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Chapter Text

TO: Sherlock Holmes <[email protected]>

FROM: John H. Watson <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: skin test for rapid hormonal phase identification

Mr. Holmes –

I attended your recent chemistry colloquium on rapid hormone phasing detection via skin cell sampling with great interest.  Although it may seem forward of me, the purpose of this email is to express my hope that you would pursue your research to the point of patenting your refined technique.  I believe such a patent could be used as the basis for multiple practical applications. 

I do not dispute the value of your plan to develop a forensic application.  Such a use could be crucial in bringing about justice for certain victims of criminal negligence or violence who cannot speak for themselves.  However, as a student in the RAMC medical programme, I also envisage future life-saving applications of your research. 

In emergency situations, it is not always possible to take and analyse a blood sample for intramorph gender cycle phasing confirmation in time to provide optimal treatment.  Your technique, if configured into a compact, durable test kit with a reasonable shelf life, could be used in precarious field conditions such as search and rescue.  Such an application would be in addition to your original concept of perimortem analysis.

I look forward to following this issue, to the extent possible, while on deployment.  I wish you success with your ongoing and future research endeavors.

Truly yours,

John H. Watson

P.S.  Imagine Phil Anderson’s face when you tell him the test kit he just used for an investigation was based on YOUR patent!

_____________

Sherlock had no intention of answering the email from John H. Watson.  For one thing, he was not inclined to strike up a relationship of any kind, even one as satisfying as trading disparaging remarks about Anderson.  For another, there appeared to be no expectation on Watson’s part for a reply.

He deduced that Watson was the dark blonde omega/malemorph at the back of the room during the colloquium.  The blonde’s scent, and the aesthetically pleasing rest of him, had been unfamiliar.  Sherlock had memorised the scents of the regulars reading chemistry and biochemistry.  (He looked at them as little as possible, though he recognised their unjustifiably smug faces when compelled by circumstance to do so.) 

Watson hadn’t attended any of the previous chemistry colloquia open to all students.  He must have come for the sole purpose of hearing Sherlock’s presentation.  Obviously, the omega was a medical student and more perceptive than average…

____________

The clinical lanyard and badge were still around the collar of the omega's blue button down, which was fastened at the neck to signal that he was not interested in any attention to his scent gland.  His surface aroma was artificially skewed towards the beta spectrum to take the edge off its attractiveness.  Scent modifiers were a requirement in the medical field for both alphas and omegas, so as not to evoke extreme reactions from patients. 

The newcomer sat in the second row, leaving the first row to those reading chemistry or biochemistry, all alphas (as usual) in this cohort.  An omega from another field knew better than to get in front of any of them, especially considering the alphas’ favourite pastime of gloating about sex partners.  Sitting up front would only make himself the target of verbal omegabuse, despite it being the appropriate location for someone several centimetres shorter than the average alpha.  Newmega craned his neck to see around the alphas, yet listened intently and took notes throughout the presentation.  The medical student looked as disgusted as Sherlock felt when alpha Philip Anderson, supposedly an aspiring forensic analyst, interrupted with a critique about the substrate unworthy of even a first-year biochemistry student. 

Sherlock did the next best thing to physically removing Anderson from the lecture hall, by verbally neutralising his comment, “People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.”

He scanned the audience, his posture daring them to make another half-witted statement.  Amid Anderson’s huffing and the other alphas uncomfortably shifting in their seats, he saw the omega looking at him with lips curved in a failed attempt to suppress a smile. 

A long moment later, that rare instance of commiseration with another person was sullied by a question that surpassed Anderson’s comment on the idiocy scale.  Naturally, it was a feeble attempt by another of the alpha junta to defend his impotent leader by attacking the purpose of the research.

“Why would anyone worry about omegas six hours after they’re dead anyway?”

Sherlock didn’t need to look at the omega student directly to know that his face had hardened with old anger and frustration.  The disfigurement of that subtle smile of support demanded retribution.  Despite Sherlock's disinclination to dignify an inhumane query with a response, he set out to humiliate the offending alpha.

“Had this test been invented only a few years ago, there are hundreds of people now walking the Earth who would have paid the penalty of omegacide.  Fabrications about omegas killing themselves due to pre-heat hysteria would’ve been given less credence by authorities.  Lies about" (here he sing-songed his voice) “it must have been extreme post-heat depression, but no one noticed until it was too late” (he let his tone drop back down to a natural baritone) "might have been viewed skeptically by police.  Taking such fairy stories at face value has given criminally negligent guardians and straight-up murderers opportunities to escape punishment for their crimes.  This test will provide a reason to investigate omega deaths further or even by itself provide conclusive proof that a crime was committed.”

The room was deliciously silent.

Not being able to come up with an argument against law and order – alphas supposedly being the Protectors of Society – the alpha gang left.

Walking out of the lecture hall last, the omega turned and inclined his head to Sherlock in solemn respect. 

____________

Sherlock was accustomed to sexual flirtation by omegas who assumed a Protector couldn’t resist a Procreator.  However, this omega’s expressions hadn't been come-ons and his email wasn’t veiled seduction.  A few betas tried to persuade him that they would be the best Providers, in all possible ways.  Even the occasional open minded alpha attempted to entice him with stale pick-up lines like, “Protectors should work together and play together.”  Thus far, all potential suitors fled in tears or anger, or both, when they became the focus of Sherlock’s razor-sharp personal observations, getting the point of said observations in more ways than one. 

Granted, the medical student’s gender profile was a factor in his smile and nod leaving good auras in their wake.  It would be intellectually dishonest of Sherlock to ignore instinctive alpha-omega attraction altogether.  More importantly, he couldn’t remember his eclectic academic pursuits being admired by anyone, omega or not – and with no expectation of reciprocity.  It was refreshing.  Though Sherlock wasn’t going to answer the email, he preened inwardly at the positive attention to his research. 

At the same time, he felt an old, reflexive defensiveness about his unorthodox ideas and recherché hypotheses beginning to rise up.  Insults towards someone who was less than a pure chemist telling him what to do with his results began to automatically form in his thoughts…

…No.

He refused to fall into the same trap as Anderson’s group and the vast majority of the population; he’d spent years training himself not to indulge in intellectual laziness, including by resorting to traditional conditioning.  Although there were some trends among people of the same gender, trends were not absolutes.  Belief in generalisations as rigid rules of behavior led to harmful stereotypes.  At best, the talents of unconventional persons were suppressed or ignored.  He knew this from personal experience.  At worst, non-conformists were robbed of their agency.  Tiny, ordinary brains like Anderson and company insisted on categorizing people into neat gender and role groups, though reality did not support doing so.  They twisted facts into theories they’d been indoctrinated into, instead of fitting theories to suit facts. 

Since Sherlock was not intellectually lazy, he proceeded to give Watson’s suggestion due consideration.  The pragmatist in him recognized personally strategic wisdom in the email.  Patenting his own technique and selling licenses for multiple uses could mean steady income.  Earnings would provide him with the means to pursue his real career objective to become the world’s first consulting detective.  Physicality was only transport, but having the means to house, clothe, and feed himself would support his real goal as it would take time to convince the Met, especially since Anderson would be disparaging him behind the scenes.

The biggest drawback of the patent and licensing processes would be enduring big brother Mycroft’s smug assistance with finding a solicitor to handle the legalities, a big drawback indeed.  Ah, well, needs must.  In this case, the promise of long-term complete financial independence from Mycroft outweighed the distaste of feeding Mycroft’s sense of omnipotence.  

The only satisfaction greater than economic stability sans Mycroft would be reluctant professional recognition by Anderson.  Although Sherlock still didn’t intend to answer the email, a small part of him hoped he would see John Watson again someday.  And not because of something as banal as gratitude or as base as lust.  (No, of course not.)  Such hope was only for the suggested future scenario at the end of Watson’s message: the opportunity to share with a kindred soul Anderson’s expression at being forced to use a forensic test invented by the person everyone else in the chemistry club called a freak.

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes was not given to idle speculation.  Therefore, it was annoying to find himself this morning doing just that.  How distasteful to be swimming in the waters of gossip and guesswork like a common goldfish!

The question that had him wallowing in mental bilge water was: who had gotten to Sherlock?  It affronted Mycroft that it wasn’t himself, the Holmes alpha familias. 

Sherlock had stunningly, uncharacteristically requested Mycroft’s assistance with hiring a solicitor to file a patent application.  It was rare for Mycroft Holmes to be surprised, but he admitted to himself that this development was unexpected in the extreme.  It could not have happened without an outside force persuading Sherlock. 

After Mycroft's extensive efforts to reach his little brother, it was some casual acquaintance who had persuaded Sherlock to ask for help.  To call Mycroft’s curiosity “jealousy” would imply sentiment, which was something Mycroft absolutely did not indulge in.  Nonetheless, he was quite...irritated.

Why now?  WHO now?

Of course, Mycroft was relieved that his brother was doing something with his research besides fueling his childish fantasy of running around as an unofficial crime fighter.  Sherlock had substituted a grown-up version of Robin Hood for childhood’s Red Rackham the Pirate persona, yet it would be swashbuckling all the same.  Mycroft had no doubt that someday Little Brother would wheedle his way into cases with an official detective force (avoiding MI6 as much as possible because of Big Brother), but now there would be something to fall back on when the shiny object of swashbuckling eventually lost its glamour due to the tarnish of bureaucracy.

Sherlock was unusual in his manifestation of alpha-ness.  He wasn’t a Protector in the classical sense.  His interest in solving crimes could be interpreted as the epitome of alpha-ness, as it was law enforcement adjacent, but that would be wrong.  It had some beta worker bee about it, a Provider of solutions.  Each puzzle was a flower from which the nectar of intellectual stimulation was extracted, in exchange for pollinating the criminal justice system with information, before moving on to the next puzzle ad infinitum.  He was not interested in promotions or politics, just what he called The Work.

Most alphas and betas perceived this difference subliminally but were unable to articulate their perceptions about Sherlock to themselves.  Through their lack of understanding, they became uncomfortable around Sherlock or downright hostile to him.  Rare indeed was the person who simply accepted Sherlock for who he was.  His unorthodox nature and isolation was both a precursor to and exacerbated by his involvement with drugs prior to university.

No wonder Sherlock did not actively seek a mate, a characteristic he shared with Mycroft.  They agreed the vast majority of the population were idiots to whom they refused to be bound.  Their mother never really understood the brothers’ reserve in this respect, especially as Mycroft was an excellent Protector, first of his unusual brother and then of the entire British nation.  She’d even deferred the alpha familias status to him.  She threw that in his face about once a year when decrying the lack of grandchildren.  Mycroft’s offer to give the position back and her subsequent refusal was how such confrontations invariably ended. 

After one such confrontation, a full-blown row between their parents ensued when Mummy declared that Sherlock’s aberrant behavior would be “straightened out” by bonding and Papa disagreed.  Their omega father stood his ground, saying that Sherlock’s gender manifestation was not a problem to be fixed.  He ascribed to the philosophy that characteristics of all three Natures – the Protector, the Provider, and the Procreator – were within each person in a unique mix, which was the up-and-coming zeitgeist.  

Father had not been given the same educational options as Mummy because of his gender.  Politics was an unfulfilled interest in his youth.  Omegas’ Procreator nature was considered inappropriate for governance.  Ironically, omegas were traditionally relegated to the management of home and family, the best analogy for governance Mycroft knew, especially if the family was a large one.  Father vicariously enjoyed Mycroft’s success in the present and hoped for Sherlock’s future happiness as his unique self. 

Sherlock’s future was exactly the current concern of an older brother. 

This newly influential person had swayed Sherlock to do something highly unusual.  Why?  Was this reasonable suggestion to patent a scientific methodology just a feint to gradually draw Sherlock down into the world of drugs again?  Could this wholesome development be the precursor to another relapse in disguise?  The alpha familias determined to engage the full powers of his position to identify this potential Svengali...

___________

...Hmm...

Mycroft Holmes was not given to being intrigued in a good way by anyone.  However, he found himself the next morning being just that, when he read the reports compiled by his staff. 

“I look forward to following this issue, to the extent possible, while on deployment.  I wish you success with your ongoing and future research endeavors.”

The email was...straightforward.  The sender was...possibly acceptable: John H. Watson, MBBS, RAMC, soon to be Lieutenant Watson.  The MBBS degree indicated some level of intelligence and, if the email were to be taken on face value, Watson was perceptive enough to recognise his brother’s brilliance, a characteristic in the man’s favour.  The use of the RAMC programme to obtain his doctorate indicated lack of funds.  That wasn’t a personal flaw in itself but could presage a future attempt to extract money from Sherlock.  However, the lack of additional contact with Sherlock during university, neither before nor since the colloquium, argued against a nascent confidence scheme.  Lack of a disciplinary record in university and excellent evaluations thus far in officer’s training indicated focus and dedication.

Watson’s family history would be a concern, except for the fact that the man cut himself off from them.  His mother was deceased from natural causes.  His father was incarcerated for murder without premeditation.  Prison visitors logs and postal records indicated no contact from son John.  After the father was convicted, daughter Harriet, elder of the two Watson children, assumed the status of alpha familias.  That state of affairs did not last long.  John applied for emancipation as soon as legally possible because of his sister’s abusive conduct.  His petition was granted.  Harriet did not help her own case to retain head-of-household status when she verbally assaulted her own barrister in front of the Court. 

All facts considered, it was difficult to remain overly concerned about this John Watson, someone who had lifted himself above his circumstances and wanted Sherlock to do the same.  Furthermore, Watson was soon to be deployed in the rear echelon of a war zone, far away from Little Brother.  So, a happy announcement was not pending, despite Watson’s omega status. 

Nonetheless, Mycroft would have his people monitor Lt. Watson, just in case. 

Chapter Text

A year later, Sherlock was in the forensic lab at St. Bart’s, listening to two of the young doctors greeting one another.  He always monitored conversations in the background while setting up an experiment.  Although he legitimately purchased laboratory time with the proceeds from his patent, some individuals did not respect his work.  More than once, a guardian at the mind palace gate had warned him of impending sabotage. 

He recognised the voices of Molly Hooper, one of the junior pathologists, and Mike Stamford, a recent medical graduate.  Hooper was working on her qualifications to become a medical examiner as soon as she was eligible to sit for the test.  Stamford had been in the same medical school cohort as John Watson. 

It was interesting to Sherlock how Molly compartmentalised her thinking.  Perhaps she’s a beta-omega codominant.  With dead bodies, she was dispassionate.  With live bodies, she focused on their needs and feelings.  Sure enough, her greeting to very-much-alive Mike reflected the latter.

“Mike, you look down today.”

Sherlock had previously observed that Mike’s mode of thinking was to be a fixer of broken people, inside and out, all the time.  It was his strong beta streak.  On the surface, healthcare was the appropriate field for Stamford.  In the long run, Mike would struggle to refrain from internalising the problems of others and give himself stress-related health problems. 

What were John Watson’s thought processes like?  Were they always of the practical turn of mind reflected in that email?  As Sherlock pondered that question, something that had intrigued him repeatedly over the past year, Mike’s use of the Watson name aloud caught Sherlock’s attention.

“I said goodbye to John Watson this morning.  He just graduated from officer’s training at Sandhurst.  He’ll be off to active duty in the Middle East tomorrow.”

Suddenly, Sherlock found himself more than just monitoring.  He was actively listening.  His reputation as a misanthrope served him well in this instance, when he was anything but, because the two doctors didn’t take their conversation into another room.  They continued to ignore him, assuming he was an uninterested party, as he kept on with his experiment and pretended to be oblivious to anyone or anything else.

“Oh, wow.  You two are good friends, aren’t you?”  Molly’s question sounded like a statement.

“Yeah.  John’s a good guy.”

“As a doctor, surely he’s not going to be on the front lines...”  Molly’s statement sounded like a question.

“No, but knowing John, he’ll volunteer for a dangerous rescue mission or something like that.”  Mike paused before speaking again, huffing in exasperation.  “What’s bothering me most right now was the fact that he had no family to see him off.  His bloody sister didn’t show.”

“Isn’t she the alpha familias?”  Molly’s question sounded like a statement this time.

“He won emancipation from her before uni.  You can imagine the falling out they had over that!  She even started a row in the courtroom, John told me.  Even so, I should think your brother going overseas to a war zone would be enough reason to let bygones be bygones for one day.”  Mike snorted in disgust.  “Apparently not.”

“How did John take it?”

“Stiff upper lip and all that.  He seemed really grateful that I remembered the date though.”

“Is there a way to contact him?”

Sherlock could hear rustling as Mike answered, “He gave me an address for military post.”  He pulled a paper out of his pocket.

“Great!  Leave it on the table.  I’m going to get my mobile to put John’s address in my contacts and send him a card.” 

“While you’re doing that, and getting out your M.E. readings, I’m going to get my phone from my locker in the lounge.  I didn’t want it to go off during the graduation ceremony.  When I get back, I can quiz you for the test.”

“In that case, get some coffee on your way back.  Cream and sugar, please.”

Mike mock saluted before doing a terrible imitation of an about face and marching his way out of the room. 

Molly giggled as she went in the opposite direction towards her cubicle.

When Molly and Mike vacated the room to retrieve their devices, Sherlock silently slipped over to the table and took a photo of the address with his own phone.

Chapter Text

Having received notification that post had arrived for him, Lt. Watson went to retrieve his mail like going into battle.  He knew that goodies weren’t waiting for him.  Since Mum died, he had no one in his life who would send things like that.  So, he braced himself for the other kind of post, the worst kind.  He wondered what hate mail he was getting from his sister.  

John kicked himself for being so pessimistic.  The last time he got mail it wasn’t from Harry.  In fact, it was a card from Molly Hooper, congratulating him on his graduation from Sandhurst.  Though she was in the pathology department at St. Bart’s, assisting with classes during mortuary practicum, he didn’t think he’d made any kind of impression on her.  The card was still nice to receive.  Maybe this mail wouldn’t be bad either.  One could only hope.

He was intrigued by the bluey that awaited him.  The address on the envelope was definitely not written in Harry’s hand, or anyone’s he recognised.  The return address of Montague St. in London was not familiar.  He didn’t know anyone living in that neighbourhood.

Back at his bunk, opening the envelope revealed a single small square of paper with blocky handwriting.

GB 5429071.1 – SH.

What the hell?

Was it a gag of some kind?  No, the “GB” surely stood for Great Britain, which indicated the number wasn’t random.  It must be something related to the government.  SH looked like someone’s initials, but none of John’s acquaintances had those initials, at least no one that he could think of off the top of his head.  Giving up, he decided to ask his bunk mate and fellow medic, Bill Murray, if he had any ideas as to the meaning of the message.

“Oh, that’s a patent number, mate.”

“You’re sure?”  After Murray’s nod, John asked, “And why would you know that?”

“My aunt’s a designer for a big corporation.  You get exposed to stuff like trademarks and copyright and patents growing up around her.”

“A patent…”  Watson’s face scrunched into a thoughtful frown before suddenly lighting up. 

“OH!  That’s great!”

“So, you figured it out, I take it.”

“Yeah.  It’s from this guy at uni who gave a lecture on rapid hormone phasing detection.  He invented a new procedure using skin cells instead of a blood test.  His name is Sherlock Holmes, so that accounts for the SH.  I emailed him after the lecture that he should patent his work.  I guess he did.  Mark my words, we’ll be using field kits based on his invention someday.”

“Why?  The military gives us some pretty strong suppressants.  And forces a reset for anyone else who’s suppressant resistant…uhm, as you…already know.”

Bill stuttered to an embarrassed silence at saying an unpleasant truth aloud. 

Military people who were suppressant resistant, the ones who could still partially phase even on the strong stuff, were required to go through induced omega heat or alpha rut.  John was one of those people.  He shuddered, knowing forced heat was in his future.  He recovered by ignoring Bill’s look of sympathy in favor of explaining.

“I think some manufacturer is going to take Holmes’ test and turn it into something we and civilian EMTs can use in the field.  We’d use it for civilian victims who aren’t on suppressants and can’t talk to us.  It’ll be SOP for emergency treatment, except for dangerous situations like a firefight.  It’s extremely sensitive.  His original goal was to develop a pheromone phasing test for up to six hours after death.”

“What?!”

“His main interest is in forensics.  I was trying to steer him towards the living, not just the dead.”

“It looks like he got your message.”

John was on a roll, “Another thing: maybe the MOD can authorise using more accurate phase identification to titrate the artificial hormones for induced heats and ruts, instead of injecting the hormonal equivalent of a nuclear bomb.  It would make those procedures less painful.”

“You’ve got a point.” 

“You bet I do.” 

Watson couldn’t help but smile at the thought that his suggestion was taken seriously.  Without any actual words, this piece of mail had made John’s day.  Hell, it was one of the highlights of his career thus far. 

He secured the envelope in the locked box where he kept his most treasured personal items.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was in Marseilles to get background information about a suspected thief of valuable collectibles.  He was enjoying the case, not just because it came from a well-paying client (although the side benefit of remuneration could not be denied), but also because it was a little more of a challenge.

He’d started his website some months ago, soliciting private clients.  A disappointing 135 days later, he finally started getting prospective clients who were more interesting than wanting evidence of adultery that they could have obtained themselves.  During the first significant case, he'd provided leads for the Met to arrest an omegabuser, but Sherlock still hadn’t received a return contact by anyone at New Scotland Yard for further consultation.  Private clients continued to improve slowly.  After he’d resolved a case of attempted fraud using impersonation, the client – who’d been saved a literal fortune – provided free advertisement of his skills to her social circle.  That, plus adding a patent to his credentials online, brought him a greater variety of clientele, including the current one who subsidised this trip to the land of his grand-mère.  

Seated at an outdoor café table with a cup of pressed coffee, reading notes from an informant, he looked up when the breeze shifted.  The scent of a certain omega was in the air and he easily homed in on the source. 

Sherlock knew something was profoundly wrong with John Watson, even at a distance.  For one thing, the scent was not the same mix of omega+modifiers that he remembered from uni.  Observing the doctor across the street from the restaurant, several other things disturbed Sherlock's sensibilities.  Doctor Watson was exceedingly pale, despite having been stationed in a sunny climate for many months.  He’d recently lost more than a stone, as shown by the way his uniform hung loosely on his frame.  His shoulders were thrown forward in a way uncharacteristic of someone in the military, indicating abdominal muscle cramps.  

As unsettling as these signs of physical distress were, Sherlock became truly concerned about the doctor’s unsteady gait whilst crossing la rue.  He was at risk of being hit by a lorry.  He watched the doctor walk (wobble) directly towards the café and halt several metres away from Sherlock’s table. 

“Mr. Holmes?”

The doctor’s question was an expression of shock, not inherent stupidity.  It had been almost two years since the colloquium and they were both out of context in France.  Sherlock was surprised by the strength of his own satisfaction at being recognised.

“The last time I checked.”

Though Sherlock rarely engaged in self-deprecating humor (he didn’t see modesty as a virtue), he had learned that it could be used as a tool to help others release tension and move on in a conversation.  The alpha had an overwhelming desire to make Doctor Watson more comfortable, thereby making it more likely that an invitation to sit would be accepted. 

The self-directed quip worked.  Doctor Watson smiled.  A very tired smile, but a smile, nonetheless.  Moving forward to stand beside the table, the omega looked beyond exhausted behind his smile, as if simply pulling his sunken cheeks upward was an effort.  Slight shifting on his feet was unconscious compensation for shakiness.

And his scent in close proximity was…off.  Very much so.  The wrongness of these things up close, in addition to the signs of illness visible from across the street, reached inside Sherlock to his alpha core.  An omega shouldn’t look that way, act that way, or smell that way. 

Sherlock's knowledge of criminal activity supplied the reason.  Induced heat. 

Typically, deducing cause from effects would be a balm to any internal unrest Sherlock might be experiencing.  This time, however, the deduction magnified the sense of wrongness.  The Army shouldn’t be engaging in the same activity as sex slavery rings or abusive alphas.  He remembered the words of that first significant omega client about being assaulted in that way.  Despite her hesitancy to speak about her trauma, the victim’s understandable rage and desire for justice compelled her to describe the experience: “It’s like being raped from the inside out.” 

