Fic: The Other Alpha (1/2)
Title: The Other Alpha (1/2)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Surprise! (past), Mycroft, Irene Adler
Warnings: Omegaverse
Rating: R
Summary: Omega Sherlock Holmes was bonded to an Alpha long before John Watson ever met him. Shame, really.
A/N: My Winterlock fic for forsciencejohn. I’m so used to writing Alpha!Sherlock, this was a bit of a stretch, but a good exercise nonetheless! I hope she likes it.
Beta credits go to earlgreytea68, who puts up with the weird stuff I write with grace and aplomb. Kudos to arianedevere for her transcripts. I hope she’s caught up on sleep now.
Please note that while this is complete, it's very long and thus posted in two parts. This is Part One.
The Other Alpha
John Watson was a fairly reasonable man, and generally considered himself unflappable. Since moving in with Sherlock Holmes, he’d had a great deal of experience in dealing with surprises - such as being kidnapped and threatened with death not once, but twice in recent memory - and for the most part, he thought he’d conducted himself very well.
Waking up to find Sherlock Holmes wrapped in a sheet and wandering the flat wasn’t something he particularly expected. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that seeing Sherlock wrapped in a sheet brought to mind the fact that he was in all likelihood naked underneath it - and all that nakedness implied.
John was a reasonable, modern-day Alpha. He believed in reproductive rights for Betas, birth control and suppressants for Omegas, and the rights of both genders to wear whatever damn provocative clothing they liked without fear of being attacked in dark alleys by pheromone-crazed Alphas.
All the same, the sight of Sherlock in a sheet…John blinked, took a breath, and went right on into the sitting room, where the client Mrs Hudson had already announced was waiting.
“Cup of tea?” asked John, as if Sherlock Holmes wandered around in a sheet all the time.
“Ta,” said the man. He kept glancing back at Sherlock, and John had to admit it was probably disconcerting.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Oh, please, look at him,” snorted Sherlock, still stalking about the sitting room, the sheet dragging on the carpet. “Of course milk and sugar. One, though, because he likes to pretend he’s dieting.”
John sighed heavily in Sherlock’s direction, and went to turn on the kettle. “You could put on clothes.”
“Ugh,” said Sherlock.
“Just because you’re bonded, Sherlock-”
“Tedious,” said Sherlock, highly affronted at the reminder, and went back into the sitting room. “All right. Start from the beginning. And don’t be boring.”
John set the teacups on the tray and spotted the plate of biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up - cinnamon and sugar, and freshly baked, if the scent was any indication. John put a few on the tray as well, and stuffed one in his mouth before carrying the lot into the sitting room, where the new client was still talking.
“Six,” said Sherlock, interrupting the flow.
“Huh?” asked the client.
John rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to drop the tea tray on Sherlock’s head. “Really. Six.”
“Could be a five,” said Sherlock, irritable. “You should go investigate.”
“I should…” John sighed, and rubbed his face. “Why me?”
“You could use the fresh air,” said Sherlock. “And I need to dress.”
John sighed. No amount of cinnamon-flavored biscuits was worth staying in the flat when Sherlock was in a strop.
*
Really, Sherlock wasn’t a terrible flatmate. He played violin at all hours, but a violin wasn’t the constant shelling he’d hear in Afghanistan. He tended to leave strange body parts in the fridge, but once John delineated a shelf for feet and a shelf for food, it wasn’t such a bother. And if sometimes he didn’t speak for days on end - well, John liked the quiet. Really, the worst that could be said for Sherlock as a flatmate was that when he showered, he left the lavatory absolutely soaking wet.
Any lingering doubts John might have had stemmed from the sitcom worthiness of an Alpha and Omega rooming together. There were shelves full of Hollywood comedies about those types of living arrangements. Shakespeare had written a play or two. Boones and Mill had a dozen books on the subject if they had one. And then there was the porn.
John was very well acquainted with the porn. On account of being a typical Alpha, of course.
But Sherlock wasn’t a typical Omega. For one thing, he was bonded, but didn’t live with his Alpha. John didn’t even know who Sherlock’s Alpha was; they’d never discussed it, beyond Sherlock’s initial reassurance when they’d first moved in together that it wasn’t a problem.
“Haven’t seen my Alpha for years,” said Sherlock. “And it wouldn’t matter anyway; I do as I like.”
That was true enough, John supposed. But he’d never met an Omega who seemed so uninterested in hearth and home and heats. Sherlock didn’t even have heats, though that made some degree of sense; most bonded Omegas did stop experiencing estrus when their Alphas were on extended journeys or otherwise separated. The Army was rife with Alphas whose Omegas went years without a heat, due to deployment. Sometimes, John thought that Sherlock might have bonded at an early age, and then kicked the Alpha out of his life, just to ensure that he wouldn’t be plagued with estrus again.
It would have been a very Sherlockian thing to do, after all. If the body was transport, estrus would have been a full-scale system malfunction.
No matter the circumstances of Sherlock’s bonding, most of the Yard seemed to think Sherlock was a Beta, and considering the man lived like one, it wasn’t that hard of a sell. After all, he didn’t have heats, he didn’t have an Alpha, and he didn’t smell like anything but soap and shampoo.
Truth was, most of the time, John forgot that Sherlock was an Omega at all.
Remembering probably would have helped.
*
John was still giggling about the ashtray as Sherlock went frantically through his closet, tossing jackets and hats and boots and shirts in every direction. John ignored him, and set the ashtray down on the table, and then after thinking for a moment, put it up on the mantel where they’d still be able to see it, but it wouldn’t attract attention.
John was munching on another one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits when Sherlock finally reappeared. He was flushed and his eyes were bright, but he was dressed and clearly ready to go - the scarf was already being wound around his neck, hiding the years-old faded bond-bite from view. Most Omegas showed the bite proudly and dressed accordingly; there was a sizable minority who didn’t care one way or the other if people saw it, and the small glimpses were considered to be more provocative and titillating than if they’d been on full display.
John hadn’t met many Omegas who hid their bond bites so thoroughly as Sherlock Holmes did his.
“Come along, John,” said Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes.
“Oh, you’re ready now. Have a plan, do you?”
“No,” said Sherlock, shrugging on the Belstaff.
The entire ride to Belgravia, Sherlock couldn’t keep still. His hands clenched and unclenched; his knee jiggled up and down. He looked stoically out the window one moment, and then his gaze whipped back around to John the next, as if he wanted to ask something. He pulled on his scarf and shifted in his seat, and every move for some reason made John want to hold him down and possibly sit on him, just to keep him still. He was about to threaten it when Sherlock leaned forward and told the cabbie to stop, they’d walk from there, and then they were both on the pavement, Sherlock walking briskly with long strides, and John struggling to catch up.
“Would you slow down,” John scolded. “We’re not all made of legs, you know.”
“Punch me in the face,” said Sherlock, turning to John, and John had never been more grateful to hear anything in his entire life.
“Punch you?”
“Yes, didn’t you hear me?”
“I always hear you asking me to punch you, but usually it’s just subtext.”
Sherlock sighed. “Don’t go Alpha on me now, John - hit me!”
“That’s got nothing to do with it!”
“I admit it’d be a little tricky, since you’re shorter, but here, I’ll crouch down.”
“Look,” said John, gritting his teeth impatiently, “I’m not punching you.”
“Is it because I’m an Omega? Because I can take it.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“John,” groaned Sherlock.
“No!”
“Oh for-”
John expected a punch. He didn’t expect a kiss.
It was worse than a punch, in some ways - a punch would have had a clear beginning and end, and John would have known exactly how to react. The kiss…that was something else, because for all that John didn’t expect it, it came at him in slow motion, Sherlock’s hands on John’s shoulders, pulling him in. Sherlock’s face in the moments before he descended, mouth open and eyes wide with what might have been fearful desire.
Which made no sense whatsoever.
And the odd feeling under John’s skin, the way his blood started pumping faster through his veins, the way Sherlock’s hands felt impossibly warm despite the layers of clothing between them. The odd fog that crept up around John’s thoughts, soothing him while at the same time swirling with budding excitement and anticipation.
(His body seemed to remember that Sherlock was an Omega, even if his brain did not.)
It was a rough kiss to begin with, more force than finesse. John was light-headed and fuzzy before Sherlock even managed to wrench his mouth open, to slide his tongue inside, run it along John’s teeth and give a soft, sensual suck on his tongue. So perhaps it might have been excused that John gave in to the kiss, to the numbing influence of his brain, and let his eyes close. He reached up not to push the other man away, but to wrap his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, to keep him close.
The touch of skin, fingers to nape of neck, seemed to be enough to turn the kiss from frantic, pulsing, discombobulated pressure to something softer, more careful and cautious, but still just as demanding. Sherlock held tightly to John’s shoulders, his fingers digging into John’s skin, in a way that was almost painful, but John concentrated on Sherlock’s mouth. He let Sherlock’s tongue and lips set the quick pace, the pressurized licking and sucking and tasting. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to let up for a moment, didn’t want to let John take control of the kiss; for an Omega, he was desperately greedy.
John had kissed Omegas before. It would be wrong to say they were all submissive, whimpering little wisps in the bedroom. But none of them were quite as controlling as Sherlock.
