“Sherlock, thank Christ, I thought you’d never phone back. All right, here’s the situation. I’m at--”
“Can’t help you now.”
“I can’t. Help you. Now,” Sherlock repeated through grit teeth.
“Oh,” Lestrade said, taken aback. There was an uncomfortable silence at both ends of the line for a few moments. “You’re not...?”
“Yes, are you actually going to make me say it over the phone? Fine. I’m in heat. I’m IN HEAT.”
“Shhh!” Lestrade winced and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his mobile to mutter, “Sherlock. I’m standing here with my DCI and about six other--”
“Oh, and you don’t want your entire department to overhear the news that you’ve got an omega at home that you can’t keep satisfied, with that pathetic excuse for a petty protuberance you call a knot? Don’t want them to know that I’m waiting about, DRIPPING--”
“Sherlock!” Lestrade hissed. He glanced up. The small cluster of blue-suited men and women standing around at the crime scene were attempting to hide looks of amusement with varying degrees of success. Lestrade held up an apologetic finger to them, then moved a few steps away and said, “Look, I’ll be round soon as I can. The case is pretty high-profile. I didn’t think...I had Thursday marked on the calendar; are you sure?”
“Am I SURE?” Sherlock yelled down the phone. “I’m only sitting here in a puddle of--”
“Right, right, all right,” Lestrade said quickly. “Sorry. Only it’s bloody awful timing. I know! I’m sorry! I’ll get away somehow. Text you when I’m on my way.” He hung up before Sherlock could begin to shout again, and rubbed his forehead.
“Domestic troubles, Detective Inspector?” His DCI was giving him a tolerant smile. Lestrade couldn’t tell if she looked more sympathetic or smug. “No worries,” she said, waving aside his apology. “Go on, go home. I’ll turn this one over to Dimmock.”
“That’s really not necessary, Sir--” Lestrade tried to protest, but she arched an eyebrow at him.
“And leave your omega in distress? I’ve one of my own at home who’d never let me hear the end of it. No, we’ve got this. Just...try to remember to keep better track in future, hmm?” She turned her back. Lestrade was dismissed.
My omega’s a notorious prima donna who gets off on yanking my chain and deserves to sit and stew in his own juices for a few hours, Sir, Lestrade thought of telling her, but it was best just to leave it, probably; Sherlock and his unorthodox qualities were already a bit of a sore spot with the department. It was undoubtedly the reason Lestrade hadn’t been promoted yet despite his age and seniority, though no one at NSY had the knot to admit it to his face.
Lestrade sighed and began to strip off the blue protective gear. Just as well he’d been sent off duty. He was already at half-mast just at the suggestion of Sherlock in heat. Lounging around the flat with his clothes half off. Bored. Flushed with discomfort, fingering himself. Possibly whimpering a little.
Lestrade had to pause for a few moments in the car park, biting his lip and thinking about football, until he’d calmed down enough to mount his bike and ride home without some extreme discomfort of his own.
The scent of pheromones wafting down the stairs when Lestrade opened the building door was unmistakable but faint, which was basically what he'd expected. He knew he hadn't lost track of the days--by his reckoning, Sherlock couldn't possibly be beyond the very early stages of his heat. Lestrade was prepared to be indulgent, though. He knew the beginning of a mating cycle was the most difficult part for Sherlock, while his intellect still fought to hold sway over his instincts.
He didn’t expect Sherlock to be fully dressed and typing away at his laptop, too engrossed to do more than glance up and scowl briefly at Lestrade. “You said you’d text.”
“And you said you were going to rupture a gland if I didn't get home and stick my cock in you. Funny, that."
"Don't be ridiculous. I said no such thing." Sherlock scowled more deeply and began to type faster. Lestrade came over and put a hand on the back of his neck, but Sherlock shrugged it off and kept on, stubbornly. "Do you mind? I've actually found something to engage my interest here for two minutes together, no thanks to you." Lestrade stepped back and assessed him for a moment, then turned and walked into the kitchen, trying not to smile when the keyboard's clicking faltered as he moved away.
He got himself a beer from the fridge and drank half of it down, giving Sherlock a minute, then went back into the sitting room and waited, standing near the desk but not too near. Sherlock twitched, reacting unwillingly to Lestrade's scent and presence. Then he fidgeted. Then he squirmed, and slammed the laptop shut. "Fine," he snapped. "Let's go fuck." He brushed past Lestrade on his way to the bedroom. "You reek of crime scene."
