Take It Slow
Title: Take It Slow
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4,200
Warnings: Alpha/Omega dynamics, alpha!john, omega!sherlock, major H/C
Summary: It takes a while for an omega's heat to fully begin - though they might want desperately to mate, their bodies can't handle it. During these painful in-between hours, John does what he can to soothe and distract Sherlock while fighting to control his own urges, until they reach the moment they've been waiting for.
This was written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
It always starts gradually and that’s one of the more annoying parts. If he could get it over with, one hard, fast fuck, it might not be so terrible. But no, when he finally looks up from his experiment and registers that the sun has risen and John is at the stove preparing eggs for breakfast, all he feels is a little off. Not sick, per se, just not quite right. Sherlock frowns slightly and drums his fingers on the table, hoping in spite of what he knows is coming. A bit early, granted, but it's not unheard of for his heats to be a bit off. John likes to say it comes from years of hardly eating or sleeping, which is generally followed by Sherlock telling him to piss off.
"Breakfast?" John says in that voice that means he isn't asking, he's telling. He sets a plate down in front of Sherlock. Eggs, as expected, with a side of mulberry jam and a plump, crispy piece of toast. Sherlock frowns down at it but he can feel John eyeing him. Since he can't recall off hand how long it's been since he last ate, he reluctantly picks up his fork and places a tiny piece of the egg into his mouth. John looks satisfied and begins eating his own breakfast.
The food doesn’t taste like it normally does and that’s what finally lets Sherlock know for certain that his heat is, indeed, beginning. All of the tastes are just a touch off, but it’s enough to turn his stomach. What little appetite he has quickly disappears and he stands up after eating a couple of mouthfuls, wandering off to John’s little huff of annoyance. He disappears into the lav and takes a long hot shower. The longer he can put this off, the better. Much to his delight, by the time he gets out there is a text waiting for him, and it’s from Lestrade, asking the two of them to come. Just what he needs, a distraction. Sometimes Lestrade, for all his faults, can have impeccable timing.
“John, case!” he shouts, wrapping a towel around his waist to make the journey to his room. Sometimes he likes to walk around naked just to torment John but now is not the time. He dresses, donning a pair of older trousers that he won’t care about ruining and a button-up shirt in a deep blue. John is waiting for him by the time he emerges, an indulgent smile on his face and his gun tucked into his waistband. Sherlock beams at him as he grabs his coat and sweeps out the door, the fire of a new game burning through him and his alpha right behind him.
He summons a cab and they both climb in. Sherlock pulls out his mobile and begins sending off rapid-fire texts to Lestrade demanding answers about the new case. Usually most of them are wrong but it’s a way to pass the time. John stares out the window. Sherlock casts him a sideways look, knowing that John hasn’t caught on yet. If he had, he would’ve insisted that Sherlock pass on the case unless it was one he could solve without leaving the house. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep it a secret long enough to solve the case and, in the process, put off the inevitable. He makes a mental note to stand downwind from John at all times.
“Wow, must be a big one,” John mutters as the cab pulls up. Red and blue lights flash across his face. Sherlock swallows and looks away, feeling a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. Surreptitiously he swipes at it with the back of his hand as he gets out. The autumn air is cold and moist and that helps.
“Sherlock, over here!” Lestrade waves them over. Just beyond him the crime scene, which has three bodies just waiting to be examined. Sherlock doesn’t even bother to greet him, just walks straight past him and begins his work immediately. He vaguely hears John and Lestrade exchanging pleasantries behind him but doesn’t pay either man much attention.
His stomach begins to cramp while he’s examining the woman’s body. It knocks him off track for a split second. It’s like someone has reached inside of him, grabbed hold of his organs, and given them a vicious twist, and it hurts. He draws in a sharp breath and shuts his eyes for the beat it takes to pass. This is really the beginning; his body is beginning to produce lubrication, albeit slowly. Soon he won’t be able to hide it anymore; his scent is likely already changing. He hates it, the way his body betrays him by acting without his permission. He’s always striven to control his body in every way but this, this is completely beyond him and every time it’s almost unbearable.
He remains there in a crouch, trying to take slow deep breaths, fighting against the urge to present himself to the nearest alpha. Biology is demanding he allow himself to be fucked but Sherlock isn’t going to give in, not when his alpha won’t do it anyway. With determination he shoves the growing feeling of emptiness aside and returns to examining the woman’s hair. She smells of chlorine, he notices, and it’s enough to make him feel ill. He stands up quickly to get away from it and feels his thighs slide together with a familiar damp heat. It must have been collecting for a while because there’s just enough to make it a bit uncomfortable, to be noticeable.
“Sherlock?” John says, stepping over to him. “Have you figured it out?”
“Yes,” he says, because it’s the truth. But oh, having John so close isn’t helping. His skin itches and he scratches his arm unconsciously. John notices the move and his eyes narrow.
“Sherlock...” he says with dawning understanding. He steps up next to Sherlock, pressing their bodies together, and breathes in deeply. Just his presence and his familiar scent is enough to make Sherlock feel dizzy with want. Thoughts of the crime scene are swiftly leaping out the window.
