Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The original 15 chapters including comments and the authors notes can be found here:

Tipping the Scale (2013-08-05)

Storm's A Coming (2013-08-05)

Empirical Proof - Citrus, Mint and Pheromones (2013-08-10)

Bloodhound (2013-08-11)

Breaking Fever (2013-08-25)

Sobered (2013-08-29)

Ricochet (2013-10-30)

Bridging Water (2013-11-08)

For Once (2013-12-10)

Coil (2014-09-18)

Dirty Water (2014-10-10)

Crusading (2014-10-14)

Sleepy Bees (2014-10-29)

Somehow, Sundown (2014-11-04)

Always Darkest (2015-02-10)

Chapter Text

John watched the outskirts of London streak by, the echoes of lights shining through the windows. After a long moment, he shifted his focus and stared back at his own reflection, noting the small beads of sweat already appearing on his forehead. That, along with the dull, achy waves of muscle cramps low in his abdomen, made him realize how quickly his heat was coming on. He idly wondered how long he’d have before he would truly give in to this biological urge and lose himself completely in the process.

Mycroft sat across from him, striking a silent but stoic figure on the sumptuous leather seats, and appeared completely entranced by the glow of his massive smartphone. Controlling the world , John thought with little humour, one military coup at a time .

Since the idea of starting a conversation with Mycroft seemed too much for his frayed nerves to bear, John pulled out his own mobile. He wasn’t sure if it was the distance, or the fact that both their lives had been irrevocably changed, but there was one more thing he needed to know before things got too far, before his mind succumbed to the all-consuming rush of hormones.

He slowly tapped out a text with one finger, making sure it was free of mistakes and poor punctuation. Sherlock hated that, and John tried never to give him any additional ammunition for ridicule.

Can I ask you a question?

John settled himself in for a long wait, unsure of what Sherlock was doing and whether or not he’d be inclined to respond. He thought about the micro-heats, Sherlock’s misery and how all this was enough to do any sane person’s head in, let alone someone exceptional like Sherlock Holmes.

He was more than surprised when an answer came not thirty seconds later. Sherlock was rarely what one would call attentive when responding to John’s, or anyone’s, text messages. At least, he never had been.

You just did – SH

John smiled at that, knowing he could always count on Sherlock to be snarky, no matter what the situation.

Twat.

You don't have to answer if you don't want to.

Noted –SH

John thought long and hard about the next text, about how he would phrase it and whether or not it was even appropriate to ask. His finger hovered over the virtual keyboard for a time in indecision, wondering if this was really the time and place to go into all this. He sighed, rubbing his free hand along his temple and frowning when it came back damp. The temperature in the car must have risen at least ten degrees since they’d started driving. It must have, it was positively stifling.

Turning his focus back to the text messages, he lifted his chin and figured he’d just get on with it before he managed to lose his nerve entirely. There was nothing to be gained in this life from being  a coward. He learnt that in the Army a long time ago, a lifetime ago, it seemed.

He composed the message and cringed ever so slightly, nervous for no real reason he could think of, and pressed send.

Are you asexual?

There, message sent.

Three little dots popped up in the mobile window, indicating Sherlock had read the text and was typing a response. It gave him little comfort. John furtively glanced at Mycroft, who was still engrossed in his ploy for world domination via mobile, then at the driver, who was managing to navigate London’s roundabouts just fine despite his self-proclaimed vision problems.

The mobile vibrated in his sweaty palm.

Considering that I asked you to fellate me, even with your limited intellect I am sure you can figure it out – SH

Again with the snark - the man could be so frustrating at times. John almost grinned, comforted in the fact that it didn’t seem Sherlock had taken offence. He supposed he had to be more specific.

I mean before.

You assume that because I didn't regularly pursue sexual gratification, I am asexual? Really John, as a doctor I would expect more from you – SH

Alright , John thought, frowning down at his mobile, that was a little unfair . He was a field surgeon, a general practitioner, and a bloody Army Captain - he wasn’t a gender specialist or psychiatrist. His schooling on the Omegaverse was forever ago, and he had barely paid attention anyway. That semester at University saw the World Cup, Sophie Chambers, and way too many nights getting pissed at the local. He was lucky he remembered anything, to be completely honest.

Sherlock couldn’t see how forcefully John typed his next message, but he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to notice the agitated stabbing the innocent mobile received on behalf of John’s wounded pride.

I was a soldier Sherlock. It didn’t leave a lot of time for sitting around having complex discussions about sexual identity.  Also, I may be slow compared to you, but I noticed that you did not answer the question.

John blamed his lack of patience and increasing discomposure to the heat in the car and the worsening pains low in his belly. He shifted in the seat, crooking a finger in his collar to pull the woolly jumper away from his neck. He felt a bead of sweat slide away from his hairline and lose itself in the ribbed cotton of his vest. John shivered, the sensation calling attention to how overly sensitive he’d become in just the last twenty minutes or so. Across the car, in the low-light, Mycroft looked up and raised a questioning brow.

John chose to ignore it as his mobile vibrated once more.

The answer is no. I am not, nor did I ever identify as asexual. Celibate would have been a more apt description. -  SH

“Are you quite well?” Mycroft’s voice was somehow loud in the closed space, though John realized he was speaking at the same level he always did, softly but with great self-importance. Mycroft managed to layer that simple question with enough meaning that John felt both guilty and annoyed at the same time, though he was not entirely sure why.

John cleared his throat and shifted his legs, crossing one ankle over another, denims scraping along his skin as he did so.

“Fine, yeah. I’m good.  Just wondering where exactly we’re going is all.”

“I am going to quash both a Republican and Loyalist paramilitary group, you are going to Petham.”

As if on cue, the vehicle rolled to a smooth stop and Mycroft raised a hand to tap on the glass partition. The driver allowed the barrier to roll down completely before he angled his head towards Mycroft.

“Remember Timothy,” Mycroft intoned as he pulled a prescription bottle and a small vial of clear liquid out of a hidden pocket in his suit jacket, “full disclosure.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Timothy replied, putting the car in neutral and sounding just as common and non-threatening as he did before.

“And what is that?” John motioned towards the bottles, setting his chin forward in an unconscious defense mechanism.

“This Dr Watson…is just a little something to help you make it through the next few days.” Mycroft held the plastic pill bottle in a loose grip, holding the cap in his long fingers while angling the bottom towards John. “This,” indicating the glass vial held in the palm of his other hand, “is only in case of an emergency.”

John eyed them warily, every instinct in his body screaming at him to refuse, to run back to Sherlock, to, to…he inhaled and swiped a trembling hand across his clammy forehead.

“Are they sup-suppressants?” He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to somehow find a way to secure government quality suppressants without having John register in the database. That would probably be the only way he’d ever dare accept mystery drugs from Mycroft Holmes.

“Sadly no,” the hands offering the medications never wavered, “the current studies of suppressants on those newly changed are suspect at best, and neither myself nor my brother would like to see you…damaged. The pills are merely sedatives, benzodiazepines if you must know. They will not regulate or curb your heat, but they will calm you and make the heat more bearable. I’m afraid this is the only way I can help you, for now.”

“And the other bottle?” John was more than wary, wondering if the vial contained something even stronger that sedatives.

“Megestrol acetate.”

John blinked. “A heat blocker? But I thought those only work for about 12 hours, at best.”

“That is why it is only in the case of emergency,” Mycroft repeated, his voice as unctuous as ever.

John took some time to consider this, and it was almost like taking either bottle would truly make this all real. It brought this situation into painful clarity, and he’d never go back to the man he was. But, he knew that already, didn’t he? Everything that had happened, everything he and Sherlock had done since that fateful day, intimate or otherwise, it was always going to end like this, with them forever changed, separated.

He took the bottles, pills rattling inside as he stuffed them both in his trouser pockets.

“One last thing Doctor Watson. If you are going to call my brother tomorrow, please refrain from doing so between the hours of 5:30 and 6:30pm. The bell ringers are scheduled to practice at the Petham church and there are a limited number of diatonic 6 bells in England that ring a tenor 9-0-8 in G.”

“Sure.” John snapped, though honestly he hardly cared what bloody bells rang when in what bloody tenor - whatever, that meant. He was sure by this time tomorrow he’d hardly be able to remember his name, let alone have enough mental acuity to phone Sherlock.

“I am sorry Doctor Wa… John.  Of course, I had no way of knowing - there was never any way I could have predicted -”

“Leave it, please, just…leave it.”

Mycroft gripped his umbrella and started towards the door, before stopping and regarding John with a pensive, but soft, stare, “I wonder John, being the scientific man that you are –”

John snorted, uncaring and unwilling to play whatever game Mycroft fancied this evening.

Mycroft continued, unamused, “as I was saying, being a man of science, medical though it may be, I wonder if you have you ever heard of the Polar Shift Hypothesis?”

John sighed from deep in his cramping belly, more cryptic nonsense, as per usual. “Can’t say that I have.”

Mycroft layered one hand over the other, leaning towards John. “Well, in the purely scientific sense, it describes a shift in the geographic poles of the Earth, those on the axis of rotation. It was first posited by Brasseur de Bourbourg in reference to ancient Mesoamerican cataclysmic myths, and then, much more recently by an engineer in 1948. They speculate that these shifts, if they exist, take millennia to complete. However there are some doomsday theories that suggest these polar changes, should they happen rapidly, could tear the entire Earth apart. Then again, it could only be a theory, and the Earth might stay exactly the same.”

John could only blink at the man and wonder what the hell he was going on about.

Mycroft appeared pleased as he stepped out of the car, brolly tapping ominously on the pavement. “Just something to think about. Goodnight, Dr Watson.”

The sedan door closed, and John was left alone in his melancholy, the hollow sound reverberating off the chrome details. Mycroft never really made much sense anyway, but that was a non-sequitur that left John’s head pounding at the temples.

He swung his gaze round to Timothy, who left the glass partition down, but put the car in gear and began to drive once more. John forced his attention back to his mobile, typing another text to Sherlock.

Tell me to piss off if this question is not on, but you told me you were ‘not inexperienced’ – did something happen to you to put you off it?

During the wait, John tortured himself with the unknown: Sherlock’s face, scrunched up and miserable, nose hypersensitive, body buzzing and seeking relief wherever it could - and he finds he doesn’t like that idea…he doesn’t like that idea at all. What if, in John’s absence, Sherlock sought comfort somewhere else? What if he found another Omega? What if he replaced John with another suitable flatmate who would gladly fill his needs without all the sexual crises and melodrama they both seemed so fond of? The thought brought John to an almost panic, and he forcibly willed himself to calm down, even as his heart thumped a rampant tattoo inside his ribcage.

No, he couldn’t  think that way. Sherlock was not his, he did not belong to John, and he couldn’t give in to this biological jealousy and possessiveness. Sherlock was his friend , he would gladly die for him and that should be enough - that would be enough.

It was more than a relief when Sherlock replied, though it seemed like an age had gone by in the meantime.

In a manner of speaking, yes – SH

The response made him think for a moment as the car veered off the main road and onto a smaller side-street. Sherlock’s text was more than a little bit ambiguous, and he pondered whether he should ask for clarification when his mobile suddenly buzzes with text after text after text.

I was involved with someone once, when I was in University. His name was Victor, and he introduced me to sex and cocaine - SH

I thought I loved him but it turned out that what I actually loved was cocaine. In the end, that was really all we had in common – SH

John read line after line, his breath caught in his throat, eyes dry and burning with the painful revelation.

Somewhere along the line sex turned into nothing more than a way to pay for my next hit - SH

When I stopped using I found I had no further reason to continue to engage in sexual behaviour - SH

Although, I suppose suffering through rectal tears to score an 8 ball is not really something that engenders fond memories –SH

A sharp chill ran across John’s skin, a cold wash that left him feeling shivery and weak. It was hard to imagine Sherlock so desperate and vulnerable, nothing like the man he knew and loved now.

Wait. Does he love him?

The thought distracted him, knocking him sideways, and he felt his fever ratchet up at least another degree. He glanced outside the window to find darkened houses, a stone church, whispering trees, and bright little flower beds ensconced in shadow. Jesus, where were they? Why was this taking so long? He would need another change of clothes soon, his vest was positively soaked now and his bottom felt decidedly uncomfortable, and tingly…strangely tingly. It took a mountain of willpower to type out his next response.

Christ Sherlock, that’s awful.

Do you understand now John? Why I am not going to hurt you just to give you something that you ‘think’ you want –SH

John leant back on the posh seats, his head swimming with thoughts coalescing and dissolving in waves of memories and what-could-have-beens – or what-should-have-beens, rather. Sherlock and John should have been best friends till the end, not - not this, whatever this was. They should have continued on as they were meant to, the two of them together, not as slaves to a biological imperative willing to mate them off to whomever’s most compatible. Is that really what they’d become, just…compatible? He couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t.

The mobile vibrated once more and John quickly whipped his head round to read the message.

Chesney and Lisa are here. We are following a lead down in Cornwall. I have to go –SH

The grip on his mobile tightened instantly, becoming painful, fierce, and unforgiving. He breathed in, then out, and then launched it across the small space, watching with grim satisfaction as it clattered in a rattle of plastic against moulded vinyl, exploding in several pieces as the battery was forcefully expelled from the casing.

Good , he thought, with unbridled satisfaction. Let him meet with Lisa and Chesney, let him carry on as if nothing had happened, as if John wasn’t forced to leave to protect his friend and the most important relationship in his life. It was ridiculously unfair, and more than a little cruel.

The enormity of his situation washed over him, a veritable tidal wave of regret, fear, and outright pain ripped through his insides, leaving him despondent, numb, and strangely fragile. Sherlock could solve this case on his own, John was sure of it. He would work with his new friends , catch the bad guy, save the day, all while John was stuck in some godforsaken safe-house begging for a dick while squirming in a puddle of his own fluids. He laughed bitterly. God, how stupid had he been?