Lestrade managed to snag a bony hipbone as Sherlock went by and stopped him, pulling him close and burying his nose in Sherlock's neck, scenting him, rubbing his own scent on him. "You like it," he suggested.
"Oh, please," Sherlock said. "What a typical Alpha line." He didn't pull away, though.
"Mmm," Lestrade agreed, refusing to rile. He held Sherlock there, hands on his hips, not overly insistent but firm, until Sherlock finally gave a hitching inhale and relaxed fractionally into the embrace. It was still a bit like trying to hold a wild colt, but at least, now, it was one that wanted to be held. Conditionally.
“John’s gone out?” Lestrade asked, pressing his fingers into Sherlock’s hair at his nape to cradle his skull, sniffing deeply and hungrily all up and down his jawline. He liked John just fine--there was another one you’d never have picked for an omega, never could tell these days, times were definitely changing--but he never again wanted to relive the mortification of being walked in on by his partner’s flatmate mid-knot.
“At his girlfriend’s for the duration,” Sherlock said, tipping his chin up and shivering when Lestrade licked at him. “The new one. Can’t keep track. One with the...thing. Something with an L. God. Can’t think.”
“Good,” Lestrade murmured approvingly. “Let’s get you in the bedroom, get some of these clothes off, yeah? See how you’re coming along.” He slid his hands down to cup Sherlock’s arse, but that was a step too far, apparently.
“I can undress myself,” Sherlock said shortly, and wrenched away from Lestrade to stalk into his room, upright and prickly again. Lestrade followed, shaking his head. This wasn’t going to be one of the easier times, then. But when was it ever easy with Sherlock?
Sherlock left an impatient trail of clothing all the way to the bed, then yanked Lestrade down next to him without even giving him a chance to undo his tie. When Lestrade spread his legs and slipped a hand down inside Sherlock’s boxers, though, he frowned; Sherlock was dry.
“Are you actually in heat or not?” Lestrade demanded, confused.
“Yes!” Sherlock insisted.
“Nearly. Sort of. I will be. Just...keep on, give it a few minutes.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade protested. “You can’t be sort of in heat. You are or you aren’t. You do smell like you are.” He leaned in to scent Sherlock’s neck again. Then he noticed the patch on Sherlock’s arm. It was a slightly different colour than his usual nicotine patches. “What’s this?” He plucked at it.
Sherlock jerked his forearm away. “Nothing. Look, if you’re not going to rise to the occasion, I’ll just--”
“Sherlock!” Lestrade grabbed his wrists and shoved him down flat on the bed with a knee on his stomach. “What are you playing at? Tell me. Now.”
“Nothing!” Sherlock swallowed and looked away. Lestrade waited some more, tightening his grip, until Sherlock relented. “It’s an experiment,” he admitted. “Synthetic hormones, fast-acting. I wanted to see if it was possible to send an omega test subject into early heat, or if the scent alone plus the psychological suggestion would be enough to provoke the alpha partner to a full physical response. How erect are you right now, would you say, on a scale of one to ten?”
Lestrade let him go and rolled off him, falling over on his back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “I was on a case.”
“A very dull one.”
“How would you know? You never even--”
“Accidental death, the victim inhaled a lethal quantity of insect poison. Phoned the building manager and got hold of the fumigation records. Kiss me again; I think something’s starting to happen now.”
“I’m texting Dimmock and then I’m taking the world’s longest shower, that’s what’s starting to happen now,” Lestrade said, and shook off Sherlock’s questing hands as he got to his feet.
Sherlock was still on the bed when Lestrade finally came back out wearing a damp towel around his waist. Lestrade thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep--it really had been a very long shower; he felt drugged and loopy from the prolonged exposure to hot steam. Sherlock wasn’t asleep, though. He was texting, or pretending to text, watching Lestrade with quick darting looks over the top of his mobile.
Lestrade came over and took it away, mainly to see if he’d protest. Sherlock didn’t. He looked up at Lestrade, inhaling, eyes dark. “It’s definitely having an effect,” Sherlock breathed. “The patch. Or your reaction to it. Both, probably.”