It was hard not to appear as angry as he felt at this moment towards the Army medical establishment at inflicting such a procedure on this omega.  With effort, Sherlock kept his face neutral.  He didn’t want Doctor Watson to think any anger was directed at him.

“Doctor Watson,...”

The omega interrupted, “Call me John.”

"...Sherlock, then.  Would you care to join me?”

“I’d love to.”

Though he'd suppressed his anger a moment ago, Sherlock couldn’t stop a small smile as John sat down opposite him. 

That smile wavered as the omega involuntarily shivered at initial contact with the cold seat.  Sherlock was tempted to give John his long woolen coat, but calculated that the gesture wouldn't be received well.  From his very first observation of Watson at the colloquium, it was obvious that he was constantly defending against the assumption that he was weak.  That defensiveness would probably be intensified as an omega in the alpha dominated military.  Embarrassing the soldier would counteract their nascent rapport.

So-called “small talk,” like modesty, was a waste of words in Sherlock’s opinion, but he didn’t know if the omega’s mood was as fragile as his physical state.  Caution was advisable, so he started with the banal. 

“I thought you were stationed in Afghanistan.” 

“I’ve been…training.”

A tiny hesitation before the last word of that sentence affirmed Sherlock’s conclusion about the real purpose for John’s presence in France.  Personal, painful.  Otherwise, the sentence was stated with confidence, so there was a kernel of truth to it.  The doctor placed a small padfolio and file keeper on the table beside him.  They might contain educational materials, but it was only opportunistic training, something to keep the omega busy for a few days of recovery from the brutal effects of induced heat. 

John removed a mobile phone from a leg pocket of his cargo trousers and set it atop his training materials.

“They let me out for an afternoon before I have to go back to my duty station.  I thought I would try some real French food.”  He waved at his mobile phone.  “I was trying to find a place.  I’m so glad I found you as well.”

The last sentence almost threw Sherlock as it was an accurate expression of his own internal state.  Not wanting to appear too eager, he focused on the rest of what John had said.  And what he didn’t say.

John needed calories.  He wouldn’t have consumed anything during forced heat.  Intake since then had been only water and just enough food to avoid being hospitalised again.  As an omega, his instincts wouldn’t allow him to have an appetite in the same den that had poisoned him.  It was a survival strategy which made sense from an evolutionary perspective, so that an omega could live long enough in the company of an enemy alpha to find an opportunity to escape.  Now that John was free of confinement among those who harmed him, he sought not-Army food, but he didn’t speak French and was uncertain of what to order.  And he trusted Sherlock.

Sherlock would take care of him.

Chapter Text

“Allow me to order, if you have no objections.  The coffee and pâtisseries here are very good.  There are several respectable entrées, as well.”

“It’s fine.  I trust your judgement.”

Sherlock found the alpha in himself getting a great deal of satisfaction at having the opportunity to rectify damage to his an omega caused by other alphas.  He found he had an appetite as well.

To the garçon, Sherlock gave their orders in French – with a little extra instruction.  John noticed.

“What did you say to him?  I know that not all of that was about food.”

“It was encouragement to not allow the dispute with his mother to persuade him into a real estate decision that he will regret.”

“You know him from being here before, then...?”

“He’s new," Sherlock replied with a shake of his head, "I didn’t know.  I saw.”

John cocked his head to the side in silent encouragement for Sherlock to elaborate.  

“An estate agent’s business card is partially exposed in his back pocket.  It’s folded irregularly, forced in there, reflecting the pressure he felt to meet the agent about a specific location.  Who puts such pressure on grown adults except parents or spouses?  No jewelry at all, not even a necklace, so he’s unlikely to have a spouse or partner.  Parent then.  A lavender orchid plant is sitting on the waiter’s station, still with the florist’s plastic wrap around it.  A gift then, not restaurant decor.  Such a flower is typically given to an older woman, rather than a younger one.  It’s weeks from a holiday where such a gift would be traditional.  Possibly a birthday present, but his agitated state suggests otherwise.  He’s had a disagreement with his mother about her desire for him to take a flat near her own.  It was she who set up the meeting with the estate agent and he felt obligated to attend, but he’s put his foot down about not moving.  The flowers are a peace offering.  He confirmed as much.”

“Amazing.”

Spurred on by the compliment, Sherlock waved a hand toward John’s belongings on the table and continued, “Your mobile phone is a fake peace offering, really meant to chain you down.  It’s a very recent model that I doubt you’d be able to get, stationed where you are.  A young person’s gadget, too personal and expensive to be from a typical friend.  From family then, most likely your sister.  She sent it with a note of apology for not attending your graduation from Sandhurst.  You know better though.  She sent it hoping to guilt you into keeping in touch.  Still the overbearing alpha, expecting omegas in her life to fall in line.  She failed the first time with you, then with her mate.  Now she’s trying a subtler approach with you for a second round, thinking that your homesickness will bring you under her influence again.”

John’s response was almost a whisper.  “You’ve described the situation exactly.  Extraordinary.  Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“Well, I’m not normal people,” John said, smiling.  “What do normal people normally say?”

“Some variation of “piss off!”  Occasionally, the insults are more creative.” 

John chuckled and Sherlock joined him.

After their moment of levity, John asked, “How did you know I have a sister?”

“Ah."  At the risk of diminishing his own deductions, Sherlock chose honesty over awe.  "I can’t take credit for that detail.  I overheard Mike Stamford mention the fact to Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock's frankness was rewarded with an even bigger smile.

"Doesn't make the rest of it any less amazing."

"You were right about one observation of your own, John."

"Oh?"

"You're not normal people."

John's blush was particularly noticeable.  Sherlock was particularly smug about having caused it.

Arrival of the boeuf bourguignon gave them something else to focus on, as they seem to have run out of words for the moment.  A small involuntary sound of satisfaction came from John when he applied himself to the food.  It was music to Sherlock's ears.  He was doubly pleased that John ate the entire portion.

Waiting for dessert, John cleared his throat, not a sound of satisfaction.  Sherlock correctly interpreted this as a prelude to a topic of personal importance to the omega. 

A second throat-clearing sound was followed by John setting his jaw before speaking, “With your observational skills, you know the training was just an excuse to recover from a medical procedure.”

“Yes.”

“I remember forensics is more your area, but I was wondering if you could look into applying your rapid hormone phase detection technique to induced heat.”  He looked hopeful.

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin to control his excitement at someone asking him to do research.  

“Go on.” 

John continued more assertively, now that he'd broached the subject.

“Under current practice, the first and only inducing hormone dose is so large that it overwhelms the body’s natural feedback loops.  The bolus is one size fits all, for the Army’s convenience, suffering of the patient be damned.  Being interested in criminal matters, you're probably aware that’s the same procedure used by sex slavers." (Sherlock inclined his head in the smallest of nods.)  "Also like sex slavers, the Army uses the same procedure every time, even when the omega patient's prior experience clearly showed the dose is dangerous.”  He rubbed his forehead, as if to erase a memory, before continuing, “My idea is that a regimented use of your testing technique before and during the first few hours of induced cycle apex could reduce the amount of hormones given to most patients, thereby reducing the side effects, which are – frankly – horrible.  It could be adapted for induced rut too.  Forced cycle apex might not be quite as painful for alphas, but it’s no bank holiday either.”

“The emergency kits will be going into production soon.  The military could just use a series of those tests in quick succession.”

John's eyes opened wide, “A company bought a manufacturing license for your patent?"  (Another small nod from Sherlock.)  "Congratulations!”

Sherlock didn't break his pose but noted the vigor with which John spoke.  Clearly, the meal was benefitting the omega already.  Good. 

"Getting back to it," John shook his head, “you have to understand military culture from the procurement side.  My idea would require repeat tests to titrate medications.  The MOD won’t purchase the tests separately.  The tests need to come packaged together for a specific purpose, similar to what I described in my email about emergency services.  And the packs need to come with directions even Anderson could follow.”

“Your description doesn’t give me a great deal of confidence in our armed forces, John.”

“An Army doesn’t do ‘individual’ well.”

“They’re idiots.”

“Sometimes ‘institution’ is another word for collective idiocy.”

The name 'Mycroft' flashed across Sherlock’s consciousness as a synonym for 'institution.'

“I would be happy to work on your proposal, John.”

This earned Sherlock a lopsided John-smile (Sherlock believed he would never tire of John-smiles), along with a huff of relief.

“Thank you.  Besides, I think the practical aspects of the project will require more attention to detail than just repeated testing with your current formula.  Heat is a dynamic process, not a series of discrete stages, and that has to be taken into account.”

“I will need you as a long distance consultant then, for your personal experience and professional knowledge.”

“I’m looking forward to it already.”  John's open, eager face was better than dessert.

The soldier relaxed in his chair, one mission accomplished and ready to move on to the next. 

“Now that we have established what I’m doing in France, tell me why you’re here.  With your interest in forensics, I have to imagine it has something to do with an investigation.”

Sherlock didn’t know which he enjoyed more: telling John about his case and self-made career or watching his the omega eat both portions of mousse au chocolat.

After coffee, they exchanged current contact information.  Sherlock was so stimulated by dinner with John that he solved the collectibles case by morning.

Chapter Text

Mycroft was looking at video of Sherlock and Lt. Watson at an outdoor café in France. 

[Sherlock invited Lt. Watson to sit with him.  Watson was uncomfortable at first.  Sherlock’s right hand twitched towards the placket of his signature full length coat.  Ergo, the alpha wanted to take care of the omega.]

According to the agent who was following Little Brother, the meeting was unexpected.  The problem with such a description was that Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe in coincidence.  The universe wasn’t that lazy.  Nevertheless, there didn’t appear to be any manipulation on the part of Sherlock or Lt. Watson to get them in the same place at the same time.  Also, according to the agent, they did not have any contact other than eating dinner together before Watson returned to his active duty station.

Hmm. 

Mycroft paused the video.

Watson had been in France because a Ministry of Defense medical facility was located there.  He’d undergone an artificially induced heat, something periodically required of suppressant resistant omegas in the military.  Its purpose was to time the omega’s cycle according to the convenience of the unit to which the omega was assigned.  Mycroft had been aware of the requirement, but comparing this photograph to those in Watson’s dossier was the first he’d seen of its physical aftermath. 

The obvious negative impact of the procedure prompted him to delve into the details.  He retained the video on pause as he skimmed two reports on the matter.

An American ambassador’s phrase, “killing a fly with a cannon,” came to Mycroft’s mind.  The Yank had used the idiom to describe the imposition of extreme economic sanctions against a country, including complete cessation of trade to the point of food and medicine shortages, when diplomatic measures would have been more than sufficient to produce the desired concessions.  That phrase also aptly described forced heat, according to his newly acquired information.  For most suppressant-resistant omegas, the procedure resulted in excruciating pain, fever delirium, extreme weight loss, dehydration, and sometimes febrile seizures. 

More than harassment by alphas or lack of opportunities for advancement, induced heat was responsible for the low enlistment rate, and practically non-existent re-enlistment rate, of omegas.  Those who’d experienced forced heat described it as institutionalised torture and made sure to warn other omegas about it over social media after discharge.  Of course, few omegas would take the chance on enlisting then finding out they were suppressant resistant and doomed to undergo forced heat.

(According to reports, artificially induced rut was less of a hardship on suppressant resistant alphas, of whom there were very few, than the comparable procedure was in omegas, although forced rut was unpleasant enough by all accounts.  Alphas having undergone the procedure had a lower re-enlistment rate also, but not as abysmal as heat induced omegas.) 

Prejudice against omegas was the only answer as to why the MOD allowed this situation to continue.  Caring was not an advantage – except when it was.  A minimal amount of concern for the suffering of these individuals would lead to research for a less injurious procedure, which would lead in turn to an increased enlistment and re-enlistment rate.  The country was depriving itself of an enormous pool of applicants for military and related service since omegas consisted of almost one third of the population.  This was unacceptable.

Before beginning to rectify that larger situation, Mycroft turned his thoughts to Lt. Watson.  Surely, Watson knew of the potential for induced heat back in university, as a medical student.  Just as surely, his commitment to the military in order to obtain his degree overrode any unwillingness to endure the procedure, if necessary.  To his credit, Watson was not the kind of person to abandon that commitment or his career out of fear.

However, now that Watson had undergone such a harsh experience, the RAMC was at risk of losing a good officer during his service obligation.  Repeated cycles like this could turn the most dedicated into the disheartened and lead to poor performance, albeit unconsciously. 

The photo showed the Lieutenant’s condition after five days of medically supervised (a euphemism in this case) induced heat and a week of light duty, disguised as seminars on updates in medical standards.  From his weight loss, pallor, and posture, it appeared the medical assessment which deemed him recovered sufficiently to return to the Middle East the day after dinner with Sherlock was grossly inaccurate.  

No, not inaccurate – uncaring.  

Mycroft emailed his liaison at the MOD to reassign the incompetent physician in Marseilles responsible for sending Watson back in that condition.

The longer-term problem was finding a less harmful method of inducing heat.  He emailed his PA, directing her to find out if any research centres, government or private, were working on devising a better induced heat methodology.  Mycroft knew that such intelligence would take some time to gather and unpaused the video.

[Sherlock ordered for Watson.  According to Mycroft's lip reading, Sherlock demonstrated his deductive skills whilst they awaited food.  He returned Lt. Watson's smile.]

Mycroft paused the video again.

Sherlock’s interest in this omega had to be purely self-gratification.  Had to be.  Altruistic was not a word one would use to describe Sherlock, despite working as a detective for hire for shamefully low compensation considering his level of skill.  Solving personal puzzles was for self-stimulation, not for serving clients.  If he ever convinced the police to consult with him, he would not do such work for the sake of public-spiritedness.

Crime solving à la carte was still the stuff of comic books, in Mycroft’s estimation.  However, it was reasonable to acknowledge that such a path was the only good thing to have come from Sherlock’s active addiction days.  Apparently, some collection of noxious experiences (and Mycroft was not certain he wished to know what all of those experiences had been) persuaded Sherlock away from committing crimes and towards solving them, like learning to use a cooktop properly after burning one’s hand.  

Yet, there seemed to be something more in Sherlock’s gestures towards Watson than simple selfishness.

Mycroft resumed the video.

[Sherlock ate most of the entrée when Watson gestured to his plate.  Watson proposed they work together on the induced heat problem and Sherlock accepted.  Despite loving chocolate, he gave his mousse to Watson.  Sherlock allowed the omega to pour him a second cup of coffee.]

An exchange of caring gestures had just played out on screen.  He knew his brother.  There had been no dissembling on Sherlock’s part.  He had enjoyed having dinner with the doctor.

Remarkable.

____________

Mycroft never used the phrase “great minds think alike” since he’d never run into an equal intellect.  However, he was not entirely surprised that his PA’s search for a potential methodology with which to lessen harmful effects of induced heat confirmed that the second greatest mind, his own brother, had developed the basis for the only practical solution.  He supposed some amount of recognition could be given to Lt. Watson for envisioning multiple applications of Sherlock's research.   

The MOD needed only the smallest push from Mycroft’s office to ensure they became aware of the potential benefit of Sherlock’s patent to the military.  Mycroft had been working on clearing out the most obsolete thinkers among the generals.  No grand manipulation was needed for the agency to authorise development of a new induced heat protocol. 

The next assignment for his PA was compiling a detailed report on Watson’s service record.  If he brought similarly expansive ideas to his military assignments, yet was still a lieutenant, perhaps he has been overlooked for a promotion due to his gender…

It was time to look in on Lt. Watson.  Personally.

Chapter Text

TO: Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

FROM: John Watson<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: induced cycle apex

Sherlock –

Here are my current thoughts about your project to titrate hormones for less intense induced heats.  I apologise in advance if you have already taken into account the issues I raise in this email, but between the circles of hell otherwise known as terrorist attacks, security patrols, and hospital shifts, there is not much for me to do but think.

So, at the risk of stating things you have already accounted for, here goes…

Repeated skin testing within a short period of time brings up practical issues.  Needing a wide enough area of the body with relatively homogeneous epidermal cells would naturally lead one to think of an arm or leg as the source for skin samples.  However, being surrounded by highly decorated – and I don’t mean medals – co-workers tells me that a disclaimer should be included in the final package that this testing regimen might not work as well using tattooed skin. 

The procedure will undoubtedly include a caution to clean the skin to be tested, with a primary goal to be hygienic.  Cleaning would also eliminate cross contamination from artificial scent or scent modifying products that contain pheromone congeners which could, in turn, skew the test results.  Before you proceed to ignore that idea because your test will be more robust than any skin test in the once and future history of medicine, keep in mind that the perfume industry spends millions (billions?) every year on developing artificial scents. 

There should also be a prominent warning about the test administrator wearing gloves.  Doubtless, you’re aware that health care professions require the use of scent modifiers.  Your test is going to be administered by nurses and docs wearing the very substances that could contaminate the test.  Remember, common sense is not common.

With respect to repeated testing during the prodromal stage of heat, the body’s developing inflammatory response will compromise results of successive tests unless steps are taken to compensate for that.  Heat being a specialised type of inflammatory response, here are some suggestions on addressing this problem: –

____________

The second part of the email went on to an impressive length with comments about the biochemistry side of the project.

John must’ve been working on these ideas for a number of days in his free time.  Sherlock imagined him taking notes while sitting on his bunk in shorts and a t-shirt, combat boots placed on the floor and fatigues draped on the foot of the bed, ready for donning at the call of duty.  When John had more time, he typed the notes into his phone and saved the draft message over and over until he’d deemed it complete enough to send to Sherlock. 

Knowing John went through such effort to nurture Sherlock’s interest was…intensely gratifying.  No one else had ever done so.

It was tempting to ignore the first part of the email, but John was right to point out the need for idiot-proofing.  No matter how good the underlying biochemistry, such tests and medications would be administered to omegas by people who might have no appreciation of the seriousness of the matter.  For John, dumbing down the procedures by inserting warnings about things that should be common sense meant ensuring he would be spared a great deal of suffering, which was the whole point of the project.  Sherlock was John’s only resource for that assurance.  

Secretly, he was grateful for the prior induced heat because it had provided the opportunity to have dinner with John, to work with John, albeit at long distance.  If he couldn’t help John through heat in the natural sense, he wanted to help John endure an artificial one. 

He would be an alpha in a more subtle, but just as powerful, a way as sharing a heat in bed.  He would truly be a Protector.

To continue in that role, Sherlock would need to hold the license for manufacture and have review over the prototype, requiring another trip to the solicitor.  Tedious, but necessary.  He would put John’s name on the license as well.

____________

TO: Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

FROM: John Watson<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Thank you!

Sherlock –

I’m privileged to be included as your partner in product development.  I signed the documents from your solicitor electronically.  I know you don’t like repetition, so I won’t say “thank you” again 😉, but it needs to be said that you are the first alpha who respects my ideas (other than when they need surgery).  That means a lot to me.

Speaking of ideas, we have to do something about the colour chart.  Your last email showed me that you were successful in making the visual indicator show more graduated results during the prodromal phase of heat.  However, not all test administrators will distinguish between an azure blue and a cobalt blue, for example.  We have to expand the chart and provide information on how to read it properly.

John

____________

TO: John Watson<[email protected]>

FROM:  Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: clinical trials

John –

I have pushed the manufacturer over the past 4 months.  We are at the point that practical application is needed.  I have a contact with the British government through whom you will be able to participate in the first cohort to use the new protocol, if you wish. 

Whether or not you choose the new protocol, please keep me informed as to when you are to be in France.  I would like to dine with you again.  We could discuss the results of the new induced heat protocol in person.

Sherlock

____________

Although he and John had worked on this project together, Sherlock was acutely aware that John had the right and opportunity to decline participation in trials.  It was important to Sherlock that John choose their mutual work, so important that he was even willing to tolerate another contact with Mycroft.  Such a demonstration of faith in them as a unit was more important than Sherlock cared to verbalise, even to himself.

Chapter Text

TO: Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

FROM: John Watson<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: close encounter of the fourth kind

Sherlock –

Of course, I wish to be in the first cohort!  I appreciate your consideration, but I would never recommend a procedure I wasn’t willing to experience myself.  I will let you know when I am scheduled for medical leave.

By the way, I don’t think you have to make a special effort to communicate with your British government contact about me.  I believe I met him.

                     Mycroft, that interfering twit!  Sherlock barely restrained his anger long enough to read the next sentence.

I hope you don’t mind me saying he’s a wanker.

                     Sherlock suddenly looked forward to reading the rest of the email.

We were at the FOB for a promotional ceremony.  Sometimes those events are used for other things too, like inspections.  So, it wasn’t a big surprise that some civvies from MOD had arrived.  They like to give us pats on the head to make up for taking credit for our work. 

There was this one alpha (obviously an alpha, even before I could smell him) in the group wearing a 3-piece suit and carrying an umbrella.  Not a sun parasol.  An umbrella.  In the desert.  Like he could order in some rain, if he wanted to. 

I figure he’s a politician.  Somebody pretty high up the food chain to be that sure of himself.  Or that square-toed.

During the ceremony, we were all standing at attention to receive our promotions.  The civvies were sitting in the first row.  Brolly Man was right across from me.  Even though I still hadn’t been close enough to smell him, he had that same look you give me when you are really focused on something I said. 

After the line up, there was a reception in the officer’s mess.  They always give us better chow when there are visitors, so the rest of the officers hustled into the room.  That look from Brolly Man during the fly-ups told me there was something else going on.  I put myself at the end of the line, figuring he’d find a way to speak with me.  Sure enough, I found myself alone in the hallway with him.  We went into an empty office and that’s when I smelled the kin scent.  He didn’t waste time.

“What is the nature of your association with Sherlock Holmes?” 

I was miffed at the way he said it like an order without telling me who he was.

“Well, the fact that you already know there is any kind of association tells me that anything I say will be superfluous.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“We’re research partners.  He does the actual research.  I send him ideas.”

“Are we to expect a happy announcement?”

“That’s an awfully personal question for someone who didn’t even introduce himself.  Who are you?”

“That’s classified.”

“Who are you to Sherlock, then?”

“He would say I’m his arch enemy.  He does love to be dramatic.”

By then, I’d had enough of the cloak and dagger. 

“Well, thank goodness you’re above all that, sporting an umbrella in the desert and all.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening, especially considering other things we meet routinely in the land of insurgents and IEDs.”

“Ah, the bravery of the soldier.  Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“Not at all!  I think stupidity is the kindest word for mocking bravery in the middle of a base full of soldiers.  Why are you here, if you’re handing out commendations and promotions you don’t believe in?”

“Seeing for myself if I should believe in you, newly promoted Captain Watson.”

Then the bugger left. 

I don’t know if he believes in me or not, nor do I care on a personal level.  I suppose he could create professional problems for me, but the fact that the promotion stuck tells me I passed some kind of test.  The only thing that makes sense is that he’s your alpha familias, checking out the potential omega outsider.  I know all about family alphas.  Overprotective is the kindest word for smothering, don’t you think?

He’s probably reading this email, too.

Hello, Brolly Man.  If you’re at the level I think you are, you’ve been called a lot worse than an overprotective wanker.  And if calling you out distresses you enough to cut me off from Sherlock, then you’re not the kind of alpha who should be carrying an umbrella in the desert.        

John Watson

____________

Sherlock’s reaction to the last paragraph of the email required a new dissection table in his mind palace to parse.  There was satisfaction that John had properly deduced Mycroft’s role and objective – and capacity for spying.  There was relief that John didn’t deny the possibility of a happy announcement in the future.  At the same time, there was warring enthusiasm and apprehension for John’s pushback against Mycroft.  Despite enjoying the description of how John met Mycroft’s challenge, concern lingered with the possibility that John had gone too far.  After all, the British Government had the power with the MOD to make John (and Sherlock) regret the soldier’s cheekiness.  

He hoped that Mycroft’s last statement – “seeing for myself if I should believe in you…” – reflected that he saw those same qualities in John that made him...perfect. 

