Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’ve got him.” John huffed into his headset as he wrenched his hand into the soaked shirt of the suspect in front of him and roughly shoved him to the side of a tree with his forearm.

Holding him firmly in place, he looked over his shoulder for any sign of Lestrade’s team as the youth thrashed against him, slinging water droplets from his hair and into John’s eyes.

“A little –a little help would be much appreciated, Sherlock.” He winced around the spray of water and slippery skin.

“Is he armed?” Came the muffled baritone over the headset.

John could barely hear him over the sound of the pouring rain, so instead he cradled his hand over the earpiece of the headset. “No, just –“ He bit off with a curse as the suspect grappled against him and tore at the headset. “Just a little bigger than I am --Jesus.”

“Lestrade’s on his way and I’m coming up behind you. Don’t lose him.” With the click on the other end, John tore the headset off with one hand and flung it to the ground with a curse.

“Calm down. I’m not going to—“ He began, shoving the suspect back into the tree as the boy lurched towards him. “I’m not going to hurt you! Just fucking calm down, alright?” He barked as he slammed his forearm into the boy’s windpipe.

“An Omega ordering an Alpha.” The youth laughed, choking, as John ground him further into the tree. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I don’t want to choke you.” John said through clenched teeth, wincing against the harsh rain as the boy turned blue under him. “But I will if you don’t stand down.”

Finally giving in, the suspect fell back against the tree with a bitter laugh and closed his eyes; chest expanding heavily as his hair lay in wet clumps over his face and eyelashes.

“I’ve never seen something so ridiculous.” He breathed, exhausted and angry. “Omega’s like you get murdered in the backs of vans for this kind of bullshit.”

“I’m not an Omega.” John stated, grabbing the rope off of his belt and binding his wrists with a sharp tug. “—don’t try to break out of this. You’ll end up slitting your own wrists.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. That rope is made with steel wire.” John commented passively as he bent over and picked the discarded headset out of the leaves, wiping the wet debris off of the microphone with one hand pressed to the youth's chest. His clothes were soaked and clung to him like glue, and the freezing afternoon rain had rendered his patience into a very, very thin line of reservation.

“No, you said you’re not an Omega?” He breathed, eyes closed and gasping for air.

“Right.” John affirmed as he squatted down. The alleged “Alpha” merely observed him in fascination as he opened a medic box and pulled out an antiseptic spritzer and gauze. “This’ll sting, but it’s better than going septic with that abrasion."

“Oh, babe. “ He replied breathlessly, grinning as the rain dribbled in salt-trails down his face. “You’ve never actually met an Alpha, have you?”

“No. Turn around.” John ordered. The youth flipped lazily on to his front as John pulled his shirt collar down and sprayed a gash on the youth’s neck with the spritzer, prompting a short hiss of pain followed by a laugh. He pressed the gauze into the wound while the youth laughed lowly into the tree.

“Now you’ve met me, you’ll be lubricating before the end of next month. I've triggered the gene.” He said, crushing his forehead drunkenly into the damp bark. “Oh God. I’ve ruined your life, haven’t I? Things will never be the same for you.”

“What the hell are you on about?” John finally asked, unable to ignore the boy’s words any longer as he tossed the gauze on to the ground and bound the boy’s ankles.

“You’re un-presented. You absolutely reek of it.” The boy said, speaking sadly into the bark of the tree. “If you've never met an Alpha, it’s no surprise you haven’t presented. The population may be dying, but you were bound to come across one sooner or later. Be grateful. You got more years than the rest of us did.”

John considered the boy warily, scanning his eyes over the boys face for any sign of foul play. For someone who seemed so feral, the boy didn't look a day over twenty with baby blue eyes and a light dusting of freckles.

“How do you—“ John tried, shaking his head to dispel the question as a rain drop flicked off of his nose. “No, A-O's are virtually extinct, and it hasn't been found in any of my traceable lineage.”

“Traceable.” The youth mocked, laughing as he swayed lazily against the tree. “It’s never ‘traceable’, you fool. I’m the only Alpha after eight generations of normal human fucking beings. You've got the gene, Dr. Watson, and our interaction will set it off like a bottle rocket. You’ll be gagging for it soon enough.”

“How—“

“John!” Came the deep baritone, and John turned to find Sherlock running towards him, all wild entropy and manic radiations. The detective’s curls were plastered to his forehead, and the clean-cut suit was soaked through and clinging to his body.

“I’m fine.” John said, flinching as Sherlock pushed his head to the side with one finger; cataloging the damage of a mostly painless abrasion above his eyebrow. His eyes were wild and excited and flashing quicksilver with adrenaline and storm clouds.

“It’s fine. Just a scratch.” John said, turning his head with the push of Sherlock’s thumb into his cheek. “Probably should check for concussion, but it can wait until he's detained.”

“No, you’re bleeding. I’ll call Lestrade and have him bri—“

“Don’t fucking touch him!” Snarled the youth, and John and Sherlock both turned, stunned into silence at the enraged outburst. “He’s un-bonded!”

“Unbonded?” Sherlock asked, considering the youth in utter fascination as he dropped his hand slowly from John’s forehead.

“He doesn’t belong to you.” The youth snarled, and suddenly John could feel the supernova of Sherlock’s realization explode. “Back off.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Sherlock replied with a developing grin. “John, is he--?”

“Alpha positive.” John responded abysmally. “Apparently.”

“Omegaverse. Lestrade didn’t tell me.” Sherlock whispered reverently, not pretending to hide the absolute elation of such a discovery. He stalked towards the youth, never once tearing his eyes away from the feral youth before him. “Neat.”

“Do you intend to mark him?” The youth asked carefully. “Is he yours?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes until the suspect gestured in John’s general direction with his head. Sherlock spared John a knowing glance before slowly turning his scrutiny back to the youth in front of him.

“If he was?”

“Then I suggest you bond with him before his first heat sets. Doesn’t matter if he’s in his late thirties, he’ll be top prize for any Alpha within a fifty-mile radius.”

“Jesus Christ.” John huffed, massaging his temples as Sherlock continued to provoke the youth and current suspect: twenty-seven-year-old Harlan Hadley, suspected of the kidnap and murder of forty-three-year-old Rexfield Barcroft.

“I’m not an Alpha.” Sherlock replied.

“Yes you are.” The youth snapped, though sparing Sherlock the same mockery that he regarded John with. A ‘fellow Alpha was not to be condescended in front of an unbonded Omega’, according to the Alpha-Omega text book studies in school. “I can smell it. Both of you sods are un-presented.”

“How can I know that for sure?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

 “How can--? How could any of us fucking know!” He spat, livid and bitter. “There’s no way of knowing until you’re suddenly writhing like a bitch in heat or rutting against every object that can get you off! Don’t play dumb, you pretentious tart. I know who you are. Do the fucking math.” He seethed, and John covered his eyes with one hand as Sherlock’s face steeled over with the characteristic intent of a lion about to tackle a gazelle into the ground.

“If you know who I am, then you’ll know that I am allegedly the most observant person in the public domain. I have no doubt that you are an Alpha. The prehistoric evolutionary glitch known as the ‘Omegaverse’ may affect less than ten percent of the world’s population, but I don’t need any more proof than the sorry state of your current self to indicate that you are very much a part of that unfortunate percentage. You are obviously in the throes of an unresolved rut, if the dilated pupils and protective irrationality are any indication.” Sherlock rattled off, dark and low. “But you are wrong to inflict this kind of feral behavior on my person. I know everything about every one at a moment’s glance; and if I don’t know it immediately, I deduce it shortly thereafter. If I don’t see it coming, it doesn’t come. So I’ll say it again: I am not an Alpha.” Sherlock replied, mild irritation replacing the bravado.

Harlan merely glared at him as Sherlock stood back up, tore his gaze away from the youth and pulled out his cell phone.

“He’s here, Lestrade. John has secured him, so we’re going to take our leave of this place. He’s an Alpha, though. I suspect you’ll find his name in the online Alpha registry. Don’t hesitate to call animal control if it gets too much for Donovan and Anderson.” He spoke, not bothering to wait for a reply as he aborted the call.

“You bastard.” Harlan hissed, wrenching forward in the bind as Sherlock swept past and joined John.

“Was that really necessary?” John asked as he pulled on his coat. “The poor sod’s had it hard enough.”

“Judging by that gash on your forehead, I’d say he received a fraction of what he actually deserves.” Sherlock responded factually as he and John proceeded to leave. “Let’s go. The case is both boring and solved.“

 “My rut will trigger his first heat!” Came the call, and John looked back as Sherlock suddenly came to a full stop, though never turning to face the youth still tied to the tree. When Harlan realized he had captured their attention, he spoke up with a serious severity. “His heat will trigger your first rut, and the gene will activate from now until you both die. That’s the way it happened to me, and that’s the way it will happen to you. If you don’t intend to bond when it happens, it will destroy everything you have and everything you know. Leave each other before you ruin each other.”

“Alright. That’s enough.” John commented, turning his gaze towards a silent Sherlock and tugging on his coat. “Come on, you.”

“Get used to bending over, Dr. Watson. You’ll lose everything.” He called, and John turned to find him with his head bent down in utter agony. “Just as I have.”

“Of course.” Sherlock responded boredly, and John watched in developing concern as Sherlock barreled under a tree branch and out of the woods.

(Later – Angelo’s)

“I only met one person I knew who was part of the Omegaverse.” John said, wiping a napkin over his mouth. He and Sherlock were currently sat at Angelo’s for a late-night dinner on their way home. It was well after sunset, and John sat pleased with his plate of food as Sherlock sat malcontent and bored with the domesticity of it all. “Mum had a friend from church. She was an Omega. I always felt bad for the woman --you could always tell when she and her husband were approaching a heat. He would almost foam at the mouth if any one so much as looked at her the wrong way.”

“My grandfather was an Alpha.” Came the terse reply, and John felt his heart rate accelerate as Sherlock continued to stare indifferently at his phone. Placing his silverware on his plate, he stared at Sherlock for a long moment.

“I...what?” He asked. “Sherlock, why the hell—“

“You heard me. My grandfather on my mother’s side was an Alpha. I never met him.”

“So. So you mean—“ He tried, running a hand over his mouth and leaning back in his chair. “Christ, Sherlock. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“You never asked.”

“God, Sherlock.” John moaned, earning him a bored rise of Sherlock’s head to peer at him from across the table.

“Not quite, but probably close enough.”

“This changes things a bit.” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s gratuitous praise of himself. “What Harlan was saying. He very well could be right about us. This could—“

“No.” Sherlock snapped, eyes flashing with liquid metal, and John knew then that there was something unknown to him in all of this that was causing Sherlock’s unjustified anger with the whole concept of the Omegaverse. “No. Even for un-presented members, there are signs long before the actual presentation occurs. I am not an Alpha and you are not an Omega.”

“Right. Well." He coughed. "My confidence in that assertion is rock solid, especially considering your very recent discovery of the solar system.”

“Oh, to hell with the solar system.” Sherlock whined, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and crossing his arms. “The data is as useless as the Omegaverse itself. The driveling masses already produce enough offspring without the need for thirty-five CC’s of sperm to ensure a success.”

“Apparently the sex is fantastic, though.” John grinned, trying not to think of the many schoolboy fantasies of mounting a girl with a knot large enough to hold that much cum.

“Don’t be typical, John. It really doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock quipped, eyes darting around the room. “Hurry up. This is almost shockingly boring.”

“If there is a possibility that Harlan might be right—“

“John.”

 “No, just –shut up for a second.” John demanded, holding a hand out to halt Sherlock’s desired protest. “In primary school, we were all taught about it. Their sense of smell rivals a normal human’s smell by a hundred times, which is why they can identify their own. Alpha’s can smell an Omega from five miles away. He smelled that on us, Sherlock. He didn’t draw those conclusions by looking at us.”

“He was in the middle of a full-blown rut, John.” Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively at the possibility. “Their minds and bodies are compromised under extremely radical chemical changes. I’m surprised he didn’t try to sodomize you where you stood.”

“Jesus Christ.” John coughed, placing the glass of water clumsily back on the table as he coughed violently into his hand. 

“I know you don’t have the power to delete unintelligent information, but try to move it or ignore it or something.” Sherlock quipped as he stood from the table. John followed suit as he threw the napkin on the plate and stretched. “ --whatever people who are not me do to negate pointless anxieties. Put it out of your mind.”

“The rest of us simpletons usually have to settle for drugs to forget the bad shit. Good thing you’re above all that.” John quipped, pushing his chair in. “Oh wait...”

“Shut up.” Sherlock spat with a small smile, whirring around and out of the door.

“What was your grandfather’s name?” John asked as he and Sherlock fell into quiet contemplation on their stroll.

“Remsden Galloway.”

“Did your family ever say anything about—“ John tried, coughing awkwardly and gesturing with his hand. “About the Alpha stuff?”

“No. Believe it or not, the people of wealth are never at liberty to talk about anything that would reduce their character into that of feral pack dogs.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“I’m not going to try and guess what you mean by that, so you might as well tell me if you want it to be known.”

“The discrimination. I knew your treatment of Harlan was personal. It was...harsh. Even for you. You’re not normally so cruel.”

“Next time I’m tying an alleged murderer to a tree, I’ll remember to bring a pillow for his head.”

“Not likely. I tied him to that tree. You’ll remember to bring a pillow for me, considering I do all of the hard labour while you show up just in time to throw a few insults and be on your merry way.”

“Were it not for me, you’d still be working at that cesspool of hypochondria you call a clinic.”

“Speaking of, you know I work a double tomorrow, right?” John asked, regretting it as Sherlock stopped to level him with a glare.

“What if there’s a case?” Sherlock complained. “We both know—“

Before he could finish, however, John felt himself double over in pain as a large, drunk youth plowed right in to him from the side. John felt the small gash in his forehead split and bleed over his eyebrow as the elbow of the boy caught him in the face.

“Shit.” John hissed, crouching over. The boy mumbled a slurred apology as John braced himself on the wall, one hand catching the welling blood over his eye. 

“Hey--!” Came the youth’s voice, and John looked up when he felt a swift burst of air rush past, only to reveal Sherlock slamming the youth into the brick of the adjacent building with an utterly feral expression in his eyes. He held the youth by the throat and ground him into the wall, ignoring the choked spasms and crunching grit of the bricks into his jacket as the youth tore wildly at Sherlock's hand against his windpipe.

“Sherlock.” John spoke, half shocked and half dubious, because he had never seen Sherlock react so poorly to such a minor incident. The words of Harlan Hadley flashed dangerously through his mind along with the text-book studies of the irrationality of Alpha behaviours and reactions. “Sherlock. It's fine, mate. I'm fine.”

Sherlock turned to glance at him, and John briefly saw his flared nostrils and wild eyes before the uncharacteristic outburst was suddenly replaced with the arctic waters of his usual indifference, only John could tell that Sherlock remained bewildered by his own actions.

“Calm down and let him go, alright?” John remarked lightly, breathing a sigh of relief as Sherlock’s vicious grip on the boy’s neck finally gave way to reveal a throbbing, pale-white imprint of his fingers on his throat. The boy stumbled away; terrified, coughing and graceless, and John knew the white imprints would blotch into angry purple bruises by tomorrow.

John looked over to find Sherlock’s fists clenched, staring at John in utter confusion.

“I was fine.” John said. “And you...you know he didn’t mean to do that. That wasn’t on, Sherlock.“

“I don’t know.” Sherlock snapped, a deeply concerned expression in his eyes evident along with it. “I didn’t—“ He trailed off, and John willed the rolling anxiety in his stomach away as he stepped forward and squeezed the nape of Sherlock’s neck. It was one of the only physical comforts Sherlock allowed John to administer, and it usually anchored the detective in unspoken, subtle ways.

“Alright. Let’s just go home, yeah? It’s been a long day.”

“Alright.” Sherlock commented in complete distraction, eyeing every passing person on the street with a wary scrutiny.

If John wasn’t concerned before, he definitely was now.

Chapter Text

When they arrived at 221b Baker Street that evening, John and Sherlock didn't speak about the night’s events any more, opting instead to ignore the damage entirely.

The inertia of Sherlock’s earlier outburst hung heavily in the air along with Harlan Hadley’s warnings of what they were and what they might come because of it. John made a cup of tea, set it on the table and drummed his fingers distractedly, then dumped it out an hour later when the tea turned cold and his thoughts turned gray. Sherlock composed neurotic tunes on the violin –sporadic, jumpy and intentionally destructive, and John ignored the small tremor of Sherlock’s left hand as he paced back and forth through the living room, pretending to be entirely consumed with the semantics of Harlan’s murder of Rexfield Barcroft. The violin bow was tossed on the floor, strings frayed and split to mirror Sherlock himself.

If John subtly pulled out the "New England Journal of Alpha and Omega Studies" from his old university medical texts, he made absolutely no indication to Sherlock whatsoever that the possibility was becoming as real in his mind as it was assured in Harlan’s. Page forty-three, paragraph two:

"An Omega's first true heat, regardless of age, sex or race, is statistically triggered by the presence of the first initial contact with a fertile Alpha. In turn, the Alpha will fall into the beginning stages of the Alpha 'rut' two to three days after the true heat has triggered. The Alpha's rut is characterized by (but not limited to) extreme restlessness, jealousy, sexual frustration, anxiety, anger, nesting and irrational possessiveness. The 'rut' will not be resolved until the Alpha has bred the Omega for the entirety of the heat, but can be soothed by the use of masturbation. The first 'true heat' can last anywhere from two to five days, but 'microestrous' or 'mock heats' occurring outside of the clinical cycle will last less than eight hours and will fail to stimulate the Alpha knot. (Carris MD, McEntyre MD, 654)"
But the part that bothered John the most was neither the fact that Sherlock’s grandfather was a concentrated connection to the Alpha gene, nor was it that Sherlock could have very likely carried the gene himself. Sherlock was already an exception unto himself with characteristics and chemical makeup that made him radically exclusive from the rest of the human race anyway, so John wouldn't have been leveled by the revelation that Sherlock was another shade of something so rare -- it would be another drop in the bucket of Sherlock’s insanity, and it would all be fine. He would have worked around it and cared for the man all the same.

Really, the rarity was why he liked Sherlock so much to begin with.

The part that unnerved John the most was not that Sherlock had a high probability of carrying the Alpha gene, but rather the possibility that he himself had an apparent gene for an Omega’s biology.

Even though Alphas and Omegas were a mostly deplete evolutionary mechanism, the people who carried the gene did still exist in every country on earth. They were all taught in school about the dynamics of the Alpha-Omega relationships: Alphas, who were inherently possessive, protective and animalistic when threatened or in the presence of their mate, were the more common of the two and whose temperaments were never exacerbated by regular humans. The Alpha drive was still there, of course, and Alphas could successfully reproduce with humans without the instinctual craze for breeding that an Omega would dictate, so the turn of the entire Alpha-Omega evolution came with the dilution of the gene as Alphas gradually began to mate with normal human beings.

As a field surgeon, John saw many Alphas and an impressive amount of Omegas in the Middle East. There was a higher concentration of the Omegaverse in those areas, but only because arranged marriage was still a fairly practiced occurrence. Often, the occasional Alpha and Omega child were arranged to be married together for the sole purpose of replicating more of the Alpha and Omega gene, but as a whole, the breed was dying with the turn of the century.

John saw the way the Omega men and women were regarded: though they were almost religiously loved, fiercely protected and outrageously valued, they were also possessions of the Alpha and steamrolled with opinions of timidity and liability. The Omega were both the lifeblood and the stumbling block to an Alpha, for they could bring peace and harmony to an Alpha's mind as quickly as they could bring anxiety and animalism.
The men of his unit often joked about the ecstasy of finding an Omega to marry and trample over. The stereotype was that the “submissive” side of the Omega’s nature was actually a synonym for a wilting doormat that begged to be fucked raw once a month. John, who knew Sherlock to be emphatically asexual and supernal to his body’s desires, knew that Sherlock would utterly derail if he were to be afflicted with a gene that would make him a slave to his anatomy. It would throttle him, render him tortured and angry, and would devastate him enough to somehow kill him in the end.

And John, who already battled daily with the feeling that he was ever-paling in the wake of Sherlock’s grandeur and power, would undoubtedly be seen as Sherlock’s spineless bitch in heat. Which is why, after dumping three failed cups of tea into the sink, John slammed the Alpha-Omega textbook shut and paralyzed the thought entirely. If the possibility was true for them, they wouldn’t survive it by any stretch of the imagination.

“No use considering the hypotheticals.” Sherlock remarked after an hour’s silence, jerking John’s attention away from his fourth try at the tea. His hands plucked lazily at the strings of his violin where he lay bored on the couch. “It’s a glorious waste of time.”

“Didn't know it was already a definite hypothetical.” John said, bristling at Sherlock’s clear lack of regard for the possibility. He sighed audibly.

“Do you seriously think you've never met another Alpha, John? If you were an Omega, the chance of you having ‘conveniently’ managed to dodge an Alpha for forty-one years is laughable.” Sherlock replied, tossing the violin onto the table and sitting up. “Harlan is in his twenties and has been registered as an Alpha since he was sixteen. The signs would have been there for me as well.”

“I’d think threatening to kill a drunk pedestrian for accidentally shoving me would be one of the signs.” John replied, mouth thinning into an amused smile.

Sherlock glanced up at him, holding his gaze steady and resolute.

“He was a neanderthal who split your stitches for something as embarrassing as public inebriation.” Sherlock bit. “It’s not personal. I wasn't being…”

“Protective?” John asked with a short laugh, and Sherlock visibly bristled. “Then why did you do it?”

“I—“

He stopped, however, as his ringtone pierced the silence. Crossing his arms, John looked away as Sherlock angrily answered the phone and walked boredly through the flat. It was Lestrade, judging by the dripping sarcasm and details of the case flying through the room. After a few minutes, Sherlock aborted the phone call and swept past John.

“Lestrade wants us present for Harlan’s interrogation tomorrow. He still needs a motive and Harlan’s being reticent.” He explained, clipped and emotionless. “Go to bed.”

“Is that an order?” John asked, a flare of challenge licking up his spine. Sherlock only stared at him in mildly surprised anger as John turned, made his way up the stairs, and slammed the door to his bedroom.

He didn’t sleep.

(The Next Day)

“He won’t speak to any of us.” Lestrade explained, running a hand over his stubble-dotted face. Sunrise wasn’t due for another hour, and dark circles shadowed Lestrade’s eyes as a cup of coffee sat steaming in his hand. An all-nighter, by the looks of it. John looked through the large, sound-proofed window to find Harlan in an orange jumpsuit sitting at a table in the police interrogation room. “All we need for him is to confess to the Barcroft murder and we can throw the sod in jail, but I can’t break him. Anderson can’t even get him to speak.”

“Anderson wouldn’t speak to himself if he knew how underwhelming the experience is.” Sherlock said caustically as he peered through the window, eyes narrowing at the jumpsuit-clad figure who was writing something on a pad of paper. “It’s the Alpha nature. They’re always the most difficult. Let me talk to him.” He said, rounding on the two men. Greg stared at him for a long moment before crossing his arms and huffing a short laugh of disbelief.

“No. Absolutely not.” Came the half-amused reply. “I can think of a few thousand reasons why that would be catastrophic. No.”

“Unless you consider solving this case to be catastrophic, you’ve got no reason not to let me go in there.” Sherlock explained hotly. “Let me in or let him go. If you can’t produce a motive, he’s as good as rampant.”

“This isn’t your area.”

“Nor is it yours, apparently.”

“I could lose my job if I let you in there, Sherlock.” Lestrade followed, gesturing to Harlan through the window. “That’s a breach of police protocol in every fathomable way possible, and I give you enough leeway as it is. Don’t be a spoiled brat.”

“Leeway’? Is that another word for ‘cries for help?”

“Sherlock.” John warned, earning both of their expressions to stray towards himself as he dissolved the tension in the air. “Not now.”

“You’re here to listen and deduce the piss out of him, Sherlock. If I start letting you carry the interrogations, Sally and Anderson would stage a mutiny.”

“Sally and Anderson can—“

“Shut up.” John snapped, holding out his hand to halt the conversation. “What is he doing?”

Craning their heads, they all three turned to find Harlan slowly approaching the glass with the pad of paper by his side. Sluggishly, he tore the sheet off of the bind and slapped the pad of paper into the glass where he scrawled a few sloppy letters.

“Want a motive? I’ll talk to Watson.” Lestrade read. “No one else.”

With that, they watched in silence as Harlan crumpled the paper, nodded once at John, and sauntered back to the table.

“Well then.” John coughed. “If it’s going to be that easy, might as well let me give it a go, yeah?” John grinned, excited with the adrenal beat of his heart coursing through his veins. Ah. Wild game.

“Brilliant.” Sherlock said before rounding on Lestrade, eyes wild and excited and reminiscent of a child propositioning his parent for a treat. John would have laughed if Lestrade's skin hadn't turned as gray as his mood.

Wordlessly, Lestrade put his hand over his eyes and massaged his temples for a long minute of silence.

“Christ. Fine. Fine.” He said, gesturing wildly. “I can’t believe I’m --hell, John, are you alright with it?“

Nodding, John sent Sherlock a devious smile as Lestrade opened the door with a jingle of his keys, a curse, and a heavy sigh.

“A few ground rules before I send you out, though.” Lestrade began severely. “Number one? Don’t provoke him. He’s willing to talk to you, and I'm desperate for this motive and compromising my job for this, so don’t take advantage of the situation by trying to manipulate him. Find out as much as you can with as little wording and confrontation as possible.”

“Right.”

“Number two? If I suspect he’s feeling threatened or combative in any way possible, I’ll come in immediately and abort the entire session. No questions asked, you two will go back home and he’ll go back into isolation. Fuck. Just don't get yourself maimed, alright?”

“John.” Sherlock said, and John turned to find Sherlock flick his eyes carefully to his belt buckle in what John knew to be an inquiry about the phantom illegal firearm he kept with him at all times. Sherlock’s gaze seemed to beg the question that John always knew the answer to.

“It’s all fine.” John said lowly, sending Sherlock a small, knowing smile. The detective visibly relaxed as Lestrade glanced between the two in exhausted confusion.

“Christ. Whatever. Alright.” Lestrade said. “It’s all on you, mate.”

Turning, he stepped inside the door, pulled out a chair, and sat quietly across from Harlan Hadley; not even slightly tempted to flinch as the door slammed shut with an echo, leaving him under the tired scrutiny of the person across from him. The silence was high-pressure and hurt his ears, and the chair creaked as Harlan Hadley leaned forward and laced his fingers together.

“So,” He began.

“So.” John said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “This is a soundproof room, and for whatever reason, you want to talk to me. Have at it.”

“I want to warn you.”

“We can talk bullshit when you give me the motive.” John said, earning a definitive eye roll from the man who still felt comfortable condescending him.

“The two are related.”

“Then start talking.”

“Let me guess—“ He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Sherly over there did something a little out of character after our discussion last night.”

“Sherlock is out of character when he’s in character.” John said, exhausted with the concept. “There’s no way to quantify any kind of pattern with Sherlock. It won’t happen.”

John followed Harlan’s gaze as he sent Sherlock a quick glance, who was vehemently hawk-eyeing their every move.

“You can deny this to hell and back, but we both know where I’m going with this. He did something last night that’s managed to scare you shitless." He smirked. "You’re an Omega, and I can smell the anxiety all over you. You’re wondering if I might possibly have been right about the two of you. You've been wondering. And you’re terrified.”

“Look.” John said, leaning forward and pinning the youth with an iron hold. “Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes. His grandfather was an Alpha, so maybe you’re right in saying he is one as well. If he is, it doesn’t change anything on my end.”

“Oh, God.” He moaned. “But?”

“But I’m not an Omega. It’s not in my nature.” John replied harshly, and the younger man leaned back in his chair and laughed. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he spoke up:

“Tell me, Dr. Watson –since you are a doctor and all— has a patient dying of cancer ever looked at you as their soul left their body and said, ‘I shouldn’t have been a cancer patient. It’s not in my nature.” John sat stony and cold, mouth thinned into a white line as Harlan glanced down at the table and ran his finger along the edge of the table. “Your mistake in all of this is assuming that the Omegaverse gives a fuck about your perception of yourself. Breast cancer is hereditary –so is this. Your Omega gene isn’t a set of characteristics, it’s a fucking disease. It doesn’t care who you are.”

“Why do you care?” John asked. “You seem hell-bent on having me believe this.”

“It’s in my nature to protect you as much as it is your nature to listen to me, which is why you lost sleep last night.” He explained, pinning John with a glare. “Do you think I want to sit here and cater to the sod who tied me to a tree and ensured my arrest? I wish I didn’t care about your well-being, but it’s not my choice. It’s biology, it’s inherent, it’s unconquerable, and it’s so fucking atrocious I can’t even think straight.”

“Why did you murder Rexfield Barcroft?” John challenged, cutting straight to the quick.

“For the same reason I’m talking to you now.” He said, eyes half-lidded and wet. “That bastard kidnapped and murdered my bond-mate Lisa under the direction of Lysander Evans, a man who runs an underground Omega trafficking business here in London.”

“There are less than a hundred registered Alphas and Omegas in the city of London. Seems a bit sparsely populated to support a trafficking business.”

“They’re not all from the UK. He needed first-world accommodations to house illegal Omega immigrants to be sold to Alphas over the globe. Rexfield worked as a recruiter to con Omega’s off the streets by selling them false heat suppressants. He’d drug them and kidnap them, then take them to one of several campus's in the country –Lisa and I had been in the process of taking the traffic network down when he kidnapped, raped and shot her.”

A cold tide rolled over John, brittling his bones and teeth.

“Where’s the..." He cleared his throat. "Where’s her body?”

“Dumped. In the Thames.” He said, voice sobering into lifeless letters. "I never found the body."

John felt himself wince, alarmed at the consistency of the story he was standing by.

“Is she registered in the system?” He asked, suddenly empathetic despite solid evidence of anything in the alleged story. "The national database?"

“Yes. Lisa-Shay Palmer: 5’8”, blonde, hazel eyes, Omega female, Wales, date of birth March 16th 1993, date of death, December 8th, 2013.”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Yes.” He said, spirit visibly crushed and wilting in front of John. “If you need proof that she once existed as an actual human being and my legal bondmate, find her in the system. She’s registered. I'm not making this up.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you all of this in the hope that you’ll find me credible enough to believe me when I say that you need to watch your back, John Watson.” He warned, and John met his eyes when the youth spoke to him with the severity and desperation of someone who had lost everything. “I would tell you you’re a fool not to believe my words about what you are, but I won’t say that because you already fucking know what you are whether you want to believe it at this moment in time or not. It will make itself clear soon enough, anyway. But if you choose not to believe that, then believe me when I say that a storm is coming, John Watson; and when it does, the same man that destroyed Lisa is the same man that will come for you. And I’m scared for you.”

“There has to be some way I can know.” John said, laughing in the most unfunny way possible. “I can’t just—“

“Just what?”

“I can’t just be expected to rearrange my life around the words of a fucking convict!” John snapped. The youth remained unphased. “This isn’t like telling me that my wife is pregnant or my mother has cancer. This would change...” He glanced briefly at Sherlock and swallowed heavily. “This would change everything. If you're bullshitting right now, you're bullshitting with someone you don't want to fuck with.” He seethed.

“I see.” Harlan said, quiet and considering. John watched him warily as the youth surveyed Sherlock for a moment before turning back to him. “I’m about to do something, John --something that you’re going to hate, but this will give you the proof you’re looking for. Do you trust me?

“...what?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Good.” He said. And before John could steel himself for the impact, he felt himself shoved into the ground with a crack of his head as Harlan leapt across the table, tackled him down to the floor, and violently licked a wet, dirty stripe from his collar bone to his forehead before licking a sexual line over John’s lips. The chair was sitting sideways on the floor and Harlan was positioned between John's legs, hands trailing under his shirt.

“Get off!” John barked, grappling against Harlan wildly as the youth latched his mouth on to John’s and lapped a bruising series of kisses into his mouth, all while glaring at Sherlock through the glass. John wrenched his head to the side to find Lestrade barreling through the door with a gun outstretched, barking orders at Harlan to stand down or be gunned down. But just as John saw Lestrade running towards him, he felt the whir of Sherlock’s Belstaff skirt over his face as the detective grappled a huge tuft of hair on Harlan’s head, wrenched him backwards by the hair, and physically threw him on to the floor with a growl.

“Back off, Sherlock!” Lestrade barked, but John sat up dizzily to find Sherlock straddling the youth’s lower back and shoving his face ruthlessly into the floor. “Jesus Chri--get him up, John!”