It was Sherlock’s groan that broke him out of his reverie. “John,” whispered Sherlock. He sounded so utterly lost and debauched that John pulled back to stare at him, having almost forgotten who he was kissing. Sherlock’s lips were swollen and pink, his skin flushed, his eyes bright, and John wanted only to dive right back in, to keep kissing him. Every inch of his skin longed to press next to Sherlock’s; every thrum of his heart edged him closer.
“You kiss like a Beta,” whispered Sherlock.
John hit Sherlock squarely on the cheek, which made his knuckles sting from sudden impact. “Oh, ow, ow, ow, ow…”
“Excellent,” said Sherlock, pleased and already sounding a little bit stuffed up from the increased blood flow to his nose. “That should do it.”
“?!”
Sherlock stood up, touching his nose, seemingly unaffected by the kiss, if not the punch to his cheek. John, on the other hand, was still breathing heavily, his heart still thumping away, and his jeans were already feeling somewhat too snug. He could still feel Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the way the curls felt when he closed his hands around Sherlock’s head. And even through the fog that still surrounded his brain, he thought he could still smell Mrs Hudson’s cinnamon cookies on Sherlock’s coat.
Sherlock was walking steadily down the street, and if he was a little crooked, that could be attributed to disorientation from being hit, not kissed. “Come along, John!”
That was the problem with sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes - always watching him leave. Most of the time, John was glad that Sherlock was bonded, had always been bonded, because it meant that he didn’t have to worry about the entire Alpha/Omega thing. He could just be Sherlock’s friend, and over time, John had realized that being Sherlock’s friend was infinitely better than possibly ruining whatever they had because they couldn’t be more.
And then there were times, like just then, sitting on the cold pavement and watching Sherlock walk away slightly crooked, that part of John wanted to curse whatever idiot Alpha it was who’d bonded and left him.
The rest of him cursed himself for not getting there first.
*
The only good thing about Sherlock’s plan was that immediately upon entering Irene Adler’s house, his job was to ensure that the house was more or less empty, get a general idea of layout, locate the fire alarms, and persuade whoever answered the door to leave them be for a bit.
And find some kind of washcloth for Sherlock’s face, lest it start swelling.
Which was all good, because it meant that John could spend a little time apart from Sherlock, allowing him to tamp down the rush of hormones he’d felt in the alleyway. It took a surprising amount of effort, considering; after all, it’d only been a completely pointless kiss and a completely satisfactory punch. Adrenaline wasn’t surprising, but the randy way John was feeling was. It wasn’t as though John was attracted to Sherlock. But the kiss and the punch were so entwined in his mind that John wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t thrilled by the former more than the latter. It had, after all, been long enough since he’d done either.
Punching Sherlock - well, that had just been frustration rising to the surface. Bloody Omega, walking around half the morning in a sheet, knowing full well that John couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Kissing Sherlock…that was something else entirely. Brilliant, spine-tingling, bloody fantastic, utterly pointless. But Sherlock had done it solely to get under John’s skin, to get him so riled up that John would have no choice but to lash out at him. To get the bloody punch he’d needed to get into Irene Adler’s house.
And John - John had fallen for it like a ton of bricks. Like the sex-crazed Alpha he never thought he really was.
Bloody Omega.
John switched the water off, and took the bowl of water and the towel out of the kitchen. The assistant - Kate, she’d said her name was - had gone off somewhere after showing him the way, and the house was fairly quiet, save for the sound of voices from the front room. Large, open, airy. John glanced around, saw the smoke detectors, and gave a quick nod. That was one thing done. And he’d been long enough. Time to find Sherlock.
John went in. Show time.
“Right, this should do it,” he said briskly, and glanced up to see a naked Irene Adler standing far too close to Sherlock for comfort, his dog’s collar in her teeth.
Sherlock sat on the chair, fingers gripping the armrest. His face was utterly passive - if one ignored the widening of the eyes, and the strange way his teeth were clenched together. It almost looked as if he were so nervous he might actually bolt.
Which didn’t make any sense. Irene Adler might be a dominatrix; she might even be an Alpha, as Mycroft had indicated back at the palace. But even she ought to have been able to tell that Sherlock was as good as sexless, if not an actual bonded Omega. Surely she wasn’t crass enough to attempt a seduction of someone’s bonded mate.
Even if that someone was extremely absent, and had in fact never been met or mentioned or….
No. Not possible. No.
“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?” said John, and Irene Adler pulled the collar out of her teeth and smiled in a rather frightening way.
“I should think so,” said Irene, her lips smiling but her eyes entirely predatory. “Please, sit down. I can call for tea, if you’d like.”
“Had some,” said Sherlock, his voice high and tight. He hadn’t let go of the armrests; it looked to John as if he were practically lifting himself off the chair, for all that he was preternaturally still. Too still. Far too still, considering the manic gyrations he’d been doing all morning.
“Oh, I know.” Irene sat down gracefully, crossing her legs and arms so that all the pertinent bits were covered, and John gave her another glance. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Sherlock that he could tell, and the smile that hovered around her lips was nearly possessive. As if she were just waiting for Sherlock to melt into pieces on her chair.
“I did, too,” interjected John, not liking the way Irene looked at Sherlock in the slightest. Definitely not liking the way that Sherlock looked at Irene - not with interest, not even with fear, but with…trepidation.
Neither of them paid him any heed. In fact, neither of them seemed to notice him much at all. It was a bit annoying.
No, more than a bit. It was a lot. And more than annoying. It was…aggravating. John could already feel his blood pressure rising just a bit, the way Irene was leaning in toward Sherlock, her voice soft and seductive. And the way Sherlock was straining not to lean into her…but doing it anyway.
And talking about the dead hiker, of all things…
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “So they are in this room. John. John. John.”
It took John a moment. “Hmm?”
“The door, John.” Sherlock’s gaze was strangely intense, almost pleading. John had to shake off whatever was crawling under his skin - not an easy task - and remember what it was they’d discussed out on the street.
Right. Right. Leave the room. Leave the room now. Leave Sherlock and Irene alone in the room.
Fuck.
No, not fuck, wrong terminology, scratch that.
“Right,” said John. He saw a momentary look of interest on Irene’s face, and the way she glanced at Sherlock then…John’s blood nearly boiled under his skin, and not wanting to go in the slightest, he left the room.
The air in the hallway was cooler, somehow. Fresh and clean and it only took a few deep breaths for John’s head to clear a bit. But the memory of Irene leaning in toward Sherlock, that predatory look in her eye - and Sherlock, stock still and straining on the chair…
John grabbed the nearest magazine and pulled out the matches. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could get back in there, the sooner he could interrupt whatever ridiculous farce was going on between them.
Yes. Sooner. That was definitely better. Because every moment that Sherlock was alone with Irene, John could hear the ticking of a clock in the back of his head, counting it out, drawing it out, and the only thing John wanted to do was to get back in there and…and…
Okay, John didn’t know what, but he was pretty sure he’d figure it out. Just as long as Sherlock wasn’t alone with Irene, because it was very clear to John that Sherlock didn’t want to be alone with Irene. Just as much as Irene seemed to want to be alone with Sherlock.
And if that wasn’t worrisome…
When the alarm went off, it was almost a relief.
It was less of a relief when the American gunmen came in and shot the alarm silent.
“Thank you,” said John, because what else did one say to American gunmen who didn’t look particularly pleased to see you?
“Back inside, Dr Watson,” said one of the gunman, and John obeyed.
The air in the room was thicker than before, and growing thicker by the minute. It practically smacked John in the face when he stepped in, and the gunman behind him barely had to shove him down to his knees, because John might have fallen very voluntarily without his assistance.
Or not, considering. Irene was covered up in Sherlock’s coat, and somehow seeing that was almost worse than when she’d been naked. Irene, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat…wrapped in Sherlock’s scent…Sherlock’s scent…oh God.
Oh God.
Sherlock’s scent. It was Sherlock’s scent in the air. It was Sherlock’s scent fogging his brain. It was Sherlock’s scent, cinnamon and cloves and sugar, and the room was too warm and there was a gun at the back of his head and Sherlock protesting and oh God, Sherlock was going into heat and Irene was sitting there cool as a cucumber half naked and….
John closed his eyes. Sherlock and Irene. Maybe the gunman would just shoot him and be done with it.
*
He wasn’t shot. He was never entirely sure how that didn’t happen, but he wasn’t shot, and when Sherlock told him to search the rest of the house, he went, almost gladly, because the last thing he wanted to do was watch Irene and Sherlock together.
Because Irene was there, and Sherlock was going into heat, and all John could remember was the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the taste of his mouth when they kissed. The way Sherlock had looked at him in the moments before John had punched him, his eyes wide and bright and wanting.
But none of that was John, was it? No. It was Sherlock, unknowingly reacting to the return of his Alpha.
The return of Irene Adler.
*
It’s warm, too warm, far too warm. The only good thing about standing up is not sitting down, but standing up isn’t any better because legs keep shaking, and concentrating on anything becomes trickier by the moment.
Breathing is easier outside. Fresh air, away from the strange build-up of hormones in Irene Adler’s house. Thinking is clearer, try to figure out what is happening. Shoot the gun into the air, someone will report it. Can’t worry about that now, why is it so hot…?
“What the hell, Sherlock!” shouted John.
It’s faster this way. Faster seems to be the key. Anything to end whatever is happening in that house, whatever is happening to this ridiculous excuse of a body. Get home, crawl into bed, strip naked, stand under a cool spray of water.
