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Harvest Moon

Epping Forest

 

John prowled restlessly, eyes fixed on the slowly rising moon. While the moon no longer held her sway over the were population, the pack John was running with still preferred to leave London on the full moon. Choosing to change and run wild in the forest once a month was a small consolation to the wolf.

The pack was antsy. It was the first full moon that they would be running with John and vice versa. The dynamic was drastically different from what any of them were used to. John was used to running with alphas and the occasional beta that made it into the army. This was a pack of three betas that occasionally ran with a rogue omega.

As a child, in his mother’s pack, John had run with omegas. Until they were old enough to mate and start raising pups of their own. In the army, omegas were anomalies. They simply did not compute with the lifestyle. A rogue omega was even more rare. Unheard of even.

Being a were wasn’t black and white. It had shades of grey that were hard to describe to the human populace, not that it hadn’t been attempted, many times. Every were was born into a role that biology dictated, those roles were mirrored in the pack. Simplified, alphas led, betas followed and omegas… well omegas were special. They were to be protected and cherished. An alpha that won the affection of an omega was very lucky indeed.

In some cases, like that of this pack of betas, there was no alpha to lead them. The were population had exploded in the 1980s, when they had finally come out of the woods and into the 21stcentury. After the initial outcry from the human populace, after the fears that weres were really the boogey man in the forest, were finally laid to rest. When it was safe to procreate, they had done so with the mentality of rabbits.

There were drawbacks. Only a few alphas were born each year, and even fewer omegas. Before they had come out of hiding, things had been even. Now, however there was a surplus of betas, and not enough alphas and omegas to go around. The imbalance left the pack, a smaller scale of society, in discord. Improper aggression and incompetence in the work place were only a few of the symptoms of the imbalance of society.

Which of course led to the formation of the Committee for Balance. Those who were considered wise from both the were population, as well as the human populace, ran the committee. They were created to oversee a course of action to bring balance back into the pack, and society as a whole. For most weres, being called in front of them was similar to receiving an ASBO for humans. Annoying as all hell, but with far reaching consequences, if one did not abide by their judgment.

Joining this pack was a punishment for both John and the betas. The betas had been brought in front of the Committee for Balance for aggressive behavior in the work place. John had been assigned their alpha due to a small mishap involving his commanding officer. John stood behind his actions, even if they did land him here. With a pack of betas that had already made it obvious he was not welcome or needed.

During his brief meeting with Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson to discuss plans to run with the moon, the animosity had been overwhelming. It was obvious that the committee’s punishments were effective and long lasting.

The small clearing was fraught with tension, as the change came upon him and the betas. The doctor bit back a groan, as his bones shifted into something more fluid, more natural. John surged to his feet, his tail wagging, the moment the change was through. After a few seconds of revelry he calmed, remembering himself.

John stood stoically, his tail raised high, as each member of his pack came to greet him. It did not matter if the betas liked him personally. In this place, and in this form they had to respect him. He remained aloof, as Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson brushed against him in a submissive greeting. His full attention was focused on the sole omega of the pack.

During the initial meet and greet with the betas, Sherlock had not been present. In fact, Lestrade had been adamant that the omega would most likely not be bothered to run with the pack. Sherlock rarely abided by social convention, be it were or human. The only time he claimed pack allegiance was when it suited his needs. Whatever those might be at any given time.

A wolf, John assumed was Sherlock slunk into the clearing, a tall, rangy black wolf with stormy eyes. Ignoring all of the social dynamics of the pack, Sherlock showed no deference to John. It was intriguing.

John felt he was normally a well-adjusted alpha. In comparison to some of his companions, he was rather mellow in fact. However, seeing Sherlock, the omega of the pack, ignore him in such a blatant way riled his alpha instincts. With a growl, he stalked, stiff legged, over to the taller wolf. When Sherlock did not roll over and show his belly, John leapt.

Defiant to the last, Sherlock was not easily taken down. The dirt and grass around them was torn up, as they battled for dominance. The rest of the pack circled them, their howls mingling together in the dark clearing, as John finally pinned the omega in the dirt. Still, Sherlock did not bare his throat.

John could feel the strain in his hind leg, as the wound he had suffered as a human flared up, even in this form. He refused to allow it to undermine him. John reared up and hunched over the omega’s longer, skinnier form, and clamped his jaw around Sherlock’s throat. He growled once, and jerked. Not hurting the younger wolf, simply showing him that he meant business.

Sherlock did not go limp, as any other wolf would have done under an alpha. Rather those intriguing eyes bore into John’s, confusing the wolf’s senses. With a reluctant growl John stood, Sherlock prone under his legs. John howled urging the pack on to the hunt.

Sherlock leaped nimbly from beneath him, racing to get away from John and to join the hunt. The hunt it self seemed like the only reason why the omega remained in the pack, rather than becoming a full-blown rouge wolf. Sherlock loved the hunt like no other wolf John had ever met.

John swiftly followed after the pack, until he was in the lead. He could feel the restrained power behind him. And it made him giddy with excitement. He could feel the pack spreading out, as they pinned the stag down. Trapped, and white eyed with a primal fear.

John fell back and let his beta lieutenants take the stag down. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were vicious as a unit. The stag fell under their combined weight. It’s neck breaking with a clean snap. John glanced back at Sherlock, who appeared to be already bored with the outcome of the hunt. The omega was sniffing around a bush, before contemptuously raising his leg and pissing. Those grey eyes locked once more with John’s, reflecting challenge and the desire to play, to enjoy the chase.

John raised his snout, scenting the air. The copper tang of blood was heavy, so familiar. It was like being back in Afghanistan. Where it always smelled of blood and sweat. He could hear the sounds of the betas’ blood lust as they gorged themselves on the stag’s intestines. The wolf found it exciting, but not as stimulating as the arousal that permeated Sherlock’s scent.

It was all the invitation John needed.

With an unnatural grace, the omega leapt into the forest, racing away from the pack’s kill. Without a second thought, John followed. He chased Sherlock over logs and streams, branches and roots snapping under his paws. Sherlock led him on a merry chase, until he had the younger wolf trapped like a rabbit in a snare.

With a triumphant howl, he fell on the omega. His canines latching onto the omega’s dark scruff, his prick swelling with the sweet smell of Sherlock’s surrender. They rolled across the clearing, fighting for the upper hand. It was, for the most part all in good fun.

With a groan, John changed into his human form. Sherlock followed shortly after. John snuffled Sherlock’s dark, curly locks as he hunched over the omega’s nude form. His cock heavy between the man’s pert cheeks. With a growl, John pulled his companion to his knees, his teeth sinking into the smooth muscle of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Even with his human ears, John could hear the pack racing to the clearing. Could hear their panting and tree branches snapping under foot. He wouldn’t let that stop him from taking what was his. Sherlock struggled beneath him, trying to get closer, pushing back against his hard cock.

John’s hips shot forward, rubbing his prick against the tender, swollen hole of the omega. He wanted to fuck into it, until nobody would doubt his claim. John removed his teeth from Sherlock’s shoulder, lapping at the sticky blood that trickled down the bare, pale expanse of skin.

The omega looked over his slender shoulder, as though daring John on.

The wolf inside of John both approved of the dare in those electric eyes, and was pushed beyond temperance. With a soundless groan, John pushed forward, until the head of his prick had breached Sherlock. His nails dug into the soft skin of the omega’s hips, as he forced his considerable girth into that lovely, tight hole. The smell of blood tinged the air, as Sherlock howled his pleasure into the night.

John wanted more. His prick breaching the omega’s tight hole was an exquisite torture he never wanted to do without.

The pack skidded to a stop just inside the clearing. Yet John could not be bothered to look away. Everything that was important was right here. His cock and Sherlock’s clenching arse cradling him.

With a guttural cry, Sherlock shot his seed into the damp grass. John’s hips shot forward, knocking the omega into his own spent seed, as his knot began to swell. The Alpha forced it past the swollen rim of the omega’s entrance. Growling in pleasure, as his knot continued to grow.

John’s orgasm took his breath away from him, as he slumped over the omega’s form. His hips continued to hump forward, as his prick was milked of every drop of his release. His knot was the only thing keeping his cum from seeping out of Sherlock’s abused hole. He maneuvered them onto their sides, so that his knot would not injure the other man. With a sense of misplaced affection, he was sure Sherlock would disdain, John carefully petted the omega’s ribs, counting each bone before rubbing the smooth skin of his stomach. He could almost feel it growing with the sheer volume of his seed still pumping into him.

