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Save Water, Bend a Raindrop

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Jean met Sherlock one week before she shipped out, because Mikaela Stamford was evil.

Pure evil.

She'd been in charge of keeping Jean's hair in rainbow colours all through uni and med school. She'd come into the café while Jean was have a soul bonding moment with her late.

Jean bitched about being horny as a Mega in a Cock factory after finales. She just wanted something no strings without having to fake who she was at a meat and greet Beta club. Mikaela gave her a grin made of pure evil and said, "Funny you should say that. You're the second person to say that to me today. And the first one is as peculiar as fuck."

Which given Mikaela was talking had to be saying something.

Jean looked down. She was wearing her "Not for Moo" t-shirt, which she felt got the message across pretty clearly. She said, "Lay on MacDuff."

Mikaela took her down into the bowels of the basement of St. Barts where the tallest, sharpest, Gothiest Beta – silver nose ring, dozens of silver ear rings, inky back clothes, nails, hair, the works - was beating corpses with a riding crop. Jean almost choked, but covered it with, "Bit different in my day."

The Beta flung the riding crop across the room and let out a string of the most gorgeous Elizabethan profanity that it had ever been Jean's privilege to hear. There were pestilential flap-wenches and puss dragons. She wound down and looked at them. Just stopped. Not embarrassed, which Jean had to admit took a vagina of steel. She said, "What time is it?"

Jean looked at the clock on the wall, before looking at her watch. "Thirteen oh five."

The Beta nodded. "Are you shipping out to Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan." Jean looked down and wondered how the Beta could tell she was shipping out anywhere when she hadn't gone farther than making it through Officer's school.

"You'll do. But we'll need to go to your place. Mine exploded a week ago. Not my fault." The Beta headed for the door.

"What, I'll do for what? I don't even know your name." Jean felt like she'd been blind folded and spun around for a joke.

The Beta sighed in an incredibly aggrieved fashion. "Not two hours ago I was complaining to Mikaela that I find myself incapable of focusing on my blood reagent formula, because my mind," here she slapped a wide hand against her head, "refuses to focus. I require either cocaine – sadly not an option – or an extremely good shag without any annoying biological impairments to reset my mind, which like a finely tuned instrument does not take well to having grit in it." She waved at Jean. "Mikaela has reappeared with you in tow wearing that shirt. You're a doctor and a newly minted officer with a new class ring, and you've confirmed that you are shipping out shortly. Therefore you require the same thing. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I think that's enough to go on."

"Yeah," She widened her eyes briefly at Mikaela, "let's go."

There was a side trip for a quick blood test, because Jean wasn't crazy and she'd caught the cocaine comment. Clean and clean.

Sherlock drummed her fingers the entire time they were walking to Jean's apartment. All the way up to the seventeenth floor in the elevator. The door clicked shut. She looked at Jean, one, two, three, who was beginning to wonder if she should offer a cuppa before they got started and was swept away by tidal wave Sherlock. Tongues exchanging saliva, starting certain biochemical responses. Sherlock – sweet Mother of God – had a tongue stud.

They didn't make it past the entryway of the efficiency. Rough and dirty. Nothing more complicated than fingers to clits and partially clothed bodies grinding against each other, rubbing Beta against Beta. Because Nature had designed Betas to click along as a unit. To work together. To play together.

After she came a time or two, Sherlock blew out her breath. "Thank you. That should do the trick."

Jean laughed. "That wasn't the sex. That was the warm up." She kissed Sherlock's ridiculous giraffe neck and lightly bit just above a pheromone gland. Sherlock gasped and sat up, her hair wild in a dozen directions.

Jean pushed up to her feet. "Come on. Let's get all that grit out."

This time they did make it to the bed. Sherlock had amazing dexterity, but Jean had gone to medical school. She'd been lucky enough to TA Professor Kinsey's class on Human Sexuality. She applied her education. A slow suck to Sherlock's right ear lobe and finger brush to the nerves behind her ear, twisting fingers through that gorgeous thick hair. Jean took her time. Lips enjoying the taste of her neck while she ghosted across Sherlock's washboard stomach and mons. Pushed her legs up and licked the backs of her knees. Sherlock was amazingly responsive to lips applied right in the centre. She scratched at the sheets and twisted in Jean's hands.

Her eyes were wide and blown and that low voice of hers sounded like sex should sound. Desperate.

Jean took her time. Tasting. Sucking. Lapping away at Sherlock's clitoris. Inserting her thumb and worked her way around to – Sherlock yowled like an Omega in heat – her Graffenberg spot. Jean worked Sherlock. Let her come down only to start her up again.

When she judged that Sherlock might strip the sheets with her nails, Jean flopped down next to her on the pillow and just grinned. Sherlock waved a hand in the air that might have meant anything. As it turned out it meant her turn.

The tongue stud was medically a bad idea and felt fantastic. Sherlock was a genius mimic, and just plain genius.