“John.” Sherlock licks his lips. He feels hollow, so empty, and he knows John could fill him. He stares pleadingly. If John would fuck him just once he’d be clear-headed enough to finish this case. “Please - ”
Several emotions pass over John’s face, ending in resignation, and he sighs lowly. “Shh, you know I can’t,” he replies, even though the swelling in his trousers would suggest otherwise. He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s wrist, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over the pulse. “Come on, love, let’s go home. You’ll feel better once you’re in bed.”
---
Sherlock is restless. As soon as they reach the flat, he disregards any notion of going to bed and instead strides back over to the table where he sits down, slotting his eye over the microscope and ignoring John completely. The slides he’s looking at hold his attention but just barely. He’s too aware of - of everything. The way the window is cracked open, letting in the smallest gust of cold air. The way his clothing shifts against his skin, providing a subtle irritation that makes him want to scratch. The way he’s leaking, allowing small trickles of fluid to bead up and trail down his thighs, a precursor to the flood that will pave the way for John later on.
John ignores his fidgeting and sits down in front of the telly, turning it to one of those programmes he and Mrs Hudson seem to find endlessly amusing but which only serve to annoy Sherlock, as he doesn’t see what’s so entertaining. Sherlock glances up at him every once in a while, and before long he’s outright staring, tracing the familiar lines of John’s body intently. The strong hands (nails freshly clipped short), the fringe of blond hair that’s fallen into John’s eyes (he needs a haircut), the way he plays with the hem of his jumper (he’s excited; Sherlock’s scent is arousing him), his deep and steady breaths (but also controlled). His scent is all over the flat, a steady aroma that envelops Sherlock in the safe feeling of home.
His hands steal to his shirt and he has it half unbuttoned before he realizes what he’s doing. Sherlock frowns even though it feels good to get rid of the irritation. Clothing aggravates his skin when he’s this close to his heat. Occasionally he’s even found a rash left on his arms and chest afterwards. He pulls the shirt off and deposits it on the floor. John will pick it up later. Bare from the waist up, he turns back to microscope, but now his pants are annoying him. They feel tight and clingy when he wants to have as little obstruction between him and John as possible.
And - God. This is what he hates the most. The waiting. The knowledge that not only is his body betraying him, it can’t even be arsed to do it at a decent speed. Because Sherlock can be patient, yes, when he wants to be, when it comes to a case or knowledge that he feels he needs to own, but he’s never been good at being patient at this. It will be hours yet before his body is ready for John and because bloody John is so bloody noble and unwilling to risk hurting his omega, it will be hours before John does anything about it.
Unacceptable.
He unlatches his belt and thumbs his trousers open. The previously cool air has turned warm and he feels more sweat sliding down his face, collecting in the hollows of his throat and belly. His temperature is rising, he thinks clinically, sliding his trousers and boxers down and off. Fluid gleams on his thighs and he slides a hand around to his entrance, probing curiously. In spite of the mess, he’s still fairly dry and the muscle is stiff and resistant when he pushes gently against it. The tip of his finger slides in and Sherlock’s knees nearly buckle. He doesn’t realize he’s moaned out loud until he hears John’s quickened breathing.
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks across at his mate. John isn’t even pretending to watch the telly anymore. He’s focused solely on Sherlock. His eyes have fully dilated, leaving only a thin ring of dark blue around blown wide black. A flush has risen in his cheeks and his pants have noticeable tented. When their eyes meet, John licks his lips slowly and Sherlock hears himself whimper as he pushes his finger in another inch or so. That seems to snap John out of it; he stands up and crosses the room to pull Sherlock’s hand away.
“Don’t, now, you’ll hurt yourself,” he says, bringing the hand up and pressing a kiss against the palm. His nostrils flare when he catches the strong scent that lingers and he breathes out, sucking Sherlock’s finger into his mouth on the next inhale. Sherlock gasps as that hot, wet tongue caresses his skin, cleaning him of any trace of his fluids. He grabs at the table with his free hand to keep from sliding into floor in a heap of pure want.
“John, please.” There is no manipulation, no games, just desperation. Having had something inside of him, like a teasing taste of what’s coming, he feels achingly empty. He stares at John’s mouth wrapped around his finger and says again, “Please.”
John pulls away. “No, Sherlock.” His voice is unsteady; he’s been caught off guard by his momentary lapse in will. “I’ve told you before that I don’t want to risk hurting you and I meant it. I’ve seen what happens when alphas get carried away before the omega has fully entered their heat. It’s… it’s a bit not good and I’m not going to let that happen to you.” His shoulders straighten, square with resolve. “You’ll relax soon enough, alright?”
Except it won’t, it won’t be soon enough because Sherlock is ready now. “I could take - ”
“No!” John says again, wearily this time but no less firm. “You’re not taking anything that will force your body to relax. You can’t rush this, Sherlock. It doesn’t work that way. I know that you don’t feel well and I wish I could do something for you. I would, if I could.” He presses one last kiss to Sherlock’s hand, gentle this time, and sighs. “But this is something neither of us can change.”