John stands too close. Send him away, send him away. Breathing is easier when John isn’t near. Breathing is harder when Irene Adler stares, sidles up close with that predatory look in her eyes.
Reaches out to touch my hair.
“You don’t even know, do you?” said Irene softly. “You smell so good…”
“What…what did you do to me?”
The floor is good, the floor is comfortable. Lay down, spread my legs, so hot…
“Give it to me,” said Irene Adler. “Give it to me.”
No no no no. Can’t give it to Irene, it’s not hers. Not hers. Not hers.
“Give it to me!”
Yes, all right, anything, anything, just help, burning burning. Need you, need someone, need John, need something, help help help…
“Ah, there it is, thank you.”
But I’m not naked yet, you’re not in me yet, you’re not John, where is John, what is happening to me…
“Jesus! What are you doing!”
John. John John John John John.
“Ah, there you are, Dr Watson. Sorry to leave him in such a state, but I really must fly.”
“You…Sherlock? Sherlock. Christ, he’s going into heat - you can’t just leave him!”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
“I’m not his Alpha!”
“Isn’t that funny? Neither am I. And look at us both.”
“John,” gasped Sherlock, trying to sit up.
Shouting and heat and the thundering footsteps of people running up the stairs and John’s hands on my arms and John’s hands on my neck and John’s breath on my face and John and John and John John John John’s voice John…
“Oh, Christ, fuck fuck fuck…”
And then there was nothing.
*
Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha.
John’s head was swirling; between the pheromones and the adrenaline and the worry over Sherlock’s prone figure on the floor, he didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at Irene Adler, now disappearing out the window, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat and a smile. Definitely not at Sherlock himself, flushed and breathing so heavily that he might have been expanding and contracting in turn.
Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha.
But Sherlock was going into heat - there wasn’t any doubt about it. All John had to do was rest his hand on Sherlock’s arm to feel that his temperature was rising just a bit, that his skin was flushed and slightly damp - and the scent of him. Cinnamon brown sugar dark honey delicious - John wanted to bury himself in that scent.
The pounding of feet on the stairs, Lestrade’s familiar voice shouting ahead.
“In here!” John shouted.
If Sherlock was going into heat…and Irene wasn’t his Alpha…who was?
*
“I’ve got it,” says Irene, and Sherlock stares out into the field, barely recognizable as the field where John had been Skyping him that morning. “No, no, don’t get up. The car’s about to backfire, and the hiker, he’s in the field, staring up into the sky. Not bird-watching, though, no - he’s got his eye on something else. The car backfires-”
A bang, rather like a door slamming shut, and Sherlock, now standing in the field, turns to look at it.
“Eyes here, love,” says Irene, and Sherlock turns to look at her again. “Don’t make the same mistake as our hiker, now. Because he turned to look at the bang, too, didn’t he, and took his eyes off the flying object. And by the time the driver’s out of the car to look, what killed your hiker already washed downstream.”
Sherlock’s mouth opens, dry, for all that he feels sticky-sweat-slick. “My hiker?”
“Of course your hiker, love,” says Irene, stepping up close. He can smell her now, the cologne and freshly-crushed basil, mint and bright pepper. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? What’s happening to you?”
Sherlock strains, but he can’t think straight. He’s so hot; his clothes are too tight, too constricting, clinging to his skin like damp flannel. He’s hot and empty and aching and…
“I’m in heat.”
“An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel,” whispers Irene-not-Irene, ginger-blond and blue-eyed, kind smile and adventurous eyes, lines along his mouth from laughing. Shifting back and forth between the two faces, both barely known but recognizable. “Your hiker, Sherlock. He came home, didn’t he? And now your bond-”
His Alpha stands in Irene’s place, eyes impossibly sad, blood running down his cheek like tears. “I’m sorry, love.”
Broken.
There’s a place just under Sherlock’ s heart that he hasn’t considered in years. It’s wound up tight and secure, patiently occupying its space, waiting for the moment when its twin comes near enough to react. He’s always heard other people talk about their bonds; the warmth and love and tugging they’d feel, connecting them to another person, how they can tell their bonded’s joys and sorrows just by the way their bonds felt. Sherlock’s never felt anything from his, but that quiet patience, the waiting, the absence of anything.
Now, all he feels is the absence of the bond itself. He’s grown accustomed to that hard little knot under his heart, so much so that he’s taken its existence for granted, but now it’s empty, as if it was removed when Sherlock wasn’t looking.
“I…” gasps Sherlock. “I….”
There’s a sheet over him, wrapping around his limbs, wrapping around him tightly, wrapping him so tightly he’ll never break free. He’s hot and wet and empty and aching and he’s….
Awake.
Sherlock woke with a pain in his chest, his head fogged and hurting. It took too long to realize he was back in Baker Street, in his own room, his own bed, the sheet wrapped tightly around his legs. The sheets were rough against his naked, flushed, sensitive skin, and the scent lingering in the room, a familiar scent, rose petals and nail varnish, was almost sickening.
“Hush now,” said Irene, bending low over him, and the scent flooded Sherlock’s nostrils until he couldn’t even think. He pushed back into the pillows, screwing his eyes shut, and held his breath, because otherwise he might spread his legs for her. For her, and not the dark-pepper-brandy smell he could only barely remember.
“Such a delicious crumpet you are,” whispered Irene. “I could take such good care of you. I could have you bent over this bed begging for mercy.”
“No,” groaned Sherlock, eyes still closed. He could smell her. He could feel her, leaning over him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep his body from rising up to meet her.
“Twice,” promised Irene.
A sharp fingernail on his cheek; Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at her. “Wouldn’t you like that, darling?
He swallowed down the yes yes please yes that threatened to bubble up. It took every ounce of humanity left in him to answer. “Not you. I don’t want you.”
“Hush now,” repeated Irene, and he almost heard the disappointment under the brave reassurance. Her smile was knowing, a bit sad, and Sherlock’s heart pounded. “I’m only returning your coat.”
Her touch was electric, all the same, and he inhaled sharply as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
The field is a vibrant green that doesn’t exist in reality, and he watches, over and over again, as the young man with the ginger-blond hair is struck from behind over and over and over.
Your hiker…recently returned…don’t make the same mistake…
When he opened his eyes again, the field was gone. The shades on the windows were drawn and afternoon light filtered in. His heart pounded; the blood coursed through his veins, under his skin, around his muscles and bones and liver. Hot and cold, damp and dry, and the strange, empty feeling deep in his chest and his guts while at the same time, he might burst. He needed something. He knew exactly what he needed, and that he needs at all made his breath stutter. He kicked at the sheet around his legs, gripped the mattress to try to ground himself. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Afraid, alone, and for the first time in a decade, his body was betraying him.
Sherlock lifted his head, aching and empty, and the room swirled as if he was dizzy. He might have been dizzy, but there was only one thought in his head, and he tried to shout it through dry lips.
“John!”
A sound on the other side of the door; movement. Someone slumped next to it, someone sitting against it.
John.
“John!”
John’s voice was muffled from the other side of the door. “No. I can’t…Sherlock, you’re in heat. I can’t come in. This isn’t what you want.”
But it is. It is, it is, it’s what I’ve wanted from the start, and couldn’t have, because once, a long time ago, I was an idiot…
“The door’s locked,” said John, as if this was meant to be comforting. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone in.”
“Where is she?”
John didn’t say anything for a moment, and then a let out hollow sort of laugh. “Your Alpha, you mean.”
“No!” groaned Sherlock, and he kicked so hard, twisting in fury, that he fell right off the bed with a thump.
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was worried. “Are you all right?”
Sherlock crept across the floor to the door; the light under the door was mostly blocked by John, and Sherlock pressed his face to it, took a deep breath. Dust in the carpet, polish on the floor, the strong scent of brandy-chocolate-John, and Sherlock wanted to whimper with it, drink it down, and hated himself for it.
“John. Help me, please. You’re an Alpha. You can make this go away.”
John’s voice was heavy, his breathing hard. “But I’m not yours, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rocked back on his hands and knees, pressed his face to the floor and exhaled a deep moan with all the air in his lungs. It was easier, crouched like this on the floor. Not cooler, exactly, but so similar to the classic missionary bonding pose that his body was fooled into thinking relief was coming.
Even if relief was on the other side of a locked door, refusing to come though.
“No. You’re not.”
“He’s coming, Sherlock, I promise. Or she. They’re in London, have to be if you’re going into heat. They feel the pull, same as you. It won’t be long, and I won’t fight them off, I promise.”
Sherlock groaned. “Impossible. He’s not coming. No one’s coming, John. He’s dead.”
“Sherlock, you can’t know that.”
“It’s true.”
“How can you know that?” demanded John, and Sherlock knew the look on John’s face - set and determined, upset and angry and trying desperately to hold it together. “How can you possibly know that?”
“The hiker, John.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Did they tell you his name? They must have.”
Silence.
“He always wanted to travel. That was the point - he’d go and travel, see all the things he could see as a bonded Alpha that he wouldn’t have been able to see otherwise. Be safe from accidentally bonding with someone he didn’t know. I’d stay here, and not have to bother with estrus. It was mutually beneficial; we both had our freedom. For twelve years. Fairly decent run, I’d say, until for whatever reason he decided to come back to England with a boomerang.” Sherlock’s laugh was hollow. “What a joke. Victor never said anything about wanting to visit Australia, but I suppose a man changes over the course of twelve years.”
John’s voice was dry and flat. “Victor.”
