The Omega Sutra. Chapter Four. Heatwave
Title: The Omega Sutra. Chapter Four. Heatwave.
author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,000 this chapter/27,300 so far
Summary: Sherlock has a secret life. John shouldn't want to be part of it.
Warnings: Omegaverse. Explicit sex, kink, excessive masturbation, angst, UST.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
And I love it when you
fall to me
Suddenly
You
and your emotion
I'm on your side
I say a prayer
And you
and your devotion
You're locked away
Alone in there
Cause I don't want you
to feel forgotten
And only you can choose your fate
Remember all the pain
that crossed here
And there's no space to place the blame
And I love it when you
fall to me
Suddenly
You
and your addiction
Inside your face
The truth comes back
Cause you know there's
something I've forgotten
And notes I left to fault the blame
Cause you and me
we're gonna be special
And I love it when you
fall to me
Suddenly
nbsp; ---- Suddenly, all rights reserved BT, Lomilla Soraya, Universal Pub. Grp. LISTEN TO SUDDENLY HERE
John awoke from his restless hormonal withdrawal feeling cold and sore and alone.
He pulled his fist up in front of his face to see his swollen, split knuckles, remembering his assault on the predatory Alpha outside 221b in a haze. He had a hormone hangover from the whiplash of riding the swell Sherlock’s intoxicating pheromones up, and then suddenly crashing down.
He could hear Sherlock below, playing dissonantly on his violin. He couldn’t just march downstairs as though nothing had happened. Something had happened, and while it might not have been earth shattering to Sherlock, to John felt as if gravity had suddenly been yanked out from under him and he was in freefall.
John was not a man without self awareness. He forced himself to stay put and not to rush into something to do, just to distract himself. He felt pulled in opposing directions, as though he might just break apart. What would happen to the pieces?
He had been obsessing over Sherlock ever since the night at Little Havana. Maybe even before that, or he probably wouldn’t have followed him at all. Sexual thoughts he had never had about any man, of any permutation, had become almost impossible to suppress. But they weren’t just about any man. Only Sherlock. He groaned in frustration.
He was being a fool, classic Alpha. Led by his hormones and his cock. He needed to use his brain. Sherlock obviously was, even in this.
Their hormonal balances had been disturbed, and were spinning out of control. That much was clear. They might rebound back and forth, tormenting each other, until one or the other of them had had enough and moved out to get away.
Maxim and Sherlock were playing a dangerous game with illegal pheromones. God only knew what sort of indirect effect they might be having on his own chemistry. John suddenly wondered with a chill of almost horror whether last night had been something explicitly demanded by Maxim - he remembered Sherlock saying, "No, Maxim," and pulling away. No to what, exactly? Had he and Maxim somehow planned John’s seduction, some sort of test on the path of these infuriating Mysteries. Sherlock had told him to leave him alone, but in the light of day John had a cold realisation that if Sherlock really had wanted to avoid what had happened between them last night, he would have just gone to a beta retreat. He could have ridden it out in peace and safety. He had insisted on returning with John to 221b.
He remembered, too, Sherlock’s almost superhuman self-control. He might almost have been a beta given how little he had let the hormonal assault of semi-heat rule him. John allowed himself a swell of Alpha pride that while he had responded strongly, almost too strongly, he had been able to pull back from the brink.
And that was where he intended to stay.
Now a cold knot of anger was tightening in his chest. He had been played, played by players in an esoteric game that had no regard for the heart and soul of John Watson. He reminded himself, as it was sometimes necessary to do, that Sherlock was an actual sociopath.
He didn’t understand this game; but then again he had never been in a situation remotely like this one before. He didn’t imagine anyone else ever had, either. There was only one Sherlock Holmes.
And Maxim Purcell intended to have him and keep him for his very own - once he deemed Sherlock worthy. Sherlock would do that, John supposed, by proving himself through these sexual challenges. Maxim offered Sherlock something that obviously he believed no one else could. John put his hand over his eyes. He was just a pawn in their elegant game of sexual chess.
And this thought brought forth a childhood memory. A father -son talk out on the steps of their council flat. John had been hoping that his father would play chess with him - he had been given a set for Christmas. But Harry had been bullied again today for her crush on another girl. Mum was tending to Harry inside, and John could hear through the open window his mother’s confused questions; Harry sullen, silent.