"Touch him that way again, and I will not hesitate to flog you where you stand.” Sherlock snarled into Harlan’s ear as he ground his face into the floor with the heel of his palm. “Have I made myself emphatically clear?”

“Has he, John?” Harlan called, choking desperately under Sherlock’s weight as a line of blood bubbled between his teeth and spurted out of his nose. “Are you listening now?”

“Don’t talk to him.” Sherlock barked, crushing him further into the ground and grinding his knee onto his sternum. Harlan let out a heart-rending cry of pain as Sherlock shoved his windpipe into the carpet. Standing to his feet, Lestrade and John pulled him off of the youth and shoved him backwards. He tore out of their grasps, pushing past the two of them and out the door.

“Go after him.” Lestrade said as he hiked the trampled youth up onto his shoulder. “I have no idea what’s going on, but we’re done here. Get out. Now.”

Confused and solemn, John left him clinging to Lestrade and ran to follow Sherlock through the swinging door, too distracted to acknowledge the cool air hitting the patches of saliva under his neck and over his bruised mouth.

“Watch your back, John Watson!” Harlan yelled, and John briefly glanced back to find the youth speaking through blood-streaked teeth and swollen lips; a nasty smile on his face. “Storm's coming, Soldier John.”

Chapter Text

“Christ.” John huffed under his breath as the door to the police building slammed behind him. Looking quickly down both ends of the street, he finally caught sight of Sherlock barreling down the sidewalk with an outstreched arm, hailing a cab as the Belstaff flared wildly behind him. “Sherlock!”

Not bothering to spare John any kind of acknowledgement, Sherlock slid into the cab and pointedly slammed the door in John’s face as he hit the side of the cab. John slapped the window just as the door shut, and the cabbie sent John an angry expression.

“Catch the next one, mate!” He called.

“No. He’s with me.” John said rigidly as he tore the door open and slid inside next to Sherlock, who sat stewing and peering disconsolately out the window. “221b Baker Street.” John remarked quickly, ignoring the eye roll of the cabbie peering at him through the mirror. One glance at Sherlock told John that they would soon be on the cusp of a nefarious black mood if he didn’t intervene with something quickly.

“Sher--”

“Don’t.” Sherlock snapped rigidly. Taking a brief moment to consider his next move, John reached inside of his coat pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and tossed them into Sherlock’s lap.

“Later.” John said, nodding as Sherlock slowly glanced at the cigarettes one time, then brought a hesitant scrutiny back to him. “We’ll discuss it all later. For now, take one of those and try to calm down.”

Barely satiated, Sherlock nodded once, lit a single cigarette, and opened the window to blow a heavy round of smoke into the air.

“Hey mate, no smoking in the—“

“Here.” John remarked, tossing an impressive wad of bills into the front seat. “Leave him be.”

Slowly reaching for the bills, the cabbie sent John one last irritated glance before focusing his attention back on the road ahead of them, apparently satisfied enough to let Sherlock fume in the backseat with smoke and thunder and enough bad energy to leave John bristling.

“You heard Harlan’s motivation?” John asked. “About the trafficking and Lysander Evans?”

“Yes.” Came the stony reply.

"How?"

"Lipreading."

"So Lestrade didn't here any...?"

"No."

“Disgusting.” John whispered to himself distractedly as he pulled a tissue out of his coat and ran it over his mouth and down his neck. “The bastard fucking licked me. Seriously, who does that?”

Turning, John found Sherlock with a small, developing smirk on his face.

“I know you’re not laughing at me.” He said in disbelief, watching incredulously as Sherlock grinned unapologetically around the cigarette. “After all that, you can’t possibly be making fun of m-- you are, aren’t you? Jesus Christ.”

And with that, John watched as Sherlock’s tightly-coiled anger gave way to the deep, beautiful mahogany laughter that John so rarely had the privilege to hear. And when John thought about the situation, --really thought about it, that is-- the whole thing was so fucking bizarre and so outrageously ridiculous that he found himself struggling not to laugh, too.

“It’s not funny.” He said, running a hand over his mouth to cover the back-stabbing grin. “Had it been you, we would have already stopped off at a clinic for three showers and a tetanus vaccination, you pretentious twat.”

“I don’t know what happened.” Sherlock then remarked, and John glanced upwards to find the smile dissolving off of Sherlock’s face to be replaced with an obvious air of concern. “When he…I don’t know what happened.”

And it was so out of character for Sherlock to be this blindsided –to be so lost and out of touch with human motivation and his own composure, that John knew his moodiness was masking a deep-seated feeling of disturbia and confusion with the whole thing. Sherlock’s career revolved around the talent of omniscience when it came to the motivations of others, so to have done something so absentminded and reactionary had likely set his personal earth spinning on a wobbling axis.

“Sometimes, you don’t have to know.” John offered with a genuine smile. “And you certainly don’t have to know right this second.”

“I saw him watching me. I felt that he was issuing a challenge.” Sherlock replied, expelling a heavy puff of smoke. John watched silently as Sherlock continued to stare forlornly out the window. “And when he tackled you, everything went all…tangled.” He said, gesturing wildly with a gloved hand. “I’ve never known anything like that.”

“I expected some kind of defense, Sherlock.” John offered, squeezing Sherlock’s nape light-heartedly as the detective visibly relaxed and leaned his head against the cool window. “Just not sure I expected…whatever that was, but its all fine.”

“It’s not.” Sherlock said, eyes half-lidded as he stared out the window. “You’re tired.” Came the expected change of subject.

“So are you. It’s been what –four days?” John asked, now massaging lightly through the curls on the nape of his neck before slowly dropping his hand. “The case is over. You’re sleeping tonight.”

Sherlock said nothing, and they drove home in silence.

Upon opening the door to 221b, John stopped when Sherlock visibly bristled in the doorway and pulled himself to an abrupt halt.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, looking around Sherlock and into the front room. “Are you—“

“Mrs. Hudson!” He bellowed, sweeping past John.

“What’s she done?” John asked, entirely confused as Sherlock barreled manically through the flat.

“Can you not smell it?” He asked, turning to spare John a brief glance. “Ammonia. “

Before John could reply, Mrs. Hudson came up behind with a cheerful “Yoo hoo!” as Sherlock spun on his heels and met her halfway with a definite ferocity.

“Hello, boys! Heard my name, so I thought I'd stop by on my way to the--”

“Have you touched my things?” Sherlock interrupted, ignoring her cheerful disposition and holding a hand over his mouth. “The ammonia in the glass tubes next to the sink. Did you knock any of them over?”

“No, dear.” Came the startled reply. “You know I don’t touch your science things. Evil, evil stuff –terrifying if you spill any of it. The scars it’s put on my floors!”

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, instead opting to turn on his heels and mutter a small growl of irritation as he swept past the two of them. Mrs. Hudson looked visibly jaded, so John reached out and grasped Sherlock by the forearm and berated him with a grim disposition.

“She said she didn’t touch anything.” John scolded lowly. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“It’s unbearable! How can you not smell that?” Sherlock asked, though not bothering to wait for an answer as he barreled into the kitchen and began scouring the room for an apparent ammonia spill.

“Bad day?” Mrs. Hudson asked as John turned back to her.

“Bad week.” John said apologetically, ignoring Sherlock’s tearing through the kitchen to offer her a genuine smile. “Sorry about that. I’m going to try to bring him down to a nine.”

“Alright, dear.” She replied, looking around him with a hand to her mouth as the sound of drawers tearing open echoed through the wall. “Oh. He’s really quite--”

“John!”

“Sorry.” He murmured quickly as he turned to follow Sherlock into the kitchen. “What?” Came the annoyed inquiry as he sidled up beside Sherlock and grasped his arm in thin air. Carefully, he plucked a fragile beaker of crystalline liquid out of Sherlock’s hand and set it carefully down on the table, watching as the liquid wobbled from side to side in the glass.

“That’s the ammonia.” Sherlock said, apparently accusing the liquid of some kind of earth-shattering crime.

“Right.” He agreed. “You were comparing it with the smell of cat piss last month. The Shetland case, remember? With the floral carpet and the industrial toilet cleaner? Ringing any bells? ”

“It hasn’t spilled.” Sherlock explained, gesturing at the still beaker of liquid as he coughed once into his hand. John glanced at it in confusion.

“You’re certainly on point today.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlocked snapped as he snatched the beaker off of the table, tossed it into the sink and abruptly braced himself against the table with his head bowed forward. He coughed violently, and John quickly pulled him back by the hem of his coat.

“Alright, here, just—“ John began, pulling the detective into the living room and setting him on the sofa. His eyes were red-rimmed and watering, and his lips were paling into an unsettling white-pink colour. “You’re too pale, and I’m too tired to clean up any vomit right now if you pass out. Lie down before you fall down.”

“The smell. It’s intolerable.” Sherlock replied as he lay down and covered his mouth with a gloved hand. “I can’t think—“

“Ammonia never smells all that great, Sherlock.” John called as he ran an old cloth under the tap water and left it running over the emptied beakers.

“I do have a degree in chemistry.” Sherlock quipped moodily, wincing as John sat beside him and placed the cold, wet cloth under his nose. “It’s never been so potent before. I can’t breathe.”

“Alright, just inhale through your mouth and exhale through your nose. Keep that rag there, and I’ll try to find the gas mask.” He said, standing and rifling through the absolute clusterfuck of Sherlock’s science equipment in the cabinets. They shared one gas mask that he had bought upon realization that Sherlock was prone to hoarding terrifying “borrowed” chemicals from Bart’s lab in the kitchen.

It had been used at least thirteen times since he moved in.

Scouring the dusty book shelves, John caught sight of the mask on the top shelf and pulled a chair over to reach it. Grasping it, he abruptly caught sight of the Alpha-Omega medical text he was reading the night before. Glancing at Sherlock carefully, he found the detective regulating his breathing with the rag over his face and his eyes closed. Opening the text, he rifled through the table of contents and turned to the page addressing Alphas and their acute olfactory senses:

“As evolution delegates, an un-bonded Alpha’s olfactory receptors will heighten from a standing thirty-million to one-hundred-million when they are on the brink of their sexual rut. As evolution has dictated, this monthly process occurs in order to assist the Alpha in locating a fertile Omega from a greater radius of length than is considered normal when not in rut. The acute olfactory senses of an Alpha rival a regular human being’s olfactory nerves by fifty-five million when sexually dormant, and can heighten to a degree of one-hundred-and-fifty-million when sexually active. (See “rut”, page 94.) These senses can flare up to two weeks before an Omega’s true heat. Once an Alpha has biologically bonded to a chosen Omega, the olfactory response will never achieve its prior height, but will still remain in the fifty to seventy-five million range of sensitivity. This process is often uncomfortable and even painful for an un-bonded Alpha, but can be treated affectively with the use of a basic medical mask for minor cases, and with industrial grade gas masks for un-bonded Alphas and exceptionally severe cases. Note: The Omegas’ olfactory nerve responses only rival a human being’s by twenty million, but may still dictate the use of medical masks dependent on the Omegas’ discomfort and anatomy. (Klein, MD.)”

Frowning, John placed the book back on the shelf and grasped the gas mask off of the top shelf.

“Up.” John said as he stood over the ill detective. Sitting up, Sherlock sent John a pointed glare as John pulled the strap back from the mask and pulled it over Sherlock’s head and face. Adjusting the mask comfortably against his nose and mouth, John stood back with crossed arms and smiled at the ridiculous tufts of curls falling over the straps. “You finally look relevant to the kind of shit you actually do --scientific, dangerous and ridiculous.”

“If you’re going to create sound with your mouth, please direct it in a direction away from me.” Sherlock quipped moodily as he fell back against the pillow and regulated his breathing through the bulky mask. His previously fish-belly-pale skin was starting to regain some of its hues of pink, so John spent the following twenty minutes spraying the rest of the ammonia off of the sides of the sink and throwing the remaining beakers away. Going from room to room, he pried any and all of the windows open to ventilate the space of the flat and binned any and all of Sherlock’s open containers of chemicals.

“Alright.” He began as he sat on the table next to Sherlock. “The ammonia’s gone, and I binned the beakers. Got rid of the other stuff in the cabinets, too –if the ammonia did this to you, I’m not sure you’d have survived the sulfur. You okay?”

“Fine.” Sherlock waived weakly, glaring at John as formidably as he could with an incredibly stupid-looking piece of equipment attached to his face.

“Water?” John asked with an amused grin.

“Please.”

Filling a glass of water, John caught site of a bag of oranges in the shopping and turned back to Sherlock.

“I have an experiment.” John said casually as he placed the glass in Sherlock’s hand.

“No.” Sherlock snapped. “I already know what you’re hypothesizing, and I won’t subject myself to ‘John Watson’s Alpha-Omega Playtime’ science hour.”

“This is serious.” John said, residual amusement fading. “You’ve worked with all of those chemicals for years, and this has never happened to you. You’re on the brink of passing out, so we might as well have some fun until you stop being a fucking damsel in distress.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Sherlock replied, bristling as John smiled in response.

“I’m not. I’m challenging you.” John said, unoffended as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“To do what? Endure the horrors of your attempts at ‘creativity’?”

“To a game, you utter prick.”

“Oh God.” Sherlock groaned as he turned his masked face into the back of the sofa.

“It’ll be fun, yeah?”

“Do I look like I would be receptive of anything even remotely close to ‘fun’ right now?”

“You look like you’ll faint in two minutes flat if you try to stand from this sofa, so you might as well participate.” John spoke cheerily to the back of Sherlock’s curled head. When a reply never came, he spoke up anyway: “Alright, since you can’t resist a scientific challenge whether you’re ill or not, I’ll start the game anyway. I’m going to activate three different smells throughout the flat in places you can’t see. If you can identify all three of the items without looking or moving from this sofa, I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”

With that, John watched in smug satisfaction as Sherlock slowly turned to face him.

“I promise.” John said, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Fine.” Sherlock murmured, turning his face back into the sofa. “But I’ll hate every second of it.”

“First item. You have five minutes to tell me what you think it is.” He explained. Sherlock snorted derisively as John quietly grabbed a knife and an orange off the counter and walked silently to Sherlock’s room. Slicing the orange down the middle, he grabbed one half and smeared the juice in a large “Z” stripe down the wall. He didn’t despair for the sanitation of it all, as Sherlock’s room was currently hosting twenty-seven different petri dishes of colonizing bacteria; so if Sherlock didn’t give a flying fuck, John Watson wouldn’t either. “Alright. Any idea?” He called after one minute.

“…citrus.” Sherlock replied, face now turned out from the sofa and facing the ceiling. “It’s…I smell citrus.”

“What kind of citrus?” John asked, stomach rolling grimly as he waited for the response.

“An orange.”

“Alright.” John said casually, quickly moving to the front porch to break a stem of leaves off of Mrs. Hudson’s potted mint plants.

“Was I right?”

“I’ll tell you afterwards.” John called back.

Climbing the stairs, John grabbed one of Sherlock’s mortar and pestles on the way and ground the mint leaves into an organic paste. Scooping it with his fingers, he smeared a smaller “Z” stripe of it against the front of his bedroom door –an entire floor away from where Sherlock lay.

“Anything?” He called loudly down to the detective. The smell was definitely stronger, but much further away. A solid three minutes passed before Sherlock spoke up:

“Peppermint.” Came the reply, and John felt a cold tide level him into the floor. “No, some kind of garden mint, actually. Spearmint.”

“Alright.” Came the level reply. Heart racing, John decided to up the stakes by using an item that went entirely against his better judgement; but really, John Watson needed some fucking empirical proof at this point, and the Alpha's sense of smell was used primarily to locate an Omega’s scent from a radius of five miles away.

Quietly opening his door, he dug through his laundry hamper and reached for a dirty t-shirt he had jogged in a week before. It had dried with the remnants of sweat, body wash and various body oils. Running it quickly under hot tap water, he took the damp t-shirt out to the front porch and wrung the water out under the door into a small puddle. Walking back inside, he tightly shut the door and leaned back against the wall with crossed arms. “I don’t think you’ll get this one, but just try to—“

“You.” Came the quick reply, and this time John found himself startled at the confidence in the answer, because Sherlock had been assured but definitely dubious with the first two. “It’s…I smell you.”

Leaning his head back against the door, he huffed out a large breath of pent-up air and closed his eyes. Three for three. After a short silence, he heard a slow rustle from the living room and was entirely unsurprised to find Sherlock, gas mask off, walking towards him with a forlorn expression.

“I got them right.” Sherlock said grimly, eyes straying to the bottom of the door. “The citrus was an orange, judging by the juice on your hand and the edge of your sleeve. The mint is from Mrs. Hudson’s potted plants --your fingernails are green with a paste you must have made. And your smell…” He trailed off, but John followed through by tossing the damp t-shirt towards him.

“T-shirt.” He replied abysmally.

John watched, heart sinking, as Sherlock’s pupils utterly exploded the second the wet shirt landed in Sherlock’s hands.

“I see.” Came the quiet reply that fell into an even quieter silence.

“You’re aroused.” John said a long minute later, not daring to hold any kind of eye contact with Sherlock. Neither made any comment as Sherlock silently opened the front door and tossed the t-shirt outside. In that moment, there was no greater confirmation of who and what Sherlock Holmes was, which meant there was no greater indication of who and what John Watson was:

John Watson: Omega+

Sherlock Holmes: Alpha+

“I’m going to talk to Harlan.” John spoke up after a heavy silence.

“No.” Sherlock replied rigidly, obviously expecting it from the very beginning of their self-acceptance.

“He knows this more than we do.”

“Are you trying to rile me up?” Sherlock snapped, slamming the door and rounding on John with a wild fury in his eyes. “Of all the possible ways to gather information about this, you’re going to seek out the one person who—“

“The one person who knew this was going to happen. Who better to ask than the one who told us to begin with?” John snapped back. “We have to consider the possibility, now. You got every one of those items right, Sherlock –every single one. And you’re so turned on right now you can’t even see straight.” He said, gesturing at the large bulge under Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock visibly bristled.

“I’m going to call Lestrade tomorrow and schedule a visit with Harlan in his detention center.” John said, completely closed to any kind of negotiation on the matter. “I need answers, and I need them now."

“Don’t you dare.” Sherlock seethed nefariously. “I’ll visit an Omegaverse testing center and urinate in a bloody cup before I’ll let you get near that animal. There are other ways.”

“He knows this better than any physician or specialist will.” John quipped, voice rising in defense. "And you don't get to tell me what to do."

“He attacked you to prove a point.”

“So you knew what he was doing? You unbelievable sod.” John commented angrily, a humourless laugh betraying his feelings of nausea. “Of course you fucking knew. Of course --no, I’m visiting him, and he’s going to tell me what the fuck comes next for us, because this is beyond us. We’re out of our depth with this one, Sherlock.”

“If he touches you again, there is no guarantee that I won’t kill him.” Sherlock muttered as he bent low in front of John. “And that’s not an empty threat, that’s a fact based on the data of how I reacted the last time he attacked you. Is that something you’re willing to risk?”

“Right, hah.” John commented as he swept past Sherlock. “Lestrade saw the way you acted last time. Trust me, you won’t be there this time around. Lestrade will lick me himself before he allows you to get within fifty feet of that boy.”

And with that proclamation, John abruptly stopped and rounded on Sherlock as the detective launched the mortar and pestle against the wall, loudly cracking the stone into three large sections when they hit the floor with a dull thud next to his feet.

“Look at yourself!” John barked, holding Sherlock with an iron eye contact. They fell into a heavy silence as the detective slowly stepped back, shook his head, and visibly snapped himself out of the delirium. “You can have the blood work done, Sherlock, but confirmation isn’t what we need. Jesus, I think we already fucking know. What we need to know is what to expect from this point on. Harlan can help us with that better than anyone can.”

“I…alright.” Sherlock replied distractedly, obviously in the throes of battling a flood of desired, primal protest. “But I’m going with you. Please, John, don’t… I can’t—“ He aborted the sentence entirely, mouth thinning into a frustrated line as he closed his eyes.

“Fine.” John said, a sudden feeling of empathy blooming in his chest at the misery evident in Sherlock’s demeanor. “You need sleep. I do too.” He said as he swept past Sherlock, walked up the stairs and quietly shut the door to his room.

Chapter Text

3:00 AM, and John Watson couldn't fucking sleep.

Rolling over in his bed, he grappled with the bedside lamp and pulled his laptop to his knees with a quiet curse. It whirred to life with harsh white light and the welcome chime, and John pulled up his blog page to post another entry:

“This entry may not be as exciting as some of the entries you all are used to reading, but I wanted to post a quick PSA to any and all of our readers as soon as possible. I can’t go into detail about this topic just yet, but the issues I’m writing about in this post have recently arisen for me and Sherlock in his career as a Consulting Detective. I’m posting about them now in the hope that we can prevent anything unfortunate from happening again in the future.

If any of you, regardless of your gender, see any one distributing illegal heat suppressants to Omegas on the streets, do NOT confront them, and do NOT attempt to buy any for yourself or for someone you may know. If you do come into contact with someone who is selling heat suppressants to someone off the streets, call your local police force immediately and email me on this website once the issue is resolved. I can’t stress to you the importance of following this. I’m attaching a list of local Alpha-Omega Health Clinics at the end of this post where heat suppressants are given free of charge to anyone who registers with the NAOD. (National Alpha/Omega Database.)

I know all of you were probably expecting the new case post, but don’t worry; I’m currently on the brink of its final edit as we speak. It was a great case –really, it was. Sherlock was brilliant. (I know, I know –I should probably stop saying that at this point.) I don’t normally do this, but since tonight’s post is probably a little disappointing for some of you, I’ll give you a hint:

“The Case of the Saltwater Gobies.”

:-)

Stay safe – Dr. John H. Watson”

Closing the laptop, John began to reach for the lamp when he felt a bizarre presence passing outside of his door. Eyeing the threshold, he slowly swung his legs over the side of his bed and grabbed the gun from underneath his pillow.

With careful steps, he approached the door and pulled it open to find Sherlock, pyjamas and all, standing irritated outside of his bedroom.

“Christ.” John exhaled as he lowered the gun and tossed it back onto the bed. “What could you possibly want at this time of –no, don’t actually answer that.”

“I feel unlike myself.” Came the unoffended reply, and John snapped his attention to the man in front of him.

“Are you…are you alright?” John asked, not bothering to hide the trace amount of concern in his voice. The danger nights weren't as likely as they had been when he had first moved in, but they were by no means a thing of the past. “Do you feel ill?”

“No. It’s…something akin to anxiety, I suspect.” Came the hesitant explanation, as though he wasn't quite sure he used the right word in the right context. John considered the man in front of him for a few deliberate seconds.

Sherlock Holmes was many things, but “anxious” was not one of them. Occasionally antsy, yes, and often times extremely restless; but something as seemingly trite as anxiety was a state of being Sherlock never tolerated or struggled to manage within himself.

“Alright. Sit down.” John said as he maneuvered Sherlock on to his bed. With the back of his hand, he calculated an average body temperature through the skin under Sherlock’s fringe, and there were no other apparent signs of physical illness. “Panic attack, maybe?”

“No. I feel compelled.”

“To do what?” John asked casually, knowing the answer was going to be something personally uncomfortable if the last few days had anything to say about it. Sherlock visibly retreated, mouth thinning into a line as he focused his attention to the gun on the bed. “You might as well tell me, Sherlock. The last few days have been awkward enough, and it will likely get worse for a while --might as well desensitize ourselves.”

When a flash of misery crossed Sherlock’s face, John felt an unexpected bloom of empathy for the man.

“You don’t have to feel weird about telling me things.” John said calmly, sitting next to him on the bed. “This whole process has been…fucking bizarre for both of us anyway, so you don’t have to worry about what I might say when you’re having a genuine problem. I wouldn't do that to you. There’s no judgement here.”

“I feel compelled to watch you.” Came the rigid reply, and John could only observe the detective with his best impression of indifference.

“Right.” He offered, clearing his throat as he braced himself on his knees. “I…why?”

“I feel that you might leave.” He said, eyes held to the gun. “And that’s not alright with me.”

“Right. Okay. Hm.” He began, struggling to approach this from an angle catered to Sherlock. “Well, you can put that out of your head, because I’m not going anywhere. I’m too tired to leave even if I wanted to, so just –delete that thought, or--” He gestured vaguely. “Or whatever it is that you do, because I’m not leaving. Yeah?”

“That’s not the problem.” Came the reply. “Rationally, I know that you won’t leave because you said that you won’t leave. Logically, I shouldn’t care either way. You’re an adult male capable of making informed decisions outside the realm of my knowledge and consent, but physically I feel that I am not in control of the situation.”

“And by ‘situation’ you mean me?” John asked, amusement with the situation rapidly descending into a state of self-defense.

“No.” He said. “By ‘situation’ I mean the circumstances that surround you.”

“You have something in mind.” John identified, recognizing the swirling hypothesis stewing in Sherlock’s mind. “I know that look. You’ve already thought of a possible solution, but you’re not telling me because you know I won’t like it.”

“You won’t.” Sherlock offered factually. “I don’t like it.”

“No harm in saying it, though. Give it a go and I’ll tell you if it’s within the realm of sanity or not.”

“I want to scent you.”

One – two –three –four—five heartbeats punctuated the space of time that passed John’s brain while it remained utterly flash frozen from the declaration.

“That’s….” John exhaled after a suspended moment of silence. “That is an incredibly primal thing to do.”

“I’ve read that it helps. With this—“ Sherlock gestured to himself, as though the supposed anxiety was infecting him with an angrily visible rash for the world to see. “Since my sense of smell is egregiously sensitive at the moment anyway, I think it would help psychosomatically if I could…locate you by trail. Theoretically, that is. I don’t actually care where you go.”

“By ‘trail.’ John laughed despondently, burying his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ. You’re not a bloodhound, Sherlock. You might as well just piss on me and save yourself the time.”

“Don’t you dare mock me.” Sherlock then snarled, and John snapped his attention to the now-fuming detective. His eyes were animal-cautious and fragile, and John licked his lips once when he acknowledged the deep-seated embarrassment Sherlock would have had from requesting something as animalistic as this. To have mocked him for being painfully honest about it set the ball of guilt rolling up John’s throat, and he felt somewhat like a bastard.

“Sorry, that was…not on. Let’s just…let’s just get it over with.” John said, lying back on the bed. “I’m going to lie back for a total of five minutes, and if it gets…too weird, I’m going to put a stop to it. I’m not going to tell you what areas are off-limits. At your age, I think you would know where you would and wouldn’t want someone to stick their nose.”

“Fair.” Sherlock said as he observed John.

Slowly placing one knee on the bed, Sherlock glanced at John cautiously, asking, before leaning down and running his nose along the topography of John’s ankle. John watched, heart racing and slightly mystified, as Sherlock ran the edge of his nose delicately up the length of John’s calves before sniffing several times at the underside of his knee.

“Fine?” He asked, nosing at the flesh around John’s knee.

“Fine.” John replied, trying to invest too much thought into the absurdity of such a ritual.

Sherlock stayed there for a full twenty seconds, and John could tell that he was slowly losing himself in the delirium of the hunt. Traveling slowly up his thigh, his nose twitched as it bumped into little patches of skin near the crest of John’s crotch. Shifting so that he was now on his hands and knees over John, Sherlock dove down and ran his nose dangerously close to the heady, warm depth of his groin, and a sudden flash of Sherlock’s nose buried in the sandy-blond curls located there was enough to have John shifting to prove a point.

Aborting the area, Sherlock moved his nose to nudge deviously under the hem of the t-shirt, but closed his eyes with a sharp shake of his head and snapped himself out of the temptation. He sniffed centrifugally around John’s belly-button for another thirty seconds, then glanced at John for further approval.

“It’s all fine.” John somewhat croaked, prompting Sherlock to slowly crawl fully over John and nudge his nose into little areas of bare skin up the length of his torso. A shiver ran up John’s spine.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Came the low baritone, and John closed his eyes when the detective descended and buried his face into the hollow of John’s neck. The careful scenting suddenly went from light, exploratory sniffs to heavy, uninhibited inhalations, and John closed his eyes when the soft curls on the crown of Sherlock’s head nudged his chin up and down with every bob of Sherlock’s head under his chin. “Roll over.” Came the mahogany demand, and John felt himself rolling over, alarmed with the sheer ease in which his body responded to the demand.

And that was not on.

He felt Sherlock’s weight settle heavily on top of his back, and he visibly shivered when the detective buried his nose and mouth in the hair at the nape of John’s neck –nudging and prodding at the under-hairs as though he were digging in the ground for small prey. He sniffed and nudged and prodded all around, looking exactly like the hunting bloodhound that he insisted he wasn’t. Tensing, John felt the absent-minded placement of Sherlock’s hand against his ribs, hoarding him insistently against Sherlock’s body.

“Sherlock.” He warned, turning to look up at the wild detective.

He inwardly grimaced at the sight of Sherlock’s utterly blown pupils and flaring nostrils. This was getting dangerously close to shattering, and it was leading to a place that John never wanted to go with Sherlock, and to a place that Sherlock never wanted to go with anyone. Before John could form another warning, Sherlock was shifting to lie on his side next to John. Assertively, he buried his face under John’s chin to huff heavy, wet puffs of air along his neck, and John felt his cock violently twitch in response.

“Sherlock.” He spoke weakly, and it must have unraveled the spool-wound threads of animal within him, because John was suddenly jerking back off of the bed as Sherlock bit a small, wet nip into the underside of his chin with a growl. “Alright, you’re done.”

“No.” Sherlock seethed, and John caught sight of the very obvious bulge in Sherlock’s pyjamas that matched his own flagging erection. “I wasn’t done.”

“Yes you are.” John affirmed, leveling a furious glare at Sherlock who slunk off the bed and walked towards him, berating him into submission and staring at the small teeth-shaped nick on his neck. “Where are you right now, Sherlock? Think about it. I’m afraid you won’t like the answer when you do.” John said rigidly, eyes boring into the skittering animalism of Sherlock’s own dilated pupils. After a few considering seconds, a glacial tide suddenly seemed to level Sherlock’s cognition, and the feral glint in his eye gave way to a few pulsing embers of his previous self.

“I’m—“ He bit off the explanation. “Forgive me.”

“We knew that was a possibility.” John said, not holding eye contact with his colleague, partner and best friend. A clenching heartache that he would think about later pulled under the bone of his sternum. “Go to bed.”

Sherlock left the room, and neither slept that night.

(The Next Morning – Prison)

John sat patiently in the uncomfortable chair of the high-security detention center where Harlan was being held.

Although Harlan had confessed to the murder of Rexfield Barcroft, his reasoning behind the murder had put a kink in the entire investigation, so his trial date was indeterminate at this point. He would undoubtedly go to prison, but the murder sentence could be diluted if his allegations regarding Lisa Palmer, Rexfield Barcroft and the phantom Lysander Evans were proven to hold any credibility in court.

John drummed his fingers against the plastic of the table, watching through the large plane of glass as Harlan was escorted to the other side. A smirk stretched on his face when he saw John sitting before him.

“Well. Isn’t this a lovely surprise? And I don’t even have a tea-kettle.” He said as he plopped heavily into the chair, orange jumpsuit and all. He looked terrible. His eye was a heinous purple-yellow in colour, and a sharp nick of skin was splintering his top lip with a scab. Sherlock had, by all evidence, done his very worst on the boy. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though. I figured you’d seek me out sooner rather than later.”

“Then you know why I’m here.” John said casually.

“What do you want to know first?” Harlan asked boredly as he flipped the straight black locks out of his eyes. For a boy so aggressive, his cerulean eyes, black locks and dusted freckles betrayed any uninformed suspicion of how feral he could actually be. He was like a young, volatile Sherlock if you squinted the right way. “Maybe you want to know when you’re going to start gushing. That’ll be anytime in the next two weeks, if my calculations are correct. Perhaps you want to know about the cramps? Or maybe you want to know when Sherly’s going to bend you over the kitchen table and mount you for an hour straight.”

“That’s enough.” John snapped, knuckles bleeding white. “If you don’t want to help me, then just tell me and I’ll go.”

“Or maybe you want to know if it’s actually possible for him to fill you with a baby...”

“Yeah, fuck you.” John spat as he stood from his chair and turned to leave.

“Or maybe you’re here because you want to know how bad it’s actually going to get before the friendship finally falls to shit.” Came the reply, and Harlan was no longer provoking John, instead leveling him with a gravely serious expression. John turned to find him utterly devoid of the previous antagonism. “Because it will, John. I can’t guarantee that the rest of it will happen with any kind of accuracy, but I can guarantee that.”