They ordered take out.

They showered bodies sleek with soap. They fell asleep exhausted at some point. Woke up. Went for a few more rounds.

After three days, with a final breath stealing kiss in the entryway, Sherlock slunk herself out. Jean lay spread out on her bed. She wasn't sure if it was possible to feel more blissed out.

She kept Sherlock's number.

She thought about calling a few times after she'd shipped, but the whole point had been the fuck and run aspect. She did her tour surrounded by Betas all pulling towards the same task. The scent of a base where everybody was exactly the same. She scratched the itch of life a few times.

Still, she felt more than a little foolish when she rolled through London on leave two whole years later and borrowed a phone to call Sherlock.

The phone rang three times. Sherlock's voice, and funny how she still remembered what she sounded like, said, "I hate phone calls. Make this quick."

Jean sighed. "Uh… so, this is Jean Watson, I don’t know if you remember me, but…"

Sherlock cut her off with an address on Montague Street and hung up. Jean went to the address. Sherlock opened the door at one knock. She'd lost the silver in her nose and ears, but was still Gothier than Goth otherwise. They didn't make it past the entryway that time either.

On one hand, Sherlock's flat was an absolute tip. On the other, it came with toys. It looked like a minor earthquake had occurred locating said toys, but they were arranged on the small breakfast table in order of type. Jean briefly spun a cock ring around a finger before grabbing a selection of vaginal and anal dildos.

Sherlock's neighbours banged on the walls a few times while they were testing them out.

They ignored them.

After testing was complete, Jean was lying there feeling fairly good when Sherlock said, "It's fortunate you called," and then proceeded to ask her about asphyxiation rates, which thankfully had nothing to do with breath play and everything to do with her day job as a consulting detective.

Joan sat cross legged on the bed trading medical trivia.

Sherlock kissed her. Jumped off the bed and into her clothes, which wasn't the direction Joan had been hoping for, and off they went.

The serial killer thought trying to run past the shorter of the two women after him was the way to go.

Jean told him as he struggled, "If you keep moving, you'll fracture your own arm." He didn't listen.

The Detective Inspector who showed up seemed nice enough for an Alpha.

DI Lestrade sighed. "And you are?"

She handed him her military ID. "I was just in town hooking up with Sherlock, when," she waved her hand to encompass serial killer's dungeon of bad ideas.

The uniformed officer controlling the scene looked at her bug eyed. "With Sherlock? Isn't that taking your life in your hands?"

Jean chewed on that. She turned around and pointed at Sherlock. "Do we need to pick anything up to use the o-ring on your ceiling?

"With Sherlock?" repeated Lestrade. "I just… she has sex?"

"Yes," Jean smiled contemplatively, "there's this thing she can do with her tongue..."

"More than I needed to know," said the uniformed officer.

Since they were free to go, they went back to Sherlock's and tied each other up.

When her leave was over, Sherlock took all the awkward out of it by setting up an email address for her because, "You're a valuable resource that I can make use of."

She was still laughing when she hit the ground in Kandahar and breathed in the familiar scent of a base full of Betas.

A steady stream of emails. Texts. Bizarre questions. Stranger answers. Consultations on cases. Consultations for medical minutia. Vid-chat sex a time or five when Sherlock was experiencing grit.

Jean struggled through setting up a Google alert to send her an email when Sherlock came up in the news. Sherlock didn't always have the best sense of acceptable risk.

They met on leave a few times. Fine. Every leave.

Jean realized that they were exclusive, at least on her side, when she turned down an offer from a frankly stunning Aussie Nurse. When she brought it up, Sherlock glared at her over the video chat. "You are an idiot," which for some reason had her grinning all the way through looking over the tissue damage to a particularly juicy corpse found at the top of a tree in Hyde park.

They spent the entire call giggling inappropriately.

Sherlock had the blackest sense of humour. Her sense of humour was a black panther dipped in tar at the bottom of a well. Since Jean dipped her humour in tar and threw it in the well too, that was all to the good.

Sometimes Jean considered asking Sherlock if she wanted Jean to stick around maybe, but Jean was career military. There was nothing like being on a base of all Betas and just breathing in that sense of belonging. That feeling she got that they were all in it together.

She was promoted. Was stationed in Germany. Was subject to more Sherlock visitations. Cases.

Had a few close scrapes with Sherlock. Was promoted again, unrelated. When she made Major, Sherlock appeared like a genie on base with a suitcase that had not a single item of clothing in it. It was full of other things.

Hard to say how long the situation would have gone on.

She was stumbling off a sixteen hour shift when she was told that she had a call.

It was Sherlock on the other end of the line sounding like she was on some extremely bad idea medication. "Jean, I… not much… time… I poisoned someone. He was suiciding people, but he wasn't working alone… She's here. She had me brought here because I switched them, and Mycroft is an idiot. It was exactly like that movie you made me watch… the one with the Sicilian poisoner and Dread Pirate Roberts."