Perhaps if she had been a pretty child, the other children would have gone easier on her, but Harry was sturdy and boyish, an Alpha to boot. Even at their age, in this working-class town, children were relentless in their bullying of gay - who were called a variety of colourful epithets - indeed of anyone who "stuck out" as different. John always defended his sister, even though he was the younger. Harry gave as good as she got, too. Today John had a black eye and Harry a puffed up lip. He was ten. Harry was twelve.
"You keep letting ‘em have it, Johnny. I’m proud of you. When our Harriet is away from home, you are the Alpha in the family and it’s your job to protect your sister. Maybe she’ll grow out of it,"
his father said hopefully, an often-repeated refrain.
John made a noncommital noise. His sister was his sister, and he didn’t see how it was possible to want her to be different than she was. But everyone did. Harry was already dreaming of London, where she’d heard that one’s sexual orientation was accepted, no matter what. John was doubtful of this, himself. Their father had made clear time and again that homosexuality was unnatural, an offense against God and the Church. In their town, everyone seemed to feel the same.
"Thank God you’re a red-blooded Alpha, Johnny boy. Like your old man, eh? Not like that Chester up the street. An abomination, makes me right sick."
This, about a delicate Omega boy whispered to be of the homosexual persuasion. "Soon you’ll be starting to feel the heat. You’ll find a nice Catholic Omega girl, and give your mother and I a pack of grandchildren."
He leaned over and punched John hard in the shoulder. "No funny business with my son, " He declared proudly as if to an audience.
John didn’t react, even though the punch landed right on top of a fresh bruise from the fight.
John snapped out of the reverie.
Everything about last night was filling him with doubt about himself, his sexuality. He had wanted to touch Sherlock everywhere, and it had been more than just trying to help Sherlock through semi-heat. He remembered his hands straying toward Sherlock’s cock. Holding his hand as he stroked himself to climax. He had even felt a spike of hot lust, imagining what it felt like to be penetrated as Sherlock had been, releasing an ovum.
His father would surely turn in his grave to see him now, John thought.
# # #
El Brujo had talked of Sherlock taking the crossing. Well, this was a crossing too, John thought. He could let the whole confusing, ambiguous, infuriating predicament go. Memories of last night would fade. He remembered the sound of their breaths becoming as one. The memory burned.
He took a deep breath and stood up and shook himself, refusing to give in to the various aches in his body from last night’s brawl, or the bigger ones in his heart. He got dressed and carefully packed his Army duffle, dug out his warmest coat and boots.
He looked into the mirror over his bureau. He wasn’t sure whether he looked any different than he had yesterday, but inside he felt change happening. It might have been the hormones; it might have been the sound of Sherlock, calling his name at the end. It might have been the clear determination that no matter what happened between him and Sherlock now, he was not going to let Maxim Purcell take away anything in his life that he wanted to keep.
The feeling of having been experimented upon, toyed with, maybe, had the perverse effect of making him determined to stand his ground. He would show Sherlock, show Maxim, and anyone else who got in his way what John Watson was made of.
He went downstairs with firm steps and dropped his gear at the door, pulled his coat on. Sherlock was extraordinarily pale. He stood up, set his violin gently aside. John took a deep breath. The pheromones from last night had nearly dissipated. Only a ghost of their mingled scents lingered, whispering to him seductively.
He marched to the window and threw it open.
"John," Sherlock said. His expression was uncertain. John was gratified; perhaps he had some shred of conscience after all. Whatever passed for conscience in a sociopath. Sherlock studied John with great concentration, his posture, his expression, his body language. John faced him without shame, letting him look his fill. He figured they might as well get it over with.
"Admiring your handiwork? Congratulations, you did it. Managed to seduce your straight flatmate. I hope Maxim was satisfied with your report. Do you keep score or is there some sort of prize?" John said, low, sarcastic. His heart was hammering.
Sherlock’s face immediately closed altogether, a remote and frozen mask. John instantly wished he could reel the words back into his mouth and swallow them. But he had already promised himself. No backing down.
"What are you going to do," Sherlock said quietly. As though it was all down to John. As if what he wanted mattered.