“Victor Trevor, yes. My Alpha.”
The name was dust on his lips; somehow, saying it aloud brought back the memory of the young man he’d known. The golden boy, the smiling eyes, the joyous and cheerful laughter, so bright against Sherlock’s own sarcastic and standoffish smirk.
It was quiet on the other side of the door, and then Sherlock heard John exhale, breath echoing against the wood.
“Bleeding buggering fuck.”
Sherlock sighed in a rush, closed his eyes again, remembered Victor saying goodbye.
You said you’d write when you came back to England. Give me warning, a change to get away - or be ready for you.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
John’s voice shook. “Yeah. He was. How did…?”
Sherlock rested his hand on the floor, palm flat, fingers just brushing the bottom of the door. The sweat was breaking out on his forehead again; it was impossible to keep his limbs steady. “I hated my estrus. It was inconvenient. Disruptive. The loss of control - the way need and desire were suddenly more important than caution and reason. And without any of the benefits of clarity of thought - just the mess to clean up afterwards, emotional and otherwise. I would have done anything to rid myself of them.”
“So you bonded yourself to a stranger?”
“He wasn’t a stranger. We met at uni. He was older. He was brilliant. I thought he was wasting himself on his course of studies. And Victor…he didn’t want to bond. It made sense, to share my estrus with him.”
“A friend, then.”
“I didn’t have friends.”
“Go on,” prodded John. Sherlock slid his hand toward the crack under the door; his fingers were skinny enough to wedge under just enough. Just a little closer to John. It wasn’t nearly close enough.
“It was my idea. He was complaining about how he couldn’t get into this monastery in Tibet unless he were bonded. And…I offered. He’d be bonded, could see the things he wanted to see - and if he was away, I wouldn’t go into heat, I’d be free of all that nonsense. It made sense.”
John didn’t answer, but Sherlock could see the shadows shift under the door. The long dark shadow: John’s body. The smaller one, just opposite Sherlock’s hand: John’s hand, pressed against the floor.
“We bonded. He left a week later. It was the last heat I had. Until now.”
“Did you love him?”
The image of Victor dissipated almost immediately. “What? No. I don’t see how that matters.”
The shadows didn’t shift, but there was movement in the air - and then the lightest touch on the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. John’s hand, creeping under the door.
“You trusted him enough to bond with him. That’s a pretty big level of trust, Sherlock. He could have stayed with you, not left at all.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” insisted Sherlock. “It was convenient. We wrote a few letters, for a few months, and then…”
His voice trailed off. John’s fingers pressed in a little more. Sherlock didn’t move his hand. He didn’t dare.
But with the press of John’s fingers, there was another wave of warmth, the blood under his skin a rippling wave of pressure. Sherlock gasped with it, pressed his forehead into the door. His entire body wanted to press into the door, or better still, under the door, straight into John’s fingers and up his arm, into his chest where he could feel John’s heart beating in time with his pulsing blood. Sherlock could smell John, the richness of him, and worse, Sherlock could smell himself, the deep honey-yeast scent of his own sex as his thighs grew slick with lubrication.
This was it, then. This was everything Sherlock had tried to forget. His very life flowing out of him, down down down, a vortex sucking every drop of blood and sweat and fluid out between his legs. And it would keep going, long after he ought to have been left a dry husk of a man on the floor. Already Sherlock felt like he was swimming in all the fluids that by all rights needed to remain inside.
Stop the flow - something to block its passage. The proverbial Dutch boy, with his finger in the dam, holding the waters back before they destroy everything.
John. He needed John.
“John…please. Help me.” Begging now; he hated it, hated himself, hated what Victor’s death brought him to doing, hated the locked door, hated John for being on the other side of it; hated himself for never telling John the truth, for never telling John that…in that moment, he hated John, nearly as much as he wanted him.
“No.” But John didn’t sound so strong now. Maybe he could smell it, too.
“There’s no one else. I need you.”
John laughed. “But you don’t want me. You think I’m so gone that I don’t know the difference?”
“Victor didn’t want me, but he still-”
The door shook with the force of John’s body; Sherlock backed away from the vibrations before they rattled him apart. He was so on edge, it might happen. “I’m. Not. Victor.”
The door shook again. John’s fist? His open palm? His entire body, thrown against it? Sherlock was too far gone to deduce, and that was the worst of it, really. He wrapped his arms around himself, dug his fingers into the flesh on the back of his arms. The pain was good, almost - but not nearly enough to distract him from the desire.
“No, you’re not Victor,” he whispered, choking it out. “You’re my friend. He never was. He was convenient. You - you’re not the least bit convenient.”
John laughed again. “I’m the only Alpha on offer. How is that not convenient?”
“You’re on the other side of a bloody locked door. And Irene Adler was in this room half an hour ago.”
Silence, and then a soft scraping sound, as if John slid down the door. “She was here. In your room.”
“I told you.”
“She…that woman…was in your room.”
John’s voice…angry and possessive and dark and it was delicious. Sherlock sat up a little, the strange way that voice made his body uncurl, and wanted to reach out to John and touch him. Just to see if the hope in his chest had any merit at all.
“Yes.” So careful. He needed to be so careful now, not to frighten John away. Not to send John away in a fit of jealousy.
“Of course she was. Of course.” A bang, softer, deeper. John’s head against the door; it was still against the door, if the sound of the knock was any indication.
“I don’t want Irene Adler. I want you, John.”
Sherlock knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it, and he wanted to scream in frustration when John didn’t answer.
“Sherlock…” Kind…strained... John, telling him that he won’t come through the door.
Sherlock pressed his face into the floor and growled in frustration. “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s all so bloody tedious. She’s attractive enough, but she’s vicious, and she’s intelligent enough but she’s cold. I don’t want attractive and vicious and intelligent and cold; I want you. I sent the bloody woman away because everything she said and did, all I thought was that she wasn’t you, and I can’t bloody think of anything else. I can barely think at all if it’s not to do with you! The pheromones and your smell and you smell so bloody good, and I hate this, I hate that all I want is you.”
“No,” said John, breathing hard, his voice determined. “It’s the pheromones talking, that’s all. Talking about Irene being in the room with you, when you smell like you do. She probably touched you, didn’t she? Looked at you and wanted to touch her fingers all over your body, in your mouth and in your…no. No. You’re playing on my Alpha nature, you’re trying to make me jealous enough to come in there and defend what isn’t my territory.”
“I’m trying to tell you, it is…”
“It. Won’t. Work. I’m not Victor, Sherlock. I’m not going to bond you just because it makes your life easier!”
“If I’d wanted an easy bonding, don’t you think I would have let the woman at me?”
“I don’t know what you want, Sherlock! This is all just a game to you!”
“It’s not a game, John. She was here!”
“No. I don’t believe you.”
“John. My coat is in this room.”
“It can’t be. She was wearing it when she fell out the window.”
“Come in here if you don’t believe me!”
“You’re in heat, Sherlock!” howled John. “Don’t you get it? You’re in heat, and I’m an Alpha, and we’ve been able to live together for this long only because you have a bloody Alpha somewhere else. I never had to smell you, or look at you with your face flushed with wanting, or have you crawling all over me for a kiss. You probably didn’t even think about kissing me before, did you? And now I can’t get it out of my head, and the whole bloody flat smells like you, and I smell like you, and if I open this door, that’s going to be it, Sherlock. I’ll be on you and fucking you and I know that’s not what you want so would you just bloody shut up about the stupid coat, because I don’t care about the stupid coat.”
“This isn’t about the coat!” shouted Sherlock, and he banged his fists on the door. “He left me, John. Victor bonded me and he left me and he came back to England and didn’t so much as call to tell me. And the only reason I’m in heat now is because he’s dead, and I. Want. You. You’re the reason my body is doing this to me and you’re the reason the woman left the coat and went away because it’s you, John. It’s always been you, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it because twelve years ago I didn’t think I’d ever find you so I did a bloody stupid thing and bonded to ensure that I wouldn’t be reminded that there was something in the world I wasn’t ever going to have. Well done me, look how that turned out, John. You’re on the other side of a door you won’t open because you think you’re being noble. I’ve wanted you from the start, and if you’re too bloody stupid to see that, then maybe it’s better that you’re on the wrong side of a locked door. And maybe it is the pheromones telling me that I need you so much, that you’re the only Alpha in this entire world that I’d want to be with so much that I’m willing to put up with this stupid estrus every few months, if it means I get to keep you.”
He was barely done speaking when the doorknob began to shake, jiggling back and forth with wasted effort to open it. Sherlock stared at it, his chest heaving, his mouth dry. “John…”
“I can’t open it, you idiotic berk - I locked the bloody door from your side when I shut you in!”
Sherlock flung himself at the doorknob so quickly that he nearly stumbled trying to twist it open. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, and succeeded in doing a little of both. He managed it after a moment, his hands so slick with sweat that he could barely grip the knob, and then he couldn’t even open the door because he was in the way.
He shifted backwards as John stumbled in on his hands and knees, and stared up at the coat hanging on the wall. John’s eyes were blood-shot and wide; his hands shook, and to Sherlock, he smelled rich and thick, like long-simmered spices and brandy.
John was quiet for a moment, staring at the coat hanging on the wall. “She was here.”
“I didn’t want her,” said Sherlock. “She would have - I didn’t want her.”
John turned his head slowly - so slowly, it made Sherlock ache. “Who do you want?”