Shortly after reading and enjoying John’s email for a third time, Sherlock received a text confirmation that Mycroft had also read it.  The text was of a type and intent that Sherlock never in his wildest dreams thought he would see from that particular source.

🌂 🏜️

Chapter Text

Generally, Sherlock didn’t unlock his post box.  It was set in the middle of a bank of nondescript post boxes in the lobby of a nondescript tenement, for his nondescript flat.

It was a hovel, but it was home.  As in, it was his own flat and not Mycroft’s house, where he’d been forced to stay during university and before his patent began to generate funds.  In those days, the alternative to leeching off of the British Government had been homelessness.  Street life was something he’d gotten an unpleasant sense of during his pre-uni, drug using days and Mycroft's den was marginally less unpleasant than that after he'd stopped using.  It was cleaner, just like Sherlock (insert bitter laugh here), but it was incarceration, nonetheless.  Sherlock didn't waste time breaking out of the gilded cage as soon as he had income enough to pay for both lab time at St. Bart’s and a flat (thank you, John).

As he passed the bank of post boxes on his way back from the lab one evening, a strong scent in the area told him that a lot of post had arrived that day, requiring the delivery person (male, middle-aged, beta, pizza for lunch, two cats) to spend more time than usual sorting.  The odour was cloying enough to be worthy of further investigation.  Sure enough, there was a distinctive smell hovering around his own post box.  Maybe (pleasepleaseplease) there would be something in there of interest. 

Sherlock preferred the efficiency of electronic communication, especially texting.  For the same reason, he highly preferred email over physical mail.  Email was also his means of communication with John, so there was a positive association with it.  Despite the ease of email, he couldn’t deny that paper and handwriting and packaging put together by actual human hands gave him more opportunities to practice observation and deduction. 

Annoyingly, John hadn’t written any emails lately.  In fact, it had been 2 weeks since his last message.  It was…vaguely disturbing.  Hopefully, something would be in the post as a distraction from that uneasiness. 

Aha!  A business sized envelope, and not junk mail, was in the box.   

Sherlock did not recognise the handwriting, but did recognise the particulars of the return address as John’s.  Before they parted in France, John had torn a page from his notebook and written his complete contact information on it.  Alarm spiked at recognition of the envelope’s origin because the script was not John’s. Why was someone sending a letter on John’s behalf?  What had happened to John?

He shoved the post deep in his coat pocket and ran upstairs, fighting his fears.  Don’t theorise without data…don’t theorise without data…

Sherlock didn’t bother taking his coat off after banging into the flat.  Pulling the envelope out, he picked up a scalpel from his dissection kit (always ready on the single table that fit in the flat) to open it, then hesitated when he saw his own shaking hands.  He took a deep breath to steady himself.  It wouldn’t do to cut a finger off.  All the blood would destroy evidence he was trying to preserve in the first place by opening the letter with the least invasive tool at his disposal.

As soon as he slit open the envelope and peered inside, he could see from some of the backward letters, where ink had bled through the folded paper.  At least some of the handwriting inside was John’s.  He breathed more easily as he read the unfolded note. 

____________

Sherlock –   

I’m returning the favour from the time you sent me your patent number.  I suspect you don’t keep up with applications of products licensed using your patented process outside of the forensic field and your our current project.

As I hoped, one company packaged phase detection modules specifically for hazardous environments and the MOD issued them as part of our standard med pack.  It’s called a SyncKit.  Enclosed is a wrapper to one of them actually used in the field.  I wanted to send one sooner, but protecting patient confidentiality was a concern.  In this case, the patient waived confidentiality because it was me.  But don't worry!  The wound was a mere scratch.  I got it during a classified rescue mission.  I can't even tell you if the wound was worth it.  This kit was used by a fellow medic, Bill Murray, whilst treating me for a minor leg wound and I asked him to send this wrapper and note.

The SyncKit showed that my medications needed to be adjusted for my cycle, different dosages than the standards.  Now that I am on the correct prescriptions, I am recovering faster than they taught us to expect in med school.  Thanks for taking the suggestion in my first email.

The kit also showed I’ll be due for a visit to Marseilles within the next three months, just in time to participate in the first human trial of the new protocol.

John

____________

Sherlock pulled a clear plastic bag containing a plastic wrapper out of the envelope.  He sat down in front of his tabletop magnifier, donned gloves, and examined the wrapper closely.  Tiny brown specks dotted the very edge.  John’s blood.  

Two weeks of silence argued that the wound was not "a mere scratch."  Even if it was, and despite the sense of accomplishment that his own research had helped John, the reality of the dangerous nature of John’s work impressed itself like an intaglio on Sherlock's thoughts.  He'd known it before, like reading print on paper.  Now he knew it, like seeing the depth of the engraving that produced the print.  That deeper understanding was not a comfort.  Rather the opposite.  

He roused himself to glean more clues about John’s injury from the envelope.  A small slip of paper was stuck on the bottom.  He pulled it out gingerly and saw script matching that on the outer envelope.

This is Bill Murray.  I didn’t know until John became my patient that he never named anyone on his record to notify.  You’re the only person John writes to back home.  I’m trying to convince him to ask you to be his emergency contact.  If he does, I hope you’ll agree.  Everyone needs someone. - Bill

The inner alpha smiled in self-satisfaction at being John’s only correspondent, but growled at not being an emergency contact.  John could have been seriously wounded and Sherlock wouldn’t have known. 

An opportunity to rectify that intolerable state of affairs presented itself the next day.  John sent a follow up email about exactly when he was scheduled to undergo another induced heat.  The message said he looked forward to a second dinner together to compare notes on their research.  

Sherlock vowed to use their second dinner to become John’s emergency contact – and more.

Chapter Text

Sherlock knew intellectually that there was a high probability of this evening's dinner with John being an even more fulfilling experience than their first one.  There were goals - both professional and personal - on the brink of being accomplished during this visit to France. 

Probability was not certainty, however. 

The slimmer, but extant, chance that tonight would be no better than their first meal together kept creeping into Sherlock's consciousness.  He took its unwarranted persistence as a gauge of his level of anticipation.  (He refused to name it anxiety.)  He could not be 100% certain of a positive personal outcome until he saw how the professional side of things had gone. 

How had John fared in the clinical trial?  

He’d taken John’s suggestions to the development team designing a kit specific to a forced heat regimen.  He’d rigorously overseen incorporating those suggestions into the components and instructions.  (Although the solicitor had advised him to reword one warning from something less straightforward than, “If you don’t wash your hands before administering this product, you are an idiot and should resign from the medical field.”). 

The kit had been prototyped, tested on practice dummies, modified again because the human testers were apparently the real dummies, and eventually produced for clinical trials authorised by the MOD.  The process of going from research to usable product was beyond tedious, but he could see why John wanted Sherlock in charge of that phase.  It had to be right the first time so the MOD would approve its continued use.  If the protocol was successful, he would have taken care of his a very special omega and all omegas required to undergo the procedure.  For an alpha, it didn’t get any better than that.  

If it worked. 

He was on the verge of a high better than drugs as he prepared to meet John at the same restaurant after the procedure.  He could indulge in good feeling after he saw living, breathing confirmation that the protocol worked.  Meanwhile, he was on pins and needles, an ironic metaphor when applied to himself.

After his flight landed, Sherlock channeled his anticipatory restlessness into personal research of the sartorial kind.  He purchased a cerulean blue dress shirt to go with one of his favorite suits made of black worsted with a light sheen and a lovely drape.  After donning the outfit in his hotel room, he applied thin black eyeliner to make his grey-green eyes stand out.  There were many (fortunately) fuzzy details about past drugs-for-sex situations, but he remembered having been told several times that his eyes were a particularly attractive feature.  His crowning attribute was arranged to have a curl artfully play along his forehead. 

Sherlock knew his efforts at grooming were not wasted since he had to discourage several interested parties with a fierce glare as he walked to the restaurant at the appointed time.  He took a position behind a tall potted plant at the café entrance, surreptitiously observing John approaching at a distance.  The soldier's uniform was easy to pick out among the other pedestrians.  

He mentally compared the omega’s symptoms today to those of a year ago.  Uniform fits much better than last time.  Weight loss half of previous, indicating less dehydration, in turn indicating body temperatures no higher than expected during a typical heat.  Color improved, also indicating better blood volume.  Unsteadiness vastly improved, indicating better electrolyte levels.  Straighter posture, indicating less pain from residual muscle cramps.  Attentiveness vastly improved, indicating less overall fatigue.

Sherlock allowed the high he’d been holding back, a euphoria of satisfaction at a job well done, to wash through him.  Cold uncertainty evaporated in the warmth of the moment.  The alpha and the chemist in him rejoiced. 

Professional goal accomplished; now it was time for the personal.

When John was on the near side of the street, Sherlock stepped out from his observation post into full view.  The soldier’s reflexive alertness at being accosted instantly morphed into a smile of recognition and delight.  John paused in the middle of the walkway to look the alpha over for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.  Dark blue eyes glittered as John drifted, with a slight swagger, into that closer-than-acquaintances zone, clearly not business or just-friends distance. 

“Sherlock, thank you for making the trip.”

“We both traveled a long way to get here, John.”  He lowered his voice.  “Literally and figuratively.”

"That's true, innit?"

They smiled in understanding at one another. 

Sherlock swept out an arm to indicate they were going inside the restaurant.  The garçon whom they had met the first time (still in same flat, reconciled with mother, now in a relationship) swanned into place as escort.  Sherlock walked close behind with his fingers touching the back of John’s uniform jacket.  John leaned into the touch slightly.

Before seating themselves at the most secluded inner table, with a candle, Sherlock’s coat was whisked away to be hung.  Both the setting and the shedding added to the intimacy of the moment, especially compared to the streetside seating of their first dinner.  After they settled, John again allowed Sherlock to order for both of them, this time coq au vin with a compatible white wine.  

During dinner, John gave a detailed and animated account of his experience with the new protocol in clinical terms – initial symptoms, administration of tests, adjustments of hormone dosages, physical responses to each round.  Most people wouldn’t have considered it appropriate dinner conversation.  It was perfect for Sherlock, for them.

Whilst waiting for dessert, John cleared his throat.  A pinch of worry dampened his enthusiasm.

“Sherlock, I have another favour to ask you, not related to research.  I want you to know that it’s OK if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“I’m listening.”

“Can I list you as my emergency contact?”

“What about your sister?”

John looked down at the tablecloth, speaking to himself, “I knew it would be too personal.”

Sherlock huffed, “John, I haven’t given you an answer yet.  I’m curious as to your reason for asking.”

“That’s fair.”  He took a deep breath.  “You know that I emancipated from my sister.  The problem is that the Army sticks with tradition until someone kicks it in the arse, like no one changing the forced heat protocol until you did…”

“We did, John.”

“Yeah.  We did.  Cheers.”

They clinked their wine glasses before drinking the last of it. 

John leaned in.  “If something happened to me, the Army would ignore the Court and default to family for notification.  Then, there would be no one to stop Harry from not abiding by my wishes, out of revenge.  When I was wounded in the leg, my medic, Bill, really harped on the fact that my wishes could be at the mercy of someone I fought hard to get away from.  I know it’s a lot to ask, but – if it comes down to it – I’d like to have you as my emergency contact, so you could pick a solicitor you trust to take care of…things.  The last few days is proof that I trust your judgment and my trust is well placed.”

“John, I would be honored to do as you ask, on one condition.”

A little wrinkle of confusion appeared between John's eyes.  “What condition?”

“That you allow me to court you.”

All signs of doubt vanished from John's face as a smile completely took over his features.  

“In that outfit," he involuntarily licked his lips, "I thought you already were.”

Chapter Text

John looked down at his hands, took a deep breath to brace himself, then looked Sherlock in the eyes.

“Why do you wish to court me?”

Sherlock was nonplussed by the question.  Wasn’t the answer obvious?  Yet, he didn’t say those words aloud.  He froze his expression, something he’d taught himself to do long ago, to reveal as little of his own reaction as possible.  It was unwise to grow up around Mycroft and be transparent.

Most people would fill a conversation vacuum with nonsense.  Sherlock knew John wouldn’t just prattle on.  Watson’s words would be enlightening as to his thought process.  Sure enough, John continued by ticking off reasons for his question with his fingers.

“One: you’re definitely out of my league in the looks department.  Two: I’m stationed overseas and I don’t get leave very often to see one another.  Three: I don’t have a pack or even a clan to strengthen yours.  Four: I don’t have any…social sophistication…to speak of.”

Sherlock countered by ticking off his responses with his longer fingers.

“One: I hope to convince you that your first supposed reason is not true.”  Sherlock saw a slight blush across the table at that pronouncement. “Two: your second reason is an excuse.  Time can be endured because you are worth waiting for.”  The blush deepened most pleasingly.  “Three: your third reason is irrelevant for the Holmeses.  We have clannishness and pack strength to spare, as you know from having met Brolly Man.”   A nod and shrug of commiseration.  “And four: your fourth reason is based on the erroneous assumption that I care about so-called sophistication.”

John ’s voice softened to match his face.  “I guess I want to know what makes me different.  You could have anyone, omega or otherwise.  Why me?”

“Because you took my research seriously when no one else did.  Because you illuminated the possibilities of taking my research further.”

Those deep blue eyes took on a sheen of moisture.

John’s voice was shaky as he spoke, “I’ve never meant that much to anyone,” he huffed, “except maybe when I was saving someone’s life.”  He took another deep breath.  “I think the same thing about you.  You’ve given me hope about what I can do after my military obligation is up.  When I think about you, I think about the future.”

John extended his palm.  When Sherlock covered it with his own, his long fingers wrapped around.

“So, you accept me courting you?”  Confirmation was essential.

“Oh, gods, yes.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, arms outstretched to one another, and hands clasped, letting themselves settle into the knowledge of a new level in their relationship.

Ever practical, John broke the silence with, “You know so little about my bad habits.  Potential bond mates should know the worst about each other.”  It was Sherlock’s turn to nod.  “I can be bloody stubborn.  It comes from having to be prepared to defend myself all the time, about everything, especially after Mum died.  When my emotions are running high, I have the urge to escape, to not be trapped.  The Army has tamed that a bit – you can’t just walk out on a commanding officer because you’re having a bad day – but I’m not sure what will happen in civilian life again.  I can also be a nag of a caretaker.  That comes from being both a doctor and an omega.”

“We’ll have to talk about those kinds of things.  When I’m working a case, it’s all I can think about and I put off anything – or anyone – that could interfere.  Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end and I eat very little.  Digestion slows down thinking.”

“Low blood glucose slows it down even more since the brain depends on it for food.  We’ve got our work cut out for us to come to some compromise.  As for your work, well, I hope I can be of some assistance, even if it’s just to make sure you don’t collapse from malnutrition and dehydration.” 

“I can repay you with music.  Sometimes I play the violin when I’m thinking.”

John’s eyebrows had popped up at the mention of music.  “I’m looking forward to hearing it,” he said with a smile.  “I take it you’re as good a violist as you are a chemist."

“Of course, John.  I showed natural talent as a child,” it was Sherlock’s turn to look down, “but practiced constantly in...in...rehab.”  He ended in a whisper, “Music helped.”

He braced himself for John’s reaction to the rehab revelation.

“Tell me about it,” came softly from across the table, with an encouraging squeeze of the fingers.

“I used drugs before uni.  It helped focus my mind, at first.  As I’m sure you know, that effect was transient.  It caused...problems.  Because of a run-in with the law, rehab was offered as the only alternative to a traditional prison sentence.”

“Do you use now?”

“No!  Rehab might as well have been prison.  I vowed never to get into that situation again.”

“Your past doesn’t make me reconsider courting.  I’m glad you told me though; in case I ever see signs that you’re struggling.”

After a moment of silence, John tilted his head in inquiry, “The first time we had dinner, you told me that you wanted to consult for the police, but they didn’t want to work with you.  Does the run-in with the law have anything to do with it?”

“Partly, I’m sure.  They also consider me an amateur.”

“Well, you’ll just have to show them you’re not an amateur.  I’ll bet you can see more from an old crime scene than they see when it’s fresh.  Create your own opportunities.  Tell them enough times about what they missed and they’ll eventually get a clue about how extraordinary you are.”

A strategy began to form in Sherlock’s mind. 

“John, you’re brilliant!  You’ve given me an idea.  I have to work out the details...,” his voice and eyes drifted off. 

John was clearly pleased at the compliment but wiggled their joined hands to bring Sherlock back.

“That’s fine.  Let me know by email how it works out.  It will give me something to look forward to.  For tonight, one thing we have to get out in the open is that long distance courting will take work.  I still have two years left of my service obligation and it won’t be easy to see one another.”

Sherlock hadn’t given the how of long distance courting much thought.  He’d been focused on simply getting to this point.

“In the words of a doctor I know, we’ll have to create our own opportunities.”

John smiled. 

Suddenly, the smile opened into a yawn.

“Pardon me!  Heat is still exhausting, no matter how you go through it.”

Another beautiful blush appeared on John’s cheeks again at the implication of other ways to deal with a heat.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be pleased, at being the cause of that blush. 

“When do you have to go back?”

“Barracks lights out is 10:00 p.m.”

“Would you like to take a nap in my hotel room?”

John’s left eyebrow shot up with a lopsided grin.

“Creating an opportunity, are we?”

“Exactly, but not for anything more physical than resting.”

“And scenting.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blush.

Chapter Text

Alpha run media empires touted sex during simultaneous alpha-omega cycle apex as the pinnacle of a physical relationship.  Innumerable songs were recorded with metaphors for heat-rut coupling.  Holiday rom coms were broadcast every year with heat-rut as the endgame, fading to black in front of a roaring fire.  Libraries and bookstores were filled with romance novels about smouldering looks leading to smouldering body parts.

But in his various researches, Sherlock had looked beyond alpha biased sources.  The alphas doth protest too much, methinks.  He accumulated data on ancient customs, old sayings, and modern trends.  He concluded that, in its heart of hearts, society recognized scenting as the footing on which a bonded house was built.  Scenting was the bedrock of bonding, the foundation of family. 

(Even betas scented.  Though, by all accounts, it wasn’t as intense.)

Hit songs and best-selling romances featured scenting before more rigorous physical intimacy.  The popularity of a rom com was highly correlated with the sincerity of the scenting scene, according to movie critics (not that Sherlock watched such things...well, one or two...for research).  Epic poetry and great works of literature considered to be classics were devoted to scenting.  Every school child knew the Shakespeare quote of Juliet to her Romeo, “What’s in a name?  That which we call alpha / By any other name would smell as sweet.”   Legions of love notes included the lines from Sonnet 18, of an alpha to his fair youth omega, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more fragrant.”  In the internet age, scent was consistently listed in online surveys and matching websites as the most important characteristic of a potential bondmate. 

References to scenting permeated other aspects of everyday life.  In many cultures, leaning towards someone to gently sniff was an expected form of greeting for a family member or close friend.  Saying a dish “smells good enough to bond” was an often heard compliment to a cook.  Wearing a wide collar necklace to prevent scenting was an accepted non-verbal cue in a dance club for “casual sex with no commitments.”  Having “a politician’s neck” described a person who compromised, which could be an insult for some and praise for others, depending on the context.  It referred to the custom of someone in a position of authority wearing high necked clothing or a tie until a deal is made, then exposing their neck as the sign of a tentative agreement.  It was a significant factor in why Mycroft preferred to remain in the background of government; he brokered the main points of an accord, and the elected figurehead opened their collar to seal the deal.  Brolly Man loosened his tie for no one.

Mycroft’s discomfort with an open neckline was one of the reasons Sherlock favored one, naturally.  It was also a way to keep most people off balance and at a distance.  The open collar, usually a sign of social receptivity, was pared with Sherlock’s well-rehearsed glares.  Mixed signals were generally successful at repelling unwanted attention.  If the object of an off-putting look was too obtuse to understand body language, they became the subject of trademark Holmesean deductions.  

At the moment, however, there were no glares, no deductions, no mixed signals. 

The last thing Sherlock wanted right now was to repel John Watson.

____________

In the hotel bedroom, John set an alarm for his return to barracks before they took off their jackets.  As John turned to hang his uniform jacket on the back of a chair, Sherlock noted how much he hated the drab Army t-shirt that covered the torso of the least drab person Sherlock knew.  His dislike was pushed aside by the realization that this remarkable person was consenting to be his.

It was thrilling, affirming.

They laid down face to face on the bed.  Sherlock had automatically observed John’s dominant hand (left) at uni.  He was sure that, as a doctor, John had observed Sherlock’s right-hand dominance at dinner, if not at uni as well.  They wordlessly chose to have those hands uppermost.  John snuggled in close, wrapping his left arm around Sherlock’s ribs so that his nose and mouth could easily rest against Sherlock’s throat, given their height difference.  The warmth of intimate contact was shocking, so long had it been since Sherlock had allowed any.  His hand, already resting on John’s strong shoulder, reflexively tightened with that realization. 

Whenever Sherlock had been this close to someone in adulthood, he’d never formally scented.  Any indulgence in scents had always been incidental, a side effect of sex.  And sex had been a side effect of his lifestyle while using; that is to say, transactional.  What he and John were doing now was a lifetime apart from payment for one kind of commodity with another.  It was purposely intimate, and its purpose was even greater future intimacy.  

Scenting was the beginning of (hopefully) a series of steps, at the end of which their essences would be intermingled in a bond.  The first step was imprinting.  It was said that imprinting by a potential mate brought with it the same kind of security and solace found with a beloved parent or grandparent.  They’d already found something in the other which resonated with the better part of themselves, producing enlightenment and energy.  Now they were going for something new. 

His omega undid one more button on Sherlock's shirt, pulled the fabric aside as far as it would go, and inhaled deeply against the skin.  Sherlock focused on controlling the urge to change positions and reciprocate immediately, as it was too soon.  To rush scenting would undermine the courting period.  Sherlock was aware some alphas lifted their heads prematurely on purpose, to later use weak scenting as an excuse to end courting or even leave an omega who had become pregnant.  Countless ballads had been written for omega audiences about alphas who pulled up but wouldn’t pull out. 

Another wave of warmth spread over Sherlock’s neck as John exhaled and relaxed further against him.  So good, so right.  John’s muffled voice drifted up.

“You smell like mulled wine in front of a wood fire on a cold night...”        

After several minutes of deep breathing and rubbing his face against the base of Sherlock's neck, John’s grip loosened.  They instinctively repositioned for Sherlock to take his turn.  An omegan whimper of regret at having to move was a siren song to the inner alpha. 

Sherlock nuzzled the soft skin at the juncture of his partner’s neck and shoulder.  The scent was both stimulating and relaxing – and this was the nadir of John’s scent, the opposite of heat!  It was Sherlock’s turn to think in metaphor.  John was tea and freshly baked bread and a secret garden.  Sherlock could not imagine how enticing the omega’s heat scent would be...

A rumbling chuckle sounded through the throat against Sherlock’s cheek.  He must have voiced some of his impressions aloud.

“Sherlock, I want to taste your words.”  John moved his head to the side. 

Sherlock got the message and brought his lips up to meet John's.  They were soft and warm.

As their lips separated enough to speak, John whispered, "Your words taste wonderful.  Tell me more.”

They kissed deeply, as starving men, and moulded their bodies together.  After a banquet of kisses, John rested his head against Sherlock’s.

“Love, how I wish I wasn’t so tired.  I don’t want to stop kissing you.”

“Sleep, John.  Dream of us.”

As John fell asleep, Sherlock luxuriated in the mixing of their scents into a complex aura, a multi-part harmony of spice redolent with future memories of adventure and oasis, discovery and sanctuary.

Chapter Text

Parting was more bittersweet for John than Sherlock.  Alphas less observant (all but Mycroft) or less logical (all but Mycroft and a few others) would attribute this to their respective genders.  Thinking of omegas as weak minded was, of course, nonsense.  The sweet sorrow of good-bye was about their professions.  A soldier returning to active duty had much unpleasantness to expect in the near future without the respite of home. 

As mutual consolation, Sherlock relished the thought of giving John something more interesting to look forward to in their emails.  He would put into action John’s suggestion about visiting crime scenes after the Met left and informing the police of what they missed.  He would then entertain (impress) John with stories of his successes.