“Is it?” Lestrade leaned over and nosed at Sherlock’s neck, slowly and deliberately. Sherlock let out a long, trembling sigh and nodded. “Are you wet for me yet?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock bit his lip. “Getting there. Yes.” His skin was flushed, Lestrade noticed, from cheekbones to nipples, a sure sign. He reached for Lestrade, but Lestrade pulled away and sat up, perching on the edge of the bed.
“Show me,” he said, lifting his chin up, challenging.
Sherlock looked away. He was blushing angrily, chest heaving a bit--either unwillingly turned on by the denial and humiliation, or putting on a damned good show of it. “Fine,” he said, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and pushing them down his hipbones, exposing himself slowly: a thatch of dark hair, then the thin wavering curve of his cock. He wasn’t fully hard yet, and Lestrade reached over to stroke him, once, twice. Sherlock held himself still, but twitched in Lestrade’s hand.
“Over,” Lestrade said, releasing him. “On your stomach. Arse up.”
He watched Sherlock struggle for a moment between his need to comply and his need to say something bitter and sharp. At last, biology won the battle. Sherlock got his knees up beneath himself and turned over. Arched his back, hung his head, and presented his arse. Lestrade made him wait another long minute before placing his hand at the base of Sherlock’s spine and pressing slightly, pushing him into a deeper curve.
“That is a lovely sight,” Lestrade admitted.
“So fuck it already.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and tight.
Lestrade gave him a stinging slap instead, making him yelp, then smoothed his hand over the spot where he’d just struck him. Slid two fingers down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, slow and deliberate, rubbing briefly at his opening and finding it slick and twitching. Sherlock whimpered and dug his fingers into the sheets.
“Not wet enough,” Lestrade said, taking his fingers away and wiping them on his towel. “On the phone you said dripping, I believe. What’s it take to get you to drip?”
“God, I hate alphas,” Sherlock moaned. “I hate you all. Arrogant pricks, the lot of you. Go on, then, go away, I’ll see to myself. I’ve got dildos that can take care of me better than you can, and they don’t drone on half as much as you do.”
Lestrade grinned. He was half tempted to leave the room and see how long that lasted, but his own need was growing stronger as Sherlock’s scent rose. “I’ll take care of you,” he assured Sherlock, casting away his towel and lying down next to him on the bed. His erection brushed against the side of Sherlock’s hip, and his hand went to Sherlock’s lower back again, pushing him down. “Fill you right up the way no one else can,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear. “Give you my knot, make you ache inside. Just want to make sure you’re ready. Are you ready for me, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s hips moved as he ground himself down into the mattress and then pressed up into the heat of Lestrade’s hand again, lightly humping, breathing jaggedly. “Fuck you,” he gasped. “That’s the most generic alpha talk I’ve ever heard--why does it always work? I swear you’re the most annoying person I know.”
“Mmm,” Lestrade said, slipping his fingers down in between Sherlock’s cheeks again, feeling him squirm. “Shame, isn’t it? Tell me to leave again, and I’ll go.”
“Christ,” Sherlock said, hips jerking back as Lestrade removed his hand again. “Just...put something in me, god, your fingers, something, this is getting--”
“Shh.” Lestrade reached into the drawer of the bedside table. “All right. Spread for me, Sherlock.” He waited for Sherlock to reach back and hold himself open, then selected a long, curved metal wand and placed the tip of it against Sherlock’s entrance, pressing lightly.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and clenched around the toy, releasing a small spurt of fluid as his body tried to draw it in deeper. Lestrade fed it into him slowly, pulled it back to tease his anus with the flared steel head, and finally pushed it back in all the way to its base. He held it there while Sherlock shook and gasped. His own cock was beginning to throb urgently at the noises Sherlock was making, never mind the sight of him leaking fluid around the long thin metal wand inside him.
“More. I need more. It’s not big enough, it’s just teasing me, Lestrade--please--”
Lestrade was ready now, and god knew Sherlock was, but he held out for a while longer just to see if he could, stirring the toy around inside Sherlock’s body and pressing it against his sweet spots, pulling it out as slowly as possible until the head of it was stretching Sherlock wider open.
“Dripping,” Lestrade said with satisfaction as he drew the toy fully out of him, set it aside and tested Sherlock again with his fingers. Sherlock had gone nonverbal, but he did manage to shout Lestrade’s name as Lestrade got the head of his cock against him at last and began to push in.