Of course Sherlock wanted him out of the way. It was so perfect, wasn’t it? Somehow he and Mycroft had twisted this around and made it look like it was John’s decision but really, they wanted him out. He was a liability, a loose cannon…and there was no way of knowing what John would do once his heat came into full force.

This was all just…just so…

“You alright there mate?” Timothy peered over the glass partition, eyebrows raised in concern as he parked the car next to a nondescript house on the corner of a dimly lit street. He was a rather friendly looking man, with a wide mouth and kind eyes. With John’s sense of smell increased, he could tell Timothy was an Omega, and then he wondered if that was on purpose or not. With the Holmes brothers, you never knew.

It didn’t really matter though, it seemed they’d arrived at their destination, and John would feel relieved but for the pounding of his heart and the throbbing in his groin. He fidgeted in his seat, his pants feeling uncomfortably damp and heavy.

“Look, I know you’re in a way right now, but Mr Holmes said I could answer any questions you had before you went on inside.” Timothy’s voice was casual, normal, neither seeking nor demanding a response. John was grateful for it.

“Please, I just – I just can’t – “

“This is your first isn’t it? The first is always the hardest, and strongest.” Timothy cut the engine, turned off the headlamps, and leant one elbow over the partition, facing John fully. “If you don’t mind my asking, where’s your Alpha?”

John’s breathing was quick, tight, and all he wanted to do was get out of this damned car. He wanted to get out and find Sherlock. He wanted to find him, he wanted to smell him and taste him, he wanted to bite him, he wanted Sherlock to bend him over and –

John groaned into his hands, a sound of such pure heartbreak and misery that Timothy immediately placed a cool hand on the top of John’s head. It was a small gesture of comfort, but it felt good nonetheless. John moved his head, leaning into the touch and revelling in the sparks of sensation that ran down from his scalp to his very toes. He shivered with sensitivity.

“I’m sorry, he must be – my God I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. My Jacob was always there for me, when we were both triggered. Rugby mates you know, thick as thieves until it happened. I don’t know what I’d do should I lose him.”

John managed to raise his head slightly, peering at the man through tear stung eyes, frustration colouring his voice. “You – you knew him, your mate, before? You were friends when…it all happened?” John raised his head higher, his expression full of confusion and possibly, hope.

Timothy gave him a wry smile, “Of course. Birthday parties every year, he even fancied my sister for a bit in secondary but, well…we always knew we’d end up with each other after we changed. We’ve been together nigh on,” Timothy thought for a moment, scratching at his hairline underneath his chauffeur cap, “forty years now. We’ve two young-uns of our own, several grandkids as well. It’s all that matters really, family, and love.” He smiled brightly, eyes wrinkling and gleaming with an inner light that could only be recognized as a life well-lived. “Sorry if I get a bit emotional you see, it’s the hormones. We Omegas react to each other like that sometimes, when one is in heat.” He shrugged, chagrined.

“No - it’s...it’s fine, I just…”

John swallowed, actively sweating and trembling now, and reached down into his denims for the pills and for a moment he considered the vial in his other pocket, but Mycroft had said it should only be taken in emergencies. So, the pills it was then.

He regarded the bottle for a long moment, read the dosage instructions, and decided to take the plunge. He know this would be difficult, hell…he knew this would be awful, but he couldn’t avoid it now. At least he could make it easier on himself, and then get back to his Alph – Sherlock as soon as possible. He quickly gulped down three strangely sweet pills, one more pill than recommended, but he certainly didn’t give a shite right now. John dry swallowed the pills with a grimace.

“S-so, did you want to be with, with Jacob before you changed?”

“Well, hard to say. We were mates you know. I’d never really considered being with another man, always fancied the birds if you know what I mean, but, the heart wants what the heart wants...then, the body always seems to follow. Sure, it was a little odd at first, we’d always only dated women, see…but you really can’t go against nature.”

Those three pills John swallowed most certainly meant you can go against nature, but still, he was intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“The Mister and I used to watch Planet Earth on the BBC with the little ones, years ago you know, and we learnt it’s not unusual in nature for certain hatchlings, like ducks for example, to imprint on what is immediately available. It could be a mother duck, a pair of wellingtons, or a well used Tesco bag. ” Timothy grinned at that, like it was some personal joke, provoking memories better kept to himself.

“Are - are you saying Omegas and Alphas are like bloody ducks?”

“No,” he laughed outright, a kindly chuckle that filled the small space between them, “but that’s kinda my point. You probably came across at least a dozen Alphas in rut, maybe more, who knows, pardon my saying but you are a bit old to be triggering just now. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

“I...don’t know. I suppose not. Omegaverse is, well, we were all taught in school, even medical school, that it was an evolutionary throwback. Just some...alternate species slowly making their way to extinction.” John ran the pad of his thumb across the vee of his trousers and realized he was painfully hard. He needed out, ne needed relief, and he needed it sooner rather than later. He could deal with the genetics lessons later.

But Timothy continued.

“There has to be a connection with someone. A real, soul deep compatibility, or matching pheromones, or whatever. My point is, unless you meet that kindred spirit first, an Alpha in rut could get a leg over you and nothing would happen. Jacob and I, we already had that connection, that resonance. So when it happened, it was a bit of a shock to our systems of course but...the love was already there, it just needed to mature a bit. Course, it hasn’t always been easy, but there’s no relationship on Earth that ever is.” Another knowing grin, and John is suddenly quite aware that Mycroft Holmes had definitely chosen this particular chauffeur on purpose, that meddling twat.

Still, it was…food for thought, at least. Their situations were so similar that even John couldn’t deny it. So, was it all possible then? Could they actually make it work? Social stigma aside, except for the sex, would this really change their relationship?

“Alright Sir,” Timothy moved and helped himself out of the sedan, opening the back door and waving John out with a gloved hand. He could probably smell John’s arousal and desperation, though his face remained passive and professional. “Agent Waverly is at the door, and everyone has been vetted of course, all humans.”

John’s first steps out of the sedan were wobbly and weak, like a newborn foal, and he wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the medications that were mostly to blame. But Timothy was there, solid as a rock, gripping John under the arm and escorting him to the front door, wherein several large men stepped outside to grab John’s things, and several more led him to a secured room deep within the house.

John asked to be shown to the bathroom right away, he tottered stiff legged through the doorway, which was mildly embarassing since he was sporting a rampant erection and didn’t have any means to hide it or save what was left of his dignity. Not to mention that for some reason he felt an inexplicable urge to move his bowels, but instead, he passed a small glob of blood-tinged mucous. This was new and frankly bizarre, but it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, it just felt...wet, warm, and viscous. Through the drugs and growing fizzing in his brain he realized with grim acceptance that his vaginal channel must have lengthened by now, exposing his cervix and completely blocking off his rectum from his descending colon. Wonderful. His heat had really, truly, begun.

He rubbed a distracted hand over his lower abdomen and muses darkly to himself. If he had never met Sherlock, never limped across that threshold into that lab, the only one who would have ever known he was born an Omega would’ve been the pathologist doing his post-mortem after he ate his gun in that beige bedsit. Those grim thoughts haunted his clouded brain as he was assisted to his room, the drugs taking full effect, making him sluggish, desperate, and weak.

There were people talking to him, of course, blurry faces and far-off voices, but the only thing John could properly focus on was Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? He needed…oh Jesus he needed something, because he was aching and aching , deep inside. John slipped further downwards, suspended between the primal need for breeding and chemically induced sedation.

Soft hands soothed his brow with damp towels and gentle hands removed his clothes, replacing them with gauzy and cool silk things that whispered comfort and taunted with sensation at the same time. Somehow, he ended up on a bed, but still the throbbing inside persisted, growing in momentum till he must have cried out.

He must have, he remembered, vaguely, a man, a tall man gently pushing him away and offering him words of comfort while John sobbed and prostrated himself on the floor, naked somehow and on his hands and knees with his glistening and oozing backside angled obscenely in the cool air, hands and nails pulling tufts of that hateful carpeting from its stitching against the floor...the soft floor, exhilarating and coarse, and he rubbed his face against it, wishing it was beard burn from his Alpha, until he was cautiously, bodily lifted and forced to drink blissfully cool water with a few more sweet pills, and situated back on that wretched bed.

His body acted of his own accord, always, and he begged, begged anyone to please… please make it stop. Please, make the pain and urgency go away . He was freezing, he was blistering, he was wet, he was wet everywhere . Hs bed was wet everywhere . The smell of him was everywhere . Sometimes they offered him water, sometimes food, sometimes they held his head and massaged his throat as he gasped and choked down even more sweet, saccharine pills.

It was worse when he awoke with clarity, because then he could remember, when the sensuous throbbing in his backside pounded with a fervor and ferocity that had him again on his hands and needs, viciously arching his back and begging, begging anyone to help. For the love of God , have mercy and help him. Those times, he sobbed into the pillow and screamed, he would do anything, anything just to make it go away. Then, every time the faceless people would return and manhandle him onto his back and force more pills down his throat – at this point, sometimes John made it easy, and sometimes he made it very difficult indeed.

In his fevered dreams Sherlock was there, lean, hard, beautiful, but far, far away from him. Sherlock was there with Lisa, and Chesney, and John remained alone. Alone, because Sherlock didn’t want this, never wanted it, he told him he never wanted this, and would never want it. Sherlock found all of this beneath him, tedious, and now he would think John was tedious as well . Sherlock, the man who held reason above all, never would give in to his primal side, and had been so ashamed in the very few instances he had.

But no, John was alone, always alone and the lesser, the disregarded and the overlooked, and he remained so as he convulsed and drooled into his eight hundred thread count pillowcase, twitching in a drug-induced half-waking, half-nightmare entombed in God-knows-what-room of a nameless house on a nameless street in a tiny village on the outskirts of Petham.

When John woke on the second day of his heat his head was a bit clearer, and some kind soul had re-assembled his abused mobile and left it charging next to his bed. Mercifully, or not, there were no new messages and no new missed calls. For a moment he felt the sting of hurt settling deep within his ribcage. Sherlock had implored John to keep his mobile with him; he had half expected Sherlock to get in touch with him and couldn’t help but feel a little bit bereft at the lack of contact. Distantly, he could feel the flares of the heat simmering within him, like embers ready to burst into flames. John judged he had less than half an hour of lucidity left before he was jostling himself stupid, sobbing for release against the ridiculously expensive bed. It was almost comforting, this peace after the so-called storm, he almost felt normal...just too hot, too wired, and too fucking horny to think about anything . The benzos continued to roil about his nervous system and he stared, slack-jawed at the blank screen, listlessly fondling the mushroomed head of his glans, slick and poppy red, when his mobile rang and everything fell to shit.

Chapter Text

John started at the noise, wondering where exactly that awfully high-pitched jangling sound was coming from until he realized it was his newly refurbished mobile. He’d have words with whomever had set the new ring tone, strong words.

He swept his hand, not the one currently occupied, gracelessly across the night stand in one swoop, upsetting an alarm clock and a small but hideously outdated nightlamp. He blamed his lack of coordination on the medication, his movements were sluggish, like someone inching their way through dense London fog. He thumbed at the screen, and after several uncoordinated attempts, managed to unlock the mobile on the fifth or sixth screeching ring.

It was Chesney. John quickly brought the mobile to his ear, stomach lurching with a strong wave of dread.

“John! ” Chesney’s voice crackled with wild urgency, “Thank God you picked up! Andrew shot Leesy and took Sherlock! ”

“Wha - what? ” John drooled, tongue thick and fuzzy, the mealy dredges of drug induced sleep still clutching at his consciousness. He could barely even hold his mobile steady, let alone parse the deathly importance of what was just said.

“Wha? Are you thick? I said Lisa’s been shot and Sherlock’s been taken!” Chesney’s voice was too loud, staticky, and reverberating painfully into John’s ear.

Reality cut through the haze, clear and knife-edged, leaving him acutely aware of his nakedness and altogether unsure of how long he’d been lost to the drugs and heat. John almost dropped the mobile, his hands diaphoretic and weak, making it difficult to hold on to anything. He cursed the decision to take the sodding benzodiazepines from Mycroft. Now that he finally could comprehend what the hell he’d just heard - he felt like he’d been doused in ice water, each muscle and nerve tensed with a rush of adrenaline strong enough to momentarily override the burning need of his heat.

“Jesus Christ - who took Sherlock?” John sat up, grimacing against the spinning in his head and swung his legs round, settling them lightly on the frayed carpeting. He had to alert someone - one of those fuzzy faced government watchdogs - only he wasn’t exactly sure how.

“Andrew, Terry’s Omega,” Chesney replied. His words all but running together as he begun to panic, “but John - Leesy is bleeding, wha - what do I do? ”

John slapped his hand hard against his face. He had no idea how much of the sedatives were still in his system, or if he was even in a fit state to be giving life-saving medical advice over a bloody mobile. It was Chesney’s  distressed breathing, huffing through the line in fits and sobs, that finally made up his mind.

“A - Alright, now the first thing I need you to do is take a good deep breath and calm down , you’re no good to me if you can’t think clearly and follow instructions. Do you think you can do that for me?” John glanced around the dimly lit room and located a half-full glass of what appeared to be water on the table on the opposite side of the bed. He reached across the duvet, practically face planting into the mattress before righting himself, and sniffed the tumbler suspiciously before downing the tepid liquid as fast as he could. It did little to ease his dry mouth, and even less to combat his rising blood pressure.

“I - I think so, yeah. I mean, yes, Dr Watson.”