Sherlock stares at him and bites at his lower lip in frustration. He knows John will stand firm; they’ve had this argument several times and will probably continue to have it with every heat. It’s maddening to wish, just this once, that John would love him a little less, even though he knows from experience how painful it can be if an alpha tries to force their way in before its time. Still the dull cramping in his abdomen as his clenched muscles spasm is nearly unbearable and he squirms, one hand cupping his belly in an effort to soothe the pain. John’s eyes soften.
“Go get into bed,” he says gently, knowing that Sherlock has reached the point where he’ll be amenable to laying down. “I’ll bring you in a cup of tea.”
---
He watches John move to the stove and start the familiar ritual: water into kettle, kettle on base and turned on, the search for the right kind of tea. It’s oddly comforting and stays with him as he turns and wanders up the stairs into John’s old bedroom. Most of the time they share the downstairs bedroom out of convenience - it’s closer to everything - but on days like this he likes to be surrounded in John. Sherlock pushes the door open and sees the bed, made up with military precision, waiting for him. He eases his aching body down on the coarse sheets and buries his face into the pillow. The scent is faded, old, but still John.
A few minutes later John comes in with the tea. He’s always concerned about Sherlock getting dehydrated and this is no exception. He walks around to the far side of the bed and perches on the edge, placing his own cup on the stand. “Sherlock,” he says. “Feel like sitting up a bit for me, sweetheart?”
Normally Sherlock abhors pet names. It bothers him that he enjoys hearing John use them now. “Not thirsty,” he mutters, mostly out of a desire to be contradictory. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth and the hot, heady fragrance of the tea makes his throat ache like rough sandpaper. He’s desperately thirsty, suddenly, but giving in feels like a concession he’s not ready to make.
John sighs and shifts backwards a little, until the curve of his arse rests against Sherlock’s bony hip. He doesn’t say anything, just places a warm hand on Sherlock’s back and begins rubbing with long, languid strokes that go all the way from his tight neck to the base of his spine. Being a doctor and the mate of a stroppy omega has given him enough experience to know exactly where to press to help release the worst of the tension. Before long Sherlock has melted all over the bed, slow, blissful purrs rumbling out of his chest. The bed moves and then John places a gentle kiss on his right shoulder.
“Come on, love,” he murmurs. “For me?”
Sherlock turns his head just enough that he can stare at John with one wide, pale eye. Finally, he rolls onto his side and parts his lips. John smiles and leans down, cupping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him up until he can safely tip the cup and pour a bit of the steaming liquid into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock swallows each mouthful and refuses to admit how much it helps, how good it feels to have the heat warming him up from the inside out. Even the painful cramping in his belly seems to ease just a little bit.
“Good?” John asks. He doesn’t seem to need an answer, just sets the cup down on the stand and stands up, stripping off his shirt and trousers. He leaves his boxers on and sits back down, swinging his legs onto the bed. Sherlock gravitates towards him immediately, every inch of his body pleading for contact with his mate, and wraps his arms around John’s chest. He curls his legs up and locks them around John’s thighs, then shoves his face up underneath John’s chin. John chuckles softly and allows Sherlock to shift them around until Sherlock goes lump with a contented sound. Only then does he move his hand to Sherlock’s curls and begin stroking, using his fingertips to provide a firmer pressure. He knows Sherlock gets tension headaches after hours of his body cramping and seizing.
“Tell me about the case,” he says in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock shivers. The backs of his thighs ache and he still feels empty, more noticeable now that he’s lying down. “The victim smelled of chlorine. When Molly does the autopsy, they’ll find that she drowned.”
It only takes a minute for John to put the clues together. He says, “Dry drowning” and feels Sherlock give a wiggle of pleasure against him.
“Correct,” Sherlock confirms. “She was at the pool and she and someone else, probably a friend, were playing around when she slipped. The wound on the back of her head had small pieces of fibre in it consistent with what you’d find on the edge of a pool. Someone pulled her out, a friend or the lifeguard, and she passed it off, insisted she was fine. Several hours later she succumbed to the effects and her friend panicked, probably thought that they might get blamed for what happened, and left here there.” His head lolls against John’s chest.
“Some friend,” John says under his breath, moving his hand down to massage the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock makes a low sound of agreement and squirms again, this time in pain as his stomach gives a series of vicious cramps that leave him breathless.
“John,” he whimpers.
“Shh.” This is the part that John hates the most. He’s a doctor and an alpha; seeing anyone in pain, but particularly his omega, his Sherlock, is immensely frustrating. There’s nothing he can do about it, either. Sherlock’s muscles are seizing as his body moves towards his heat and until he enters it fully they just have to wait. Medication can cause a lot of damage and interferes with the cycle. John brushes a kiss across Sherlock’s forehead and begins murmuring nonsense, aimless words that he hopes Sherlock finds comforting.