“He scented me last night.” John muttered, almost between clenched teeth. “Why?”

“He memorized your scent so that he can always find you if you leave. That’s normal, and the least of what you should be worried about.” Harlan waived, utterly bored with the concept. “Omegas smell the food, Alphas smell every ingredient in the food. Boring. Next.”

“Does it get worse?” John asked. “The anxiety and the—“

“Sexual frustration? Yes. It will only resolve itself once he fucks you or another Omega. Likely won't find another, though. “

“I’m not having sex with him.”

“Of course you’re not.” Harlan offered casually, picking at the underside of his thumbnail. “You’re too worried about the concept of submitting to him, and he’s too much of a fairy fucking princess to mount you like the animal that he is.” Harlan explained. “That kind of thinking pretty much guarantees a ride through hell for the rest of the process, so have a great day, John Watson. There’s nothing more to discuss here.”

“Don’t be a brat.” John snapped. “I’m asking for your help.”

“Why are you wasting our time?” He spoke up, voice rising as he fell back against the chair and crossed his arms. “His chemicals are changing, his body can feel that change happening inside of you, and he’s losing his fucking cool because of it. Two weeks from now, you’re going to be hit by one bitch of a heat, and you’ll both be gagging for it by the end of the day. Since you won’t have sex with each other, you’ll be miserable for three days straight, he’ll be miserable for three days straight, and the process will continue every month for the rest of your lives. Because you’re an old-fashioned sod and he’s some kind of rare asexual blood diamond, a bond will never occur, which means it will only get worse over time until the friendship you have with each other won’t be able to bear the weight of what it takes to ignore that kind of biology. This is nothing new, John. Please don’t pretend it is.”

“I can’t have sex with him.”

“Jesus Chri—“ He exhaled. “What have you got to lose? Every one already knows you two are—“

“Our friendship.” John said, utterly devoid of humour. “It means…everything to me. More than I can quantify. Taking it to that step would be risking everything, and I can’t—do that. Not with him. I could tolerate it, but he couldn’t.”

John watched, desperation bubbling, as Harlan’s previous nonchalance gave way to an entirely different person. His lips thinned into a white line and he leaned forward, eyes scanning John for some kind of tell.

“I know what’s scaring you about this. Lisa was the same way. She—“He aborted the thought entirely. “You’re afraid that when it happens, you’ll be perceived as his sexual doormat –some kind of wilting housewife who secretly yearns to be manhandled, fucked and ordered by an attentive Alpha. You’re a military man of high respect, and you’ve already had to adjust to the idea of being Sherlock Holmes ‘sidekick’ as it is, so presenting as a genetic inferior could only reinforce that feeling, right?”

John nodded curtly.

“That’s not what it’s like.”

“Then what is it like?”

“I can’t tell you that. You need to experience it for yourself before you make any kind of judgement on the matter. But I can tell you this--” He leaned forward, eyes steely and serious. “You and Sherlock Holmes – the world knows about you two. People say he’s a hell of a man to get on with, and I can attest to that with personal fucking experience. He’s a bitch without a cause. And here you’ve managed to live with the man for five years, earning not only his friendship, but his utter devotion, loyalty and respect. I’ve seen the way he regards you. He’d fall to shit without you; but I won't sit here and tell you what the obvious answer is."

"You think I should bond with him."

"I think it wouldn't be as devastating to you as you seem to think it would be.”

“Christ.” He laughed, acknowledging how humourless the world was in that moment.

“I won’t promise you that bonding with him will work out. I’m not even going to pretend to offer that kind of comfort.” He explained. “But I can tell you that an Alpha and an Omega with a close friendship living in a flat together with plans to ‘ignore’ the urges will end disastrously, and you won’t recover from the damage when it does. You're caught between a rock and a hard dick, my friend.”

“I could leave during the heats.”

“Always an option, sure—“ Harlan sniffed. “But that begs the question of what you’d come home to. Seems inconvenient to have to plan the rest of your natural life around it, too. One week every month. Hell, forget Sherly --no clinic will hire you with that kind of stipulation.”

“There are heat suppressants.”

“You’ll have to register with the NAOD to come by them, and that website is open to the public. Sure you want everyone in the world knowing you’re an Omega, Soldier John?”

Before he could reply, a chime from John’s phone rattle off.

“You went without me. –SH”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot you need to think about.” Harlan said, glancing at the phone and slapping his hands energetically onto the table. “Anyway, I’m always here if you need another session of embarrassingly repressed denial and—“

“You’re going to die, aren’t you?” John interrupted, nonplussed as Harlan snapped his attention towards him and abruptly shut his mouth. A heavy silence filled the space between them, and John’s chest clenched painfully as Harlan’s expression visibly crumbled. “I saw it in Afghanistan --men and women who lost their bond mates in war. Their bodies reacted to the bond break, and they didn't have the means or the will to survive it.”

“Some people end up surviving it.”

“You won’t be one of them.” John said with a humourless laugh, and Harlan looked away dejectedly. A very real sadness coiled between them as Harlan swallowed heavily, and fell into a predictable silence.

“No.” Came the final confirmation. “I won’t be.”

”You’re still a baby. And you’re going to die.”

John’s stomach bottomed out as Harlan huffed out a bitter laugh and blinked away the water welling in his eyes.

“Hopefully.” He said, pale and bruised and resigned as the guard entered the room and escorted him to the door.

“I’m going to find Lysander Evans.” John called as the guard shoved Harlan through the door. He stumbled through the threshold and John stood up, peering over the glass panel as Harlan desperately fought to look back at him. “I’m going to finish what you and Lisa started.”

The last John saw of Harlan Hadley was his tear-splotched cheeks as the door slammed behind him, leaving John in the settling dust of Harlan Hadley’s life.

(Thirty Minutes Later)

Exhausted, John approached the steps to 221b as a cold, afternoon wind sent a few leaves skittering down the street. Upon closer inspection, he saw a young woman smoking next to their front door with a down-turned cap and a coat far too big for her. Her hair was pulled into a messy blonde bun at the back of her head, and her nails were chipped with coral polish. Her Converse All Stars were fraying at the edges.

“Can I help you?” John asked as the girl dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her shoe.

“Yes, hi--” She began, pulling her sunglasses off of her face and finally glancing at him with a bright smile. “I’m Lisa Palmer. I read your blog post?”

Chapter Text

“I’m—“ He stumbled, tongue moving of its own stuttering volition at the figure standing before him. He replaced the initial shock with a warm, after-thought of a handshake to disguise the fact that he very much knew who she was and why she shouldn't be standing before him. “John Watson. The name’s John Watson.”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled, taking his extended hand. It was now that he noticed a small plaster on her forehead with pictures of strawberries on it. “But who doesn’t? 'Blogger extraordinaire' and all that criminal jazz.”

“You’re too kind.” He remarked, trying to re-establish his reality. “Can I help you...?”

“Yes, actually.” She said, glancing down and grinding her cigarette into the pavement. “I know you and Sherlock Holmes have been known to take certain civilian cases, and I saw your latest blog entry asking for information about illegal suppressant dealer. I know you wanted an e-mail, but I didn’t have access to a computer, so consider me the email.”

“What have you heard?” He asked with a laugh, crossing his arms and trying to ignore the urge to question why she was, in fact, not riddled with rigor-mortis and floating in the Thames somewhere. He didn’t know their situation, but he knew enough of Harlan’s grief fifteen minutes earlier to know that something was fantastically wrong with the ghost of his bond-mate standing before himself, and not making every feasible effort to breach the wall’s of Harlan’s detention center and break him out of the hell hole.

“I have...information.” She said, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and glancing around. “Valuable information, as it stands. I sort of have a...a network? If you will.”

“Yeah?” John asked, considering the girl who stood eye-level with him. Seriously, how many people had "homeless networks" these days?

“Have you ever met an Omega, John Watson?” She then asked, brows furrowing under her cap.

“Not until now.” He said, gesturing at her with a smile. She opened her mouth to form a reply, then glanced down with a bested smile.

“What was my tell?” She inquired, chewing on her lip with a grin.

“I’ve lived with Sherlock Holmes for five years.” He said with a cheeky smirk. “You don’t have to have a tell. You just have to be human.”

“You’ve seen me in the registrar, haven’t you?” She asked, slightly amused. “Recent activity involving the Omegaverse individuals is stirring London’s criminal underbelly, which must have directed you to find my profile with the NAOD. You guys here things, and you research the piss out of it.”

“Something like that.” He lied with a laugh.

“Then you know why I’d want to stop the illegal dealing.” She said. “The trade of Omega’s...it’s not their fault –our fault- for being what we are. And many of them...they come into the gene too late to know how to manage it correctly. Some of them are minors who don't want to tell their parents out of shame, and others are too wary of the social stigma to register with the NAOD to get the suppressants. They try to save face by buying them off the street, and I know you two know enough of crime and murder to know what kind of shit can happen when people get what they want this way. I want to help them.”

John considered the girl in front of him for a long minute. There was so much about this situation that seemed bizarre and brimming with a tainted kind of secrecy. Harlan’s grief over her was overwhelming in it’s intensity, and the child was dying in a bloody fucking cell because of it. So why Harlan’s bondmate was standing before him and asking for moderate to long-term help with their operation instead of reuniting with him to quell the grief was...utterly baffling. And wrong.

And terribly, terribly interesting. Sherlock wouldn’t turn this one down if you bribed him with a season pass to every corpse in the morgue. It was a case stuffed inside a case, and right up his alley in the level of danger. John could barely hide the enthusiasm of accepting such a case.

“How do you plan to help them?” He asked, aware that she and Harlan had already been working together against a “Lysander Evans” to eradicate the trafficking of Omegas before she “died.” “It’s...no offense to you at all, but interfering with human trafficking is an incredibly dangerous state of affairs. It's deadly in the best of circumstances, especially for those who try to police it. It’ll be difficult.”

“Such is the life of an Omega.” She said, and the sentiment was underscored with the definite suggestion of a life of utter turmoil and adjustment. “I’ve spent my entire life fighting for the select few that are like me. I know I probably look like some kind of simple rebel who can talk a lot of shit until I get hit, but you need to know that I'm not unprepared. Like I said, I have a network, and we communicate with each other when things get shady. We have reps who pose as sellers on the streets. They con the Omegas, then let us know so that we can come and escort them to underground safe-houses where they're given shelter and suppressants until we can get them to register with the NAOD. It works, but the network isn’t large enough to cover all of the Omegas who are captured by the real sellers. We never see them again.”

“And you want the help of Sherlock’s network, too.” He said, realization dawning. “The combined networks would expand your area of influence dramatically.”

“We could cover around sixty percent of London.” She said, eyes now bright with hope and a passion that Sherlock would eagerly label as stupidity. “Right now, we have a thirty percent reach. It’s not much, but it has proven to work the way we want it to if we communicate correctly. Sherlock’s network would double our area of influence. We pay ours; we'd pay his, too. The reps are Omegas just like me who want to help. We even have a few Alphas.”

Just as John was about to reply, a chime on his phone pierced their conversation.

“If you find the antics of an alleged Alpha-positive individual to be utterly repugnant, then I suggest you refrain from deliberately doing things that you know will be upsetting. --SH”

“Jesus.” John said, sliding the phone back into his jacket and shaking his head. “I'm so sorry. Himself is being more or less a bastard right now. Come back tomorrow morning around ten. We schedule meetings with clients, and he decides if he wants to help. It’s a ridiculous process, but I’ll talk to him. I want to help you.”

“Alright.” She said, eyes glittery with hope as she pulled a bag at her feet over her shoulder. John had no idea where she was living, who she was living with, or even if she had food and water to abide by. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes.” John said, turning to meet her as she walked past him and down the street. “And Lisa—“

“Mm?” She turned and began walking backwards, smiling as the cap shadowed her eyes.

“If he doesn’t want to help, I’ll—“ He stopped. “I still will. If you need it or want it.”

“Of course.” She said, saluting with two fingers. “You’re a good man, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes is lucky to know you.”

And with that, John turned and entered into 221b as a car swept past, taking her receding image with it.

“I’m home.” John said passively as he kicked the door closed behind him. Tired, he made his way through the unusually (and unsettlingly) quiet flat. The clock ticked softly, and nothing was melting, bubbling or otherwise burning, which was damn-near disconcerting to begin with. “Hey Sherlock? You’ll never believe who I just met outside. No really, this is one you won’t be able to dedu—“

“You went without me.” Came the abrupt reply, and John craned his neck behind himself to see a very shirtless Sherlock standing in the doorway and sweating profusely. The normally graceful and cleanly detective was standing in pyjama pants and laying his forehead in the crook of his elbow, which was held against the door frame as though he were on the brink of passing out.

“Christ. Are you alright?” John asked, making his way to Sherlock, who merely glared at him. John stopped when Sherlock’s features suddenly screwed into a frown.

“You smell like him.” Sherlock commented, curls plastered to his damp forehead. “Atrocious. Either get me the gas mask or stay three countries away. I'd rather huff the ammonia than have to weather that odour.”

“Thank you for that, Sherlock. I appreciate it. What would I do without you? Sit down.” John said sarcastically, though batting Sherlock’s hand away as he placed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re burning up with fever, you're about to faint, and you look like a goddamned crack-whore. Please tell me you didn’t consume any of the poisons you were researching last month. I sent them to Molly for a reason.”

“Why the hell would I—“

“I don’t know; that’s what I’m usually trying to figure out. Lie down.” John said, shrugging his jacket off. He gestured to the couch, ignoring Sherlock’s glare as he ran a rag under the cold tap. “Any diarrhea? Have you vomited or experienced any chills?”

“Don’t play doctor with me. It’s not attractive.” Sherlock murmured, though acquiescing to the demand by falling onto the sofa. For the commendable attempt at bitchy commentary and sardonic apathy, John knew when someone was genuinely ill and suffering for it.

“Then it’s probably a good thing I don’t really care how you feel about it.” Came the reply as John pulled up a chair next to him, brushed the wet curls back and placed the rag on his forehead. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since this morning. It’s intolerable.” He said. “No chills or vomiting of any sort, which would be better than this state of half-life. It’s merely a non-committal discomfort designed only to inconvenience me and keep my mind on its ever-lingering presence.”

“So sort of like those text messages you sent me today.” John remarked, smirking in victory as Sherlock glared.

“I won’t concede to the idea that I am, in fact, an Alpha male; but since all evidence seems to be pointing that way, I’m going to ask you not to be completely oblivious. I told you I didn’t want you to go without me. I meant that.” Came the reply, and the humour and amusement immediately dissolved into nothing. “And you said you wouldn’t. Don't hold me accountable for that kind of reaction; I can assure you I won't be receptive of it.”

“I’m sorry.” John said, finding that he actually did mean it. “That wasn’t on.”

His intention was never to exacerbate Sherlock’s fear of what the Alpha gene would mean for his mind and body’s separation. Parts of Sherlock’s persona were already breaking off and being swept down the rolling rivers of self-control, and John knew that it had the potential to devastate Sherlock’s already-fragile center of gravity. He never wanted that.

“You really do smell like him.” Sherlock observed, this time with a little less volume. “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll take a shower when you tell me what you’re actually feeling.”

“I already told you. I don’t feel sick –just hot.” Sherlock said. John observed the man below him, curls dark and plastered to his forehead. His bare torso shimmered lightly with the dusting of sweat, and his loose pyjamas hung low on his hips. If he were observing Sherlock’s body in a different context, he might allow himself a second to consider the incredibly rare sight of Sherlock's nudity.

“Doesn’t give me much to go on. Could be some variant of hot flash with a hormonal change, but that’s way less common in mal—“

“I’m aroused.” Sherlock interjected, not failing to look utterly miserable in doing so. John aborted his diagnosis and snapped his mouth shut. Chancing a glance at Sherlock’s groin, he was surprised to find the evidence supporting Sherlock’s statement in the form of a large tenting in the detective’s groin.

“How long?” John asked, trying to separate his doctor protocol from the fact that this was Sherlock he was talking to. Sherlock merely glared. “Don’t be a prude. I’m a doctor, Sherlock. This isn’t weird for me.”

“Fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen hou –? Jesus Christ, Sherlock! No wonder you're ill!” He said. “Why haven’t you taken care of it?”

“Normally, I can will them away.”

“Normally your body isn’t undergoing a serious chemical change due to a recently activated Alpha gene, you great git.” John said. “Now I have a theory as to what this is, and if I’m right, you’re going to have to take care of this before you cause yourself permanent damage, Sherlock.” He scolded as he reached for the Alpha-Omega medical text he kept on the bookshelf from his university days.

“Should I have sex with the neighbour’s cat now or simply wait for the prostitutes to surface later?”

“I don’t expect you to actually fuck anything, Sherlock.” John said, glancing up from the book as he flipped tiredly through its chapters. “I expect you to stop ignoring the possibility of you're being an Alpha to the extent that you do yourself actual damage in the process. Fourteen hours is more than enough time to cause epididymal hypertension, especially if you’re undergoing a chemical change that would create thirty-five cc's of sperm. Your body isn't used to producing that much sperm.”

“Oh God." Sherlock groaned, tightening his knuckles into his hair. "I’m going to complete a blood test. This is foolish.”

“And in the meantime, you’re going to grab a bottle of lube and wank yourself in a place where I can’t see or hear you.” John said, running his finger down the page. “Here we are. ‘The Alpha Male and Illness: Chapter Two, Section Four, ‘...any Alpha beyond the age of thirty who has never solidified a complete bond or participated in sexual intercourse within a period extending beyond six weeks may experience discomforts such as vasocongestion and epididymal hypertension. These are common concerns in the average male, but are exacerbated in Alpha positive individuals due to the amount of sperm an Alpha produces as opposed to a human male. When this quantity of sperm cannot be released within a reasonable timeframe, the erection will last until masturbation or intercourse is introduced to relieve the symptoms. If the erection persists for an excess of eight hours, high fever, sweating, genital sensitivity, urinary tract infections and severe pain will occur in accordance with the amount of fluid backup present in the genitals.(Chafin, MD)’”

John slammed the book shut and peered at a bored Sherlock.

“In other words, I’m going to go out for the shopping; and while I’m out, you’re going to wank yourself into a comfortable oblivion before you end up in the A&E for a diagnosis of vasocongestion brought on by early-onset prudishness.” John gestured wildly. "That's a bill we don't need."

“You're not leaving.” Sherlock said, rising to his feet and swaying slightly with an obvious head rush. “Not now.”

“Why?” John asked, bristling as he glared at Sherlock over the kitchen table in what was quickly turning into a stand-off.

“Because.” Sherlock said, wincing at the inane platitude. “I don’t want you to.”

“You’re going to need something better than that.” He laughed.

“Don’t make this more difficult.” Sherlock snarled, eyes flashing and glassy and furious. “This is intolerable enough, and I'm...this hurts.”

This time, John stopped and observed Sherlock standing across the room. The detective, who stood swaying on his feet, did his best to look formidable and threatening in his presence; but the sweat-dampened ringlets pressed into his forehead and nape along with his tattered pyjamas and heaving chest betrayed any attempt to look anything but miserable. He was teetering on the edge of composure as it was, and John was suddenly reminded of a skittering, wide-eyed doe running terrified through the woods along with the aggressive prowess of a lion tackling its prey into the dust –both of these radically different animals trying and failing to co-habitate inside the frame of the same man who never allowed a shred of animalism anyway.

“Sherlock, you’ve —I don’t know how else to--“ He then exhaled miserably and looked to the side, opting to come from a different angle. “You’ve got to do something. You can have the blood test done if you need proof; that’s fine and alright and I even encourage it. But what I’m not going to do is stand here and watch you try to battle against actual pain just because you’re afraid of what that pain might mean. If you are an Alpha and I am an Omega, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get there and we’ll handle it as best we can. But for now, don’t do this to yourself. I don’t like seeing it.”

“Take a shower.” Sherlock said after a long minute, plopping onto the couch and grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes. “And leave me alone.”

“Take care of it while I’m in there.” John replied, turning and walking to the bathroom.

Feeling utterly sick and deflated, John stepped into the warm, yellow-light of the bathroom and turned the shower water onto a temperature no less than scorching.

It was starting –what he dreaded the most about this process. Already, things were breaking off and crumbling and giving way to a quiet cacophony of little cracks shooting through the foundation of the life they’d built together –a strong life full of strong people and laughter and maniacy and adrenalin and things that are never said but always, always felt. And they were losing it.

And John was sick.

Bracing himself on the sink, John pitched forward and bowed his head. The army tags slid down the chain with a rattle and hovered, swaying over the sink as he closed his eyes and stared at his sorry reflection in the mirror. Soon, it would start for him, and the change would be much more physical. And how could he possibly expect to tether the Great Sherlock Holmes when he himself was going to find himself lost in the chemistry? It hardly worked as it was on the best days.

“I need help.” Came the low baritone, and John didn’t bother to look up. Instead, he continued to stare at himself in the mirror as the door quietly shut behind him, leaving only the sounds of his softly-clinking tags and the spray of the shower.

“With what?” He asked his reflection, knuckles white against the sink.

“With you.” Came the insecure reply, and John felt his heart utterly plummet into the wet floor beneath him; bleeding and slippery with ventricles exposed and desperately trying to pump blood to a terminally ill phase of his life. “I’m distracted, and it’s not working. I can’t—“

After a careful minute, John stood back from the sink and turned to face the shower.

“Leave your pyjamas on.” He said, not sparing Sherlock a glance. Fully clothed, he stepped into the shower and tore the curtain to the side. “And get in behind me.”

Turning his face into the spray of the shower, John closed his eyes and heard the quiet rustle of Sherlock moving forward, inhibited but cooperating, to push the curtain back over and stepping in behind him.

“For the next fifteen minutes, don’t look at my face. Do you understand?” John asked rigidly. He cocked his head and saw the slight nod of Sherlock’s head. “Press your chest into my back.”

Warily, John felt Sherlock’s bare skin sidle against his clothed back, and his chin pressed into the short, dewy blond hairs on the back of his head. At this point, acknowledging the hard erection pressed into his thighs wasn’t worth the effort it would take to be alarmed.

“Scent me.” John said, and was completely unsurprised when Sherlock immediately nudged his nose lightly into the hairs on his head, sniffing lightly and breathing hot pangs of breath into his scalp. He prodded over John’s head, and John winced when he felt the curls of Sherlock’s fringe scrape his jaw as the detective leaned forward and buried his nose under John’s jaw from behind and just breathed. He felt the shy, distinctive slide of a canine along the side of his neck as though Sherlock were losing himself to the phantom instinct of bonding, and John knew in that moment that he had lost a huge portion of the Sherlock he knew.

“Take off my shirt.” John said when he felt the small, unaware thrusts of Sherlock’s groin into his body.

Looking forward, he felt Sherlock’s hands grasp the hem of his t-shirt, and he lifted his arms as Sherlock pulled the soaked shirt over his head and tossed it sloppily onto the floor where it landed with a hideous splat. Sherlock was now making small, contented, open-mouthed growls into his shoulder as the teasing thrusts became more powerful in their movement, and his hands were massaging into the sides of his torso.

“Put your hand on your erection.” John said, and cocked his head authoritatively when Sherlock abruptly stopped moving. He felt one arm leave his side as Sherlock reached back and fumbled with the opening in his pyjamas. “Move your hand up and down the shaft, but keep scenting me.”

And with that, John felt the detective bury his face into the crook of his neck again, black curls dripping water down his chest as Sherlock began to rhythmically move his arm up and down. His forehead swayed into John’s shoulder, and John felt his own erection straining against his jeans when Sherlock’s fist hit his arse with a particularly brutal tug of his shaft.

“John.” Sherlock said into his neck, fist pumping erratically now. “You smell like him, but you’re not –you’re not his.” He grunted.

“No.” John said, craning his head to allow Sherlock better access to his neck. The detective took the bait, sidling even closer against the contours of John’s body.

“You’re not his.” Sherlock repeated, and John felt himself pressing his arse back against Sherlock’s groin.

“Mm.”

“You’re not hi...you’re mine.” Sherlock mouthed into the side of his neck, water coursing down their faces and over his lips. “Say that.”

“I’m yours.” John said, and was disappointed when Sherlock ceased the quick pumps to his shafts. Cocking his head, he was about to ask what was wrong when he was suddenly pressed, chest and face first, into the wall of the shower.

“Again.” Sherlock snarled, holding John firmly in place.

“I’m yours.” He huffed into the tile, body and brain betraying him by allowing him not to feel terrible for saying it.

“Bend over.” Came the order, and John found himself bending forward and bracing his arms against the wall of the shower. Sherlock’s hands fiddled with the hem of his jeans, but John had enough remaining cognition to warn him with one declaration of Sherlock’s name.

Instead, Sherlock mounted John’s clothed arse from behind, braced his hands on the denim of John’s hips, and rode him from behind with deep undulations of his groin against John’s arse.

“Sherlock.” John said, tags sliding forward and softly tapping against the shower tile with every thrust as Sherlock rode against him from behind.

“He’ll never. He can’t have you—“ Sherlock huffed, thrusting with a small jerk against the denim that had to have chafed the skin. “You’re mine, and you're better for it. Let me see you.”

“No.” John said, head bowed forward. “This was the deal.”

“But you’re mine.” Sherlock snarled, hips grinding heavily against John’s arse with a heavy grunt. “Turn. Around.”

“Are you mine?” John then asked, posing the question angrily --because this was going to be the crux of the matter; this was the question whose answer had the potntial to ruin the whole gaddamned thing between them if the answer wasn't the right one, and John needed for Sherlock to get it right this time. Just this once, John needed black and white from the grayest man he knew.

“I don’t—“

“Are you mine, Sherlock?”

“...Yes.”

“Then say it.” He barked, and before a word could be said otherwise, Sherlock tugged him back from the shower wall, shoved him into the floor of the shower with a hard hand on his shoulder, straddled his thighs and began violently coming over his chest and belly. Bracing himself on both sides of John’s head, Sherlock literally shouted as every aftershock of his orgasm sent a pulse of cum shooting over John’s torso. John watched, stricken, as every pulse of Sherlock’s orgasm sent a visceral shudder through Sherlock’s body, abs quaking and heart beating; and the sheer amount of cum was unbelievable as it dribbled over the sides of his body to be washed down the drain. At this point, the orgasm had to have been more of a relief than a pleasure.

When the aftershocks became smaller, Sherlock brokenly laid himself onto John and gently began rocking the last quakes of his orgasm against John’s belly. Cum was pooling in his navel, hot and sticky, and John watched despondently as Sherlock buried his face into the crook of his neck and began massaging the cum into John’s skin. If he acknowledged John’s own erection pressing painfully into his belly, he made no mention of it.

“Don’t fault me for it.” Sherlock whispered, and this time John acknowledged that the Sherlock he knew was finally resurfacing from the delirium. “Please, John. Don’t fault me for it.”

“Only if you promise me the same.” John replied, knowing that his time for this same misery was coming. Reaching up, he turned the shower water off and began combing his fingers through the curls on the crown of Sherlock’s head. The remaining water gurgled wetly down the drain, and John reached over the side of the tub, grabbed a towel and began dabbing it down the length of Sherlock’s back. Grabbing handfuls of curls with the towel, he squeezed the water out of them.

Finally relaxing into the touch, John suddenly became aware of the violent tremors that racked Sherlock’s body.

“The fever’s breaking.” He said.

And in the first true silence they’d ever known between each other, they both acknowledged that it wasn’t the only thing breaking.

Chapter Text

Sleepy-eyed, John shuffled blearily into the kitchen, not failing to notice Sherlock lying on the sofa with his usual air of smug superiority which was further reinforced by his usual posh attire. It was a far different picture from the night before, when Sherlock had lain over John in the shower wearing nothing but soaked pyjamas and a cloak of vulnerability, shaking under the spray of water.

“You’ll never believe who is coming for a case consult today.” John said awkwardly, willing the images of the night’s activities into a carefully secluded area of his mind. Clearing his throat, he fiddled with the kettle and glanced at Sherlock, who remained otherwise bored with the potential conversation.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” Came the bored reply, and John glanced over to find Sherlock, fingers steepled and considering the ceiling.

“Lisa Palmer.” John said, grinning to himself when he heard a rustle of fabric from the sofa, signifying a rare second of Sherlock’s ability to occasionally be stumped. Sitting up, Sherlock stared at him in confusion. “You know –Harlan’s dead girlfriend who was dumped into the Thames?”

“How?” He asked.

“Don’t know yet.” John replied as he ran a towel over his fingers. “I didn’t want to ask her. Not yet, anyway. I don’t know if she faked her death or survived it or what have you, but either way, she hasn’t told Harlan she’s still alive.”

“Intriguing.” Sherlock replied, eyes narrowing to a spot on the wall as he considered the details of such a puzzle. “What does she want a consult for?”

“Remember Harlan saying that they used to battle the Omega trafficking together? She, like you, has a bloody ‘homeless network’ that helps her achieve that. They set up false reps and station them around London to pretend to sell the suppressants, then they communicate with each other to confront the Omega and take them to one of several safe houses. Really clever, the whole thing.”

“And she wants the combined efforts of my network to cover a larger area of influence.” Sherlock finished, realization dawning.

“Mm.” John said as he handed Sherlock a cup of tea, intent on selling the case to Sherlock. “It’s a case within a case, really. ‘Omega girl returns from the dead to battle Omega trafficking run by one elusive Lysander Evans.’ The whole thing is bizarre and right up your alley.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, and John pretended not to notice the sparkling interest in Sherlock’s eyes as he considered the tempting foul play involved with the whole thing. “A bonded Omega doesn’t return from the dead and never speak to the Alpha bondmate again. She wouldn’t have the strength or the resources to make that a success even if she had the desire. No, there’s something more going on here. I intend to find out.”

“So you’re taking it, then?” John asked casually. Despite his initial dislike of Harlan, he only wanted to help the poor sod by finishing what he started whether Lisa Palmer was alive or not.

“Yes. The lack of murder is admittedly underwhelming, but this is two different puzzles enveloped into one larger complexity.” Sherlock said cheerfully as he plopped into his chair, interest finally satiated. “I do love the Christmas season, John. It always seems to bring about the absolute worst in human character.”

“And a Happy New Year.” John said exhaustively, toasting the air with his cup of tea. Sparing Sherlock an awkward glance, he finally addressed the elephant in the room. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I’m fine.” Came the clipped reply, and John didn’t bother to take any offense at the sudden temperature drop in the room. Before John could follow up with any kind of protest, a sharp ring from the doorbell pierced the silence.

“That’s her.” John said, flicking his eyes to his watch. He hushed his voice when he heard Mrs. Hudson pattering to the door to let her in. “Don’t ask her about Harlan or any of the details surrounding her death, Sherlock.”

“For God’s sake, John.” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. He elegantly crossed his legs as John glared once, then turned to meet her.

She approached him with an incredibly white smile, and her blonde hair was stick-straight and falling down her back despite the presence of the same, tattered baseball cap she wore the previous day. She still wore the huge jacket that swallowed her, only this time it was accompanied by a short denim skirt, black leggings and the Converse All-Stars with written words fading all over the fabric. She was the perfect picture of a rough-and-tumble Tomboy with enough natural beauty to separate her from being “one of the guys.”

“John Watson.” She smiled, following John into the living room. “Nice to see you agai—“

Before she could finish, however, John turned around when her feet abruptly ceased to move forward. Glancing back, he found her with disturbed, wide-set eyes, fixed on Sherlock as she began slowly backing herself into the corner of the room.

“Are you alright?” He asked in confusion, looking between she and Sherlock. She now stood with her back to the wall while her arms hung limply at her side.

“I...I didn’t know—“ She said, glancing between John and Sherlock frantically. “Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know he—“

“It’s been a very recent discovery, Miss Palmer.” Sherlock interjected impatiently, and John continued to stare between the two of them, lost in the midst of their silent conversation.

“How recent?” She asked, going on the defensive as she cocked her head warily at the detective.

“Within the week.” Sherlock replied, mouth setting into a thin line.

“Holy shit. The very first?” She asked, utterly incredulous with the possibility.

“Yes.” Came the rigid reply.

“What the hell is going on?” John finally asked, voice rising as they both turned towards him.

“You didn’t tell me he was Alpha positive.” She explained, gesturing towards him. “And in the middle of a full-blown rut from the smell of it. Christ, has this already been featured on the blog, or am I just lucky to be the first to know?”

“Shit. Lisa, it's not—“ John was cut off as Sherlock abruptly stood up.