“Good, that’s great Chesney. Now, I need you to tell me exactly where she’s hurt?” John stood up carefully, slowly testing his balance and strength before heading to the door.  For a moment he swayed, dangerously so, before righting himself again with a grunt of effort. At the door, he rolled his eyes with overt frustration when he found it locked. He probably should have been more grateful, as it was for his protection after all - now, it was just in his way.

Muffled noises sounded from the mobile. “Her left side.”

“You need to be more specific, I need you to describe it as best you can.” John pounded on the door, thinking vaguely that it should probably hurt more as he viciously thumped the fleshy bit of his left hand in three rapid beats. “Did you call 999?”

“Yes, of course I did, but they’re not here yet. It’s, um, it’s on her lower left side. There is so much blood. I don’t know what to do !”

“Ok, just don’t move her. It’ll be alright. Is she conscious?” John could hear the faint sound of footsteps through the thick wood of the door, apparently it hadn’t taken long for his frantic battering to be noticed. John was momentarily appeased, at least Mycroft’s lackeys were attentive.

“No.”

“Okay, from what you described, it sounds like a gut wound, yeah? On the left side and below the navel? Luckily for her there isn’t much in that area but bowel, too low for the spleen and lungs, too low for the kidneys. Still, a perforated bowel is a serious concern, and there’s really no way of telling how far the bullet traveled inside of her, or what else has been damaged.  Is she still breathing?” John could hear the whispers of a hushed conversation just outside the door, then the sound of lock after lock clicking, greased tumblers moving easily in their casings. He backed away to let them through.

“Yes, I think so, but a - a bowel what?” Chesney’s voice went from panicked to flat-out terrified.

“Doesn’t matter right now. You’re doing fine Chesney, all you need to do is put pressure on the wound until the paramedics arrive. Do you have a scarf or something like that you can use?”

“Yes. Hold on a second I’m putting you on speaker.”

The mobile signal broke a bit, ambient noise and Chesney’s sniffing sounding unusually loud now that John could hear almost everything coming through the microphone. The door to John’s room finally opened, revealing two suited men, tired but alert, and obviously gobsmacked at finding John quite awake and standing absolutely starkers in the middle of his room. He allowed himself a split second of indulgent satisfaction as he looked at their faces. John Watson was not a shy man, now they knew why.

He eyed the two men up quickly, narrowing his gaze but continuing to focus on the frightened young man on the other end of line. “Can you hear me Chesney?”

“Yes,” the boy barked.

One of the men, strangely familiar and yet somehow not, spoke lowly to his companion. They appeared to recognize an unstable situation quite quickly, and it was only a few short seconds before the quiet one made haste back down the dim hallway.

“Right, right...j-just fold whatever you’re going to use and put it over the wound, make it as thick as you can, then press down - hard . Don’t let up the pressure until the paramedics say you can. It’s going to hurt her, it might even bring her out of unconsciousness, but she will thank you later.” John moved his ear away from the mobile, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness that threatened to overcome him. He covered the receiver with his hand, addressing the one agent remaining in his room. “I need some flumazenil, I know you have it, and if you don’t, get it right the fuck now! Don’t argue, there isn’t time.”

He returned his attention to the mobile as the second suited man darted from the room. He needed to be free of the effects of the drugs in order to make clear-headed decisions and flumazenil was the only benzodiazepine antagonist available. Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not thorough, and John knew they must have a store of it somewhere close at hand. Over the connection, John could hear nothing but the rustling of fabric and a low agonized groan before Chesney broke the silence.

“It’s not fair , it was supposed to be over…”

“I don’t understand, what do you mean it was supposed to be over?” John ran a rough hand over his face, suddenly realizing how bloody exhausted he was as he stumbled across the room.

“Didn’t you know? Lysander’s in jail. Cornwall was a complete wash. We were just dropping Sherlock off at your flat when he got a text saying Lysander was arrested early this morning.”

“ What? H- How?” John demanded, frantically searching the room for the clothes he’d been wearing when he came to this godawful house. It already seemed a lifetime ago, and while he wasn’t one for traditional social conventions, he had to draw the line at overt nakedness in crisis situations. After a few visual sweeps, more than he would have needed had he not been drugged, he found a lidless hamper stuck in a tiny closet to his right. He peered inside and sighed in marked relief when he found his stiff trousers and wrinkled jumper - and then realized he absolutely could not go back into London wearing what he had before. In fact, he might burn the trousers.

He searched for the megestrol acetate and was gratified to find it remained nestled in the soft cotton pocket he’d left it in. He grasped the cool cylinder with one hand and placed it on the table next to his bed, then he prayed, desperately, that he could find the rest of his belongings he’d packed.

“I dunno. Sherlock called in some sort of favour from the British Government to find him. Lysander Evan’s real name is Dr Sean E. Sylvan, an American bloke that worked at the Bellefette centre. Lisa knew the bastard for five years and never suspected a thing. Who the fuck uses anagrams besides Tom Marvolo fucking Riddle?”

John’s mind went blank for a moment before he realized that last bit was a joke, an actual Harry Potter joke. He shook his head, blinking his eyes and marveling at the boy’s wit and humour in an otherwise dire situation.

“Anagrams, right,” he muttered, eventually moving his attention to an unadorned dresser tucked up against the far wall. John rifled through the drawers one by one, holding the mobile against his cheek with his good shoulder until he found a pair of familiar, worn blue jeans and a checked shirt. Apparently, Mycroft had instructed one of the agents to eschew his privacy completely and carefully unpack John’s clothes. He was not surprised in the least. “But how did Andrew get Sherlock? Did you see where he took him? Was there a van? I need more details if we have any hope of getting him back.”

“When he got the text, Lisa and I got out of the car. We were just standing on the pavement in front of that cafe and Andrew came out of nowhere - Jesus, how long does it fucking take for paramedics around here? ”

“Oh God, he wasn’t in heat was he?” John burst out, a rising stab of hot jealousy pulsing within him to battle uncomfortably with the icy terror in the pit of his stomach. It was ridiculous, he knew, to feel this way but...but he couldn’t help it. Just the thought of another Omega with Sherlock, with his friend, with his mate -

“What? No, he had cancer a few years ago, chemo sent him into premature andropause. Terry stuck by him, took him to his appointments,” Chesney stopped talking for a moment, audibly dragging in lungfuls of air between ill-concealed, unnerving sobs, “I really thought he was one of the good ones.”

Struggling to put on his shirt, John set the mobile down for a second. Sodding Andrew . A part of him was sickened, ashamed that he was wasting time worrying that some Omega would try to take advantage of Sherlock while he was gone. But another part of him, a dark and savage part, wanted to find Andrew, gouge out his eyes and make him regret ever putting his filthy hands on Sherlock in the first place.  

Down the hallway, past his open door, he heard strong voices, commands, and knew Mycroft’s men were assembling. Another wave of panic slammed through him and John snatched at the mobile.

“Chesney, was - was Andrew in heat? You have to tell me!”

There was a moment of silence before Chesney replied, a strange and questioning tone lingering in his voice. “No, he wasn’t...I, Dr Watson I just told you that he wasn’t. He can’t go into heat anymore.”

John clenched the mobile hard, knuckles blanching. “Right, right, so you said. Sherlock wasn't hurt was he?”

“I don’t think so, I think Andrew got him with the same shite the trafficking ring used to knock out Omegas. When he went down, Andrew pulled out a gun, not sure what kind. I couldn’t stop him, I swear John I tried, but I couldn’t .”

A few more minutes was probably all they had before the strain of the situation broke him. John reminded himself that despite Chesney’s bravery he was still only 18 years old. Diving into the water to save a friend was far cry from watching your cousin bleed-out from a gut wound.

With that, Chesney’s voice finally cracked, and all John could hear were harsh sobs and the distant sound of approaching sirens. Somewhere in the din, he heard Chesney whispering to himself, or maybe to Lisa, that everything was going to be okay, that he was there and it would be fine, and everything was going to be okay .

“The ambulance is here,” Chesney gasped, having gathered himself together once more, “I have to go. I - I hope you find Sherlock.”

There was a brief clatter and the line went dead. John blinked into the darkness, against the unwelcome but continuing buzz in his brain, and at that same moment a suited man burst through the open doorway with a syringe and a small vial. John knew it would be best if the flumazenil was administered intravenously, but he neither had the time nor an actual intravenous line. Instead, he eyed the syringe and decided an intramuscular injection was the best way to go.

It didn’t take long for John to use a small alcohol wipe, also provided by the anonymous suited man, to disinfect the top of the vial and plunge the needle through the rubber top, drawing up 2ml of clear liquid. He already knew what the recommended dosage was, but what he didn't know was how much benzodiazepine was still in his system. He decided he didn’t much care and unceremoniously plunged the needle into the top of his thigh, depressing it quickly until all the liquid was gone. He grunted as he massaged the injection site, knowing the vastus lateralis was the easiest and best location for self-administered intramuscular injections. Now, all he needed was time, fifteen minutes or so - maybe a bit longer.

The young man in the suit stared at John throughout the entire ordeal, offering no help but blatantly ogling his exposed groin until John shot him a look that sent him scurrying for the hallway in alarm. After that, John pulled up his denims and pocketed the megestrol acetate once more. He didn’t bother with pants.

He only realized he was still holding his mobile when the light from the screen blinked off, and he was left alone and emotionally wrecked in the darkened room once more. John quickly shook himself out of his fugue, fervently stabbing in Mycroft’s number on the tiny screen, probably with more force than necessary.

There was no use waiting for standard English niceties, and he began talking the instant the call connected, sliding his bare feet into a pair of his trainers he found on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Sherlock was abducted from in front of Baker Street. I have already injected myself with flumazenil and plan to use the megestrol as soon as my mind clears. Now, please, communicate with me normally. I don’t need your particular brand of - of cryptic bullshit right now!”

Still trying to desperately claw his way clear of the benzodiazepine fog, John moved quickly out of his room and down the hallway. He remembered, vaguely, the layout of the house and was gratified to see it was exceedingly simple floor plan after all. In the foyer, a group of young men and women, all in suits, gathered nervously and swung their heads round as John barreled into their space.

“When?” Mycroft snapped over the mobile, and to his credit, John recognized the barest hint of a tremor in the normally controlled voice. Mycroft must have been profoundly alarmed - as he should be.

“Just now, Chesney phoned. He says it was Andrew, Terry’s Omega. Terry…uhh… I don’t know his last name.” All of Mycroft’s cronies stayed in the foyer and stared at John, obviously waiting for something.

“I will call you back.” Mycroft’s uncharacteristic lack of politeness when terminating the call was a testament to how worried he really was about his brother. Just then, a vicious abdominal cramp had John almost falling to his knees on the hard, tiled floor. He became suddenly aware that he was still in heat and after all that had happened he somehow still had an erection, and wasn’t that just the icing on the bleeding cake.

“Fuck!” He needed to be able to think if he wanted to be any help finding Sherlock. The flumazenil still needed some time to be effective, but time was a luxury John simply could not afford.

He checked that his ringer was set on maximum volume, and shoved the phone into the front left pocket of his trousers. He had little experience with flumazenil, and even less with megestrol acetate. Most of his patients had been human, as Alphas and Omegas typically saw Omegaverse specialists. Due to its limited duration of effectiveness, Megestrol acetate was not used as a suppressant, and due to its heat blocking effects it was an equally unpopular birth control method. From what he remembered, the drug typically took effect within sixty minutes; his heat would be suppressed for approximately twelve hours, and conception would be prevented for the remainder of the estrus cycle. One hand absently made its way to his right trouser pocket, and his fingers closed over the smooth, cool vial.

The small crowd in the foyer remained silent, though a few had started in shock when John almost fell to his knees.

“Alright,” John began, his tone cold and forceful, “I don’t have time to fuck around. I need another syringe, 5ml or 3ml if you have it. If it’s necessary, I will call Mycroft Holmes back right now to tell you himself not question my orders and just do what the hell I say! ”

Only a few of the agents managed to look surprised, but one brave fellow immediately made a beeline straight towards an open area to John’s left, disappearing behind a half-wall that lead into what must be the kitchen.

“Sir?” Agent Waverley’s voice rang out from behind the small gathering. He was in the back, close to the entrance and lowering his own mobile, face grave.“I was just briefed on the situation. We have been called back to the office to assist.”

“It’s not a sodding situation - it’s Sherlock! ” John bellowed, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t long until the other agent returned from the kitchen, young and impossibly wide-eyed, offering John a clean syringe and another alcohol wipe. John made quick work of the next injection, popping off the tip of the vial and administering 1ml of government issued hormones into his deltoid. He knew it was bad practice to push the injection through his shirt, but needs must. Besides, he really, really, couldn’t be arsed to worry about the risk of infection at a time like this. It was hard to care about anything when he knew Sherlock was out there in the hands of a vengeful madman. He may be the world’s only consulting detective, but sometimes, he could be spectacularly blind.

“I… I am sorry, I didn’t mean-” Waverly sputtered as all the other agents moved away, returning to their posts and separating like sand in a strong river current.

John took a deep breath, trying to regain his tattered composure.  The effects of the flumazenil were only taking full force now, and he only hoped he didn’t re-sedate too obviously after it wore off. Antagonists never did last as long as the medicines they counteracted.

“It’s all right, I’m - oh God, I’m so sorry,” John began, “I understand. Go. Mycroft needs his best people working on this.”

“We’re under orders not to leave you unprotected until your heat is in remission,” Waverly replied, surprisingly earnest. John promised himself he’d put in a good word for this man when next he saw Mycroft.

“Yes, I just took the suppressant- should be about an hour before it takes effect,” John leant against the doorjamb, suddenly dizzy, probably from the amount of drugs roiling around in his veins. Some of the other agents looked alarmed, but he pushed them away with a strong hand. “I’m fine, God, you’d think I was the King of England!”

“You know we don’t have a King.” A woman’s voice, gruff and raspy, sounded to John’s left.