Sherlock stiffened in John’s arms, as the alpha’s knot started to deflate. With a growl, he jerked away. The alpha resisted the urge to hold the omega tighter, to assert his dominance once more. With feigned nonchalance, he reclined in the drying leaves that littered the forest floor, watching the taller man. John could almost see him mentally pulling himself together. The thin layer of ice that kept Sherlock apart from the rest of the pack, and society as a whole, reforming with each passing moment.

The fleeting intimacy they had just shared a mere memory. One that John was sure would be keeping him warm for most of the coming winter months.

As Sherlock loped out of the forest, John grinned. The hunt, whether the omega knows it or not, was on. He had a mate to woo and win.

221 B Baker Street

Hunter’s Moon

Sherlock had been feeling a bit off since last month’s full moon. The sight of the flesh eating crabs he had installed in a tank in his spare room, snacking on pilfered fingers from the morgue, made the world’s only consulting detective nauseous. Which was totally bollocking up his experiment on the long-term damage the natural coastal environment would have on a corpse found on a beach.

His inky black curls were soaked with sweat, forcing him to push them out of his eyes. Sherlock had spent more time on the floor in the loo this past month, heaving his intestines out, than ever before in his life. In reality, he knew that it was statistically unlikely that one could actually puke up one’s intestines. But as he weakly flushed the toilet, it seemed the only possible explanation.

“Eat a biscuit Sherlock,” a dry voice advised from the door. “I hear it helps with morning sickness.”

“I don’t need your brand of crazy right now, Mycroft,” Sherlock croaked, his throat sore and abused. He spared a glare for his brother, before he once again began to heave into the toilet bowl.

By the time he made it out of the loo, his intestines intact as far as he knew, Mycroft had already installed his fat bottom in Sherlock’s favorite spot on the sofa. The consulting detective flopped into the saggy wing back chair, idly searching for his nicotine patches.

“Don’t you dare Sherlock,” Mycroft intoned, his voice snooty as the queen herself. “Nicotine is not good for the baby.”

“What sort of chemical warfare have you been exposed to?” Sherlock inquired idly. “You should know better than to test it on your minions by now.”

“Brother, when are you going to face the fact that you are pregnant?”

“When pregnancy becomes an issue, which it won’t, since I am not,” Sherlock idly flicked his fingers against his curly fringe.

“Grow up Sherlock,” Mycroft sounded angry, something Sherlock had not heard since he was sleeping rough. “This is not something you can delete.”

“Of course I can delete pregnancy, since it is not something that I shall ever experience,” Sherlock was getting bored with the redundancy of the conversation.

Mycroft stood abruptly, his trusty umbrella in his hand. “You are forcing me to take matters into my own hands, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had long past tuned out his brother’s voice, as his stomach began to cramp once more. He barely heard Mycroft leave the flat, too busy heaving his intestines into the porcelain bowl. He was going to have to remove the flesh eating crabs from the flat, if this was the result.

This whole thing was simply intolerable.

 

Hunter’s Moon

St. Bart’s Hospital

John sighed softly as he watched the familiar cadence of doctors, nurses and patients rush past, it was a dance he missed. Well, if he was honest with himself, John missed the adrenaline rush that accompanied an emergency.

“John!” a familiar voice hollered down the hall. “John Watson!”

The army doctor watched as a slightly chubby man toddled down the hall, a tall cup of tea clutched in his hand.

“It’s Mike! Mike Stamford,” the man came to a halt in front of John, huffing slightly from exertion. “I know I got fat!”

John smiled at the man, recalling the smiling face of a fellow student, from what felt was a million years ago.
Mike, it’s good to see you.”

“What have you been up to?” Mike asked. “Last I heard you were going off to the Middle East, hoping not to get shot.”

“Getting shot,” John deadpanned, gesturing to his leg.

It only took moments to buy a fresh cuppa and find a bench outside. John had always liked his former classmate, so it was no hardship to catch up with him.

The former army doctor ignored the awkward silence that surrounded him and Mike, preferring to watch passing people as he sipped his coffee.

“So are you staying at Harry and Clara’s then,” Mike started the conversation abruptly.

“Oh god no,” John chuckled ruefully. “Me and Harry would kill each other. I am looking for a flat share, but who would want to live with me?”

Mike laughed, his belly jiggling with his mirth.

“What is so funny?” John asked, offended.

“Oh, it’s just that you are the second person to say that to me today,”

“Whose the first?” John couldn’t help but ask.

“He’s omega, but not from a pack you’d know,” Mike murmured.

“My pack allegiance has altered since I’ve been back,” John stated simply. “Things change.”

Mike nodded silently. “I can set up a time for you to meet him, see the flat,” he offered.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” John shifted on the bench, uncomfortable. “An omega and alpha living together is asking for trouble.”

“He is not like any omega you have ever met before,” John laughed. “I think he has deleted the biological need to procreate and multiply from his mind, so your knot should be safe.”

John thought of Sherlock, long, lean and wild in the moonlight. Perfect. Even after everything that happened the past full moon, he was strangely untouchable in John’s mind.

“Yeah okay, set up a time for me to see the flat,” John decided. “It can’t hurt, right?”

“That’s the spirit mate,” Mike stated. “You probably won’t regret it, much.”

“That is so reassuring,” John murmured. “Now, how about a tour of the labs, I am sure it has changed since our school days.”

221B Baker Street

John stood outside of 221B Baker Street soaking up the atmosphere of London. In the two months since he had been injured, and sent home from Afghanistan, John had not been able to enjoy the vibrancy of the city. Too absorbed in self-pity to live the life he had been missing since being sent to the desert. From the outside the flat was perfect. Situated in the heart of the city, brimming with energy.

Now he just had to find out what was inside.

Just as John was approaching the front door, a slender whirlwind burst out of it. A long, dark coat swirled around trouser clad legs. Chaotic curls and pale skin. And that scent. John knew that scent, intimately. Though it had changed somehow in the past month. Before it had been cool, crisp like an autumn day in the park. Now it was warm, almost drugging. Cinnamon buns being cooked from scratch. Warm, yeasty. Sweet. John’s.

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, as the man raised his hand to hail a cab. He couldn’t help but bury his nose in those dark curls, inhaling as much of the scent as possible.

“Unhand me at once,” Sherlock demanded, pulling away from John sharply.

John had to fight the urge to pull his omega back to him, to assert his dominance in the most basic way. To mark Sherlock up and make sure everybody in the greater London area knew the man was his.

“I must say, if this is how you go about flat sharing,” Sherlock began without looking at John. “I can see why you have flat mate issues.”

“Flatshare?” John inquired. “Shite. You are the omega in 221B?”

“If you didn’t know who I was,” Sherlock snarked, “why did you manhandle me?”

 

John smiled carefully at the irate man, as he whirled around to face him.

“You,” Sherlock hissed through his rather perfect white teeth. “I should have known.”

John waved weakly, trying not to grin at the outrage on the omega’s face. It was like pulling a cat’s tail, always amusing. The alpha had not smiled this much since before Afghanistan.

Sherlock stared at the grinning alpha. He hadn’t expected to see the man again. He didn’t choose to run with Lestrade’s pack often, but mind-numbing boredom had forced his hand. Sherlock certainly hadn’t been expecting the thorough knotting he had gotten. All of the betas that ran with Lestrade’s pack didn’t have the balls to attempt to mate him. In fact, the betas kept their distance, like they thought him contagious.

And he preferred it that way. Sherlock didn’t care what the peons of the pack thought. He just wanted to run, to not be bored.

John was not boring. But then again, he was not a beta, nor was he the average alpha. The ones that only ever thought with their knot, those alphas were boring. Those were the alphas that tried to hump his leg when he chanced the subway, which he never did anymore. Cabs were worth their weight in gold.

“Sherlock dear, your brother rang me,” Mrs. Hudson bustled out the door. “Congratulations!”

“On what?” John and Sherlock asked as one. They glanced at each other, before focusing on the small woman.

“Your pregnancy of course,” Mrs. Hudson herded the two men into the house. “You’ll need to stop chasing after criminals of course.”

“Says who?” Sherlock demanded, outraged at the very idea of not consulting.

John couldn’t get the word out of his head. Pregnant. Sherlock was pregnant. With his cub. Pregnant. Expecting. Knocked up. Up the duff.

“You just repeated pregnant three times,” Sherlock pointed out snidely. “And I am not pregnant.”

“Tea boys, decaf of course,” Mrs. Hudson sang out. “Oh babies in the house again. How wonderful, Mrs. Turner is going to be so jealous.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Sherlock repeated, frustrated with all this baby talk. “Will you please get that ridiculous notion out of your head.”

“Have you already been tested?” John asked, sitting down carefully.

“Of course not. How boring,” Sherlock turned his nose up at the question. “I have more important things to do. Like catching criminals.”