“You,” said Sherlock.
continued in part 2
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Surprise! (past), Mycroft, Irene Adler
Warnings: Omegaverse
Rating: R
Summary: Omega Sherlock Holmes was bonded to an Alpha long before John Watson ever met him. Shame, really.
A/N: My Winterlock fic for forsciencejohn. I’m so used to writing Alpha!Sherlock, this was a bit of a stretch, but a good exercise nonetheless! I hope she likes it.
Beta credits go to earlgreytea68, who puts up with the weird stuff I write with grace and aplomb. Kudos to arianedevere for her transcripts. I hope she’s caught up on sleep now.
Please note that while this is complete, it's very long and thus posted in two parts. This is Part One.
The Other Alpha
John Watson was a fairly reasonable man, and generally considered himself unflappable. Since moving in with Sherlock Holmes, he’d had a great deal of experience in dealing with surprises - such as being kidnapped and threatened with death not once, but twice in recent memory - and for the most part, he thought he’d conducted himself very well.
Waking up to find Sherlock Holmes wrapped in a sheet and wandering the flat wasn’t something he particularly expected. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that seeing Sherlock wrapped in a sheet brought to mind the fact that he was in all likelihood naked underneath it - and all that nakedness implied.
John was a reasonable, modern-day Alpha. He believed in reproductive rights for Betas, birth control and suppressants for Omegas, and the rights of both genders to wear whatever damn provocative clothing they liked without fear of being attacked in dark alleys by pheromone-crazed Alphas.
All the same, the sight of Sherlock in a sheet…John blinked, took a breath, and went right on into the sitting room, where the client Mrs Hudson had already announced was waiting.
“Cup of tea?” asked John, as if Sherlock Holmes wandered around in a sheet all the time.
“Ta,” said the man. He kept glancing back at Sherlock, and John had to admit it was probably disconcerting.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Oh, please, look at him,” snorted Sherlock, still stalking about the sitting room, the sheet dragging on the carpet. “Of course milk and sugar. One, though, because he likes to pretend he’s dieting.”
John sighed heavily in Sherlock’s direction, and went to turn on the kettle. “You could put on clothes.”
“Ugh,” said Sherlock.
“Just because you’re bonded, Sherlock-”
“Tedious,” said Sherlock, highly affronted at the reminder, and went back into the sitting room. “All right. Start from the beginning. And don’t be boring.”
John set the teacups on the tray and spotted the plate of biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up - cinnamon and sugar, and freshly baked, if the scent was any indication. John put a few on the tray as well, and stuffed one in his mouth before carrying the lot into the sitting room, where the new client was still talking.
“Six,” said Sherlock, interrupting the flow.
“Huh?” asked the client.
John rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to drop the tea tray on Sherlock’s head. “Really. Six.”
“Could be a five,” said Sherlock, irritable. “You should go investigate.”
“I should…” John sighed, and rubbed his face. “Why me?”
“You could use the fresh air,” said Sherlock. “And I need to dress.”
John sighed. No amount of cinnamon-flavored biscuits was worth staying in the flat when Sherlock was in a strop.
*
Really, Sherlock wasn’t a terrible flatmate. He played violin at all hours, but a violin wasn’t the constant shelling he’d hear in Afghanistan. He tended to leave strange body parts in the fridge, but once John delineated a shelf for feet and a shelf for food, it wasn’t such a bother. And if sometimes he didn’t speak for days on end - well, John liked the quiet. Really, the worst that could be said for Sherlock as a flatmate was that when he showered, he left the lavatory absolutely soaking wet.
Any lingering doubts John might have had stemmed from the sitcom worthiness of an Alpha and Omega rooming together. There were shelves full of Hollywood comedies about those types of living arrangements. Shakespeare had written a play or two. Boones and Mill had a dozen books on the subject if they had one. And then there was the porn.
John was very well acquainted with the porn. On account of being a typical Alpha, of course.
But Sherlock wasn’t a typical Omega. For one thing, he was bonded, but didn’t live with his Alpha. John didn’t even know who Sherlock’s Alpha was; they’d never discussed it, beyond Sherlock’s initial reassurance when they’d first moved in together that it wasn’t a problem.
“Haven’t seen my Alpha for years,” said Sherlock. “And it wouldn’t matter anyway; I do as I like.”
That was true enough, John supposed. But he’d never met an Omega who seemed so uninterested in hearth and home and heats. Sherlock didn’t even have heats, though that made some degree of sense; most bonded Omegas did stop experiencing estrus when their Alphas were on extended journeys or otherwise separated. The Army was rife with Alphas whose Omegas went years without a heat, due to deployment. Sometimes, John thought that Sherlock might have bonded at an early age, and then kicked the Alpha out of his life, just to ensure that he wouldn’t be plagued with estrus again.
It would have been a very Sherlockian thing to do, after all. If the body was transport, estrus would have been a full-scale system malfunction.
No matter the circumstances of Sherlock’s bonding, most of the Yard seemed to think Sherlock was a Beta, and considering the man lived like one, it wasn’t that hard of a sell. After all, he didn’t have heats, he didn’t have an Alpha, and he didn’t smell like anything but soap and shampoo.
Truth was, most of the time, John forgot that Sherlock was an Omega at all.
Remembering probably would have helped.
*
John was still giggling about the ashtray as Sherlock went frantically through his closet, tossing jackets and hats and boots and shirts in every direction. John ignored him, and set the ashtray down on the table, and then after thinking for a moment, put it up on the mantel where they’d still be able to see it, but it wouldn’t attract attention.
John was munching on another one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits when Sherlock finally reappeared. He was flushed and his eyes were bright, but he was dressed and clearly ready to go - the scarf was already being wound around his neck, hiding the years-old faded bond-bite from view. Most Omegas showed the bite proudly and dressed accordingly; there was a sizable minority who didn’t care one way or the other if people saw it, and the small glimpses were considered to be more provocative and titillating than if they’d been on full display.
John hadn’t met many Omegas who hid their bond bites so thoroughly as Sherlock Holmes did his.
“Come along, John,” said Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes.
“Oh, you’re ready now. Have a plan, do you?”
“No,” said Sherlock, shrugging on the Belstaff.
The entire ride to Belgravia, Sherlock couldn’t keep still. His hands clenched and unclenched; his knee jiggled up and down. He looked stoically out the window one moment, and then his gaze whipped back around to John the next, as if he wanted to ask something. He pulled on his scarf and shifted in his seat, and every move for some reason made John want to hold him down and possibly sit on him, just to keep him still. He was about to threaten it when Sherlock leaned forward and told the cabbie to stop, they’d walk from there, and then they were both on the pavement, Sherlock walking briskly with long strides, and John struggling to catch up.
“Would you slow down,” John scolded. “We’re not all made of legs, you know.”
“Punch me in the face,” said Sherlock, turning to John, and John had never been more grateful to hear anything in his entire life.
“Punch you?”
“Yes, didn’t you hear me?”
“I always hear you asking me to punch you, but usually it’s just subtext.”
Sherlock sighed. “Don’t go Alpha on me now, John - hit me!”
“That’s got nothing to do with it!”
“I admit it’d be a little tricky, since you’re shorter, but here, I’ll crouch down.”
“Look,” said John, gritting his teeth impatiently, “I’m not punching you.”
“Is it because I’m an Omega? Because I can take it.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“John,” groaned Sherlock.
“No!”
“Oh for-”
John expected a punch. He didn’t expect a kiss.
It was worse than a punch, in some ways - a punch would have had a clear beginning and end, and John would have known exactly how to react. The kiss…that was something else, because for all that John didn’t expect it, it came at him in slow motion, Sherlock’s hands on John’s shoulders, pulling him in. Sherlock’s face in the moments before he descended, mouth open and eyes wide with what might have been fearful desire.
Which made no sense whatsoever.
And the odd feeling under John’s skin, the way his blood started pumping faster through his veins, the way Sherlock’s hands felt impossibly warm despite the layers of clothing between them. The odd fog that crept up around John’s thoughts, soothing him while at the same time swirling with budding excitement and anticipation.
(His body seemed to remember that Sherlock was an Omega, even if his brain did not.)
It was a rough kiss to begin with, more force than finesse. John was light-headed and fuzzy before Sherlock even managed to wrench his mouth open, to slide his tongue inside, run it along John’s teeth and give a soft, sensual suck on his tongue. So perhaps it might have been excused that John gave in to the kiss, to the numbing influence of his brain, and let his eyes close. He reached up not to push the other man away, but to wrap his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, to keep him close.
The touch of skin, fingers to nape of neck, seemed to be enough to turn the kiss from frantic, pulsing, discombobulated pressure to something softer, more careful and cautious, but still just as demanding. Sherlock held tightly to John’s shoulders, his fingers digging into John’s skin, in a way that was almost painful, but John concentrated on Sherlock’s mouth. He let Sherlock’s tongue and lips set the quick pace, the pressurized licking and sucking and tasting. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to let up for a moment, didn’t want to let John take control of the kiss; for an Omega, he was desperately greedy.
John had kissed Omegas before. It would be wrong to say they were all submissive, whimpering little wisps in the bedroom. But none of them were quite as controlling as Sherlock.
It was Sherlock’s groan that broke him out of his reverie. “John,” whispered Sherlock. He sounded so utterly lost and debauched that John pulled back to stare at him, having almost forgotten who he was kissing. Sherlock’s lips were swollen and pink, his skin flushed, his eyes bright, and John wanted only to dive right back in, to keep kissing him. Every inch of his skin longed to press next to Sherlock’s; every thrum of his heart edged him closer.