Time drifts by while Sherlock writhes, his infamous control falling apart underneath the onslaught of spasming pain that is taking over every inch of his body. His belly, genitals and thighs hurt the most. He wants to move, can’t not move, and yet even the slightest twitch causes a fresh wave of agony. John holds him close and his voice is a constant presence, distant but welcome, not grating but an anchor, keeping Sherlock from either drifting away or seeking out something to make it stop, possibility of damage be damned. He clings to John at the same time he wants to push him away.
The sheets drag against his body and feel like they’re inflicting dozens of tiny cuts on his skin. John’s boxers are worse. At some point John peels himself away and takes them off. He re-joins Sherlock on the bed and Sherlock dimly registers the cock pressing against his thigh, hard and dripping, a symbol of John’s iron control that prevents him from taking his omega before Sherlock is ready. It’s hard for John, too; the struggle to remain controlled, to fight off his instinct to pin Sherlock down and ravage him, is visible in every part of John’s body. Sometimes Sherlock isn’t sure what holds John back when so many alphas have snapped.
He drops his head back against the pillow and pants, squeezing John’s hand tightly as his muscles contract again. He feels hollow and it’s a shade of pain too vivid to ignore. The sheets beneath his body are soaked with his fluids and stick to his thighs when he tries to shift onto his side in the hopes that it might offer some relief. John soothes him with another kiss before he pulls away. Sherlock scrabbles, lost, and listens hard for that voice that keeps him grounded. Surprisingly strong arms lift him up, cradling him gently, and place him in a chair that was previously covered with a tall stack of books. John changes the sheets before helping him back to the bed.
“Lay back, babe,” he says, running a soothing hand down Sherlock’s arm. “I’ll check. I think you’re close.”
God, yes, Sherlock wants to be close. He draws his knees up, shuddering through another spasm, and lets John touch him. He can’t keep the low, wanting cry from escaping when he feels fingers prodding against him, the tip of one sliding just inside, testing the muscle to see whether or not it’s loose enough to accept an invasion from something as large as an alpha cock. He squeezes his eyes shut hard and hopes, prays, because he just wants this to stop, wants John in him already. Orgasm, he knows, will help his muscles to relax and there’s only one way he’s going to reach that. They’ve discovered that the emptiness is too distracting for John to get him off with hands and mouth alone.
“Sherlock,” John says, curling fingers around his hip.
“What?” he manages. It’s hard to concentrate.
“You’re ready.”
There are no sweeter words than that. Sherlock arches his back with a wordless, needy little cry. John shushes him with a soft kiss, a sweet press of lips as he gets into position. He presses the tip of his cock to Sherlock’s entrance and rocks back and forth, nudging the muscle open. He keeps a tight grip on Sherlock’s hips to prevent the omega from impaling himself. Sherlock chokes and gasps, his lungs not wanting to work properly, as John slowly slides deep inside of him, until he bottoms out with his balls resting snugly against Sherlock’s arse.
The sensation of being filled after hours of throbbing emptiness is glorious even when it’s painful. He locks trembling legs around John’s waist just in case John tries to pull out. His whole body is shuddering and it takes John commanding him to breathe before his body remembers how to draw in air. He coughs, gagging, and feels his hands pulling desperately at the sheets, struggling to hold onto something. It’s too much, his muscles hurt and burn with the intrusion, but at the same time it’s not nearly enough and he needs more.
“John,” he sobs, needing to know that someone can make it stop.
“I know, Sherlock, I know.” John’s gritting his teeth and the veins on his neck stand out. He’s struggling to maintain his composure when all he wants to do is fuck Sherlock hard. Slowly, a pace that has to be agonizing for him, he pulls out and thrusts back in. Sherlock whimpers, unsure of whether he should push forward or try to squirm away. The grip on his waist prevents both.
John sets the pace, keeping it controlled, working them both towards the first mating of the heat. Slowly, pinpricks of pleasure begin piercing through the pain as Sherlock’s muscles start to relax under the onslaught. John breathes out heavily, recognizing the difference, and begins thrusting a little harder, a little faster. He peppers kisses across Sherlock’s chest and stomach, murmuring praise in reverence of his omega’s mind and body, moving his way back up until their lips come together and he sucks Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth.
And just like that, Sherlock is there.
He cries out as he comes, his body shaking with the force, and John works him through it, keeping up the easy pace until Sherlock slump limply against him. Only then does he pick up, working himself quickly to his own completion. Sherlock stirs as he feels the pressure of the knot being forced into his body and the resulting gush of warmth, but it doesn’t hurt. Or maybe it does, he’s no longer sure that any pain would register with him, not when every muscle is trembling weakly from being overstrained.
John collapses beside him, gasping. “Alright?” he asks.
Sherlock manages to nod. He wants to be closer to John but can’t move, and fortunately John seems to sense this because he shifts them around until they’re both comfortable in spite of being knotted together. He brushes a kiss across Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and sighs. Now that the first mating is over, the rest of the heat will be much easier, especially once Sherlock has rested a little. He’s pleased to see that Sherlock has already fallen asleep, too exhausted to stay awake any longer. The desire to mate again will no doubt wake him up in an hour or so as his heat fully sets in, but until then John is content to rest and watch over his omega.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4,200
Warnings: Alpha/Omega dynamics, alpha!john, omega!sherlock, major H/C
Summary: It takes a while for an omega's heat to fully begin - though they might want desperately to mate, their bodies can't handle it. During these painful in-between hours, John does what he can to soothe and distract Sherlock while fighting to control his own urges, until they reach the moment they've been waiting for.