“I’ll just nip down to the corner market and pick up a pregnancy test for you dear,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, as she placed a cup of tea in front of him.

“I don’t want tea,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes dear. One lump of sugar or two?”

“Insufferable,” Sherlock muttered, his long fingers tapping against the cherry wood of the table. He was certainly not looking at John as Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the kitchen.

John couldn’t get the image of a cub with Sherlock’s grey eyes and dark curls out of his mind.

“This is a lot to take in,” John murmured. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

“Why?” Sherlock took an elegant sip of his tea. He definitely went to public school.

“We’re having a cub,” John pointed out carefully, watching the man from the corner of his eye. “And I don’t know a thing about you.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Sherlock huffed. “Even if I was, what ‘we’ is there?”

“I want to be there for our cub,” John ground out. “Apart of his life.”

“Who says this hypothetical baby is even yours?” Sherlock snarked.

 

“Have you knotted with anybody else?” John returned, taking a deep sniff, soaking up the omega’s aroma.

“Boring,” Sherlock sighed and took another sip of tea. He bolted out of the chair as he gorge rose. This was not happening now. He barely made it to the loo, before his afternoon tea reappeared.

Slightly rough, yet fully competent hands rubbed his neck and cooled his forehead. Sherlock leaned back against the firm, compact body behind him.

“Has this been happening often?” John questioned softly, as he helped Sherlock to his feet.

“Enough that I had to get rid of the flesh eating crabs,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling gross and sweaty in his clothes.

“Mm,” John kept Sherlock steady, as they made their way back to the table.

John was rather worried with the pasty sheen gleaming from Sherlock’s already pale skin. He had seen first hand the havoc morning sickness could wreck, but Sherlock seemed to be suffering from a rather severe bout of it. His already lanky frame was not holding up under the constant barrage of nausea. John rubbed a soothing hand over Sherlock’s lower back. It felt as though the man had already dropped at least a stone’s weight.

“Sherlock,” John began carefully, “we should get you to a doctor.”

“Bloody hell. I said I don’t need a doctor,” Sherlock snapped back. “I am not pregnant.”

“Of course not,” John soothed, picking his words with care. “You are dehydrated though, an IV would fix that right up.”

“Whatever. Just stop your incessant mother hen behavior,” Sherlock snapped crankily, standing shakily on his wobbly legs.

John hid his triumphant grin, as he helped the omega with his Belstaff coat. He had a feeling that winning an argument with Sherlock was going to be rare. He followed the consulting detective out of 221 Baker Street, two steps behind his swirling coat and addictive personality.

This was his life now.

St. Bart’s Hospital

John leaned his head against the wall, as he listened to Sherlock scream and rage at the doctor who had been elected to give the consulting detective the good news. Something heavy was heaved at the door, crashing to the floor. John debated entering the exam room, before deciding that discretion was really the better part of valor.

“I do not recall granting you imbeciles the right to do blood work,” Sherlock shouted hoarsely. “I agreed to an IV for dehydration.”

“Mr. Holmes please,” the doctor began again. “We were concerned with how severely dehydrated you were.”

“That gives you no right,” Sherlock began his tirade again.

“Besides, your mate gave us permission,” the doctor cut him off mid-rant.

“Mate? What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Sherlock shouted. “The idiot outside was a potential flat share, not my mate.”

John growled softly, his inner wolf angry at the denial. He knew it was true. He and Sherlock were not mated, not properly. But he wanted to be. His wolf had chosen it’s omega and John genuinely liked Sherlock. John was pretty sure he could love Sherlock.

Sherlock was, for a lack of a better term, feisty. Nothing at all like the omegas his family had foisted on him in the past, before Afghanistan. Sherlock did not let his biological urge dictate what he did with his life. In fact, he seemed to fight it with every breath he took.

John listened carefully at the door. Nothing had been thrown for at least a minute, and Sherlock was no longer shouting. It seemed like a good time to seize the moment.

John slipped into the exam room, drawing the ire of the hospital gown clad omega on the bed. John smiled weakly at the doctor with the clipboard, before starting towards Sherlock.

Only to get hit in the chest with a pink plastic, kidney shaped bedpan.

“This is all your fault,” Sherlock growled. “If you would have just kept your knot to yourself, I would not currently be playing incubator to your devil spawn.”

John bit his lip, trying not to smile at the irrational omega. It hurt to hear his cub referred to as devil spawn, but it was half Sherlock after all.

The doctor turned to John, seeking some calm in the storm. “We can release him after his IV finishes, though we need to set up some prenatal exams before you two leave.”

“Don’t talk to him, talk to me,” Sherlock snapped at the doctor.

The doctor simply shook his head and walked out of the exam room.

Sherlock collapsed back against the flimsy pillow the hospital provided. All of the fight seemed to drain straight out of him.

“I don’t want to be pregnant,” Sherlock murmured. “I have too much to do. Crimes to solve, criminals to catch.”

John sat down. “Pregnancy won’t be boring at least,” he tried. “Think of all the data you’ll be collecting.”

“Just so you know, I play the violin in the middle of the night, and sometimes I don’t speak for days on end,” Sherlock threw out randomly.

“Okay?” John tilted his head.

“Flat mates should really know the worst about each other before moving in together,” Sherlock answered the unspoken question.

“If that is the worst you have to offer, I think we’ll be just fine,” John laughed.

John pulled the thin hospital blanket further up, tucking it around his sleepy eyed flat mate.

“Mycroft is going to be insufferable,” Sherlock sighed loudly.

John didn’t even have a chance to ask who Mycroft was, before Sherlock was asleep.

Undisclosed Location

John was thankful he did not have a lot of crap to move, one rather heavy box, a duffle of clothes, his computer and his gun. All in all, it was the easiest move he had ever participated in. He was in the process of hailing a cab, difficult to do when carrying all of one’s possessions, when he was shoved bodily into a car.

The alpha bit back a growl as he took in his surroundings. It was one of those fancy luxury cars that John had never had the pleasure of riding in. A beautiful beta sat in the seat across from him, typing away on her Blackberry.

“Who are you and what do you want?” John asked quietly, only to be ignored. He bit back every caustic word that wanted to escape, as they drove through rush hour traffic.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the car pulled to a stop at an abandoned warehouse on the wharf.

The beta looked up from her phone. “He’s expecting you.”

“Who is expecting me?” John bit out, his temper rising.

“You’ll see,” the beta grinned, eyes already back on her Blackberry.

John walked into the warehouse warily. A man stood backlit in the distance, leaning on what looked to be an umbrella.

“Who are you?” John demanded.

“I am a friend of Sherlock’s,” the man answered. “Though he would call me his arch nemesis I am sure.”

“That does not answer my question,” John growled. “Why did you kidnap me and what do you want?”

“I worry about Sherlock, immensely,” the balding man continued blithely. “Imagine my shock when I found out he was pregnant.”

John could feel his canines extending, his claws lengthening. It sounded like a threat, a threat to the wolf’s mate.

“Do calm down,” the man chided. “I am not threatening Sherlock.”

“Then what do you want?” John turned, “I suggest you answer because I am tired of asking.”

“I have a proposition for you,” the man walked towards John. “You keep me updated on Sherlock’s condition, and I’ll make sure you are richly compensated for your time and trouble.”

“No,” John did not even hesitate. It wasn’t even a question.

“Take a moment, think about it,” the man encouraged.

“I don’t need a moment. My answer is no,” John growled. “Now, it’s time for me to move into my new flat.”

“You are very loyal to a man you’ve only known a few days.” The balding man seemed almost confused.

“Is that a statement or a question?” John returned blithely.

The man straightened his own impeccably tailored suit jacket, and turned around. “I am sure I will be seeing you around, Mr. Watson.”

John walked back to where the car had been, only to find his box of belongings, his duffle and his computer bag on the pitted asphalt. He cursed under his breath as he hefted up his stuff and trudged to main road. Hopefully, he would be able to find a taxi. Especially since John had no idea where he even was.

Living with Sherlock would never be boring at least.

221 B Baker Street

“So I met your arch nemesis today,” John stated the moment he was in the flat. “He’s a bit of dick.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock questioned, looking almost bored.

“He did. I didn’t take it,” John assured the omega.

“Think it through next time John. We could have split the money. We do have a small cub on the way, and those, I’ve heard, are expensive.”

“Right,” John laughed.

John really took the time to look at Sherlock. Since he had left him the day before, his appearance had improved tremendously. His pale skin was no longer pasty and sweaty. Sherlock no longer looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. In fact, he looked good. Really good.

Pregnancy suited Sherlock.