“No one knows except for John.” He spoke darkly, eyes narrowing abysmally on her person. “And if you want any kind of help from me, you will take careful precaution to keep it that way.”

“I need to sit down.” She said as she brought one hand to massage into her temples. John steered her over to his own chair and made to fix her a glass of water.

“I know this probably comes as somewhat of a shock.” John began, offering her a glass of water. She took it numbly.

“A ‘shock?’ The famous ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is an Alpha positive male in the middle of his first rut, and here I’m propositioning him to—“ She stopped, and John noted the obvious eye-roll from Sherlock at the mention of his fame. “This changes things, John. I can’t have an unbonded Alpha rescuing Omegas in the middle of their heats. That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I’m not an animal.” Sherlock spoke, voice hollowing into a low, threatening baritone.

“No, you’re not.” She laughed in disbelief, gesturing to him with the glass. “But the Alpha is. You look like the picture of an Earl right now, but you smell like a regular fucking jungle cat.”

“Who is Lysander Evans?” Sherlock interjected, leaning forward and pinning her with a glacial scrutiny. John knew he was attempting to distract her, and his efforts were successful judging by the look of surprise that momentarily crossed her face before she leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms.

“An evil human being.”

“Aren’t they all.” Sherlock replied boredly. “Do you have anything more helpful than that to offer?”

“How do you know of him?”

“We were tipped off by an anonymous third party.” Sherlock said, effortless in his ability to lie. The ease with wich he created dishonesty never failed to impress him. At this rate, he would have her wrapped around his web of lies in no time, and she wouldn’t ever recognize the possibility that Harlan was the one who tipped them off. “An Omega trafficker, I presume?”

“The top dog. He funds the trafficking by buying out shitty buildings to house them.” She offered carefully, coming down from the high of the shock. “It’s my business to see that he is killed.”

“Ambitious of you.”

“Realistic, too, if you have the kind of system I have.”

“Fine, then.” Sherlock offered, leaning back in his chair. “John’s already told me some of what you do --representatives that con Omegas into believing they’re selling heat suppressants? Clever, but wildly ill-advised if you don’t know what you’re doing. What sort of protocol do you follow?”

“We station them around London, and they cycle between each other. We have seven total representatives, and they have one night a week to go and con. When we receive word from a rep that they have an Omega, I work with my partner who runs the getaway car to take them to a safe house. The system works, but sometimes, the Omegas are too much for us to handle, and more often than not, the homeless network tips us off about actual sellers. We always confront them, and that’s when I get out of my depth.”

“And you need us for those occasions.” John interjected, and she glanced at him.

“I need Sherlock’s network to combine with mine so that we can cover a greater area of London. I need your help, John, to police the actual sellers when they get feisty. Word on the street is you have a gun and know how to handle it. It doesn’t usually get that violent, but there have been a few close calls.”

“Why not take the actual sellers straight to the authorities?” Sherlock interjected. “It seems a waste of time and resources to cut the police out of arresting a basic thug. They’re not good for much else, anyway.”

“Most of the Omegas we rescue are after illegal suppressants because they don’t want to register with the NAOD to get the free kind. The police always arrest any Omega that is not registered with the NAOD, and all other Omega outreach programs will provide free suppressants after they submit the Omega’s information to the NAOD. Many Omegas don’t want anyone to know what they are, so they resort to last ditch efforts. We try keep it hush-hush and go to them before they go to a place where they’ll get killed or kidnapped. That’s why we don’t call on the police.”

“Anarchy is only as effective as its members.” Sherlock replied with a smirk, pinning her with a calculated look.

“This isn’t anarchy. This is a war.” She said, leveling him with a similar smirk. John looked between the two and knew instantly that she was someone Sherlock was capable of respecting if she did it right. “But your being an Alpha...it changes things. There will be Omegas in heat all throughout the process. Can you handle that gracefully? They’ll be scared of you if you get too close.”

“Don’t insult me.” He said, rising to his feet. “If the smell gets...disruptive, I will simply vacate the area for a few minutes and let you and John handle the Omega.” He explained, though she still appeared to be somewhat unconvinced.

“Really, Mr. Holmes. We can’t be chasing dealers all over London if you have to stop and wank every thirty minutes.”

Shocked, John sputtered out a laugh at the expression of pure disbelief on Sherlock’s face at her words. He looked utterly appalled at the thought, and John couldn’t help but to slump down in his chair and rub a hand over his face in an attempt to stifle his laughter. Sherlock sent him a vicious glare.

Really, John was starting to like her.

“I can assure you, Lisa, that my motivation in wanting to participate in this ‘crusade’ of yours is not out of sympathy for a horde of Omega-positive individuals who would rather avoid a social stigma than a criminal lifestyle. The one and only reason I am agreeing to do this is because I am after one Lysander Evans, criminal at large, and this is the best way I can garner information about him. If you know anything about me, then you’ll know that I don’t trifle with victims. I go straight for the source.”

“Sherlock.” John warned.

And with that, Sherlock sauntered over to her and bent low in front of her face with an eerie grin. Smirking up at him, she crossed her arms with a raised brow and failed to cower under his icy persona the way all others did in similar circumstances.

“Nice to meet you, Lisa Palmer. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t specialize in victims. I specialize in their murderers.”

“Perfect.” She said, and John watched as she held her open cell-phone in front of his face and smirked. “So prove it.”

Standing back, Sherlock grabbed the phone from her and began reading a lengthy text message.

“Chesney just texted me. One of our reps has an Omega.”

“Who is Chesney?” John asked, stepping forward to try and peer over Sherlock’s shoulder in an attempt to read the message.

“My cousin.” She remarked as she took the cellphone back from Sherlock and stuffed it in her bag. “And a raging idiot, but I love him anyway. He operates the getaway car. You guys want to see how we do it this time around?”

“Might as well.” John said, smirking at Sherlock.

“Great. Catch a cab and follow me and Chesney.”

“He’s here?” John asked, though going entirely unheard as she sprang out of the chair and ran out of the room. Sherlock was throwing the Belstaff over himself as John grabbed his own coat off of the wall. The door slammed shut, signaling Lisa’s explosive departure, and John could feel the blood and adrenaline thrumming through his and Sherlock’s veins.

The Game, Lisa Palmer, is on.

“Are you going to be alright?” John asked as he snagged Sherlock’s arm and stopped him in his rush out the door. “With the Omega being there. Can you handle th—“

“Yes.” He said rigidly, and John followed him out the door in a hurry of move.

“Where the hell you been, Leesy?” Came a voice to the left, and John looked over to find a tall, lanky ginger boy with headphones around his neck leaning out the window and flagging Lisa down. “I’ve been driving around the entire UK looking for this address! I’m your partner, not your fairy-fucking-tail chauffeur!”

“Got some help, Chesney. And fuck you.” She said, flashing John a grin as she opened the car door and barreled inside. The young man named Chesney gestured angrily, cursed under his breath, and started the car. With an angry screech, the car tore off down the road, and Sherlock and John barreled into a cab with nothing more than excitement, and the directions to follow the car in front of them wherever it goes.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled up outside a child’s playground with several formidable buildings to the right. Sherlock pulled a face at the screeching, happy children running over the equipment, and they soon met Lisa and Chesney at the other end of the playground.

“The name’s Chesney.” The ginger boy replied, and Sherlock reluctantly shook his extended hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Welcome to the team.”

“Delighted.” Sherlock murmured dispassionately as a child swept past him, wrestling the Belstaf around him.

“Can’t believe I’m actually working with you two. I’m a big fan of the blog, you know. Brilliant writer you are, John Watson. Absolutely brilliant.” He said, shaking John’s hand for longer than was absolutely necessary. Sherlock leveled a glare at the hand which seemed to spur Lisa into action.

“Lovely to meet you.” John said, ignoring the radiating annoyance from Sherlock to his left. Lisa stepped forward.

“Go back to the car, Chesney. Your star-struck man-crush on them is choking us all.”

“Hey, that ain’t—!“

“Go. We have an actual reason for being here.” She gestured to the car sternly, and he huffed angrily in response. “Now, Chesney.” Petulantly, Chesney went back to their car and drove away, presumably to have it ready to make a quick escape for Lisa and the Omega.

“Sorry. He’s two years younger than I am, so I have to keep him out of danger as best I can. Shall we?” Lisa asked with a chiding smile, and John and Sherlock followed as she escorted them to the back of a decaying brick building. Knowing they were to observe and not initiate, John watched as the lighting became darker and the happy shrieks of the children faded until they were replaced by the empty silence of a deep-rooted alleyway.

It reeked of old food and chemicals, and John watched as a few stray mice darted across the path to hide in old crates and wet newspaper packets.

“Terry. Lisa to Terry.” She whispered into a walkie-talkie, and John became silent as they waited for a response from the other line. The alleyway was drippy and the perfect setting for a murder. John scuffed his shoe against a piece of soggy newspaper stuck to his boot. “This is as pretty as it gets.” She whispered to them.

“We’re used to it.” John said as he observed a broken window on the wall next to them. He looked at Sherlock to find him uncharacteristically distracted and quiet on the matter, and John knew right then that he could smell the Omega in a way that he and Lisa couldn’t, and was struggling to maintain his composure.

“Lisa to Terry.”She whispered again, this time with less patience. “Terry’s one of our reps, by the way. He’s a bonded Alpha. Doesn't get affected by the heats and he's a regular Nephilim.”

Reaching back, John squeezed the nape of his neck once and felt a blossom of warmth in his chest as Sherlock closed his eyes and lolled his head back with the touch. Leaning forward, John sidled himself next to Sherlock until he had his mouth to his ear.

“If it gets too bad, don’t hesitate to leave.” He whispered, and was completely unsurprised when Sherlock shook himself out of the touch and stepped forward.

“Where are they?” Sherlock asked. “This is—“

Before he could finish, however, all three of them turned on their heels when a terrible metal crash from the head of the alleyway pierced the silence. A feral-looking girl, no older than sixteen, was running as quickly as possible towards them as her tangled hair thrashed violently around her face. She was bleeding on her ankle, and a large figure skidded to a halt shortly after her and barreled down after her.

“Christ.” John said as he ran forward, and Lisa was shouting his name as she followed after.

Intercepting the girl, John used his shoulder to prevent her from skidding around him and wrapped his arms around her. Her hair whipped him in the eyes, and he hissed in pain as her fingernails tore across his neck.

“Let go of me!” She screamed, and John wrestled her into the ground.

“Calm down.” He ordered, manhandling her into the wet pavement. Lisa was suddenly at his side, and after he allowed the young girl to exhaust her energy, he pinned her arms into the ground and straddled her from the top. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Immediately, she started to cry in snotty, hiccupping sobs as the figure chasing her slowed to a stop in front of them. John looked up at the large figure who was at least 6’4” with cropped blond hair and an impressively muscled body.

“What happened, Terry?” Lisa asked, consoling the girl beneath.

“She took the walkie-talkie.” He gasped between heaving breaths as he braced himself on hand and knee. “The child actually managed to take the walkie-talkie and throw it down the sewage. Christ, I’ve never handled someone so volatile.”

“I want to go home.” The girl sobbed, and when John realized she was too exhausted to fight, he stepped off of her. Bending low in front of her, Lisa whispered comforting words along the lines of, “What you’re feeling right now, I know that pain. I know it hurts. So badly you can’t stand it, yeah?” and “I’m going to help you the same way I help myself, but for now, you can cry.”

And when John stepped back from the hysterical girl and considered her for a second, a lost soul shaking and sobbing and in pain with lubricant running down her thighs and blood permeating her socks from where she tried so hard to run from herself, John felt his stomach utterly drop at the prospect that he would soon be in the same exact position with no more dignity and no less misery.

“The desperation involved in an Omega’s heat doesn’t discriminate.” Was what one of John’s med-school professors had given a lecture on when comparing female to male Omega heats.

“Christ.” John remarked, voice cracking as Lisa pulled the sweat-dampened curls off of her forehead and wiped the saltwater out of the girl’s eyes.

“I used to be better.” The girl whispered like a mantra to herself as she sobbed on the ground with Lisa and Terry consoling her. “I used to be better. I used to be better.”

Close to being overwhelmed, John turned to find Sherlock staring down at the girl from a distance with a mask of complete and utter indifference on his face, which John knew to be Sherlock’s way of suppressing a kind of horror or disturbia with what was transpiring in front of him.

And he knew, more than he knew anything else, that Sherlock was wondering if John would be in the same position when his time came -- he was picturing the ghost of John lying there, wondering if John would be the one on the floor writhing in complete indignity while crying for death and mourning over the complete loss of self that comes with being Omega positive.

And Sherlock was terrified.

“Take a walk.” John said, glancing back to the detective as Lisa and Terry brought the girl to her feet.

“No.” Came the emphatic reply as he stepped forward.

“Sherlock.” He warned, but before he could continue, he heard Lisa’s voice calling out to him from behind.

“John! Get her--!” She called, and as he turned, he caught sight of the girl barreling past him. Turning and springing forward to stop her, he was abruptly rendered completely immobile as the girl dropped to her knees in front of Sherlock and began wildly grappling for the zip on his trousers.

Shocked, Sherlock stumbled back, and the girl screamed as Terry ran forward and wrapped his arms around her, carrying her baby-style away from Sherlock.

“Please, it hurts!” She screamed, wrestling with Terry and grasping for Sherlock’s phantom hand. Terry doubled over when she leveled him with an elbow straight to the ribs. “It hurts! Just take me—please, I’ll let you bond with me! God damnit!”

“I’ll take her to the car.” Lisa said as the soft purr of Chesney’s car pulled to a stop in front of the alleyway. “Stay with them, Terry. I’ll be right back.” She said, nodding at the two of them somberly as she escorted the weeping girl down the alley.

Looking back, John was completely unsurprised to find Sherlock disturbed, uncharacteristically sobered and painfully hard under his trousers.

“John Watson.” Came Terry’s reply, and John turned to find Terry walking towards him with an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry about all that, but I can’t say it ever gets any prettier than that. This is a sad business, but I’m glad we get a military man like yourself to join the tea—“

Before he could extend his hand, however, John’s visual of Terry was rendered black as Sherlock stepped in front of him and prevented Terry from getting any closer.

“Sherlock.” John warned lowly, and bristled even further when Sherlock stuck out his arm, preventing John from moving around him. Peering around Sherlock, John caught sight of Terry’s wide-set eyes as realization washed over him.

“He’s an Alpha.” Sherlock muttered, leveling Terry with a dark expression.

“A bonded Alpha, Sherlock. What the hell—“

“Jesus Christ.” Terry interrupted on a huff of breath, completely floored at the possibility of both of the semi-famous men before him being part of the Omegaverse. Sherlock’s smell was obvious even to the most medicinally-suppressed Omega, but John’s smell would have taken the hypersensitive nose of an Alpha to identify. “The both of you? Jesus Christ. Does Lisa know about this?”

“She knows of Sherlock, but she doesn’t know about me.” John said, finally subduing some of Sherlock’s pent-up anger by massaging the nape of his neck and stepping around him. Sherlock visibly relaxed, but kept a steadfast vigil sidled next to John. Resorting to a last ditch effort, John smiled to dissolve some of the tension plaguing the atmosphere and shook Terry’s hand. “I’d appreciate it if we kept it between us, mate.”

“Of course, mate, but...fucking hell, you think you can manage?” Terry asked, turning to Sherlock in complete disbelief. He ran a hand tiredly through his hair.

“Did you fail to see the dripping Omega pawing at my zip, or should I bring her back for round two to prove to everyone that I’m not a complete animal?” Sherlock asked tensely, and John could tell that his nerves were completely singed from the events of the last thirty minutes.

“Sorry, mate. Most people like us...it’s hard for them.”

“I am nothing like you or ‘most people.’” Sherlock said as he stepped forward and barreled past Terry, a clear sign that he was done with every facet of the conversation. “John.”

“He’s... he's never seen anything like this.” John whispered lowly to Terry. “Go easy on him.”

“Alright.” Terry somewhat smiled, stepping back to prevent another display by Sherlock. “I get it, I really do –what he’s going through. Somewhat stopped after I bonded, but I still get territorial over my mate.”

“We’re not--we're not toge--”

“John!” Sherlock called, tearing his attention away from Terry.

“I’m sorry about all this. Nice to meet you, Terry.”

“You too, John Watson.” He offered sadly, a small smile on his face indicating sympathy and extreme confusion.

John was completely unsurprised when Sherlock flagged down a cab and left the crime scene without speaking to Lisa about any of the night’s events.

(Later)

When they entered 221b, John watched in silent observation as Sherlock stormed to his room, changed into his pyjamas, and fell asleep on the sofa without a word to be spoken of the night’s events at all. He was still excruciatingly hard, but John didn’t dare ask him if he planned to take care of it.

Against his better judgement, John made a makeshift bed on the floor next to the sofa to make sure that Sherlock didn’t steer too close to a danger night prompted by his current mood. John ate in silence, and a word wasn’t spoken between them as John finally turned the light off and fell asleep on the floor next to Sherlock.

It wasn’t until several hours later that John woke to a soft susurrus of movement coming from the sofa. Inconspicuously, he glanced to find Sherlock, lying in the dark and running a hand perilously up his exposed erection. He felt his heart rate accelerate and his own cock twitch in response as Sherlock made frustrated, breathy noises in the attempt to relieve the pain of another marathon erection.

“Fuck.” Came the soft whisper as Sherlock released his erection angrily and placed a hand over his eye, clearly unsuccessful with the whole process and too frustrated to stay focused. John’s heart hurt for him, because he truly looked incomprehensibly miserable.

Getting onto his knees, John saw Sherlock glance at him in confusion as he sidled over to the sofa and turned away from Sherlock to grant him some privacy. Grasping Sherlock’s erection in his own hand, he frowned when Sherlock gasped and unconsciously spread his legs.

It was too dark to see anything in detail, which John was immensely grateful for.

“Sherlock, from now on--“ He began, huffing out a futile and miserable breath of air when he realized he had no sparkling angle to take this from. "From now on, whatever happens between us in the night stays unspoken of in the morning.”

When Sherlock made no effort to reply, John turned away and began masturbating Sherlock rhythmically. Although he couldn’t see the detective’s face, he could hear the strangled gasps and hushed whimpers as he pumped Sherlock vigorously. Silently, he finger-combed the damp curls off of Sherlock's face with his free hand. For the first time in their partnership, Sherlock seemed more child than man.

When he finally got close, John felt Sherlock twist his fist into his t-shirt and arch off of the sofa, not bothering to stifle a strangled choke as he began thrusting his hips sleepily into John’s hand. There was one sharp inhalation of air, and John felt the gush of Sherlock’s cum running over his fingers in spades as Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his hands over his face.

He came for a long time, the bigger spurts of cum eventually giving way to smaller spurts as the cum dribbled over John’s fingers and all down Sherlock’s chest and belly. Sherlock never took his hand from his face, and John reached for a towel and dabbed him off wordlessly for the following ten minutes.

When all was said and done, John finally lay back down and attempted some sort of sleep.

He was completely unsurprised, however, when Sherlock rolled miserably off the couch an hour later, sidled next to him, scented him one time, and finally fell asleep with his nose buried in the hairs on John’s head.

Chapter Text

Blearily, John opened his eyes to pale blue orbs searching his own. Sherlock’s mouth was hidden under the sheet, but the glassy orbs flicked insecurely between John’s mouth and eyes in what looked to be a search for reassurance and it’s accompanying apology, if they were still at the point of needing to apologize for the collateral damage.

Daybreak beams from the window bleached the walls, and John felt a twinge of pain from where he and Sherlock lay rigidly on the floor during the night. The sheets twisted around the two of them as their makeshift bed lay in tangled heaps, and Sherlock's hair was ridiculous and spiraled splayed on the pillow.

“Hey.” John said softly, an apologetic smile betraying the large, bumbling elephant in the room that so desperately wanted to scream about last night’s events. Sherlock seemed dubiously saddened, but only continued to search John for something that John couldn’t properly identify. “Alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied quietly, and John could tell he was struggling not to sound defensive. “You?”

“Back hurts a little, but otherwise okay.” Came the light reply. “And so are you.” He added, noticing Sherlock’s quick look away from him. Sitting up, John worked the kinks out of his protesting muscles and stood up.

Already annoyed, Sherlock merely dropped his head back onto the pillow with a bounce of his curls and pulled out his phone. Scrolling through the text messages, John left him there and made his way to the kitchen.

“Lisa send anything?”

“No.” Came the clipped reply.

“You think she’ll call today?” He asked awkwardly, fiddling with the tea he was currently preparing.

“If I were a soothsayer, perhaps I could answer that question with some degree of accuracy.”

Ah. It was going to be one of those days.

“I won’t manage to say anything right today, will I?” John asked as he walked back to the detective and handed him the tea. Warily, Sherlock took it and brought it to his lips, a sure sign that he was uncharacteristically parched and feeling the effects of nutritional neglect.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

“I rather suspect you will carry on whether I participate or not.”

“Right, hah.” John cleared his throat as he sat on the sofa. “She was a young girl, and it scared you. The hysterics and the...inhibition of it all.” He vaguely gestured, referencing the theatrics of their first case with Lisa the night before.

“Her age had nothing to do with it, and her gender is moot.” He said. “I’m not used to seeing people subjected to motives that are entirely against their will. It was an aberration of my understanding, and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

And with that, John shifted his eyes to the floor and laid his teacup on the table.

“Sherlock, you do realize that—“

“No.” Came the clipped reply, and John darted a surprised glance at the detective.

“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“If it has anything to do with the possibility that you may be in a similar situation soon, I don’t really want to hear about it.” Sherlock dismissed. "It's too early to be talking about you. I haven't even had my tea."

“We have to be prepared.” John said, anger rising as Sherlock abruptly stood and moved away. John followed anyway. “She and I are one in the same in this. If you won’t be able to deal with it gracefully, I need to know now so that I can make plans to go somewhere when it happens.”

“I. Am not. An animal.” Sherlock reiterated, turning, and John steeled himself.

“We all are. Every last one of us. Your entire career depends on human animalism.” John seethed. “Don’t deny it now just because it’s been confirmed in an obvious way.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, a rare sign that he had been taken off guard, and John muttered a curse under his breath when Sherlock turned and slammed the bathroom door in his face.

“What we’re doing now is the worst thing we can do!” He called around the sound of the shower turning on. “Fuck.”

Turning back, he stewed his way into the kitchen, momentarily caught off-guard by the sight of Lisa, Chesney and Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen.

“Uhm...hi.” He said, unable to formulate any other greeting. "Did I...did I miss something?"

“Hey John.” Chesney remarked passively as he rifled through their refrigerator. Lisa, who was currently in a very heated discussion with someone on the phone, simply moved around the three of them and into the next room. “Where do they keep the biscuits, Martha?”

“Martha?” John asked.

“In that cabinet there, dear.” She remarked with a pointed finger as Chesney bumbled through the cabinet. “To the left. Right there.”

“Thanks Mrs. H.” He smiled as he saluted her.

“I do hope you don’t mind that I let them in, John. It’s much too cold to leave your clients waiting on the doorstep, you know that.” She scolded, sidling up beside him as she watched the ginger youth tearing through their kitchen and dodging Sherlock's beakers. “And besides, this young man did such a good job of helping me unpack the shopping that I couldn’t leave him to the frost. Youths today are dreadful, and he proved to be the exception.”

“Anything for you, Martha.” Chesney flashed her an easy smile, and John simply looked exhaustedly between the two of them as she swatted the boy playfully on the
arm.

“If I were younger.” She joked as she quickly exited the room, a small smile on her face. "Tell Sherlock to behave."

“Not that I have a problem with it, but why exactly are you both here?” John asked, snapping himself out of the confusion of whatever the hell was displayed before him.

“Staff meeting!” Chesney called cheerfully as he sloppily threw himself on the sofa with a biscuit sticking out of his mouth, eyes moving to the phone in his own hand. “Lisa should be done in a second. She’s bitching somebody out at this moment in time. You know how it is when you own your own business.”

“Yes.” John said as he shifted his eyes to the direction in which Sherlock left.

“So.” He said boredly, rifling through his text messages as the biscuit hung loosely on his lip. “How’s Holmes?”

“He’s...alright.”

“That bad, huh?” Chesney asked as he snapped the phone shut and stored it away. “Lisa told me, by the way. Can’t say I’m surprised. He reeks of Alpha-male even to us non-Omegaverse individuals. I figured he’d have a hard time of it with that Omega girl and all. It distresses them, you know –when an Omega is crying or scared, it disturbs them. They can’t think.”

“Which is more than can be said of you on a good day.” Came a female voice as Lisa swept through, eyes bright and face completely changed from the previously angry expression. Her teeth were stretched in a blind-white smile under the shade of her baseball cap. “Sorry to show up un-announced like this, John. I didn’t want to intrude, but I...well, I have shit to say.”

“It’s no problem.” John said, offering her a seat. “What can I help you guys with?”

“I’ve received word that my area of influence is extending, so I just wanted to stop by and thank Sherlock for getting the ball rolling with that one. His people are speaking with mine, and I've been able to cover a larger area of territory.” She said, eyes suddenly peering over his shoulder. “Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s taking a shower right now. Can’t say you’ve caught him on his best of days.” John said, ignoring the temptation to follow up with a gratuitous “...rare though they are.”

“Is he alright?” She then asked lowly, face taking on a darker expression of sympathy. “I saw he was a little disturbed yesterday. I hope it hasn’t rendered him unable to help.”

“He’s...having a hard time, but having Sherlock on your side is having God on your side.” John said, fingers absently twisting in his hair. “I said I would help, but we can’t afford not to have him.”

“You think he’ll lose interest? He seems the type.”

“I think it’s peaked for now. I don’t have to tell you that Sherlock only does what he does if it’s profitable to him. Lysander Evans has become his newest puzzle. He won’t let this case die without some kind of resolution.”

“Tell him good luck on finding the boss-man, but it's really a lost cause. No one’s ever found him.” Chesney said as he threw a biscuit into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Don’t even know what the sod looks like. Hell, even Harlan couldn’t get any inf—“

“Chesney.” She snapped, abruptly drilling him with a sharp look of disapproval. A seriousness overtook her disposition, and John watched carefully as Chesney awkwardly shifted his trousers and looked down to the floor. Harlan was a topic of conversation to be avoided.

“The bastard is good at what he does.” He resolved, mouth set in a thin line.

“Holmes is better.” She said, crossing her arms and leaning back into the couch. “And the girl is fine, for the record. They always are after we take them, it’s just the initial confrontation that can get...out of hand.”

“Is it always like that?” John asked, willing away the selfish curiosity that nagged him about the chances that it would happen similarly to him.

“She was especially volatile, but I can’t say it gets much more decent. Most Omegas suffer from embarrassment before they suffer from abstinence during a heat.”

“It’s all about sexxxxx.” Chesney drawled lazily as he leaned forward and wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Came a voice, and all three of them looked to find Sherlock, immaculately dressed and groomed, standing in the doorway with damp curls and rosy skin.

“Sherlock. Lovely to see you.” Lisa said as she stood from the sofa.

“Debatable.” Sherlock replied, not sparing her a glance as his eyes remained firmly on the arm Chesney had hanging loosely around John’s neck. His eyes flicked pointedly from the arm back to Chesney.

“What?” Chesney asked innocently, turning to Lisa as she let out a frustrated sigh and John futilely massaged his temples. “What?”

“Chesney, if you’ll please remove your arm from Dr. Watson’s shoulder...”

“...is that it? Why the hell—“ He cut himself off, however, and removed his arm as a knowing smile spread across his face and he crossed his arms in complete amusement. “Oh. I get it. You swing for the non-Omegas. Sorry, mate. Won’t happen again.” He said, smirking up at the detective with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Were you grown in a beaker?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Huh?”

“Jesus Christ.” John remarked, completely crestfallen and exhausted.

“Is there a bathroom anywhere in here?” Chesney asked, and John could tell Sherlock was literally one second from launching the man bodily out the window.

“In there.” John gestured exhaustively.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock turned to Lisa, clearly through with lowering himself to the likes of one ginger-haired youth.

“To thank you for getting the word out to your network about our arrangement. I’ve already received multiple hits about potential dealer’s corners that were in my blind spot before.”

“But that’s not all.” Sherlock remarked moodily, keeping an occasional watch over Chesney from the corner of his eye.

“No, that’s not all. Well, it was, but I just got a call a few minutes ago from one of your contacts across the way.” She said, crossing her arms and leveling Sherlock with an equalizing smirk. At nearly 5’9”, she wasn’t in a position to be intimidated. “Seems I’ve received notice of an actual suppressant dealer. This rarely happens, so I figured you guys would want to be in on it.”

“And we need John’s gun!” Came a muffled cry from the bathroom.

“That too.” She considered briefly.

“As in...leave now?” John asked, looking between she and Sherlock. “We’re doing this now. Guns and criminals and the whole shit-storm of danger thing.”

“Lysander Evans. He would be responsible for this dealer?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John.

“Unless he’s an independent dealer, but that rarely happens. I would assume that yes, this one has been employed by Evans to kidnap.”

“You won’t find him.” Came a voice as Chesney reappeared in the room with a glorious and unattractive full-body stretch. “No one has. It’s a dead end, mate. You’re wasting your time and resources.”

“That would imply that I had a resource other than myself to rely on.” Sherlock remarked sardonically, though not bothering to hide the grin that indicated the thrill of a new game revving through his body. Reaching for the Belstaf, he threw it over himself with a glorious flourish and zoomed past the three of them. They watched in confused intrigue as the front door slammed, leaving them in their confused silence.

“Is he always like...?” Chesney asked.

“Yes.” John replied, throwing on his own jacket. “Every second of every day.”

“Utterly fucking insane. And brilliant.” Lisa said reverently as a smile stretched across her face. She broke into a jog and barreled out the door shortly after Sherlock. “You guys heard him! The game is on!”

“Hell yes!” Chesney cheered as he followed after her. “Time to get feisty!”

And when John saw the look of glistening adoration in her eyes and the use of Sherlock’s own words from her mouth, he would never admit to himself that there might have been a completely ridiculous stab of territorial possessiveness over Sherlock ‘fucking’ Holmes. Sherlock was a grown man, so was he, and indulging the new-found and utterly bizarre sense of possessiveness over the detective would only exacerbate an already-fragile dynamic.

He chalked it up to the chemical change. That’s what it had to be: his body was responding to the Omega-gene chemicals, which was making him off-balance and sensitive and primal in his understanding of what other peoples’ intentions were with Sherlock. But either way, Sherlock and John would not play this game with each other on the grounds that John really wasn’t allowed to be the only person on an earth full of people who found Sherlock awe-inspiring.

And from the look he saw in her eyes, the possibility was quickly dissolving.

Shutting the lights off, he swiped his gun from underneath his pillow and raced after the lot of them.

(One Hour Later)

John was running through the alleyways, breath hitching and side cramping as he struggled not to slip on the heinous amount of sludge and soggy newspaper that littered the streets. His breath came in puffs of white fog, and his heart beat wildly in his chest as he scanned every corner he turned.

It had all gone so fantastically wrong in such a short spanse of time.

But really, when placing this situation in the context of his life, he shouldn’t have been at all surprised that it had all fallen to shit like it did.

They had taken their usual taxi as Lisa and Chesney opted to drive their own car to the alleged point of suspicion. It was a seedy area of town and almost
stereotypically perfect for piss-alley drug deals of any kind, but there was an omnipresent comfort found in the fact that Chesney, for all of his goofy insolence, was used to operating the get-away car with impressive finesse and had managed to silently keep track of them for most of the time by running the car lethargically across the opposite end of every alley they mazed through.

That is, until twenty minutes ago when it all went to a glorious kind of hell.

Lisa had given them walkie-talkies, and there had been an express agreement that they would remain in constant contact if any one were to get lost or separated. They managed to stay together for the first fifteen minutes of search when they finally found the suspect in question.

Lisa was given word by one of Sherlock’s homeless contacts that the man in question possessed a green coat and electric orange shoelaces, but the information stopped there. After that first fifteen minutes of nothing more than Lisa’s silent instruction for Chesney to follow them, they finally caught sight of the suspect talking to a boy who had to be fourteen at the very most. They were shadowed and hidden by large industrial crates stacked high against the wall, and the boy’s hair was greasy and tangled enough to suggest a few days of relentless and unresolved heat.

All three of them noticed the van parked in the alleyway, back doors open and engine running.

“Wait.” Lisa had said, grasping both of their wrists as the suspect engaged with the boy privately.

