable. He was wearing a Met jacket and too-tight jeans lent by one of the constables. His own clothes, smeared with Maxim’s blood – and his gun – had been tagged as evidence. He knew he looked disheveled and tried to smooth his rumpled hair. He caught Mycroft looking at him with an unreadable expression that he firmly refused to interpret as something more than impersonal observation. He had a vision of him standing next to Mycroft in front of mirrors, staring at each other’s reflections in bespoke black tie.
Mycroft took a step toward him, and for a wild moment Lestrade thought he was going to reach out his hand to touch his hair, but his hands stayed at his side. Lestrade was overcome with visions of what those hands had recently been doing, been touching. He swallowed and turned away.
“Brass is taking the spotlight,” Donovan said sourly. She had a clear vision of the immediate future: She would be buried under reams of paperwork. Quinn and Lestrade would be giving press statements. Critchley maybe standing behind them, looking dangerous and competent. She grimaced.
“And the credit,” Critchley added, showing his own insecurities.
“That’s enough, both of you. Donovan, get those evidence bags in order.”
Critchley turned back to the audio tapes. He had been trying to make sense of what had happened. He had been trying to take Mycroft Holmes from Hantswood Hall on Lestrade’s orders, when an explosion had rocked the building and he had fallen to his knees. He must have struck his head too, because when he opened his eyes Holmes was gone, and then Lestrade was pushing him through black smoke out to safety.
“When you learn the truth,” Purcell was saying on the audio, “you will want to be with me.” He sounded completely mad, and more than mad. His resonant voice raised goosebumps over his flesh. He could well believe Purcell was the Sleeping Beauties killer.
He wanted to ask Mycroft Holmes if Purcell had told him “the truth” about the murders, but Lestrade’s glowering looks made him keep his questions to himself. He returned to the audio recordings.
# # #
“Well, Detective Inspector, got our man, eh?” Detective Chief Inspector Quinn entered the Village Hall and singled Lestrade out. He did not offer to shake his hand. “No, don’t say anything, you know the procedure. You’ll be debriefed at the Yard. And you’re on suspension pending inquiry into Purcell’s death. You knew that without me telling you, I’m sure. So -- Maxim Purcell is dead, isn’t he? You can say that much.”
“He is. Purcell is dead,” Lestrade said. He was almost happy to focus on the sound of his bullet flying, aim true, the sight of Purcell’s skull exploding. It pushed away other sounds, other images that he could not afford to allow himself to dwell upon. “And my gun’s in evidence. Sir,” he added for good measure.
“I’ll be taking over this investigation now,” Quinn announced loudly. “I want a briefing on evidence and witnesses. Where’s your sergeant, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
Lestrade indicated Donovan, but was shouldered aside by Mycroft, who stepped smoothly between him and Quinn. “Mycroft Holmes.” He held out his hand politely and Quinn shook it. “As for taking over the investigation, I’m afraid not. I shall be taking charge. A matter of internal security.”
Lestrade’s Alpha rage boiled and threatened to spill over. Mycroft thought he could be relegated to the background. A lesser pawn, not to interfere in the deliberations of his betters. This entire investigation had implications that Mycroft hadn’t thought it necessary to confide in him. He nearly punched Mycroft, then.
“You – what the devil do you mean, “taking charge?” Who are you? And who gave you the authority –“
“Before you say anything more, there is someone who wishes to speak to you. Sir.” Mycroft proffered his mobile.
“Detective Superintendent David Quinn here, Scotland Yard. Yes. Mr. Darroch - I beg your pardon, Sir Nigel Darroch. I see. Well, of course -- the Yard will give the NSC its fullest cooperation. Your man Holmes here, then? Very well. Thank you, sir.”
Quinn returned the mobile thoughtfully. “Good luck, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been ordered to turn over the Sleeping Beauties files to you. I’ll get my officers on it, I’ll call you when it is done.”
“Not to concern yourself, Detective Superintendent. It’s been taken care of.”
Lestrade whirled. “What in the bloody hell –“
Whatever he would have said was drowned out by the din of helicopters landing on the green. They all went out to watch as convoy of white vans arrived.
“If you would please follow my officers,” Mycroft shouted, indicating that Quinn should take the Yarders with him, “we will take it from here.”
# # #
Lestrade swallowed his fury and followed Quinn, but Mycroft’s strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him back around. He smacked Mycroft’s hand aside.
“Not you,” Mycroft shouted. “You’re coming with me.”
“Do I have a bloody choice?”
Mycroft led him into a waiting helicopter. From above, Hantswood Hall was still burning. The fire brigade looked impossibly tiny, shooting water ineffectually on the inferno. The glowing red looked like molten lava. It looked like something from a nightmare. The mouth of hell.
The helicopter climbed, and passed through black smoke. When it emerged, the Hall was behind them and the London skyline was approaching.
The familiar landmarks - Big Ben, the Eye, St Peter’s, were brightly lit. He could make out the outline of the Gherkin. This made him think of his new flat, of last night: of the Alpha urges that he had struggled so hard to control. If he was honest with himself, was it any different now?