Unfortunately, the third party in this strategy, the Met, did not cooperate.

Based on overlooked clues at or near crime scenes already examined (that is to say, trampled) by the Met forensic team, periodic emails sent by Sherlock to New Scotland Yard provided solutions to prominent and particularly puzzling cases.  After his first message, a PR officer called to blandly thank him for his interest in law enforcement and solicit a donation to the Fallen Officers’ Fund.  After the fourth email some weeks later (he only sent emails about cases that were worth it, which didn’t occur often, more’s the pity), a sergeant called to tell him to stop sending messages or he would be charged with interfering with investigations.

During this frustrating period, the memory of scenting with John after dinner in France was his solace.

That “cease and desist” phone call was obviously a bluff.  The sergeant completely ignored the fact that Sherlock couldn’t even get to a crime scene until after the police were through with mauling the evidence.  At the same time, the threat confirmed the Met was humiliated by Sherlock’s analyses of crime scenes post-police because they confirmed he was right.  So, the call also reflected professional jealousy.

The downside of professional jealousy was that it might generate paranoia in officers who were secretly on the wrong side of the law.  Being noticed by Met detectives meant they would look up his record.  Even though past drug use was supposedly not to be held against him after enduring rehab, Sherlock knew better.  They would be watching him.  He wouldn’t put it past a bribed or blackmailed Met officer to plant drugs in his flat.  At the start of his email campaign, he’d installed cameras throughout his flat in anticipation of getting noticed, with all that entailed. 

Doubtless, Mycroft had his own technology in place, watching Sherlock and watching the Met watching Sherlock.  The former was a necessary evil for the benefit of the latter – for the time being, until John's service with the Army ended.  (After that, Mycroft had better remove his cameras inside their flat or experience the wrath of an omega whose nest has been violated.  Although that could be fun to watch...)    

Hits on Sherlock’s website had gone up significantly after the fourth email and the “cease and desist” phone call.  His street contacts told him that plain clothed officers had asked about him.  Sherlock knew an officer would be waiting for him at his next opportunity to embarrass NSY.

After a fifth major crime scene was released, but before he examined it himself, Sherlock tarried on the outskirts of the area and espied a plain clothed detective waiting to film him from afar.  She was doing a very poor job of not being seen herself (suppressed alpha femorph, likes to cook, loyal to the point of self-sabotage, having an affair with a married man).  He confronted the Met officer directly and invited her to observe and video his methods up close.  She came along, though she neither confirmed nor denied her identity.

A few days later, he finally received a diplomatically worded phone call from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.  The D.I. did not attempt to dissuade Sherlock or accuse him of interference.  Rather, he asked to meet Sherlock in his office at NSY. 

Finally!

Sherlock countered Lestrade’s invitation with an offer to go through security checks before the meeting, including drug testing.  (He would make sure contacts at St. Bart’s did the chemical analysis, people he knew to be honest and doubtless also watched by Big Brother, on the remote chance of a crooked Met officer attempting to discredit him with a tainted lab result.)  Sherlock was certain this meeting was to look for signs of current drug use and for any indications that he himself was planting evidence or otherwise manipulating crime scenes, despite having been filmed by the female officer.  Tedious, but understandable.  Fire brigades occasionally dealt with so-called “fire bugs,” who committed arson for the thrill of seeing the brigades come out or even play at being a hero themselves.

Sherlock didn’t want to be heroic, he wanted to be challenged.

The meeting with D.I. Lestrade (alpha/beta codominant traits [an uncommon condition – subject for future research], marital troubles [probably related to the a/b condition], natural talent for drawing and painting [which he pursues in his personal life as a stress reliever], 40s) went better than expected, considering that Sherlock’s one-to-one encounters with people did not go well as a rule.  John was the glaring exception to that rule, not because he was an omega, but because he appreciated Sherlock’s work. 

“Appreciation” wasn’t exactly the word (yet) to describe the D.I.’s attitude.  However, he listened to Sherlock describe his investigative methods without interrupting.  After receiving a Sherlockian lecture on the importance of minutiae, Lestrade proffered an invitation to go over a major crime scene with Sherlock after forensics had processed the scene, but before police had relinquished control of the area to the property owner.  He wanted to see Sherlock do in person what the Met underling had filmed.

Lestrade shrugged at Sherlock’s scowl when told about the conditions and said pointedly, “Seeing as you’re not a Met employee, you can’t go into an active crime scene without me.  Take it or leave it.”

Sherlock made a sound between a sigh and a growl before agreeing, “Of course, I’ll take it.  When?”

“Well, if we could predict the criminals, we’d prevent all the crimes and there’d be no need for detectives, right?”  He ignored the younger man’s eye roll.  “Don’t worry, in a city as big as this, something will turn up soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

“Tell that to the victims,” was the sharp reply.

It occurred to Sherlock that the D.I. (Grant?) would get on well with John.

Chapter Text

A week after the interview at NSY (one of the longest weeks of an aspiring consulting detective’s life), Sherlock found himself in a home office standing beside D.I. Lestrade.  The office’s original occupant, a beta malemorph in his 40s, was slumped across a leather chair in front of a desk.  He was definitely not standing.  Ever again. 

Whilst the (so-called) forensic unit processed the crime scene, Sherlock quelled his fidgeting with a stroll through the hallways of his mind palace.  Nonetheless, he subliminally registered curious glances and hostile glares in his direction from the lower ranked Met staff.  No wonder: the head forensic technician was Anderson, the bully from uni who’d obviously fooled the Met into believing in his proficiency and said things to the others about Sherlock having freakish ideas. 

Just as obviously, the D.I. wasn’t influenced by gossip.  He stoically ignored the body language of his underlings, waiting for the opportunity to see what Sherlock could contribute to an active investigation.  When Anderson started taking off his paper suit, signaling that the Met forensic team was done, Lestrade turned to Sherlock with a sweep of an arm.

“Off you go.”

Having already catalogued all aspects of the room and the body from where he stood, Sherlock donned latex gloves and mask, then took out his magnifying glass and examined the corpse closely (making sure not to get blood on his coat).   

Anderson’s pedantic snark poisoned the air in the room, “In case you missed it, the cause of death was that bullet through the heart.  Self-inflicted, going by the residue on that fancy shirt and the fingers of the right hand.”

Sherlock responded with an antidote (anti-dolt) as he bent over the victim, “In case you missed it, the precipitating cause was a psychoactive drug absorbed through the skin, going by the residue on the left hand.” 

“How can you know that?  There are no external physiological signs.  And what residue?”

“You see, but you do not observe,” Sherlock coolly countered, before straightening and embarking on a litany about the victim.

“The victim was a successful trader on the securities exchange, going by the corporate award on the wall, the expensive furnishings, and bespoke clothes.  The older books in his study proclaim a fascination with illusions and trickery from a young age.  I will let you draw your own conclusions about the kind of people who run our economy and the last worldwide financial crisis.”  (Lestrade rolled his eyes.)  “Biographies of Houdini, compilations about spiritualist fakirs, and pre-internet how-to books on performing magic tricks take up the top bookshelf.  Those books are protected from casual handling by others, yet the titles are prominently visible to visitors.  It’s certain that friends and colleagues called him a “financial wizard,” a title he encouraged and relished, seeing as he was practicing prestidigitation at the time of his death.”    

Sherlock gestured towards the playing cards strewn across the desk.  “When you activate his mobile phone that has already been bagged as evidence, you will find his last web search was instruction for a party trick to manipulate a volunteer into choosing the king of hearts.  This was his intended latest ice breaker for picking up a fresh sexual conquest.  No wedding ring, no desktop photos of significant others, condom packets in his trouser pocket all indicate a wandering eye and an intention to look for new companionship last evening.  While practicing his hook, he indulged in high potency cannabis that I can still smell, despite the remains having been bagged before I arrived.”

“At the time of death, the victim’s right hand held a Webley, passed down from a former military officer in the family and kept in the desk drawer.  Though it was also bagged before I arrived, the fresh indentations on the wood floor are quite visible from where he dropped it as he expired.  Not yet bagged when I arrived was the “magic” card in the victim’s left hand, the fingers flexed so tightly around it that you needed an assistant to help you remove it, an unusual convulsive response.”

Lestrade interrupted, “Atypical responses to cannabis are not unheard of, Sherlock.”

“True.  However, certain risk factors are more often present in those cases.  The victim’s profile argues against such risk factors, although it is not dispositive.  I believe Smythe’s test on surface scrapings from the king of hearts and the fingers of the left hand will show the presence of a psychoactive alkaloid on the card that he absorbed through his skin.  The same test on his supply – probably in one of those books on magic that has been hollowed out – will show an absence of the alkaloid in his recreational stash.” 

Anderson sneered, "I don’t need you to tell me what tests to use.”

“Ah, you were paying attention in chemistry class after all,” was Sherlock's bland reply.

Lestrade interrupted a brewing argument with a raised hand at Anderson.  He turned to Sherlock.

“You’re saying that the murderer is someone who knew him intimately, someone who knew about the victim using magic tricks as a pickup ploy.  They also knew he liked to get high.  They substituted a deck of cards laced with a designer drug cocktail.  The victim didn’t notice anything wrong at first.  He’d just think he’d gotten exceptionally good weed.  But, when he was really round the bend, the alkaloid kicked in and turned the high into a nightmare, bad enough to give him suicidal thoughts.  The murderer is betting on the death being ruled a suicide or, if the autopsy showed an alkaloid in the victim’s blood, we’d be looking for a drug dealer to charge with murder for selling deadly stuff.”

“Excellent summary, Lestrade.”

Anderson snorted.

Lestrade ignored his own employee’s skepticism and continued to focus on Sherlock, “Any idea who the murderer is?”

“Someone who’d been in this office on a regular basis, as they knew there was a gun in the desk.  A former lover, obviously.  Symbolism matters and the king of hearts speaks volumes.  Don’t confine your inquiries to omega females, either.”  Sherlock waved a hand at the body.  “Mr. Wizard fancied himself a magician in all spheres, including romancing and bedding persons of any gender.  Then he made lovers disappear from his life by dismissing them when he wanted a change of pace, saying love was an illusion.  This time, he went too far in making someone feel the fool.  He created an enraged ex,” Sherlock moved his gaze from Lestrade to Anderson, “someone extremely motivated to make sure the trick was on the tormentor this time.”

When Anderson’s eyes met his own, a corner of Sherlock’s mouth moved up in satisfaction and Anderson’s lips responded by flattening into a thin line.  The understanding between them was clear: the freak was no longer anyone’s fool.

Chapter Text

TO:  John Watson<[email protected]>

FROM:  Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

SUBJECT:  NOT AN AMATEUR

John –

The Met finally consulted with me on a case!  Anderson himself was the forensic technician.  As that is a title, not a competency, he missed important evidence.  My accurate observations led to an arrest.  I declined any official credit, so as to avoid attention from the carrion-eating press. 

The Met will call me again when they’re out of their depths (in other words, sooner than the general public would like to think).  Hopefully, some of the website contacts will prove interesting in the meantime.  

I recently received notice of my patent finally being used for its original purpose, a forensic skin test.  Apparently, it takes longer to approve testing on the dead than on the living due to concerns voiced by barristers.  Shakespeare had the right idea.

I am uncertain as to which research and development efforts we should pursue next.  I look forward to discussing this with you.

Sherlock

____________

He was not actually uncertain about research.  Sherlock could think of several things he would like to look into.  Posing the question was simply an attempt to draw John out.  Emails from overseas had been getting shorter and less frequent, a likely indicator of a busier duty assignment with more surgeries.  It would do John good to think about something else on sleepless nights when his omega instincts would be calling him to obsess about his patients. 

It would also do Sherlock good to hear more frequently from John.  A busier duty assignment for a soldier meant closer to the fighting.  Sherlock's alpha instincts were calling him to get his courted out of danger, despite such a thing not being a realistic option at the present time.  To address his alpha-istic frustration, Sherlock applied himself to the question of where they should settle after John's Army obligation was over.  His personal research project concerned finding a suitable flat for a couple, plus a consulting business, plus a mini laboratory. 

Yes, John was raised in a small house and was used to tight quarters as an adult.  Yes, John was accustomed to living without luxuries his entire life.  Yes, John would want to get a job to contribute to the household when he left the military.  However, it would likely take several months for John to begin pulling a pay packet and, although Sherlock's income had risen, London was one of the most expensive cities in the world. 

More to the point, Sherlock had the strong desire to give his (prospective) mate more than this nondescript, tiny flat.  John deserved better for once and Sherlock’s instincts demanded satisfaction.  He needed to provide a more defensible and more private place for his omega to nest.

Ironically, the problem of what to do about a bigger flat in London was resolved by solving a case across the pond.  The case was also proved to be a Sunshine State example of why Sherlock was a Consulting Detective and not part of an official police force.  His only complaint about the case was that his coat became a liability in sub-tropical Florida.

An older beta woman, Martha Hudson (née Farintosh, first widowed as Carlisle), was referred by a Mrs. Turner to Sherlock’s website.  They were neighbors on Baker Street until Martha married Jeffrey Hudson, an American she’d met whilst he was on a business trip to London two years ago.  The Hudsons had moved to the husband’s house in Florida last year.  Martha had kept the building at 221 Baker Street, inherited from her first husband, as a rental for her own income.  She never cut ties with her former neighbor, asking Mrs. Turner to keep a weather eye on 221.  Smart woman.

Recently, one of Mr. Hudson’s business associates was murdered.  Miami police accepted his alibi after only a cursory effort at confirmation, which was, of course, inadequate.  It seemed all police, not just the Met, were out of their depths.  Mrs. Hudson was now the person of interest in the investigation and her husband had publicly thrown her over for a younger woman.

Finding out about her friend’s plight from a news article, Mrs. Turner passed on the email address from Sherlock’s website.  Mrs. Turner had become aware of it from the gossiping married alphas who lived in her building, number 223.  They were acquainted with the client for whom Sherlock had traveled to Marseilles and had heard that client extol Sherlock’s virtues as a detective.  Small world.

Mrs. Hudson subsidised Sherlock’s trip to Florida to clear her name.  He did her one better by pointing the police in the direction of evidence that resulted in Mr. Hudson’s arrest.  Sherlock was sure he would eventually be sentenced to death. 

Martha celebrated her freedom from suspicion of murder by filing for freedom from the murderer. 

Over an herbal soother for her hip (“They’re more…soothing…in Florida; it’s the only thing I’ll miss after moving back.”) and a glass of champagne for Sherlock, with a side of freshly made biscuits (“Don’t get used to it, young man; I’m not going to be your housekeeper.  I just need a little something – and you do too, after all that rushing about.”) she made him an offer of a special low-rent deal on a flat in her building.

Bigger flat in a great location with homemade biscuits.  All he needed was John.

Chapter Text

TO: Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

FROM: John Watson<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: opportunity knocking on your new door

Sherlock –

Congratulations on the cases!  I realize that solving a mystery is its own reward, but it must feel doubly good that one resulted in an affordable flat in a prime spot.

And just in time.  I will have a week of leave coming up in 3 months.  Real leave.  Not forced heat.  Naturally, I want to visit my courted in his new den.  I’ll arrange transport for my visit and send you details. 

About your forensic test – the legal system is run by mostly alphas with the same kind of attitude that Anderson’s bunch spouted during your uni presentation. If it weren’t for my sister’s disaster of a court appearance, my emancipation wouldn’t have been approved, because too many alphas think anything to do with an omega other than reproduction isn’t important.

You are the exception. 

John

____________

“Oh, Sherlock.  The mess you’ve made!  How do you expect an omega to be at home in this den, even with their alpha living here?”

Sherlock stopped moving piles of his belongings around the lounge to stare at Mrs. Hudson.

“Don’t give me that look, young man.  I was your age once.  I know a courting alpha when I see one.  Your story back in Florida about” (her voice deepened to imitate her lodger) “needing more room for my things" (and rose again to her usual lilting voice) "didn’t fool me.”

Mrs. Hudson was unexpectedly perceptive.  Sherlock cultivated a neutral face, yet she saw right through it.  There was no sense in denying the truth.

Sherlock (reluctantly) put his books on shelving instead of within easy reach next to the chair he had claimed as his.  He walked all of the science equipment upstairs.  It was a grave inconvenience to locate his microscope so far away.

“And don’t take it out on your omega that you cleaned up just for her or him.  They’re already going to have to put up with your eating habits that will drive an omega round the bend.  Where does your omega live now?”

“He’s in the army.”

“That is a surprise!  Imagine what he has to put up with!  Don’t you add to it.”

Mrs. Hudson emphasized her point with a stab of her index finger and stomped down the stairs to her own flat.  Sherlock was left standing in the middle of the lounge. 

He needed to think.  He laid on the couch and retired to his favorite thinking pose, hands steepled under his chin.  Hudder’s words echoed in his mind.  “Imagine what he has to put up with!” 

What more did John have to put up with, even after they had improved the induced heat procedure?

Sherlock knew John’s personal military experience included support roles in dangerous field situations (remembering John’s leg wound made Sherlock want to growl, now that they were courting) and high-pressure procedures, alternating with arduous reporting.  Boredom and lack of privacy during free time provided little stress relief.  Those conditions were common to anyone in active duty military in a war zone, the difference being the specific job each had trained for.  What made the situation different for any omega who dared to join up was ubiquitous unwanted alphattention.  For John and other omegas like him, induced heat was a top-off to constant stressors. 

John had told him at that first dinner in France that there had been no attempt by the military to lessen the harmful effects of induced heat before Sherlock’s patent became available.  Yet, all it would have taken was titration of the precipitating dose of hormone for each individual.  John had labeled it institutional idiocy.  A correct assessment, but incomplete.  Quite simply, the Army colluded with bullies in its own ranks.  

Now, the MOD was practically shamed into changing their procedure because an alternative was so obviously available.  As Sherlock knew all too well, bullies use shame as a weapon and don’t give up easily.  

“Imagine what he has to put up with!” 

Chapter Text

John’s arse was sore.  (And not in a good way.)  He blushed a little at his own thought bubble, but stifled the urge to look at the passengers around him in case anyone could read it. 

Most of the last 48 hours sitting in military vehicles, airports, and planes gave John aches in places he didn’t know could ache.  Considering he was a doctor, that was saying something.  He didn't need to add obvious emotional discomfort to the physical discomfort.

A pint in an airport club exclusive to military was nice, though he’d had to make sure a bunch of alphas at the bar knew he wasn't interested in any of them before he could relax.  He'd had to tell a corporal to sod off before he was able to settle into a gloriously padded lounge chair for an hour of watching football on a big screen TV. 

Then it was once more into the breach of dodging knees and elbows whilst navigating cramped airplane aisles, ducking fellow passengers’ attempts to cram bags into already overstuffed overhead compartments, and squeezing into seats designed by the Marquis de Sade.  Thank gods for the neck pillow from the flight attendant on the night flight.

Landing at Heathrow was as good as paracetamol.  Aches and pains faded from the forefront of his mind when the last flight started the long taxi to the gate.  His slow-healing gastrocnemius wound and cramped erector spinae didn’t fucking matter when he was so close to seeing Sherlock again. 

Despite the fact that John wanted to give Sherlock a rib-cracking hug, he’d figured out long ago that his alpha wasn’t a big PDA kind of guy.  In a way, it was refreshing.  No stereotypical alpha displays of possession to make John feel like an accessory.  On the other hand, John’s naturally nurturing side would need validation once in a while.  How were they going to compromise?

There was still so much they needed to learn about each other.  Watching footie over pub grub was probably not Sherlock’s idea of an ideal evening, yet that conclusion was John’s inference rather than a statement from the source.  So many things were unknown between them, from inanities to intimacies.  Well, more were unknown to John than Sherlock, Mr. Attention-to-Detail.  They hadn’t had an opportunity to talk face-to-face in a long time, and they certainly weren’t going to make electronic voyeurism easy for Brolly Man by writing seriously personal things in emails.

Formal courting was a commitment to try, but it wasn’t a commitment to bond.  More than “boyfriends” (a word John disliked at his age), less than an engagement.  It wasn’t uncommon for courting to be called off. 

As soon as he thought it, factual though it may be, he discarded it as a possibility.  (Not happening to us.)   There would be adjustments and arguments, but they could and would figure things out. 

Clamping down on his anxious anticipation, John took his place in the middle of the queue to deplane. He strode up the covered gate gangway appearing calmer than he felt.  The decisive footfalls of his boots in the enclosed space portrayed confidence, as much to convince himself as anyone else.  Exiting the gate, he and his fellow travelers were herded by wayfinding towards the area where new arrivals met friends and family.  Everyone but the elderly broke around John like water flowing around a pier.  He could hear exclamations and weeping before he could see people embracing.  Rounding a final pillar, he scanned the scene, trying to keep a tight rein on his own excitement. 

John’s eyes alighted on a black guardian demarking the point where the reunion vortex separated from the main current of pedestrians racing against their respective boarding times.  Sherlock waited in his signature black coat like a rock on the shore of the ocean of life. 

As John approached, the alpha took his hands from his pockets, a sign of anticipation.  He was beginning to tune into his alpha’s microexpressions.  Small wrist movements told John that Sherlock was just as unsure as he was.  That actually gave John confidence.  

When he glided into Sherlock’s personal space, John brushed his left hand against the back of his alpha’s right and leaned in slightly for a discreet scenting.  Apparently, restraint was a good choice, as Sherlock's stance eased a tad so he could lean over John’s ear to reciprocate - not too showy, but definitely a return scenting.

Before pulling away, Sherlock’s velvet voice murmured, “Welcome home, John.”

They walked side-by-side to baggage claim.  John retrieved his oversized duffle.  Sherlock did not offer to carry it for him, which was just fine by John, and led them out the door and towards a sleek black saloon with a driver.  Something this nice was definitely not a cab.

“You hired a car just to pick me up at the airport?”

“I decided to take my brother up on an offer.”  Sherlock’s pronunciation came with a curl of the upper lip that said the words were bitter fruit.

“At least Brolly Man is being useful today.”

That was evidently the right thing to say as Sherlock’s face looked less sour.  Something else was bothering him, though, according to the lingering crease between his eyebrows.

“John, you should know I could get a case any time while you’re here.”

“I know.  The shoe would be on the other foot if you were able to visit my workplace.  Include me as you can.  We might as well start as we mean to go forward.”  John emphasized his point by offering his hand, palm up, in reassurance.  He had the urge to scent Sherlock again, but resisted since the driver would surely report every detail to Brolly Man.

Sherlock’s brow smoothed into what John had already figured out was his cultivated default: disinterested neutrality.  John knew “disinterest” couldn’t be further from the truth since Sherlock observed everything in his vicinity.  Wordlessly, Sherlock moved closer so that their shoulders and knees brushed and took his courted’s proffered hand. 

John could smell his alpha just by turning his head, no need to lean in.  He could feel his alpha’s warmth next to him.  He could sense the strength of his alpha from the large hand that enveloped his own.

(It's all good now.) 

That was one thought bubble he had no problem sharing with his fellow passenger. 

Chapter Text

The landlady greeted them at the top of the stairs to Sherlock’s first floor flat, holding a tea tray.  John wondered at her accurate, almost spooky, timing as they rushed through introductions before Sherlock unlocked the door opening directly into the sitting room.  A flourish of the alpha's long arm mirrored the movement of the door swinging open and John was encouraged to go in first. 

John smiled to himself at Sherlock's obvious preening about this new den.  And there was a lot to be proud of; the main floor was large and well laid out.  His immediate impression of the flat décor was a mélange of vintage and modern, with a touch of goth leant by a cow (he presumed) skull on the wall and a human (he knew) skull on the mantlepiece.  (He didn't even want to know where that came from.)  The mix was apparently as much a reflection of the unconventional owner as the extraordinary tenant.  Her old-fashioned twinset and flowered teapot were offset by glitter nail varnish, three diamond studs in each ear, and a dragon ring on her right hand.