This was written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
It always starts gradually and that’s one of the more annoying parts. If he could get it over with, one hard, fast fuck, it might not be so terrible. But no, when he finally looks up from his experiment and registers that the sun has risen and John is at the stove preparing eggs for breakfast, all he feels is a little off. Not sick, per se, just not quite right. Sherlock frowns slightly and drums his fingers on the table, hoping in spite of what he knows is coming. A bit early, granted, but it's not unheard of for his heats to be a bit off. John likes to say it comes from years of hardly eating or sleeping, which is generally followed by Sherlock telling him to piss off.
"Breakfast?" John says in that voice that means he isn't asking, he's telling. He sets a plate down in front of Sherlock. Eggs, as expected, with a side of mulberry jam and a plump, crispy piece of toast. Sherlock frowns down at it but he can feel John eyeing him. Since he can't recall off hand how long it's been since he last ate, he reluctantly picks up his fork and places a tiny piece of the egg into his mouth. John looks satisfied and begins eating his own breakfast.
The food doesn’t taste like it normally does and that’s what finally lets Sherlock know for certain that his heat is, indeed, beginning. All of the tastes are just a touch off, but it’s enough to turn his stomach. What little appetite he has quickly disappears and he stands up after eating a couple of mouthfuls, wandering off to John’s little huff of annoyance. He disappears into the lav and takes a long hot shower. The longer he can put this off, the better. Much to his delight, by the time he gets out there is a text waiting for him, and it’s from Lestrade, asking the two of them to come. Just what he needs, a distraction. Sometimes Lestrade, for all his faults, can have impeccable timing.
“John, case!” he shouts, wrapping a towel around his waist to make the journey to his room. Sometimes he likes to walk around naked just to torment John but now is not the time. He dresses, donning a pair of older trousers that he won’t care about ruining and a button-up shirt in a deep blue. John is waiting for him by the time he emerges, an indulgent smile on his face and his gun tucked into his waistband. Sherlock beams at him as he grabs his coat and sweeps out the door, the fire of a new game burning through him and his alpha right behind him.
He summons a cab and they both climb in. Sherlock pulls out his mobile and begins sending off rapid-fire texts to Lestrade demanding answers about the new case. Usually most of them are wrong but it’s a way to pass the time. John stares out the window. Sherlock casts him a sideways look, knowing that John hasn’t caught on yet. If he had, he would’ve insisted that Sherlock pass on the case unless it was one he could solve without leaving the house. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep it a secret long enough to solve the case and, in the process, put off the inevitable. He makes a mental note to stand downwind from John at all times.
“Wow, must be a big one,” John mutters as the cab pulls up. Red and blue lights flash across his face. Sherlock swallows and looks away, feeling a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. Surreptitiously he swipes at it with the back of his hand as he gets out. The autumn air is cold and moist and that helps.
“Sherlock, over here!” Lestrade waves them over. Just beyond him the crime scene, which has three bodies just waiting to be examined. Sherlock doesn’t even bother to greet him, just walks straight past him and begins his work immediately. He vaguely hears John and Lestrade exchanging pleasantries behind him but doesn’t pay either man much attention.
His stomach begins to cramp while he’s examining the woman’s body. It knocks him off track for a split second. It’s like someone has reached inside of him, grabbed hold of his organs, and given them a vicious twist, and it hurts. He draws in a sharp breath and shuts his eyes for the beat it takes to pass. This is really the beginning; his body is beginning to produce lubrication, albeit slowly. Soon he won’t be able to hide it anymore; his scent is likely already changing. He hates it, the way his body betrays him by acting without his permission. He’s always striven to control his body in every way but this, this is completely beyond him and every time it’s almost unbearable.
He remains there in a crouch, trying to take slow deep breaths, fighting against the urge to present himself to the nearest alpha. Biology is demanding he allow himself to be fucked but Sherlock isn’t going to give in, not when his alpha won’t do it anyway. With determination he shoves the growing feeling of emptiness aside and returns to examining the woman’s hair. She smells of chlorine, he notices, and it’s enough to make him feel ill. He stands up quickly to get away from it and feels his thighs slide together with a familiar damp heat. It must have been collecting for a while because there’s just enough to make it a bit uncomfortable, to be noticeable.
“Sherlock?” John says, stepping over to him. “Have you figured it out?”
“Yes,” he says, because it’s the truth. But oh, having John so close isn’t helping. His skin itches and he scratches his arm unconsciously. John notices the move and his eyes narrow.
“Sherlock...” he says with dawning understanding. He steps up next to Sherlock, pressing their bodies together, and breathes in deeply. Just his presence and his familiar scent is enough to make Sherlock feel dizzy with want. Thoughts of the crime scene are swiftly leaping out the window.