Sherlock came the first time almost at once, crying out and frantically bucking against air, spurting untouched as Lestrade began to fill him up. He felt hot and wet and perfect inside, spasming around him, and Lestrade had to dig his fingers hard into Sherlock’s hipbones to keep him still so he wouldn’t slip out.
“More,” Sherlock begged when he could speak again.
“Trying,” Lestrade said, fucking into him deeper, feeling himself swell against Sherlock’s insides. “Oh god you feel so good. Hold still, Sherlock, let me--oh, I’m going to come.” He didn’t want to knot yet, so he pulled out quickly, ignoring the resulting howl of frustration, and rutted shallowly between Sherlock’s clenched upper thighs until Lestrade stiffened suddenly and came all over his perineum.
They both lay there for a few moments, still entangled, breathing hard. Lestrade wasn’t quite the young stallion he’d once fancied himself, he’d be the first to admit (all right, the second, if Sherlock got his say, which he usually did). It generally took him at least a minute or ten to recover from the first orgasm. This time, however, his cock never seemed to soften appreciably at all.
He made Sherlock wait anyway.
Lestrade fingered lightly between Sherlock’s legs, rubbing his ejaculate into the soft tender skin below and around his hole, refusing to dip inside. Eventually he noticed that Sherlock was biting his own forearm to stifle his whines and curses. “Don’t do that,” he said sharply. He leaned over and mouthed at Sherlock’s nape, not biting down hard, just a reminder of his dominance, but Sherlock gasped and began to tremble beneath him. The scent of him made Lestrade dizzy.
“I think we’ve had enough of this,” Lestrade said, taking Sherlock’s forearm and peeling the hormone patch off it. “Sure you got the dosage right? This is feeling a bit more...intense than usual.”
“Don’t know.” Sherlock shuddered and arched his back, pressing his arse up against Lestrade’s lower belly. “Need you inside me again. Now. Please, Greg.”
Oh, ‘Please, Greg,’ is it now? Lestrade thought, amused, but he couldn’t take the time to tease Sherlock about it--his own need was too great. He pulled Sherlock back up into position, lined himself up, and thrust in, all the way in at once now that Sherlock was wet and primed to take it.
“Fucking--yes, fuck me, harder,” Sherlock said, his hips pistoning beneath him, and Lestrade wanted to pull out again just to teach him a lesson, maybe spank him for a while, torment him with toys some more, but his own hips literally refused to obey his mind’s orders. A minute or two later he was coming again, eyes rolling back in his head, listening to Sherlock whimper as his knot began to swell inside him.
Sherlock, Lestrade knew, hated being knotted for the first time each heat. Later on he’d mellow, and his muscles would relax and yield, but the first time, he always complained, fucking hurt, even if his body craved it. Lestrade generally managed to soothe him through it, and for all he knew he may have done this time as well; he was coming so strongly that he didn’t know quite what he was saying or doing until the knot began to go down and he could gradually ease himself out.
“Jesus,” he said, rolling over on his back, all his muscles trembling. Sherlock, beside him, looked as limp and sodden as he generally did at the end of a long heat, not the beginning. “You all right? That was--”
“Water,” Sherlock said. “Go get some. Don’t take all day about it. You’re getting hard again already.”
Lestrade looked down at himself in surprise and alarm; it was true.
The next twenty-four hours or so were a haze of desperate striving toward a satisfaction that never seemed to be reached. Lestrade hadn’t experienced anything like it, not even the first time he’d mounted an omega in heat. Sherlock was insatiable, begging to be fucked and knotted over and over again almost without respite, and Lestrade couldn’t help responding with equal need. After the seventh or eighth orgasm he fell asleep (or possibly passed out), draped over Sherlock’s back and still locked inside him...then woke again some indeterminate time later to find Sherlock riding him, sweat dripping from the wet curls of hair around his face and onto Lestrade’s chest, eyes closed and teeth bared in a rictus of vicious need.
“I can’t,” Lestrade said deliriously. “Can’t come again. Nothing left.”
“Yes, you can, you have to. Come in me, Lestrade, I need it, I want you to. Yes, fuck, like that,” Sherlock moaned, digging sharp fingertips into his ribs as Lestrade felt himself begin to pulse and grow inside of Sherlock yet again. Lestrade echoed his moan, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the bolt of pain like a spike behind his balls.