 

Beaver moon

221 B Baker Street

John was just leaving the surgery, when he got a text from Sherlock. Demanding, as always, that he stop and pick up milk before coming home. In the month that they had been living together, John had yet to see Sherlock actually go and buy groceries. In fact, Sherlock had barely left the flat, unless of course he had a crime scene to go to.

Mrs. Hudson had tried to talk John into disallowing Sherlock to continue his consulting work. John had realized early on that nothing was going to dissuade the man from doing what he wanted, when he wanted. And in all honesty, John wouldn’t want it any other way. Sherlock was passionate about his work. The work. In his mind, it was the only thing that mattered.

John couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last before one of the betas on D.I Lestrade’s unit would scent the change in Sherlock’s body. Would Lestrade try and forbid Sherlock from coming then? John wasn’t sure either of them would survive the omega trapped in the flat with nothing to occupy him. Other than his ever changing body.

John walked out of Tesco, milk in hand. It would not be worth the fight if he came home without it. John had learned to pick his battles in the past month.

John walked into the flat and went straight into the kitchen. After a long day at the surgery, dealing with aches, pains and the common cold, all he wanted was a cup of tea. Even if that cup of tea was decaf. He could hear Sherlock playing the most discordant notes on his violin. The noise sounded like a cat in heat, being strangled. It had been another bad day then.

John did not bother asking his flat mate if he wanted a cup of tea. Rather he simply made him one, doctored up with a splash of milk and a bit of sugar. The doctor juggled the two cups, and walked into the living room.

Only to find Sherlock’s self proclaimed arch nemesis seated in John’s chair. Sherlock was perched on his loveseat, wrapped in his dressing gown, plucking notes randomly. The older man was staring at Sherlock, like he was a rather interesting lab experiment gone terribly wrong.

Sherlock glanced up, his recently abused violin held by the neck. “Tea?”

John was frozen in the doorway.

“Don’t bother asking Mycroft if he wants some, he is on his way out,” Sherlock mocked. “He has places to be and diets to fail.”

“Really Sherlock?” The man John assumed was Mycroft murmured. “Grow up.”

“So, arch-nemesis?” John questions carefully.

“Also known as Sherlock’s long suffering older brother,” Mycroft could barely spare a glance at the doctor. “You can’t even begin to imagine the holidays.”

“Gods no,” John began before backing away from that frightening conversational tangent.

“Who is on his way out the door,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Enunciate your words Sherlock,” Mycroft gave his brother a stern look.

John couldn’t help the nervous laugh that escaped him. He was meeting the family already, and he hadn’t even marked his almost-mate yet. Not that Sherlock would ever acknowledge the mate thing. Not even with a cub in the oven, so to speak. John was pinned by two sets of rather intense eyes, as he tried to choke off the laughter before it started.

“Pray tell, what is so amusing, Doctor?” Mycroft looked imperiously down his nose at John.

“Do shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock loomed over John, plucking his cup of tea from the alpha’s hand.

“So Doctor, when are you planning on claiming Sherlock?” Mycroft ignored his little brother. “I would ask what your intentions are, but you would already be dead, if they were not honorable.”

John does not often feel tongue-tied. Being an alpha in both the army, as well as the medical field, did not lead one to bouts of introversion.

“Mycroft get out. Now,” Sherlock roared, his dressing gown billowing out behind him like an underfed raven’s wings.

“I am simply worried about you Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “And you know how mummy worries.”

“Do not bring mummy into this conversation,” Sherlock looked livid. John couldn’t help but think it was a good look for the man.

“Sherlock, whether or not you want to accept it, you will be bringing a life into this world in less than seven months.” Mycroft looked concerned for the first time. “You are going to have to plan ahead for once in your life.”

Sherlock simply pointed at the door, his chest heaving with anger and perhaps a bit of fear.

John could only watch in stunned silence as Mycroft gathered his coat and umbrella and left the flat. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he could tell Sherlock was worn out and just plain angry.

“Sherlock,” he began softly.

“Shut up John,” Sherlock snapped. “I want a moment of peace, if that is okay with you and my brother.”

John sank into his chair, warm from Mycroft’s body heat, and soaked up the silence. Silence was good. Silence wasn’t avoiding the pink elephant that was sitting in the middle of their cozy, macabre living room.

Maybe if he kept telling himself that, John would finally believe it.

>

Oak Moon

221 B Baker Street

Sherlock couldn’t stop staring at his reflection in the mirror. The nausea had finally gone by the wayside, and his slender frame was gaining weight. But what really caught his attention was the bump. It was odd, his body felt disfigured and ugly. His skin felt like elastic. His bones felt brittle. Sherlock’s entire body was revolting. Like he was hosting an alien in his very core, which he was.

He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to the idea of being pregnant. It was definitely an occurrence that Sherlock had not planned for, wished for or wanted.

Sherlock ran his hand down his once flat stomach, turning to the side to get another perspective. The bump was more obvious that way.

John shifted restlessly from his position in the doorway. Sherlock had yet to notice his presence, and he did not want to interrupt him. At the same time, John wanted to touch his still-not-claimed mate. The alpha wanted to run his fingers over that barely there bump; he wanted to caress every inch of that luminous skin. John wanted so much more than Sherlock would permit.

Instinctively, John knew that Sherlock would not want him touching him in this moment. The omega would not stand for him scent marking him or touching their shared bump. The precious bump that was the accumulation of both of them.

Sherlock’s startling grey eyes met John’s in the mirror, as he pulled his dressing gown around his constantly changing body.

“Do you always spy on your flat mates while they are in the loo?” Sherlock questioned curiously. “That is rather disturbing.”

“None of my previous flat mates were ever pregnant with my pup,” John quipped, his eyes still devouring the skin Sherlock was covering up.

“I suppose it’s good to know that you don’t have a pack of unclaimed pups running around three continents,” Sherlock shot back, picking up his tooth brush. He grimaced as the bristles of the implement tickled the roof of his mouth. The morning sickness, which had lingered for far longer than he liked, had been replaced with an unbearably sensitive gag reflex. Pregnancy was intolerable.

However, it was not boring. Sherlock was adding information daily to his spreadsheets. This was going to be the best-documented case of alien residency known to mankind.

Now the only thing he had to worry about was hiding the bump from the peons at Scotland Yard. Though, Lestrade and his lackeys were idiots. It shouldn’t be hard.

Wolf Moon

221 B Baker Street

Sherlock was sitting on his sofa, casually dipping a barbeque crisp into a container of butterscotch pudding, as he shouted at the inane police drama on the telly. The consulting detective hated these programs with a passion, but the blasted things were addictive. They never got it right though. The clues never added up. It was infuriating. Sherlock’s ears pricked at the sound of John limping up the stairs.

The cold snap that had hit London seemed to be taking it’s toll on the alpha’s leg. There were nights that John would return from the surgery, face gray and drawn, the pain obviously unbearable, yet the man never said a word. Sherlock was intrigued by his flat mate despite himself, John was much more interesting than the silly police drama.

John sank down into his armchair. Not for the first time, Sherlock wished he had chosen to sit closer. Close enough to touch. It was a side effect that Sherlock had not been aware of, before this little mishap.

The constant, low-grade arousal that buzzed through his body at all times. It was like the food cravings, never ending. He was always hungry, for food, sex and human touch.

Sherlock dipped another barbeque crisp into the butterscotch pudding. Right now it was the only craving that he could satisfy.

John sighed, massaging his thigh. He glanced at Sherlock’s evening snack and grimaced. “That is disgusting,” He murmured. “Though, I suppose I’ve seen worse.”

“Just be glad I am not outside eating dirt or rocks,” Sherlock shot back. “Mummy had pica with Mycroft, which I suppose explains a lot.”

“Does pica run in families?” John pondered for a moment, before dismissing the line of questioning. “Have you eaten a proper supper?”

Sherlock turned his attention back to the drama on the telly. “Yes.”

“Uh huh,” John huffed tiredly. “What did you eat then?”

“Cease your mother henning,” Sherlock grumbled, clutching his bag of crisp tighter.

“Fine,” John grinned. “I was thinking of ordering in some Korean food, you want some?”

“From that place down the street?” Sherlock’s attention was snagged.

“Yeah, I could get you some bibimbap,” John seduced Sherlock carefully. “I know how much you enjoy that.”

John’s alpha instincts were in full gear. He couldn’t touch Sherlock like he wanted. He couldn’t touch the bump. But he could feed his mate, and provide proper nourishment for his unborn pup. And maybe, just maybe Sherlock would let him touch him sometime in the next decade. Or before their bump would be heading off to university.

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I guess I could eat again.”

It was practically a declaration of love, coming from Sherlock. John hid a smile, as he dialed the local Korean shop. The owners were becoming increasingly familiar with the occupants at 221 B Baker Street.