Mrs. Hudson dispensed tea and biscuits on a low table in front of a sofa, whilst the men set John’s duffle in a corner and hung up their outerwear.  After all three sat down, Sherlock between the other two, John virtually attacked the not army tea.  It was exactly what he needed as a pick-me-up.  He thanked Mrs. Hudson profusely just before biting into a biscuit. 

He should have waited a moment to tuck in.

“In my day, we knew how to properly give a soldier a homecoming,” Mrs. Hudson said with a wink and a wiggle at Sherlock.

Self-preservation was all that prevented John from choking whilst chewing and laughing simultaneously.  His eyes watered from struggling to not eject what was in his mouth and not suffocate on crumbs at the same time. 

Sherlock jumped up, put a hand under Mrs. Hudson’s arm, and began to shoo her out of the room.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he said overloudly.  "We’ll return the tea things later!”

“Clean, I hope!” she threw over her shoulder as Sherlock practically threw her out.  “I’m not your housekeeper, dear!”

The door slammed behind the landlady-not-housekeeper to the sounds of John coughing and Mrs. Hudson sniggering on her way down to her own flat. 

The two men looked at one another and burst into giggles. 

When the chuckling faded, John asked weakly, “Give me the tour?”

“Come along, then!”

Like a child eager to demonstrate a new toy, Sherlock rushed upstairs to the second storey.  When John caught up, a detailed inventory of the upper room ended with a sophisticated microscope, the likes of which John had never seen outside of a professional setting.  Clearly, it was Sherlock’s pride and joy. 

Back on the first floor, Sherlock showed John what he'd really meant about his music back in Marseilles.  Though the microscope was Sherlock’s fixation, the violin was his voice. 

The alpha waved his companion into a lounge chair and walked towards one of the large street-facing windows, where a small table and music stand had been situated.  An instrument case with the hasps undone lying on the table and disorderly sheet music spread on the stand spoke (sang?) to their frequent use.  Sherlock opened the case and lifted a violin tenderly, its rich red-gold varnish shining in the sunlight diffusing through the sheer window curtains.  John didn’t need to be told that something special was about to happen.  Sherlock’s eyes closed as he swayed to the music that his long fingers lovingly drew out of the wood with his bow. 

After the final note of a short piece, there was a moment of respectful silence.  Sherlock glanced up from the instrument as he lowered the bow, but looked down again almost immediately.  The uncertainty in that quick expression almost broke John’s heart.  The violin said everything Sherlock could not otherwise express.  He wanted assurance that John would accept all of him, but was afraid of what John would see.   

If John had been a lesser man, he would have been jealous of an inanimate object or angry at Sherlock’s lack of confidence in their relationship.  But John was not an idiot.  He knew that being serenaded almost as soon as entering the alpha’s den meant John held a unique place in Sherlock’s inner and intimate life.  He rose up, walked over to Sherlock, held that beautiful face in his hands, and kissed him firmly on the lips.

“Thank you, love, for sharing that with me.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. 

John gave his alpha a moment to collect himself by cleaning up from tea, per orders from 221’s commanding officer.  By then, the loo was an important next stop for John. 

That left the bedroom as the last room on the tour.  Sherlock put his hand on the small of John’s back as they approached the threshold.  John froze, feasting his eyes on a large mattress with a mountain of pillows at the headboard, covered by a fluffy duvet.  Misinterpreting John’s stillness, Sherlock began to back out, mumbling something about having so wanted to get it right. 

“You did,” John whispered as he grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve to stop him from moving away.

The omega rushed forward, pulling his alpha along.  At the foot of the bed, John swiftly unlaced his boots and laid on the far side.  He patted the middle of the mattress in invitation as he burrowed into the pillows.

Sherlock, now relaxed, draped his suit jacket on the lone chair in the room.  He also removed his shoes, storing them under the same chair, and reclined on the other side of the bed.  Instead of laying prone, he propped his upper body on one elbow and looked down at John, waiting for an explanation.

John fumbled with a bolster, unsure how to begin.  Finally, he looked up at Sherlock.

“I’m sure you’ve gathered that I chafe at being seen as a cliché omega.”

“I think we’ve established that, John.”  

“Even so, one typically omegan behaviour I embrace is nesting.  It lowers blood pressure, promotes more restful sleep, reduces anxiety.  Nesting has a whole host of health benefits to all genders, but especially omegas."  He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the softness for a moment before resuming.  "During officer’s training, every bunk had to meet identical alpha spec.  After that, base commanders allowed me to nest to the extent possible with army-issued bedding.”

“Allowed - past tense.  What are you having to put up with now?” 

John huffed in frustration. 

“There’s a new Lt. Colonel named Moran.  He’s second in command and has some very old-fashioned views about everything, especially omegas.  There are surprise inspections during free time, much more scrutiny of everything I do, longer hours and less time between field assignments than for alphas, and definitely no nesting, ever.  I’ve been woken up for sleeping wrong.  To be fair, he treats betas pretty badly too.  And the base commander won’t get involved as long as missions go according to plan.” 

“That’s harassment.”

“I know, but the military doesn’t recognise harassment easily.  Half the army’s job is to harass the enemy, when not having to kill or be killed.  It’s hard for an institution with harassment as one of its fundamental functions to see it as a bad thing within its own ranks.”

“Don’t make excuses for small-minded alphas like him.”

“I’m not, but it’s reality.”

“Well, I’m glad your time there is limited.”

“Me too.”  John sighed.  “It’s two steps forward, one step back.  Just when the induced heats get less horrible, the stress level goes up.”

“I think we should try kissing as a stress reduction technique, don’t you?”

“Oh, gods, yes.”

They picked up where they left off in France, which was a balm to John for the recent happenings on base.  Nesting and scenting and snogging were restorative and new and magical. 

It was a testament to how relaxed they became that, when John’s stomach growled in the middle of a kiss, two grown men dissolved into giggles.  Again.

They rolled out of bed and ordered dinner by delivery since Sherlock apparently considered food optional in his flat.  Whilst looking for utensils in the kitchen, John noticed there were no supplies for making tea in the morning.  He would have to go on a supply run first thing tomorrow, since one of John’s goals during his leave was to consume as much civilian tea and food (and beer) as possible.

Fortunately for John’s goal, the phone summons from D.I. Lestrade waited until they were binning the takeaway boxes. 

Chapter Text

During the cab ride to the crime scene, John could tell from a glance that Sherlock’s excitement for a new case was dampened a little by apprehension.  His face was tight, controlled.  Though his scarf was snugly folded against his neck, a warning otheralphasstayaway scent permeated the back seat.  No doubt, disruption of their time alone wasn’t the only thing bothering Sherlock.  The D.I.’s side of the phone call had been loud enough to hear that Anderson, that knothead from uni, was on forensics. 

That Sherlock was taking his courted to the vicinity of an alpha with a history of harassing omegas demonstrated confidence in John, which pleased the omega soldier to no end after the lack of confidence shown by the Army.  If further proof was needed (it really wasn't), it was shown by the fact that the alpha wasn’t spending the cab ride giving his omega a stereotypical cautionary lecture.  

The cab dropped them off near police tape behind which a silver-haired man with an air of authority waited.  John had to march double time to keep up with Sherlock as they made their way over.

Before reaching the scene, John whispered, “I’d rather watch you work, but I know access is restricted to official personnel.  The army would be the same way and your relationship with the Met is too new to bend the rules.  Give me directions for the nearest place to get a cuppa.  I’m sure you have the whole of London memorised.” 

Just as John hoped, Sherlock relaxed slightly at being able to take care of his courted, especially using his mnemonic prowess.  He showed off by rapid firing directions to a shop.

____________

Sherlock walked away from John at the police tape, taking with him the knowledge that he’d done all he could for his omega at the moment.  He ignored Sgt. Donovan’s subtle sneer as he walked into the building with Lestrade.  There were no verbal assaults from Sally tonight because her boss was in earshot. 

It would have been oh-so-easy to take advantage of Sally’s silence by gloating about John.  Unlike her, Sherlock was actually courting.  The loner had found companionship before the tormentor.  So much for being a freak.  The thought added a spring to his step.

Lestrade gave a summary of the case and handed over examination gloves while half-trotting to keep up.

“Some alpha boys found a deceased omega/femorph in this vacant flat.  They knew how to sneak in for a smoke and whatever else.  They ran when they saw the body.  No fingerprints in the room.  No ID.  Approximate age 25.  Stabbed in the throat over the scent gland and at the jugular.  Killed here, going by the amount of blood.  Killed in the last few hours, going by the condition of the body and the blood.”

Inside the dilapidated house, Anderson and his acolytes were packing up in preparation for the coroner’s team to remove the corpse.  Lestrade told the body boys to hold up.

Sherlock began rattling off observations as he put on gloves, “Ritualistic killing, not a crime of passion.  The killer knew someone would be along, so the body is a signal to others.”

Anderson snapped, “You’re making that up.”

Ignoring the accusation, Sherlock snapped in return, “Anderson, have you done a hormone phasing test yet?  Your sour look says no.  We’ve barely enough time left!”

“I don’t believe those tests work and it’s not required by procedure yet,” Anderson whinged.  “Besides, it’s obvious from the smell that she was recently in heat.”

“Your beliefs are irrelevant, your procedures are outdated, and your olfactory assessment is faulty.  I can smell that it was not a normal heat and the odor of exsanguination is likely masking something important about her scent.  I need data.”

Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement.  It was as if John’s email had predicted a case like this!

Lestrade sighed at the brewing conflict before ordering Anderson, “Do the kit.  If you’ve done everything else, it can’t do any harm and it may do some good.”  Immediately, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, “Anderson needs to do it for legal reasons you know very well.”

Anderson’s obvious reluctance to do the kit was overwritten by smugness at having his boss’ endorsement.  Sherlock was mildly impressed with Lestrade’s successful manipulation of the forensic tech’s oversized alpha ego.

After mixing the kit reagents and adding a skin scraping from the corpse, Anderson stood up and extended the indicator wand.

“The indicator doesn’t match anything on the chart.  See?  It doesn’t work.”

“Wrong!  The chart is not expansive enough to account for all possible outcomes.  If you’d read the instructions in their entirety, you’d know that graduated results can occur.”  Sherlock spun towards Lestrade, “I have a colleague with me tonight who is an expert in these matters.  We need to bring him in.”

Anderson blurted out, “A colleague?  Where’d you get a colleague?”

Sherlock ignored the barb and insisted, “Well, Detective Inspector?”

“That bloke you arrived with?”

“Obviously, Lestrade.  Doctor and Captain John Watson, MBBS, RAMC, and co-developer of a third product using the same patented process as this hormone phasing test.”

“Alright, bring him up, but I’ll need his C.V. tomorrow.”

An interesting case and being able to work with John!  It’s Christmas!

Sherlock was texting John and heading towards the door before Lestrade finished speaking.

____________

About a quarter hour after watching Sherlock go into the crime scene with a man he assumed was the D.I., John walked back to the cordoned off area.  He’d just finished the (excellent) tea and binned the cup in a skip when his phone vibrated from an incoming text. 

[Come if convenient.  If inconvenient, come all the same. – SH]

He was typing a reply when a whirlwind in black wool burst out of the house. 

“Excellent!  You’re here.”

Sherlock practically dragged John under the police tape and into the house.  Bemusement at the sudden change in circumstance dissipated at the sight and smell of the crime scene.  It looked like an ambush between warring in-country factions.  John was so focused on the scene that Anderson handing him gloves and sniffing the air whilst doing so almost didn’t register. 

The deceased omega was pale from blood loss, which had stained her clothes red and darkened the floor around her body.  Her dress was stuck to her skin which showed a life of deprivation. 

John fell into mission mode.  He set his jaw and looked up at Sherlock and Lestrade.

“I need a sit rep.  Why am I here?”

Neither responded quickly enough to dissuade Anderson from jumping in, “The hormone phasing test shows a result not on the kit colour chart.  These new kits are useless.”

John examined the wand Anderson held up and announced, “The chart doesn’t cover every circumstance.”

“Oh, come on!  You’re saying that just because you’re an omega.”  Anderson pointed the wand at John like a weapon.

John scoffed at the impotent jab and explained, “I have extensive experience with single SyncKits, which use the same biotechnology as your forensic test.  The only difference is the packaging.  I also have experience with a new multi-test regimen for induced cycle apex.  The colour charts for single use and forensic kits don’t take induced cycle apex into account.  A new chart had to be developed for that condition.”  He pointed to the indicator wand in Anderson’s hand.  “That colour is on the induced cycle apex chart for omegas.”

Sherlock looked like the cat that got the cream. 

Anderson took a deep breath, intending to argue, but practically clicked shut when Lestrade held up a hand to get a word in edgewise.

“Excuse me, Doctor Watson, does induced cycle apex mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah.  Forced rut for alphas and forced heat for omegas, like was done to this one.  She was probably in too much pain to perform sexually and became useless to her kidnappers.”

Anderson couldn’t stay quiet for long, “How do you know that?” 

John rounded on the alpha with a steely look. 

“Education as a physician and personal experience with having heat forced on me by the military.  From the usual way it’s done in one massive dose of hormones, like it was done to her – and the way it used to be done to me – the side effects are horrible.  I helped develop the protocol for human trials to reduce side effects using SyncKit technology in multiple stages.  We developed new indicator charts.  That’s how I know about charts being guides and not gospels.  I even volunteered as a test subject.  I guarantee the postmortem will confirm heat was forced the barbaric, old fashioned way on this poor girl.”

Annoyed at being bested, Anderson turned to Lestrade, “You can’t possibly rely on the opinion of amateurs.”

Oh, hell no.

John took a step towards the alpha.

“Anderson, I know who you are.” 

Another step.

“You don’t remember me, since I’m just an omega, but I’m sure we both remember the lecture Sherlock gave in uni.”

Another step.  Anderson leaned away.

“You and your goons made fun of the test he invented.”

Another step forward.  Anderson backed up a step.

“Well, let me introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes,…”  John gestured behind himself.  “…professional patent holder for the hormone phasing skin test process which is the basis of the biotechnology you just used.”  John added in sing-song, “You’re welcome!”

Anderson’s face turned red.

John turned to the D.I. while stripping off his gloves, “Nice to meet you, Inspector.”

“Same here.  Very…enlightening.”

Anderson mumbled to himself about smart arse omegas as he returned to packing up, this time with angry gusto.

John binned his gloves in the police waste bag with a smack! and strolled out the door like the army captain he was. 

Sherlock followed, spreading proud alpha scent in his wake.

Chapter Text

Leaving the crime scene, his omega’s scent was so complex that Sherlock couldn’t label all the facets.  As they walked, the scent gradually calmed to something more resembling John’s usual, but John wasn’t settled.  Several city blocks and aromatics distant, John paused and took a deep breath in a purposeful effort to bring himself back to equilibrium.  Sherlock stood close, but not touching, signaling support without trying to alpha-betise the situation by "saving" his omega from emotions that were justified. 

Suddenly, a black car pulled up to the kerb nearby.  Leave it to Brolly Man (when did he start thinking in John's term for Mycroft?) to alpha-betise the situation.

“John, although I hate to give my brother the satisfaction, I suggest we take advantage of his transportation offer as this isn’t a tourist area and cabs are not as common.”

John nodded and they climbed in.  Sherlock directed the driver to 221b Baker Street.  There was no conversation between them, in an unspoken agreement to feed electronic surveillance as little as possible. 

After the main house door closed behind them, they looked at one another.  John shook his head with a glance towards Mrs. Hudson’s door.  He turned towards the stairs.  The signal for privacy could not have been clearer with words.

Coats now hung on the back of the closed flat door, they gravitated towards each other.  John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, then snaked his arms beneath his alpha’s suit jacket to hold on at the waist.  Sherlock made a safe observation to finally open the conversation. 

(He had learned at least this much in rehab: as much as stating the obvious irritated him, it acted as a kind of interface between not talking about a subject at all and talking about it gradually - to incrementally approach the toxic aspects of a topic.  He'd concluded that the purpose was to control the intensity of an emotional response whilst acknowledging the imperative of addressing an issue.  It was analogous to adding a reagent gradually, drop by drop, to a chemical solution to control a vigourous exothermic reaction without encouraging an explosion.)

“As it turned out, John, I didn’t have to imagine the scenario proposed at the end of your first email to me.  You saved me the trouble.  It was quite satisfying.”

John huffed in amusement.  “Happy I could help.”  A deep breath.  “Though I’m not sure I did myself any favours.”  He lifted his head, a look of chagrin and worry on his face. 

Ah.

Sherlock loosened one of John’s arms, but held the other against himself, and steered them towards the sofa to sit down next to one another.

“You’re self-conscious having talked about your own experience with induced heat.”

“Yeah.  I didn’t plan on outing myself like that.”

“I’m curious why you did.  In France, it was difficult for you to talk about.”

"Yeah."  John cleared his throat.  “Before, I was ashamed of being so broken that I have to go through that process."

"You are not broken."

"You're right, you're right."  John's tone said that he was still trying to convince himself.  "Between the way I was raised and the army’s alpha-centric culture, that thought doesn’t go away easily.  But, in there,...”  He swallowed.  “It was bad enough that Anderson was denying your work, work which is helping a lot of people.  He was also denying the victim’s suffering."  He raised his head, face determined.  "Someone needed to respect her pain, honour her memory, even if we'll never know her name.  And who better than someone who knows a little of what she went through?  I needed to step up.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence.

“John, remember I told you sometimes I don’t speak for long periods of time?”  (A nod.)  “I don’t want you to think I take your military leave for granted, but I won't be focused on courting you during the case.”

He nodded, "That's your way of stepping up."

Sherlock let the comment go, although it attributed a more noble motivation to him than he deserved.

“I also remember you said you tend not to eat during a case.”  (A return nod from Sherlock.)  “Well, maybe it’s good a case came up early in our courtship, so we can learn how to navigate times like this.  I’ll try not to be so much your omega as your doctor whilst you’re working.  On the other hand, that means you’ve got to take me seriously when I’m acting as your doctor.”

“I’m not going to eat three meals a day during a case.”

“I won’t ask that of you, but you have to stay hydrated, and you need enough nutrients to feed that giant brain of yours.  Tea with sugar is not enough.”

Sherlock pouted and tried to pull his arm away.  John resisted.

“Look at me, love.”

When their eyes met, he said.

“I’m not going to smother you.  Even a pea brained mortal like me realizes you need to take care of the case right now; however you do that.”  John yawned.  “In fact, this mere mortal is really feeling his mortality at the moment.  I’m knackered.  You’re going to give me a brilliant kiss goodnight and go think brilliant thoughts.”

Sherlock obliged.

____________

John stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking into the sitting room.  Dawn light filtered through the gauzy curtains of the windows facing Baker Street.  He stared at Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa in pajamas and dressing gown, but not asleep.  His hands were steepled in front of his mouth, below his nose.  The muscle tone of his hands and arms and face told John that it was some kind of controlled state, like meditation.  This must be what Sherlock had referred to as “thinking.” 

Later, he would have to ask Sherlock about noise tolerance during “thinking.”  Until then, John would go elsewhere for morning fuel.  He faded back into the bedroom, got dressed quietly, and went down to the coffee shop next door before tackling Tesco for provisions.

He returned with good quality tea, honey, milk, and biscuits he thought to try on Sherlock’s thinking stomach.  Said stomach had moved from the couch to the large armchair and was enveloped in another well-fitting suit.  The hands were in the same pose.  Moisture in the air carrying a spicy perfume told John that his alpha had showered.  

Time for his own experiment.

John prepared two cups of tea, one with honey and one with milk, and set them on the lounge table with five chocolate digestives on a plate.  Then, he went to the bedroom to change his shirt, though it didn’t need changing.  By the time he returned, two of the biscuits had disappeared and crumbs floated on the surface of what was left of the sweetened cuppa. 

He toasted his successful result with a large sip of his own tea. 

Suddenly, Sherlock popped up reading a text on his phone, “Come along, John.  The postmortem report is ready.”

John stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and followed his alpha out the door.

Chapter Text

Being back at St. Bart’s for the first time since earning his degree felt weird to John.  As an omega cadetship student, he never really belonged.  There was no group of similar students to share experiences with.  He'd made no close friends except Mike Stamford.  He'd gotten little guidance on practical matters from administration.  He suspected at the time that administrators weren't sure how to interact with a young omega who had successfully emancipated himself from the alpha familias; they weren't going to risk their positions by encouraging a radical.  

Thinking back on the chemistry colloquium, he suspected that Sherlock had experienced as little sense of belonging at Bart’s as himself.  Sherlock’s mind worked at a level of detail beyond anyone else’s of his acquaintance (save maybe Brolly Man).  The search for solutions was an adventure, not an opportunity to elevate his status - that is, not beyond being considered the go-to person for solving the next mystery.  He was an alpha who embraced his uniqueness without expectation that others would do so, rather than attempting to create acolytes as worshipful followers or obedient offspring. 

John's mind wandered down these reflective paths as he and Sherlock were walking down to the mortuary.  Sometimes, the contrast between life and death in his profession got him thinking more philosophically.  He'd come to the conclusion that it was his way of shouldering the uncomfortable weight of existential questions. 

After a few minutes of walking through hospital-quiet corridors, they passed through a double automatic door into what some med students had called (out of hearing of the professional staff) "the dungeon."  They came to stand beside an examination table on which lay the body of the unfortunate omega from yesterday evening, covered with a sheet.  D.I. Lestrade was on the other side next to the FME, Molly Hooper. 

Although John hadn’t known Molly Hooper well in school, he’d noticed her quirky mix of coquette and controlled.  And she still had it.  When John took the opportunity to thank her in person for her card three years ago, she blushed and stammered.  When Sherlock asked about the body, she was crisp and concise.

“COD exsanguination due to stab wound bisecting the left jugular vein.”  She rattled off facts slower than Sherlock, but with as much authority, as she drew the sheet down to the shoulders.  “Skin shearing indicates a slicing motion across the throat with a serrated knife around ten centimeters long.  Stab wound to the right scent gland prior to the fatal wound, indicated by glandular cells present in dermal tissue on the periphery of the bisected jugular.  That, and the similarity between shearing of the skin on both sides, suggests the same weapon was used for both cuts.”

Leave it to John’s brilliant alpha not to be impressed.

“Yes, yes!  All that was obvious at the crime scene.  What are the blood test results?”

Molly lifted her chin and snapped at Sherlock, “We do this my way in my house.”

“Fine!  Just hurry up!”

Molly re-covered the corpse’s upper body more slowly than necessary.  Sherlock huffed.

John whispered-not-whispered, “The more fuss you make, the slower she’s going to get.”

Sherlock glared at him. 

Molly smiled a little at her victory.  Moving around the examination table, she proceeded to recite blood test results which confirmed John’s assessment of forced heat.  She moved in front of the right leg, next to Sherlock.

“No indications of sexual assault during the forced heat preceding death.  Markers for a prior history of sexual assault...”  She pulled back the sheet to expose the thigh as she announced, “...and this marker.” 

A black outline of a double-edged dagger with an ornate handle, one edge smooth and one edge serrated, was tattooed across the quadricep.

Sherlock whipped out his pocket magnifier as John’s breath caught in his throat.  He let the air out a moment later, loud enough to draw the detective’s attention.

“You know this tattoo, John?”

“It’s a dick dirk,” two voices said at the same time, John and D.I. Lestrade.

John nodded at Lestrade to speak first.

“We got intelligence about a gang that buys omegas from poor countries, marks them with that tattoo, and sells their heats in western countries.” 

“Allied forces were briefed on similar intelligence.  I’ve seen that tattoo on a couple of omegan civilian casualties.  Much less refined ink work, of course, without the kind of tattooing equipment available here.  You can tell this tattoo was touched up recently by the localized inflammation.”

Sherlock turned with an excited flourish.

“I am an expert in identifying 38 brands of tattoo ink.  This one is IntaGrail.  We need to find the right tattoo shop and look at the patron history.”

The D.I. dashed the consulting detective’s dreams in one fell swoop, “There’s no ‘we’ in this, Sherlock.  Questioning the tattoo shops is Met work - because of, I don't know, legal procedure."

Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade conceded, "I'm sure you're right about the ink, - "

A mumbled, "Of course, I am."

