Chapter Text
He'd heard of it happening before, but never in his darkest nightmares had John Watson imagined it would happen to him. He'd had to sign a waiver upon enlisting, one that had two options for such an instance. Option A) be left with whatever Alpha claimed him on the battlefield, or B), which he selected, to be removed and isolated.
A handful of his mates would know his choice, in order to best aid him. He had little to fear from the few who didn't know, however. He was after all, on military-grade blockers. Not only did they prevent his heat, but they mimicked the scent a beta would have, making it 99.9% impossible for anyone to tell he was an Omega. Apparently, this one particular male Alpha was either that .01% or was just an asshole who liked to bite. John assumed the latter.
He'd been out with his troop, sweeping a recent bombing site for wounded when it happened. He was bent over a body, checking for a pulse when it suddenly veered up and grabbed him by the wrists. The movement was so sudden that John didn't have time to react. In a matter of seconds he was on his back and the person, a large dirty man with a gash on his head and a crazed look in his eyes, was looming over him snarling. Spittle foamed at the corners of his talents mouth, then sharp Alpha canines descended. The bite hurt. It hurt bad. All John could do was scream in pain as teeth tore into his neck, then again and again over his shoulder as the Alpha on top of him grew drunk of the pheromones of a newly, his newly, bonded Omega. Blockers or not, they didn't prevent a bond.
John didn't remember his army mates pulling the man off him, or remember the long and dusty ride back to base. His secondary gender, triggered by the bond, was in full swing. His heat was coming on, and it was coming on fast. His body, though his mind grew disgusted at the thought, yearned for the Alpha to consummate the bond as biology required.
Upon returning to base, he was unceremoniously tossed into a padded cell with a few bottles of water and a handful of energy bars. Left to ride out his heat alone. In the end, when it had all become too much, John had fucked himself with a water bottle, but even then it wasn't enough.
That was two weeks ago. John was now on his way back to England, honorably discharged. The cover story was that he'd been shot when in reality he was a liability. His Alpha (the thought made John seethe with anger) could sense him. Part of the bonding process allowed Alpha and Omega to sense each other's presence. Not directly, not like the man could hone in on John to the next nearest coffee shop, but more so a general direction. Still enough for the enemy to know generally where his troop was located.
Back in England, the man would only know he was far away and could feel the highs and lows of John's emotions. John's mother, who had also been an Omega, had taught John a trick passed down from generation to generation, from an age where bonding happened on an unwanted basis much more frequently, that allowed John to concentrate and put his Alpha's presence into a box, shut the box and tuck it away in the back of his mind. He focused on applying that to his new bond during the duration of his flight home and breathed a sigh of relief when the angry ball of emotions was quelled.
As the pilot announced their descent, John sighed and ran over the few facts he knew, the very few things he could grasp with any certainty.
- He was bonded.
- He was safe (as long as that Alpha didn't attempt to make a legal claim on him).
- He would not have his heat as long as he remained separated from the Alpha.
- He could pass for a Beta man, while his Omega senses still worked only the Alpha who had bonded him could smell him.
- He would be given military housing until he'd found his own place.
- He'd also be given a small pension for his troubles.
- His military file was locked tighter than Fort Knox. No one could see he'd been bitten, not shot, except for the Alpha who'd bitten him.
And, as he stepped off the plane and onto British land, he found himself thankful for that waiver. Thankful that he'd fought for a second option. Before him, on account of how few Omegas dared join the forces, only option A had been available. He'd hired a lawyer and request they permit him the option to leave an unwanted bond, as after all this was the 21st century and he wasn't some omega to be bartered off. If it hadn't been for his compelling skills as a doctor and surgeon, John thought perhaps the military wouldn't have made such a change to their policy.
From both how terrible the bite had been, and overexerting the injured extremity during his heat, his left arm was now bound up in a sling. He required surgery to repair some of the muscles and ligaments, would probably never have full movement again. But now, it left him struggling to one-handedly lug his army-issued rucksack throughout the crowded London airport.
By the time he'd made it from terminal to taxi, he was exhausted and disgusted with himself. The driver made no move to help John stow his bag in the boot, and by the time John was seated inside the taxi, anger was his foremost emotion. He spat out the address of the bedsit his CO has arranged for him and closed his eyes, hoping it would ward off any questions his sling and desert camo fatigues might kindle. Either it worked, or his driver wasn’t talkative. The driver grunted softly when they’d reached their destination.