“It’ll be here in about an hour,” John yawned. “I am going to go change into some pajamas.” John carefully placed his hand in Sherlock’s unruly curls, stroking his omega carefully. It was the only contact Sherlock allowed. John took it as progress, baby steps and all that.

The alpha froze, as he watched those electric grey eyes shutter, a tiny sound emerging from Sherlock’s throat. If it were any other person, John would have called it a purr. Carefully, one had to be oh so careful when it came to Sherlock, John let his fingers drift down his slender neck, until he was massaging gently at the tense muscles that resided there.

Sherlock moaned, and John’s prick jumped to attention. He tried to will it away. This was not sexual; this was giving the proper attention to his mate. John wanted so badly to kiss the man, that it was driving him to distraction.

“Harder,” Sherlock groaned.

John couldn’t help but imagine it in a different context. Sherlock on his hands and knees, on his back, riding his dick. Any way John could get him. He wanted him in every way possible. John hadn’t been this eager for sex, since he was a virgin, desperate for his first knot.

“John, rub harder,” Sherlock commanded imperiously.

The alpha tried fruitlessly to will his erection away.

Soon enough, Sherlock’s neck muscles were lax, his head heavy as he moaned softly. He tilted his head, unconsciously baring his throat to the alpha. John’s wolf howled in triumphant, his mate was ready to be claimed.

John lifted his hands away from Sherlock, stepping away from the omega. He knew, intellectually, that if he claimed Sherlock now, it would only cause discord and distrust.

Sherlock looked at him with heavy eyes, his lush mouth poised to ask questions or give deductions. Always ready to strip John down to his bare bones with his observations. Always spot on, yet missing some key point.

And the bell chime rang, announcing the arrival of food.

John wasn’t sure if he was relieved, or if he wanted to cry in frustration. Either way, the spell that had fallen over 221 B Baker Street had been broken.

Damn bibimbap.

Snow Moon

Undisclosed Crime Scene

Sherlock was distracted. Which never happened to him at a crime scene. Well, as long as it was an interesting crime scene. This double murder was mildly interesting, but it was not interesting enough.

The consulting detective could not deduce his flat mate. Days before he had been on the sofa, mindless with pleasure, moaning like a bitch in heat and John had done nothing. Sherlock was not sure whom he was the most disgusted with. Himself for acting like a typical omega; or John for not claiming him like a proper alpha.

John refused to conform to the usual alpha behaviors. It was rather intriguing, and completely infuriating.

Sally Donovan approached from behind Sherlock, caustic words on the tip of her tongue, before she got a good whiff of the omega. Something about his scent was off.

She elbowed Lestrade in the ribs, “what is going on with the Freak?”

“No idea,” Lestrade returned distractedly. “Don’t call him that.”

“He smells weird,” Anderson commented loudly. “Maybe the Freak is contagious after all.”

“Unless you have something moderately intelligent to say, Anderson, please refrain from lowering the I.Q of the entire street.” Sherlock snapped, as he tried to focus on the mutilated body in front of him.

“I need John,” Sherlock stated boldly to Lestrade, ignoring the weary look on the man’s face.

“Anderson is in charge of forensics,” the D.I muttered stubbornly.

“Well, judging by the state of Sally’s knees, she sucked what little brain power Anderson has out of his—

“Sherlock!” Three voices shouted at once.

“Anderson is useless. Get me John,” Sherlock demanded, before proceeding to tune the betas out.

Twenty minutes later, John walked onto his first civilian crime scene. His hackles were already on the rise, as he listened to Sherlock shouting at Sally Donovan and the insipid Anderson. If two betas more worthless then those two existed, John would be terribly surprised.

John’s eyes narrowed when he finally caught sight of his pack. Lestrade was standing off to the side, his eyes closed as he tried to ignore the betas arguing with Sherlock. Anderson and Donovan were steadily getting closer to being in the consulting detective’s space. Sherlock of course refused to back down. And he wouldn’t be the omega John was rapidly falling in love with if he had.

John growled, long and low in his throat, when Donovan pushed Sherlock back on his heels. It was instinct that had him pushing between the two antagonistic pack mates, baring his teeth at the female beta.

“The freak?” Donovan scoffed. “You chose him for a mate, out of everybody in the pack?”

Sherlock pushed past John, getting into Sally’s face. “What’s wrong Sally, sick of getting on your knees for married men?” He sneered disdainfully.

“Not at all,” Donovan’s smile was feral. “He’ll get sick of you sooner rather than later.”

“Enough!” Lestrade shouted. “This is a crime scene people.”

Sherlock and Donovan both snarled at the grey haired beta.

“Shut up and work the scene, both of you!” Lestrade could barely refrain from hitting both of them upside the head. “Sherlock this is what we pay you to do.”

“Because you three are too blind to see what is laid out in front of you,” Sherlock snarked testily. “A blind four year old could solve this case before you even had a clue.”

John winced at the building anger growing on Lestrade’s face.

“Just because John coddles your pregnant arse, doesn’t mean I will Sherlock.” Lestrade enjoyed the stunned silence that followed his announcement, before continuing. “Either do your job or get the hell off my crime scene.”

Sherlock turned abruptly, his Belstaff coat flaring around his slender legs. Efficiently and with as much snark and sarcasm as he could fit, Sherlock laid out their case. Who had done it, and how they would go about proving it.

John enjoyed watching Sherlock work his magic. Except for the fine tremors that wracked his hands and the tight lines around his eyes that belied his nerves. John knew that he was the only one who noticed. Then again, he had made observing Sherlock his sole hobby since their first meeting. The one thing John had learned in the past several months, Sherlock did not like having his condition shoved in his face.

John was several steps behind Sherlock, when he heard Donovan’s spiteful voice. “Always knew you were just another omega bitch, Freak.”

Sherlock kept walking, not a single hitch in his stride.

John was not so lucky. Anger thrummed through his veins at the delight Sally had for attempting to tear his mate down. Time and again, she never allowed a chance to pass. If it had been closer to the full moon, John’s wolf would be tempted to rip the stupid cow’s throat out. He wanted to lash out and put the beta in her place.

“Do not speak to my mate again, unless you can muzzle that temper of yours,” John hissed softly, for Sally’s ears alone. “Or else you will be facing the consequences of pack justice.”

Donovan froze, a vicious smirk on her face. “And how do you think you can punish me?” She inquired snidely.

“Do you think that Lestrade or Anderson would try to stop me once the moon has risen?” John asked back. “You may not see me as your alpha, but their wolves do.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the beta tried again.

“Try me.” John murmured softly, before turning to follow Sherlock, leaving Sally where she stood.

In the distance, John could see Sherlock. For once the omega appeared to be waiting for him. The doctor tried not to put too much stock in it. And failed. Miserably.

Storm Moon

Epping Forest

Sherlock sneered at the betas in the clearing. He could clearly hear Donovan and Anderson’s snide remarks about his rapidly growing bump. He blamed his bone structure. Mummy always said he was too skinny. Sherlock did not feel skinny right now. He felt bloated and gross. He could no longer see his feet, let alone get his shoes on without assistance.

His body was revolting against him. Before the bump, Sherlock could go days without food. He could function without sleep. Now, he couldn’t even walk down to the corner shop without feeling exhausted. According to the idiotic doctors John took him to every month, Sherlock had mild anemia.

Which, of course caused John to hover in the most annoying manner.

Pregnancy was bloody insufferable. The naps alone were enough to make Sherlock want to pull out John’s gun and shoot holes in all the walls.

The need to be out of the flat, doing something, anything had forced Sherlock into the clearing. Running with the pack on a full moon during pregnancy wasn’t unheard of. However, it was not fully embraced by those of the medical field. John had supported his decision in his understated way. Oddly enough, Sherlock appreciated that, which he didn’t understand fully. Never before had he sought somebody’s endorsement. He craved John’s approval, almost as much as rose petal tea and spicy pork dumplings, maybe more. Sherlock blamed it on the hormones. Or maybe it was the gas that he couldn’t seem to escape. Whatever it was, it was boring.

So was the apprehension Sherlock was feeling at the idea of stripping out of his clothing in the middle of the clearing, witnessed by two betas he didn’t trust, let alone particularly like. It made him feel vulnerable. Which in turn made Sherlock want to lash out at somebody. That lucky somebody happened to be John, who was standing next to him. Calmly stripping out of his trusty oatmeal colored sweater and dark, utilitarian trousers. Sherlock had no idea why the man hid his body under baggy clothing. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Peacetime had not made him soft or complacent.

John could feel Sherlock’s nerves strung tight. He lightly brushed his fingers over the omega’s nape, stroking softly. “It’ll be fine,” John soothed carefully. “Running will make you feel better.”