“John.” Sherlock licks his lips. He feels hollow, so empty, and he knows John could fill him. He stares pleadingly. If John would fuck him just once he’d be clear-headed enough to finish this case. “Please - ”
Several emotions pass over John’s face, ending in resignation, and he sighs lowly. “Shh, you know I can’t,” he replies, even though the swelling in his trousers would suggest otherwise. He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s wrist, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over the pulse. “Come on, love, let’s go home. You’ll feel better once you’re in bed.”
---
Sherlock is restless. As soon as they reach the flat, he disregards any notion of going to bed and instead strides back over to the table where he sits down, slotting his eye over the microscope and ignoring John completely. The slides he’s looking at hold his attention but just barely. He’s too aware of - of everything. The way the window is cracked open, letting in the smallest gust of cold air. The way his clothing shifts against his skin, providing a subtle irritation that makes him want to scratch. The way he’s leaking, allowing small trickles of fluid to bead up and trail down his thighs, a precursor to the flood that will pave the way for John later on.
John ignores his fidgeting and sits down in front of the telly, turning it to one of those programmes he and Mrs Hudson seem to find endlessly amusing but which only serve to annoy Sherlock, as he doesn’t see what’s so entertaining. Sherlock glances up at him every once in a while, and before long he’s outright staring, tracing the familiar lines of John’s body intently. The strong hands (nails freshly clipped short), the fringe of blond hair that’s fallen into John’s eyes (he needs a haircut), the way he plays with the hem of his jumper (he’s excited; Sherlock’s scent is arousing him), his deep and steady breaths (but also controlled). His scent is all over the flat, a steady aroma that envelops Sherlock in the safe feeling of home.
His hands steal to his shirt and he has it half unbuttoned before he realizes what he’s doing. Sherlock frowns even though it feels good to get rid of the irritation. Clothing aggravates his skin when he’s this close to his heat. Occasionally he’s even found a rash left on his arms and chest afterwards. He pulls the shirt off and deposits it on the floor. John will pick it up later. Bare from the waist up, he turns back to microscope, but now his pants are annoying him. They feel tight and clingy when he wants to have as little obstruction between him and John as possible.
And - God. This is what he hates the most. The waiting. The knowledge that not only is his body betraying him, it can’t even be arsed to do it at a decent speed. Because Sherlock can be patient, yes, when he wants to be, when it comes to a case or knowledge that he feels he needs to own, but he’s never been good at being patient at this. It will be hours yet before his body is ready for John and because bloody John is so bloody noble and unwilling to risk hurting his omega, it will be hours before John does anything about it.
Unacceptable.
He unlatches his belt and thumbs his trousers open. The previously cool air has turned warm and he feels more sweat sliding down his face, collecting in the hollows of his throat and belly. His temperature is rising, he thinks clinically, sliding his trousers and boxers down and off. Fluid gleams on his thighs and he slides a hand around to his entrance, probing curiously. In spite of the mess, he’s still fairly dry and the muscle is stiff and resistant when he pushes gently against it. The tip of his finger slides in and Sherlock’s knees nearly buckle. He doesn’t realize he’s moaned out loud until he hears John’s quickened breathing.
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks across at his mate. John isn’t even pretending to watch the telly anymore. He’s focused solely on Sherlock. His eyes have fully dilated, leaving only a thin ring of dark blue around blown wide black. A flush has risen in his cheeks and his pants have noticeable tented. When their eyes meet, John licks his lips slowly and Sherlock hears himself whimper as he pushes his finger in another inch or so. That seems to snap John out of it; he stands up and crosses the room to pull Sherlock’s hand away.
“Don’t, now, you’ll hurt yourself,” he says, bringing the hand up and pressing a kiss against the palm. His nostrils flare when he catches the strong scent that lingers and he breathes out, sucking Sherlock’s finger into his mouth on the next inhale. Sherlock gasps as that hot, wet tongue caresses his skin, cleaning him of any trace of his fluids. He grabs at the table with his free hand to keep from sliding into floor in a heap of pure want.
“John, please.” There is no manipulation, no games, just desperation. Having had something inside of him, like a teasing taste of what’s coming, he feels achingly empty. He stares at John’s mouth wrapped around his finger and says again, “Please.”
John pulls away. “No, Sherlock.” His voice is unsteady; he’s been caught off guard by his momentary lapse in will. “I’ve told you before that I don’t want to risk hurting you and I meant it. I’ve seen what happens when alphas get carried away before the omega has fully entered their heat. It’s… it’s a bit not good and I’m not going to let that happen to you.” His shoulders straighten, square with resolve. “You’ll relax soon enough, alright?”
Except it won’t, it won’t be soon enough because Sherlock is ready now. “I could take - ”
“No!” John says again, wearily this time but no less firm. “You’re not taking anything that will force your body to relax. You can’t rush this, Sherlock. It doesn’t work that way. I know that you don’t feel well and I wish I could do something for you. I would, if I could.” He presses one last kiss to Sherlock’s hand, gentle this time, and sighs. “But this is something neither of us can change.”