“Yes... I know . I suppose it’s just...look, I’m not in the mood for jokes.” He stared at the young woman, she was conventionally pretty, but nothing compared to his mate.

“Understood,”the female agent was of average height, even with heels, and her long dark hair waved attractively about her face. She turned to address Waverly before he made his way out of the door.  “We’ve reset the perimeter, let me know if anything changes.”

John made a noncommittal noise and began pacing the room, waiting for the inevitable. Agent Waverly left with little fanfare, and in any other circumstance John would be smarting from the indignity of the situation. Yet, all he could think of was Sherlock.

When his mobile rang ten minutes later, Mycroft’s voice was grim.

“We picked up the abduction on CCTV, but we lost the van shortly thereafter. It appears Andrew was familiar enough with his Alpha’s line of work that he was able to take full advantage of the CCTV dark spots to transfer vehicles. I am sending you an email now with Andrew’s details. If you can think of anything that might help us find Sherlock call me immediately.” Mycroft rang off abruptly, which was nothing new to John, and he was left angrily clutching his mobile once again.

Mycroft was true to his word, and John’s phone immediately buzzed with incoming email.

At the same time, John pressed both hands to his temples and breathed in huge, gulping lungfuls of air. He focused on his body, revelling in the way the breathing helped to ground him, and realizing his mind suddenly felt...free. That is, he no longer felt drugged, there was no more urgent sexual need, and even the strange tingling in his backside had abated. He was just John again, his mind had surfaced from the haze and he rejoiced in the fact that he could think clearly once more.  

The first email was a short background on Andrew: full name Andrew Russell, 33 years old, Glaswegian, no children, presented as an Omega at the age of 22, and bonded the same day to Terry Fanning. He’d worked full-time as an orderly at the Bellefette centre since 2006.

The second email attachment was a colour scan of his driver’s licence. John’s first thought was that Andrew did not look the least bit the way John expected. At 5’11’’ and almost 16 stone, he looked more like a professional boxer than anything else - and if that wasn’t enough, the lantern jaw and jug ears put paid to the stereotype of the wilting flower Omega. For a half second, John was almost grateful that strong and physically intimidating Omegas existed, but then he remembered this man had Sherlock and therefore must die, preferably as painfully as possible.

With a sharp pang, almost indistinguishable from despair, John realized there was nothing in the dossier that brought him any closer to actually finding Sherlock. His stomach heaved with another painful spasm and John noted the time on his mobile. The megestrol injection was about thirty minutes ago, and the flumazenil about forty-five. His erection had wilted visibly, and that was certainly for the best, just the thought of touching himself when Sherlock was in danger felt wrong on a base, primal level.  

He soon fell back on familiar habits, recalling his time in the army and getting to work. He returned to his bedroom and stripped the stained sheets from the bed, remaking it precisely enough that he would’ve been proud to show it off during his basic training at Pirbright.  

He threw the filthy sheets in the wash, put the room to rights, and by the time he was finished, he’d found a fragile sense of peace in his surroundings. John took a quick walk around the inside of the house, nodding at the agents, and checked each door and window, knowing the house was well-guarded but still needing to find a way to keep himself busy. This passed the time, but not nearly enough time.

Right, it was the shower for him then. He would have to leave the house eventually, and considering what he’d smelt like before, the last thing he needed was to give all the Alphas from Cantebury to Ashford a hard-on.

Almost an hour and a half later with no word or update, John was antsy and impatient. He’d stood for so long under the scalding water, scrubbing the sweat and slick of heat off himself that his skin felt raw and bruised. He’d chosen to prowl around the back entrances of the house, watching cars zip by and the dainty flowers dip in the breeze.

When he finally heard the telltale ring of his mobile, he’d scrabbled to answer, heart leaping like a wild thing in his throat.

“Yes?” John questioned as several of the other agents in the room leant in to hear. He found he didn’t really much mind, they were on his side after all.

“I have some news.” It was Anthea on the line, her voice as deep and crisp as ripe apples.

“You have Sherlock?” John almost talked over her outright, his impatience and need for good news finally outweighing English propriety. He had hope, though he knew it was a dangerous thing - a useless emotion that Sherlock had probably deleted long ago.

“No,” she replied with a small, almost unheard, sigh.  “It’s about Lisa Palmer. I’m afraid I have some bad news. The bullet nicked her internal iliac artery, severed one of her fallopian tubes and perforated her bowel. The surgeon was able to repair most of the damage, but there is a high risk of infection. If she makes it through the next 24 hours her chances will improve but the doctors are not hopeful.”

“That’s…uhh…thank you for letting me know,” John stared at the floor, numb.

Maybe, if Sherlock had been with him, he could have processed the news, but right now...he just...

“Did you find out any more about Andrew?” He ground his teeth at the thought of that disgusting Omega trying to lay claim to his Alpha. Unacceptable. Unacceptable.

“Not as of yet Dr Watson. We are pursuing all possible avenues of investigation at this time. We did locate the girl you knew as Stevie.  She was able to positively identify  Dr Sylvan as the man she knew as Lysander Evans. We are working with her now to try and identify the locations of the safe-houses that Andrew might have known about through Terry.” This new information was delivered in a neutral, almost flat, tone. It was almost as if Mycroft’s ubiquitous PA was bored.

“And what about Dr Sylvan? What will happen to him?” It took a moment for John to even think of this question. He found he was horribly distracted and still visualizing the things he would do to that awful cunt Andrew when he found him.  

“Dr Sylvan is still in police custody. Per the Palermo protocol he will be charged under the Sexual Offences Act , the Asylum and Immigration Act , and the Omega Protection Act . Furthermore, the preliminary pathology report on Ms. Orr found fibres linking her death to Terry Fanning. The Crown Prosecutors are also likely to pursue charges additional charges against Dr Sylvan for complicity in her murder.” Her voice broke over the line, and then, “I’ve another call John, I need to take it.”

He never really said goodbye, just thanked her with all the feeling and warmth of an automaton before slumping gracelessly to the floor.

John counted the next eight hours as possibly the worst of his life, and that was no small feat considering what he’d just endured. He tried to find something moderately useful to do, but only ended up pacing in the front parlor, engaging in pointless small talk, and compulsively checking his phone for any news. Eventually, he bullied himself into at least attempting to lie down and rest. He didn’t want to be completely useless, if, no - when , the call to action came.

Yet, to his utter dismay, and no small amount of horror, he found no comfort between the soft, expensive sheets. The duvet was too heavy, the walls too close, and his mind only whirled and whirled, a veritable reel of unchecked anxiety. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

It would have been easier to fall asleep standing up, covered in lemon curd, in front of a crowd, with pigeons pecking at his genitals. He felt exposed, somehow, and the mattress was too flat, too hot, and too rigid.

In a sudden fury, he ripped the offending bed apart, kicking  the duvet across the room and dragged the mattress over into the corner furthest from the door. He ransacked the linen closet opposite the toilet, ignoring the strange looks from patrolling agents, and grabbed every blanket and pillow he could manage. He piled the blankets, sheets, and pillows around the edges of the mattress to make a nest. He’d read about this once before, a long time ago, this type of...animalistic behaviour. It sickened him, the loss of control, not only of his body but of his life, and he fought back tears as he curled up with his back to the wall, a ball of abject misery.

He’d truly lost everything . His dignity, his humanity, and now, perhaps even Sherlock. He couldn’t help but think back to his last visit to the detention centre, when Harlan had asked him how he thought he would fare if he and Sherlock were separated. At the time, he’d been sure he could endure anything if it meant Sherlock was better off... but he’d never really stopped to think how he would feel if their relationship fell apart completely . If Sherlock shut him out of his life, or if - if he never saw Sherlock again.

As John stared into the abyss, wondering if he would ever see Sherlock again, he finally accepted the harsh reality of it all. He knew if he lost Sherlock, he would do no better than Harlan. At best he would sit in the prison of his memories and wait for death to find him, and at worst he would seek it out like an old friend.

John was starting to drift, wrestling between the depthless rift of wakefulness and sleep, when his mobile rang. It was a blocked number, and as he lifted the mobile to his ear, he felt that same sense of dread just as he had when Chesney called before. Call it an Omega sense, hell, it could even be some kind of strange new psychic ability, but he already knew who the caller was.

“I have your Alpha.” The voice was cold and rough, intentionally cruel.

“Andrew,” John’s veins pulsed with a sudden surge of adrenaline, “why are you doing this?”

For a long moment, neither man said a word. They listened to each other’s ragged breathing, the low bong-bong of a church’s bell tolling in the background, mournful and solemn.

“Do you know how long I waited for my Terry to come home before I realized something was wrong? Three hours. Three hours and then I knew he was not coming back to me. So I am giving you three hours. Three hours to suffer before I kill him. Every minute you will know that this is your fault .”

Before John could even respond, the call cut off with a sharp, almost malicious, click.

Bong-bong.

He looked at the alarm clock, now returned to the small table by the shell of his bed. It was 5:35pm.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” It was the bloody six bells of Petham.

He closed his eyes, feeling his heartache swell to unbearable proportions. In his mind’s eye, he could see the bright little flower beds in the shadow of the church, swaying untroubled in the breeze.

Pausing only to send a quick text to Mycroft, John forced himself to his feet, feeling  the uselessness and impotent anger slough away, leaving only John Watson, and his terrible purpose.

He really had hoped it would never come to this, but Andrew had forced his hand, and John liberated his Sig from the bottom of his luggage with relish.

Then, as he sprinted to the door, he smiled for the first time in hours.

Chapter Text

It seemed, to John at least, there was more than just luck involved in this strange turn of events. It was almost serendipitous, the way this all had happened just so . He found it hard to believe that Mycroft, even with the whole of the British government at his disposal, could have knowingly brought John to a safe house so close to Lysander’s base of operations. At this point though, he would take all of the luck he could get.

John wasn’t even out of breath when the he arrived at the church grounds. He willed himself to stay calm, and stay in the shadows. The stout chestnut trees lining the worn dirt paths gave him a bit of hazy cover as he kept close to the ground, circling the tiny graveyard behind the church proper. If memory served him correctly, and it almost always did, he knew what to look for based on Stevie’s rough description - a small house with a back garden, flowers, and bird feeders. As he moved farther away and down the southernmost laneway, he was quickly rewarded with the sight of a moderately sized, though rather unremarkable, stone cottage.

With the spires of the Petham church providing  an impressively gothic backdrop, John crossed over the property line to lean against the rough limestone of the cottage. The daisies were exactly as he remembered them from the drive to the safehouse, and as he crouched closer, he could make-out the corner of a cobblestone garden complete with bird feeders. He was about halfway around the house, circling towards the front, when he stopped with a pained gasp, gripping his shirt over his heart in a poor mimicry of the squeezing pain roiling in his chest. He could feel Sherlock’s panic throbbing and scrabbling in a cold knot behind his breastbone. It took John a good long moment to recover, and with a controlled breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, he ruthlessly stamped the feeling down. Now was the time for action and cold, unemotional, ruthlessness.

After his breathing calmed, John became aware of the muffled sound of voices  drifting down from a window just above him. He froze, straining his ears to make out the conversation, suddenly profoundly grateful for old houses and substandard double glazing.

“ - really think this is for the best?” Pounding footsteps neared the window, and John made himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, clenching the loamy ground unconsciously in his left hand. Try as he might, he could only catch snippets of a no doubt heated conversation, “...your Alpha...Terry was a...made up his own damn mind to get mixed up with the likes of Lysander and you know it!”

It was more than relief that washed over John just then. A profound sense of gratitude bolstered his confidence as he waited for the men inside to finish their squabbling so he could find Sherlock and get him the hell out of there and back home where he belonged.

A second voice joined the first, much higher pitched and a tad more anxious. “And what the hell are we supposed to do when he gets here? If he gets here?”

No answer, or at least, none John had heard. The footsteps moved away, out of earshot, and while both men continued to talk, it became far too muffled by plaster and stone to be understood. John continued to move along the wall in a crouch, stopping just before the corner towards the front of the house. The front door opened with a slam, and John tensed when he heard the march of angry footsteps heading in his direction.

If Sherlock had been here, John knew he would do something clever, possibly involving disguises and subterfuge, but Sherlock was locked-up inside, in God knows what state and John did not have the time nor the luxury of being clever. The only thing he really had working for him was the element of surprise and he was betting Sherlock’s life on the fact that these men, whoever they were, would never expect a physically unimpressive but really, really pissed off Omega crouched at their doorstep with an illegal firearm and massive score to settle.

Taking another deep breath, while also praying Mycroft was as good as Sherlock seemed to think he was at keeping things out of the courts, John waited for the heavy footfalls to turn round the corner before he sprang into action.

It was only the work of a moment. As soon as he spied a figure turning the corner, John lunged forward and grabbed the unknown man by his dirty jumper. With his left hand still clenched full of earth, John stuffed the man’s surprised and gaping mouth full of dirt and grass before he even had a chance to think about screaming. Then, with a quick change in momentum, he swung him around in a vicious arc, making sure his face collided full force into the limestone wall. The resulting crunch of bone on stone was visceral, and satisfying. Most of all, it was silent .

One down, at least one more to go .

He left the unfortunate man slumped alongside the blood-spattered wall of the cottage, unconscious, and probably in real danger of choking on his own blood from his broken nose. John found he didn’t much care.

His nerve endings were firing on all cylinders now, invigorating his mind and inciting that all-consuming haze of kill or be killed he so loved in the Army, and so dearly missed in London. He waited a long moment, crouched once more, barely sparing a glance to the unconscious thug lying face-down on the damp ground. The winter day had turned dusky, and the small streetlamps dotting the pastoral lane barely lit the road, let alone the houses. One more thing in his favour.