"What am I going to do?" He smiled grimly and folded his arms over his chest. "I’m going to do both of us a tremendous favour. I’m going to pretend that last night never happened. You are too, if you know what’s good for you. We’re catching that train to Aberdeen. Get your gear. We’ve got a murderer to catch."
# # #
Two Nights Later. The Magnus Oil Field, The North Sea. 150 miles off the Shetland Isles
John and Sherlock watched men rushing along the gangways, heads down in hard driving rain. It was getting dark early so far north. The rushing waves below looked like churning ink.
They were touring the largest of Britain’s North Sea oil rigs. It had looked tiny as they approached by helicopter, clad in unwieldy rubber "immersion suits," called body bags by the men. These were intended to prolong your life in the event the helicopter didn’t make it to the rig. Three rough hours battering headwinds later, they landed on the Magnus platform. Stepping onto the deck, the wind was strong enough to nearly flatten them. Once on board, the size of the rig was imposing, a feat of modern engineering. They were here in the middle of the North Sea because British Petroleum believed in damage control, the best that money could buy.
When it came to murder, that meant Sherlock Holmes: two men had fallen to their deaths in a week. Crime on the rigs was very rare, murder unheard of. But neither man had any reason to be in the places where they met their deaths. There were no clues
.
# # #
Sherlock had been required to fill out a form swearing that he was under a current suppressant regimen before being transported to the rig. Omegas were prohibited on board oil rigs for obvious reasons. An exception was being made in the interest of the investigation, as their stay was expected to be brief. The BP medical officer in Aberdeen had suggested that the Company wanted his blood sample to be certain.
At Sherlock’s panther-like stare, the request was withdrawn.
"The Magnus is the northernmost of the our North Sea oil fields," the first officer, Jack Cragie, was shouting over the wind. He pointed north. "Ten kilometers out is the end of the UK Sector. Beyond that, you’re in Norway’s sector."
"How often do you rotate your crew?" John asked.
"Every three weeks, on an rotating basis," Craigie said.
"Get me a list of all new crew members," Sherlock said.
The wind was really whipping them now. The sun dipped below the waves and everything started getting even colder.
"What is that ship," John pointed to the red-hulled ship.
"She’s our standby ship. The Grampian Protector. She can evacuate 300 souls in an emergency."
John looked out over the panorama of the vast northern sea. There was nothing else visible in any direction except the ship and the suggestion of another rig on the horizon.
He smiled into the freezing wind.
There was no possible way that Maxim Purcell could exercise his influence over Sherlock in this place.
Here, it was just him and Sherlock.
# # #
They were escorted to the officer’s mess for supper. John established instant camaraderie with the men; some had seen military duty, like him. Soon there were colourful stories being traded across the table.
Sherlock said little, sitting at the end of the table almost in the shadows. He watched John’s face as the others urged him to tell a story. It was not one Sherlock had ever heard before. The men listened with rapt attention and respect. Sherlock realised that he very seldom saw John with other men out of their usual sphere - 221b, Barts, the clinic, crime scenes. John was ordinarily exceptionally reserved about his time in Afghanistan, and certainly never boasted. He wasn’t boasting now. But by the end of the suspenseful story, despite all that John in his reticence had downplayed or left unsaid, it was very clear how brave, how honourable he was.
Sherlock didn’t think he could actually endure the feeling that had lodged in his chest since John’s bitter accusation in 221b. He couldn’t blame John. He had kept the Mysteries a very strict secret, as Maxim required, as had always been required by its initiates: now John felt preyed upon, manipulated by something he didn’t understand. An experiment.
Yes, he had been weak. His pride in his hard-earned self-control was in shreds. Laughable. Five minutes alone with John, pheromones surging, had put paid to his illusions on that score.
He should never have allowed John to stay. That had been very far from his plan when he had confessed to Maxim that he hoped he might have a chance with John. That was a plan that he had anticipated might take months, even years to unfold: in ordinary persons, sexual orientation was not easily changed, if at all. He had thought he was prepared to wait as long as it took.
And now, because he had succumbed to Maxim’s trickery, everything had been destroyed in a single night. A single terrible and glorious night.
He still had the blue dose; two, in fact.
That was where his journey in the Mysteries had begun, and there it would end.