Sherlock stares at him and bites at his lower lip in frustration. He knows John will stand firm; they’ve had this argument several times and will probably continue to have it with every heat. It’s maddening to wish, just this once, that John would love him a little less, even though he knows from experience how painful it can be if an alpha tries to force their way in before its time. Still the dull cramping in his abdomen as his clenched muscles spasm is nearly unbearable and he squirms, one hand cupping his belly in an effort to soothe the pain. John’s eyes soften.
“Go get into bed,” he says gently, knowing that Sherlock has reached the point where he’ll be amenable to laying down. “I’ll bring you in a cup of tea.”
---
He watches John move to the stove and start the familiar ritual: water into kettle, kettle on base and turned on, the search for the right kind of tea. It’s oddly comforting and stays with him as he turns and wanders up the stairs into John’s old bedroom. Most of the time they share the downstairs bedroom out of convenience - it’s closer to everything - but on days like this he likes to be surrounded in John. Sherlock pushes the door open and sees the bed, made up with military precision, waiting for him. He eases his aching body down on the coarse sheets and buries his face into the pillow. The scent is faded, old, but still John.
A few minutes later John comes in with the tea. He’s always concerned about Sherlock getting dehydrated and this is no exception. He walks around to the far side of the bed and perches on the edge, placing his own cup on the stand. “Sherlock,” he says. “Feel like sitting up a bit for me, sweetheart?”
Normally Sherlock abhors pet names. It bothers him that he enjoys hearing John use them now. “Not thirsty,” he mutters, mostly out of a desire to be contradictory. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth and the hot, heady fragrance of the tea makes his throat ache like rough sandpaper. He’s desperately thirsty, suddenly, but giving in feels like a concession he’s not ready to make.
John sighs and shifts backwards a little, until the curve of his arse rests against Sherlock’s bony hip. He doesn’t say anything, just places a warm hand on Sherlock’s back and begins rubbing with long, languid strokes that go all the way from his tight neck to the base of his spine. Being a doctor and the mate of a stroppy omega has given him enough experience to know exactly where to press to help release the worst of the tension. Before long Sherlock has melted all over the bed, slow, blissful purrs rumbling out of his chest. The bed moves and then John places a gentle kiss on his right shoulder.
“Come on, love,” he murmurs. “For me?”
Sherlock turns his head just enough that he can stare at John with one wide, pale eye. Finally, he rolls onto his side and parts his lips. John smiles and leans down, cupping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him up until he can safely tip the cup and pour a bit of the steaming liquid into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock swallows each mouthful and refuses to admit how much it helps, how good it feels to have the heat warming him up from the inside out. Even the painful cramping in his belly seems to ease just a little bit.
“Good?” John asks. He doesn’t seem to need an answer, just sets the cup down on the stand and stands up, stripping off his shirt and trousers. He leaves his boxers on and sits back down, swinging his legs onto the bed. Sherlock gravitates towards him immediately, every inch of his body pleading for contact with his mate, and wraps his arms around John’s chest. He curls his legs up and locks them around John’s thighs, then shoves his face up underneath John’s chin. John chuckles softly and allows Sherlock to shift them around until Sherlock goes lump with a contented sound. Only then does he move his hand to Sherlock’s curls and begin stroking, using his fingertips to provide a firmer pressure. He knows Sherlock gets tension headaches after hours of his body cramping and seizing.
“Tell me about the case,” he says in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock shivers. The backs of his thighs ache and he still feels empty, more noticeable now that he’s lying down. “The victim smelled of chlorine. When Molly does the autopsy, they’ll find that she drowned.”
It only takes a minute for John to put the clues together. He says, “Dry drowning” and feels Sherlock give a wiggle of pleasure against him.
“Correct,” Sherlock confirms. “She was at the pool and she and someone else, probably a friend, were playing around when she slipped. The wound on the back of her head had small pieces of fibre in it consistent with what you’d find on the edge of a pool. Someone pulled her out, a friend or the lifeguard, and she passed it off, insisted she was fine. Several hours later she succumbed to the effects and her friend panicked, probably thought that they might get blamed for what happened, and left here there.” His head lolls against John’s chest.
“Some friend,” John says under his breath, moving his hand down to massage the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock makes a low sound of agreement and squirms again, this time in pain as his stomach gives a series of vicious cramps that leave him breathless.
“John,” he whimpers.
“Shh.” This is the part that John hates the most. He’s a doctor and an alpha; seeing anyone in pain, but particularly his omega, his Sherlock, is immensely frustrating. There’s nothing he can do about it, either. Sherlock’s muscles are seizing as his body moves towards his heat and until he enters it fully they just have to wait. Medication can cause a lot of damage and interferes with the cycle. John brushes a kiss across Sherlock’s forehead and begins murmuring nonsense, aimless words that he hopes Sherlock finds comforting.