Leaving the mystery man where he lay, John straightened from his crouch and peered around the corner towards the front of the cottage. No one had followed the man out, and there were no more angry conversations, or any kind of conversations at all, since then. At least not that he could hear, and John, being English to the core, figured it would only be polite to ring the doorbell before he rushed headlong into the fray.

The bell-tone was a sad little thing, an odd rendition of Ding Dong Bell that managed to be more disturbing than anything else. John gripped his gun in both hands and moved to the side of the door, listening intently.

He heard a clatter as footsteps approach, and when they stopped at the threshold, they shuffled back and forth a few times, indecisive.

“Hello?” The voice was gruff, impatient, and unfortunately, not Andrew. John cursed inwardly, hoping it was only the two of them left. He was not sure how much longer his luck would hold.  

“ Hello? Make yourself known or piss off! ”

John closed his eyes and calculated. Then, in one fluid movement, he stepped in front of the door and fired three shots point blank into the wood, splinters and paint chips exploding in small outward bursts.

A surprised, pained grunt, and the unmistakable thunk of something hitting the ground hard told John all he needed to know. He didn’t give the man any time to recoup, but reared back and savagely kicked the door open with a brutal blow right under the doorknob. It flew open with a crash of fractured wood and another sickening thud as it slammed into the supine body lying crumpled and bleeding profusely on the cold, stone floor.

With his shoulders low and gun gripped loosely, John exploded through the doorway. A young man lay face up on the flagstones, his clothing already dark with blood from where the bullets had torn through his flesh.  A Beretta 92FS slowly spun on the tiled floor where it had slipped from nerveless fingers. The man took a few gurgling breaths before falling quiet, eyes going dim.

John scooped up the pistol from where it had fallen, checked the mag, then tucked it in his waistband. Across the house, several room over at least, a door slammed.

John wasted no time. He left the dead man and sprinted towards the other end of the house, bile and anger rising in his throat. If that cunt Andrew had hurt his mate, if Sherlock was -

“ Andrew! ” John roared, voice tight, brooking no room for bullshit. “I know you’re here, and so help me if you don’t come out right the fuck now -”

Silence, muffled laughter, then a few more low sounding thumps along the floor.

John cursed, then ran.

He passed door after door, each brimming with darkness, until he came across a hallway somewhere off from the kitchen and close to the garage. It was narrow, lined with wood panelling that had seen better days. John slowed, heart pulsing painfully in his chest. With his Sig out in front of him, knees soft, he placed one foot slowly in front of the other.

His heart in his throat, John gripped the doorknob and carefully opened the door. Even without Sherlock’s charged emotions blaring through him like a klaxon, one look at the room and John knew they were in trouble.

The room reeked of Omega, of fear and desperation, sex and blood. Sherlock had folded himself into a far corner, huddled against a wall stained with damp, while Andrew sauntered blithely in long arrogant motions across the floor. He looked smug, murderous, and almost like he knew he’d won already. He twirled a blood stained knife in his large hands, flinging fresh droplets of ichor to the ground in mad little swirls of blackness. John renewed his grip on the gun, not even daring to think of whose blood that was.

“John!” Sherlock jerked, making to move towards the door before Andrew put him down with a thunderous blow to the neck. Sherlock coughed, slouching back towards the floor before wrapping both hands around his head. John didn’t take his eyes off Andrew for long, but it was hard to miss Sherlock’s slowed movements and the flush of blood against the collar of his white shirt.

“So, you’ve found me.” Andrew paused, glaring down at Sherlock. “Bit ahead of schedule. I must say I’m surprised.”

John’s jaw clenched, muscles rippling in his face. “Shut up now, and I might not blow a hole in your ugly face.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’m just trying to have a bit of conversation now,  since we’ve got all this extra time.” Andrew continued, rolling his neck and shoulders. He leant down towards Sherlock, wiping the knife clean on his Belstaff.

It was a simple thing, but just arrogant and disrespectful enough to set a fire alight in John’s blood, and he ground his teeth, pondering what was keeping him from shooting this arsehole directly in the chest.

“I had a thought, actually,” Andrew ran a large hand through Sherlock’s limp curls until he gripped the hair at the crown of his head, pulling it backwards until Sherlock gasped in pain. With Sherlock’s neck and collarbone exposed, John could clearly see several lacerations, presumably made with Andrew’s knife, angry and seeping blood onto Sherlock’s once crisp white shirt. “I thought maybe I’d let you come, kill you, and continue to have my fun with your Alpha here. I might not have heats anymore, but I can still satisfy an Alpha in rut.”

Andrew laughed to himself and flung Sherlock’s head away towards the wall, letting him fall limp against the crumbling plaster, sliding with a grimace back to the floor.

John’s rage notched up one more level. He’d had enough.

Andrew must have sensed his decision, because he crouched forward suddenly, knife still in hand and leapt towards John’s legs in a lunge meant to bring John crashing to the ground. At the unexpected movement, John fired a shot, the bullet going much too far to the left and embedding itself in the wall in a spray of plaster dust.

John grunted as Andrew brought him down, hard, on the wooden floor. Another shot from John’s gun flew wide of its mark, and John had no idea where that one landed because Andrew was soon sat astride his hips, knife flashing, eyes shining with murderous intent.

They wrestled for a brief moment, the silence in the room punctuated by their grunts of pain and Sherlock’s ragged breathing. John gripped Andrew’s knife hand, clenching his teeth with the effort, all the while struggling to avoid blow after blow from the incredibly strong man above him. John had lost his grip on the gun in the fray, and it lay abandoned on the floor next to both men, momentarily forgotten in the hand-to-hand grappling. It wasn’t long before John was overcome by Andrew’s larger mass, and the man put his boxing skills to use, heaping terrific amounts of abuse to John face.

John tasted blood, he felt the heat of righteous anger dull the pain from Andrew’s frenzied punches. He bucked and heaved in an affort to dislodge his attacker, hoping he could at least land a glancing blow to his face or disarm him. Barring either of those, he didn’t see this ending in his favour.

He knew he was in trouble, he knew Andrew was physically stronger than he was, and he knew he needed to get this man off of him or he wouldn’t be walking away from this alive. In a burst of adrenaline and necessity, John managed to jam the thumb of his free hand into the socket of Andrew’s right eye, feeling the firm tissue give just slightly before collapsing beneath his thumbnail in a burst of warm serosanguinous fluid.

Andrew howled in agony as he reared back and clawed at his face, viscous fluid dribbling from his eye socket onto his cheek and lips.

“You son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill you, you fucker -”

But John was never to know what other colourful words the raging man had in store for him, because in that instant, the side of his head exploded, showering John with bits of bone, glossy brain matter, and blood.

John only just managed to overcome his shock as Andrew’s body pitched forward, and he had just enough presence of mind to shove him to the side, not relishing the idea of Andrew’s lifeless corpse on top of him.

“John!” Sherlock was shaking when he crawled over to John, the gun in his hand still warm.

John realized with a sickening lurch what had happened. Sherlock knelt beside him, bloodied and pale, trembling just a bit as he dropped the gun back to the wooden floor. He didn’t spare the dead man even a cursory glance, but immediately began running panicked hands up and down John’s body, seeking wounds or signs of harm.

“Sher - Sherlock I’m fine, Christ.” John sat up with a groan, wincing as he placed a gentle hand to his swollen lips, his fingertips came back glistening red. Sherlock only doubled his efforts, finally leaning and placing his nose to the crook of John’s neck, breathing and licking at salty skin.

“ John ,” Sherlock’s voice was only barely above a whisper, but conveyed a depth of feeling previously unvoiced. “John, I thought, I could smell you, but I couldn’t…”

They sat there for countless minutes, alone and desperate for each other, John placing a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and squeezing, just the right amount of pressure to calm the other man.

He realized Sherlock had spent the better part of a day drugged and locked in a room regularly used to hold captured Omegas. The combined miasma of years of misery and terror would have been profoundly distressing for an experienced Alpha, but for an un-bonded Alpha in the midst of his first rut, it was probably devastating. Not to mention the hints of John’s own scent he must have caught every once in a while, since they had somehow ended up in such close physical proximity to each other after Sherlock’s abduction.

“Oh God, Sherlock. Let me, let me see...your shirt, you’re bleeding.”

Sherlock batted his hand away, the moment of vulnerability and terror evaporating, erased as if it had never been there. Sherlock caught John’s arms in a vice-like grip and fierce but low growl rattled in the back of his throat.

“John, I thought he had you…I could smell you, sometimes…you are mine and I thought he took you. He can’t John. He can’t have you .”

John stifled a curse and slowed his breathing, making sure Sherlock knew he posed no threat.

“Andrew is dead Sherlock, he didn’t have me. I’m yours, remember?”

“But he hurt you!”

Sherlock stood and positioned himself between John and the door, pacing back and forth, nostrils flaring and chest heaving. His eyes rolled from side to side, putting in mind a spooked horse. It was practically inhuman, and as John lifted himself up, he made extra care to move slowly.

“Sherlock, I’m alright. It’s over. Lysander’s in jail, and Terry is really, really dead. Molly probably has his brain in a jar by now. You need to snap out of this.”

Sherlock only snarled in response, never slowing his pacing, angling his nose in the air every once in awhile as if sniffing for intruders. John wracked his brain for something, anything, that he might have heard of that could help his friend. He vaguely remembered reading an article by Dr Shibuya about “denning” behaviour in Alphas, an extreme reaction brought on when an Alpha perceived their Omega to be in danger. It typically presented as a regression to territorial behaviour focussed solely on getting the Omega to a defensible area and then safeguarding them by any means necessary.

So what he needed to do was convince Sherlock that they were safe and that he could stand the fuck down.

The solution came to him almost fully formed, and it was so obvious he could have kicked himself. To solve a primal problem he needed a primal solution.

“Sherlock? You need to scent me fully so that they know I am yours.”

Sherlock paused in his pacing, wild-eyed, as if he only just remembered John was in the room.

“Yes,” he growled, moving a step towards him, and then apparently thought the better of it and spun back to face the door. He appeared loathe to leave the room undefended, and John didn’t think this was something he could convince Sherlock to let go.

“It’s all right. You…uhh...keep guarding the door and I will, err rub myself against your back?”

John boldly walked up behind Sherlock, hoping against hope they wouldn’t have to resort to more desperate measures, and pressed his body flush against his. He felt Sherlock’s muscles vibrating with tension, and at this proximity the ‘volume’ of his distress was emotionally deafening. With careful fingers he reached up and began to stroke gently through Sherlock’s hair, the other arm wrapping protectively against his waist.

John’s face was mashed uncomfortably into the irish tweed of the coat, and he had to hold his arm at an awkward angle, but there was something inherently comforting about feeling the heat of Sherlock’s body against his, vital and charged. He continued for a few seconds, just breathing in his warm scent before sliding his hand down to Sherlock’s nape and exerting gentle pressure once again. He felt the skittering panic under Sherlock’s skin start to lessen, but it was not quite enough, and they were running out of time.

“Crouch down.” John used a more forceful tone this time, exerting firmer pressure on his neck to emphasize his point. Sherlock turned his head to shoot him a look that was half mutinous, half panicked before begrudgingly acquiescing. He slowly lowered himself to an uneasy crouch, John still plastered against his warm back. The change of position meant that, despite their height difference, Sherlock’s nape was almost at John’s chin level. Without stopping the gentle movement of fingers through curls, John carefully folded the collar of the coat down. Taking a deep breath and hoping he was not about to make a catastrophic mistake, John bent forwards, biting down firmly right on the scruff of Sherlock’s neck.   

The effect was instantaneous, he felt the tension drain out of Sherlock like water from a broken cup. John’s mouth flew open in  surprise as Sherlock slowly slumped to the floor. John somehow ended up on the ground, legs akimbo, with Sherlock’s head almost in his lap, his breath punching out of him with a profound sigh of relief.

“It’s alright love, we are going to be all right.” John fumbled for his mobile with one hand, continuing to run his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls with the other. After a few false starts he finally managed to send Mycroft a text.

I have Sherlock. He is unhurt. Andrew is no longer a threat.

Less than 20 seconds later Mycroft responded

Noted. A team should be on scene within 20 minutes. I suggests that you leave before then. Should I have the guards meet you at the house? - MH

John glanced down at Sherlock and made a battlefield decision. Whatever happened he did not think he could bear letting Sherlock out of his sight - it just felt wrong in a way he could not consciously articulate.

No. They won’t be needed.

Understood. - MH

“John?” Sherlock blinked sleepily up at him, looking all the world like a small child just waking up from a nap. He shifted a bit, the front of his shirt and the lacerations against his chest coming into view once more. John clenched his jaw, promising to examine Sherlock’s wounds thoroughly when they were back at 221b once more. They didn’t appear life threatening, or even all that painful, but John knew an Alpha in heat could ignore quite a bit when fully riled up.

“Sherlock? I need you to listen to me. I took a heat blocker and I’m not entirely sure how much time I have left before it wears off.  I texted Mycroft, there will be team here in less than 20 minutes, if you don’t want us to end up on the NAOD registry we have to get out of here.”

Sherlock only nodded and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He was calm now, in control, the knowledge of their situation clearly painted on the tense lines of his face. John wiped his own bloodied lip on his shirt sleeve, reminding himself to avoid all mirrors until he could see to Sherlock first. There was no telling how much damage Andrew had done before Sherlock put him down like a dog.

“Are you able to walk? Mycroft’s house is just down the street.”

Sherlock didn’t answer but instead muttered something uncomplimentary about Mycroft having the same taste in country houses as evil human trafficking masterminds.

John was unsurprised, and with an amused, long-suffering sigh, he squared his shoulders and followed Sherlock down the hall and out of that cursed house.