After retrieving his bag from the boot he turned around and looked at his new lodging. It was a run-down brick building that looked like at one point it had been a motel, now converted to semi-permanent lodging. He let out a sigh and walked towards the entrance, hoping he had a ground floor room.
In the first week back in London, John did not remain idle. He bought himself a laptop with his savings and put the free wifi at the bedsit to use. By the end of the first week, he’d sent his CV to every clinic and any even remotely medical position. Someone somewhere must be in need of a highly trained, if slightly wounded, doctor. A week went by, then two, two turned into a month. By the middle of the second month back in England John was beginning to lose hope of employment. Even the local shop had turned him down, the manager looking at his limp left arm and shaking his head, saying they weren’t hiring.
One particular Thursday in May found England in full bloom. Spring had finally sprung, and the rain for once seemed to be away bothering someone else, probably Finland. Despite the sun, the birds chirping, flowers presumably blossoming, depression and denial over his plight were also in full swing. At the core, even if he were the only one who knew, he was an Omega, a bonded Omega, alone on his own. If people knew, he’d be shipped off back to Afghanistan, sent back to his Alpha quite possibly before his military benefactor could intervene. He was, granted by choice, alone. He’d only reached out to his sister, an alcoholic who couldn’t keep a job let alone a flat, to let her know he was back in town. They’d met for tea, right after he got back, she cooed over his “gunshot” and promised to keep in touch. She hadn’t, and he hadn’t bothered either.
He was sat at his desk, staring at his CV, wondering if there were any possible way to improve it, to help his cause when he let out a frustrated sigh. He’d been job searching for hours, to no avail and he felt as if he’d finally reached his wit's end. He slammed the cover of his laptop shut and pushed back in his chair, scrubbing his right hand over his face. His hand instinctively went from his face to his left shoulder, fingers worked their way under the collar of his shirt and he felt the still tender bite at the base of his neck. He felt nothing but hatred towards the man who’d done this to him. Tales were told to Omegas, that when their time came and their Alpha bonded them, they’d feel nothing but pure ecstasy. John had felt nothing but hatred, fear, and pain. With a sigh, he pulled his hand from his shoulder, adjusted the collar so it covered the bite and pushed away from his chair. He was wallowing, and his therapist had told him when he felt like wallowing, to go for a walk.
He was, despite the awful living arrangements, only a short walk away from St. James Park. Within fifteen minutes he was standing by a pond, tossing bits of bread towards the ducks. He didn’t have much in the way of food, but he hated the end bits in loaves of bread so he’d save them for the ducks. He was just breaking up a heel when his mobile rang for the first time in a week and a half. Hardly daring to hope that it could be a call about a job John tossed the bread, mostly whole, into the water and swiped answer on his screen.
“ Watson.”
“Yes, hello, John Watson?”
“Doctor John Watson, yeah.”
“Doctor Watson, hi. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade calling for NSY.”
“Erm, hello.”
John was all ears, he’d applied for a position as a medical examiner about a week ago, just on a whim. It wasn’t exactly the work he was trained for, but he’d take anything right now.
“Listen, I know this is short notice but…” there was a pause, and John could tell the man on the other line, Lestrade, was searching for the right words. “We’ve, as of oh five minutes ago, lost another Medical Examiner and rather need one. What with protocol.”
“I’m sorry? Lost? You mean they’ve died?”
“Fuck, no, I mean they're well, they’ve all put in for a transfer. We sometimes work with a consultant, on difficult cases, and well, he can be just as difficult as the case. He works for free… so we sort of can’t control his attitude.”
“So, he’s a prick?” John cringed, even though the DI had just sworn, it probably would be best if he watched his language with a potential employer.
“Oh, you could say that. But he’s brilliant, so he gets away with it. Listen, like I said, it’s short notice, but if I text you the address would you be willing to come to, well, there’s no sugar coating it, a murder scene? He’ll be here, and our current MI is threatening to quit if I make him work in this case.”
“I assume…”
John paused to wonder just how tactfully he could request payment,
“There’s some sort of financial…”
“Oh, shit, yeah, we’ll pay, It’s decent pay, what to make up for him. We’ll work on the paperwork to make your position official after we get the examination out of the way, faster we process the scene the faster we can get to work.”
John tossed the last of the bread into the pond and watched as two ducks fought over it.
“Yeah, text me the address, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Oh, and, thanks.”