“You kiss like a Beta,” whispered Sherlock.
John hit Sherlock squarely on the cheek, which made his knuckles sting from sudden impact. “Oh, ow, ow, ow, ow…”
“Excellent,” said Sherlock, pleased and already sounding a little bit stuffed up from the increased blood flow to his nose. “That should do it.”
“?!”
Sherlock stood up, touching his nose, seemingly unaffected by the kiss, if not the punch to his cheek. John, on the other hand, was still breathing heavily, his heart still thumping away, and his jeans were already feeling somewhat too snug. He could still feel Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the way the curls felt when he closed his hands around Sherlock’s head. And even through the fog that still surrounded his brain, he thought he could still smell Mrs Hudson’s cinnamon cookies on Sherlock’s coat.
Sherlock was walking steadily down the street, and if he was a little crooked, that could be attributed to disorientation from being hit, not kissed. “Come along, John!”
That was the problem with sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes - always watching him leave. Most of the time, John was glad that Sherlock was bonded, had always been bonded, because it meant that he didn’t have to worry about the entire Alpha/Omega thing. He could just be Sherlock’s friend, and over time, John had realized that being Sherlock’s friend was infinitely better than possibly ruining whatever they had because they couldn’t be more.
And then there were times, like just then, sitting on the cold pavement and watching Sherlock walk away slightly crooked, that part of John wanted to curse whatever idiot Alpha it was who’d bonded and left him.
The rest of him cursed himself for not getting there first.
*
The only good thing about Sherlock’s plan was that immediately upon entering Irene Adler’s house, his job was to ensure that the house was more or less empty, get a general idea of layout, locate the fire alarms, and persuade whoever answered the door to leave them be for a bit.
And find some kind of washcloth for Sherlock’s face, lest it start swelling.
Which was all good, because it meant that John could spend a little time apart from Sherlock, allowing him to tamp down the rush of hormones he’d felt in the alleyway. It took a surprising amount of effort, considering; after all, it’d only been a completely pointless kiss and a completely satisfactory punch. Adrenaline wasn’t surprising, but the randy way John was feeling was. It wasn’t as though John was attracted to Sherlock. But the kiss and the punch were so entwined in his mind that John wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t thrilled by the former more than the latter. It had, after all, been long enough since he’d done either.
Punching Sherlock - well, that had just been frustration rising to the surface. Bloody Omega, walking around half the morning in a sheet, knowing full well that John couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Kissing Sherlock…that was something else entirely. Brilliant, spine-tingling, bloody fantastic, utterly pointless. But Sherlock had done it solely to get under John’s skin, to get him so riled up that John would have no choice but to lash out at him. To get the bloody punch he’d needed to get into Irene Adler’s house.
And John - John had fallen for it like a ton of bricks. Like the sex-crazed Alpha he never thought he really was.
Bloody Omega.
John switched the water off, and took the bowl of water and the towel out of the kitchen. The assistant - Kate, she’d said her name was - had gone off somewhere after showing him the way, and the house was fairly quiet, save for the sound of voices from the front room. Large, open, airy. John glanced around, saw the smoke detectors, and gave a quick nod. That was one thing done. And he’d been long enough. Time to find Sherlock.
John went in. Show time.
“Right, this should do it,” he said briskly, and glanced up to see a naked Irene Adler standing far too close to Sherlock for comfort, his dog’s collar in her teeth.
Sherlock sat on the chair, fingers gripping the armrest. His face was utterly passive - if one ignored the widening of the eyes, and the strange way his teeth were clenched together. It almost looked as if he were so nervous he might actually bolt.
Which didn’t make any sense. Irene Adler might be a dominatrix; she might even be an Alpha, as Mycroft had indicated back at the palace. But even she ought to have been able to tell that Sherlock was as good as sexless, if not an actual bonded Omega. Surely she wasn’t crass enough to attempt a seduction of someone’s bonded mate.
Even if that someone was extremely absent, and had in fact never been met or mentioned or….
No. Not possible. No.
“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?” said John, and Irene Adler pulled the collar out of her teeth and smiled in a rather frightening way.
“I should think so,” said Irene, her lips smiling but her eyes entirely predatory. “Please, sit down. I can call for tea, if you’d like.”
“Had some,” said Sherlock, his voice high and tight. He hadn’t let go of the armrests; it looked to John as if he were practically lifting himself off the chair, for all that he was preternaturally still. Too still. Far too still, considering the manic gyrations he’d been doing all morning.
“Oh, I know.” Irene sat down gracefully, crossing her legs and arms so that all the pertinent bits were covered, and John gave her another glance. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Sherlock that he could tell, and the smile that hovered around her lips was nearly possessive. As if she were just waiting for Sherlock to melt into pieces on her chair.
“I did, too,” interjected John, not liking the way Irene looked at Sherlock in the slightest. Definitely not liking the way that Sherlock looked at Irene - not with interest, not even with fear, but with…trepidation.
Neither of them paid him any heed. In fact, neither of them seemed to notice him much at all. It was a bit annoying.
No, more than a bit. It was a lot. And more than annoying. It was…aggravating. John could already feel his blood pressure rising just a bit, the way Irene was leaning in toward Sherlock, her voice soft and seductive. And the way Sherlock was straining not to lean into her…but doing it anyway.
And talking about the dead hiker, of all things…
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “So they are in this room. John. John. John.”
It took John a moment. “Hmm?”
“The door, John.” Sherlock’s gaze was strangely intense, almost pleading. John had to shake off whatever was crawling under his skin - not an easy task - and remember what it was they’d discussed out on the street.
Right. Right. Leave the room. Leave the room now. Leave Sherlock and Irene alone in the room.
Fuck.
No, not fuck, wrong terminology, scratch that.
“Right,” said John. He saw a momentary look of interest on Irene’s face, and the way she glanced at Sherlock then…John’s blood nearly boiled under his skin, and not wanting to go in the slightest, he left the room.
The air in the hallway was cooler, somehow. Fresh and clean and it only took a few deep breaths for John’s head to clear a bit. But the memory of Irene leaning in toward Sherlock, that predatory look in her eye - and Sherlock, stock still and straining on the chair…
John grabbed the nearest magazine and pulled out the matches. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could get back in there, the sooner he could interrupt whatever ridiculous farce was going on between them.
Yes. Sooner. That was definitely better. Because every moment that Sherlock was alone with Irene, John could hear the ticking of a clock in the back of his head, counting it out, drawing it out, and the only thing John wanted to do was to get back in there and…and…
Okay, John didn’t know what, but he was pretty sure he’d figure it out. Just as long as Sherlock wasn’t alone with Irene, because it was very clear to John that Sherlock didn’t want to be alone with Irene. Just as much as Irene seemed to want to be alone with Sherlock.
And if that wasn’t worrisome…
When the alarm went off, it was almost a relief.
It was less of a relief when the American gunmen came in and shot the alarm silent.
“Thank you,” said John, because what else did one say to American gunmen who didn’t look particularly pleased to see you?
“Back inside, Dr Watson,” said one of the gunman, and John obeyed.
The air in the room was thicker than before, and growing thicker by the minute. It practically smacked John in the face when he stepped in, and the gunman behind him barely had to shove him down to his knees, because John might have fallen very voluntarily without his assistance.
Or not, considering. Irene was covered up in Sherlock’s coat, and somehow seeing that was almost worse than when she’d been naked. Irene, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat…wrapped in Sherlock’s scent…Sherlock’s scent…oh God.
Oh God.
Sherlock’s scent. It was Sherlock’s scent in the air. It was Sherlock’s scent fogging his brain. It was Sherlock’s scent, cinnamon and cloves and sugar, and the room was too warm and there was a gun at the back of his head and Sherlock protesting and oh God, Sherlock was going into heat and Irene was sitting there cool as a cucumber half naked and….
John closed his eyes. Sherlock and Irene. Maybe the gunman would just shoot him and be done with it.
*
He wasn’t shot. He was never entirely sure how that didn’t happen, but he wasn’t shot, and when Sherlock told him to search the rest of the house, he went, almost gladly, because the last thing he wanted to do was watch Irene and Sherlock together.
Because Irene was there, and Sherlock was going into heat, and all John could remember was the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the taste of his mouth when they kissed. The way Sherlock had looked at him in the moments before John had punched him, his eyes wide and bright and wanting.
But none of that was John, was it? No. It was Sherlock, unknowingly reacting to the return of his Alpha.
The return of Irene Adler.
*
It’s warm, too warm, far too warm. The only good thing about standing up is not sitting down, but standing up isn’t any better because legs keep shaking, and concentrating on anything becomes trickier by the moment.
Breathing is easier outside. Fresh air, away from the strange build-up of hormones in Irene Adler’s house. Thinking is clearer, try to figure out what is happening. Shoot the gun into the air, someone will report it. Can’t worry about that now, why is it so hot…?
“What the hell, Sherlock!” shouted John.
It’s faster this way. Faster seems to be the key. Anything to end whatever is happening in that house, whatever is happening to this ridiculous excuse of a body. Get home, crawl into bed, strip naked, stand under a cool spray of water.
John stands too close. Send him away, send him away. Breathing is easier when John isn’t near. Breathing is harder when Irene Adler stares, sidles up close with that predatory look in her eyes.