“No more,” he said, when it was finally over again and they lay trembling, too exhausted to try and move apart.
“No,” Sherlock agreed, panting. “I think that’s it.”
It wasn’t. Sherlock woke Lestrade again less than an hour later, frantic-eyed and pleading to be filled again, and Lestrade flipped him over onto his stomach and plunged into him, holding him down, hips jerking rhythmically before he even knew what he was doing or with whom or why. He only knew he had to get in, deeper, harder--
“You should phone John,” Lestrade gasped out feebly, when his knot had gone down a bit again and his head cleared briefly. “This isn’t right. Hearts’ll give out.”
Sherlock gave something like a dry laugh. “You want John to see us in this state?”
Lestrade made a great effort and lifted his head to look around. They were on the floor now, for some reason, surrounded by half-shredded bedsheets soaked through with lube and come--some of it pink-tinged. It was very nearly the last thing Lestrade wanted John Watson to see. The last would be Sherlock madly rutting against his lifeless body, trying to achieve yet another impossible climax. Or vice versa.
With what felt like the very last ounce of his strength, Lestrade shook him off, crawled over to his mobile, and dialed John’s number.
“Careful. Not too much.” The cold water at his lips was the best thing Lestrade had ever tasted, and he made a sharp complaining noise when it was taken away. “In a minute,” John promised.
Lestrade sniffed, and frowned. He couldn’t smell Sherlock--well, he could, of course; there was Sherlock-scent everywhere like loud orange paint splashed over every surface, but its source wasn’t anywhere within reach. His eyes flew open, wide with alarm.
“He’s upstairs,” John said quickly. “My room. I thought it would be best to keep you apart for a bit, until. Well.” He offered Lestrade the glass again. “Here, sip slowly.”
Lestrade pushed it away. “Is he all right?” he demanded. “He’s not still--”
“No, he’s fine.” John pushed the glass back at him insistently until he took it. “Apart from being a bloody idiot. Looks better than you do, to be quite honest. I gave him an injection to suppress his heat. He’ll be a bit groggy, I can’t imagine he’ll be able to move for a day or two, but--”
“Lestrade?” Sherlock, sheet-wrapped and querulous, appeared in the doorway.
“Right,” John sighed. “Why not. Of course.”
Sherlock shuffled over and collapsed next to them in a graceless heap with his head pillowed on Lestrade’s midsection. Lestrade glanced down and was relieved to find that he’d managed to get his own pants on somehow at some point--and even more relieved that nothing seemed to be stirring inside them despite Sherlock’s proximity.
“Did I break him?” Sherlock mumbled.
“Unlikely,” John said, taking Lestrade’s wrist. “Pulse rate’s down. I want to give you something, too, though--just a mild sedative. Hold still a minute.”
Lestrade looked away and pushed a hand through Sherlock’s hair to distract himself from the cold sting of alcohol on his upper arm. He did hate jabs. John was quick about it, though. It was basically unheard-of for an omega doctor to treat an alpha, and John hadn’t even bothered to ask permission or go through the motions of deference. He was as extraordinary as Sherlock, in his way, Lestrade was beginning to realise.
“Sorry for all this,” Lestrade told him, slurring a little. The sedative was apparently fast-acting. “Are you all right? You weren’t. Were you? I can’t smell properly right now.”
“Hmm? Oh. No, I took a heat suppressant the minute you called. Louisa may have some words for you in a few days.”
“Louisa!” Sherlock said. “L. That was it. Louisa with the lazy eye.”
“Really sorry,” Lestrade apologised again, then yelped “Oh, hey!” as John pulled out the waistband of Lestrade’s boxers and had a cursory look inside.
“You’ll want salve on that,” John said, getting up to go. “I’ll leave some next to the sink. No sexual contact of any kind for at least two weeks. Clean up that godawful mess you left in the kitchen, Sherlock, and as soon as you recover, you’re taking Louisa and I out to dinner at the most expensive place I can think of.”
“Louisa and me,” Sherlock said, muffled slightly in Lestrade’s stomach, and Lestrade gave him a warning flick on the ear.
“Three weeks, come to think of it,” John said crisply, and left the room.
Lestrade tried briefly to decide whether he most wanted to die of embarrassment or exhaustion, but Sherlock was heavy and warm against him, and they both seemed to be floating six inches off the floor now. He fell asleep before he managed to make up his mind.