They sat almost knee to knee and Mycroft was watching him with an air of waiting. The helicopter was rocking and thrumming and there was no sound but the roar of the motor and the throbbing in his head, the sound of his bullet ricocheting in his own brain. He wanted to pull Mycroft down onto his knees, kiss him and lick him and show him once and for all that he wasn’t to be toyed with, that whatever games he had been playing -- with him, with Maxim Purcell -- had ended when he put his bullet though Maxim’s skull. His blood was singing with the primitive thrill of Alpha conquest. If Maxim had been a rival, then he had beaten him. He was the one still standing.
And if this business of “taking over the investigation” was supposed to be some sort of Alpha power play, he would be happy to show Mycroft how wrong, how very wrong he was. Any moment now he was going to reach out.
But then they were hovering, lowering, and landing gently on a narrow platform over the Thames. The pilot leaped out and opened the door.
“Your car, sir,” he said. A black sedan was waiting at the end of the helipad. Lestrade stood rooted on the spot, the cold wind off the Thames whipping his hair. Behind them were glowing modern high rises. He knew this helipad; they were in Bridges Wharf in Battersea. Mycroft was waiting for him to get in the back of the car with him.
He was overcome with heavy weariness, something of the reality of the unreal events of this night was starting to break through the stronghold of his Alpha dominance. He blinked and swayed a little in the wind. Mycroft came to him, took his arm.
“Come with me, Greg,” Mycroft said softly.
Lestrade vaguely thought it would be good if he could read something into this, by Mycroft’s face was tight with concern and it was probably concern for him. He didn’t want pity from Mycroft Holmes. He didn’t want to want anything from Mycroft Holmes. He shook off the weariness and stood up straighter.
“Where are we going, then?” He imagined being driven to Mycroft’s own house, which he knew to be a spacious townhouse in Belgravia.
Mycroft looked uncomfortable. Lestrade wasn’t sure he had ever seen Mycroft look uncomfortable, though, so he couldn’t be sure.
“Ah – you’re to be debriefed. An office near here. Connected with the NSC. In a manner of speaking.” He held the door open.
# # #
Lestrade’s heart thundered with the fury that he had been holding back since hearing Maxim and Mycroft, moaning and panting intimately in his ear through his headphones. He wasn’t going to forget that sound. He needed to keep it fresh in his mind, just so he could remember what was really going down here. Even the sound of his bullet flying from his gun wasn’t going to drown it out. He was done with being played.
“And who’s doing the debriefing? You? One of your puppets? Forget it. I’m not one of them.”
“Greg, stop – you don’t know what you’re saying. Just come with me, it’s for the best. I give you my word.”
He took two slow steps into Mycroft’s space. “I don’t think so,” he said through gritted teeth. Teeth that wanted to bite, but he could never do that now. “If you want my statement, you can find me at the Yard.”
Mycroft’s eyes widened but he didn’t back away. It made Lestrade even angrier that he noticed how very blue they were, reflected in the lights of the highrise. A deep and mysterious colour he could lose himself in.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Greg? You need to come in with me. Now. I’m trying to help you, you know. And you forget you won’t be going to the Yard. You’ve been suspended.”
Lestrade’s eyes clouded over in a red haze and his chest was heaving. “Right. Then I can’t be suspended for -- this –“
He hauled his fist back and clocked Mycroft in the jaw, a blow that Mycroft blocked with surprisingly strong reflexes. Lestrade laid in another one and then they were grappling against the side of the car, which made him even more furious because it felt like the hotel room in Mumbai, grinding against the wall in the dark. Lestrade stopped when he felt the hard muzzle of a gun at the back of his head. Mycroft’s pilot.
But Lestrade didn’t move and Mycroft didn’t push him away.
“It’s all right, Mark. I’ve got him,” Mycroft said, not taking his eyes from Lestrade’s face.
Pressed together, he could feel Mycroft’s cock through those impeccable trousers. It was hot and hard. Like his. He made sure Mycroft could feel it with one audacious thrust of his hips in his borrowed jeans. They were both panting hard and it wasn’t from their scuffle.
“An Alpha’s cock doesn’t lie,” he said coolly, backing away. He shook his fist out. It stung and his knuckles were swelling. Mycroft would have a bruise on his cheekbone. Served him right. That was nothing to the bruises he had inside.
He turned and started walking. It was very cold on the river. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket and put his head down against the wind.
He heard footsteps behind him. Mycroft was walking now too, and the car was crawling along beside them.
“Forget the debriefing. I’ll make a preliminary report tonight. But get in the car, Greg. I – just talk to me.”
“Bad idea. I don’t think you’re going to want to talk about it, and I don’t really want to hear about it anyway. Believe me, I heard enough. Leave me alone, Mycroft.”
He didn’t look back.
He would cross the bridge; take Cheyne Walk. He wondered how long it would take to get to Creechurch Street if he kept walking along the Thames.
He decided it didn’t matter. He didn’t have anywhere to go tomorrow.
Only by walking away could he be completely sure he wasn’t a pawn in Mycroft’s game.
To be continued . . . .
- Current Location:at home
- Current Mood: gloomy
- Current Music:Rob Dougan, There's Only Me (instrumental)