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" Jean put all the shut up and do what I say that she could into her voice. "Where are you?"

"Baskerville Asylum in…"

There was a click. Not enough time for Jean to tell Sherlock that she was coming. She eyed the phone. She wrote down the phone number. She did some two fingered recon. Google being her friend.

As it happened, there were already some alerts about "Brilliant Boffin Detective in Suicide Pact!!!"

It boiled down to what she already knew, Sherlock was occasionally a complete moron who really needed someone keeping her from jumping off bridges, or as it happened meeting Serial Killers who had been making it look like people were committing suicide by offering Russian roulette with two vials one of which had poison in it. Except, actually they were both were poisoned and the killer had built up an immunity. Sherlock had brought her own two vials, one of which actually was a sugar pill, and of course nothing could go wrong with that scenario, and she'd now been remanded into psychiatric care.

There was also an email from Sherlock on time delay, and wasn't that typical of her, with a series of articles about three separate Betas who had done some very bad things. What they all had in common, according to Sherlock, was they'd all spent some time at Baskerville Asylum.

Jean was in the wrong country. She could take some leave, but what if it wasn't enough time. She didn't even really think about it. Just looked up what she needed to do to resign her commission in case of family emergency. Two days later she was on a plane back to England.

Just breaking Sherlock out seemed like a bad idea. Actually, it seemed like a good idea, but she'd been in the military too long to want to run in without reconnaissance.

She was a recently retired military officer who had spent years in a war zone. Baskerville had attractive grounds and numerous options for in patient and out patient care.

Jean checked into the madhouse.

She spotted Sherlock zoned out in the Common Room in a very unSherlock way, but couldn't get close.

She had her own personal suspect after about three hours and one session with Doctor Jamie Moriarty, who was full of shite. Doctor Moriarty wanted to get to the root of Jean's denial about the deaths she'd caused. Which fine, Jean had lied about what she'd actually done in the military, and made up some bad dreams, but after one whiff of the incense in the room, she had a pretty clear idea what Moriarty was doing.

It was a biological reality that Betas liked to work with Betas, because their pheromones told them that these were the people who got things done. Who gathered the food and took care of the infants. That they were in it together. As Sherlock had put it after a particularly lovely leave in the south of France while they'd watched bees in the lavender, "The workers who kept the hiving humming."

It was also a reality that Alphas responded to Beta pheromones by calming the fuck down.

But biologically speaking, a Beta's function was to glom onto an Omega and take care of him or her so the Omega could stick to the physically demanding job of spitting out the next generation. Betas needed to take of Omegas. Now, humans were smart monkeys so Jean was a now ex-army doctor and Sherlock fought crime, but at a base level, Omegas were the Queens and the Betas were the workers.

Doctor Moriarty was an Omega who was doing something to turn her Omega scent to eleven.

Jean Betaed up and went to therapy. Oh, the denial she was apparently under. Moriarty actually showed Jean pictures of bombed out buildings and dead Afghani children to help her with that denial. All part of the treatment.

She was full of Omega sympathy because nature had found Jean wanting. Jean was defective. Too fat. Too skinny. Too tall. Too short. Too much. Not enough. Not good enough. Freakish. Unnatural. Unworthy.

Jean wasn't Sherlock. She couldn't put together a thousand facts and come up with blue, but she could read medical documents. And thanks to that one leave with the naked body in the bathtub with the gold Nez Pierce glasses, she knew how to pick a lock.

Moriarty had been Jefferson Hope's primary physician for the three years he'd been remanded to Baskerville after the incident with his ex-Omega. Now she was Sherlock's doctor and looking back through her records, she specialized in treating Betas. Jean had to wonder just how many ticking time bombs there were wandering around.

She grabbed the records, Sherlock, and headed for a cottage all of three miles from the facility. She emailed Sherlock's brother while she held Sherlock through detox.

It was not pleasant. The bitch had given Sherlock opiates. With Sherlock's medical history. She should have her license pulled just that.

Doctor Moriarty argued in court that it wasn't her fault that Henry Knight thought himself a werewolf. That it wasn't her fault that her client, Mr. Browner, decided that sending ears through parcel post was a good way to express his feelings of jealousy. It wasn't her fault… she'd had a lot of thought experiments.

It didn't make Jean feel all that great when Moriarty wrote them from prison going on about how this was a much better place for her. So much more material to work with. She sent them a hand written thank you card.

Sherlock checked it for poison. Botulism. Jean supposed what was a little food poisoning between friends.

What did make her feel fantastic was the look on Sherlock's face when Jean said, "We're going to need a bigger place now that I'm moving in with you and becoming your partner, because you need someone at your six." She'd found it worked best when she was decisive with Sherlock.

Plus, Sherlock had a whole kink about that, which was good, because so did Jean. Which was why they were kind of perfect together in a kinky kind of way. But hey, bend light over a raindrop if you want rainbows.