Reaches out to touch my hair.
“You don’t even know, do you?” said Irene softly. “You smell so good…”
“What…what did you do to me?”
The floor is good, the floor is comfortable. Lay down, spread my legs, so hot…
“Give it to me,” said Irene Adler. “Give it to me.”
No no no no. Can’t give it to Irene, it’s not hers. Not hers. Not hers.
“Give it to me!”
Yes, all right, anything, anything, just help, burning burning. Need you, need someone, need John, need something, help help help…
“Ah, there it is, thank you.”
But I’m not naked yet, you’re not in me yet, you’re not John, where is John, what is happening to me…
“Jesus! What are you doing!”
John. John John John John John.
“Ah, there you are, Dr Watson. Sorry to leave him in such a state, but I really must fly.”
“You…Sherlock? Sherlock. Christ, he’s going into heat - you can’t just leave him!”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
“I’m not his Alpha!”
“Isn’t that funny? Neither am I. And look at us both.”
“John,” gasped Sherlock, trying to sit up.
Shouting and heat and the thundering footsteps of people running up the stairs and John’s hands on my arms and John’s hands on my neck and John’s breath on my face and John and John and John John John John’s voice John…
“Oh, Christ, fuck fuck fuck…”
And then there was nothing.
*
Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha.
John’s head was swirling; between the pheromones and the adrenaline and the worry over Sherlock’s prone figure on the floor, he didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at Irene Adler, now disappearing out the window, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat and a smile. Definitely not at Sherlock himself, flushed and breathing so heavily that he might have been expanding and contracting in turn.
Irene wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha.
But Sherlock was going into heat - there wasn’t any doubt about it. All John had to do was rest his hand on Sherlock’s arm to feel that his temperature was rising just a bit, that his skin was flushed and slightly damp - and the scent of him. Cinnamon brown sugar dark honey delicious - John wanted to bury himself in that scent.
The pounding of feet on the stairs, Lestrade’s familiar voice shouting ahead.
“In here!” John shouted.
If Sherlock was going into heat…and Irene wasn’t his Alpha…who was?
*
“I’ve got it,” says Irene, and Sherlock stares out into the field, barely recognizable as the field where John had been Skyping him that morning. “No, no, don’t get up. The car’s about to backfire, and the hiker, he’s in the field, staring up into the sky. Not bird-watching, though, no - he’s got his eye on something else. The car backfires-”
A bang, rather like a door slamming shut, and Sherlock, now standing in the field, turns to look at it.
“Eyes here, love,” says Irene, and Sherlock turns to look at her again. “Don’t make the same mistake as our hiker, now. Because he turned to look at the bang, too, didn’t he, and took his eyes off the flying object. And by the time the driver’s out of the car to look, what killed your hiker already washed downstream.”
Sherlock’s mouth opens, dry, for all that he feels sticky-sweat-slick. “My hiker?”
“Of course your hiker, love,” says Irene, stepping up close. He can smell her now, the cologne and freshly-crushed basil, mint and bright pepper. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? What’s happening to you?”
Sherlock strains, but he can’t think straight. He’s so hot; his clothes are too tight, too constricting, clinging to his skin like damp flannel. He’s hot and empty and aching and…
“I’m in heat.”
“An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel,” whispers Irene-not-Irene, ginger-blond and blue-eyed, kind smile and adventurous eyes, lines along his mouth from laughing. Shifting back and forth between the two faces, both barely known but recognizable. “Your hiker, Sherlock. He came home, didn’t he? And now your bond-”
His Alpha stands in Irene’s place, eyes impossibly sad, blood running down his cheek like tears. “I’m sorry, love.”
Broken.
There’s a place just under Sherlock’ s heart that he hasn’t considered in years. It’s wound up tight and secure, patiently occupying its space, waiting for the moment when its twin comes near enough to react. He’s always heard other people talk about their bonds; the warmth and love and tugging they’d feel, connecting them to another person, how they can tell their bonded’s joys and sorrows just by the way their bonds felt. Sherlock’s never felt anything from his, but that quiet patience, the waiting, the absence of anything.
Now, all he feels is the absence of the bond itself. He’s grown accustomed to that hard little knot under his heart, so much so that he’s taken its existence for granted, but now it’s empty, as if it was removed when Sherlock wasn’t looking.
“I…” gasps Sherlock. “I….”
There’s a sheet over him, wrapping around his limbs, wrapping around him tightly, wrapping him so tightly he’ll never break free. He’s hot and wet and empty and aching and he’s….
Awake.
Sherlock woke with a pain in his chest, his head fogged and hurting. It took too long to realize he was back in Baker Street, in his own room, his own bed, the sheet wrapped tightly around his legs. The sheets were rough against his naked, flushed, sensitive skin, and the scent lingering in the room, a familiar scent, rose petals and nail varnish, was almost sickening.
“Hush now,” said Irene, bending low over him, and the scent flooded Sherlock’s nostrils until he couldn’t even think. He pushed back into the pillows, screwing his eyes shut, and held his breath, because otherwise he might spread his legs for her. For her, and not the dark-pepper-brandy smell he could only barely remember.
“Such a delicious crumpet you are,” whispered Irene. “I could take such good care of you. I could have you bent over this bed begging for mercy.”
“No,” groaned Sherlock, eyes still closed. He could smell her. He could feel her, leaning over him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep his body from rising up to meet her.
“Twice,” promised Irene.
A sharp fingernail on his cheek; Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at her. “Wouldn’t you like that, darling?
He swallowed down the yes yes please yes that threatened to bubble up. It took every ounce of humanity left in him to answer. “Not you. I don’t want you.”
“Hush now,” repeated Irene, and he almost heard the disappointment under the brave reassurance. Her smile was knowing, a bit sad, and Sherlock’s heart pounded. “I’m only returning your coat.”
Her touch was electric, all the same, and he inhaled sharply as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
The field is a vibrant green that doesn’t exist in reality, and he watches, over and over again, as the young man with the ginger-blond hair is struck from behind over and over and over.
Your hiker…recently returned…don’t make the same mistake…
When he opened his eyes again, the field was gone. The shades on the windows were drawn and afternoon light filtered in. His heart pounded; the blood coursed through his veins, under his skin, around his muscles and bones and liver. Hot and cold, damp and dry, and the strange, empty feeling deep in his chest and his guts while at the same time, he might burst. He needed something. He knew exactly what he needed, and that he needs at all made his breath stutter. He kicked at the sheet around his legs, gripped the mattress to try to ground himself. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Afraid, alone, and for the first time in a decade, his body was betraying him.
Sherlock lifted his head, aching and empty, and the room swirled as if he was dizzy. He might have been dizzy, but there was only one thought in his head, and he tried to shout it through dry lips.
“John!”
A sound on the other side of the door; movement. Someone slumped next to it, someone sitting against it.
John.
“John!”
John’s voice was muffled from the other side of the door. “No. I can’t…Sherlock, you’re in heat. I can’t come in. This isn’t what you want.”
But it is. It is, it is, it’s what I’ve wanted from the start, and couldn’t have, because once, a long time ago, I was an idiot…
“The door’s locked,” said John, as if this was meant to be comforting. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone in.”
“Where is she?”
John didn’t say anything for a moment, and then a let out hollow sort of laugh. “Your Alpha, you mean.”
“No!” groaned Sherlock, and he kicked so hard, twisting in fury, that he fell right off the bed with a thump.
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was worried. “Are you all right?”
Sherlock crept across the floor to the door; the light under the door was mostly blocked by John, and Sherlock pressed his face to it, took a deep breath. Dust in the carpet, polish on the floor, the strong scent of brandy-chocolate-John, and Sherlock wanted to whimper with it, drink it down, and hated himself for it.
“John. Help me, please. You’re an Alpha. You can make this go away.”
John’s voice was heavy, his breathing hard. “But I’m not yours, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rocked back on his hands and knees, pressed his face to the floor and exhaled a deep moan with all the air in his lungs. It was easier, crouched like this on the floor. Not cooler, exactly, but so similar to the classic missionary bonding pose that his body was fooled into thinking relief was coming.
Even if relief was on the other side of a locked door, refusing to come though.
“No. You’re not.”
“He’s coming, Sherlock, I promise. Or she. They’re in London, have to be if you’re going into heat. They feel the pull, same as you. It won’t be long, and I won’t fight them off, I promise.”
Sherlock groaned. “Impossible. He’s not coming. No one’s coming, John. He’s dead.”
“Sherlock, you can’t know that.”
“It’s true.”
“How can you know that?” demanded John, and Sherlock knew the look on John’s face - set and determined, upset and angry and trying desperately to hold it together. “How can you possibly know that?”
“The hiker, John.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Did they tell you his name? They must have.”
Silence.
“He always wanted to travel. That was the point - he’d go and travel, see all the things he could see as a bonded Alpha that he wouldn’t have been able to see otherwise. Be safe from accidentally bonding with someone he didn’t know. I’d stay here, and not have to bother with estrus. It was mutually beneficial; we both had our freedom. For twelve years. Fairly decent run, I’d say, until for whatever reason he decided to come back to England with a boomerang.” Sherlock’s laugh was hollow. “What a joke. Victor never said anything about wanting to visit Australia, but I suppose a man changes over the course of twelve years.”
John’s voice was dry and flat. “Victor.”
“Victor Trevor, yes. My Alpha.”