And in one flurry of movement, the suspect jerked the boy forward with one hand sealed over his mouth, plunged a syringe into his neck with a sickening pop, and John had never seen Sherlock move so quickly when it happened. He watched as the detective bolted forward into a full sprint, and both the boy and suspect glanced at them in sheer panic as Sherlock raced towards them.

“No –shit!” Lisa barked in frustration as she followed after Sherlock with a growl, blonde ponytail whipping through the cold. “Leave the boy!”

In one swift move, the suspect dropped the boy from his hold, and John raced forward just in time to catch him as the suspect and Sherlock rounded the corner in a
full sprint.

“They’re moving East, Chesney! Black van.” She barked into the walkie-talkie, and John couldn’t hear the static, muffled response as he desperately searched for Sherlock with the child in his arms.

“Sherlock!” John called, looking between the boy and Sherlock's retreating figure. “Fuck. Here, take him, he’s been drugged with paralytics. Get him to the car and have Chesney take him to the hospital immediately.”

“But the susp—"

“Now.” John ordered, years of military training packing the order with a definite formidability.

“Fine.” She said, unhappy and disapproving as the boy’s head lolled unconsciously on her shoulder as he heaved the boy into her arms.

After that, John took off after Sherlock without sparing the two of them a second glance, which led to his current position of side-splitting exhaustion as he searched for Sherlock well into the depth of the city.

“Sherlock, where the hell are you?” He asked into the radio as his body came to a full stop. When no response came, he felt the nausea absolutely plummet into his stomach along with a boiling anger. Two homeless people looked up at him from the brick walls, and a cat darted out from under a tarp by his feet. “Sherlock, I need to know where you are.”

Ten minutes of nothing, and John brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth and whispered lowly and furiously.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare start this now. Not when—“ He stopped, careful not to say something he would entirely regret. “We go together, or we don’t go at all. Do you fucking understand me?” He absolutely seethed into the radio. Nothing.

“Please.” He said in an exhausted, defeated whisper, but was abruptly jolted into the present as a sharp metal clang sounded from behind. Whipping his head around, he caught sight of the suspect falling to the ground as Sherlock wrestled him mercilessly into the cold stone of the road.

He watched in horror, however, when the suspect reached into the back of his trousers, and John knew the glint of bone-white light on metal from anywhere.

“Sher--!” He started, but felt his voice cut in half as the light flashed off of the knife, only to plunge underneath Sherlock’s coat. Time stopped, and John watched in complete apathy as the suspect rolled from underneath Sherlock and made to sprint away, knife notably absent from his hand.

It took John one second to position the gun, one second to fire it, and one second to confirm the catastrophic blood spurt from the back of his head as he fell pitifully to the ground. John’s body moved on it’s own, instinct operating the entire show as he dropped next to Sherlock who was lying face-down on the ground.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” He snapped, rolling the detective over and preparing to throw himself into a state of full field surgeon persona if he had to. Several homeless people had come running from around the corners in response to the commotion. “Are you—“

“John.”

“John, this is Lisa. Every thing alright?” Came the muffled static, but John ignored all inquiry in favor of tearing the coat off of Sherlock and throwing it to the side.

John tore his own jacket off with every intention of using it to staunch the blood if he had to. He was grasping and feeling for the blood and open tissue, fingers contacting hot, hot skin as he rucked Sherlock’s shirt up to better assess the damage and depth of the puncture.

“John, I’m—“

“Where is the point of entry?” He was only talking to himself at this point, channeling the trauma protocols he had long since abandoned in Afghanistan.

“We’ve got the boy in an ambulance, and we’re circling back around now. Please answer.”

“Fuck.” He spat, hands whirring under the waist of Sherlock’s trousers to find the deep slice of flesh. Time was so pivotal in these moments, and he didn’t have any bagged transfusions available.

“Stop!” Sherlock barked, and John instantly snapped his head to find Sherlock’s eyes. To say he was completely and entirely disbelieving at the sheer fucking nerve of the man to distract him from his own healing was—

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock replied, eyes slightly manic as he grabbed John’s wrist and held him in place. “He didn’t manage.”

“What?” John asked on an exhalation of breath, confusion skittering in his mind.

“The knife.” Sherlock said in annoyance as he twisted to the side and pulled the knife out from under him, breath coming in large huffs. “He was able to run somewhat decently, but his intent to pierce my liver was, at best, the punchline to the joke of a criminal that he was.”

And for a second, John literally could not process the sight before him. Closing his eyes, Sherlock dropped his head back to the ground and handed John the knife, which was grounded firmly into the front of Sherlock mobile phone. John took the phone dazedly and turned it over in his hand a few times, cataloging the shattered glass of the screen where the knife was lodged and barely poking through the exterior of the other side.

The mobile phone saved Sherlock’s life.

The fucking phone.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock then asked, eyes still closed as he struggled to regulate his breathing.

And when John considered the sight of his pale white torso, completely bloodless and otherwise unmarked by unsightly abrasions of any kind, John was filled with enough relief, rage and terror to render him a trembling fracture of nerves. The phone, all of seven inches long, was the only thing that saved Sherlock this time
around.

“John—“

“Oh, thank God.” Came Lisa’s voice from behind, and John numbly turned around as her eyes closed and her hand clutched at her chest. “I thought...Jesus, I don’t know what I thought. Is he alright?”

“I’m --fine.” Sherlock gasped on a pitiful exhale. His chest expanded and heaved in the attempt to re-establish the appropriate pattern. “John, wh—“

“He’s had the wind knocked out of him.” John interrupted distractedly, barely acknowledging the mild pain now churning low in his abdomen. “Possible rib fracture from impact, but otherwise fine. Take him to hospital.” He finished, finally turning and whirring past her.

“Goddamn. Is he okay?” Chesney asked, coming to a full stop in front of John with wind-reddened cheeks, but John could only barrel past the lot of them.

(Four Hours Later – 4:22 PM)

“God!” John spat as he fell over the edge of the bathtub and dry-heaved a phantom amount of nothing. His arm circled his waist vengefully, and his dog tags clinked against the ceramic as the pain in his abdomen continued to come in relentless waves of agony –one by one by one until he was sweating and writhing for a position that would grant him a fractional amount of relief from the sheer pain of the contractions.

It had started shortly after he had arrived back home.

Rolling his head onto the cool of the tile, John acknowledged and knew at that moment in time that this was likely the beginning of the end of his life as a regular human individual, and the start of a life that held so much uncertainty, humiliation and potential heartache that it left him nauseous.

“John.” Came Sherlock’s mahogany baritone, and John held his breath against his pitiful moans. One part of him was so unspeakably relieved that Sherlock was alive and breathing and bitchy and okay and living, but there was another part that willed Sherlock to take a fucking hint and leave him in peace for this part. He would do anything for Sherlock and compromise every step of the way, but this part he needed for Sherlock to respect and not monopolize. “Open the door.”

“I’m fine.” He tried, breath leaving in a gasp as the cramps drilled through his abdomen. “You need to sleep. Go to bed.”

“Open the door, John.” Came the seething reply, and John could tell Sherlock was growing distressed and desperate, no doubt able to smell the pain and anxiety.

“Go the fuck to bed, Sherlock!” He snapped to the door. He muttered a curse when the door-handle violently stuttered and shook from the outside. “Please.” He whispered pitifully, voice cracking as he buried his face between his arms and winced against the pain.

“I swear to God, John, I will break down this door if you don’t fucking open it.” Sherlock utterly seethed, intonation growing desperate and furious. Sherlock rarely cursed, so the times when he did were usually indicative of high concentrations of fear and anger battling for dominance.

“I’ve helped you through this.” John said in frustration, voice cracking against the pain. “Every step of the way in whatever ways you needed, even if I didn’t agree with what you wanted. So I’m asking you now, Sherlock, to do me the same courtesy and help me by walking away this time around.”

John heard the repellent rip of a screw being torn out of metal.

“I don't want you here for this. Not this time.”

John cursed as the door slammed open, followed by the noisy clatter of the lock and handle hitting the tile at his feet.

“You’ll never fucking listen—“ John began, utterly furious as he buried his face further into his arms. Sherlock stood over him quietly, radiating the very particles of fury and disdain.

“Don’t even attempt to feign any kind of ignorance that the pain you’re experiencing affects you and you alone.”

“I know it’s making you miserable!” John snapped, peering up at Sherlock over his elbow. To his dismay, Sherlock looked about as wrecked as he did. “But I’m asking you to respect me for once in your fucking life by giving up something that you don’t want to. Are you capable of that, Sherlock? Are you capable of losing for somebody else?” John barked, cursing inwardly when his eyes welled red and wet, because he was so, so very tired and hurting.

John gasped out a dry sob and buried his face in his arms when Sherlock dropped beside him and began frantically scenting the side of his neck. A thousand years ago, he would be sniffing for blood and trauma to accompany the pain signals likely pelting Sherlock from all over the place.

“Don’t you dare look at me when on the verge of tears and then tell me that my respect for you can only be defined as walking away. I won’t stand for it.” Sherlock seethed, inhaling John’s skin as though he could very well breathe the pain away. “I’ve never known you to cry, and you want me to go to sleep?--you utter fool. If this is disrespecting you, I will continue to disrespect you for the rest of your natural life, and I will do so enthusiastically.”

Choking out a real sob, John lay his head on the edge of the tub and felt his eyelids growing heavy and painful and terribly lethargic as Sherlock had to physically pull himself away from the security of John’s neck.

“You didn’t answer when I called you.” John said, eyes closing from where he lay his head on the tub. “It scares me when you pull that shit. We can't work when you go it alone.”

“Likewise.” Sherlock replied exhaustively as he placed a cigarette in his mouth. His ribs were screaming in pain as he lay against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Tomorrow, we're having a talk. Going off alone like that...that's not on. Don't ever do that again."

"I'll refrain from leaving you behind if you refrain from insulting my intelligence by trying to lock me out of a goddamned bathroom." Sherlock rattled off, and John couldn't help the laughter that bubbled.

“You can stay.”

“You never had much of a say in the matter anyway.”

“Twat.” John said with a weak laugh.

Five minutes later, they were both asleep.

Chapter Text

“You said...”

John woke to blisteringly cold tile under his iced fingers as tarry darkness reverberated through the room. Shifting, he felt his knee bump into the edge of the bathtub as he struggled to adjust his eyes in the total absence of light.

He felt light-headed and...different. A feeling of lowered inhibition rang through his body that was only reinforced by the fact that waking up in a bathroom at two in the morning suddenly wasn’t worth the desperation of an explanation that it would have once merited.

The rolling cramps had now waned to a dull tidal motion, but the pain was still ever-present and brought him to awareness of the fact that within the next few days, he would completely lose himself to the throes of a heat.

“You said, John.” Sherlock muttered lowly with a hint of sadness to it. John looked up as a soft shifting of clothes and the scuff of shoes brought the onslaught of long, hot breaths to billow over his cheeks. Curled fringe poked his eyelids, and John was very unsurprised to find Sherlock in his face.

“What did I say?” John asked genuinely, half-mesmerized by the pleasure of Sherlock’s hot breath on his cheeks and half-disoriented by their current situation. There was a case, and Lisa and Chesney and a knife...

With a stutter of his heart, he willed that topic of conversation away until the morning.

“Whatever happened between us in the night would remain unacknowledged in the day.” Sherlock huffed, chest heaving. “You told me that, John.”

“I did.” John replied, lolling his head lazily back against the wall at the unbelievable smell Sherlock was giving off. “Jesus Christ. Your smell, Sherlock.”

“Has been this way for several days.” Sherlock remarked, and John could tell he was desperately struggling not to ricochet off the walls. “My body is giving off the pheromones, and you’ve changed enough at this point that you are starting to smell them. You're aroused because of it.”

“Right, hah. Spot on, mate. Have I been doing the same thing to you?” John asked with a sleepy smirk on his face, but was somewhat surprised when Sherlock laughed bitterly and bowed his head forward.

“You truly aren’t aware, are you? You’re not even—“ He trailed off, and John got a small glimpse of Sherlock biting his lip in frustration before looking back up. “You said, John. You said--”

Before he could finish, John slowly reached down and palmed Sherlock’s very rigid erection through his trousers. The detective exhaled loudly and placed his forehead on the jut of John’s collar bone.

“Alright.” John said drunkenly, and was rewarded as the normally-petulant detective slowly lowered himself with his back and head against the wall and his eyes squeezed shut to the rhythm of John’s thorough ministrations.

Crawling to his knees, John continued to stroke Sherlock lazily through his trousers while the detective gasped small, contented noises that amplified through the cramped ceramic bathroom.

And although the sounds of Sherlock being rendered into a lust-addled and vulnerable state of nothingness held a certain appeal, John found that tonight, touching Sherlock this way wasn’t going to be enough. It required more on his part to make this feel correct, or right, or...something. Sherlock would have been more than fine to receive this and only this from John, but there was an element to this that left John feeling incomplete.

At this point, if this is what the dynamic was changing to, they were going to do it right even if it was inherently wrong.

“I’m going to try something different.” John remarked as objectively as he could. Sherlock ceased in his squirming and opened his eyes to observe the hand that was lightly pulling his zip open. The trouser flaps splayed to the side, and Sherlock glanced between John and his zip in open-mouthed pain-pleasure.

“If you’re suggesting what I think you are, you can promptly incinerate that idea as quickly as possible.” Sherlock gasped, cringing in pleasure as John pulled his leaking cock through the black pants.

“There’s something I think I should do that goes along with this.” John explained, desperately trying to stunt his bizarre desire to swallow Sherlock down whole without adequately explaining why, first. “If this is what we’re going to be, I have to take an interpretation of where I belong in the process of doing this with you. I can’t know why I want this until I actually do it.”

“Most scientists don’t have to choke on a cock to perform an accurate psychoanalysis of themselves.” Sherlock bit, anger rising and falling short as John thumbed the head of his cock with lazy circles. Sherlock keened and moved his hips, instinct commanding his body to thrust into the tight, wet heat of an Omega.

“I’m not a scientist.” John said as he slowly lowered himself to his belly between Sherlock’s legs and braced his hands on Sherlock’s hips, mouth hovering headily over Sherlock’s heavy cock. “I’m a soldier.”

“You’re my friend.” Sherlock snapped vulnerably, and it was only then that John glanced up at Sherlock and understood why Sherlock was disgusted with the idea of John doing this. Sherlock, for all of his narcissistic cruelty and sardonic apathy, was concerned that John’s place as his friend would be undermined by the degradation of such an act. Doing this with his hand was still an equalizing act, because John still held eye-level eye contact and height; but doing this with his mouth meant physically being beneath Sherlock. It meant being submissive.

--which was just another way of saying that it meant being an Omega.

“Give me the word, and I’ll stop immediately.” John exhaled. “But before you decide, just know that I don’t want to do this to you. I want to do this with you.”

Momentarily stunned, Sherlock considered his words for a long minute before finally exhaling and shifting upwards.

“All good?” John asked. When Sherlock silently nodded his head, John dove down and swallowed Sherlock in one smooth movement.

The effect was instantaneous.

Sherlock’s head slammed back against the wall with a thud, and John had to push Sherlock legs to the ground with his elbows when he arched bodily off the ground. Sherlock’s hands immediately carded through his hair, searching and gripping with slightly painful vigor at the tufts of blond hair.

“Jo—“ Sherlock tried, mouth abandoning John’s name in favour of groaning loudly instead. John bobbed up and down, tongue sliding and teasing at the large, hot flesh lodged in his throat. Obscene, wet noises pierced the silence, and John felt his own cock swell from the idea of bringing Sherlock to something so utterly useless. He had given just a scant few of these in his lifetime.

With a wet noise, John momentarily popped off, but was gently guided back onto Sherlock’s cock as the hands in his hair moved to cradle his head and push him back down. Sherlock’s hips were beginning to cant in small, minor thrusts upwards, and Sherlock audibly groaned when the head of his cock hit John’s throat.

If Sherlock wanted relentless, he would give him relentless.

Finally having the courage to take Sherlock to the root, John began to suck hard and mercilessly, disgusted and utterly aroused by the act of pleasing Sherlock this way.

Which was really, really a bit not good and so terribly out of John's character and depth.

To John’s shock, Sherlock quickly stood to his feet, knocking him back in the process. With both hands he grasped the back of John’s skull and began thrusting ruthlessly into his mouth.

“Sh—“ He began, but was cut off as Sherlock pounded into him, ignoring John’s gagging, sputtering and coughing as John swallowed around him. Glimpsing upwards, John caught sight of a look in Sherlock’s eyes that was indicative of an animalistic delirium, and a complete absence of the cold calculation of Sherlock’s true nature.

A small, unassuming sadness washed over John as he realized that this side of Sherlock was probably his “true” nature.

“John.” Sherlock muttered, pumping vigorously in and out of John’s mouth. Drool ran down his chin and coated Sherlock’s cock as his lips were rubbed raw by the friction. “Lie down.”

Not questioning anything, John felt a small barb of pleasure at the order and lay flat against the ground, back stinging with the cold of the tiles. He let Sherlock’s cock slide out of his mouth as the detective dropped over John and straddled his face with his knees at the sides of John’s head.

“Can you?” Sherlock asked desperately, looking down at John for an answer.

“Oh, God, yes.” John replied, and was completely unsurprised when Sherlock positioned his cock against John’s mouth and rubbed the head of his cock against his lips. John eagerly took him to the root, and this time, Sherlock drove into John’s face with a brutality that left John sliding across the floor with each thrust. “I’m—“

And when it happened, Sherlock didn’t scream or curse or groan his pleasure. When it happened, John watched from the floor as Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, completely soundless and gaping, right before the cum shot down his throat in what seemed to be endless waves. Pulse after pulse hit the back of his throat as Sherlock brokenly braced himself on hands and knees and viscerally shuddered as he spent himself in John’s mouth. Groaning loudly, he pulled his still-pulsing cock out of John’s mouth and aimed the rest of the spurting cum onto John’s belly where it painted him with stripes of white.

When the last few drops were squeezed out by Sherlock’s shaking hand, Sherlock lowered himself onto John and began trembling as he rocked their bodies together. Like the first time they did this, John caught sight of Sherlock unconsciously rubbing his cum into John’s skin and navel.

“Sherlock, are you—“ He aborted his question, however, when his voice came out as nothing more than gravelled strain. And with the abortion of that question, Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers, slowly turned the light on and visibly deflated when he saw John.

The light stung his eyes, but John managed to glimpse into the mirror long enough to find his lips blister-red and rubbed terribly raw. His voice was completely shot due to the abuse against the back of his throat, and there were blooming bruises around his mouth and jaw from the collision of Sherlock’s sharp hip bones into the bone of his face.

“No." John reiterated, cutting Sherlock's thought process in half before he could even vocalize it. "I don't want to hear it. I'm an adult, and I’m fine—“

“Don’t—“Sherlock began, and John flinched when the mirror exploded into a thousand shards around his feet. “Say that.”

“What do you want me to say?” John snapped back, his voice a pitiful rasp. The glass shards clinked and skittered as Sherlock paced through the bathroom.

“You can say anything, John. Say anything, but do not lie there on the floor and tell me that you’re fine.” He bit. “None of what we just did is ‘fine.’ You don’t even have the voice right now to tell me that it’s fi—“ He stopped, and John’s attention snapped to Sherlock when his voice gave away.

“Hey --hey. Stop.” John began, utterly shocked at the man before him who appeared as if he was actively struggling not to cry. “It was my idea. Okay? You didn’t have the desire. I asked for it, Sherlock. Me.”

“I enjoyed it.” Sherlock seethed, eyes red-rimmed but not quite watering as he bent low in front of John with his teeth clenched to the point of chipping. “If you had offered to let me penetrate you in the middle of that, nothing would have stopped me from doing so. I would have taken everything whether you changed your mind or not, and you're not even in heat.”

“Fuck the heat!" John laughed bitterly. "Judging by my willingness at that point, I would have let you.”

“How could you possibly—“

“Because we’re not the same anymore!” John reinforced, and this time, he demanded Sherlock’s undivided and exclusive attention despite his lack of voice. Silence exploded into the room as the only sounds punctuating the silence came in the form of small shards of glass from the broken frame falling and hitting the floor.  He closed his eyes and swallowed once around the painful scratchiness of his throat. “We’re changing into something completely different from what we know, Sherlock, and it’s fucking atrocious and terrifying and permanent whether we like it or not. We’re going to have to change our perception of what's acceptable to suit the people we’re becoming, or we won’t fucking survive this.”

“An average of six-hundred Omegas die every year from internal hemorrhaging caused by a ruthless Alpha response to intercourse.” Sherlock remarked, face breaking as he leveled John into the floor. “Does that mean nothing to you? Is that ‘acceptable’ just because they’re behaving like the animals they turned in to?”

“No, it means that most of those cases happen in third-world countries where suppressants and education are scarce. That also figures in cases of intentional rape, premature children’s’ bodies that can’t handle intercourse, and sex between people who just don’t give a shit about each other. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but after five years of living together, I’m going to assume that you care for me to some degree.”

“And yet here you are with bruises.” Sherlock spit, neither denying nor confirming John’s assumption.

“Being with you has always meant having bruises.”

Somewhat sobered and very taken back, Sherlock then fell into a deep, concentrated silence. John lay back against the wall as Sherlock smoked a cigarette and massaged a headache from his temples.

“When your heat happens, you’ll need to leave.” Sherlock said, breaking the staunch silence. “Ignoring your smell now is almost crippling. I don’t know what would happen if you were actively begging.”

“I—“ He began, but was abruptly interrupted as the shrill sound of Sherlock’s mobile phone pierced the silence. Reaching for the phone, Sherlock mumbled a quick “Lestrade” before opening the text.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, glancing between Sherlock and the phone as Sherlock’s countenance changed and the cigarette ash fell to the floor. Taking the phone, John opened the message from Lestrade.

“We’re going to forget whatever happened between you and Hadley the other day because I’ve got an Omega murder, and I need your help. --GL”

Attached to the text message was a picture of the beaten, bloodied and very dead body of the girl Omega they captured the other night lying dead on a shore; waves lapping at the side of her face as the blood ran in blurred rivulets through the sand.

Chapter Text

“We going?” John asked as Sherlock stepped gracefully over the glass littering the floor.

“Yes.” He replied, an obvious air of fascination in his voice.

“It’s three in the morning.” John remarked incredulously, voice still a shameful rasp. “Three. In the morning.”

“Irrelevant. I’m going whether you do or not.” Sherlock said, and there was no trace of humour in his countenance. Jon could tell, the way he always could, that Sherlock was still battling a fading disturbia with their previous activities. “She’s still bleeding out. It had to have happened in the last four hours, and the data is best when it’s new.”

Before Sherlock could exit the bathroom, however, John snagged the edge of the Belstaff and ripped it backwards. Sherlock looked blatantly offended, but John sidled close and pinned him with a terrible seriousness.

“The shit you pulled yesterday. I won’t fucking stand for that again.” John reiterated rigidly and clearly, compelling Sherlock to understand in a way he usually only reserved for the most serious of cases. “Go off alone and get yourself compromised again. I dare you to see what will happen if you do.”

“Call Lisa and let her know. Tell her to leave that moron Chesney at home.” Sherlock replied, completely ignoring the severity of John’s request. With a clenching of his jaw, John watched Sherlock barrel out of the bathroom as he made to fire off a text to Lisa:

“Call me. – JW” Was all he wrote before he followed after Sherlock Holmes.

When they arrived at the scene of the crime, John could feel the cold cutting his bones along with a terrible dread. The situation was disappointing at best, considering they both believed the girl to be in a safe, controlled environment that would keep her healthy and healing for the rest of her life. As much as Sherlock would have denied it, John could tell there was a definite disheartening in the detective when they approached Lestrade on the banks of the river and found the washed-up corpse of the child they believed to have saved.

Her hair was web-thin and plastered to her face with granules of sand and frost drying in the tangles. Her eyes were dead, and her hand lay curled and bloated on the sand. Black waves lapped languidly at the side of her face, carrying blood back into the water with their recession.

“Magdalena Orr.” Lestrade commented as Sherlock fell to his knees next to the girl. If history was accurate, Lestrade likely called Sherlock in to tie the loose ends of his impaired judgement with cases involving murdered children and teenagers. Lestrade was a father, and these types of murders usually knocked him off balance. “Beaded bracelet on her wrist spelled ‘Maggie.’ Born in 1999 to Richard and Joni Orr. We’re still waiting on the rest of her demographics, but evidence has already been taken. ”

“You’re off tonight.” Sherlock remarked as he twiddled the girl’s thumb nail back and forth. For a moment, Lestrade was speechless, but huffed out an exhausted breath of air and ran his hand through his hair.

“Of course I’m fucking ‘off’ tonight.” He spat. “She’s just a baby. She’s like one of my own.”

“She’s not one of your own.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!“

“Three of her nails on the right hand are newly broken. The dry cold caused them to brittle, and they shattered on impact when she tried to grasp for something.” Sherlock observed, running his lip against the crags of her nails. “Only her right hand.”

At this, Sherlock turned around to glance at the large bridge up-stream that stood frost-bitten against the cold.

“She tried to grab the ledge.” John remarked, and Lestrade visibly paled.

“And they fractured.” Sherlock followed. “He threw her off. The body couldn’t be reasonably hidden, and water washes away the evidence that can be retrieved. This wasn’t methodical. He didn’t have the time.”

“Fucking hell.” Lestrade gasped, and John swallowed heavily when the DI turned and kicked angrily at the sand.

“I’m going to look for more evidence.” John said as he began to walk up the embankment and away from the child.

“Look for bindings.” Sherlock replied, attention still absorbed into finding other tells on the girl’s body. He cradled the dead-weight of her skull in the palm of his hand, and John turned away when her hair swiped diluted blood in scratches over his wrist.

As John began to make his way up the bridge, however, Lisa and Chesney pulled to a stop in the lot next to him and ran to him.

“Where is she—“ Lisa began, hair pulled into a tight, greasy ponytail. “John, you have to believe me. The last I saw of her, she had agreed to check into Bellefette Rehab Center after we educated her at the safehouse. She is already registered in their online—“

“It’s fine.” John interrupted, a small smile on his face. “We’re trying to figure it all out now. That’s DI Lestrade. We’ve worked with him for years. He and Sherlock are good at what they do.”

“Thank God.” Lisa huffed, hand rubbing over her sleepy eyes. Mascara was smudged over her eyelids, and her lips were cracked with the cold. “I’m completely lost with this one, John. This hasn’t happened before, and I don’t know who to start with or where to g-“

“It’s Lysander. I fucking know it is.” Chesney replied, and they both turned to find Chesney uncharacteristically angry. “There’s no fucking point in trying to save them if he has the resources to kill them anyway. He’s bigger than what we have and what we are. ”

“You can fuck right off with that attitude.” Lisa quipped, eyes cutting him with a terrible seriousness that indicated a severe lack of sleep. She was too passionate about the Omega children like herself to tolerate any negativity with the cause as it was, especially when the child they worked to rescue was bleeding out on sand.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. None of us do.” He said, gesturing between all five of them.

“Stop.” John said, and they both pressed their lips together to stifle the impending argument. “Chesney, I’d tell you to go down there, but you won’t be let on the scene.”

“Whatever. I’m waiting in the car. I know a lost cause when I see one.” He said, stalking off with a thundercloud of anger.

And with that, John turned with Lisa and they walked in stewing silence until they reached the abandoned steel bridge and stopped. Squatting, John looked for signs of struggle or distress, but found nothing that wouldn’t have been blown away with the wind or knocked into the water itself.

“He’s just upset.” John said, peering over the ledge of the bridge to gauge the aerodynamic physics of how she would have landed. It wasn’t an especially high radius from the water, so the possibility of undergoing cardiac arrest during the fall was slim to none. The shattering of her fingernails was really the only indication that she could have possibly been conscious before the fall, but there was no other reasonable clue as the whether she experienced the full pain of the ordeal or not.

“In your medical opinion, how do you think she died?” Lisa asked after a heated silence, eyes distant as she held onto the ledge and peered down into the churning waters. John glanced up at her to find a very sad, disconsolate little girl where there used to be a fiery lionheart of a woman.

“She has a shallow head lesion, but I very sincerely doubt she was knocked out from an intentional blow, so that rules out blunt force trauma.” John said, standing to his full height. “Based on her body, I’d say hypothermia. If she was lucky, that lesion was caused by impact with the bottom of this bridge, so she might not have been conscious to endure the onset of hypothermic symptoms and drowning.”

“But if that’s not the case, then she died horrifically.”

John could only observe her in silence, because there were times when things were phrased as a question without the expectation of an answer.

“This can’t happen again.” She said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and leaning her forehead against the frosted steel. “He’s right. We help nothing if we can’t get them through to the other side. They have a hard enough time as it is…”

“And you would know.” John spoke, eyes narrowing as she glanced at him in surprised and huffed a small, sad laugh.

“I would know.” She replied sadly, and John completely aborted the blooming thought that told him he was very crudely beginning to understand the dynamics of her pain -- he was beginning to see how she was content to remain dead to the one person who loved her more than life itself.

“I know it’s hard. It’s…it’s the hardest thing you’ll think you have to do sometimes, but if there’s one thing I know from working with Sherlock, it’s that you can’t see yourself in these cases. Or in them.” John said. “That helps nothing, and I still can’t get it right. I don’t know how he does it sometimes. But if you’re going to do this with us, you have to try not to make it personal.”

“I know.” She said, pushing off the rafter and into a standing position with crossed arms, a sign of insecurity as Sherlock had told him. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to forgive myself of the way things changed for me when I activated the gene. Like, if I can provide them with the path of least resistance, it’s like I’m going back in time to do the same thing for ‘Little Lisa Lovely’ who fell to shit and never quite recovered from the damage. I see myself in them. And I really fucking hate what I see sometimes.”

“Lisa, there’s…” John tried, clearing his throat as he inwardly debated with himself if he really wanted to tell her just how much he understood. “You should know—“

Before he could reply, however, he was caught off guard as Lisa abruptly ran rigid and her eyes flashed with shock. Turning, John heard a vage series of clapping coming from the left, and he turned to find the utterly amused expression of Terry leaning against a rafter and smirking at the two of them.

“Terry, what—“

“That was almost Oscar-worthy. I don’t know why you’re in this business of misery when you could be writing for Del Toro and Spielberg.”

“I don’t understand.” John said, suddenly on high alert at the completely different countenance of the big-hearted Alpha he met just a few days ago.

“Want to explain, Little Lisa Lovely?” He asked.

“I fucking knew it.” She seethed, eyes bright and skittering over his person with an eerie smile. “I should have started a betting pool that you would be the Judas in all of this.”

“But not really. Judas mourned his deception. I can assure you I won’t be hanging myself in a tree.”

“You deceptive piece of shit, Terry.” She smirked.

“I learned from the best.” He smiled, stepping forward.

“Lysander?” She asked with a toothy grin, and John was one second from losing his fucking cool.

“Lysander.” He confirmed, prologuing an electric stand-off between the three of them with John in the middle.

Before John could dilute the tension of the situation, he was suddenly shoved forward when Lisa pounced cat-like, tore the gun out of the back of his trousers and began firing shots at the Alpha.

As was completely predictable, all hell broke loose.

With Lisa firing stray shots at Terry, the large Alpha began zigzagging while firing shots of his own in their general direction. John hit the floor, completely bereft of a weapon as the bullets ricocheted off the steel and snapped splinters of wood that stung his cheeks and littered his hair. He could tell by the angle of the bullets and the positioning of their arms that they were blessedly amateur shooters, but the lack of inexperience and the zero-grade visibility of the night was often times more dangerous than the expert shooters when you took the collateral damage into consideration. But more than anything, Lisa Palmer stole his fucking gun.

To say he was furious was a severe fucking understatement.

“Lisa!” He yelled, covering his head as Terry’s feet barreled past his line of site, followed shortly by Lisa’s lighter ones. He glanced up to find Terry aiming a sloppy shot behind him, and the bullet whizzed overhead as Lisa’s blonde ponytail spun in the wind.

Standing to his feet, John ran after the two of them, not bothering to spare a glance at Sherlock and the DI. With the way the bullets were firing off with the precision of toddlers, someone was going to get killed quickly, and John had never been more thankful for the presence of Lestrade’s experience in shooting.

“Lisa, don’t fucking shoot anymore!” John yelled, because he knew what dilemma was about the smack her in the face. “It’s barely loade—“

Before he could finish, he saw her face pale as she squeezed the trigger one more time, and the gun yielded absolutely nothing. Utterly terrified, she slowly turned the gun over and looked at it before glancing at Terry with a fear that wasn’t there before.