"- but we’ll need forensics to confirm it.”

Lestrade said the last few words to the back of a receding black coat.

___________

Naturally, Sherlock wasn't going to leave tracking down the tattoo shop to the Met. 

As soon as the door to 221b closed upon their return, he rushed to the bedroom.  John, still hanging his jacket up, could hear a muffled voice from what he presumed (correctly) was the depths of the armoire.

(rustling)  “The police will be an excellent distraction...”  (more rustling)  “...for someone else coming in looking like a real customer.”

John leaned against the door frame and spoke to Sherlock’s back, “The Met might be sending in an officer undercover.”

“And the staff and owners are going to immediately identify them as police or an in cognito government inspector.”  (scraping sound)

“If you walk in as your usual gorgeous self, you’ll look like someone who could afford to have a tattoo artist come to his house instead of going to a shop.”

Sherlock’s head popped out of the armoire, blinking at John with the ghost of a smile on his face, as if pleased at the compliment. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.  I’ll have a disguise.”

“First, do you have any day clothes other than bespoke suits and a £1,000 coat?  Second, where are you going to change when you shouldn’t be seen leaving here not looking like you?”

“First, of course I have clothes for situations such as this.  Second, I have a bolt hole in a CCTV blind spot from where a new me will emerge.” 

Sherlock pulled away from the armoire with his arms full of clothes and a duffle bag dangling from one hand.  He dumped the pile on the bed and proceeded to pack (stuff) the duffle. 

“My network will pick this up at the front door,” he said over the sound of the zipper for the main compartment being closed.

“Network?”

“They’re strictly messengers and informants, but much more reliable than any the police have.”

Manic Man whirled around and practically ran to the loo.  He rummaged (plundered) under the sink and came out carrying a box that he wedged in the duffle side compartment.  John’s sensitive omega nose got a whiff of cosmetics. 

“I will text instructions on what to pack for tomorrow.  I don't know when I'll be back.”  He turned to John with almost military crispness, the full duffle in his grasp.  

John began to sigh, then cut it short when he registered his alpha's sparkling eyes and determined face.  He was afraid that Sherlock would misinterpret disappointment at not being able to help with field work for disapproval about not always being the centre of his alpha's attention.  The truncated exhale must’ve been heard by Sherlock because his face morphed to a softer look, then it brightened after deducing the reason for the sigh.

“This could take a few days, John, but your assistance with the covert work would be invaluable.  You could visit one or two of the shops.  I will text you locations along with what to pack for me.  A military man shopping for a tattoo on leave is to be expected.  The game is on!”

Clearly, the prospect of having his courted as an assistant in investigations, as well as a research partner, thrilled him as much as it relieved John. 

They kissed with enthusiasm before parting.  Sherlock practically skipped down the stairs, dropped the duffle in the entryway, and turned to wink at John on the landing before sailing out the main door. 

About an hour later, there was a knock on that same door.  A young lady in ripped jeans and a band t-shirt swayed on the front step, smiling and twirling her long brown hair. 

“Hi! I’m Shelly!" Ripped Jeans lilted. 

John hesitated to hand over his alpha’s things to someone he didn’t know, no matter how coquettish. 

His phone vibrated.  He pulled it out of his pocket to read the incoming text.

[Her name is Shelly. – SH]

The hair twirling paused as John looked up from his phone and Shelly gave him a thorough appraisal.

"You're cute!” she announced.

"Thanks, I guess."

John's phone vibrated again.

[She's an incessant flirt. - SH]

[I see that.]

As he finished answering, John smiled and handed over the duffle.  Shelly sashayed away.

Not receiving any further texts or messengers from Sherlock over the next hour, John made a quick run to the shops for food.  He had a list and a plan.  Among the items, he bought a bag of crisps.  He resisted hoovering them all down himself (they didn't get crisps on base as a rule) and left the rest of the bag on the sitting room table, where they'd had tea with Mrs. Hudson, before going to bed. 

Crisp crumbs were scattered on the table in the morning indicating a nighttime visit by Sherlock.  The omega in John felt particularly smug about getting his food averse alpha to eat anything.  So, the night alone wasn’t a complete waste. 

A search of the flat after breakfast revealed the remains of Sherlock’s first temporary persona in the hamper and the duffle next to it.  During John’s second cuppa, a text arrived with instructions on what clothing to pack today for a second messenger named Wiggins.  Sure enough, someone arrived claiming that name (a scruffy looking man with a sour face, much less attractive than Shelly) to pick up the duffle.  John decided on a walk around Regents Park to work off nervous energy as he awaited another text, one about something else to do.  He finally (finally!) got a message about checking out a tattoo shop catering to military and veterans when they opened in the afternoon. 

[You are the perfect one to suss out their attitudes towards omegas. - SH]

Since it would’ve been a sacrilege to return to his unit and not be able to brag about having a good British pint or two, John decided to go to a pub for lunch.  Maybe they'd even have a rugby or football rebroadcast on the telly.  From an internet list, he picked out a pub with an unusual name, The Enfamalus Knife.  Being a doctor, John wondered if the name’s etymology was Latin, maybe the same root word as “infamous.”  

On his way there, he almost changed his mind.  Maybe the owners were trying to market the place with some so-called history about disaffected intellectuals meeting scoundrels on an equal footing, the birthplace of radical, but doomed, philosophies.  Such was the stuff of trumped up bullshit for tourists.  No matter, as long as the beer’s good.  

When his phone GPS indicated he was close, John looked for a sign above the door to confirm.  And stopped in his tracks. 

He didn’t even hear the pedestrian behind him swearing about lazy fucking omegas at having to suddenly swerve.  

The sign was a painting of a double-edged dagger with a filigree handle, one edge smooth and one edge serrated.  And horribly familiar.

Chapter Text

John texted a photo of the pub sign with a geotag to Sherlock and promptly received a return text.

[Go to the clothing shop across the road and wait for me. – SH]

When John walked into said shop, he immediately realised he was to play the part of a kept omega.  These clothes were so Sherlock.  Of course, the two clerks looked askance at him in his cheap, generic outfit, telegraphing that they knew he didn’t have sufficient income to buy clothes here. 

“Can I help you...sir?” one of them said with a suspicious look.

“I’m waiting for my alpha.” 

He managed not to wince as he said it, hating to sound so dependent despite understanding the role he was supposed to play - and it being technically true. 

When the clerks repeatedly eyed him in disbelief as they folded shirts and laid out ties, John couldn’t help subtly sticking up for himself.  Adjusting his button-down collar beneath his jumper, he made a show of briefly exposing his identity discs.  As intended, the looks became a little less hostile at John being an active service member.  Of course, their image of a shoplifter didn't square soldiering.  (John pushed aside his mixed feelings about that.)  A tête-à-tête behind the register resulted in an offer of refreshment and an armchair whilst waiting. 

A few minutes later, John was glad he was sitting down when the door opened to reveal his alpha. 

Sherlock wore a black leather jacket, open in front to reveal a crimson dress shirt in some kind of silky material.  His raven hair rose off his forehead in an artful wave, curls tamed (for the most part), and silvered at the temples.  The distinguished look was underscored by a closely trimmed, incredibly realistic goatee.  This was a glimpse of an older but just as hot Sherlock.  A possessive alpha scent underscored the look.    

Oh.  My.  Gods.

John couldn’t take his eyes off this Sherlock, this vision, as he walked up to the waiting area. 

The clerks, now at attention, became the target of John’s involuntary jealousy.  His own scent said as much as he popped up to meet his alpha.

Sherlock caressed John’s face with one hand and announced, “My courted wishes to look at jumpers.”

He brushed a thumb across John’s cheek before turning to stand in a corner of the storefront floor-to-ceiling windows.  He appeared to be the strong, silent alpha, guarding his omega from the outside world.  Their eyes met in the window's reflection.  A microscopic twitch of that bearded chin encouraged John to get on with the task he’d been assigned: shopping.  Soldier John registered that Sherlock was tactically using both sides of the window, observing the pub whilst keeping tabs on John in the interior reflection.  

The clerks hovered in John's personal space, now anxious to please.  John couldn't help an involuntary eye roll at their change in attitude.  Clerk 1 led the way to shelving displaying jumpers.  Clerk 2 walked beside him, droning on about fibres and knits.  Having no experience with high-end clothing, John simply focused on what he liked.  He ended up choosing sinfully soft (cashmere, according to Clerk 2) jumpers in several colours.  They felt…illicit.  He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to have anticipated exactly this outcome.  Manipulative git.  

As John’s choices were being wrapped, Sherlock silently handed over his credit card, never turning around.  The impression of being totally and effortlessly in control was pure alpha and purely attractive.  John was somewhat immune to general alpha posturing, being exposed to the dominance thing 24/7 in the Army.  What made Sherlock so sexy now was the intellect and integrity underlying instinct.  The alpha stalking his prey to defend vulnerable omegas.

Wonderfully manipulative git. 

At the last minute, John picked a sapphire blue scarf from a display next to the till with a finger to his lips, asking the clerks for silence.  They winked and nodded in agreement. 

John tried not to look at the total price as he pocketed the receipt. 

Sherlock announced as he turned towards the door, “We’ll pick up our purchase after lunch.  Come along, John.”

____________

When they crossed the threshold of the pub, Sherlock scanned the area, posturing as a protective alpha looking for the perfect seat for his omega.  John suspected that wasn’t far from the truth, despite actually working the case.

The bar was along the right-hand wall.  Booths lined the wall to the left.  Several high tables stood in the centre and on either side of an opening to a rear corridor.  That hallway led far back to an exit door, which probably opened to an alley for skips and deliveries.  The right side of the corridor had an extra wide, double swinging door into the kitchen.  There were three doors off the left side of the corridor.  The first door was wide enough to comply with building codes and labeled for the loos.  The second was also new-ish and signed “staff only.”  The third door – furthest back, narrow, and in a darkened corner – was scuffed with use.  Though the wood was lined with age, it sported a relatively modern keypad lock.  It practically screamed creepy cellar through here!

Sherlock settled on a high table in the back, close to the hallway and in view of the pub entrance.  John’s Army training approved since it was strategically the best of all the seating choices.  Sherlock sent several texts as John ordered pints of porter.

Their pints arrived and they’d both taken symbolic sips when Wiggins entered the pub, drunkenly bumbling around three young women to get through the door ahead of them.  He sat by himself at a high table in the middle.  A beta female server took his order for a burger and an ale, stated at a volume that everyone around could hear, and skittered away to avoid his attempt to touch her.  He then proceeded to bother his neighbors with ribald observations.  Their facial expressions spoke louder than words how unwelcome his comments were. 

Wiggins’ presence and performance confirmed this was a covert operation, not just an observation session.  John slipped into that time stream wherein seconds stretch as senses snap to attention.  (Is this what it’s like for Sherlock all the time?)  He pretended to absorb himself in his alpha’s opinions on obscure politics, issues that only someone like Brolly Man would care about, as he contemplated how the operation would go down.  Wiggins would create a distraction, enough to make sure that the fire brigade was called.  Sherlock and John would attempt to investigate the creepy cellar door when everyone else vacated the building - the only question was how. 

When two of the three young women who arrived after Wiggins passed close by on the way to the toilets, John noticed familiar ripped jeans on one of them, though her hair and makeup were almost unrecognizable.  He made a slight correction to how the scene would play out: Wiggins wasn’t going to be the only one creating a distraction. 

A few minutes later, Shelly came out of the toilet.  She texted as she walked, not looking where she was going.  She stumbled through the kitchen doors and dropped something as she thrust her arms downward to ward off a faceplant.  Shelly continued all the way through the swinging doors.  Sherlock continued speaking about the latest MP scandal, but his eyes focused on where Shelly had disappeared.

Here we go...

Shelly reappeared a minute later, backing out through the kitchen doors using her hips and facing an alpha malemorph server with a winsome smile.  The alpha, hefting a tray with a plate at his shoulder, had a hopeful return smile on his face as he passed her.  Shelly’s flirting had been effective, even in that short time.

The server excused himself from Shelly’s presence with a thanks and a wink.  He put on a neutral front as he marched towards Wiggins.  Obviously, he was carrying Wiggins’ burger instead of the female beta server.  There was no stopping at the bar.  Another alpha male employee lingering in the high table area signaled that the supposed drunk had gotten management’s attention. 

Wiggins blustered, “Where’s the girl?  And where’s my ale?”

The not-girl server answered, “We’re unable to serve alcohol to visibly intoxicated patrons.  The food is on the house, sir.”

“This is supposed to be a pub!  Pubs serve pints!  I want my pint!”

“Sir, if you can’t calm down, we’re going to have to escort you out.”

Wiggins staggered up and puffed out his chest.  “Oh, yeah?!  I warn you, I'm a black belt!  I’d like to see you try!”

The other alpha moved closer, clearly willing to try.  The server gave the tray to Shelly and returned his focus to the troublemaker. 

Wiggins' voice ramped up, shouting about the bloody awful pub!, with a stupid name! and shite service! and ugly-arse waiters!  With each insult, the two alphas incrementally corralled him towards the exit, forcefully repeating the directive for Wiggins to leave interspersed with we're sorry you feel that way and similar platitudes.

John could see several patrons with phones in hand, recording the row, as those seated in the vicinity of Wiggins' table moved to give the potential combatants a wide berth.  Other servers, now clustered behind the bar, were engrossed in watching the kerfuffle.  The drama went on long and loud enough that most of the kitchen staff had time to assemble at their doorway out of curiosity, to see if the excitement would escalate even further. 

It certainly did, but not in the way any of them expected. 

Smoke began to billow from behind the cooks as the fire alarm went off.

Chapter Text

Most pub patrons and servers made a mad scramble for the front door.  The remaining ones and the kitchen staff ran out the back exit.  Sherlock - with John following his movements, of course - made a show of going that way too, at first.  After getting to a point where the heavy smoke billowing from the kitchen likely obscured any cameras in the dining/bar area recording their movements, they plastered themselves against the wall of the rear hallway next to the creepy cellar door.  They were now alone in the main level of the pub.

Sherlock removed his jacket and covered the lower part of his face, apparently waiting for someone to come out of the basement.  John marveled at the density of the fog as he held his sleeve over his mouth, desperately trying not to give their presence away with a cough. 

Seconds seemed like hours.

Fire brigade sirens sounded in the distance.

The floor of the hallway vibrated minutely, as if something were being dragged up the cellar stairs.

Sherlock tensed. 

John moved slightly away from the wall to position his body in preparation for hand-to-hand.  If the person coming out had a gun, neutralising that threat would be top priority.

A series of clicks, audible above the fire brigade sirens getting closer, announced the lock on the cellar door was activating. 

The old panel opened with a scraping sound that set John’s teeth on edge. 

An alpha at least as tall as Sherlock emerged sideways, facing the back wall and away from Sherlock and John.  Big Man cursed as he banged his trailing left shoulder against the door frame, that arm dragging a petite woman in a slip dress by the wrist.  She was resisting for all she was worth, her bare feet sliding against the floor as she pulled for freedom.  Neither of them seemed to notice they had company.

“Come on, you dumb bitch!”  The bruiser gave the woman’s arm a tug for emphasis as he rushed for the rear exit.

The woman’s mini dress hiked up with a stumble and John saw a flash of the dagger tattoo.  She began to panic and screeched, “No!…please...please!”  

“You know what happens when you speak!” the brute turned back to the woman and punctuated his statement with a slap to her face with his right hand. 

That movement brought his scowling mug into range of noticing the witnesses to his brutality.

Taking advantage of the kidnapper's surprise at having company, Sherlock jumped into action.  He threw his body at the point where perpetrator was joined to victim, breaking their hand-to-wrist connection, as he tossed his jacket over the man’s head.  The woman fell back against the wall. 

John, not seeing a gun, took a moment to pull the victim towards the dining room.  A corner of the floor was a relatively safer place than the middle of a brawl.  The doctor pulled off a tablecloth for her to cover herself with. 

In the meantime, the thug had been flailing his arms to rid himself of the improvised blindfold and the person holding it down.  As John turned back to the fray, Bad Guy dealt Sherlock a glancing blow to the ribs that threw him backwards.  Having bought himself a little space, the thug reached towards his own jacket pocket and pulled out a knife with his right hand. 

By that time, Soldier John Watson was ready.

Despite having a weapon, the sadist was clearly not used to dealing with someone who could fight back effectively.  John's trained quickness made up for their difference in stature.  Before the knife wielder could get his footing for a slash, his chin felt the full force of a fast jab from John. 

Since speed and unpredictability were their best tactics facing larger and angrier opposition, John feinted with his left then lunged to the right in quick succession.  He launched himself off the wall with his right leg to get the height he didn’t have naturally and came down with an overhand hit to the enemy’s temple with everything he had.  Momentarily stunned, Bully Boy dropped the knife and swayed on his feet.

When the brute tumbled forward from the force of John’s blow, Sherlock’s right knee snapped the man’s head up, in perfect position to take two punches in the face from John in quick succession.  Fuckwad ended up making friends with the floor.  John enforced that intimacy by shoving a knee on the small of the perp’s back and an arm on his neck.  Cuffs appeared like magic in Sherlock’s hands (where the hell did those come from?) and he bound the perp’s wrists just as the fire brigade rushed in.    

Amid firefighters yelling at them to get out, John's Captain voice announced he was a doctor and his partner was a detective.  The firefighters allowed John to escort the woman out to the paramedics, Sherlock’s jacket around her shoulders.  They assumed Sherlock was a Met detective and let him haul the cuffed man out front.  

Outside the pub, two real policemen ran up and the thug began to shout about unlawful restraint. 

Sherlock played the saviour alpha card and described intervening in the egregious assault of an omega connected to a murder case.  He demanded they call D.I. Lestrade.  One of the policemen had the good sense to give the restrained man a caution and stuff him into a panda car whilst his partner called their superior.  

A few minutes later, the man himself stomped up to them, fury in every step.

“What’s this then?”  He gestured at Sherlock’s chin and proceeded to fire questions at him.  “You found the place and couldn’t wait for us?  You had to create your own situation?  Cat got your tongue like it got your chin?  Hmm?”

Lestrade folded his arms across his chest, waiting for an answer, a thunderous expression on this face.

Sherlock replied in that irritatingly calm way of his, “I did not find the place, nor did I create a situation, Lestrade.  I was working on a case elsewhere,” (He gestured at his face.) “when I received a text from John.  He had come here for lunch and recognized the pub’s sign.  I came straightaway, of course.  You couldn’t really expect me to resist going inside for a short time.”  (Lestrade rolled his eyes.)  “When the fire alarm went off, we attempted to evacuate out the back exit as a man and a woman came out of the cellar.  She was trying to get away from him and we witnessed him assault her.  Of course, we intervened.  If you wish to arrest us for saving her life, please proceed.”

John knew that Lestrade knew that Sherlock’s story was a carefully abbreviated version of the truth.  From the shifting looks the D.I. was giving them, John also knew that Lestrade was deciding how much detail he was going to demand, considering the ultimate result was a break in the murder and human trafficking case.

Lestrade continued to question Sherlock, “You expect me to believe that a fire alarm went off, just as you conveniently happened to be there?”

“Yes,” was the simultaneous snapback from both Sherlock and John.

“And you expect me to believe that you left your courted – who you haven’t seen in months – this morning to work on a case, and your courted was OK with that?”

“Yes,” was another response in tandem.

Lestrade turned to glare at John.

“You’re as crazy as him.”

“Yes,” came a third echoed answer.  The alpha and omega looked at one another and smiled.

There was a tiny softening of Lestrade’s expression to show that he’d made an internal decision.

“Well, the fire investigators can do their job without help from me.”  He lowered his voice to almost a whisper.  “Just the same, I won’t intervene if they bring charges.”  In a return to normal voice, he ordered, “Report to my office tomorrow to sign statements about the assault.”

John responded for them both with a crisp military salute before they turned to leave.

Chapter Text

After giving statements to the fire investigators, Sherlock and John returned to the men’s boutique to pick up their purchase.  They were met with a barrage of questions laced with assumptions which told them that the fire alarm and resultant excitement in the street had been better than a telly drama for the salespeople and manager viewing through the storefront windows.  The shop-based audience had imagined the striking alpha and strong omega rescuing people.  When Sherlock’s carefully edited description of the incident confirmed feats of gallantry, fangasms were had all around.  After providing such entertainment, the couple received a store discount on a future shopping trip to replace smoke contaminated clothing. 

The cab ride home was spent in silence, the kind of quiet that was full of potential energy.  Conversation within hearing of the cabbie would have been a bit not good because of the subject matter’s more sensitive aspects.  Sherlock’s long hand covered John’s broader one on the cab’s seat and squeezed as they scanned out their respective side windows.  The rich, yet still somewhat bitter, chocolate scent that accompanied the squeeze conveyed an alpha’s satisfaction along with the hypervigilance of a recent adrenalin surge.  John knew his own sweeter scent reflected his relief at the outcome that everyone came away intact (except the abuser, which didn’t bother John in the least).

In the flat, the energy that had been contained during the ride began to leak out.  A giggle bubbled up from John when the ostentatiousness of the posh shopping bag he set on the coffee table struck him.

“That was the most ridiculous operation I’ve ever been involved with.”  He giggled again.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock rumbled in fake sternness, then devolved into chuckles himself.

Catching his breath, John pointed out, “Wasn’t just me!  And we're wearing fatigues, not fashion, when we go on a mission!  We're not all posh secret agent alphas.”

"Neither am I, remember?  However, this consulting detective..." (Sherlock pursed his lips and sniffed in exaggerated indignation) "...has to dress smartly to maintain a certain je ne sais quoi for his reputation."   

In the back of his mind, John recognized their silliness as an emotional relief valve.  He’d heard a lot of ribbing and good-natured name calling after a military mission involving close calls.  Such joking untethered speech from focusing on what might have been.  Humour pulled a soldier (or a consulting detective and his precious je ne sais quoi) away from ruminating on the "what ifs" of profane violence and towards the profound relief that your people survived.   

John now found his words of appreciation, “And it wasn’t just you on your own this time either.  Thank you for letting me help, Sherlock.”

“The matter isn't over, John.  Although I'm sure that the pub basement was where the murdered woman had been held, and that pub was the final destination for the first omegas taken by the human trafficking ring - hence the tattoo branding - this was only one cell of a large organisation."

“I know, but we saved one woman’s life.  And for the dead woman, there’ll be some teensy amount of justice.  Those things matter.”

“Do they?”

“Call me an optimistic omega if you like, but I believe the butterfly effect works both ways.  Good things reverberate as much as bad ones.  Sometimes, it’s just hard to see the good for the bad.”  

"The worst part is that Brolly Man will be taking over the case."

John smiled at having influenced his alpha enough to adopt a new nickname for his brother.

"Think of it this way: he gets to deal with making MI5 and MI6 cooperate with each other.  Better him than you."

At this thought, Sherlock smiled in return.  "Truer words were never spoken, John"

If he was with other soldiers off duty, they might go drinking at this point to ride the wave of camaraderie that comes with mutual success.  Since he was with his alpha, John had other ideas.  He moved in close to run his fingers along his alpha’s fuzz-covered jaw. 

“Can I help you remove this?”

The bitter tinge in Sherlock's scent evaporated, leaving the spiced chocolate bouquet to go with a voice that became as smooth as his silk shirt.

“From the way you looked at me in the shop, John, I thought you might like to leave it for tonight.” 

“Hmm.  Maybe another time.  I don’t get to see your face often enough as it is.  Besides, I’m partial to your chin.  The doctor and omega in me want to return my alpha’s body to its rightful configuration.  It’s in my nature.”

John gave his man a peck on the lips and led him to the loo.  Sherlock pulled out a box of supplies from beneath the sink.  He sat on top of the toilet seat and described the proper technique as he tilted his head to one side. 

“From a surgeon, I expect exceptional work.  Are you any good?” he said with a wink.

“Very good.”  

John took a brush and moved the solvent along the edge of the fake beard, using his fingertips to tease the edge upward.  Neither spoke as John worked his way around Sherlock’s jawline.  He could smell the solvent, feel the stickiness of stubbled skin still violated by the remnants of spirit gum.  He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s exhale on his extended arm and hear the gentle sound of his breathing. 