Chapter Text

It was a tense walk back to the safe house, with Sherlock jumping at shadows and stalking ahead of John, swerving back and forth across the pavement at increasingly odd angles. Despite his habitually rigid self-control, a sense of normality was proving difficult for him to regain. It broke John’s heart, just a little bit, to see him so lost. But one backwards sniff, and one loaded sideways glint from the Alpha Sherlock had become made John rethink his sympathetic feelings for the man. For all that he looked wild and inconsolable, he knew Sherlock didn’t want his pity.

John could almost laugh at himself, almost. At this point it certainly wasn’t pity Sherlock wanted from John.

John cleared his throat, clenching his left hand, at war with his own destroyed sense of normalcy. He floundered, wanting to break the tension and the dreadful silence, but unwilling to be the first to succumb.

In the end, he thought it just as well he stayed silent, for Sherlock’s next sentence was so quiet John could barely hear it over the lazy breeze through the trees.

“Lisa,” Sherlock stammered, “she - how is she? Do you know?”

“Touch and go, I think, last I heard anyway.” John used Sherlock’s momentary lapse in movement to catch up with the man and his damnably long legs. “She’s had some haemorrhaging and internal damage. I don’t think we’ll know anything definite until tomorrow, at least.”

Sherlock nodded, slowing his steps to accommodate John. He practically radiated anxiety tempered with a touch of healthy uncertainty. With the suppressant in full force, John couldn’t actually scent his frenetic energy, but he could see it just fine with his own two eyes. Whether this insecurity involved their future, or what all this would do or had already done to their friendship, John was unsure. But for now, he was content in the silence. He was happy Sherlock was with him, safe, and that they could explore all of this together now. Splitting up had been a disastrous decision and John was finally able to understand why Sherlock was so hell bent on the two of them remaining together. All their separation had done was get one kidnapped and almost killed, while the other stewed in an agonizing hell of his own making.

True to his word, Mycroft must have dismissed the team sent to look for Sherlock, as the safehouse was deserted save for a skeleton crew of guards manning the perimeter. Considering the ease in which John has slipped past them to rescue Sherlock, he had no doubt as to why they were not on the British government’s ‘A Team.’

John and Sherlock didn’t speak again until they were back inside the house and, by tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room.

“Check the bureau,” Sherlock intoned, a limp hand gesturing towards the polished antique set against the wall.

“Sorry what?”

“You were thinking you should clean the guns. There is a heavy duty Brownells box on the bureau. I don’t doubt that it’s a Communal Armoury Kit.”

John drew his brows together, finally taking in the hard portable storage monstrosity resting on the bureau top. It made for an interesting juxtaposition - organic versus plastic - and John had no doubt that what Sherlock said was true, though he didn’t remember it being there before hand. It must have been Mycroft.

“Right. That’s a bit spooky that is, Sherlock.” John said wryly, picking up the kit and moving out of the room with purpose. While it was true that guessing someone’s train of thought based on their facial expression could be relatively easy, murderous intent being the easiest to identify, John was relatively sure he did not have an I-have-a-desperate-need-to-clean-guns face.

But, Sherlock was right, as always. Although John had no doubt that he would never be officially connected to the death of Mr Russell and company, there was no use in tempting fate by leaving potentially damning evidence laying about.

Grabbing a handful of newspapers from the recycle bin, John spread them out over the massive dining room table. He then carefully unloaded his SIG and the Beretta, ejecting the magazines and checking there were no bullets chambered. Satisfied both weapons were safe, he field stripped both pistols with ease and, under Sherlock’s appreciative eye, began to clean them with the precision only afforded to those with more than just a passing familiarity in weapons handling. It would have been almost meditative, save for the fact that Sherlock leapt up every minute or two to walk the perimeter of the house, glare out of the windows, and accost Agents he felt were ‘not sufficiently vigilant.’

By the time both weapons were cleaned and oiled,  Sherlock looked like he was about to work himself into another denning episode, and several of Mycroft’s employees looked downright mutinous. By John’s count he had checked the doors and windows at least a dozen times, each.  

With a low sigh, John binned the soiled papers and walked to the sink to give his hands a good scrubbing, Sherlock following in his wake like a nervous shadow. When he was satisfied his hands and nails were free from oil and gun shot residue, John cleared his throat, glancing at a looming Sherlock practically hovering at his elbows.

Well, there was no use delaying the inevitable.

“Sherlock, we need to figure out what we’re going to do before the blocker wears off, but I can’t think clearly with you stalking around like that. Whatever it is you’re doing to try and gear down is clearly not working so, umm, lets see if we can distract you. ” He kept his voice as gentle and neutral as possible, drying his hands on a sunny gingham hand-towel he found hanging by the sink.

Sherlock eyed John speculatively, but didn’t say a word.

John huffed and barely managed not to roll his eyes - trust the one man John could never get to shut the hell up to suddenly pull a Marcel Marceau.

He inhaled a bit, huffing the next breath out and running a hand down his face before starting again. “I know you love to show off, so put everything together. Let’s start with why Lisa faked her own death, shall we? You told me, and I quote,  ‘a bonded Omega just doesn’t return from the dead and never speak to their Alpha bondmate again .’ So, why?”

Sherlock snorted. “Tedious.”

“Come again?” John fixed him with a stare, feeling his patience wearing thin, a note of anger clinging to the edges of his voice.

“I said this is tedious , John. Lisa never actually faked her own death.”

“Wait, what?” John spluttered, moving across the small kitchen to take a seat once more at the table. With that opening statement, he figured it’d be wise to be sitting down for this.

“HMP Pentonville is 3.6 miles from Baker Street.”

“Y - yes...alright, but, I don’t understand.”

“According to the current Omegaverse literature, an Alpha can smell an Omega from five miles away, fifty miles if the Omega is in heat. Harlan is being held on remand at Her Majesty’s Prison Pentonville. When Lisa came to call on us, she entered into the five mile range and considering he was coming out of an unresolved rut, there is no way that he couldn’t smell her. Also, he didn’t mention her ‘miraculous resurrection’ when you saw him next, ergo he already knew she was alive.”

John couldn’t believe it. Though he had his own issues with Lisa knowingly endangering her own mate and seemingly not caring one whit that he was imprisoned, he was hard pressed to believe that somehow Harlan knew she was alive and never said a single word to either of them. “You can’t be serious...Harlan is dying in there.”

“Exactly. Why would he tell a lie that will undoubtedly lead to his own death? What was his motivation?” He let the pause hang dramatically between them before continuing rapid fire. “ To cover a bigger lie .” Sherlock began to pace, as was normal for this type of advanced brainwork, “So, what was he trying to conceal? To answer that you have to ask yourself - what does he have to gain by being in prison?”

While John did love to be Sherlock’s sounding board on all things mysterious, he only shrugged, waiting for him to continue.

“Well for one, no one is looking for Rexfield’s murderer.”

“So, you’re saying you think Lisa killed Rexfield?” John blurted out, his tone bordering on incredulous.

“It’s the only logical explanation.” Sherlock waved his hands in an arc, tenting his fingers for one brief moment on the soft dip of his lower lip. “When she first came to Baker Street she showed signs of a recent injury, traces of adhesive from a plaster on her forehead, slight stiffness in her right hip and left arm indicative of involvement in a struggle no more than three but closer to two weeks prior. That is consistent with the timing of her alleged death.”

“Alright, well noted,” John conceded, never too proud to give credit where credit was due, “but how are you getting from there to murder?”

“Think, John!” Now, the real pacing began. Sherlock spun and stalked across the kitchen, the leather soles of his shoes thumping on the floor like a heartbeat. “If Rexfield hurt her somehow, and Harlan killed him, the end result would be the same - Harlan would go to jail and likely get a more lenient sentence considering someone assaulted his bonded mate. Why ‘fake’ her death? And poorly at that, it’s not like she’s been keeping a low profile.” He paused once, levelling John with a steady glare as he turned his shoulder towards him.

“Now, imagine if Lisa had committed the murder? Even if she was given a reduced sentence by claiming self-defence, which is unlikely as Rexfield was beaten to a bloody pulp, do you really think Harlan would be capable of watching her rot in jail?”

It sort of made sense when he laid it all out like that. John could understand what it was like to love someone so desperately, so completely, that he’d put his own life on this line. He was staring that kind of love in the face right now, as it so happened. However, Sherlock was still missing an incredibly important piece of the story, the crux. If she did, in fact, kill Rexfield, what was her motive? John never was too keen on playing devil’s advocate, but with Sherlock it was a necessary evil.

“So why did she kill him then? Assuming she killed him at all. They’ve been working on taking apart this Omega ring for years. Why suddenly risk it all by murdering one of the recruiters?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions, John. Why would she indeed? Did she ever tell you about the circumstances of how she was triggered?” Sherlock paused and fixed him with a heated gaze, one that smouldered with frightening intelligence and almost...anticipation.

“No, all I know is what Harlan told us. He implied that an Alpha in rut triggered her first heat, which triggered his first rut.” The poor sods.

Sherlock’s gaze faltered and he twirled away from John with a groan almost bordering on disgust.

“Can you even do maths, John? We thought Harlan was 27, he registered as an Alpha at 16,  that would have made Lisa nine years old and we know that is incorrect. That is not only horribly inappropriate, but illegal by any standards one wishes to interpret the law. She presented on September 3, 2008. She was 15 years old.”

“How do you…”

“The NAOD is online, all the sordid details are there for everyone to see if they are interested enough.” Then he continued on in his pacing, tearing across the room and looking immensely pleased with himself.

“What - ”

Both men stopped their conversation short as a bleary eyed agent suddenly shuffled through the kitchen towards the fridge. He grumbled something akin to a ‘hello’ before opening the door to the refrigerator, blithely unaware of the emotionally charged conversation and the tension emanating from both Sherlock and John.

Sherlock affixed the young man with a stare that, given the right amount of exposure, would most likely be deemed illegal in several small countries. His efforts ultimately went unnoticed though, as the the agent loudly rummaged through the crisper and pulled out one single apple, crunching merrily into its skin with a groan of delight, and shuffled back out of the kitchen completely unaware of the world around him.

John frowned and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who in turn, glanced at John like the last scene was the most bizarre form of coitus interruptus he’d ever experienced.  If John hadn’t just lived through possibly the worst three days of his life, he would have laughed. Instead, he sighed and waved a hand to Sherlock, urging him to go on.

Sherlock stepped forward, the manic gleam returning to his eyes. He leant towards John, placing a large hand on the wooden surface of the small table.

“While you were off interrogating Harlan at the detention centre, I did some digging of my own. Harlan is actually 21 not 27. He was 16 when the two of them presented; they needed a place to live, but without a guarantor you need to be 18 years old to sign a lease. Harlan lied about his age to help them get a flat. Do you remember how she reacted when she first scented me? She was so afraid, she practically backed herself into the corner. Now, what does that behaviour suggest?”

“Bad experience with an Alpha? Harlan?” John supplied, thinking he was finally on the same page.

“No.”

“No?”

“If past behaviour is the best predictor of future behaviour then he could no more hurt Lisa than Anderson could string an intelligent thought together. They did not bond until over six months after they presented - that is a startling amount of self control for a 16 year old Alpha to show.”

John snorted at the Anderson comment, ill-timed thought it might be, but didn’t have the heart to tell Sherlock that he highly doubted their bonding was a ‘controlled’ choice. Harlan had left him with the impression that his and Lisa’s bond was, at best, a last ditch effort to salvage their friendship, or at worse a result of Harlan’s rut left too long unresolved. He covered his momentary unease by clearing his throat. “So not Harlan then, another Alpha?”

“Yes - but who? If an Alpha had accosted her after she presented, then Harlan would have torn them to pieces and he had no prior criminal record.”

“Well that also rules out Terry too, she said she trusted him. So who does that leave? Oh… oh .  The Alpha that triggered her. ”

Sherlock beamed at John like he’d made his own fantastic deduction, instead of just continuing Sherlock’s own line of logic. “That is the most likely scenario. According to her medical records, not available on the NAOD obviously, on August 20th, 2008 she was accompanied to the hospital by Harlan and treated for a blow to the back of the head and sexual assault. As she was unable to provide a description of her attacker, no charges were ever brought forward. Exactly two weeks later she presented as an Omega. Her parents kicked her out and she and Harlan were left to fend for themselves.”

“Christ , no wonder Harlan thought it was like a spreading infection.” John rubbed his face once more, a wave of exhaustion shuddering through his body. Idly, he wondered how much longer the suppressant would be active. Through all of this, he couldn’t help but feel like he was living on borrowed time.

Sherlock continued, unaware of John’s ruminations. “Now the missing piece in all of this. Why did Lisa kill Rexfield?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me,” John said dryly, licking some much needed moisture on his lips.

“The original investigator assigned to Lisa’s case strongly suspected a Mr Rexfield Barcroft to be the perpetrator but he was never able to prove it. Apparently Rexfield was ‘well connected’ even then.”

“Jesus ,” John couldn’t say he was too surprised, at this point, “Sherlock, do you have any proof?”

“No, nothing that would stand up in court anyway. I had Molly run a full hormone scan of the  body though. The results indicated that he was an Alpha, un-bonded and un-registered. Lysander probably recruited him for the same reason he recruited Terry.”

Most people probably thought Sherlock a robot, an automaton, a being more brains than heart. But, John knew differently, and his knowledge was only strengthened by the palpable wave of sadness that rolled over Sherlock’s handsome face. He shook his head with sudden comprehension. “With Alphas on the payroll, preferably un-bonded ones, he would have no problem tracking down newly presented Omegas.”

“Correct. So what happens when a young girl who presented as an Omega as the result of an violent assault finally runs into the perpetrator?”

“Revenge?” It wasn’t the wrong answer, it just wasn’t the entire answer, it wasn’t even close.

“Murder.” Sherlock declared with suitable, morbid aplomb.