“Jumped the gun.” Terry smirked, and John knew with the critical thinking of a soldier what would have to be done when Terry slowly raised the gun to her head and smiled with the knowledge that he would win. In a split second of rational thought, he shoved Lisa to the ground, barreled into Terry’s chest and knocked him straight onto his back.

All John could see waere scraps of sky and steel as they battled for dominance, and John held an eagle-eyed visual of the gun as he desperately began reaching for it. It spun wildly across to the other side of the bridge when someone’s arm swatted it away, and John made a full-bodied leap to the other side, though crying out in pain when the Alpha tackled him from behind and tore at the gun as well. Both reaching for it, John flipped himself over so that Terry’s chest was on top of his face.

With one look at the distance between the edge of the bridge and the disadvantage of his own situation, John formulated a half-arsed plan that would likely hurt like hell. With one last surge of adrenaline, John bear-hugged Terry from the bottom, rolled them both to the side, and threw them both off of the side of the bridge.

He felt three calculated seconds of silent free fall and then an agonizing explosion of a cold that he had never known in his life. Struggling to battle the shock of the frozen water, John tried to kick off of Terry’s body to propel him to the surface, but found that his body was too petrified by the temperature drop to give him the adrenaline necessary to make it.

It felt like hours. John had never known a shock so paralyzing as the cold of the sordid, black water he was writhing in. Losing consciousness, John felt his body stop responding to survival instincts, and he knew this might very well be the end.

And what seemed hours later, on the very cusp of blacking out, John suddenly saw dull light bend behind his eyelids as he broke the surface with someone’s arms clinging to him. His head felt extremely heavy with pain, and his breath was non-existent as the cold racked his body from the inside out and the noises of the solid world seemed blistering in volume. At some point in the following few minutes, John felt his shirt ride up and his back scrape painfully with sand and stones before the arms finally deposited him roughly into the sand.

“Wake up, John.” Came a voice, and a hand was slapping him in the face. “Holmes will go on a spree if you don’t wake up, and you’re the only one who can keep that kind of crazy reigned in. Wake the fuck up, John!”

Chesney. It was Chesney speaking to him.

A thumb and forefinger pinched his wrist, and John felt a few drops land on his chin as Chesney stood over him and counted his pulse.

“You have a pulse, so there’s really no excuse for this. You were a soldier, damn it, not a fucking ballerina!” Chesney panicked, bringing John to a sitting position. “I don’t appreciate this kind of a drama, you twat.”

And with the adjustment of the new position, John’s body started violently coughing of its own volition, and Chesney turned him away to dispel the disgusting water from his lungs in pitiful gasps of air. Blearily, he opened his eyes and saw the stupid-but-beautifulface of wet, ginger hair and glossy lips staring down at him from under the moon.

“You going to be alright?” Chesney asked breathlessly, and John nodded weakly but emphatically as he gestured for Chesney not to worry. “You need to get warm. So do I.”

And with that, John heard an exhale of relief as Chesney fell onto his back and cursed silently.

“John!” Came a faded voice, and John opened his eyes when he recognized it as Lestrade’s. Chesney sat up and quickly moved away, and John knew the reason why without looking. In a second flat, Sherlock had dropped next to him and was grasping his face in both of his hands. Struggling to sit up, John was supported by both Sherlock and Lestrade as he shook violently and peered into Sherlock’s insanely terrified eyes.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine. Lisa’s still--” He interrupted, but was struck utterly motionless when Sherlock slammed his mouth onto his and kissed him desperately and violently.

“You told me I couldn’t do what you just did.” Sherlock snapped, the terror in his moon-glossed eyes betraying his absolute fury as he kissed John again and pulled away. “Don’t ever hold me to a standard that you’re not willing to hold yourself to. I won’t tolerate it, you utter fucking moron.”

Dazed and freezing, John shook violently as Sherlock suddenly dropped his head to his shoulder and struggled not to hyperventilate.

"You stupid, stupid man." Sherlock said on a crack of his voice, and John abruptly froze when the detective unconsciously held his teeth to John’s neck in the perfect pantomime of a bite. The curve of his top teeth were pressing hard enough into the skin to leave a crescent-shaped mark.

Shocked and too freezing to order Sherlock to stop, he glanced at Lestrade who was observing the two of them with wide-set eyes and a paling complexion, and it was then that he knew that Lestrade had pieced it all together.

"He needs hospital." Lestrade interrupted softly, and Sherlock ran utterly rigid against him.

“No. I can’t—absolutely not.” He said, emphatically and with no room for protest. He removed his teeth from the spanse of John’s skin and turned around. “I’m taking him home.”

“He’s hypothermic.” Lestrade challenged, eyes wide-set in disbelief as he pulled out his phone. “He’s --no, I’m not even going to try and justify this to you. I’m calling an ambulance. He’s not even remotely in the clear—“

Before Lestrade could finish dialing, Sherlock tore the phone out of his hands and threw it violently into the water. In the pitch black of the night, John could just make out the angry puffs of breath surrounding Lestrade;s mouth when he opened his mouth in pure shock.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Lestrade nearly screeched, and suddenly Sherlock was wild with skittering animalism as he pressed his forehead into Lestrade’s and berated him to stand down.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Chesney said, understanding the Alpha response better than Lestrade would have due to his previous friendship with Harlan. “DI Lestrade, John is a doctor and will be capable of treating himself once we get him warm enough. There’s no problem letting him go home for the night.”

And John knew Greg was more furious with Sherlock than he had ever been, because the silver-haired detective turned away with a crippling fury and simply walked away.

“Sherlock.” John barely managed through the wracking tremors of his body, leveling Sherlock with a glare at the sheer fucking cruelty of what he had just done to their friend. Sherlock’s anger minutely dissipated, and his eyes became worried and nervous as he looked around and paced.

“No, he wanted them to take you, and I can’t---“ He huffed out a breath of air and frowned. “I need you to be visible. Don’t ask me to change that; you know I can’t, John. Please just cooperate.”

“Lisa’s called a cab.” Chesney said, trembling where he, too, lay on the sand with wet curls and a heaving chest. “We’ve got our car. She’s meeting me here. Take the cab.”

“Okay.” John managed through chattering teeth, and Sherlock suddenly looked like a terrified child. Shaking, he supported John with his shoulder and walked them slowly to the waiting cab. With one quick movement, Sherlock pulled the soaking shirt off of John’s body with a wet “shuck” sound and herded him into the car.

He could see Sherlock struggling not to completely fall apart. The detective, normally composed and spinning on an even orbit, had been knocked violently to the side and was spiraling, spiraling, spiraling into a wobbling frenzy. John hated that he couldn’t regulate the detective back into a state of sensibility, but he was too cold and sick to do anything except tremble.

Closing his eyes, John felt the cab start forward sometime later, and John opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s coat blanketing his front. Sherlock stared out the window with a clenching fist, and John weakly pulled a hand out to card through Sherlock’s curls. With a soft tugging motion, Sherlock instantly deflated and buried himself into the comfort of John’s shoulder and began scenting him. For the first time, the scenting seemed less of a sexual nature, and more of an infantile attempt for comfort and reassurance as Sherlock breathed him in and out with shaking breaths.

“I’m alright.” John croaked, the warmth of the cab beginning to bring him back to life. “And so are you.”

“Stop talking.” Sherlock huffed, though it lacked any of the normal bite or humour. When they pulled up to the front of 221B, time lacked any comprehensibility as Sherlock herded John inside and into a steaming bath.

When the detective came back out, Mycroft was standing in the living room looking pale and sick and unimpressed.

“It had to be one of us.” He said smoothly.

“You got the gene for chronic obesity, I got the gene for an Alpha male.” Sherlock explained, too tired to put up an argument. “Lestrade told you.”

“Greg told me what he observed, and I pieced the rest together. We have the late Remsden Galloway to thank for the final proof. It makes sense.”

“Please leave.”

“Both of you need to move out and find new flats immediately.”

When Sherlock merely moved to the kitchen to attempt a kettle of tea, Mycroft followed with a rising irritation that was uncharacteristic of the Bristish government himself.

“I can’t even reasonably quantify the amount of damage that could transpire if you hold onto this ignorance. You have everything to lose, Sherlock. Everything.”

“John has always been free to leave.”

“We both know John Watson doesn’t have the capacity to walk away from you or the life you provide him with. When he falls, he will fall with your blessing if you choose to keep him here.”

“Get out.” Sherlock spat, and Mycroft didn’t deign to flinch at the venom.

“He is the best thing that has ever happened to you. I will be damned if I let you ruin it the way you ruin all of your playthings.”

“Plaything?” Sherlock somewhat screeched, pinning Mycroft with a furious glare as he rounded the table. “Don’t you dare imply that I don’t have a better definition for John than a ‘plaything.’ Get. Out.”

“Form a biological bond with him, or leave him be. You'll ruin it otherwise.”

“Absolutely not. To both of those.”

“I can have him removed.” Mycroft spoke emotionlessly, and Sherlock ran utterly frozen at the implication, because Mycroft had the power, means and love for Sherlock to actually follow through with it. Turning slowly, Sherlock stalked to his older brother and pinned him with a glacial scrutiny..

“You think you know me at my worst.” Sherlock spoke nefariously, voice a graveled texture of ice. “Have him relocated from this flat for any reason, and I will show you how bad it can get.”

“Boys.” Came a voice, and both turned to find John standing in the doorway, rosy and exhausted and covered in layers of clothing. “Not now.”

“We shall see.” Mycroft threatened, and Sherlock watched him like a hawk until the man was out the door and into the infernal black car that carted him around. Turning back, he began to sweep through the flat, locking every window and bolting every door that could possibly pose itself as a point of entry for anyone on the outside.

Sitting on the couch, John frowned and waited for Sherlock’s personal storm to subside. When the detective flew past him to check the windows again, John reached out, snagged his wrist, and pulled him down onto the sofa with a harsh tug. Wordlessly, John ran his fingers through the wild curls, and it was three rigid seconds before Sherlock completely unhinged and fell forward with his face in his hands.

“So.” John began, clearing his throat a tad awkwardly. “You, um. Kissed me.”

“Mm.”

“Which is sort of weird, because kissing doesn’t actually exist in the Alpha-Omega realm.” He explained. “Kissing is not instinctual. It’s…purely human.”

“Don’t ask me to answer questions I don’t know the answer to.”

“Did you get any quality progress on her death, then?”

“I was otherwise preoccupied.” Sherlock replied, annoyance laced heavily in his tone for even having to answer such an obvious question. The irritation was cut short when John massaged a particularly tense area, and Sherlock leaned heavily into John with the intoxicating touch.

“Right, hah. You’re going to bed. You’re completely useless right now.” John ordered. As he made to stand up, however, Sherlock’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“For tonight,” He began, mouth thinning with a shy kind of misery when he considered the sentimentality of his request. “Just…stay near me.”

And with that, John wordlessly threw a few blankets and pillows on the floor. The “nest” approach seemed to soothe Sherlock the first time, and though they both found the concept to be utterly appalling, John knew that Sherlock was one misstep away from falling to shit. Reaching for the lamp, he turned the light off and pulled Sherlock down with him into the nest of blankets.

There was no resistance from Sherlock. Instead, he sidled next to John and tucked his head under John’s chin with a deep frown plastered on his face. When the room finally stilled and the darkness settled into a midnight blue, John spoke up with a whisper:

“It was worth it, you know.” He said. “To know you care. I thought…you’ve been possessive, but I thought it was just some kind of Alpha-bravado thing. Property, you know. I guess it was worth the pain. To know you…to know how you feel.”

John heard a soft, pained exhalation, and was completely unsurprised when Sherlock rolled over him and kissed him deeply and desperately. Sherlock’s body was blissfully warm over his own, and the detective’s lips were soft and plush as they slid against his own.

And really, John found that he just didn’t fucking care anymore.

“Just shut up.” Sherlock whispered into his mouth, tongue lapping desperately against his own. “Just please --stop talking.”

John could only hum in approval as Sherlock utterly plundered his mouth and caged his head in his hands. Their mouths fit together flawlessly, and they moved together with a terrifying ease and comfort.

“For once in your life.” Sherlock huffed, mouth utterly ravishing John’s as he kissed him into the floor. “Leave me alone.”

John kissed Sherlock as long as the detective needed it, and they fell asleep with the rising of the sun.

Chapter Text

Rolling over, John blearily caught sight of Sherlock sitting collectedly at the table with a cup of tea, flipping through the newspaper as though last night could somehow be swept under the rug with the rest of their recent war-zone. Knowing Sherlock, he would try most ardently to undermine the severity of his reaction to the entire ordeal, and John wasn't entirely sure he wanted to broach the subject just yet anyway. His back ached, his head waged war on his skull, and the depth of cold he experienced in that water still hadn't managed to pry itself from his bones, so an involved talk about "feelings" wasn't something that he wanted to initiate with an already-stormy Sherlock Holmes. 

 "Feeling better?" John asked, wincing as he stood from the floor. The duvet fell into a heap around his feet, and Sherlock didn't bother to spare him a concerned glance, contrary to the hysterics of the night before. 

 "Where is the gun?" Sherlock asked, nonplussed as John went to start a kettle for himself.

 "Don't know. Probably still with Lisa." He replied, massaging a hand into his shoulder. He didn't know whether to grapple clumsily with the paracetamol or the tea first, but he needed some sort of painkiller if he and Sherlock were going to talk this one out. 

 "Why does Lisa have the gun?"

 "She took it from me. When Terry had her cornered." He explained, unapologetic in his demeanor as he rolled the kinks out of his neck. "She needed it more than I did."

 Before Sherlock could reply, the door rattled loudly as the jingle of keys filled the room, and John heard Sherlock swear under his breath.

 "Are you guys having kinky sex?" Came a muffled shout, and John saw Sherlock close his eyes in irritation as Chesney barreled through the door like a ginger storm. 

 "Would you leave if we were to start?" Sherlock asked boredly, and John couldn't ignore the sharp buzz that ran up his spine at the casualty of such a question. 

 "Maybe. Not a fan of watching two blokes get at it." He explained as he lowered his hood, shook the rainwater from his hair and began to rifle through the cabinets. He stuffed a slice of bread in his mouth and scoured the various jars of jam. "Unless you're into that sort of thing. In that case, I'm willing to take one for the team if it means John can get his jollies off after last night."

 "Jesus Christ." John exclaimed, bracing himself on the counter. "Seven hours. It's been seven hours. Are we already to the point where we can crack jokes about it?"

 "Better to laugh than cry, I say." Chesney remarked over a mouth full of bread. "We could have been helping Sherly write a eulogy today."

 Sherlock's chair scraped the floor with a hiss as he stood and abruptly threw the newspaper on the table, not bothering to acknowledge the darker truth in Chesney's statement.

 "Is there a reason you're here, Chesney?" Sherlock quipped. "Or can I just assume that you're fulfilling your stereotype as a sexless cretin with little else to do?"

 "Number one, uh, fuck you, and number two, Lisa feels the need to explain what happened last night." Came the defensive reply. "Don't know why. I'd expect you could deduce it you pompous, magical Merlin, trust-fund humping--"

 "That's quite enough of that, ladies." John interrupted, shoving a plate of toast and jam into Chesney's unsuspecting hands. The room went quiet as Sherlock observed this action in mild surprise, and John cleared his throat awkwardly when the unspoken thought of "increased sense of nurturing and domesticity" turned the cogs in both his and Sherlock's brains. 

 "You won't make me jam and toast, but you're going to make it for that ingrate?"

 "That 'ingrate' dove into fifteen feet of ice water to save my life. I think he's entitled to breakfast." John explained, watching in mild satisfaction as Sherlock's mouth thinned into a line --the proverbial sign that he had been momentarily bested. "Jesus. It's food, Sherlock; not a pledge of allegiance."

 "Pitiful is what it is."

 "Thank you, Dr. Watson." Chesney chided with a shit-eating grin, eyeing Sherlock in a clear message of victory without understanding the full implications behind the gesture to begin with. Unassumingly, he wiped the bread crumbs off of the corners of his mouth and licked his thumb. "It's nice to know somebody is appreciative of my saving your life. What, with the subzero temperatures and scraped knees and all. I'm feeling a little under the weather."

 "Consider it a thank you." John said, begrudgingly patting Chesney on the shoulder. "I know you didn't have to do...what you did. And I'm grateful. Sincerely."

 "For God's sake." Sherlock muttered at the same time that Chesney placed his hand over his heart.

 "Jesus, I'm getting emotional." Came the whispered reply as Chesney fanned his eyes.

 "Yeah, fuck off." John waived as the door slammed open once again, revealing a wind-swept Lisa with rosy cheeks and a blonde ponytail as she unwrapped her scarf from around her neck.

 "I love the smell of hostility in the morning."

 "There's only love and affection between Dr. Watson and I," Chesney said as he wrapped an arm around John's shoulder. "What you're probably smelling is the odor of Sherly's bad attitude destroying the sanctity of our love nest."

 "Love nest. Love...nest." John mouthed to himself, trying not to smile as Sherlock's face twisted in utter disgust.

 "Does he have a hamster wheel to run in?" Sherlock asked, eyeing Chesney's arm with a rising intensity. Feigning ignorance, John felt the emphatic removal of Chesney's arm from his shoulders when Sherlock refused to break eye contact. 

 "We've looked into it." Lisa explained with a tired smile, and John felt the cold-metal touch of his gun being placed inconspicuously in his hand without a second of gracelessness from Lisa. "Wouldn't help the acne, I don't think." 

 Sherlock didn't seem to notice the pass-off, which John was marginally thankful for. In the past, Sherlock would have only valued the gun as much as he would have valued it's ability to assist in a case, and he wouldn't have taken offense to Lisa's stealing the gun in a crisis situation. It was best that she snatched it, because she was in a better position to fire it with greater accuracy, and John would have been shot immediately if he'd had to make the obvious movement and reach back for it. But things had changed in their individual biochemistry, and Sherlock was a charged live-wire with most issues that would have seemed harmless in nature before the activation of the gene. 

 "You can all go to hell." Chesney spat as he threw himself on the sofa and snapped his distinctive white headphones over his ears. A jarring, tinny line of music came through the headphones, and Lisa turned back to the two of them.

 "I should probably explain last night."

 "Please." Sherlock spoke with a razor-edge to his tone. 

 "You asked about Lysander. I told you that he..." She sighed in frustration. "He has resources that far outweigh our own. He can afford to pay thousands of pounds to recruits if they volunteer in his trafficking, and I can only assume that he was paying Terry all along. By my guess, I'd say Terry befriended me to find information on the Omega hot-spots, then tried to kill me for the sake of keeping the trafficking alive when I became too big of a 'problem.' London is already sparse in Omega's without my business in saving the few they can take and sell. He always needed money, and if there are no Omegas to sell, he wouldn't get any pay-off. Goodbye, Lisa."

 "How long did you know him?" John asked around the memory of Terry's gun and Lisa's wild crack-shots firing into the night. She had to have been somewhat trained to be that familiar with the anatomy of a gun.

 "I met Terry in 2009. He was one of our better workers, and I just...trusted him too much too fast. He seemed passionate. Ready to help. He was an alpha, so I assumed he understood the pain of...look, I thought he was a friend, but he was never one of mine. I'm sorry, John. Truly. He came for me, and you were collateral."

 "It's alright." John amended with a small smile and a shrug. "I was in the army. Collateral is what I know."

 "Was a body recovered?" Sherlock asked, entirely un-receptive to any sentimentality of any kind. Regardless of whatever hormonal change Sherlock's perception of John was undergoing, Sherlock would have been keen on some type of revenge anyway. John had no reservations in saying that he was somewhat important to Sherlock, and Sherlock was no quicker to fury than when someone directly threatened one of his own --few though they were. It was an astonishingly rare side to Sherlock that John almost never got to see, save for an occurrence with Mrs. Hudson in the beginning of their friendship, and an even rarer occurrance when Mycroft's life was threatened by a domestic rebel.

 "His body surfaced about a mile from the bridge, but forensics has it now. Said it was cardiac arrest due to the cold that knocked him out, but drowning's what killed him. They suspect it was painful." Lisa somewhat faltered, waiving her hand and clearing her throat to remove any sign of grief and loss. "The way he died, that is. But what's done is done. He's dead. This doesn't change anything."

 By that point, Chesney had appeared next to her with his chin tucked into her shoulder and a lost, humbled look on his face. He and Terry had been friends, but Chesney was still a kid stuck with a kid's way of coping with loss and making sense of betrayal.

 "Mm." Came Sherlock's comforting reply as he turned, and John ran rigid as the detective carefully swiped his hand across the back of John's jeans, confirming to himself that the gun had been exchanged between them at some point. The touch would have been purely perfunctory on a good day, but the implications were too heavy and their minds and bodies were too charged to play with fire in this way. 

"I want to stage another suppressant bust tonight." Came Sherlock's statement as he sat back down at the table, receiving odd looks for the suggestion after last night's debacle.

"What, already? John's barely just recovered from last night and you're eager to run out with guns blazing again?"

"My end of the homeless have given me reports this morning of a girl in her twenties who has been asking for suppressants in my area of influence. I've given select members bottles of industrial-grade Lorazepam to further deceive her. She's young. She won't know what suppressants actually look like. Our chances of success rise if we can con all of them by utilizing actual pills, and one of my contacts has set up a time and place with her tonight."

 "You play dirty, Mr. Holmes." Chesney replied solemnly as Lisa crossed her arms. "You need to get right with God, mate. Join a choir or something."

 "Terribly dirty. Wish I had thought of it." Lisa replied in awed envy as John turned to Sherlock in angry disbelief, because Sherlock was strictly forbidden from receiving medication of that caliber from any institution, which meant foul play was utterly riddled through all of this. "Aaaaand I'm fairly sure they're about to have a domestic, so we best be on our way, C.C."

 After a few intense seconds of staring, John finally broke the contact when Lisa shook her umbrella onto the floor and Chesney pulled his hood up. The rain was heavy and grey-scaled outside, and Chesney's ginger locks were already curling at the ends. 

 "It's your rodeo tonight, Sherlock. See you boys later." Lisa said with a catty grin --an expression that was far too amused, considering the nature of the job. Chesney saluted a muffled "Mmph!" as Lisa pulled him by the ear and out of the room with another slice of toast stuffed in his mouth. After a few seconds of silence punctuated only by the ticking of the clock, John finally spoke up:

 "Tell me you didn't forge my prescriptions."

 "Then I won't."

 "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" He slammed his fist onto the wall, causing the beakers on the counter to shake and clink against each other as Sherlock turned away from him. "I could lose my license if corporate investigates this. How many fucking times--"

 "How many fucking times?" Sherlock somewhat spat, the cursing indicative of a change in ability to cope. "At least four, two of which you weren't aware of because you're not remotely capable of anything resembling artifice."

 "This is one thing, Sherlock. One thing." He was breathing heavily now, nostrils flaring as he pointed an accusing finger at the detective. "I let you fuck around with everything else that's important to me, but my job is something that cannot afford to be expendable to you."

 "Have you met my brother?" Sherlock asked, rounding on John and growing uncharacteristically irritated at John's anger. Before the change in hormones, Sherlock would have scoffed and undermined John's fury in the matter, and John would have been less prone to getting this furious in the first place. Things were coiling, and they were coiling into an unbearable level of tightness. "It may have escaped your notice, but he is the British 'corporate', and he will move mountains to keep himself in my good graces. Please don't be so basic."

 "He's not Christ incarnate!"

 "Tell him that." Sherlock spat as he tossed himself on the sofa and threw an arm over his eyes. "Leave me alone."

 "I could go to prison. Does that bother you in any way?"

 "I'd get you out." He dismissed with a disgusted waive of his hand, as though the very insinuation was insulting to his capabilities.

 "There are places you can't follow me, Sherlock." John then said bitterly, a twinge of cruel satisfaction flaring at the plummet in Sherlock's apathy to the matter. 

 Rearing back, John immediately steeled himself as Sherlock sauntered off of the sofa and stood in front of him with a terrible expression on his face. Holding a vicious eye contact, Sherlock slowly reached around, dipped his hand into the back of John's jeans, and pulled the gun out. Bringing it to the front, Sherlock traced the gun down John's nose and over the cupid's bow of his lips with a glacial slowness.

 "Wrong."

 "You can't follow me everywhere." John reiterated softly, breath fogging the cold metal of the barrel as Sherlock bounced it lightly against his mouth. "And I can make that happen."

 "I could follow you to hell." Sherlock laughed bitterly as he slid the gun down John's neck with an indulgent slowness and placed his mouth against John's. "Anywhere."

 "You're too fucking selfish to go where there wouldn't be an audience waiting." John spoke, lips now brushing mindlessly over the soft, wet skin of Sherlock's own. 

 "Even to hell, John." He spat angrily, voice now shaking and devastated, and John sucked in a harsh breath when Sherlock abruptly bit his lower lip, slowly raking his teeth over the soft, fleshy inside before releasing it with a trembling sigh. "Though I suspect we're already fucking there." 

 Twining his fingers into the curls, John cupped the back of Sherlock's head and brought his head down to the curve of his neck. Sherlock immediately went boneless, and the guilt John felt for manipulating him when he was at his most vulnerable was staggering. John had never been prone to overwhelming waves of affection for Sherlock, but the change in hormones had him on the verge of violence for this madhouse of a man relying so heavily on him in every way. His hair was wild, his eyes were wild, his patience, body and emotions were wild and deviating between constant extremes, and John didn't know how to handle a Sherlock that needed more reassurance than a subtle, unspoken loyalty and an occasional cup of tea.

 "Last night. When you fell. I thought you were--" Sherlock tried, aborting the sentence entirely when his voice broke in two. "I'd have lasted a week, John. Possibly less. Do you understand?"

 "Yes, I...it's fine." John spoke, running a hand through the curls. "It's all fine."

 "If she takes your gun again, I won't be held responsible for what I might do."

 "You're never held responsible for anything you do, you cock." John laughed, feeling a hint of relief as Sherlock exhaled a smile into his neck. The relief quickly turned to heat, however, as John felt the sharp scrape of Sherlock's teeth nipping into his skin. "Sherlock."

 "Mm." Came the distracted inquiry as a tongue laved gorgeously against his pulse point, and John found himself stumbling back into the wall as Sherlock's attentions became heated and intentional. 

 "I could incapacitate you in three seconds flat if I wanted to." John gasped, wincing as Sherlock groaned into his shoulder. 

 "I could appropriately prepare for it, now that you've informed me of your plan of attack. Elementary, John."

 "I could destroy your cigarettes." He quipped. "I could feasibly destroy this entire flat."

 "I could ruin your reputation as a soldier." Sherlock moaned shakily, and John leaned in close enough to whisper in his ear:

 "I could just ruin you." Came the threat, and John went in for the attack as he slid his knee over the length of Sherlock's cock. With an ungodly groan, Sherlock tore himself away from John and observed him in utter bafflement.

 "John." 

 "Sorry, I--" He swallowed nervously, crashing back into the high-contrast reality of what they were doing while trying to ignore the ache in his own cock. "Forget it. That wasn't on."

 And with another lapse in control, John felt the coil spiral tighter between them.

Chapter Text

SHING

Came the noise as John watched the glint of the Japanese katana being shoved into the jovial face of the wall smiley. An abysmal grunt was heard after the fatal stabbing, and John turned back to the dishes when the katana was pulled from the wall and tossed violently to the floor where it landed with a series of battered clangs.

"Everything alright?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock as the detective, sweaty and irritable, strode into the living room with the gas mask planted firmly on his face again. Without so much as an eye roll, Sherlock merely threw himself on the sofa and buried his face in the back of it. The detective was currently sporting nothing save for trousers, a dressing gown, and the dysopian-grade gas mask. 

"I'm going to assume the olfactory receptors are acting up again." When total silence came from the sleuth, John dried his hands and loudly dragged a chair over to the sofa. Placing it firmly in front of the detective, John sat and folded his hands together. "Are you entitling yourself to a tantrum, or are you actually feeling bad? I can help with this part." 

Sherlock's chest heaved under the dressing gown, and his ears and neck were tinged red and fever-bright with sweat. The damp curls at the nape of his neck were plastered to his skin, and John knew that the few times Sherlock elected to go shirtless meant that he was close to an internal boil. 

It had been eight hours since Chesney and Lisa left, and Sherlock had attempted some gratuitous research on one "Lysander" in the metropolitan areas of London, but after a few quick searches on underground sites written in Russian, John watched despondently as Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and sauntered to the "evidence wall." Several articles and pictures were pinned to the wall with evidence detailing the possible identity of Lysander from arrest records involving Alpha-Omega sex crimes, but none of it was quelling Sherlock's need for immediate answers. The stage of wall art was usually indicative of the obsession Sherlock was currently having with a suspect, and although Lysander was in the beginning stages of his O.C.D. fixation, John didn't know how the case obsession would work with the combination of heat hormones and fluctuating bio-chemistries. John just hoped the bastard didn't test Sherlock's patience by staying too clever, because there wasn't a solid guarantee that Sherlock wouldn't slaughter him on sight in response to the earth-scorching, hormonal anger. John needed 11:00 PM to arrive before Sherlock lost the entirety of his ability to cope, because the suppressant bust would at the very least give him a momentary distraction.

Either way, it was going to be a rough day in the walls of 221B Baker. 

"You're not feeling well." John replied softly, wary of himself as he carded his fingers through the curls on Sherlock's forehead and swept them back over his head. Utterly vulnerably, Sherlock winced and leaned into the touch. From a hormonal standpoint, Sherlock's biochemistry was progressing much faster than John's, which was biologically average when coming into the first rut. 

"Everything feels atrocious." Sherlock remarked quietly, eyes closing with the push of John's fingers through his wet curls. 

"Made any progress?" John asked as he gestured vaguely to the wall. Distraction. He could do that.

"Lysander, assuming that's a false name, is remaining frustratingly elusive to any inquiry. The homeless don't know him by 'Lysander', and I haven't managed to find any leads to an actual identity. I've contacted the usual Soviet sites, but nothing has proven fruitful." Sherlock spoke, eyes trying desperately not to close with John's ministrations. "My tolerance is unusually low for this stage of the game."

"You could always go to Mycroft. I'm sure he can give you a head-start." 

"I could always throw myself under a moving vehicle as well. I doubt the experience would be any less painful."

"Ah, vitriol." John smiled. "Always the first sign in your tri-yearly breakdowns."

"Am I to give you a courtesy laugh for that attempt at humor?" Came the sharp retort, though it fell flat through the muffled bulk of the gas mask.

"You should probably just give me a definitive answer on whether you're feeling sick or not."

"I'm not sick, John. I'm overwhelmed by scents. I'm infernal."

"I could give you some meds, but I doubt they'll help with the hot flashes. Might have to resort to using a fan."

"Might have to resort to a seven percent solution."

"Don't talk like that." John quipped, knuckles running up and down the side of his face. "It's only funny when it's just a joke."

"It stops being a joke when things stop being funny." Sherlock snapped, threat diluted through the grill of the mask. "And I'm not laughing."

"Right, hah. That's quite enough of that. Get up." John said, clapping his hands together. The detective groaned as John brought his arm around his shoulder and heaved him to his feet. "It's time for Sherlock to have his first cold shower."

"I'm fine, John."

"The hell you're fine."

"Cold showers are for sexual repression and the minimization of penile erection."

"Are you or are you not as hard as a rock right now?" John quipped, smirking as Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, only to narrow in offended irritation. John caught sight of the raging hard-on the second Sherlock threw himself on the sofa. The shower was the best way he could think of to prompt Sherlock into taking care of it with the least amount of hassle.

"Since you're so feeling so brazen, perhaps it would be best if you dropped to your knees and--" 

"Jesus Christ." John interrupted, maneuvering Sherlock through the room. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say what I strongly suspect you just said."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked disgustedly, head bent between his legs as he sat on the loo where John deposited him. The roar of the water filled the tiled bathroom as John gauged the temperature of the water with his fingers. "We've done it before. You may be able to live in a world of effortless delusion, but I cannot forget that we were here just days ago."

"Are you seriously asking me to suck you off? Have we come to that?" John rounded on him, hand still wavering under the spray of the water. This conversation was so strikingly out-of-character, but the mild frenzy in Sherlock's eyes spoke to John of the medical definition of the micro-heat that Sherlock's personality was currently being dominated by. 

"Are you saying you wouldn't if that were the case?"

"I'm saying I want you to sit in this bathtub before you pass out. It's cold, but your temperature needs to come down. As does your cock, apparently."