# # #
After supper, they made their way to their cabin. They would have to share: cabins were at a premium on the rig and two officers had given up these quarters to John and Sherlock. The rig lurched and swayed violently to the force of waves that seemed to be rising. The sound of wind and waves was unbelievable, a constant booming and shrieking.
John stole a glance at Sherlock’s face, and thought he looked unwell.
"You aren’t looking too keen. Shall I get you another patch?" They had been given standard anti-motion sickness patches on the flight over.
"Don’t be absurd," Sherlock snapped. "I’m perfectly well." Predictably, he whirled dramatically and yanked open the door leading to the cabin with excessive force. He gripped the doorframe as the ship gave a rolling lurch. John was at his side and put a firm hand under his arm. Even this much contact was unendurable and he pulled his arm away.
"Jesus, Sherlock, you’ll fall overboard at this rate," John snapped back forcefully. "Just stay here and I’ll go for more bloody patches." Barked orders usually worked better than wheedling. "Key?"
Sherlock fumbled and yanked at his pockets. The wind buffeted them and they were tossed almost into each other’s arms, and they both sprang apart as if by electric shock. John reached in Sherlock’s coat pocket, found the key and pushed Sherlock into the cabin.
# # #
It took some time to track down the medical officer, who provided him a supply of patches and anti-nausea tablets.
"You’ll want to get inside and stay off the decks till morning," he told John. "There’s a storm coming. We’ll be rocking and rolling tonight."
John could well believe it; the entire rig was rolling and pitching in great, long heaves that were starting to make him feel disoriented. He thought that Sherlock was probably more susceptible to the motion than he was; Omegas generally were, he had read that in somewhere.
He held the rails tightly as he made his way back to the cabin. More than once he nearly lost his footing at a violent roll. He spared a thought to pity the crew of the Grampian Protector, being battered by the storm out there.
He threw open the door to the cabin, and was instantly infuriated by three unavoidable facts.
Fact Number One: Sherlock had left to go wandering off somewhere alone.
Fact Number Two: Sherlock had absent-mindedly rushed off without his coat.
Fact Number Three: Impossible though it ought to have been, the faint Omega pheromones from heat onset were dancing in the close air of the cabin. Sherlock hadn’t been manifesting before, he could have sworn it. After all, that had been (he had told himself it had been) the entire point of their incendiary encounter of two nights past: Sherlock’s pre-heat had instantly subsided and his exotic pheromones should have been entirely suppressed again.
But Sherlock was purportedly the only Omega on board, even John could deduce that they could only be Sherlock’s, as if he didn’t already intimately know every note of it from last night. His cock immediately swelled and gave a deep throb, sense and scent memory taking over at the smallest trace of the impossibly seductive notes.
"Fuck," he shouted, punching the door frame and feeling a surge of satisfaction to hear the varnished wood crack under his fist. This had something to do with Maxim, he knew it in his bones.
He ran out onto the gangway to find Sherlock.
But he wasn’t there. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere.
# # #
Calling Sherlock’s name into the wind, he heard nothing. Finally he stormed up to the officer’s deck and demanded that they put out a request on the PA system for Sherlock to report there. Sherlock did not come. The other officers were concerned, but the onset of the storm had every crew harassed and preoccupied.
"What if he’s gone overboard?" John roared. In these waters, he would already be dead. He pushed the dread away.
One of the officers was trying to reassure him. "Mister Holmes would have to have climbed down two decks and out on the outer gangways to be anywhere close to the water. That’s not likely, is it?"
"I don’t bloody know - we’re here to catch a killer on this rig - he may have pursued him, he could be in danger." He wasn’t sure if he was grossly overreacting or if he should be terrified.
"We’ll put on the spotlights and alert the Protector," the officer said. "But if he went over in this weather -"
"Right," John said, and rushed back out.
# # #
John decided to search the dimly lit maze of the crew’s quarters. He patted his gun, tucked into his waistband at the small of his back under his coat.
Technically he wasn’t supposed to have a gun on the ship. He had smuggled it on his own person and they hadn’t patted either of them down.
If Sherlock was down here, he thought with heavy dread, he would likely be able to follow his scent. And so would every other nearby Alpha. Of which there were many. The oil rig had a standard complement of ninety-five percent Alphas.