“I know,” Sherlock grunted. “I know my own body better than you do.”

“Of course you do,” John murmured, his fingers still carding through Sherlock’s dark curls. “Relax, love. You’ll have fun.”

Sherlock snorted at the pet name, as well as the conciliatory comment. He didn’t stop leaning against the alpha however. It was nice. Comforting in ways he was not used to. His family had never been supporters of signs of affection, physical or otherwise. It seemed as though John showered them over him, like a constant barrage of soft rain. It was nice, but bloody distracting.

It had to stop.

John laughed softly, as Sherlock pulled away. Always so contradictory, was his Sherlock. It was what he had noticed almost immediately once they started sharing a flat. If John was making tea, Sherlock wanted coffee. If John wanted to watch telly, the omega wanted silence. Once, the alpha had made Sherlock a bit of curry. The curry he had been craving nonstop for a week, and suddenly all Sherlock wanted was Pad Thai.

That was not even mentioning the touching. Some days, John had to force himself not to rain affection down on Sherlock. To rein in his instincts to shower him with anything and everything the omega could possibly need or want. And then he would remember. Sherlock hadn’t chosen him. Not really. Their first, and only mating had been instinct. It was not something John quibbled with. Instinct was a powerful motivator. However, Sherlock had yet to choose him for the man he was. So John would fight his instincts. He would distance himself from his omega, physically at least.

And Sherlock would pout. Then he would simmer, every little thing a constant irritant. Then the shouting would begin. It would go on for days, until it reached John’s breaking point. Sherlock had withdrawn into himself. Quiet and if was anybody other than Sherlock, John would say forlorn. John couldn’t stand to see him that way, like a sculpture made of ice.

Those were the days Sherlock reminded John more of a prickly cat, rather than the wolf he was. Craving affection, but refusing to show it himself, he was such a contradictory creature. John would start slow. Just a simple touch, his finger lingering too long on Sherlock’s nape. His hand on Sherlock’s hip, for whatever reason John could come up with. There were days, more than he would like to admit, that John would spend his whole work day thinking up ways to touch Sherlock. Innocent ways. Decadent ways. Hell, he wanted them both with the same fervor.

John just wanted to touch Sherlock, without feeling like he was stealing something.

Then it changed. Sherlock had begun to touch him back. Small touches. His fingers would touch John’s over a cup of tea, lingering just a moment too long. He would lean into John’s body while watching the telly. It was encouraging.

John’s attention was drawn back to the moonlit clearing, as Sherlock began to undress. Modesty was wasted on weres. So it amused John to see Sherlock with so much of it. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were across the clearing, engaged in what appeared to be a mock fight, their attention as far from Sherlock as it would get. The omega was fastidious with his clothing. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, folding it before putting it on the forest floor.

John’s hands went to Sherlock’s hips immediately, as his mate reached down to deal with his shoes. He steadied the man, relishing the heat he was emitting. Sherlock leaned back against him, as he worked on the stubborn fastening of his trousers. They too were pushed down, and stepped out of.

John basked in the vision of Sherlock nude in the moonlight. His skin’s glow seemed to rival that of Luna. The alpha couldn’t stop his hands, as they reached around Sherlock’s hips, to rest on the bump growing there. The omega allowed it for several minutes. Before stepping away.

“Don’t be tiresome John,” Sherlock turned to face the alpha. “I’m ready to run. You can touch our demon spawn later.”

John grinned, before shifting into his wolf. He was going to hold his mate to that.

Seed Moon

221 B. Baker Street

Sherlock stretched languidly. Since his run with the pack, he had been feeling good. He was comfortable in his own body for the first time since he had gotten pregnant. He still felt fat and cumbersome, but Sherlock also felt rather lovely. Especially when John looked at him in that certain way the doctor had. If he were more of a sentimental man, Sherlock would almost call it adoring. If he wasn’t mistaken, those looks were also heated.

 

Sherlock wanted more of that lovely heat. Since their first meeting in the forest, John had not touched him in a blatantly sexual manner. Sherlock wanted him to. He wanted sex. Even if the intimacy John would expect with it made Sherlock a bit anxious. It wouldn’t be just a shag in the forest this time, instinct and fire overriding common sense. It would mean something.

Mates.

It wasn’t something Sherlock had ever given a lot of thought to. The idea of being tied to one person for the rest of his life, had always seemed ridiculous and over simplistic. They were more than what biology had dictated. John seemed to believe the same. The alpha had never tried to dominate him in their daily setting. Hell, if the stories Sherlock had heard from childhood were true, John was an exception to the alpha rule. He supported Sherlock’s need for the work. He had never made Sherlock feel like an incubator for their devil spawn.

The only time John had shown his dominance was during their first initial encounter in the forest. And Sherlock had enjoyed it immensely. He had wanked to the memory until he was raw. Not just the sex, though that had been the highlight of the evening. For the first time Sherlock had enjoyed running with somebody, chasing and playing. Mock fighting. Even now, the mere memory was exhilarating and titillating.

Sherlock groaned softly, his head falling back against the sofa. The silk of his dressing gown felt amazing against the hardness of his prick. The delicate fabric almost unbearably rough. He didn’t bother shifting it aside. Rather, he simply wrapped his hand around his silk covered cock. He knew it was an exercise of futility. His large belly made it impossible to get the right angle. Sherlock groaned squeezing his eyes shut as he remembered the feel of John’s dick riding the crevice of his arse. His lips and teeth at the nape of his neck. His fingers’ bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips as he rode him hard. John’s gentleness when the heat had died off.

Sherlock hissed in frustration and twisted his hand trying to find an angle that would allow him some satisfaction. Every time his wrist bumped against his belly. He thumped his head against the sofa, before lifting his hand from his hot, swollen prick. This was bloody intolerable.

The door to the flat opened. John walked in, heading straight for the blasted tea kettle. Not for the first time, Sherlock wished the alpha was a bit more observant. It wouldn’t take more than a casual observation to see that Sherlock was horny and in need of a bloody good shag.

John collapsed in his chair. His cup of tea cradled in his hand like something precious.

“I want sex,” Sherlock had learned at an early age bluntness could work better than coercion. Some people responded better to it than others. And he knew that John would appreciate it. After he got over having to clean up the broken porcelain and splattered tea.

“Right now?” John inquired, in what he hoped was an even voice.

“The sooner the better,” Sherlock sniffed delicately.

“Right,” John murmured. “You know what it would mean, yeah?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock pushed up from the sofa. “We’ve been heading in that direction since you shagged me bare in the forest.”

“If you knew then why fight it so hard,” John couldn’t help but question, even though he was too exhilarated to really care about the answer.

“That is what I do,” Sherlock answered. “I am contrary.”

“That you are,” the alpha grinned. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Of course,” Sherlock sniffed again. “If you had an ounce of deductive reasoning, we would have been shagging ages ago.”

“Is that so?” John laughed again, his hands going to Sherlock’s hips.

“Yes. We really need to work on your observational skills,” Sherlock murmured, as he led the way to John’s bedroom. He didn’t want to disturb the experiment taking over his own bed. He wasted no time stripping out of his dressing gown and laying down on John’s immaculately made bed.

John was still mesmerized by Sherlock, even after living together for so long. His body long and lean, even while pregnant. No spare fat anywhere on his body. Even his bump seemed contained in some way. His skin glowed, like every old wives’ tale ever told. John got rid of his clothes as quick as he could, his fingers fumbling over buttons and fastenings.

Once he was nude, John knelt next to Sherlock, his fingers ghosting over the thin skin of his clavicle. John would not normally describe the omega as delicate. But his skin was delicate, translucent with blue veins close to the surface. It was a part of pregnancy, but never before had John found it so appealing.

John felt an overwhelming sense of rightness, as he looked down at his mate. Sherlock’s riot of dark curls on John’s pillow, his scent mingling with John’s. It was like coming home. He knew Sherlock was impatient to get on with it. His hips rose and fell like waves crashing on a beach, yet John took his time to worship the body beneath him. He had to memorize it all.

When John’s lips wrapped around Sherlock’s swollen nipple, the omega’s body bowed and he came. The alpha lifted his head and looked at Sherlock.

“Shut up,” Sherlock turned his head into a pillow. “They’re sensitive.”

John muffled his laughter in Sherlock’s skin.

“Come on John, quit dithering and fuck me already.”

John smiled down at Sherlock, staring into those fathomless grey eyes. “How do you want to do it?”

Sherlock wiggled until he was positioned on his side, “like this.”

John spooned up behind him, his lips automatically going to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. The omega arched his body, and John’s hands automatically found their way to his bump.

“Wait, we need slick,” John moaned into Sherlock’s curls.