After the persona from the shop was reduced to a pile of hair on the counter, John basked in the sensuousness of swabbing Sherlock’s face until it was smooth.  A deep hum told him that Sherlock enjoyed it too. 

Putting away the supplies, the only reasonable thing left for John to do was to kiss his alpha for all he was worth. 

John cupped Sherlock’s face in both hands, reveling for a moment at the sight of his restored alpha, and brought their lips together.  Sherlocks arms entwined around John’s waist as their kiss deepened, soft and warm.  After an infinite moment that was never going to be long enough, John drew his head back to place tiny kisses on chin and cheek and forehead.

He whispered, “Now you need to wash away that gray.”

Sherlock placed his hands over John’s.  “Together.”

“I’d like that...but, um...”

“But...?”

They lowered their linked hands to Sherlock’s chest.

John took a deep breath before admitting, “I’m not inexperienced – at least with betas – but it’s never meant so much before.”

“It’s the same for me.  It has been years since I experienced any physical intimacy without illegal substances.  I’m effectively starting over with you.  That’s one reason I’d like to take it slower than alpha stereotypes would dictate.  I am ready to experiment with options other than penetrative intercourse."

A relieved smile bloomed on John’s face, colored by a fierce blush at his alpha's mind reading.  He could feel himself getting hard and wet, and practically tasted his own scent on the air.

“Right...that's...right.”

John stepped across the room to turn on the shower and adjust the temperature.  He turned back around and... stopped. 

Sherlock had pulled his shirttails out of his trousers and unbuttoned the placket.  John swayed forward, entranced.  He pushed the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and ran his hands across the torso now bared to him.  Its pristine wholeness took John’s breath away.  He was used to seeing bodies violated by bullets and breaks, and bruised into a wounded rainbow of colors other than what skin should look like.  Here was an unmarred canvas on which he could draw his love.

Wordlessly, they helped one another strip down, like unwrapping gifts.  They grew harder as each bit of fabric was flung away.  They came together in another round of snogging, chest to chest, arms clasping one another.  When their cocks inevitably brushed against each other’s bodies, they paused, catching their breath forehead to forehead at the intense sensation.  John was too preoccupied to notice (or care) who was the first to start gently grinding their hips and whispering encouragement.

As long fingers explored his backside, John pulled away a few inches.  The effort was nearly painful for the sudden absence of pleasure, and he groaned at his loss.  It was the same for Sherlock, by the sound of an alpha growl.  John placed a hand over Sherlock's heart to maintain that small distance. 

“This will be over before you can say “shampoo” if we don’t get in there now.”

Sherlock obliged with soft eyes and a smile, though not without a put-upon sigh. 

Once again John was immersed in the sensuousness of pampering his alpha.  It was positively decadent to massage creamy shampoo into hair that became silken beneath his fingers as curls were unburdened of taming products. 

John’s hands were inspired to also become untamed, to roam all over his alpha with soap to relish the contrast between smooth skin and firm muscle beneath.  They found their home in massaging Sherlock's cock and balls, drawing a moan from his throat as John's strokes drew out his orgasm. 

Sherlock soon reciprocated with his own handiwork and John felt himself flying higher and higher, his ohs echoing off the tiles.  When Sherlock began to nip at John's neck in earnest with those full lips, teasing the omega’s scent gland in preview of what would happen when they bonded, John could almost hear the unspoken words against his skin.  Come with me.  

And he did.

Chapter Text

Come with me.  

Sherlock had said it with words on a number of occasions.  He’d said within social norms (Would you care to join me?), which made John feel special now that he knew how unusual that was for Sherlock.  He’d said it by telling social norms to sod off (Come, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same).  That defiance of social norms in pursuit of the truth, and proving social norms to be lies, was the quality that attracted John from the very first time he heard Sherlock speak, at the lecture in uni.

Come with me.  

Even so, John’s favorite ways to hear those words didn’t involve speech.  Sherlock had taken on John as a partner in a manufacturing license, trusting John’s guidance for the application of Sherlock’s patent.  He’d consulted with John as a doctor at a crime scene, confident in John’s medical knowledge.  He’d included John as a soldier in a dangerous investigation without hesitation, relying on John’s experience and training, a conviction his commanding officers apparently no longer had.  He'd lavished John with kisses and touches unrivaled in John’s previous experiences of pleasure with another person.   

Come with me.  

John wished he never had to think about leaving Sherlock's side.  He wished those three words were obsolete because John would already be there, would always be there.

But today was not that day.  John was leaving in 48 hours and there were other things to say this evening.

____________

Since the incident at the pub, their days had been spent reporting (with carefully chosen words) to the Met, the London Fire Brigade, and a joint MI5/MI6 task force.  Sherlock’s complaints about tedious questions became particularly peevish when interviewed by either of the security agencies.  John was sure the super-whinging was for Brolly Man’s listening pleasure as Mycroft undoubtedly monitored the joint investigation.

Their nights were spent gradually exploring intimacy with one another.  John smiled to himself at Sherlock’s term for it: data collection.  It wasn’t just the intimacy of sex, although there was no shortage (haha) of that.  They collected data about the simpler things, the subtler things, the things that decide whether courting partners can stand each other’s company outside of love making.  

They’d come to an agreement on television shows.  When Sherlock deigned to look at the telly at all, he demanded documentaries.  John could stand to watch almost anything, to make up for the general lack of entertainment on base, so documentaries were fine.  It was all fine.  

Sorting out sleeping had taken a bit of effort.  John, being accustomed to calls to action and inspections at the most inconvenient times, valued sleep more than Sherlock.  Yet, he slept with the proverbial one eye open.  On the other hand, Sherlock slept little, being used to working himself to exhaustion with no one to stop him from doing so.  When he eventually hit a brick wall, he lapsed into deep sleep immediately.  When he’d finished power napping, Sherlock would get out of bed in the early morning hours, which would in turn awaken John.  The soldier would instantly be wide awake and on edge.  They found that John’s ability to sleep returned after nesting with all the pillows and the entire duvet, whilst leaving the bedroom door open, allowing the sound of Sherlock’s violin to float up from the sitting room as a signal that all was well.   

Meals were still a work in progress.  John was having a difficult time making or buying just enough food – and of the right kind – to keep Sherlock interested without overwhelming him.  He semi-reliably ate toast with honey for breakfast and biscuits for tea, but dinner was hit-or-miss.  John was concerned about his mate-to-be’s overall nutrition.  Unfortunately, there was no way in the short time left in his leave to figure it out between them.  Discretion being the better part of valor, John didn’t push the issue – for now.

Ironically, sex was easier to negotiate than eating patterns.  Since they had both lived their individual lives atypically, they had no second thoughts at being atypical as a couple by taking the physical aspect slowly.  The proximity of a deadline for parting would have inspired any other courting couple to partake in everything but a bond bite.  Yet, Sherlock and John were immensely satisfied with repeat Showerlock, a bedroom version of the same, and more data collection involving hands and mouths and skin.

____________

This evening, they were occupying armchairs across from one another in the sitting room.  From the first day of John’s leave, they had gravitated without words to “their” chairs.  Sherlock’s roost was the one with maximum slouching potential.  The alpha was fulfilling that potential now, in his thinking pose with hands steepled beneath his chin.  John’s perch was the one more suited to relaxing with a cuppa – or, in the present case, a whisky.  He’d purchased a celebratory bottle the day after their escapade at the pub – and in the shower.

John cleared his throat to get his partner’s attention.  

“Hmmm?” was the rumbled response.

That almost-moan was too reminiscent of a sex sound.  John focused on the liquid moving around in his glass to clear his mind of distracting images like Showerlock.  He chose his words with deliberation. 

“Anyone who signs up for the military gives up their right to privacy, and I get it – any military organisation is concerned about espionage.”  

He lifted the tumbler slightly and looked thoughtfully into the clear glass as if it was a window into the past, recalling his decision to make the commitment for a cadetship.  Sherlock lifted his head slightly at "espionage."

“When I smarted off to your brother in an email, I openly acknowledged that my communications could be, and would be, monitored.  Other than his potential reaction to my taking the piss, I haven’t had much concern about what I was saying because our emails were about research for the benefit of the military.”  

John raised his chin in defiance of someone who was not there.  

“That is, I didn’t have much concern until recently – with Moran’s assignment to my duty station.  It had to have been engineered by someone higher up who doesn’t look at research into helping omegas – any omegas, even military ones – as a good thing.”  

Sherlock spoke with some superiority.  “An obvious conclusion I had come to when you initially told me about his harassment of you.”  

John huffed.  “Well, I won’t apologize for not wanting to talk about other alphas more than necessary on my first day of leave with my alpha,” a hint of challenge in his voice.  

Sherlock’s scent spiked sharp and sulfurous at the mention of other alphas, belying his next words, “I presume that you don’t want me to take care of you by having my brother reassign you.”

John couldn’t help but spare an admiring thought for his alpha’s vocal control before replying, “No, that would hand Moran and his backer a win.  I have less than two years left on my commitment, and I think we can muddle through, even though it won’t be easy.” 

“So, what do you propose to do about our communications in the meantime?”

“Well, I want to be able to talk to you with some measure of – I don’t know – personal significance, even though real privacy is off the table.  A true code would attract attention and I’d end up being accused of espionage.”  

“Agreed.”

“I thought I could use key phrasing of some sort and rely on your powers of deduction to get my meaning.” 

“Ah, a study in forensic linguistics.” Sherlock’s scent changed to more of a pleased clove and allspice as he spoke.  

“I knew you’d like that.”  John took a celebratory sip of his whisky.  “In one of your emails, you referred to a Shakespeare quote.  You must have some other ones stored in that –,” he waved as if plucking words out of the air, “– thought loft of yours.”

“Palace, John, mind palace.” 

“Of course, it must be a palace.  Foolish me for suggesting it might be anything less.” John rolled his eyes and smiled.  “My point is: you have Shakespeare somewhere up there.  He wrote about all sorts of human conditions.  I’m sure I can find appropriate phrases to get my point across in emails.”

“You will have to live up to my lofty expectations.”

“Har, har.”  John threw back the rest of his shot and set his glass on the side table.  “Why don’t you sit in my lap whilst I quote some Shakespeare.”

His alpha rose like a tsunami from the depths of his chair and enveloped John, long legs enclosing John’s hips and long arms on either side of his head against the chair back.  The soft flowing sound of Sherlock’s breathing accompanied warm air on John’s forehead.  He could see the undulation of a pulse at his alpha’s neck.  Such a beautiful neck.  At the moment, John didn’t regret the height difference at all.  It was like nesting in a person.  

John tugged Sherlock gently down towards himself by the collar.  The omega whispered into his alpha’s ear, lips playing at the lobe, as his hands moved up and down the thighs on either side of him.

“That’s a fair thought, to lie between man’s legs."

Sherlock’s voice was as smooth and rich as the whisky, and twice as intoxicating, in John’s own ear.

“That quote requires no deduction, John.  You can do better than that.”

His alpha’s voice vibrated through John.  He felt electrically charged and languid, molten and hard, all at the same time.

"And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now.”

“Well, then, I will meet your obvious..." (He rubbed their groins together, eliciting a groan from John.  Sherlock's voice wasn't affected, the controlling git, but John had the satisfaction of feeling that his alpha was hard too.) "...with another truth, though mawkishly traditional – ..."  (His voice lowered to a deep whisper.) "A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.”

John wasn’t going to spoil the moment by correcting Sherlock, especially since his entire mouth was now quite busy kissing his alpha, but he was sure the true winner was himself.

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes was doing what he did best.  He was looking at a myriad of detailed information, facts that appeared to be unimportant and unrelated (that is, appearing that way to anyone else except, perhaps, to his younger brother, although Mycroft was still the smarter one) and discerning a pattern.  To a great mind, nothing is little. 

The information Mycroft was perusing at this moment concerned the forward operating base that Captain Watson was assigned to.

There was a recent steep increase in the frequency of inspections, including during off-duty time.  The resultant evaluations contained disproportionate scrutiny and criticism of the non-alphas on base.  The barrage of inspections included appraisals of personnel during their respective sleep shifts, something unheard of after initial training.  As a result of one such inspection, Captain Watson received a warning for nesting behavior, which is a natural, healthful behavior for omegas without negative impact on military operations. 

The inspection trends were presaged by movements in command structure at Captain Watson’s duty station.  The Colonel had ceded almost all administrative and operational control to Lt. Col. Sebastian Moran, the new second in command.  This change was made with little notice, no objection from the commanding officer, and no logic.  Moran should not be closer to combat, given the cloud under which he left his prior posting.  Obviously, he had a patron in the upper ranks who also had leverage against the Colonel.  Moran’s first order as de facto commander was to implement the intense inspection regime and have authorship of the resultant disciplinary measures, including Watson's. 

As unpleasant as unjustified discipline was for Watson, it was miniscule compared to the kind of tragedy that occurred at Moran's last duty post: unnecessary, likely criminal, deaths of those under his command.  Moran's time at his last duty post had ended with the killing of two beta personnel by so-called “friendly” fire.  His report of the incident contained not a shred of regret or concern.  Mycroft could understand a lack of sentiment when doing one’s duty.  However, even Mycroft could acknowledge the loss of personnel as a resource and the need to address the negative impact of inadvertently killing one’s own people on the morale of the survivors.  The Lt. Colonel had been cleared officially of any wrongdoing, but the commanding officer’s analysis of that incident emphasised that there were unanswered questions, which in turn implied a coverup.  

Moran’s paleo-conservative (in this case, Mycroft agreed with the colloquial term "caveman") social views were also reflected in quartermaster reports.  Linens of lower quality were requisitioned immediately after the sleep inspections began.  Ostensibly, the new linens saved money, but the sheets were so rough they were pruriently nicknamed “rub offs” by the alpha troops in their emails.  Food orders and menus were changed to promote meals with an alpha nutrient profile, detrimental to beta and omega health in the long run.  Heavy duty scent dampening toiletries, typically used in locations closer to combat zones, were switched out for less effective products which made betas and omegas more vulnerable off base. 

The overarching alpha-only strategy was underscored by a sudden, complete overhaul of duty rosters during Captain Watson’s leave.  Assignments now rotated hospital personnel – including Watson – into the field with no time limit identified.  

The totality of this information spoke of revenge.  Moran's elitist alpha paranoia, something the Army was always prone to as an alpha dominated profession, was easy for his patron to manipulate as a motivating factor to act as a tool.  These details painted a disturbing picture of retribution towards one person – Captain Watson – presumably for his contributions towards reducing hardships for omegas in the military.  Events would culminate in an assassination attempt, probably during a firefight.  Combat conditions would easily camouflage an assassin.   

Fortunately, although Moran was clever and determined in the short run, he was deficient at long term strategy, made plain by the fact that he required someone else to orchestrate events for him.  Moran was also arrogant and overconfident.  That blind spot gave Mycroft an opportunity to intervene.  Moran wouldn’t ask for help until events were already moving well beyond his ability to counteract them.  Nonetheless, Captain Watson was in grave danger because Mycroft did not yet know the identity of Moran’s patron and, therefore, could not predict that person’s moves with 100% certainty.  

Ironically, a factor working both for and against Mycroft, as well as his opponent, in this game of chess was the venue itself.  Moves would play out thousands of kilometres away in hostile terrain, involving enemy combatants who had minds of their own.  Whatever leverage his opponent might have in this situation might evaporate in the heat of conflict.

As a next move, Mycroft could pull Watson from his duty station on some pretext, yet this would have negative consequences of its own.  Watson, being somewhat perceptive, likely already identified the inspections as a reassertion of alpha dominance in the face of his participation in the forced heat research and he would have relayed this to Sherlock during his leave.  Because they did not have access to the same depth of information as Mycroft, the pair would see a Watson reassignment as overprotectiveness.  Little Brother and his courted would then alienate themselves from the Holmes family.  Such an outcome was antithetical to Mycroft's role as alpha familias.  Despite the fact that Watson encouraged and participated in Sherlock's little detective hobby, he also encouraged and inspired Sherlock's scientific endeavors.  He was good for Sherlock and that was good for the family.  Reassignment would have to be a last resort. 

So, since Watson's removal from the game was not ideal, Mycroft needed to disrupt his opponent's strategy in another way.  He preferred the elegance of subtlety, but that took time, something they did not have in abundance as indicated by the speed of recent moves.  An efficient and definitive way to disrupt play would be to upend the board. 

Unfortunately, sweeping all the pieces from the board at this distance was not possible.  However, sending a projectile to smash it was. 

For that purpose, Mycroft needed a blunt instrument.

Chapter Text

“You don’t need a blunt instrument for this mission, Nephew.”  

The alpha in Mycroft was offe- startled - when she tapped his umbrella with her foot to emphasise her response, after he'd informed her of his intentions for protecting Captain Watson.  

This conversation was, naturally, taking place behind a closed door.  Aunt trusted her PA as much as Mycroft trusted his, however, it wouldn’t do for too many people to know they were family.  

It also wouldn’t do for anyone to hear the lecture he was about to get.  The “nephew” label signaled that a life lesson from Aunt was a fate he could not avoid.  He conceded to the inevitable by sitting down across from her desk, signaling his acquiescence, whilst she remained standing.

“Pray tell, what do I need, Aunt?”

“For a doctor, you need a surgical instrument.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath in annoyance at the pawky humour. 

“A joke at a time like this – really?”

“Yes, really.  Something I have learned over the years is that those things we disparage in our youth,” she bent forward slightly in accusation, “in order to appear wiser and more fearsome, become surprisingly salient and beneficial over time.”

She moved behind her desk, the short-and-to-the-point lecture evidently over.  A life lesson in just one sentence was surgical indeed, for her.  Mycroft dutifully filed the interaction away.  Although he believed her statement to be irrelevant at the moment, he had learned not to discard statements from his aunt.  They had a way of being prescient. 

His aunt sat down and added, "Naturally, I follow the doings of my nephews and have anticipated your needs.  I have a blunt instrument who can behave like a surgeon when the circumstances call for it."

She pressed an icon on her desk, allowing the two of them to hear what was going on in the outer office.  He wondered why she didn’t activate the video as well.  Mycroft preferred cameras. 

____________

A door opened and closed, heralding a visitor who began a conversation with Aunt’s administrative assistant.

“Who’s with M?” said a masculine voice.

“The other M,” replied Aunt M’s PA.

(It pleased Mycroft to have gained a title on par with his aunt, albeit unofficially.  She was one of the few people whom he admired.)

“Really?”  the man whistled softly, impressed.

“Really.”  A soft sound indicated a desk drawer opening.  “M&M?”

The man harumphed in amusement.  “Of course.”

The crinkle of thin plastic and light tapping noises spoke of candy pieces being doled out of a bag.

“You keep those on hand for an occasion like this?” 

“It’s a rare event that means someone is being particularly troublesome.  Hence, a summons for our most troublesome agent…”  (The man harumphed again in amusement.)  “…and, hence, the need for chocolate to get me through all the troublesome things coming my way.”

(The man’s voice became lower, sultry.)  “There could be other things coming your way.  I’m sure you know chocolate is considered an aphrodisiac.”

“Don’t try your charm on me, James.  I’ve built up immunity through prior exposure.  Like antibodies for a disease.”

(The deep voice returned to its normal register.)  “Ouch.  You need to eat these more often to get your sweetness back.  I’ll probably have a nicer time with the full-sized M&Ms in there.  Any idea what they want with me?”

“None at all, but you can bet you’ll need all the energy you can get if it’s a joint project.” 

From the sound of it, more candy was doled out. 

____________

Moments later, after a knock on the door and a verbal acknowledgement from Aunt M, an ambiguously blond-haired, well-built man walked into the office with a stride that was anything but ambiguous.  And a scent that was all alpha.

Mycroft rose for an introduction.  (He could not help being alpha-proud of the fact that he was taller than the infamous 007.)  He’d heard of James Bond before, of course.  A reputation for improvisation on missions, to a degree that drove superiors to distraction, preceded him.  Mycroft presumed that his aunt chose Bond because of the likely need for improvisation on this assignment, being in a combat zone.

After the formalities, Mycroft sat back, crossing one leg over the other, as Aunt M gave the agreed upon instructions to the agent.  This was her domain, after all.  It was amusing to see her, a beta, white haired and refined, give instructions to the younger, grittier alpha.  The man's bespoke suit did nothing to hide his toughness. 

She continued in her clipped didactic tone, “…There is support already in place at the FOB.  They will make themselves known at the appropriate time.  Transport and equipment for your field work have been arranged.  You will get a briefing on the technical details downstairs.  Off you go.”

Mr. Bond hesitated, “Before I get kitted out, why is this one soldier so important?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I need to have a better sense of who’s after him and why.”

Mycroft looked to his aunt.  She nodded for him to proceed with an explanation.

“He and my brother developed a medical technique which will allow more omegas to serve in the military.  On Captain Watson’s recent leave, they also exposed a cell for omega sex trafficking whilst assisting the Metropolitan Police Service.  A most inconvenient omega for those who profit from their exploitation behind a veneer of ultra-conservatism, a view endorsed by enough groups in our society to give certain people - including many in our military - an excuse for ignoring the suffering of those omegas.  All signs point to preparations for Captain Watson’s assassination disguised as some kind of combat-related incident.  The second in command at the FOB, whom we suspect will attempt Watson’s murder because of his expertise as a sniper, has either arranged for the prior murders of other innocent Army personnel, or killed them himself, when they also became inconvenient."   

"Our own people."  Bond growled in disgust.  ""Our" included him when he took the oath.  He's a traitor."

“Exactly, Commander.” Mycroft responded, acknowledging Bond's own military background. 

The agent’s face set like flint, “I've seen this movie before.  The top person in this organisation wouldn't be one to get their hands dirty.  Why aren’t we using this soldier somehow as bait to catch the big fish?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to growl.  The thought of his brother’s courted remaining unprotected was unacceptable, despite his appreciation of the agent examining all strategies.  Aunt M threw Mycroft a stern look but didn’t admonish him.  It was her family too, after all. 

She spoke for them both, “We believe eliminating the lieutenant, in this case conveniently titled Lieutenant Colonel, will cause his patron in the Army’s chain of command to expose themselves in some way.” 

“It could lead to just the opposite – they could go underground.”

“Possible, but unlikely.  In allowing the Lieutenant Colonel to be so obvious in his manipulations at Watson’s FOB thus far, they have demonstrated either unsubtle arrogance, or an intimate relationship between themselves and the Lieutenant Colonel, or both.  Probably both.”

Bond turned back to Mycroft.  “And there’s an intimate relationship between your brother and Captain Watson.”  When that statement was not denied, he continued, “So, it’s “you hurt my pack and I’ll hurt yours” – got it.” 

Mycroft rose to his height, mirroring his motivation.

“Sometimes, matters of country and matters of family coincide.  This is one of those times.”

Chapter Text

TO: Sherlock Holmes<[email protected]>

FROM: John Watson<[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Change is the only constant

Sherlock –

A lot of little changes were waiting for me when I got back to the FOB – the shampoo and the soap and the sheets and the detergent and even the food.  It all stinks now, literally and figuratively.  Even the people stink because the soaps are not as good at scent suppression.  Rumour has it, these things were ordered to be in place before my leave, but supply chain problems slowed them down. 

Bill keeps badgering me for moping about in my rack during free time looking at your photo from the airport.  (I stay there as much as possible because of the scent situation.  All the alphas smell bad compared to you, but I must smell too good because they're getting a little handsy.)  I’m putting up with Bill’s guff because he hasn’t had leave in a while and he’s been dealing with the changes longer – he needs some way to get his frustrations out.  He also teases me that you and I can’t have that good of a relationship because the picture’s not porn, like everything has to be about sex because you’re an alpha.  It’s just envy.  “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster…” 

Since I returned, even bigger things have happened.  Positions were reshuffled at the FOB.   I’ve been assigned to a recon unit indefinitely, starting next week.  I don’t know the guys in my recon unit very well, so it'll be awkward for a while.  They’re all alphas, so it'll be doubly awkward.