And then he found it. He caught the scent and ran. The rig gave a huge roll and he slammed into the wall and kept going.
At the end of a narrow hallway was a closed door, just like all the others. Behind it he heard muffled yells and heavy thumping. It sounded like a brawl, maybe four or five men.
John stopped, turned, and broke open the glass case that held the fire axe. He yanked it out, hefted it in his hand. It felt good.
Then he pulled the fire alarm for good measure and drew his gun.
The door was locked, of course. "Sherlock!" He shouted at the top of his lungs over the wail of the alarm. He heard Sherlock yell, "John - "
At this, he was slammed with an instantaneous flood of adrenalin and Alpha hormones and every hair on his body stood on end. He shot at the door lock. This worked in films, not so much in real life. The lock bent, jammed.
He swung the axe with a yell. The door splintered and caved and John kicked down the rest.
The ripe scent hit him in the face: Sherlock’s gorgeous Omega heat, impossible yet undeniable, mingled with the repulsive, aggressive scent of other rutting Alphas. Of which there were three, all big strong oilmen, roughneck and roustabouts. All three were bloodied but even Sherlock had been outmatched in the end.
Even the sight of John, brandishing his gun in one hand and wielding the axe with his other, didn’t deter the two men holding Sherlock down, the third man as he tried frantically to rip Sherlock’s trousers for access. Sherlock’s trousers were visibly damp. John shuddered.
"Get your hands off him," John growled, low and deadly, "Or I'll take them off for you." He swung the axe a little.
The two holding Sherlock, not so far gone, stepped back and released their hold.
The third moved too slowly and so John shot him in the arm, mostly to wipe the obsessed leer from his disgusting face.
Sherlock whirled and punched and kicked at the man repeatedly, brutally, ignoring his cries of pain until John yanked him by the arm and pulled him behind him.
"Fuck, mate, we didn’t know he was your bonded. Christ, what were you thinking --- bringing him on a rig with his heat coming on, you mad bugger? What did you expect?" The other two were still eyeing Sherlock like a starving lion at raw meat.
"I expect you to get the fuck away from him. Call the Captain. Take this piece of garbage with you," John said. Sherlock’s attacker was rolling on the floor in a fetal position and the blood was flowing freely down his arm where John had shot him.
"Shut up," John said. "I should have cut your balls off."
"What kind of Alpha are you, anyway," the wounded man leered as his friends dragged him off, the stupefying influence of Sherlock’s scent still addling his brain. "Your Omega’s panting for it. You need to take care of your business -- or others’ll do it for you -"
John’s fury spilled over. "Let him go," he panted. "I’m going to pound his face in. No gun. No axe."
They squared off in the tiny hallway, where raging Alpha hormones were urging them to tear into each other over their prize.
"Stand down," came a deep, calm voice. The captain was here. He took in the entire scene at a glance.
"Doctor Watson. Take Mr. Holmes back to your cabin immediately. And lock the door," he said. I’ll post one of the medics outside - they’re betas. For security. When the storm clears you’ll go back to Aberdeen."
"I’m all right," Sherlock said loudly. John saw that his eyes were glassy and bright and he knew that the cold clamminess of earlier had transformed to an accelerating fever. But as he had before, to John’s amazement, he drew himself up to his full height with seemingly frosty composure. Which ought to be impossible. Everything about this was impossible.
"This one is your killer, Captain," Sherlock said disdainfully, indicating his attacker, who was looking for a way to escape. He was surrounded and instantly cuffed and taken to the brig.
"Well. We’ll get your report later. Doctor Watson can do that, I imagine."
"He shot me!!!" The accused yelled, pointing at John."
"They attacked him. They were going to rape him," John said, calm and steady now. "I’m bringing charges." Sherlock’s ripped clothing and bleeding wounds told all.
"I can’t stop you - Mr. Holmes is your bonded, I take it? But be aware that it will be taken into account that you foolishly concealed from us that Mr. Holmes was in heat. That is your responsibility. As it is, you are very fortunate indeed. We’ll be taking your gun, though."
John swallowed hard and nodded, handing his gun over to the security officer. Sherlock said nothing.