“No need. I fingered myself in the shower,” the omega mumbled. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“Have you?” John questions, his hands tracing shapes and symbols into the thin skin covering their bump.

“Mm,” Sherlock hooked a leg around John’s thigh, opening his body up a bit more. “I’ve been thinking of you for a while.”

“I’ve been thinking about you since the first night in the woods,” John confided as he pushed his hips forward.

“Obviously,” Sherlock groaned at the first teasing breach of John’s prick.

John kept his thrusts shallow and slow, his hands roaming Sherlock’s body. He allowed his lips to linger on whichever bit of skin they landed on. Sherlock’s ear, his cheek; and when Sherlock came again, his bared throat. He nipped at the reddening skin, as he rode out his own orgasm.

John cleaned his mate with a damp towel, before lying down next to him. Sherlock was rumpled, his grey eyes dark with sleepiness.

“Love you,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s skin.

“Sentimental sap,” Sherlock mocked softly, his fingers running through John’s sandy hair. John was drifting off to sleep when he heard a whispered, “love you too.”

Milk Moon

St. Bart’s Hospital

Oddly enough, things around 221 B. Baker Street didn’t change much after Sherlock committed to being an alpha’s mate. It was much the same it had always been, with more sex. A lot more sex. Sex in positions Sherlock had never imagined. John was very inventive, which the omega appreciated. His mother would have deemed John to have a flexible mind, if she knew.

Pregnancy had obviously addled his brain. He was at his bi-weekly check up at the hospital, and even his bare arse on a cold examine table did not make him cranky. Which was a first. John had been called away for an emergency at the clinic, so nobody would appreciate his snark anyway.

“So Sherlock, still not wanting to know the sex of your baby?” Dr. Cass was a strident woman, with little tolerance for bullshit. Sherlock liked her immensely.

“No, John and I agreed, we want to be surprised,” Sherlock stated. “Which I agree is ridiculous, so hard to plan.”

“Yes, but still it’s always a lovely surprise,” Dr. Cass smiled at the omega. “Now, you are doing well.”

“I should hope so, John coddles me,” Sherlock sighed, long suffering.

“That is one of the perks of being an alpha mate,” Dr. Cass grinned wickedly. “Not to mention the sex.”

Sherlock smirked, “too right you are.”

“I know you have read up on how the rest of your pregnancy goes,” Dr. Cass changed the subject abruptly. “But I will say this, everybody’s last two months are different.”

“As a male omega, my chances of premature delivery are higher,” Sherlock intoned. “I know.”

“Yes, but the baby is well developed, so I don’t want you to worry,” Dr. Cass patted him on his hip. “Enjoy the pampering while you can.”

Sherlock dressed as quickly as he could, once his appointment was over. He never liked the feel of a hospital’s sterile air on his skin. He slowly made his way outside, to find a cab. It was a quiet trip home.

Once he was safely enclosed in the empty flat, Sherlock got comfortable on the sofa. He had documented the changes in his body as they had happened. Noting each quickening, comparing it to gas. But it was data, something he was detached from. Not something that was happening to him. For the first time since he had found himself pregnant, Sherlock felt a bit… attached.

While John had touched the bump frequently, caressing and whispering sweet mumblings, Sherlock had gone out of his way not to touch it directly. With hesitant hands he quickly pulled his shirt out from his trousers. Carefully, he had to be careful; the omega touched the thin skin of his belly. He couldn’t really feel much, so he pressed down slightly harder. It was only practice at being composed at all times, that made it possible for Sherlock not to jump when something kicked his hand.

That was their demon spawn.

Sherlock pressed down again, wanting to make sure of something. What he was searching for he didn’t rightly know, but he knew he found it when the baby kicked his hand again. More than a bit content, Sherlock fell asleep, his hand resting on the bump.

John found him that way two hours later. With something akin to relief the alpha sat down on the floor in front of the omega. Sherlock was accepting it, finally. It was something John had seen before, as a doctor. Omegas and expecting mothers that detached from their unborn children, more often than naught thinking of the fetus as a parasite.

John stroked Sherlock’s protecting hand, not wanting to interfere, just to be part of the bonding. He rested his head against Sherlock’s leg and simply existed next to his family.

When he woke some time later, Sherlock’s other hand was buried in his hair. Those mysterious grey eyes John was still learning to read were focused on him.

“We can’t call the bump Demon Spawn for the rest of it’s life, perhaps we should start picking out names,” Sherlock suggested. “Or perhaps I should, since I don’t trust your judgment.”

“I picked you didn’t I,” John rasped sleepily.

“My point exactly,” Sherlock murmured.

Mead Moon

221 B Baker Street

“Isabelle,” John suggested as he tried to fit together the complicated pieces of a bassinet together.

“No,” Sherlock sneered from his seat on the sofa. “You’ll insist on calling her something inane like Izzy.”

“Nicknames are a sign of affection,” John mumbled.

“No, they are signs of laziness,” Sherlock rubbed his huge belly. “Why give a child a fancy name, if you can’t be bothered to call it that?”

“What did you parents call you as a child then,” John twisted a bolt on one of the sides of the basinet, before cocking head. Blast it all to hell. It was the wrong damn piece.

“By my name of course,” Sherlock struggled to sit up straight.

“What names do you prefer then,” John sighed and started anew on the basinet.

“Esme if it is a girl, Abram for a boy,” Sherlock offered.

“How unlike you Sherlock,” a voice murmured from the doorway. “Simple and rather lovely.”

“What do you want Mycroft?” Sherlock sneered.

“Just delivering a package from Mummy,” Mycroft grinned rather snidely. “She would have come herself, but her arthritis acts up so.”

Sherlock blanched as he watched the movers bringing in the baby furniture that had been in the Holmes family for decades, if not centuries.

“Mummy would of course like to see you before you deliver,” Mycroft continued on blithely. “Seeing as you look a like death warmed over, perhaps you should go today.”

If Sherlock had been in his wolf form, his ears would have been pinned to the sides of his head, baring his fangs in aggression.

John stood up from his position on the floor. Sherlock did not generally care about what people thought of his looks. However, it had become more of a sensitive subject as his due date rapidly approached. Young kids staring at his stomach put Sherlock off his food. Donovan and Anderson’s underhanded whispers could make him brood for days. One snarky comment from Mycroft however… John winced. The flat was about to go apocalyptic.

Subtleness had been an art John had been forced to appreciate when he started courting Sherlock. He carefully ran a hand from his mate’s dark curls, down the curve of his spine, until it rested in the small of his back. He could feel Sherlock relax under his hand.

“Why don’t I make some tea,” John offered, breaking the hostile silence between the two Holmes brothers.

“I know we are British John, but tea does not actually fix everything,” Sherlock groaned, rubbing the bump. His stomach felt tight and achy. Hell, his entire body felt tight and achy.

“Want to go for a walk?” John tried again, his hand rubbing small circles along the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock shifted. He didn’t know if the alpha’s touch felt good or if it was irritating, “yes.”

John glared at Mycroft when the man started to open his mouth. With his eyes alone, he expressed what would happen to the government official if he dared to say anything to set Sherlock off. It would be best all around if Mycroft kept his mouth shut.

Mycroft seemed to understand the unstated threat, as he shut his mouth and stepped to the side. As John herded his mate to the door, he let out one last parting shot. “I’ll just remain here and supervise the movers then.”

“How pedantic,” Sherlock smirked. “I thought a government official would have better command of those under his thumb.”

John smiled sweetly at Mycroft, before closing the door behind them.

Mrs. Hudson met the two men at the door. “Hullo loves,” she cooed. “Going for a turn about the park?”

“Mrs. Hudson, I see you have been reading those god awful romance novels again,” Sherlock stated.

“Not everybody has a strapping alpha to woo them Sherlock,” she replied. “Needs must dear.”

“More information than I ever needed to know,” Sherlock smiled back. “And the butcher totally wants into your knickers.”

“Sherlock!” John half laughed, half admonished.

“What? He does,” Sherlock continued on blithely. “He saves all the good cuts for Mrs. Hudson.”

“He is just being neighborly,” Mrs. Hudson insisted.

Sherlock simply smirked, as he pulled the door open. “See you for tea, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock walked slowly as he people watched. For days he had had a low-grade urge to shift into his wolf form and simply run. It was a prickly sensation, like the need for nicotine. It was hard to ignore and it was distracting. He couldn’t help but sulk just a bit as they walked slowly through the neighborhood. In the past walks had helped with the aches and pains that had begun to accumulate in the third trimester of his pregnancy. This walk had been absolutely useless in that regard.