The name was dust on his lips; somehow, saying it aloud brought back the memory of the young man he’d known. The golden boy, the smiling eyes, the joyous and cheerful laughter, so bright against Sherlock’s own sarcastic and standoffish smirk.
It was quiet on the other side of the door, and then Sherlock heard John exhale, breath echoing against the wood.
“Bleeding buggering fuck.”
Sherlock sighed in a rush, closed his eyes again, remembered Victor saying goodbye.
You said you’d write when you came back to England. Give me warning, a change to get away - or be ready for you.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
John’s voice shook. “Yeah. He was. How did…?”
Sherlock rested his hand on the floor, palm flat, fingers just brushing the bottom of the door. The sweat was breaking out on his forehead again; it was impossible to keep his limbs steady. “I hated my estrus. It was inconvenient. Disruptive. The loss of control - the way need and desire were suddenly more important than caution and reason. And without any of the benefits of clarity of thought - just the mess to clean up afterwards, emotional and otherwise. I would have done anything to rid myself of them.”
“So you bonded yourself to a stranger?”
“He wasn’t a stranger. We met at uni. He was older. He was brilliant. I thought he was wasting himself on his course of studies. And Victor…he didn’t want to bond. It made sense, to share my estrus with him.”
“A friend, then.”
“I didn’t have friends.”
“Go on,” prodded John. Sherlock slid his hand toward the crack under the door; his fingers were skinny enough to wedge under just enough. Just a little closer to John. It wasn’t nearly close enough.
“It was my idea. He was complaining about how he couldn’t get into this monastery in Tibet unless he were bonded. And…I offered. He’d be bonded, could see the things he wanted to see - and if he was away, I wouldn’t go into heat, I’d be free of all that nonsense. It made sense.”
John didn’t answer, but Sherlock could see the shadows shift under the door. The long dark shadow: John’s body. The smaller one, just opposite Sherlock’s hand: John’s hand, pressed against the floor.
“We bonded. He left a week later. It was the last heat I had. Until now.”
“Did you love him?”
The image of Victor dissipated almost immediately. “What? No. I don’t see how that matters.”
The shadows didn’t shift, but there was movement in the air - and then the lightest touch on the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. John’s hand, creeping under the door.
“You trusted him enough to bond with him. That’s a pretty big level of trust, Sherlock. He could have stayed with you, not left at all.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” insisted Sherlock. “It was convenient. We wrote a few letters, for a few months, and then…”
His voice trailed off. John’s fingers pressed in a little more. Sherlock didn’t move his hand. He didn’t dare.
But with the press of John’s fingers, there was another wave of warmth, the blood under his skin a rippling wave of pressure. Sherlock gasped with it, pressed his forehead into the door. His entire body wanted to press into the door, or better still, under the door, straight into John’s fingers and up his arm, into his chest where he could feel John’s heart beating in time with his pulsing blood. Sherlock could smell John, the richness of him, and worse, Sherlock could smell himself, the deep honey-yeast scent of his own sex as his thighs grew slick with lubrication.
This was it, then. This was everything Sherlock had tried to forget. His very life flowing out of him, down down down, a vortex sucking every drop of blood and sweat and fluid out between his legs. And it would keep going, long after he ought to have been left a dry husk of a man on the floor. Already Sherlock felt like he was swimming in all the fluids that by all rights needed to remain inside.
Stop the flow - something to block its passage. The proverbial Dutch boy, with his finger in the dam, holding the waters back before they destroy everything.
John. He needed John.
“John…please. Help me.” Begging now; he hated it, hated himself, hated what Victor’s death brought him to doing, hated the locked door, hated John for being on the other side of it; hated himself for never telling John the truth, for never telling John that…in that moment, he hated John, nearly as much as he wanted him.
“No.” But John didn’t sound so strong now. Maybe he could smell it, too.
“There’s no one else. I need you.”
John laughed. “But you don’t want me. You think I’m so gone that I don’t know the difference?”
“Victor didn’t want me, but he still-”
The door shook with the force of John’s body; Sherlock backed away from the vibrations before they rattled him apart. He was so on edge, it might happen. “I’m. Not. Victor.”
The door shook again. John’s fist? His open palm? His entire body, thrown against it? Sherlock was too far gone to deduce, and that was the worst of it, really. He wrapped his arms around himself, dug his fingers into the flesh on the back of his arms. The pain was good, almost - but not nearly enough to distract him from the desire.
“No, you’re not Victor,” he whispered, choking it out. “You’re my friend. He never was. He was convenient. You - you’re not the least bit convenient.”
John laughed again. “I’m the only Alpha on offer. How is that not convenient?”
“You’re on the other side of a bloody locked door. And Irene Adler was in this room half an hour ago.”
Silence, and then a soft scraping sound, as if John slid down the door. “She was here. In your room.”
“I told you.”
“She…that woman…was in your room.”
John’s voice…angry and possessive and dark and it was delicious. Sherlock sat up a little, the strange way that voice made his body uncurl, and wanted to reach out to John and touch him. Just to see if the hope in his chest had any merit at all.
“Yes.” So careful. He needed to be so careful now, not to frighten John away. Not to send John away in a fit of jealousy.
“Of course she was. Of course.” A bang, softer, deeper. John’s head against the door; it was still against the door, if the sound of the knock was any indication.
“I don’t want Irene Adler. I want you, John.”
Sherlock knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it, and he wanted to scream in frustration when John didn’t answer.
“Sherlock…” Kind…strained... John, telling him that he won’t come through the door.
Sherlock pressed his face into the floor and growled in frustration. “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s all so bloody tedious. She’s attractive enough, but she’s vicious, and she’s intelligent enough but she’s cold. I don’t want attractive and vicious and intelligent and cold; I want you. I sent the bloody woman away because everything she said and did, all I thought was that she wasn’t you, and I can’t bloody think of anything else. I can barely think at all if it’s not to do with you! The pheromones and your smell and you smell so bloody good, and I hate this, I hate that all I want is you.”
“No,” said John, breathing hard, his voice determined. “It’s the pheromones talking, that’s all. Talking about Irene being in the room with you, when you smell like you do. She probably touched you, didn’t she? Looked at you and wanted to touch her fingers all over your body, in your mouth and in your…no. No. You’re playing on my Alpha nature, you’re trying to make me jealous enough to come in there and defend what isn’t my territory.”
“I’m trying to tell you, it is…”
“It. Won’t. Work. I’m not Victor, Sherlock. I’m not going to bond you just because it makes your life easier!”
“If I’d wanted an easy bonding, don’t you think I would have let the woman at me?”
“I don’t know what you want, Sherlock! This is all just a game to you!”
“It’s not a game, John. She was here!”
“No. I don’t believe you.”
“John. My coat is in this room.”
“It can’t be. She was wearing it when she fell out the window.”
“Come in here if you don’t believe me!”
“You’re in heat, Sherlock!” howled John. “Don’t you get it? You’re in heat, and I’m an Alpha, and we’ve been able to live together for this long only because you have a bloody Alpha somewhere else. I never had to smell you, or look at you with your face flushed with wanting, or have you crawling all over me for a kiss. You probably didn’t even think about kissing me before, did you? And now I can’t get it out of my head, and the whole bloody flat smells like you, and I smell like you, and if I open this door, that’s going to be it, Sherlock. I’ll be on you and fucking you and I know that’s not what you want so would you just bloody shut up about the stupid coat, because I don’t care about the stupid coat.”
“This isn’t about the coat!” shouted Sherlock, and he banged his fists on the door. “He left me, John. Victor bonded me and he left me and he came back to England and didn’t so much as call to tell me. And the only reason I’m in heat now is because he’s dead, and I. Want. You. You’re the reason my body is doing this to me and you’re the reason the woman left the coat and went away because it’s you, John. It’s always been you, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it because twelve years ago I didn’t think I’d ever find you so I did a bloody stupid thing and bonded to ensure that I wouldn’t be reminded that there was something in the world I wasn’t ever going to have. Well done me, look how that turned out, John. You’re on the other side of a door you won’t open because you think you’re being noble. I’ve wanted you from the start, and if you’re too bloody stupid to see that, then maybe it’s better that you’re on the wrong side of a locked door. And maybe it is the pheromones telling me that I need you so much, that you’re the only Alpha in this entire world that I’d want to be with so much that I’m willing to put up with this stupid estrus every few months, if it means I get to keep you.”
He was barely done speaking when the doorknob began to shake, jiggling back and forth with wasted effort to open it. Sherlock stared at it, his chest heaving, his mouth dry. “John…”
“I can’t open it, you idiotic berk - I locked the bloody door from your side when I shut you in!”
Sherlock flung himself at the doorknob so quickly that he nearly stumbled trying to twist it open. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, and succeeded in doing a little of both. He managed it after a moment, his hands so slick with sweat that he could barely grip the knob, and then he couldn’t even open the door because he was in the way.
He shifted backwards as John stumbled in on his hands and knees, and stared up at the coat hanging on the wall. John’s eyes were blood-shot and wide; his hands shook, and to Sherlock, he smelled rich and thick, like long-simmered spices and brandy.
John was quiet for a moment, staring at the coat hanging on the wall. “She was here.”
“I didn’t want her,” said Sherlock. “She would have - I didn’t want her.”
John turned his head slowly - so slowly, it made Sherlock ache. “Who do you want?”
“You,” said Sherlock.
continued in part 2