You can imagine that our locations on recon are secret and the schedule is purposely erratic.  As often as not, the base will be in email blackout hours when we return for resupply.  I won’t be able to contact you often.  The only consolation is that I have a better chance of saving the lives of the men in my unit, and maybe innocent civilians, than most medics.  As you know, most don’t have my experience.  “How far that little candle throws its beams!  So shines a good deed in a naughty world,” sayeth the Bard.

Even though I think I can do some good in the field, I’m throwing Bill’s envy right back at him.  He’s taking my place as a trauma surgeon at the FOB hospital and won’t be marching around in an outdoor oven wearing 25+ kilos of gear. 

I’m looking forward to showering with you during my next leave.  For the soap. ;)

John

____________

Deductions flew through Sherlock’s mind after reading John’s message.

• Data: The harassment taking place before John’s leave had been intended to be much more intense. Changes in day-to-day living conditions for non-alphas on base had been planned along with the anti-omega and anti-beta inspections.  Only inefficiency in procuring the new supplies had prevented this plan from coming to fruition.

• Deduction: It was already a foregone conclusion that John’s participation in the research to reduce the intensity of forced heat had drawn the attention of those who believed omegas should not be allowed in the military. However, this new information indicated a more dangerous view: a desire to return to the subjugation of omegas.  “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster...”  They’d initiated a comprehensive campaign to increase the stress level on John as a progressive omega – and didn’t care who else was affected – in order to increase the probability of more missteps by John than simply sleeping wrong.  Before John’s leave, they’d hoped to find excuses for more severe disciplinary actions, with the ultimate goal being John’s dishonorable discharge.  The disgrace of a dishonorable discharge would ruin his future civilian career as a doctor or almost any other meaningful employment.  This would, in turn, virtually force John into a traditional bond of dependency on an alpha for economic survival.  It was a clever and subtle form of retaliation for daring to step “out of line” as an omega.

• Data: Since the first campaign of harassment didn’t pan out, John is going to be isolated to make him more vulnerable. There is little human contact during recon patrol except for those in the unit.  The others in the recon unit are all alphas and John has been deprived of better scent neutralisers.  He will have to fight off his supposed colleagues, as well as the enemy.   He’ll also be separated from his closest ally, Bill.  To top it off, his ability to contact his alpha between recon missions will be severely restricted.

• Deduction: Since John’s leave, retaliation has become revenge. Moran is associated with the omega sex trafficking ring and intends on exacting payment for John’s involvement in dismantling a cell.  “So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”  As time goes on in the recon assignment, the probability of the alphas in his own unit assaulting John increases exponentially.

• Data: A recon unit is subject to combat conditions at all times whilst on patrol, including exposure to snipers and IEDs at any time.

• Deduction: This was more than just a set up for assault - it was a set up to maim or murder John.

Sherlock was texting Big Brother before he was fully conscious of his actions.

[John needs protection. – SH]

[Already on their way, brother mine. – MH]

Chapter Text

[Already on their way, brother mine. – MH]

The bifurcation of Sherlock’s thoughts upon seeing that text was almost a sensory experience.  Relief oozed into the crack at the forefront of his mind like honey on warm toast, replete with the well-remembered John-scent of freshly baked bread and the rich taste of mingled butter and honey.  In its wake, a sense of obligation to the source of that relief lingered like a wish for a cup of John’s tea, a reminiscence with which to wash down a blending of the senses.  The Sherlock in his mind palace, truthsayer that he was, demanded acknowledgement of said source.  It wasn’t sentiment – no – but recognition of the current truth.  In this instance, Mycroft had been more useful than simply sticking his big nose into Sherlock’s life in order to forestall any familial embarrassment about Sherlock’s behavior. 

Far be it for Sherlock to openly thank Big Brother for just doing his job as alpha familias, even if Uber Sibling accomplished both family and complex governmental obligations with aplomb.  Admitting gratitude aloud to Mycroft for looking out for his future brother-in-bond was simply not on.  To recognise his assistance via metaphor would simply have to do.

Despite the breakfast imagery, food symbolism was relatively new to Sherlock, given his pre-John lack of attention to his transport.  He presumed it developed because of those dinners with John in France and their meals together during John’s leave.  Such was the caretaking influence of an omega who was also a doctor that his mind already associated tea and toast with comfort.  But, Sherlock drew the line at adopting different kinds of baked goods as symbols.  (That would be “morsel” code, according to his inner voice.)  It was one thing to be beholden to Mycroft, another to turn into him.  

So, Sherlock sought an answer in his favorite source of metaphor, music.  

Up until receipt of Mycroft’s text, the ringtone on Sherlock’s phone for an incoming Mycroft missive had been the bassoon motif from Dukas’ L’Apprenti Sorcier.  It was the perfect musical representation of an overenthusiastic tool.  Now, Sherlock’s mind palace incarnation insisted on a different musical avatar for his brother. 

Walking with his synaptic doppelganger on the way from the mind palace kitchen to the music room, Sherlock passed through the portrait gallery.  Faces of Holmes pack progenitors on the walls looked down at him, in all senses of the phrase. He didn’t remember most of them from life, which was just as well.  All were disapproving of his interests (criminology; too plebian), his manner (blunt; too gauche), his attitude (iconoclastic; too radical), to say nothing of an habitually open neckline which was considered grotesque for an alpha of one of the Old Families.  Of course, Mycroft had their approval.  Acting as a fierce defender of the pack reputation was one thing Big Brother carried to extremes.  They approved of his government job of a high enough level to have one all-encompassing title (prestige), his manners (sophistication), and his three-piece suits (traditional), with the umbrella adding a practical touch.  The price of Mycroft's perfection was paid by Sherlock, the second(ary) son, constantly compared with his elder sibling and consistently coming out on the losing side.  

Sherlock believed Mummy’s abdication of the alpha familias title was for her own convenience, with reasons different from what she announced publicly.  Mycroft had nagged Mummy about appearances, especially Sherlock’s, and its effect on the pack status and his own career.  She gave up her head-of-pack status just to shut him up. 

That capitulation was the deepest cut.  Mycroft had fostered the conflict, but Mummy had surrendered.  Sherlock was left with little to no buffer from His Pompousness. 

Father tried to broker a truce between the brothers, to no avail.  Mycroft was too full of himself and his new station.  Sherlock was too angry.  “If you think I’m bad now, just watch me” became Sherlock’s mantra. 

Post rehab, Sherlock now recognised it was a gross exaggeration to say that Mycroft caused his younger brother's drug use.  On the other hand, rehab couldn't erase the fact that so-called Big Brother hadn't come to Sherlock's defense until matters had reached a crisis.  Because Sherlock deemed he was still owed satisfaction, he would rather endure an afternoon around Anderson than admit aloud that Mycroft’s patriarchy had any positive side. 

Sherlock presumed Mummy couldn’t have ceded the position to their aunt because she was a beta, another socially accepted form of discrimination.  Pity.  From what Sherlock remembered of her, Aunt had considerable mental fortitude, without the inconvenient alphaness. 

Said alphaness had been a big factor in Mycroft’s attempt to intimidate John at the promotion ceremony, to both examine and manipulate.  The brothers had exchanged some non-metaphorical, real-life words about that.  Sherlock and John didn’t need or want the blessing of the Head of Holmes; they ‘d been successful separately and together without society’s approval, thank you very much.  In Sherlock's opinion, tradition was often synonymous with tyranny.

Mycroft’s text today, however, indicated that he’d discarded the idea of controlling or dissuading Sherlock’s choice of future bondmate.  Whatever reservations alpha familias had harboured about John had been jettisoned and replaced with a proactive stance about John’s welfare – or, more accurately, the welfare of an omega who potentially would produce Holmes progeny.  The contrast of caring (albeit in a typical secretive, high-handed fashion) with formerly domineering tactics was what mandated the need for a new Mycroftian ringtone.

Little time was spent looking through the music catalogue.  A most suitable piece was identified quickly.  In consideration of Mycroft's change in tone (interior Sherlock was enjoying wordplay today, evidently), mind palace Sherlock changed the ringtone to Holst’s first movement of The Planets.  That seemed appropriate for someone who could start an international conflict between luncheon and rush hour. 

And one gesture couldn’t replace all that had gone between the brothers.  It especially couldn’t replace not having informed Sherlock immediately of the data that the British Government obviously had obtained about John’s situation. 

After emerging from his mind palace long enough to make the adjustment to his phone, Sherlock became painfully aware of his limited ability to help John.  His determination reared up in response.  

There has to be something.  There's always something.

Yes, his ability help John was limited, but it was not nonexistent.  He refused to let Mycroft totally usurp Sherlock's role as John's alpha. 

Chapter Text

A natural intersection between interests in chemistry and criminology had led Sherlock long ago to the subject of poisons.  He was quite versed in the physical effects of numerous poisons from written accounts and could recite symptoms relative to dosage and method of administration, having memorised them from a young age. 

Unlike the invented gossip among some of the Met officers, he did not dose pets with various substances as a child.  Why would he?  His dog was the only one who had accepted him without reserve.  His extended human family considered him to be extraneous and lacking compared to his elder brother.  Other students were peers only by age, not by sharpness of mind, and regularly attempted to “prove” he was as vapid as them via intimidation.  They were so dull in comparison that it required a whole pack of them to do their bullying.  Because of his outlier status, he’d developed defenses almost as thick as the dragon hide described in a fantasy story that he was forced to read in school.  His outward invulnerability combined with his cutting intellect enabled the barbs from other students to bounce off of his scales and rebound onto themselves in the form of deductions they’d rather not be made public. 

As he got older, the combination of seeming to be both impenetrable and aggressive was interpreted as a lack of empathy by others.  He didn’t correct this assumption because they left him (mostly) alone and alone (mostly) protected him.

Teen Sherlock’s isolationistic niche was filled by his curiosity about anything that provoked his elders, an inquisitiveness overlaid with spite.  One result of this volatile combination was young Sherlock trying the more potent recreational drugs.  

He experimented only twice with hallucinogens.  He didn’t like the spontaneous and bizarre rearrangements of his mind palace through activation of inefficient neural pathways.  (He never considered giving anyone else a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, either.  It was hard enough communicating with less organised minds, a.k.a. idiots, as it was.)  Cocaine was different.  Initially, he reveled in the “holding a tiger by the tail” quality to his cocaine use.   It appeared to not inhibit his thought process; it even seemed to enhance it.  At first. 

Eventually, the tiger turned on him. 

Experimentation with his own transport ended, not with a revelation, but a rehab.  After months of therapy, he found himself having escaped being ravaged by the tiger, but knowing it was still there, dormant.  When he returned to his personal research, it was the prospect of awakening the sleeping tiger that kept him from taking a substance, such as mild poison, himself to accurately document the effects in vivo.

So, he purchased laboratory time and tissue for in vitro research.  Before John’s first email, he paid for lab hours by simply not eating and purposely falling behind on rent.  Eventually, he succumbed to his parents aspirations for himself by enrolling in university, using funds they’d set aside for that purpose, with the ulterior motive of taking as many laboratory courses as possible.  Research into the hormonal phase detection procedure started during that period, when he got bored with poisons for a time.  After John’s brilliant suggestion to patent the skin test, Sherlock didn’t eat because he was gloriously preoccupied with using professional equipment during laboratory time paid for with the proceeds.  Sherlock continued his analysis of poisons on and off between the tedious process of guiding the manufacturer that had licensed his skin test patent for a usable kit and the excitement of receiving clients for his nascent consulting business, which had started to take off partly due to another brilliant suggestion of John's.  (Truly, a conductor of light.)

Becoming more deeply acquainted with poisonous extracts from plants led over time to an acquaintance with other health-related issues than just recreational drug use.  The chemist in Sherlock was interested in how the processing of a plant led either to a toxic decoction or to a consumable substance.  The biochemist in him was interested in the matter of concentration as a critical factor, as some substances were curative in small amounts and fatal in larger quantities.  The small part of him interested in self-preservation spent some time learning about the creation of antidotes.  The criminologist in Sherlock was interested in amassing knowledge about the pheromone altering effects of certain plant extracts, but - until now - he didn't have a personal stake in creating any.

He didn't use a commercial one for himself because he hadn't been concerned about attracting a mate with his transport until John got under his skin - and John was first attracted to his mind.  However, Sherlock could identify 140 different varieties of commonly sold scent altering substances.  Making such distinctions was frequently useful for solving cases.  With respect to how scent modifiers were developed, he’d stored much of that knowledge in the cold storage pantry of his mind palace.  Retrieving it was now necessary to help John, the one who’d found that chink in his armour, the soft spot among his scales.

The perfume industry invested fortunes on scent boosters to imitate natural pheromones in response to the public's willingness to spend fortunes purchasing them.  Of course, that was not what John needed right now, as an omega in a unit with only alphas.  Pharmaceutical companies marketed scent neutralisers to professions like healthcare, where employees needed to work with others in sensitive circumstances without pheromones causing complications.  Until the recent machinations to compromise John, his military unit used good ones.  Sherlock was confident that any scent blockers sent to John would be confiscated.  A smaller industry focused on scent repellants, mostly for security agencies.  A subtle repellant was what John needed now, to artificially put some distance between him and the alphas in his patrol unit. 

Assuming John didn’t already know which alpha in his group (probably just one, for the conspiracy to maintain secrecy) was in league with Moran, their reactions to a hidden scent repellant might provide indications by which John could identify against whom he should be on guard.  An alpha on the hunt would try too hard to overcome a scent barrier; they would swim upstream against the olfactory current of a repellant and the symptoms of stress would be obvious to a doctor.  At the very least, it would give John some relief from dominance behaviors.

In civilian life, one could get an ASBO for scent pollution if a repellant was overtly noxious.  In John’s situation, if Moran found out about a scent repellant, it would be used as an excuse to discipline him.  Confinement on base would make it easy for Moran to engineer an apparent suicide.  No, John had to stay unconfined long enough for Mycroft’s agent to get to John; he had to remain in danger in order to get out of danger. 

The success of an understated repellant was made possible by the greater overall sensitivity of omega scent discernment.  Omegas could distinguish scents over a greater distance and at less concentration than alphas.  (Sherlock was the exception because he had trained himself.)  It was another omegan evolutionary defense mechanism, increasing the odds of avoiding capture by a hostile alpha.

The crucial factor was how to get it to John through the post such that it wouldn’t be noticed and taken away.  Sherlock knew that the only jewelry-like accessories John wore were his identification discs and a military approved watch.  Although jewelry was a common gift from an alpha to a courted omega, those spying on John would probably pinch anything that looked valuable from the military post and claim it was lost. 

Sherlock summarised the task for himself.  First, he had to develop a nuanced, but effective, alpha repellant.  Second, he had to create a vehicle to get it to John without being confiscated.  Third, he had to make sure that John understood its purpose and kept it about his person.

Chapter Text

John’s unit was back at the FOB for three whole glorious days of down time after a long run of daily recon patrols.  After giving his medical report and ordering resupply for his medipack, the first thing John did was shower.  Twice.  He needed to wash off as much of the unwanted alpha stink as he could.  Though the soap and shampoo on base had really gone downhill since he’d returned from leave, they were better than nothing.  

On patrol, LCpl. Davies kept getting too close, even accidentally-on-purpose bumping into John once or twice a day, as if John and the rest of the unit didn’t know what he was doing.  Davies was young and annoying, though ultimately harmless.  It was well known that John had accepted an offer of courting.  Davies was a traditional bloke in the end and he wouldn’t dare molest another alpha’s courted omega.  Cpl. Clay, on the other hand, was…well…he looked fair but felt foul.  In a roundabout way, that made Davies’ attention protective.

Reflecting on that irony whilst walking to the canteen for dinner, John found his wandering thoughts once again coming to a halt on the cliff edge known as the precariousness of his assignment.  These patrols were like walking a tightrope without a net.  One wrong move and the Captain in command would report him.  John might be the same rank, but his position as field medic meant he wasn’t in the command structure unless it was an extreme situation.  At the same time, he had to be twice the soldier of any other in his unit because Moran and other primitive alphas in the command hierarchy didn’t like the fact that John was a progressive omega.  If he wasn’t a super soldier, they’d manufacture a reason for his dishonorable discharge and probably assault him along the way, with the alpha excuse that they couldn’t help themselves.  They would cover it up so it didn’t make the news with the embedded press. 

Despite the situation, John refused to resign, which would really make him look like a weak omega.  He also wouldn’t ask Sherlock’s brother, his future brother-in-bond, for help.  It wasn’t in John’s nature to let someone else carry his water.  

On the other hand, he did need a bit of a break from watching his own back.  The shower had been somewhat relaxing, but he was hoping to eat dinner in peace too.  If Clay or Davies was in the mess hall, he was going to do an about face. 

Fate was with him for once.  The alphas weren’t there and, better yet, beta bunk mate Bill Murray was at the end of the meal line when John walked in behind him.  They sat together to eat, Bill catching John up on a few things at the base hospital.

After stowing their empty trays, they started walking back to their accommodation block by way of the PO as Bill had received notice of post having arrived for him.  Bill prattled on about the arrival of new nurses.  At first, John felt like an omegan school girl needing an escort around campus, but he was so tired of the clingy alpha crap that he shoved the feeling aside and strolled along with Bill anyway.  It was a good thing, as it turned out.  Post had arrived for John that afternoon, just sorted, and there hadn’t even been time to send him a notification.

As they waited for disbursement, John remembered the patent note from Sherlock as a harbinger of good things to come.  He hoped this mail would be similar.  John’s expectations rose when he saw familiar handwriting on the envelope as it was passed over the counter.

“Looks like it’s from Sherlock.”  John couldn’t hide the brightness in his voice.

“The first post from your alpha was before you were courting.”  Bill nudged him with an elbow.  “Maybe this one is a love letter.  Should I evac for a while?”

“Very funny.  You’d want to watch anyway, you pervert.”

“I have standards, my friend, and I want to keep my dinner down.  I think I’ll go check on patients.”

“The new nurses, more like.”

“You said it, not me.”  Bill winked at John as they parted ways. 

___________

At the barracks, John sat on his bunk and carefully slit open the envelope.  He pulled out a sheet of ultra-fine writing paper.  Unfolding it, he noticed the letter had been written with one of those specially tipped pens instead of a biro in some kind of medieval script.  A quick scan told him that it was in Shakescode only, no sentences in modern English.  Clearly, Sherlock had put a great deal of effort into this letter, so there was something critically important in its message.  Also clearly, Sherlock trusted that John would decode it.

He was a doctor and his patient was critical.  Wrapping Sherlock's confidence in his ability to make a correct diagnostic interpretation around himself mentally, John dove into looking at the symptoms presented by the quotes:

John –

“Yield not thy neck to fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind still ride in triumph over all mischance.”

“Give to a gracious message an host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell themselves when they be sensed.”

“And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the writer’s pen turns them to substance and gives to air a local habitation and a name.”

Sherlock

The surface meaning of the first sentence was plain.  Watch out for out-of-control alphas who want to bond bite.  No one would think twice reading that sentence in a letter from an alpha to his courted omega.  John reinserted the letter into the envelope the way it was originally positioned and held it close to his bedside lamp.  The words of the first sentence could vaguely be made out, confirming that throwing a snooping someone off the trail was undoubtedly part of Sherlock’s purpose.  

Being a code, the wording of the first sentence had a double meaning by definition.  It seemed to say there was something else about the letter that John was supposed to figure out with his mind, but that was a bit obvious for a message from Sherlock.  The fact that the word "mind" was bolded had to indicate there was a special meaning.  Not getting it immediately, but not wanting to lose momentum, John decided he'd come back to the first sentence after he read the rest.

That second quote wasn’t quite right.  John was pretty sure the last word was different in the original, though he couldn’t remember what it was supposed to be.  Regardless, Sherlock’s substitute - "sensed" - was bolded here.  So, there was something about the letter for the senses which was unexpected. 

Of the five senses, John ruled out sight because that was needed to understand the message.

It wouldn’t be taste, referencing “an host of tongues” would it?  Surely, Sherlock didn’t expect him to lick, and thus blur, the source of critical information.  (But this was from Sherlock, so licking the letter wasn’t out of the realm of possibility...)  For now, he ruled out taste, though, because it would render the message illegible.

John read the words aloud and varied the pronunciation a couple of different ways (reciting Shakespeare in American [so-called] English sounded strange).  Nothing jumped out at him.  He ruled out hearing for now.

John felt the smooth texture of the paper.  There were no bumps like braille or morse code.  So, he ruled out touch.

That left smell.  He closed his eyes, held the letter close to his face, and inhaled.  He could feel his sympathetic nervous system ramping up. 

Oh.

Back to the first sentence, maybe “mind" meant “brain,” instead of thoughts.  Yes, he was sure that was it.  Any alpha or omega had personal experience with how the sense of smell was almost hard wired to thoughts and actions.

He sniffed a blank corner of the paper.  Almost nothing.  He sniffed the signature.  It smelled...savoury, darkly aromatic, almost oily.  He felt goosebumps on his arms, his pulse jumped, and he could detect a change in his own scent response.   

His brilliant chemist of an alpha had created his own ink with some kind of neuroactive properties!

John had figured out the what.  Now he had to figure out the why.

Was the second quote telling him to beware and the ink was to keep him on the alert?  Giving a generic warning in a war zone was redundant and Sherlock hated repeating himself.  Also, Sherlock had to know from John’s habits on leave that he was used to caffeine being readily available on a military base.  Why would his alpha send a totally redundant mild stimulant?  John looked to the third sentence for answers.

“The writer’s pen turns..."  The verb jumped out at John.  His intuition interpreted this to mean that the smell was a tool.  It would tell “ill tidings.”  It was a way to find out “things unknown.” 

What was the most important thing the writer’s pen, the ink, could tell him?  It could tell John who to beware of.  It could give him a “name.” 

How?

Back to the smell...What did it do?  It put an omega on the alert.  What would it do to an alpha?  Better yet, what would an omega's scent in response to this smell do to an alpha?  Alphas didn’t like omegas to be alert, wary.  They wanted omegas to be relaxed, for the satisfaction of having successfully protected an omega or to facilitate having sex with an omega.  

An alpha wanting to protect an anxious omega, like a friend or relative, would create a safe zone.  They’d back off and warn others to back off, then monitor the area for threats.  A protective alpha would give off a sharp, peppery scent as an olfactory warning to outsiders.  

An alpha like Davies – attentive to an omega but patient, willing to savor the harder won sexual victory – would make sure the nervous omega with this scent knew their preferences were being considered, to build confidence.  Such an alpha would give off a softer, smokier scent in a reflexive attempt to offset the omega's scent.  

An alpha chauvinist would perceive an omega with this scent as contrary and elitist.  A non-violent sexist alpha would make sure the rest of the world knew they wanted nothing to do with such a defective (in their view) omega.  Their reaction to such a noxious scent from the omega would be to let off an astringent musk, nature's way of an alpha trying to overpower a resistant omega's smell and gain an olfactory victory.  On the other hand, a violent alpha with a wounded pride wouldn't be satisfied with insults and odors - they'd want to dominate by force.  An omega who said "no," but clocked an alpha with that scent coming at them anyway, needed to run.

Oh.

John now knew – he knew – what the letter was for.  He could keep the letter with him constantly because no one would take a letter away that an alpha had sent to his omega in courting.  The “thing unknown” was a dangerous alpha in his unit trying not to reveal their true intentions.  John’s own subtle reaction to the letter's smell would, in turn, produce reactions from the alphas around him that would “let ill tidings tell themselves when they be sensed.”  Sherlock’s ink would “give to air…a name” telling John who to watch out for.

Wow.

He laid back for a few moments, marveling at the brilliance of his alpha, protecting him from 7,000 km away.

Refolding the letter reverently, he put it back in the envelope and secured it in his personal lock box.  The stimulant effect could lead to restless sleep, like too much coffee, and he wanted some decent shut eye.  After getting ready for the night, he laid down in his bunk envisioning the letter in the left shoulder pocket at the top of his carrier during the next patrol, as much of a shield as his body armour.