“Okay love?” John asked quietly. He was generally quiet on their walks together, and Sherlock appreciated that. John never seemed to feel the urge to add to the noise pollution in the omega’s head.

“Of course,” Sherlock hated admitting weakness. Pregnancy had not changed that.

John simply hummed in response.

Sherlock sat down on a bench and tried to ignore the stares of strangers as they walked by. He watched John buy coffee from a vendor, before turning his gaze back to the city.

John sat down next to him, dragging Sherlock from his observations.

“I don’t want to move,” Sherlock threw out suddenly. “I like living in London, I like 221 B. Baker Street.”

“Where is this coming from?” John laughed. “I like living in London and the flat as well.”

“We are having a baby, rather soon I am afraid,” Sherlock continued as though John hadn’t spoken. “I hear they acquire and require quite a bit of stuff.”

“True enough,” John returned mildly. “We could always turn one of our bedrooms into a nursery.”

Sherlock froze, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you for a loss of words,” John laughed. “What’s wrong love, sharing a bedroom too progressive for you?”

Sherlock unfroze and sniffed delicately. “Of course not, I am just unsure if I want to share my personal space with you.”

“You’ve shared much more personal things with me than space,” John laughed harder.

“Don’t be crass John,” the omega barked. “If you think you can handle it then so can I.”

“Of course,” John smiled at the omega.

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, before struggling to stand up. “We should head back. I can’t believe we left Mycroft unattended, he probably has the whole flat bugged now.”

It was hours later that John finally cottoned on to Sherlock’s growing discomfort. He had no excuse. He was a trained doctor, but he had been distracted. Mycroft had not vacated their flat by the time they returned from their stroll. And as amusing as it was to watch Sherlock bicker with his older brother, it was exhausting. Like watching two unstoppable forces bouncing off each other constantly. Still it was no excuse.

Sherlock was agitated, even more so with Mycroft there. He paced and he rubbed his bump. And paced some more. The omega was in constant movement, fidgety and growing more and more sullen.

It was when Sherlock winced for the third time in as many minutes that John made him sit down. “Love, we should head to the hospital now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous John,” Sherlock grimaced. “They are just Braxton Hicks.”

“Mm. And how long have you had them today?”

“Shut up John,” Sherlock groaned. “It is too soon.”

“Two weeks early isn’t too soon love,” John soothed Sherlock, petting the sweaty curls plastered to the back of his mate’s neck. “The pup will be fine.”

“Well maybe I am not ready,” Sherlock growled. “We haven’t even discussed what the bump’s last name is going to be.”

“Whatever we decide it will be fine,” John smiled carefully. “It doesn’t have to be figured out now.”

“Are you two seriously saying that you discussed nothing in the nine months Sherlock has been pregnant?” Mycroft butted in.

“Shut up Mycroft,” Sherlock and John growled in unison.

“Well,” Mycroft huffed. “I already feel sorry for this pup, with you two for fathers.”

John chose to ignore Mycroft, as he helped Sherlock to his feet. “Come on love, you can’t keep the pup trapped in there just because we haven’t figured out names.”

“I can bloody well try,” Sherlock huffed.

“Okay, the pup will be a Holmes,” John decided decisively. “And if it’s a girl, Esme. If a boy, Abram for a boy.”

“Don’t try to humor me doctor,” Sherlock growled. “You are an alpha, the pup should have your last name.”

“Since when do you giving a shite about convention Sherlock?” John laughed. “You never did before, don’t start now.”

“And when the bump starts school and the other kids make fun?” Sherlock was panting as he tried to maneuver his body down the stairs.

“Then I am sure the bump will verbally eviscerate the little twerps, just like his daddy does.” John held onto his elbow and tried to take the majority of his mate’s weight.

Mycroft’s car pulled up to the curb, just as Sherlock and John stepped outside. The man was seriously a miracle worker. If John liked him just a smidge more, he might have kissed the surly man.

“Anything else you two feel you must discuss before we can go?” Mycroft asked dangerously. “Perhaps your views and stances on marriage?”

“Do shut up Mycroft,” John stated pleasantly. “I would hate to have to kill my mate’s brother.

“Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?” Sherlock looked livid.

“Of course I do,” John growled. “Can we please focus on one life changing event at a bloody time?”

John glared at Mycroft, the crafty bastard who was still smirking.

Once they arrived at St. Bart’s, they refused to let John follow Sherlock. Male c-sections were quite a bit more complicated than their female counterpart. As a doctor John understood this. However, as he watched his mate being taken away from him in his time of need, it made him want to tear through the hospital in a rage.

Mycroft watched his brother’s mate pace the waiting room. Anxious as all expecting fathers were. He found himself both amused and touched. He did not spend his time idly; after all he had lives to arrange. When Sherlock and his little family arrived home at 221 B. Baker Street, it would be to a proper nursery.

Lestrade arrived at the hospital without Anderson and Donovan. While pack allegiance was still a bit shaky, after nine months of seeing John lead, Lestrade couldn’t help but pledge his loyalty to the alpha. And Sherlock, while a right bastard; was one of Lestrade’s favorite people. He couldn’t help admire somebody who told it like it was, and shoved all social decorum. Sherlock was refreshing.

John ignored everything, the coffee that somebody shoved into his hand, the people gathering in the waiting room with him. His entire focus was on his mate. He knew intellectually that he could not hear Sherlock, or feel what he was feeling. Instinctively, he had to try. As a doctor John knew it took time to deliver a baby, but it was taking too damn long.

After a lifetime of waiting and pacing, Sherlock’s harried looking doctor entered the waiting room. John was in her space within seconds.

“How are they?” John demanded.

“Sherlock and your daughter are fine John,” the doctor answered. “Your mate is stubborn, he refused the services of an anesthesiologist, claiming he needed to be awake for his research. He did accept an epidural however.”

“That sounds like Sherlock,” John laughed tiredly. “Can I see them now?”

“Of course,” Dr. Cass smiled at the alpha.

John practically tore down the hall, looking for his mate and daughter. He froze outside Sherlock’s room, scared to go any further. John was a father. He had a mate. Oh god, he was going to muck it all up.

“Go on in John,” Dr. Cass encouraged, amused. “They are resting, but eager to see and meet you.”

John stepped into the quiet room. Sherlock was in his wolf form, curled around a tiny baby. Those lovely grey eyes were a bit murky, but alert. He knew that weres had a tendency to revert back to their lupine form after a trauma, but to see his family so. It broke his heart and glued it back together, stronger than before.

Not caring if his clothes were ruined, John shifted into his own were form. He nuzzled Sherlock affectionately, before curling his own large body around their daughter. John couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She was absolutely perfect, born with a riot of dark curls like her daddy. That was pretty much all John could see, but it was enough. Later, he would count her fingers and toes, but it was time to just enjoy his family.

Epilogue

Esme Isabelle Watson was precocious. At least that is what her grandma and uncle Mycroft called her. She knew what the word meant, kind of. It meant she was a brat. Which is what her daddy called her. Both words made her feel warm and fuzzy, loved. But not when her teacher was on the phone, tattling on her to her papa. Her papa was not going to be happy. He would sigh and look at her with sad eyes. She hated when he did that.

“Dr. Watson, I am calling to let you know that Esme got into another fight,” Miss Molly was a nice enough teacher, too nice. Esme liked her, most days.

“She beat up James Moriarty on the playground, again.” Miss Molly continued softly. “I am not sure why, can you or Sherlock come and pick her up?”

Esme sighed. She hated listening to only one side of the conversation. Not enough information to work with. If only she could hear her papa’s side. Then she would know if it she facing a no dessert night, or a worse punishment, like no experiments for a week. Her papa could be strict, but not as strict as daddy.

Jimmy M. totally deserved the playground beating. He had been calling her daddy and papa names, and it was not to be tolerated. She didn’t understand all the words, but she knew they weren’t nice. Esme was pretty sure Jimmy didn’t know what they meant either, but that was not the point. Nobody got away with mucking about with her family.

Esme just hoped it didn’t mess with pack night. Papa would still let her run, hopefully. It was so boring to stay home with Grandma Hudson on the full moon. There was nothing quite as exciting as running through the woods, leaves and branches under her paws. She loved it the most. Well, after her papa and daddy anyway.

Miss Molly helped her with her book bag, and they stood outside, waiting. Soon enough, her papa and daddy came into sight. Her daddy’s long coat was swirling around his legs, as he talked with his hands to her papa. Papa was in his usual oatmeal colored sweater, watching her daddy with awe in his eyes.

Esme giggled and ducked her head. They were so embarrassing. None of the other parents acted like her daddy and papa. Grandma Hudson said it was because they were in love.

She couldn’t help but wonder if that meant she was going to have a new brother or sister to play with soon.