Begrudgingly, Sherlock dropped his trousers and dressing gown and stepped into the cold spray of the shower with little shame. Trying to spare Sherlock's dignity when under the rule of a micro-heat, John turned away as Sherlock's rigid erection bobbed against his belly. Hissing against the cold, Sherlock braced his arm against the wall of the shower and buried his face into the crook of his arm. 

"This is a micro-heat, is it not?" Sherlock asked miserably. "It must be. I feel unlike myself."

"Yes it is, mate. And I'm going to stay here and make sure you spend at least five minutes of it under the water."

"I'm...changing. Faster than you are."

"I'll catch up soon enough, Sherlock. It's not an exact science, but this won't last forever. The Alpha's usually go first." John replied quietly, turning away as Sherlock changed position. "Right, so...you know you'll have to have a wank if you want the micro-heat to stop."

There was no response, only the soft whuffs of Sherlock's breathing as John heard the wet sounds of Sherlock's hand softly pumping his cock. The sounds, obscene as they were, stirred something low within John's groin. And how undignified would it get for them? That now, conversation of blow jobs and mutual masturbation had already lost its essence of sensitivity and was well on its way into perfunctory obligation. It was disgusting, but they didn't have the luxury of being able to care anymore.

"John."

Turning, John caught sight of Sherlock fervently pumping his dick, frustration evident on his face.

"It can't be a bad thing forever, Sherlock. You have to try to like it, or you'll never get through this. You'll go mad."

"I never wanted." Sherlock hissed. "I still don't. How am I supposed to--"

"Do you need me?" John asked, all humor with the situation zapped. 

Grunting, Sherlock released his cock and slammed the back of his head against the wall. Wordlessly, John turned and winced as he stuck his head under the frigid spray and . Bracing himself with his hands on the edge of the tub, John pulled Sherlock forward and, without any protest, wrapped his hand around his erection. 

Sherlock muttered a silent curse before his hands hovered awkwardly in the air. It was weird from both perspectives. For Sherlock, to be so gone within himself that he would actually almost ask for John to be the one to do this, and for John to be pumping the cock of another man, arms brushing against leg hair instead of laced panties, was not where he predicated his relationship with Sherlock would arrive.

"Faster." Sherlock stated, and John cut his eyes at the detective, wondering if he actually would appreciate receiving any thing the micro-heat would prompt him to ask for.

"How fast?"

"Just...that." He hissed, head slamming back into the tiles. 

"Good?"

"Good." He choked, barely able to acknowledge the pleasure without first placing his hand over his eyes in shame, and that was the gesture that stopped John in his tracks.

"Hand off." John barked, eyes deadly serious as he stopped his rhythmic stroking. Frustrated, Sherlock looked down at him in bewilderment.

"Wh--"

"Stop covering your face like this is something you have to hide from. There's no shame in this. Not for you, not for me, and especially not when it's between you and me." John spoke, voice rigid and with no room for argument. "I'll be damned if we come through this and can't look each other in the eye. I won't fucking stand for it, Sherlock, so take your hand off."

Warily, Sherlock brought his hand down and watched John with lowered lids and walls. Holding eye contact, John began to stroke fervently again, eyes never leaving Sherlock's face as he bit his lip. 

"Your mouth." Sherlock choked, hand cradling John's head and pushing it down. He must have registered the disjunct sentence structure under the heat, because he closed his eyes and shook his head in frustration, clearly fighting the primal part of the Alpha retrograde. John learned about "Alpha Retrograde" in medical school, but he only witnessed it when stationed in the Middle East where men and women spent long weeks without sexual resolve. Retrograde happened in response to an Alpha enduring a critically unresolved rut. The sexual hormones are accelerated to a catastrophic level during rut, then released all at once to spread through the brain and body when the rut fails to be resolved. This build-up and dramatic release of hormones momentarily subdues the parts of the brain responsible for speech and phonics, thus giving the Alpha's the "caveman" language that was often satirized in media and pop culture.

"What? Jesus, just hold on--" He sputtered as Sherlock urged his head down.

"Fellatio. Please, John, just--"

Without a second thought, John leaned over the edge of the tub, grasped Sherlock's hips and swallowed him down. He felt his own cock twitch when Sherlock actually gasped --gasped like he was surprised it would feel "good" or shocking or sensory or too much. Which was just like Sherlock, John thought, to be surprised that something other than adrenaline could feel decent. 

It was an odd feeling, his mouth trying to maneuver around a large rod of flesh. Sherlock was big --definitely bigger than he thought, and most definitely uncircumcised. The weirdest part, however, was that his gag reflex, which had always been somewhat sensitive, was completely relaxed and participating in the success of this endeavor. It wasn't an especially good feeling, but it wasn't devastating either. Sherlock had hit the back of his throat at least twice, but it wasn't a quaking disaster.

None of this was turning out to be the personal apocalypse that John thought it would be when he surrendered to the idea that this "thing" between them could be something other than shame and destruction. If Sherlock was willing, he could actually help the lunatic feel good in something other than a temporary high.

"Do you want more?" John asked, popping off of the member to look up at a disheveled Sherlock. 

"God, John." Sherlock snapped, laughing bitterly. 

"Faster or slower?"

"Slower movement, harder suck." Sherlock replied, like the very thought had shattered his reputation as an Aristocratic arch angel. With a few more painfully slow bobs, John worked his wrist and mouth on the cock in tandem. Without any hesitation, John took him to the root and gave a good, hard suck--

"John!" Sherlock barked, and the detective attempted to pull out, only to be taken back to the root as John swallowed the cock down and let the spurts of come run down his throat. It was a terrible texture and an odd taste, but the twitches of the cock pumping more and more into his mouth was nothing compared to the utter growl that tore from Sherlock's throat as he jerked himself back out of John's mouth and finished on the wall. 

The silence and the reality hit like ice water, but John was far past the point of apologizing, even as Sherlock hunched over and tugged his cock a few more times, breath heavy and pained as he painted the wall.

"Don't do that again." He somewhat choked, dick running flaccid after a few frosty minutes of come-down.

"Why." John asked boredly, completely uninterested in the answer as he lay back against the tub and closed his eyes. Stepping out of the tub, Sherlock placed his hands on the sink and bent over it.

"If I pull away, don't ever chase me." Sherlock seethed, cheeks red and voice graveled. "It could mean the difference between a quick release or an actual injury."

"Are we considering a bruised ego to be an actual injury?" John asked, desperately trying not to lose his cool. "If that's the case, you won't fucking surv--"

"We're considering sodomy to be an actual injury." Sherlock bit, and John could hear the silence utterly plummet with the only sounds coming from the slow rhythm of water hitting the drain.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're not the one who's supposed to get sodomized." John snapped bitterly, somewhat flinching, however, as Sherlock rounded on him. 

"That's exactly what I'm worried about!" He bellowed, eyes wild and pulse beating through his neck. "Contrary to your opinion, John, I'm not actually inexperienced, and unprepared anal sex is agonizing. I'm not in control right now. Do you understand what I'm trying to say, or do I need to walk you from point A to point B?"

"It's not--" John tried, aborting the sentence with a frustrated whuff of air. "Sherlock, you wouldn't...do that."

"Two months ago, I also wouldn't have asked for fellatio." He softened into a mild storm. "Don't identify me by what I wouldn't do then, but by what I can do now."

"What you 'can do now' is learn to enjoy this instead of falling apart every time it happens." John commented, relieved as the tension in the room seemed to dissolve. "You could actually try to like it, because I'm not going to have it out with you every time we end up here. I'm not."

"Don't be disgusting, John." He hissed as he zipped his trousers into place. 

"Did you enjoy it, though?" John asked, smirking when Sherlock looked blatantly affronted by the very idea of sexual pleasure.

"From a scientifically anatomical standpoint, it fulfilled the intended outcome--"

"Did you enjoy it or not. Sherlock Holmes." John stressed, crossing his arms. "Or can I assume that that 'God, John' was you paying homage to your parents religion?"

"It was...sufficient."

"Slower movement, harder suck." John air-quoted, licking his smile as Sherlock ran white.

"That never leaves this flat." Sherlock hissed as he tucked the aubergine shirt into his tailored trousers. The curls were falling brilliantly back into place, and the Belstaff hung faithfully outside of the door. Sherlock's appearance came together like a beautifully crafted puzzle, and his sheer grace would never give any indication of a quick blow-job in the shower to correct a micro-heat.

"Then admit to me that you at least somewhat enjoyed it." John chided. "I'm not saying you have to sing my praises, but be honest."

"I found it to be very profitable." 

"You're full of shit. Absolutely full of shit--"

"It was a successful attempt at release." Sherlock offered, straightening the collar of the shirt as he cataloged his appearance in the mirror. "Grizzly bears in the wild have been known to give each other clinical fellatio to relieve stress. Not every attempt at release deserves to be immortalized in poetry by John Watson."

"Unbelievable." John laughed, catching a gorgeous second of Sherlock's own small smile in response. "It's too bad, then. 'Attempts at release' don't usually merit repeat experiments. That's a one time thing, mate."

"Mm." Sherlock mumbled, barely acknowledging another body in the room with his perfected poker face. "Send my condolences to the scientific community. I'm sure your discovery of male ejaculation will rock the nation."

"You know who's always down for a shag? Chesney. Maybe he'd be open to a repeat experime--"

The toothbrush clattered loudly into the sink as Sherlock paused in his grooming and ran rigid. Slowly, he stood up and turned to John with an ambiguous look on his face.

"If I say I enjoyed it, will you never again threaten sexual acts with that witless mule for as long as we both shall live?" Sherlock asked, smiling as John laughed loudly and brazenly.

"That's fair, mate."

"Fine. I enjoyed it."

Chapter Text

"You need a coat." John remarked, pulling his own on as Sherlock whirred through the hall, adrenaline running rampant. 

It was finally time for Sherlock to lead the suppressant bust he had been planning with the homeless, and Lisa and Chesney were stationed independently three blocks from the homeless woman who had set up a meeting with the Omega girl. "Genevieve" was the homeless woman's name, and Sherlock frequently relied on her expertise in the areas of cunning and deceit. This woman, whether "Genevieve" was her real name or not, currently had a forged prescription from John worth ten refills for the next year. Fantastic.

"I always wear a coat." Came the snide remark. "Is this a sign of the nurturing Omega irrationality you have marked on page forty-nine of 'Omega Health and Wellness?"

"Is this the Alpha anxiety that has you reading my old uni textbooks?" John asked, remembering three hours before when he found a box of his old textbooks sitting on the stairs with entire sections on Alpha-Omega behavior marked for future reading. 

After that afternoon's micro-heat, Sherlock spent a greater portion of the day researching the Bellefette institutional rehab that Lisa had been sending her Omega refugees to once they had been educated on the benefits of medication. It was a legitimate center, but it was only funded in cooperation with the International Alpha-Omega database where all records could be publicly accessed, which would explain why Magdalena Orr decided to leave. They could only help them to a point. 

"Only in John Watson's mind can a pursuit of knowledge be equated with anxiety."

"Still didn't answer my question." John smirked, hand grappling for the door. 

Wordlessly, Sherlock hailed a cab and both he and John sat in silence as they watched London nightlife whir past in light and color.

"You really don't care about them." John remarked when he saw the look of pure thrill bubbling in Sherlock's eyes. "I know Lysander is your goal in all of this, but Lisa and Chesney don't. You might try to approach this with a little more empathy if you want to keep working with her. She's passionate about them, but you're just--"

"Successful 95% of the time." Sherlock replied, clearly in the middle of texting Lisa with reports. "I don't have to care about them to help bring success to her crusade. If she were smarter and less sentimental, she'd try going to the source instead of isolating individuals. There's no honor in saving one goldfish if you never attempt to stop the oil spill. They'll continue to die, and she can't physically save them all."

"You do realize that I'm one of those 'goldfish' too, right?" John asked, almost smiling when Sherlock ran utterly quiet at the realization. 

And really, had Sherlock been so absorbed in the hysteria of the puzzle that he hadn't realized that John was as vulnerable as the rest of England's "goldfish?" Sherlock was there when Harlan told him to watch his back, had seen enough online reports of the unresolved missing Omega cases to know that John could be any one of them any day now if word got out that John was Omega positive. 

"Terry smelled it on me. Who's to say he hasn't reported back to his superiors?"

"That's--"

"Entirely possible. If Lysander is trafficking, they could target me." John said, warmth of a small reassurance blooming at Sherlock's clear displeasure with the idea. "Might already be planning to."

"No one would get to you." Sherlock spoke after a few seconds, face turned into the phone.

"People have gotten to me before. Jim Moriarty had me in explosives in one hour."

"Back then, you weren't as essential to my work." Sherlock snapped, shifting uncomfortably. "Things are different now."

"Because you 'care' now?" John laughed, unsurprised when Sherlock's response went unmade. "Listen, I don't actually think anyone will try for me. But I am saying that if I am your friend in any way, then you are like the hundreds of other families who could lose people to this guy. You don't have the luxury of being 100% objective with this case. Not this time around, mate."

"No one can get to you, John. It's not possible. Put it out of your mind." Came Sherlock's final thought on the subject before halting the cab. 

Pulling to a stop, Sherlock straightened the Belstaff when he stood from the car. Tossing a few notes in the front, John stepped into bitter air and pinpointed Chesney's car parked vigilantly down the street. With a rumble, Chesney started the car and drove away to a point of relocation if they needed to get away quickly.

"Remember what I said." John commented as he and Sherlock made their way down another sordid alley way. Different men and women were standing around fire barrels and lying against the walls, but it wasn't until one homeless man tracked John with his eyes that Sherlock wordlessly stepped in front of John and led the way. John let it slide, recognizing that this was neither the time nor the place to call Sherlock out on it.

After a few minutes of twists and turns, Sherlock slowed at the end of one corner and halted John with a gloved hand before checking his phone one last time. 

"How could you possibly know where you are?" John asked as he stepped over a stack of rotting restaurant crates. "These aren't even mainstream roads. This is the literal underbelly."

"I wasn't always a mainstream Londoner." Sherlock huffed, breath fogging from his mouth. "If you know cocaine, you know your way around."

"Jesus. You've got to stop being so nonchalant about that." John whispered, cringing as a mouse skittered from under a sheet of wet newspaper. "One of these days you're going to say it in front of someone who--"

"Shh." Sherlock snapped, hearing the soft, feminine sounds of whispering bouncing down the alley perpendicular to where they were standing. "Genevieve."

"Is the girl with her?"

Peaking around the corner, Sherlock nodded before shooting a quick text to Lisa. Covering his hand over the light of the phone, John saw a simple "V" being fired to Lisa before Sherlock stuffed the phone in his pocket and moved confidently into the light. Being ever diligent to Sherlock's lead, John followed right behind. 

The second they stepped out from their hiding place, Genevieve, ratty-haired and smoking a cigarette, put the girl in a rough headlock when she tried to turn and run. When she began to violently twist and scream at Sherlock's approach, Genevieve placed a hand over the girl's mouth and barked at her to "shut the fuck up", and the girl's legs gave out from underneath her as Genevieve sunk to the ground with her.

She was outnumbered and defenseless. 

Grabbing Sherlock by the arm, John pulled him back with a spoken "Let me" when he recognized a fear in her eyes that was not unlike his own --a fear that spoke of terror and confusion at the idea of being caught in a trap. From the girl's perspective, it likely appeared that she had been lured by Genevieve into having sex with an awaiting rut-addled Alpha in an alley where no one would be able to hear her scream. It had probably happened to her in some way before, if her desperation to seek illegal heat suppressants was any indication. How abused was she? How many times had she been forced to endure sexual assault with an Alpha? How much of her life had she spent in fear of being lured into a situation that very closely resembled what they were currently putting her through? 

"Stop." John spoke firmly as the girl continued to scream, sound muffled through Genevieve's gloved hands. Her tears ran dirty over Genevieve's fingers, and she had just attempted to bite the hand when John grabbed her face roughly in his hand and snapped her face towards him. "I'm an Omega."

The reaction was instantaneous as the girl's sobbing was cut in half, and the bottle of fake suppressants rattled to the ground and rolled away. Devastating silence filled the area. 

"I'm just like you. I'm not going to hurt you." John spoke slowly, pulling her face back to him when she cut her eyes miserably at Sherlock. "Don't look at him. He's not going to hurt you, either. He is an Alpha, but he's also a good person."

John didn't catalog the look of surprise flash over Sherlock's face as the girl continued to cry silently and desperately. 

"What's your name?" John asked, sweetly brushing her hair out of the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her trembling was intense, and her hiccuping did nothing to help her begin to speak to him.

"Stevie." She replied brokenly, sucking in air like it physically hurt to try and make peace with the current situation.

"Why are you trying to get illegal suppressants, Stevie?" John asked softly, wiping the tears off of her face. "I'm a general practitioner. If you registered with the N.A.O.D., I could write you a prescription for free. You wouldn't have to worry about all of this criminal shit."

"They came for me once." She spoke, voice echoing exhaustion. "If I register and make myself public, they'll be able to find me again. They said they would."

"Who will?"

"Is it Lysander?" Sherlock asked eagerly, mouth thinning into a line when the girl winced at his volume and turned from him.

"Eyes only on me, love." John spoke softly, turning her away from Sherlock.

"Men came for me. They must have drugged me, because my knife was gone. I never got it back. It's still at the house." She whispered, shaking and hoarse with the effort. "I woke up in a car, and they took me to Lysander's house, but I managed to get out after three weeks. There were other kids waiting there. People like us. They were supposed to be shipped the day after I got out."

"What house did they take you to?"

"I don't know. It had a cobble-stone garden with Shasta daisies and bird feeders, but our house-guard Terry only let us look out from the windows in the sun room, so I never saw anything except the garden. The car windows were tinted, but I think they took me to the upper--" Before she could finish, a rattle was heard as Lisa turned the corner and ran towards them with a serious look on her face. A radio in her hand had been tuned to attach to police signals in the area, and a female officer was spewing reports on the other end.

"Someone reported screaming coming from this area. The police are coming." Lisa spoke urgently, and with Genevieve's guard down, Stevie twisted and broke into a sprint that had her tearing down the alley with a violent scream. At the first mention of the police, Genevieve was already gone.

"Stop her!" Bellowed Sherlock, until Lisa grabbed his arms and held him back when he tried to spring after her. "Get off."

"Let this one go, Sherlock. The police are here and we'll get arrested and questioned." She spoke quickly, mouth nearly touching his ear.

"She had direct information." Sherlock snapped, twisting as John stepped in front of him to hold him back. "We won't get a lead like that again. That took days of planning."

"She's gone, Sherlock." John spoke emphatically, moving so that Sherlock lost his vantage point of Stevie's escape. John cringed when he heard a few shrill sirens approaching their latitude. Moving in quickly, he placed his mouth next to Sherlock's ear and spoke darkly: "If you don't calm the hell down, we'll get arrested on suspicion, and you'll lose the chance of ever solving this case anyway."

"If you don't get the fuck off of me--"

"They'll take John into custody and put you two in separate cells. That what you want?" She hissed angrily in his ear. The imagery must have worked, because Sherlock stopped pulling and violently slung her off of him. 

"We're leaving." Sherlock snapped furiously at John, and John walked with the two of them down the alley as the sounds of the girl's screams faded away, only to be replaced with accelerating sirens. 

With Lisa taking the lead through several different twists, John finally spotted Chesney waiting ever-faithfully but nervously with the car, clearly having spotted the cops drive by his station. Lisa slid into the front seat, and John nearly tripped when Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the car before sliding in himself.

"You better drive with the most stealth you've ever had, Chesney." Lisa remarked seriously, sliding the belt into place. John knew it was an intense moment, because Chesney offered no sarcastic retort, and instead drove the car with the most quiet guile he was capable of.

When they were finally in the clear after eight minutes of driving, John fell back against the seat and waited for Sherlock to absolutely lose it. 

"Why the hell did you let her run away?" Sherlock snapped, fury coming off of him in vibrating waves. John only ever saw this fury when someone interrupted difficult cases when he was on the very verge of solving them. "Is the point of this mission not to save these idiots from being trafficked?"

"Don't you fucking dare call them idiots." Lisa turned, face red and terribly angry as she pointed an accusatory finger at him. Sherlock might as well have called her an idiot. "They feel they don't have a choice. Being an Alpha doesn't hold half the danger that an Omega does, so don't you fucking dare sit in this car and pretend that they have the luxury of a more intelligent choice."

"Lisa." Chesney interrupted, casting a few nervous glances between her and the road. "Now is probably not the best time t--"

"They compromise themselves by refusing to register with the N.A.O.D." Sherlock spat. "If they placed as much importance on their lives as they do a social stigma, this wouldn't be a problem to begin with. You'd have to find your self-righteousness in some other 'helpless' group of people."

"Are you planning on registering any time soon?" She screeched. "Let's see how fast your cases drop when you become part of this 'animalistic, medieval' minority. I fucking want you to pretend that your dignity doesn't mean as much to you as your life, just so that I can throw it in your face a year from now when the community of London doesn't adore you anymore."

"If you ever see her again, be sure to tell her that it was you who ensured her life of forced pregnancies out of 'dignity." Sherlock spat venomously. "That's assuming she's alive after she hemorrhages from the forced breeding."

"You don't actually care!" Lisa nearly shrieked as both Chesney and John snapped at them to be quiet. "Hell, you'd let John get heat-fucked if it meant you could see Lysander's face when he did it."

"Hey! That's enough!" Chesney snapped, and John ran utterly rigid and cold at her implication.

She had known about his Omega positivity, too. How had she known? Was it obvious in Sherlock's treatment of him? She couldn't smell it on him like an Alpha could, so had Terry said something?

His question went unresolved, however, when Sherlock slammed his fist against the window with enough power to etch a long, single crack up through the glass. The atmosphere utterly plummeted then, and not a word was said as Sherlock's breathing became heavy and pained.

"If you ever imply something of that nature about me again, I will not hesitate to hurt you." Sherlock seethed nefariously, gloved hand clenched and shaking against the glass. "And if you so much as utter a word of John's Omega positivity to anyone outside of this car, I will have you shot in front of Harlan Hadley."

"What?" Chesney barked, turning around to face Sherlock in total disbelief. "Jesus Christ!" 

"How did you know about him?" She demanded, face bleeding into a sickly pale as she brought her hand to her mouth. "Who told you about hi--"

Her question went unformed, however, as Chesney slammed on the breaks, causing all four of them to jolt forward as the car pulled to a jarring stop in the middle of the street. A passing car blared the horn and swerved to the side, but Chesney merely removed the key and turned to face the three of them

"Get out. You're all being so fucking terrible it's making me sick. Get. Out." Chesney barked, hands white-knuckling the wheel.

John saw that the car was parked two blocks from Baker Street, and at this rate, he wasn't entirely sure Lisa and Sherlock wouldn't literally hurt each other in the spanse of time it would take the get there. The decision was made for him, however, when Sherlock exited the car like a bat out of hell and strode down the street, curls wild and the Belstaff whirring in the night. 

Before leaving the car, John reached and gripped Chesney's shoulder with a squeeze of reassurance. The ginger boy only looked at him in utter misery, no doubt wondering if the last hour's volatility had entirely severed a friendship with John and Sherlock that he was learning to love, but no doubt feeling torn between defending his cousin unconditionally as well.

"It's fine, Chesney." John offered, still feeling shaky as Chesney swallowed thickly and nodded in reply. John glanced in the passenger seat to find Lisa with crossed arms looking lost and terribly jaded. "Go home and sleep. Both of you. We'll talk it over tomorrow."

When Chesney pulled the car away, John looked ahead to find no sign of Sherlock. 

Entering 221b, John barely made it in the door before he was tripping backwards, body being slammed against the wall as Sherlock's teeth bit his mouth in wild desperation. It must have been the adrenaline, because John grabbed Sherlock's own face and began kissing him with a hunger he had never known in his life. 

Sherlock genuinely seemed to be making growling noises, and he found himself so desperate to consume Sherlock that he was stumbling back, body slamming painfully onto the stairs. Sherlock descended on top of him, damn near animalistic in his attempt to kiss John straight through the stairs. John could only cradle Sherlock's face in his hands, desperate to get Sherlock as close to him as was physically possible. 

Call it a change in biology, call it hormones, call it an adrenaline high, call it whatever. All he knew was that the change he was waiting for was clearly beginning to happen, and the idea that he had never "wanted" Sherlock seemed fundamentally strange. 

John heard the slide of Sherlock's zip as the detective pulled his cock free and began vigorously pumping it with his hand while still kissing John with thoughtless haste. He tried to reach for it, but Sherlock merely smacked his hand away and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Carelessly, he ripped John's shirt open and dropped onto John, rutting his cock against the softness of his belly with a groan. John felt the pubic hairs sliding against his skin, and he was so hard himself that potential orgasm was more of a relief than a pleasure.

Sherlock made soft, broken "Ah's" every time his cock slid over John's belly in a certain way, and the hard flesh felt strange and good being ground into him. Sherlock was fully rutting now, kissing being completely abandoned to make room for total concentration in riding John's body in this way. With his hands braced on the stairs, Sherlock thrust against John one last time, and John knew he had finished when Sherlock's mouth fell open in a silent "o" as his cock twitched once and finally spurted the first stream of come over his belly button.

"It's fine." John whispered into Sherlock's hair when he lay his head on John's chest and continued to ride hard, small sobs escaping him as the come shot over John's body. Still fully dressed, Sherlock tucked his face into the crook of John's neck and rubbed the last few spurts out onto John's navel. "It's alright, love."

"Should we separate?" Sherlock asked dejectedly, face tucked into John's shoulder as he held onto John like a lifeline. 

"I don't know, Sherlock." John offered tiredly, heart dropping into the pit of his stomach as Sherlock voiced the very concern he spent his night's thinking about. "I don't know."

Chapter Text

Crossing his arms against the cold, John drew into himself as he and Sherlock sat on the sixth step of the stairwell, both stewing in the static of their own quiet after a hysterical round of rutting that prompted the question of whether or not they should permanently separate.

"Would you--" John tried, mouth thinning in frustration as he ran a hand through his hair. "If it came to that, I'd have to know that you'd make an effort to stay okay." 

"I've never been society's definition of 'okay."

"I'm not talking about a societal definition. I'm talking about our definition." John explained, trying to throw water on the charged atmosphere. "If I left, you'd have to promise me that you'd try to be decent in the best way that you know how."

"I won't promise anything."

"How am I supposed to leave if I can't trust you to be okay?" John asked, frustrated but entirely unsurprised by Sherlock's apathy. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You're supposed to stay." Came the cold retort, and John instantly retreated. It was one of Sherlock's rare, vulnerability-laced confessions that had been occurring at a frankly uncomfortable rate as of late.  

"I'd do anything, Sherlock. Anything to change this." John spoke intensely, drawing in on himself as the cold and the sobriety riddled through him. "But I can't, and neither can you. This isn't a puzzle to solve or a game to win. This will be the new normal, and I won't sit here and watch the destruction if I know we could have stopped it."

Sherlock offered no reply, and the room ran quiet as both he and Sherlock lay on the stairs in a heavy, exhausted silence. As far as John was concerned, the entire night could go to hell.

"Where would you go?" Sherlock asked after five minutes of uncomfortable silence. 

"I don't know." John admitted, clearing his throat and trying to stretch the tremor out of his hand. "Might live with Harry for a few months until I can get on my feet. She's hell, though. It would probably end up being a few weeks, just until I could get involved with a clinic or something. I grew up in the country. Might be nice to get back to that."

"I'd move out of London." Sherlock finally offered, eyes closed as he lay sleepily against the stairs with his arms crossed against the cold. "Don't live with Harry. She'll bring the limp back."

So he had been thinking about it as well.

"Where would you go?" John asked, carefully treading the waters of this topic. 

"A place I could keep bees, I imagine. I've always wanted to study hive dynamics."

"Seriously, though."

"I am being serious." 

"...really? Bees?" John asked, turning to look at the almost-sleeping detective in disbelief. "You?"

"Yes, John."

"You're into that sort of thing?"

"That 'sort of thing' would be incredibly insightful and is vastly under-researched compared to current studies of other insect groups."

"Seriously, how did I not know this?"

"Because you don't invest any interest into the world of organic science." Sherlock waived sleepily. "Or anything other than toast and jam, for that matter."

"No, I mean how did I not know that you have a thing for bees?"

"Because it would require observational skills that at least rival a mule."

"Wow. Fuck you and your bees." John commented, a smile betraying his facade. "I'm genuinely trying to understand your sexual feelings towards bugs, and all you can give in return is unwarranted sass."

"I can assure you I only have sexual feeling towards one insect at the moment, and I'm fairly sure it's you."

"That was uncalled for. And gross." John laughed, full and throaty this time. "Forget I asked. No, seriously. I don't care anymore. You killed my curiosity. Destroyed it."

"Bee's are incredibly intelligent." Came the sleepy response. "They're critical to the function of life as we know it, yet they are dying at an alarming rate each year, and no one knows exactly why. The function of entire ecosystems hinges on their continued existence. Long story short: if they die, so does humanity. I intend to find out why. Nothing that small should ever have the power to destroy everything."

If there was a metaphor there, John pointedly didn't react.

"Is that why you spend an ungodly amount of money on the local honey?" John asked, trying to lighten the heaviness of the atmosphere. "Are you trying to apply the scientific method to it? Do you whisper sweet nothings to it when I'm away?"

"No. I buy it so that you'll feel compelled to make me tea." He explained, voice fading more and more as his breathing began to even. "It's a shame you've been too obtuse to make the connection thus far."

"Ta for that, mate." John laughed. "That's all fine, it's just...bee keeping is so...domestic. The whole thing is, really. That sounds like an ordinary life. A good life, but definitely ordinary. I guess I'm just a little surprised."

"In all transparency, I'd likely go to a place with higher-minded crime and a lack of anything resembling the life I had here."

John didn't ask, but mostly because he had an inkling of the same feeling on the subject. If he lost this life with Sherlock, he'd never want anything close to it again. It would be the equivalent of picking a scab and bleeding every day, never truly being able to heal completely from the loss if there was always a poor substitute to remind him of the life he had here --a rarity customized for him that could never be decently replicated.

And it had been a great life --a hard, painful, excellent life with Sherlock that should never, would never, and could never be replaced by an insufficient mirror image.

No. If he lost this life, he'd commit fully to being the locum doctor and would never again look back. 

"Would you still do the detective thing?"

"I imagine it would largely lose its appeal."

"It wouldn't be all bad, you know." John offered, hand fiddling idly with his fingernail. "Mycroft wants this to happen, so I'm sure he'd pay to set you up in an expensive flat somewhere. You could have all the crime and hives you want --could even go into the honey business if you wanted."

"Mm."

"Of course, without my blogging, it might mean the end of your reign. You'd be written out of the history books, mate."

"The loss of celebrity would be a welcome change." He remarked drowsily, subconsciously chasing John's hand through his hair. "That infernal blog has contributed to the loss of my anonymity. I can't walk down the street without shameless women invading my--" He trailed off, too sleepy to finish the sentence.

"And we could see each other every now and again. Somebody's got to make sure you're eating properly--"

And then it hit him. A bizarre, almost supernatural essence of what he could only describe as a feeling of powerful, devastating loss. He exhaled an aborted breath, and Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him quizzically before his mouth thinned into a pale line and he turned away.

"Alpha-Omega empathic communication. Page 194." He remarked quietly.

"Although many cases have surfaced in the last century, Alpha-Omega empathic communication is a rarity even within the community of the Alpha-Omega genome, with an estimated 23% of the AO population being capable of empathetic communication. Prior case studies performed before the 18th century attributed the ability to supernatural causes; however, the AO Genome Project carried out by Epicenter Sciences in the 1940's theorized that the empathy is based on a sudden and highly-concentrated release of pheromones in response to high-spectrum emotional distress from the 'sending' partner. These high-energy pheromones are so concentrated that they can be realistically received in the sensory receptors of Alpha's and Omega's, thus recreating in the recipient a physical 'mirror feeling' of whatever emotion is being released by the sender. Because of the elevated threshold for sensory information found only in the AO community, non-AO humans are incapable of acting as recipients of empathetic pheromones, and will never be capable of 'feeling' the pheromones of another. This is a highly developed trait that remains as one of the most understudied characteristics of the AO genome. (Bassam-Keller, 194)."

"Jesus Christ." John whispered, hand instinctively hovering over his chest for the unwarranted ache he felt in his sternum. If this was the degree of emotion that could be shared between Alpha-Omega individuals, it wasn't surprising at all that Harlan was literally dying from his assumed loss of Lisa. He had seen it firsthand in Harlan and in Afghanistan, but he had always been a skeptic. Had he known that it was a literal pain, he never would have undermined the science behind it.