Time drifts by while Sherlock writhes, his infamous control falling apart underneath the onslaught of spasming pain that is taking over every inch of his body. His belly, genitals and thighs hurt the most. He wants to move, can’t not move, and yet even the slightest twitch causes a fresh wave of agony. John holds him close and his voice is a constant presence, distant but welcome, not grating but an anchor, keeping Sherlock from either drifting away or seeking out something to make it stop, possibility of damage be damned. He clings to John at the same time he wants to push him away.
The sheets drag against his body and feel like they’re inflicting dozens of tiny cuts on his skin. John’s boxers are worse. At some point John peels himself away and takes them off. He re-joins Sherlock on the bed and Sherlock dimly registers the cock pressing against his thigh, hard and dripping, a symbol of John’s iron control that prevents him from taking his omega before Sherlock is ready. It’s hard for John, too; the struggle to remain controlled, to fight off his instinct to pin Sherlock down and ravage him, is visible in every part of John’s body. Sometimes Sherlock isn’t sure what holds John back when so many alphas have snapped.
He drops his head back against the pillow and pants, squeezing John’s hand tightly as his muscles contract again. He feels hollow and it’s a shade of pain too vivid to ignore. The sheets beneath his body are soaked with his fluids and stick to his thighs when he tries to shift onto his side in the hopes that it might offer some relief. John soothes him with another kiss before he pulls away. Sherlock scrabbles, lost, and listens hard for that voice that keeps him grounded. Surprisingly strong arms lift him up, cradling him gently, and place him in a chair that was previously covered with a tall stack of books. John changes the sheets before helping him back to the bed.
“Lay back, babe,” he says, running a soothing hand down Sherlock’s arm. “I’ll check. I think you’re close.”
God, yes, Sherlock wants to be close. He draws his knees up, shuddering through another spasm, and lets John touch him. He can’t keep the low, wanting cry from escaping when he feels fingers prodding against him, the tip of one sliding just inside, testing the muscle to see whether or not it’s loose enough to accept an invasion from something as large as an alpha cock. He squeezes his eyes shut hard and hopes, prays, because he just wants this to stop, wants John in him already. Orgasm, he knows, will help his muscles to relax and there’s only one way he’s going to reach that. They’ve discovered that the emptiness is too distracting for John to get him off with hands and mouth alone.
“Sherlock,” John says, curling fingers around his hip.
“What?” he manages. It’s hard to concentrate.
“You’re ready.”
There are no sweeter words than that. Sherlock arches his back with a wordless, needy little cry. John shushes him with a soft kiss, a sweet press of lips as he gets into position. He presses the tip of his cock to Sherlock’s entrance and rocks back and forth, nudging the muscle open. He keeps a tight grip on Sherlock’s hips to prevent the omega from impaling himself. Sherlock chokes and gasps, his lungs not wanting to work properly, as John slowly slides deep inside of him, until he bottoms out with his balls resting snugly against Sherlock’s arse.
The sensation of being filled after hours of throbbing emptiness is glorious even when it’s painful. He locks trembling legs around John’s waist just in case John tries to pull out. His whole body is shuddering and it takes John commanding him to breathe before his body remembers how to draw in air. He coughs, gagging, and feels his hands pulling desperately at the sheets, struggling to hold onto something. It’s too much, his muscles hurt and burn with the intrusion, but at the same time it’s not nearly enough and he needs more.
“John,” he sobs, needing to know that someone can make it stop.
“I know, Sherlock, I know.” John’s gritting his teeth and the veins on his neck stand out. He’s struggling to maintain his composure when all he wants to do is fuck Sherlock hard. Slowly, a pace that has to be agonizing for him, he pulls out and thrusts back in. Sherlock whimpers, unsure of whether he should push forward or try to squirm away. The grip on his waist prevents both.
John sets the pace, keeping it controlled, working them both towards the first mating of the heat. Slowly, pinpricks of pleasure begin piercing through the pain as Sherlock’s muscles start to relax under the onslaught. John breathes out heavily, recognizing the difference, and begins thrusting a little harder, a little faster. He peppers kisses across Sherlock’s chest and stomach, murmuring praise in reverence of his omega’s mind and body, moving his way back up until their lips come together and he sucks Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth.
And just like that, Sherlock is there.
He cries out as he comes, his body shaking with the force, and John works him through it, keeping up the easy pace until Sherlock slump limply against him. Only then does he pick up, working himself quickly to his own completion. Sherlock stirs as he feels the pressure of the knot being forced into his body and the resulting gush of warmth, but it doesn’t hurt. Or maybe it does, he’s no longer sure that any pain would register with him, not when every muscle is trembling weakly from being overstrained.
John collapses beside him, gasping. “Alright?” he asks.
Sherlock manages to nod. He wants to be closer to John but can’t move, and fortunately John seems to sense this because he shifts them around until they’re both comfortable in spite of being knotted together. He brushes a kiss across Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and sighs. Now that the first mating is over, the rest of the heat will be much easier, especially once Sherlock has rested a little. He’s pleased to see that Sherlock has already fallen asleep, too exhausted to stay awake any longer. The desire to mate again will no doubt wake him up in an hour or so as his heat fully sets in, but until then John is content to rest and watch over his omega.