“That...that actually explains quite a lot.”

Sherlock managed to look rather gratified with John’s concurrence. He stopped his pacing, his breathing regular but his dark curls falling limply to his forehead with the exertion.

“When we were fighting on the bridge Terry called her a liar, I thought he was talking about faking her death to Harlan but he must have suspected she was the one who killed Rexfield.”

“Exactly, John. So now we have one murdered Alpha and Lisa and Harlan are in an awful position. The network was Lisa’s, if she went prison, then no one would be able to help the Omegas. So, he sacrifices himself to save her and let her continue her work.” Sherlock sat down in the chair next to John, a cheap wooden thing that creaked at the movement.

“That,” John swallowed dryly, “is absolutely fucking tragic Sherlock.”

They regarded each other over the tabletop for a long moment, two men, Alpha and Omega, and suddenly John’s throat was thick with the weight of the inevitable momentum of the last month.

“He never stopped helping her, did he?”

Sherlock smiled, just a bit. “Not for a second. When we got involved he all but guaranteed we’d help her go after Lysander by implying that the traffickers would be coming after you next. He knew that as a newly presented Alpha I would never be able to let that go.”

“Yeah, that all makes a sick sort of sense.” John wasn’t sure who to feel worse for: Lisa who’d been abused and then betrayed by her own body, or Harlan, irrevocably bonded to someone who could take no joy in the union. He couldn’t imagine how terrible it would’ve been for them both. Lisa and Harlan had been a team, and deeper than that, potential bondmates. When Rexfield impelled their change with violence, he’d robbed Lisa and Harlan of the chance to offer themselves freely to each other out of love. Instead, their bodies had become battlegrounds, every cell urging them to bond, but knowing that due to the circumstances they would only hurt each other - and hurt each other they did, over and over again, never able to forgive each other or themselves.

In the end the only thing Harlan had left to offer Lisa was his life.

Maybe Sherlock was right and she had killed Rexfield, or, maybe he was wrong and was just theorizing ahead of the data. The truth was, either way Harlan wanted to set her free - from jail or from the bond. Maybe in the end it was the same thing.

John couldn’t help but let the Shakespearian fucking scope of their tragedy  settle on his shoulders and and wonder if that was where he and Sherlock were heading. They seemed to be making the same mistakes over and over again - at the pool, at Baskerville, and now.

John asked himself what he really wanted, he let himself linger on that thought while Sherlock regarded him from across the table, eyes soft, tiny beads of sweat visible on his forehead. To his utter surprise, the answer was finally clear, for once. He took a deep breath and reached his hand across the wood grain, taking Sherlock gently by the arm.

He was done , they were done with all of this. They couldn’t help Harlan or Lisa now, only time would tell what the end to their story would be. Sherlock and John had their own path now, one that would be traveled together. It was time for confirmation, time to settle their doubts, and time to put to rest all the could be’s and what if’s. John could see the question in Sherlock’s alluring eyes, he saw Sherlock’s breathing kick up a notch as he glanced down at his hand on his arm.

John only smiled, pushing away the horrible revelation of their conversation and thinking only of his love for the infuriatingly, impossibly, wonderfully spectacular man in front of him.

“Come with me.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock shuffled through the doorway and into the darkened room, looking down at John’s impromptu nest, his face a mixture of tension and obvious bewilderment. It was only a few seconds before he cleared his throat, the movement drawing John’s eyes to the soft, dewy skin below his jawline and at the back of his neck.  

John had led him away from the tiny kitchenette, every step down the hallway singing with purpose and intent, and though Sherlock looked uncertain and almost remarkably innocent, he knew his heat and suppressants were foremost on his mind.

Sherlock began to speak, though, before John could muster the necessary amount of gravity for the situation.

“John - I’m not sure why I came back here,” Sherlock turned away, closing his eyes against the small room before him and the frank reminder of their situation. “I…I was not thinking clearly. I need to leave before - ”

John interrupted his protest by gripping Sherlock gently by the lapels and slowly pulling his mouth down to meet his. He would give him as long as he needed to come to terms with this, to realize it was what John wanted after all. Then, if Sherlock decided he wanted to remain only friends after all, they could have that conversation - after John had a fighting chance of assuaging his doubts and stating his case.

But, there was really no need to worry.

After a long moment, Sherlock relaxed into the kiss and emitted a satisfied sigh, cradling John’s face in his big hands while running each thumb against the stubble of his skin. It was a tender kiss, a gentle affirmation that they were both alive and finally safe, both from those that would do them harm, and even themselves.

Sherlock tilted his entire frame, leaning forwards in an unconscious manoeuvre that deepened the kiss for one sweet instant before pulling away with a groan, eyes screwed shut and biting at his own lip in wild desperation. The primal scent of an Alpha in full-rut rolled off him in waves so unbelievably heady that John couldn’t help but groan in tandem, cock hardening in his trousers.

“God Sherlock, I can smell you.” John squeezed Sherlock’s lapels once more, suddenly wanting to scrape his forehead and cheeks against the man’s body and feel every swell and rise of lean muscle through the fabric and upon his lips. “I - I thought we had more time. I need to say this now, before the blockers wear off completely. I need you to know this is me talking. I - ”

Sherlock interrupted, his voice hoarse with arousal, but still somehow firm in that oh-so-clinical way that John realized he’d grown to love.

“John, in the spirit of full disclosure, I think they already have. I am experiencing a very powerful urge to bend you over the back of Mycroft’s £3,000 armchair and just take you.”

John swallowed spasmodically against the abrupt declaration. He couldn’t say he was surprised, because he had one of his own.

“Jesus Christ that’s lovely, and despite the fact that spending that amount of money on an armchair is ridiculous - I want even more than that. I want to bond with you.”

Sherlock’s pupils exploded, obliterating everything but a thin sliver of iris. He took a long shuddering breath before he answered. John felt him sway in his arms, and a burst of fervent affection swirled through his chest.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me John. Before you left you made me assure you that you could come home and that we would still have our life. If we do this we can never go back to the way we were.”

John remembered their conversation quite clearly - but he wouldn’t be the first bloke in the history of the world to change his mind.

“And what if I don't want to? Have you ever wondered why ten percent of people have the Omegaverse gene but only a few ever present?”

“You have to be triggered by the heat or rut of another Alpha or Omega positive individual,” Sherlock scoffed, as if this was some kind of incredibly personal episode of QI.

“Well done Sherlock, although you missed everything of importance,” John replied, throwing Sherlock’s own words back in his face. It didn’t seem to have an effect, but somehow that wasn’t surprising.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to be primed by a suitable bond-mate. Do you know what that means Sherlock? This is us, this has always been just us . Maybe running into Harlan tipped the scale but we would have ended up here eventually.” John had never been a skilled negotiator, nor was he a particularly good actor - which was a boon in this conversation, because he was speaking completely from his heart. Sherlock had to see, he just had to see that this was them , and this was what was meant to happen.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded, voice barely audible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Both men fell silent, and John felt the air between them thicken in anticipation.

“Then don’t .” John released Sherlock’s lapels, smoothing them with a soft, reverential touch. “I love you Sherlock, do you love me?”

“I…yes. I love you more than anything John.”

“Then shut up Sherlock. Shut up and kiss me again, turn me round, mount me, bite me, bond with me...forget everything we’ve been through in the last few weeks, and know that I want all of this just as much as you do.” John’s warmed palms slid around Sherlock’s chest, lowering incrementally until they skimmed against the full rise of his buttocks. Finally, he gave them each a good, hard, indulgent squeeze.

With that, Sherlock’s last thread of control snapped and he pressed forward, an almost subsonic growl radiating from his throat. He pushed John roughly against the wall, turning him around in an overt display of Alpha strength, and buried his nose in the silvery blond hairs at the base of his neck. John could feel Sherlock’s erection, hot and massive, pressed up against the back of his thigh and wasn’t at all surprised to feel his own response tight and confined in his denims.

Sherlock continued scenting him, breathing  in with heavy uninhibited huffs, unconsciously grinding himself against John in short, teasing thrusts.

“Take off your clothes.” Sherlock rumbled, only a hair’s breadth away from John’s once again sensitive ears. “I want to see you.” His baritone eased its way into John’s brain, whiskey dark and just as sweet.

As if on cue, John felt a rush of warmth in the seat of his pants, and was thankful that, this time, he knew he needn’t worry. With trembling fingers, he managed to turn and face Sherlock, whose flushed face watched with an expression of such open fascination and desire that any insecurity was blown away in its entirety. John clumsily began to work on his flies, his fingers shaking with arousal.

Sherlock took a step back, lips swollen, eyes half-veiled and feral as John kicked off his loafers and socks before shedding his trousers. John’s pants were damp with moisture, both in front and back now, and the pungent fluid caused the fabric to cling to every tender piece of flesh inside.

“All of your clothes.” Sherlock’s voice was dangerous, his eyes wild.

John inhaled and peeled off the ruined pants with a wet squelch, tossing them aside. Finally, he stood front of his friend, boldly naked save for his army tags and scars. His cock felt as hard as it had ever been, and lubricant made its way down his thighs in an oily thick slide. He was exposed in every way possible, but unashamed and unafraid.

“You too,” he challenged, and they both knew they weren’t talking about nudity anymore. This was about letting go now, and taking this final plunge together.

Sherlock carefully removed his YSL lace-ups and socks, never once looking away from John’s eyes. He deliberately undid his buttons slowly, sliding his arms free to let the shirt flutter to the ground at his feet before moving his hand to the front of trousers. He was so hard that it was a struggle to pull the zip down over the bulge. John revelled in a brief moment of giddiness before Sherlock’s scent struck his nostrils once more in a wave of musk that had his heart skittering in his chest.

Sherlock sighed in relief when the fabric  yielded, cock springing free. Unclothed, John could see his fully retracted foreskin and an ample bead of pre-come gathering in the slit. The bubble of clear fluid quickly become heavy with pure volume and gravity, and the sight alone made John’s mouth water, his hole clenching painfully around nothing.  He couldn’t help but let out a pained noise.

“On your knees,” Sherlock commanded, his voice rough and breathy - gravel and smoke.

John fell heavily to the ground, his cock jerking up hard against his belly and another burst of slick sliding down his glistening thighs. His blood was singing, screaming through his veins against the overwhelming rush of adrenalin, and he clenched his gut against a sudden wave of nausea. Two deep breaths though, and his nerves eased. This was Sherlock after all, and he wasn’t afraid...the queasiness was from pure excitement, pure anticipation .

Sherlock knelt behind him reverently, and with one big hand clasping his ribs and the other over the jut of his collarbone, hauled John back onto the cradle of his pelvis - almost absentmindedly rubbing his rigid cock over the slick cleft with a pained exhale.

John felt the tension inside of him ratcheting higher and higher, he wanted, no needed Sherlock to move this along. He wanted completion , and they’d both dissembled long enough.

“Sherlock, please .”

With a primal growl, Sherlock surged forward, clamping his jaws down on the base of John’s neck hard enough to command his complete and full attention. A shock of electric pleasure raced up John’s spine, so intense that for a second he feared he would black out. The sharp jut of Sherlock’s canines was brutal, just a few more pounds per square inch of pressure and the newly matured Omega exocrine gland would rupture, cementing a permanent bond between them.

“Oh God , yes, yes ,” John stuttered, elbows trembling with the effort of holding himself on all fours. The pressure on his neck remained as Sherlock reached back with one hand, lining his cock up with the slick passage.

The pleasure-pain of the breach, when it happened, was so overwhelmingly right that it brought John to tears. His hands scraped and flexed against the floor, unsure as to whether he should push back into the stretch, or pull away from the intensity.

In response, Sherlock growled low and dangerous, never loosening his desirous grip on John’s neck, and began taking him with ferocious abandon, back curved in a tight arc, covering John’s body protectively with his own. Every powerful, deep thrust of his hips elicited a staggering jolt of bliss across John’s nerves.  

The staccato of their rough breathing filled the room, and the wet sounds of Sherlock pounding into him with animalistic delirium went directly to the pleasure centres of John’s brain. It was inelegant, frenzied, simple - but somehow everything John never knew he’d wanted.

By the time both their bodies glistened with sweat and slick, the presence of Omega estrus hormones in the air was so concentrated the base of Sherlock’s penis began to swell and protrude. Sherlock, not once tiring in his amorous domination, grunted and  John could feel the knot bumping and dragging against his rim, tighter and tighter against his passage as it expanded.

He was gripped by a sense of furious desperation - it wasn’t enough. The sense of incompleteness was shattering, and all John could do was sob and push back into his lover, unable to speak but hoping Sherlock would understand.

Eyes wide and lost, Sherlock unclamped his teeth from John’s neck, and groaned.

“John…ngggh…I can feel it, I can feel my knot, will you take it? Will you take all of me? ”

The words reverberated, weighty in the small room, shooting a bolt of fire up John’s spine. He knew if he could persevere, maybe he would find relief - maybe he would finally feel satisfied.  All he could do was choke out a few strangled words.

“Sherlock…please, love…I need it…do it now… I need you …”

With a surprised gasp, Sherlock gave one last brutally hard thrust and his knot breached John with a visceral pop . John’s internal muscles compressed reflexively, locking them together as Sherlock snapped forward like a drawn bow. Teeth flashing like silver, and with a precision borne of 100,000 years of instinct, he ruthlessly bit John once more, rupturing the gland and spilling a potent mix of pheromones and semiochemical compounds into John’s blood.

The instant Sherlock’s saliva met the released hormones, John felt a catalytic reaction racing through his body, like a star going supernova. He was incandescent with pleasure, both his and Sherlock’s. He was fucking and being fucked, owner and owned. Every cell in his body trembled and aligned itself with Sherlock’s as though he was his new magnetic north - and he knew Sherlock was feeling exactly the same thing. The two of them, and the pounding of their bond, against the world, forever.