He had never felt more revulsion at the Alpha nature; base, brutal and mindless in the face of Omega heat. He felt it dragging him under, too, even as he pushed Sherlock, panting from fever and holding himself up by tightly gripping John's shoulder as the rig lurched and rolled beneath them. A part of his brain that was getting stronger and more demanding despite the massive doses of suppressants he had ingested in the past two days was whispering to him to drag Sherlock to his cabin and claim his body for his own.
That was the moment when the rig suddenly slammed to one side and began to sway crazily. There was a terrific crashing, tearing sound above the storm and they both were slammed against one wall, then another. It sounded like the rig was being torn apart.
He dragged Sherlock even as they were knocked to their knees. He had no plan other than to get them to their cabin and barricade the door, keep Sherlock safe. He heard the static of the PA system: the Grampian Protector had been driven against the rig by the storm, but had recovered herself.
John achieved the door to their cabin and threw Sherlock inside, and fell in after him. The instant that he got the door closed and bolted, everything went black.
# # #
"They’ve lost the main generator," Sherlock, his voice unnaturally calm in the pitch blackness.
"They’ll have to evacuate," John said. "We’ll lose heat. And air."
"They’ll have a backup system."
They sat in the dark, panting from their exertions.
"Are you all right, Sherlock? Did they . . . hurt you?"
"A little. They would have, much more." Sherlock said softly. "You came."
John had so many questions but here in the dark, none of them seemed to matter any more.
There was an announcement that Engineering was working to get the generator online. Everyone was to stay where they were with doors shut to conserve heat, until further orders. The temperatures outside were well below freezing.
"If you still smoked, we could light a match," John said. He was desperately trying to ignore the nearness of Sherlock’s body, his gorgeous scent. Even with the suppressants it was making him feel almost drunk with desire. Without them, John imagined Sherlock would already be bent over and taking his cock, then he pushed the image away, revolted at his own baseness.
"I could, but better to find a candle," Sherlock said. Their voices sounded strange and loud in the dark of the cramped cabin.
"I’ll try," John said. He started a circuit of the room in pitch darkness. There were a multitude of drawers. No luck. He stopped when his hand brushed Sherlock’s body. He pulled his hand away.
"It’s getting colder," John said. And it was. Without the constant flow of warm air through the vents, the room was getting chilly. But he could feel heat radiating from Sherlock.
He groped in the dark and pulled a blanket off the bed. They were both sitting on the floor for some reason and so he crawled over to Sherlock and handed him the blanket.
"Wrap yourself, stay warm," he said.
There was a silence.
"Sherlock, I don’t understand how this is happening to you now . . .you should be clear, it’s too soon. Did you take something else? How could you do that, knowing we were coming here, for God’s sake?"
Sherlock was panting softly. "It was Maxim. I told you he was teaching me a lesson. . . .I thought he put a red dose in my tea, that day. That’s how what happened in 221b . . .happened. But was worse than that. . . it had to have been a Heatwave."
John growled with fury and wanted to hit something, so he punched the floor. "I’ll kill him," he said, and in that moment he meant it. His Alpha side pictured him beating Maxim to a pulp in a flood of glorious rage.
Heatwave was an illegal pheromone/drug. It had an extended release, delivering short but intense heats, one following the other, each progressively stronger until the dose wore off. People were known to have died from it through exhaustion and relentless neural stimulation. The cure was a massive dose of suppressants together with sedatives. Neither of which were on hand at the moment.
"Sherlock, just hold on. I’ll take care of you. When the power comes up, I’ll get to the medical bay, I’ll get you some meds." He tried to sound calmer than he felt, because he didn’t have any idea how long that could be. In the meantime the Heatwave was doing its work.
"I’m burning up, John," Sherlock whispered.
John was transported in the darkness back to Little Havana.
"It’s that song," John said.
"What do you mean?" They both were drinking in lungfuls of the close air, filled with their mingled scents, Alpha and Omega together, and he could hear Sherlock keeping it his breaths slow and steady.
"That Cuban song, from Little Havana. ‘I’m burning up . . . I don’t want to die like this.’"
Sherlock shifted, stifled a brief moan. John could picture what was happening, what he was feeling, all that he was struggling to control, and his body thrilled involuntarily in response.
"Yes," Sherlock said hoarsely. "Save me, John."