John had barely managed to catch his breath from the blunt pain before Sherlock was moving to make an escape off the stairs. 

Snatching his gloved hand, John hauled himself to his feet and wrapped one arm around Sherlock, pulling him into an exhausted but firm embrace. Sherlock ran rigid, but John didn't care, because he hadn't known the depth of sorrow and loss that the eradication of this life would mean for Sherlock. 

"I didn't know. I'm your friend through and through, but I didn't know it meant that much." John said, mouth against Sherlock's curls. 

"It's fine."

"I didn't know you felt about it the way I did."

And with those words, it was the breaking of a rafter that had Sherlock letting go and finally leaning into John, head buried in his neck as John welcomed the full weight of Sherlock. Sherlock exhaled a truly shaken breath of air, and John braced himself as the full breadth of Sherlock's pent-up sorrow hit him along with a terrible surge in anger.

"Your assumptions of my regard for you have always been incorrect, but since you can feel it now, I expect that you will never again attempt to doubt the value I place on--" He cut himself off, too angry to speak if the channeled well of fury invading John was anything to go by. "You said 'every now and again.' How dare you. How could you possibly suggest that as a reasonable alternative?" 

And it made sense. Sherlock, always having glorified his ability to stay objective, building a life and a heart and a career on pure logic, was having another aspect of his foundation completely stripped by the Alpha positivity. Sherlock's cornerstone of suppressed sentimentality had been knocked out from beneath his feet and could now be felt by John in high-definition color. It had to be incredibly invasive and threatening to someone like Sherlock who had spent the majority of his adult life building himself into a well-oiled machine. If Sherlock was feeling sorrow, John would intimately know that sorrow. If Sherlock was feeling hurt and vulnerable, John would feel that hurt and vulnerability. If Sherlock was in the throes of a black mood, John would feel the spiral himself.

Sherlock would never again be able to lie or hide or pretend. He would always be vulnerable at a moment's notice.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad for it." John spoke firmly. "I'm fucking thrilled that you can't hide this from me anymore, but I know how important it is to you to stay above the sentiment, and I'd never make a mockery of it. Do you get that? I'd never abuse this, Sherlock."

Pulling back, Sherlock slowly placed his forehead against John's and stayed for a long minute of sorrow. Before the moment broke, he simply brought his mouth against John's and breathed his air, hands cradling John's face like it was the very cornerstone he had lost to this sickness. 

"At some point, we may have to make the decision to separate." Sherlock spoke against John's mouth, lips sliding softly against his. "But for tonight, I want to sleep. And I want you with me."

"Alright." 

------ Two Hours Later -----

It was a true testament to the distress the change was inflicting on Sherlock, because the detective had fallen into a profound state of sleep thirty minutes after John lay with him on their floor. Denying the bedrooms, Sherlock preferred to throw the pillows and duvet on the floor and wrap himself around John. He spent the first ten minutes running back to double-check that all doors and windows were locked, and when a cab spent more time on the street than was appropriate, Sherlock stood in front of the window and watched them until they left. After the cab left, he finally lay on the floor and pulled John down to him.

It wasn't great for John's back, but the "nest" approach seemed to calm Sherlock more than the beds did, although it usually managed to arouse Sherlock at least a little, especially in light of the fact that Sherlock hadn't resolved his rut with full heat intercourse. John had adamantly denied Sherlock's request to take his shirt off, but it wasn't long before Sherlock began to try and softly rut against John anyway, though eventually aborting the movement when sleep finally trumped the effort.

Unfortunately, John was well past the point of sleeplessness despite the night's events with Chesney and Lisa. 

With as much guile as he was physically capable, John carefully removed himself from the floor, observed the softness of Sherlock's sleeping face, and made a decision.

Harlan.

Leaving a note for Sherlock next to the kettle, John took one last glance at the head of curls lying on the pillow before he quietly left the comfort of their flat. Catching a cab, John eventually pulled into Harlan's detention center and stood in front of the building against the bitter cold of a dark blue morning. 

He walked the sterile halls and beside windowless doors until he was escorted by a detention associate into the civil meeting room with the glass partition dividing the room. Sitting down, he folded his hands and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, the door on the other end was opened, and John felt his stomach dropped when Harlan, sitting in a wheelchair, was escorted in by one nurse pushing the wheelchair, and the other guiding the IV pole and pump alongside him. When the nurse parked the wheelchair across from him, John observed the boy's yellowing complexion and his thinning black hair.

From his uni days, he knew that one of the primary causes of death in Alpha-Omega bond breaks was the refusal to eat or drink. The boy looked gaunt, and his hair was thinning, indicating a sharp and extended drop in his daily calorie intake. His blue eyes had dulled to a slate grey, and the saline drip was likely the only form of hydration that was keeping him alive. It wouldn't surprise him at all if a decision would soon be made to force-feed him with an NG tube.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." Harlan smirked, though the bite from a few weeks ago had been replaced by a fragile breathlessness.

"I'm not sure I haven't." John replied, swallowing heavily around the lump in his throat. If the boy didn't look so much like Sherlock, he would likely be able to stay a little more objective. "You're...not okay."

"Nope. You'd think I was dying or something." He said, scratching idly at the bandage where the needle perforated his skin. "But we both knew this would happen. If we're lucky, I might be dead the next time you come around for a round of insecure relationship advice. How is Sherlock, by the way? Grabbing his dick every time you bend over?"

"Do you really want to waste your last breaths insulting someone who doesn't give a shit?"

"Ugh. Fine. What should we talk about this time?" He asked, rolling his blood-shot eyes as he ripped the IV needle out of his arm with a small hiss. This was likely the only time he was allowed liberty from the nurses.

"That's a bad idea." John snapped, watching as a bead of blood welled and the needle swung lazily from the pole.

"So is an Alpha and Omega sharing a flat." Harlan commented as he held his thumb over the blood. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw dildos. Or something like that."

"Harlan."

"Judging by your short fuse, I'm going to assume you still haven't allowed yourself to ride Sherlock like a horse." He commented, rubbing his thumb against the wound to relieve the pain.

"No. I'm helping him in other ways, but he'll need heat sex. I'm not going to do that with him."

"Then you better start packing your bags, John, because you're about a day away. I can smell it. If he's been labouring under an unresolved rut, he will hurt you, and he'll flog himself for doing it."

"I'm leaving tomorrow." John replied, solidifying the decision in his mind. He could tell he was getting close to the heat, and Harlan's prediction was the only empirical evidence he otherwise needed to move forward in his decision. "I'll spend it somewhere else. He won't know where I am."

"Bring lots of toys. It's going to be one hell of an experience." He explained. "But don't bring them back to the flat. They'll only piss him off."

"I came to ask you a serious question." John interrupted, fingers tapping impatiently on the table. "Surely we're past this point. 

"Go for it." He replied flatly, eyes surveying the room with a bored scrutiny. "I've got the rest of my life."

"If I separate from him permanently, will he end up like you?"

"Will he end up in a wheelchair weighing 114 pounds?"

"He already weighs about half of that. No, will he respond to it like a death?"

"That depends." Came the somewhat sobered reply. "You and Sherlock never bonded, and neither one of you has died; but yes, it could still happen. The question you should be asking is whether Sherlock would try to recover or not. That determines a lot in how he'll cope. But you're assuming that Sherlock will be the one to fall apart in all of this. Have you ever considered how you will react to a separation? Seems sort of premature to assume that you're going to handle this any better than he will."

"I told you. I value what we have more than I value my comfort. I can endure anything if I know he'll be better for it in the end." John explained, feeling something sort of fracture inside of him at the actual formation of the words he had so long suppressed.

"You sound like someone I once knew." He smiled, eyes seeming to dim in remembrance.

"Your mate Lisa?"

"Hah. No." He replied, a sickly smile stretching over his gaunt bones as he mindlessly tapped the metal of the wheel. "Lisa loved me, but she was never prepared to do anything for me. I always knew that. But I...she was still mine, even if she didn't want to be. I never felt compelled to 'own' her until we activated the gene, and then it was impossible to just be friends like we used to be. She hated being a possession, but she couldn't fight it either. Because of that, she deviated between selfless love and selfish independence. She died without ever finding a balance between the two."

If John were a better person, he would tell Harlan that she was still alive. But it wasn't his to own. It didn't belong to him.

Before anything else could be explored, the door screeched open and a nurse appeared in the doorway. She pointed at the clock, and Harlan turned back to John.

"Tomorrow. You need to leave tomorrow. That's the best advice I can give you for now. Leave, and go back when it's over." Harlan said, voice subdued when the nurse made her way over. "One step at a time, Soldier John. One step at a time."

"I'll be back to see you." John replied, standing from the chair and willing away the tremor in his hand. "I'm not through with you."

"If I'm still alive, you mean." Harlan laughed, saluting John as he was turned and wheeled away towards the door.

"One step at a time, Harlan." John called, unhappy as the door slammed shut and all traces of Harlan disappeared. 

"Tomorrow." John thought. "I have until tomorrow."

Chapter Text

With Harlan's rapidly deteriorating condition on his mind, John exited the detention center feeling as though he left with less information than he walked in with. Harlan had answered his question as best he could, even confirming John's own suspicion that his heat was due tomorrow, but the whole exchange left John feeling oddly hollow. 

He felt like he had been knocked off of his axis -a planet now spinning with a wobble.

It wasn't especially affirming of John's option to permanently leave Sherlock in light of Harlan's current condition. Physical death in response to separation was so radical in nature that it was usually isolated only to the bonded couples, but Harlan seemed unsure, and John wasn't willing to risk Sherlock falling into any shade of what Harlan was currently labouring under. Their similar appearances left John feeling unsettled enough as it was without having to endure the actual thing.

But Sherlock didn't have the same dependency on John that bonded Alpha-Omega couples had for each other once biology entered the picture. Even without that change in biology, John was never Sherlock's intentional choice or concerted effort, but rather a pleasant coincidence that he stumbled onto once upon a time in Bart's. As long as John was alive and decently healthy somewhere safe, there was a good chance that Sherlock would continue on with a life that was only lacking in constant companionship and occasional tea. 

He wouldn't want it, obviously. Sherlock did care deeply for him. But it wouldn't kill him, and John was losing hope that they could expect anything better than that.

Walking back through the center's hallways, John felt a strange affection for Harlan that he normally didn't develop for others. He was always diplomatic, sure; but his attitude for Harlan seemed too personal --too close to home. Objectively, it could be his own flaring hormones causing the elevated empathy for Alpha distress, but it seemed more sincere than that. Because of the similarity between the two, it may have been John projecting too much of Sherlock onto Harlan. But helping Harlan now wasn't his project to own. That belonged to-- 

"He's bad?"

With his arm extended to flag down a cab, John abruptly turned to find Lisa standing with her arms crossed against the cold, clear-cut misery and vulnerability evident in her jaded posture as she leaned against the concrete walls of the center. With Sherlock's early vitriol against her paired with the revelation that they both knew of her abandonment of Harlan, she had quite obviously lost some of her effervescence.

And that was all good and well with John, because every body was fucking losing. Every body. Harlan was losing his life, Sherlock was losing his sodding mind, Chesney was losing his smile, and John was losing sleep, time, his cool, himself and his goddamned friendship.  

"He's dying." John remarked flatly, making an intentional effort not to sound angry, but clearly failing to do so. "So yes. He's bad."

"You have questions." She spoke after a long stretch of silence.

"Tons." He remarked in disinterest, turning away from her as she remained slumped against the wall. 

"You're going to ask why I lied to him. Why I'm letting him die."

"At some point I might, but I'm really not in the mood tonight." He commented, still extending his hand for a cab. "No, tonight, I'm going to go home and have a very long, very hot bath, and my questions can fuck right off until that's happened."

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier. In the cab." She shifted, clearly uncomfortable with herself. "That wasn't on. I was trying to provoke him, not embarrass you."

"It's fine." He snapped. 

"I only knew you were an Omega because of Sherlock's behaviour. He's fiercely concerned with you."

"Really, it's fine." Stop. Stop talking.

"It's not normal for Alpha's to be that protective of their non-Omega relationships, so I just figured..." She trailed off quietly, relentless in this conversation even as John ignored her. "I didn't smell it on you or anything. If you were concerned."

"I wasn't." He was. 

"He looks like Sherlock, doesn't he?"

"Sure." Yes. Terribly. Enough to make me sick --enough that I can see what that insane, self-righteous twat would look like on his death bed, and it's ruining me.

"That's why you can't divorce yourself from Harlan. He hits too close to home."

"Go home, Lisa." What is wrong with these fucking cabs--

"Or maybe it's because Harlan is a mirror image of Sherlock's future if you do decide to leave."

"I'm not leaving him." John snapped, cursing under his breath as cab after cab continued to drive by.

"You hate me."

"I hate this gene!" John finally bellowed, rounding on her with an incandescent fury that was really a long, long time coming. "I hate the whole thing! There's not an ounce of this fucking circus that I don't hate. But as I don't have a choice in the matter, I'm trying to work with it so that my best friend doesn't end up like your fucking train-wreck in there." He gestured bitterly towards Harlan's detention center.

Unsurprised by the outburst, she simply observed John in silence as his chest heaved and his heart pounded wildly in his ears. 

"And sometimes, you even want to hate Sherlock, too."

Momentarily stunned, John opened his mouth to refute the claim, but merely braced himself on his knees when the full breadth of her words registered. Did he hate Sherlock for this? 

"Why would I--" He tried, clearing his throat when the emotion came too close to the surface. "Why do I?"

"Because they got off better." She spoke brokenly, eyes welling as the wind swept her hair from her face. "And you'll never get him back."

Feeling that God-awful wetness springing in his eyes, John turned away from her and desperately tried to breathe, to make sense of this, to calm down and rationalize.

"I know you look at Harlan and think 'How could she? How could she stand to kill her own mate?' But you have to understand, John. You have to understand why things didn't work after we changed." She spoke, tears now flowing unbidden "And I...if there was another way to have a life with him, you have to know that I'd do anything, John. But Harlan, he...he wanted to own me, body, soul and mind, and there were great things I wanted to do that I couldn't without him hiding me away from the world. Before we changed, we were a team, John. We were a fucking team. He was my person." 

"I can't--" He tried, struggling to put a tamper on the emotion. He hadn't cried in years, but he was so, so tired from trying to make it all work. The grief of mourning his own self was nothing compared to the grief of mourning his life with Sherlock. He could already see burgeoning evidence of Sherlock's desire to possess him, and he would never be able to weather a life of being owned. That was never in the cards for him. It was why he chose the army, why he hated his label as "side-kick." Other things like sex and heats he could tolerate and make sense of, but he would never be decently "owned" --not even if it was Sherlock doing the owning.  

"Harlan was always hurting because I was always hurting, and it came to a point where 95% of our relationship was brutal fucking or brutal fighting. There was no place I could go where he wouldn't find me, so I had to orchestrate a lie with Rexfield Barcroft, and Harlan killed the man for it. He lost his mind."

"No. No, that's--" John began, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "He lost his mate."

"But I'm saving others, John. Others like us. Harlan never would have let me do what we're doing to help these Omegas."

"He's dying for your crusade."

"I spend every day of my life feeling his pain and knowing his sorrow. Do you think I don't know the pain of death?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. I'm not the one who's dying in a detention center."

"I know you think you can afford to take an outsider's perspective, but my choices will soon become your choices, John." She spoke firmly, eyes blazing with burdened resolve. "And when they do, you're going to have to decide whether you want to preserve your friendship, or preserve his life. Because you can't have both. Not people like us."

"What will you do?" John spoke, finally managing to halt a cab as he regained his composure. 

"I'll stay here for a while." She said, looking despondently back to the building. "It's nice when I...when I can be near him. I hope it is for him, too."

Slamming the door, John's head whirled with bright information and emotions all ricocheting off of each other, but in the midst of the chaos, the only thought he honed in on was the single desire to get to Sherlock as soon as possible. 

The cab ride home lasted thirty minutes or thirty years, he wasn't exactly sure. But the second it pulled into 221b, John exited the cab and fled up the stairs. Wrenching the door open, he found Sherlock, groomed and polished, standing in front of one of his bullshit experiments, looking totally alive and engaged and happy in his element.

"John, what have you done with all of the graduated cylind--"

"Shut up." John snapped, knocking a beaker out of Sherlock's hand. It fell to the ground with a shatter of glass, but John merely pulled him into a fierce embrace. "Just shut up. Please."

Stunned, Sherlock held his hands awkwardly in the air before he, too, pulled John close to him and buried his mouth in the soft hair on John's head.

"...sentiment?" Sherlock asked, sounding utterly at a loss with the entire enterprise. 

"Something like that."

"You smell like saltwater. Why do you--" It must have registered, because Sherlock immediately pulled John off of him and looked at him with nothing but storms in his eyes. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm fine. It's all fine. You're fine." He spoke, nearly collapsing in relief at the idea. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're fine."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Then why the hell--"

Reaching up, John cradled Sherlock's face in his hands and brought their mouths together gently. Insisting on an answer, Sherlock initially tried to stay indignant, but instead aborted his question in favor of grabbing John with both hands around his neck and deepening the kiss with a few satisfied moans. It was sweet kissing; the kind of kissing that speaks more of love than lust, and John needed this affirmation from Sherlock.

"I should tell you that this kind of activity doesn't alleviate my desire to bend you over a table." Sherlock spoke between kisses, lips soft and swollen. "But I imagine that is because I am currently experiencing the effects of another micro-heat."

"How long?" John asked, essentially uninterested in light of getting at Sherlock's tongue.

"Three hours." He whispered, nearly unable to in his effort to consume John's mouth. "I...took care of it with one of your shirts."

"You...you what?" He asked breathlessly, pulling back as Sherlock dove to work on his neck with sweet nips and licks. "Jesus."

"I could feel the frenzy starting, and you weren't here to...aid, so I fetched one of your dirty shirts from the laundry and resolved the problem."

"You had a wank with my shirt?"

"Mm." Came the reply as Sherlock attempted to pull John's shirt over his head. "Twice. I need to catalog my changes in sperm production since the activation of the gene. There was quite a difference --thirty-six CC's at the very least."

"Right, hah. We...Christ, we need to talk."

"Can you speak with a cock in your mouth?"

"Oh, God." John moaned, eyes closing as Sherlock palmed him through his trousers. "I have to leave tomorrow."

The effect was instantaneous as Sherlock stopped and stepped back to stare at John in total bewilderment, clearly waiting for the punchline.

"What?"

"Not permanently. Just for a few days. It's the heat, Sherlock, it's..." He inwardly cringed, hating the very idea of it. "It's tomorrow."

Sherlock searched John's eyes for any tells or signs of foul play, but when he found none, he merely frowned.

"Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure. Some place isolated. I might be gone 2-3 days, but I'll be back as soon as I can." 

"No."

"I have to." He spoke calmly, reaching up to massage Sherlock's nape when a sudden influx of Sherlock's anxiety and frustration hit him hard in the chest. He would never properly get used to the empathy thing. "It's only for a short while. It's like going to a medical conference. I've done those loads of times."

"Mycroft." Sherlock spoke, brushing past John and rifling through the Belstaff pockets to get at his phone. 

"Sherlock." He sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand down his face in frustration. It was always a battle.

"I'm calling Mycroft, John."

"No. You're really not."

"Watch me." Sherlock stated with no room for protest as his fingers sped over the keyboard. 

"I don't want him involved with this."

"I don't either, but he can relocate you to the most secure place in London with the highest concentrations of CCTV access."

"Sherlock, I don't need--"

"I do." Sherlock interrupted frigidly, face intense as he fired the text off to Mycroft and shoved the phone in his pocket. "Contrary to your opinion, this isn't actually about you. If I know that you have received the most optimal security, I won't fall apart in the wake of your absence with thoughts of your vulnerability. Mycroft can provide you with accommodations that are far outside our resources; and this time, you're going to let him because it's what I want."

"Alright. That's fine." John replied, hands coming up in a sign of surrender. With the near-constant tension, he was willing to pick and choose his battles these days. "I've got to pack and get food."

"I'll get it."

"Why." He asked rigidly, mouth thinning into a line and positively daring Sherlock to answer this the wrong way. He could concede to being helped through this. That was fine. He could even tolerate Sherlock taking special precautions to ensure his safety during the heats, but he would be righteously damned if Sherlock tried to coddle him like a child. It wouldn't work like that --they didn't work like that. They were a team.

"Because I don't want you to leave the flat." Sherlock remarked factually, not bothering to spare John a glance as he pulled the Belstaff on.

"Okay, that is the kind of shit that I won't tolerate. I swear to God if you start doing this kind of thing--"

"You are one day away from a heat, and I'm not the only Alpha in London. I'm not going to entertain you with an explanation on why that might bother me." Sherlock spoke darkly, eyes leveling John as he brushed past and headed for the door.  

"And you think all twelve of London's Alphas are going to have their cocks out waiting for me next to the cabbages?"

"Any other time, John, and it'd be fine. But I'm not going to justify my actions to someone who already knows the reason for them." He commented, adjusting his scarf and pulling the door open. "Since you're going to throw something when I leave, make sure it's not the graduated cylinders. Stay here."

And with that parting shot, the door slammed shut with a rattle, and John grabbed the first graduated cylinder he could find and flung it at the door with a curse, failing to feel satisfied even as the glass exploded and sprayed across the floor.

Twelve more hours.

Chapter Text

It was three in the morning, and John was whizzing through the flat with various clothing and food items huddled in his arms and organized over the table. Sherlock's adventure to gather food had been surprisingly successful, which begged the question of why he wasn't capable of getting anything other than bread and lighter fluid on any other day of the week. After sweeping up the glass from the destroyed cylinder, (which made John feel fantastic to destroy, for the record) John began to compose a list of all that he would need to endure a heat cycle that he had never had before. He had tried to reference the needs of the few A/O patients he had taken care of while in Afghanistan and in residency, but the experiences were too few and far between to remember any truly helpful information.

He was treading entirely new ground with this one.

With his heat looming, Mycroft had agreed to meet John around four in the morning with a private car and escort to relocate him to an undisclosed safety house until John's heat subsided. The house was one of Mycroft's personal homes, though it remained largely unused due to its purpose as a last resort home for dire circumstances. The home was built with such secrecy that Mycroft didn't elect to reveal whether the home was located in the country at all, and Sherlock was on the very edge of losing his composure because of it.

"Your brother loves you." John had remarked after Sherlock had ended the call with Mycroft. All that was asked for was an area with a high concentration of security footage, but Mycroft had gone beyond the call of duty to volunteer a personal home that would be routinely visited by a keeper for the duration of John's stay. Uncharacteristically sobered by his brother's display of affection, Sherlock simply nodded his head and excused himself from the room.

Torn between feeling equally grateful and pissed off, John had simply begun the task of folding clothes and packing food items in an overnight bag while Sherlock remained uptight and withdrawn. 

And at 3:47 AM current time, tensions were running blisteringly high in 221b Baker Street.

Although it couldn't be accurately predicted, having his first heat in his forties put his heat duration around the national average of two days for Omega males, but every experience was different and based on personal physicality. Packing t-shirts with light, unobtrusive fabrics and food that was easily stored and prepared, John sealed away the last of his residual doubts of his diagnosis along with the next few days of provisions.

The few patients he had dealt with in the past were entirely put off by food until the end of their heat in which they became overwhelmingly ravenous. Hospital gowns were routinely discarded with the explanation that the starchiness of the fabric was brutal against the skin of a heat-addled individual, and he and the other residents were often directed to let women remain in their beds with no bras or shirts on to cope with the discomfort. Mike Stamford had spent more time treating A/O's than John had, but he wasn't remotely ready to call up his mates and explain the situation, so getting informed help from Mike's expertise was out of the question.

Really, the whole thing was a sparkling nightmare.

He had (mostly) fallen into a place of acceptance with the mutual hand-jobs and kissing, but he couldn't gracefully navigate the process of considering sex toys at the moment. Harlan said he would be realistically begging for them, but he wasn't ready to make that move. For the first heat cycle, he was going to be careful to gauge his need for actual penetration. If he could reasonably endure it, he would opt to leave that part out of the equation; however, if the need was excruciating, he figured he'd cross that bridge when he got there. 

"I've already told Mrs. Hudson to force a full English on you if you stop eating." John said with a quick glance at the brooding detective as he folded a t-shirt over the back of sofa. Sherlock, whose mood had utterly crumpled with every item of clothing John had packed away, was currently lying on the sofa with greasy hair and a stormy outlook on life in general.

"Then I will surely make a pointed effort to develop an eating disorder over the next two days." Came the muffled reply. John made no comment about Sherlock's current use of the gas mask. With his heat arriving a mere few hours away, his smell was probably more potent than it had been in days previous.

"Don't be ridiculous." He quipped boredly as he piled his bags by the door. "You already have an eating disorder."

"I don't have an eating disorder; you just have a self-indulgence disorder."

"Hah, right. If I thought you were in the mood to hold your own right now, this is when I'd make a comment about 7% solutions." John remarked, strolling into the kitchen to empty the cabinets of various contents. With an icy glare, Sherlock turned his back to John and buried his face into the back of the sofa. Cursing, John shook the empty bottle of paracetamol and tossed it. 

"Have you seen the other bottle of--"

"No."

Right. Okay.

"Sherlock, it was right he--"

"No." He snapped.

With an exhausted sigh, John halted his search and turned to observe the man-child currently radiating hatred from his living room. Crossing his arms, John considered the crime scene in front of him for a few tense seconds before he walked over to the detective and stood over him with a frown.

"This doesn't have to be difficult." John spoke, unsurprised when a reply never came. After a few seconds of charged silence, John slid a chair over and sat with his elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely in a position that was quickly becoming familiar. "And neither do you."

With a soft touch, John reached out to brush the damp curls away from Sherlock's neck. Although he tried to remain rigid against the touch, Sherlock eventually unhinged and reveled in the movement of John's fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. 

"It's like a medical conference. Three days tops. It's nothing." He spoke, carding his fingers through the curls. "I've already paid Lisa and Chesney off to get you involved in some more suppressant busts. It'll get you closer to Lysander."

Silence. Infuriating silence.

"It's really not my job to entertain you." John tried, hoping Sherlock might take the bait. 

 Licking his lips, John decided to utilize a different angle of approach.

"Look, Sherlock, this..." He cleared his throat, then carefully tried again. "It's going to be hard enough as it is without...without wondering if you're being destructive. My mind isn't going to be right, and if I'm worried about your health while I'm gone, it might...might make things worse. For both of us."

Silence. 

"Sherlock. Look at me."

With an uncharacteristic shyness, Sherlock rolled over to face John with an expression of defeated misery.

"I know we don't do promises or anything of the sort, so I won't ask for one. But can you assure me this time around that you will try to stay healthy in the best way that you know how?"

"Why should I?" He asked, vulnerability shutting him down and pulling him away from John again --and this? This right here is what John couldn't have. He would go to hell and back for Sherlock Holmes with no questions asked, and he'd make deals with the devil himself to keep Sherlock above water. He'd kill and steal and maim and humble himself into a state of nothingness for this man; but there were times when he needed Sherlock to make the choice to live for someone else when they could not do it for themselves for a spanse of time. 

"Because I need you." John snapped, unapologetic with his rigidity and feeling as though he could cry if he really wanted to. "I need you to be okay so that I can endure these next few days with the knowledge that I can come back and still have this life. I need you to be what you've always been, because I am losing what I've always had."

With a softened expression, Sherlock visibly checked out of the conversation and turned his face from John.

"I will eat."

"How much?"

"700 calories a day." 

"Fine. And sleep?" John asked, having learned to pick and choose his battles. 700 calories was better than a diet of nothing and five cigarettes pawned off of the street.

"Four hours." 

"Jesus, total?"

"A night." He iterated, irritation sharpening the reply.

Nodding once, John leaned in and, against his better judgement, pulled the mask off of his face and kissed Sherlock Holmes softly, surely and without any room for apologies or questions. It was more for reassurance, though the heat was clearly bubbling under the surface if John's eagerness was any indication. 

There was no yield at first, but as John moved to pull away, Sherlock sat up and chased his mouth with a soft, sweet desperation.

"Don't." Sherlock mumbled against his will, hands cradling John's face as he positioned himself to get more leverage to John's mouth. 

And for once, John saw evidence of a Sherlock that wasn't giving in to pure, sloppy self-indulgence. This was Sherlock seeking reassurance in the midst of seeking pleasure, and blurring the lines between the two as the rest of mankind did. This was Sherlock with a childishly human nature; a completely de-mystified, organic man of vulnerability.

"Bad idea." Sherlock growled into his mouth, fingers testing their limits as they pinched the hem of John's shirt. Distantly, John heard the distinctive sound of a car door shutting as the clock struck four with a lazy chime.

"I have to go." John tried, attempting to pull away as Sherlock moved from his mouth to his neck, placing sweet, careful bites and kisses across the skin: and damn if John didn't want to take this further. "Sherlock, I--"

"You're sad." Sherlock spoke, voice graveled as he went back to taking John's mouth at his leisure, and John acknowledged his hatred of the empathic communication more than anything else. "Why are you--"

"They're here." John whispered, the spell broken as the escort, accompanied by Mycroft, rapped loudly on the door below. 

"You'll keep your phone with you." Sherlock stated, eyes half-lidded and lips glossy. Closing his eyes, John swallowed against the wave of anxiety that pulsed from Sherlock. "It's...imperative that you do."

"Right." John huffed through a humourless laugh, lips buzzing as Sherlock kissed them. "And you'll sleep."

"I'll sleep." Sherlock confirmed to himself, seeming to try and solidify this into a game-plan like a forgetful child. "You'll answer and I'll sleep."

The sound of a door creaking finally pulled John away from Sherlock.

"Mycroft." John acknowledged, handing his bags off to the driver standing in the entrance. 

"John." Came the stoic reply as Mycroft stepped through the door, eyes downcast in discretion with the knowledge of what they had just been doing. The driver remained entirely suppressed, opting to simply shake John's hand and begin taking his things to the car. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah." John confirmed, sending Sherlock a look that was not returned. It was done, then. "Yeah, I'm ready."

Although Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship had remained tense, Mycroft had opted to stay entirely reticent about their relationship in light of Sherlock's willingness to call to him for help. It was what Mycroft had wanted all during Sherlock's hell ride through University, and something between them had collapsed at some point that had severed Sherlock's trust. But Sherlock's willingness to call to his brother for help had fixed something, somewhere. Mycroft's gift of thanks must have been his willingness to let Sherlock take entire ownership of this.

Mostly, John was just grateful for Mycroft's lack of intervention into this part of their lives, because he didn't think he could physically stand to explain this to anyone but Sherlock. Mycroft's current sobered demeanor left him observing Sherlock with wariness, clearly gearing up for a fight and waiting for Sherlock to start it.  

"A word, Mycroft." Sherlock spoke, not bothering to spare Mycroft a glance, and John turned to leave before he could hear the following exchange between the brothers. 

Whatever the content of the conversation might be, John was likely to become utterly incandescent if it consisted of ways in which to keep him safe and protected during the most vulnerable time he would experience in his life to date. Unlike his previous quests for danger, this vulnerability wasn't coupled with the purpose he felt in the army or the adrenaline and companionship he felt with Sherlock.

Basically, the current situation was just shit. 

Stepping into the bitter freeze of the dark morning, John slid into the back of the car with a bruised humility. The driver sat entirely ignorantly in front, no doubt having been told nothing of the nature of his involvement with what was transpiring. Knowing Mycroft, he probably likened it to a witness protection type of situation. Glancing towards John in the front mirror, he spoke:

"Cold morning, isn't it?"

"Yes." John spoke absently, hand held under his nose as he nervously watched the door. The golden "221b" was an unexpected comfort in the midst of this kind of unknown, and he was already itching to come back to it.

The clock flicked to 4:11.

"Can't feel my fingers --well, can't feel anything, really." The driver commented, rubbing his hands together quickly as he huffed air into them. "Wish the sun would come up. I'm too old to drive in the dark. Eyes have gone bad."

Before John cold form any sort of courtesy reply, the door wedged open and Mycroft strolled out, pulling a black glove over his hand as he looked briefly to the moon. In the doorway, Sherlock spared him one ambiguous glance, then shut the door with a silent finality. Mycroft's poker face was perfectly unreadable, giving zero indication of the conversation he had just had.

"Ah, well. What's that saying?" The driver mused as he shifted the car into gear. "'It's always darkest before the dawn?' Some shit like that, anyway."

"Yeah." John spoke quietly. "Yeah, it is."