John roared, tags rattling against his chest as Sherlock exploded hot and wet inside him. It was only a brief moment later that his own cock began to spasm, pulse after pulse of come spraying violently across the floor beneath them.

The two of them collapsed in a sticky-sweaty heap on the tangled nest of blankets, exhausted. Sherlock indulgently lickied at the bond bite, cock still rigid and buried inside him. John gasped as he felt Sherlock shudder, apparently shooting another burst of come deep into his womb.

“I…uhh…think that was definitely more than 36 ccs, John,” Sherlock chuckled  breathlessly.

“Good on you love, good on you,” John replied with a short laugh he couldn’t quite contain. He never thought he’d actually feel the need to praise Sherlock purely on the volume of his ejaculate, but, this was his life now.

The most important thing, was the fact that their easy banter had not deserted them. Even covered in blood with Sherlock’s cock up his arse, John realized that although things between them had changed, when it came down to it they were still the same Sherlock and John. This new thing between them, this new life, was not the calamity that either of them had expected.

What he had first likened to pieces of themselves crumbling away to be lost forever, was instead more like the work of a great sculptor taking chisel to marble. With the excess carved away, it left the essence of them behind, the subtle art of their relationship was no longer hidden behind extraneous stone.

Chapter Text

Several days after their bonding, when Sherlock and John both decided some much welcome time off was needed, they received a call from Chesney. Both men were laid out on Sherlock’s larger-than-necessary-but-absolutely-luxurious bed at Baker Street, John reading the latest in a series of crime novels Sherlock had demonstrably claimed was ‘a deplorable excuse for fiction,’ and ‘so transparent even an eight month old could figure it out.’

John smiled and nodded placidly, knowing Sherlock was only looking for attention. It was two days into their mini-break holiday, and the man was fidgeting on the bed, having already depilated four 3x3 centimeter squares of John’s leg hair to correlate re-growth time with the different hair removal methods. Why he couldn’t have done his own legs was never adequately explained. How, John did spoil the man.

So when his mobile rang, shattering their rather unique brand of domesticity, both men shared a guarded look. They’d told Chesney to call them today with any updates, good or bad, and knowing what they knew now, they dreaded the worst.

John reached over the nightstand after gently closing the paperback. “Hello?”

“John, it’s Chesney,”

John always wondered why people insisted on introducing themselves in this day and age, as if Chesney’s name wasn’t bright and clear on the mobile screen.

“Yes, I know, everything all right?”

A pause, then an almost silent rush of air. “Not really. Late last night Harlan fell into a coma. They don’t expect he’ll recover. They moved him from Pentonville to the hospital this morning.”

John locked eyes with Sherlock, who was no doubt deducing exactly what Chesney just said by the look on his face alone. Sherlock’s expression was grave, fragile, especially since they both knew what it was like to be willing to give their lives for the one they loved most in the world.

“What about Lisa?”

“I’m actually calling from her room now, she’s getting stronger and stronger, has almost been awake the whole day now.”

John detected a bit of hope in his voice, could almost picture the raggedy young man sat at her side, smile small but genuine.

“Have you told her about Harlan?”

“I...ehm, you know, I don’t really have to.”

John thought about what he’d just said, and thought about how a lifetime of habits died hard. Of course Lisa knew about Harlan, it was probably the first thing she felt when she woke up this morning. Now that John knew how strong and deep a bond could settle in between two people, he’d never needed to ask a question like that again.

“Lestrade called last night, said the court date for Lysander, or ah - whatever his name actually is, is set for three months from now. Sherlock and I will be there. I expect they’ll want Lisa to testify, have they called you?”

Chesney snuffled into the phone, perhaps wiping his face or covering up a sneeze, “yeah, I’m meeting with the barrister on Monday.”

Sherlock, obviously having decided only hearing one side of the conversation was terribly boring,  stepped off their bed, naked as the day he was born. He took that moment to saunter past John and into the hallway.

It was a terrible distraction, and it was only after he’d disappeared through the door that John realized he’d missed everything Chesney had just said.

“Sorry what? Sorry - I, say that again.”

“It’s nothin’, I gotta go, I think Leesy needs some help. I’ll phone back when I can.”

Chesney didn’t bother to say goodbye, and the loaded click of the call disconnecting left John rattled and uneasy.

Harlan died peacefully 15 days later, with Lisa weeping silently at his side.

Neither Sherlock nor John were sure how she managed to make her way into his room, hospital rules being what they were, but John supposed they must have made special allowances for bonded pairs. It was common for the spouse or partner to be present whilst their love was actively dying, and even though Lisa suffered from her own serious wounds, he wouldn’t put it past her to scream, needle, or cajole the staff into getting her way. Injured or no, Lisa always was a force to be reckoned with.

They found her there, shivering in her thin hospital gown with garishly sparkly slippers adorning her small feet. A gift from a friend perhaps? They didn’t exactly fit with the tomboyish persona she projected to the rest of the world. A dressing gown, inordinately fluffy and powdery blue, lay thickly over the top of Harlan’s sheets, hiding the alarming jut of his hipbones and knees.

Harlan lay motionless, a wax figurine, dry and cachexic against the hospital sheets. Lisa held his still warm, fragile hands as they came through the door.

She didn’t turn when they entered, and when she spoke, her eyes never strayed from her mate’s bony, wasted face.

“Harlan was my best friend, you know.”

Sherlock looked to John, face neutral, but John knew his bonded well enough to see the storm of emotions that roiled in the infinite depths of his eyes. It was sadness and pain, and while neither knew what to say, both were loathe to be the first to speak.

“When we found out were were Alpha and Omega, I thought - well, I  thought that was it. My life was over. ” She finally turned to them, silent tears streaking down her face and glinting with a solemn brilliance in the low light of the wall-lamp near the mechanical bed. She was almost as pale as Harlan, but for the angry flush of pain and stoic acceptance.

“But Harlan, h-he was always there for me. He once told me that he would do anything, suffer anything if it meant keeping me safe…”

John reached for Sherlock’s hand, suddenly needing his comfort and stability. John was a strong man, stronger than most - hell he’d been through Afghanistan and back, even been shot - but that all seemed to dull in comparison to the heartbreaking tableau of two young people, one injured, the other recently departed, both unable to accept their lives, their fate, and who had been tortured through it all.

“I know he felt he lost his way, the way we used to be. I know he felt we would never be able to bridge the gap between who we became and who we thought we’d be when we finally had our own lives.”

It was Sherlock who spoke first. “This was what he chose , Lisa. He could never let them take you away. He knew he was keeping you alive every second he spent apart from you. He knew you had a vision, a - a purpose in your life. You had to be free, you had to stay around. He was-” Sherlock turned his liquid gaze to John, eyes bright and reddened, “he made it possible for you to go on...to go on and make a difference.”

John favoured Sherlock with a small half-smile that spoke volumes - well done you .

“I know that goddammit! I know! ” She whipped her face back towards Harlan’s hand, trembling as  she squeezed it with brutal force. “But do know what it was like? What it was like to pretend not to care that he was here, killing himself on purpose? All for me?”

What exactly did one say to that?

There was nothing, nothing that could make any of this better. Sherlock and John remained silent.

“I - I wonder sometimes if it was worth it? All of it. If I was worth it.” Her breath became uneven, tears flowing freely, droplets falling unheeded down onto Harlan’s limp, bloodless hand. “I just want him to know that…I - I did love him, I did. And...he will always be,” her voice hitched, “my friend. The only one, I think, on this Earth who’d sacrifice himself for the likes of someone like me.”

The two men stood in the doorway, wayward witnesses to the emotional breakdown of a tortured woman, little more than a girl really, as she curled over her bonded and dissolved into a body-wracking torrent of sobs.

They left her there, neither of them speaking a single word until they reach 221b Baker Street.

Lisa didn’t come to the funeral. She either didn’t want to come, or couldn’t get released from hospital in time. John reckoned the latter.

The funeral was a surprisingly crowded affair. Lisa and Harlan’s work on the streets had made an impression. John caught the scent of at least a dozen Omegas, and recognized a number of NSY officers as well as even a doctor or two from Barts.

Though the day was dreary, as London generally was wont to be, every so often the sun would break through, revealing lambent swathes of light that played along the tombstones. They were among the last to linger, and though Sherlock must have thought this behaviour bordered on sentiment, he waited until John and Chesney were ready to leave before flagging down one of Mycroft’s escorts.

Three months later found John heading home from the shops, precariously juggling several paper bags that insisted on shifting their contents every which way, usually towards the pavements. He’d only made it a block before a small hand grasped his elbow, righting a tilting carton of eggs before gravity took over and made egg-covered fools of them both.

It was then that he noticed the baseball cap and the blonde ponytail.

“Lisa?” He gaped, not caring one whit how he must have looked, staring at some girl in street during broad daylight.

Lisa continued moving forward, slowing a bit as John re-shuffled his groceries. “In the flesh.”

“Wha - How -” He sighed, furrowing his brow and trying to find the exact set of words to portray all that he wanted to ask.

“They released me a month ago. I’m feeling alright, more or less. Does that satisfy all the questions you couldn’t quite ask?” She smiled at him, like old times, like the last four months didn’t even exist, and popped a bit of gum between her teeth.

“The trial’s next week, are you going?”

“Chesney’s trying to convince me. To be honest I’d rather not but...since I started this, I owe it to Harlan to see it through.”

John nodded, a swell of pride flushing his cheeks. He knelt down as they reached the steps to 221b, gingerly placing the bags on the stoop before fishing for his keys.

“So what are you going to do now, if you don’t mind me asking? I have it on good authority that everyone involved in the trafficking ring has been caught.”

“I dunno.” She shrugged, with another pop of her gum. “Since Harla - since everything happened, I think...maybe social work? Maybe specialize in Omegaverse? There are so few of us, and half the time we’re exploited or stared at like a bunch of freaks. I thought maybe uni…?” She peered up at John from under the brim of her cap, face open and young, perhaps seeking his advice or maybe even his encouragement.

He couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across his face. “I think that’s an amazing idea.”

The smile she gave him rivalled even his own, and that scant second of vulnerability dissolved into her usual hard-as-nails persona.

“So, I’ll see you around then?”

“Don’t - ” John was bemused for a moment, “you could come inside, have a cuppa, say hello to Sherlock.”

Lisa shrugged, the shoulders bunching up on her oversized coat. “Nah, got things to do you know? Tell him I said hello...and, well, thank you, to the both of you.”

Then she was off, skipping down the pavements like a half-remembered dream, her skewed baseball cap letting her ponytail flap about in the wind.

John wondered if he would ever see her again.

John woke up to golden spring sunlight streaming through the drapes, a million particles of dust dancing leisurely through the thin shaft of light. After one too many mornings waking up on the floor with sore backs, and several other sore bits of their bodies, they’d finally given up and donated Sherlock’s bed to OxFam. Now they had a new and finely crafted Shiki that was only two inches thick. With the addition of some decadent silk pillows it made a comfortable nest that did not offend Sherlock’s surprisingly fussy decorating sense. The hardest part had been agreeing on where to put it.

Sherlock had been loathe to move his ‘optimally placed’ furniture, but the Omega and ex-Army side of John just couldn’t bear to sleep without his back to the wall. After much grousing and good natured sniping, they’d agreed to shift the chest of drawers to have their nest flush with the south side of the wall. This gave them a clear line of sight to the bedroom door, the bathroom door, and the window.

On the downside, it put John’s face directly on the path of the morning light; on the other hand this minor inconvenience was more than made up for by waking up with Sherlock’s warm body draped along his back and a more than firm cock snugged up against his cleft. With a grumble of satisfaction John gave his bum a cheeky wiggle before rolling over to give Sherlock a good morning nuzzle under his chin.

“I’ve been thinking -”

“Good Lord, really? Try not to strain yourself,” Sherlock deadpanned, his voice still husky with sleep.

John silenced his mate with a good natured whack to the arm before rolling to prop himself up on one arm.

“It was something Mycroft said.”

“Now you really have to stop before you injure me . There should be some law against mentioning my brother when I am unclothed and erect.”

“Git.” John smiled and turned to face him, sliding a warm hand up Sherlock’s side, feeling each dip and curve of his gloriously naked body. “He said that you liked children. You . Mr ‘stop talking you lower the IQ of the whole room’ liked children.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, only shifted away from John until he was more on his back, gazing at him with questioning but openly fond eyes.

John called upon his courage, as was more than accustomed to doing when trying to have a serious conversation with Sherlock Holmes.

“I’m asking, ehm...should you feel so inclined.” Oh Christ, inclined? He was making  this sound like a business deal. “What I mean to say is, if you want we could…”He sighed and then just dove right in. “Do you want children, umm...with me?”

It wasn’t so much that Sherlock said yes, he didn’t have to, he felt Sherlock’s cock swell against his thigh, as if the thought of breeding John excited him. John felt his own entrance contract and pulse thickly with sympathy, even though he was days away from heat.

“I’m not saying I’m ready for children John, but I can't deny that the thought of impregnating you arouses me.” He punctuated that pronouncement with a lazy thrust against John’s body.

John smiled, dipping down to run his tongue against the sinfully crafted flesh along Sherlock’s neck. He blew softly afterwards, watching as Sherlock shivered and rolled his eyes upwards.

“What would you say if we took a little time to practice? I need to test the difference between your lubrication before heat and during heat. I hypothesize that your heat induced secretions contain more glucose and even variances of prostatic acid phosphatase that act as - “

“You are making this immensely less sexy the longer you keep talking.”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and wrapped his long arms around John’s shoulders.

“Well then Dr Watson, let’s skip right past theory and move straight to practicum.”

“Excellent idea, Mr Holmes.”