At this, all resistance shattered. He could be strong enough for both of them now, but deep down, he knew he could never endure another man touching Sherlock, ever again. He was the one to take Sherlock on the crossing. But not like this, never like this. John groped in the blackness to find Sherlock’s arm, his shoulder, grazed his neck and touched his face, stroking it, feeling the flushed skin over fine bones. Sherlock reached up and pressed his palm to his lips. The bolt of pleasure that shot from the palm of his hand straight to his cock was sharp and exquisite.
"Oh god," John gasped. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and gently pushed him down, feeling his way, until he was kneeling over him. His body was caressed by Omega pheromones of unsuspected strength and magnetism, exceeding the power of any Omega scent he had ever encountered, but that wasn’t what drove him now and he was grateful for his suppressants; he could stay in control. All the feelings of anger, confusion and jealousy that had been consuming him fell away. In the darkness, it was only the two of them, and everything that had seemed impossible before felt as inevitable as the earth’s movement around the sun.
He leaned down and found Sherlock’s neck. Even in the dark he knew the precise spot that he wanted, and he bit down hard, and sucked a deep Alpha bite in the flesh of Sherlock’s throat, obliterating Maxim’s fading mark. Sherlock arched his neck to invite him in and groaned at the touch of John’s lips, and then they were burning together.
"John, John," Sherlock whispered. He was panting harder now. "You fought for me." It was Sherlock’s own voice, and yet not. Rough, deep, and seductive. "You told them . . . I was your bonded."
John could feel his hardness against his thigh where his own cock was already like iron.
He felt the truth of his Alpha nature right down to his marrow, even without the liquid fire of heat in his veins.
John reached down and buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling a little. He wished he could look into his eyes. His blood and bones were combusting and his cock was near exploding.
"You belong to me now," he said. "No one else will touch you."
Their mouths met for the first time, hard and greedy, then he pulled back a little, and his heart beat faster to the recognition that this was making him whole, finally; being with Sherlock, like this, was making him ever stronger. Finding and losing himself in Sherlock. In this beautiful darkness they were one.
"Say it," John demanded, this time finding and digging his teeth into the thin skin at his collarbone and biting hard. It would make an entirely new mark; entirely his own. Sherlock groaned loudly at this and clung to him.
"I belong to you now," Sherlock whispered against his neck.
"Then hold on. We’re going to get out of here." John wrapped himself around Sherlock and soothed his shuddering body. It seemed like hours but it may have been just minutes when the power snapped back on and he noticed that the rig wasn’t rocking any more.
The storm was over.
# # #
A beta medic brought John the meds he demanded.
"Helicopter in fifteen, Doctor Watson," he said, peering curiously around the door to the cabin to try to see the now-notorious Sherlock Holmes. John blocked his view.
"Bring a stretcher and another beta if you can. He’s not walking out," John said. The beta nodded, wide-eyed. John shut the door.
Sherlock was laying on the floor under blankets. John had managed to dress him warmly, which had been very difficult as the Heatwave was becoming ever harder to resist. Soon Sherlock wouldn’t be able to resist it at all.
John loaded the hypodermics. "Sherlock, it’s going to be all right. I’ve got your meds, you’ll rest now. When you wake up, you’ll be better."
Sherlock shook his head. He was riding the waves of it now. He looked up at John in a silent plea, and John simply climbed on top and held him down as he exposed his arm and plunged the needles in: "One - two," he said.
Sherlock’s eyes immediately began to slide closed. "John," he whispered.
John held his hand tight and pulled him up into his arms. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes until the sedative took him and he slipped out of consciousness. Only when he was certain Sherlock was deeply asleep did he press a fervent kiss to his lips.
There was a sharp knock at the door. The beta medics helped John pull Sherlock onto the stretcher.
They marched across the platform under the greedy gazes of the Alpha crewmen and the hackles stood out on John’s neck. He’d demanded his gun back but they had taken his clip.
Finally they were airborne. The black storm clouds had parted. John held Sherlock’s hand tightly. The sky glowed golden and the ocean’s surging surface shimmered under the brilliant northern sun as the Magnus receded, then disappeared from view.
To be continued . . .
back: Chapter Three: Wicked Game ( Read more... )
next: Chapter Five: The Game of Kings Read more...