“No, thank you, you’re doing the yard a favor. And if you can put up with him, we’ll put you on as many cases as you want. I read your file, know you were wounded, so we’ll sit down and talk about your limits after this body’s been processed, yeah?”
“Right.” John patted his pockets, making sure he had his keys, then began walking out of the park towards were ever hovering taxis were seemingly always waiting.
He arrived at the scene of the crime with trepidation. His heightened senses as an Omega made the stench of death more pungent. He was no stranger to the scent, having of course been a doctor in the middle of a battlefield, but that didn't lessen the stench one iota. He was thankful that the murder was, apparently, outside.
A tall middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper met him just outside the roped off scene. John walked over, extended his hand and introduced himself. The man, as it turned out, was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
"Doctor Watson," the DI took John's hand in both of his and shook it enthusiastically, "can't thank you enough. A bit unorthodox, how we're going about getting you on the team, but no one will work with him ."
"And who exactly," John asked as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, "is this him? You said on the phone that he was a, erm, consultant. Which means you call him in to work with you. And if no one will work with him… well, why call him?" John had hardly finished speaking when he inwardly kicked himself. Who was he to kick a gift horse in the face, if this man was offering him a job who was he to point out the flaws?
Thankfully Lestrade seemed to have already thought about this conundrum before. A weary sigh escaped his lips and he stopped walking long enough to turn to John.
"Because god help us, he's the best. When we have no leads, or there's a serial killer out there, we call him. He's probably the truest living definition of mad genius. He can tell where a man's been by looking at the mud on his shoes, or if someone is lying… he's… a genius. But his manners," the detective gave a harsh laugh and trailed off.
"So, what is it you need from me, here, today.* John was, if he were being honest, intrigued.
They began walking again. John looked around and shivered. They were in a seedy part of town, it looked like at one time this patch of overgrown trees and shrubs had been a park. They even passed by some rusted playground equipment. As they drew closer to the back end of the park John's heightened senses kicked in. He could smell her, the omega, and it was revolting. He covered up his look of disgust by feigning a sneeze then, breathing from his mouth followed the detective.
"We have a forensic officer, Anderson," Lestrade began to answer John's question, "he'll do most of the work until we have you properly vetted. We just need you to give us cause of death and approximate time of death. Then you and I will go to the yard and fill out the paperwork making all this official."
"Right. So time and cause of death." John nodded and stopped walking when Lestrade stopped at a table. He grabbed a pair of gloves and nodded to do the same.
A few minutes later, dressed in a sort of clean suit, John was lead by Lestrade through the tented off area. The body, the female Omega, was on her stomach, clothed. John couldn't help being thankful for that.
"Not a sexual attack then?" He knew, as working MI on this case he'd at least be in charge of, if not performing the autopsy, but it didn't hurt to get as much information as he could now.
"Doesn't appear to be," Lestrade said, crossing his arms and glanced down at the woman.
John nodded, then without waiting for an invitation brushed past a tall man, an Alpha, wearing a dark gray overcoat. Careful not to disturb the area around the woman he crouched on his haunches for a closer look. "She hasn't been moved yet?"
"No, when I went out to grab you Anderson was just taking pictures. Anderson?”
A tall thin man, John guessed was a beta judging by the lack of pheromones, turned around and gave the DI a seething look. John got the impression, however, that the look was not because of him, rather because the other man hovering over the body.
“I managed to take pictures before he got here.” the man named Anderson said, casting a sidelong look at the tall Alpha in the dark coat. The Alpha looked up and John, from his position crouched on the ground, had a clear view of the pale angular face. The face would have been handsome, exotic even if the Alpha hadn’t been scowling.
“Who’s this?” the Alpha asked Lestrade, nodding his head towards John.
“Our MI, play nice, I’m sick of hiring them.” Lestrade sighed, “Just tell me what you’ve got. Please.”
Thinking Lestrade was talking to him John set to work.
“Well, she was strangled, you can see bruises from…. Fingers…” John pointed to the woman's neck, “Omega... “ he muttered, “bonded, Probably her Alpha.”
The tall Alpha scoffed and John looked up at him.
“I’m sorry, do you find something funny about death? Or just the bit about Omegas being slaughtered by their Alphas, in most cases because they refuse to be breeding factories?” John felt heat rising to his cheeks, he took a calming breath then tore his eyes from the man and went back to the examination.
The Alpha blatantly rolled his eyes at John’s hostel remark. “First of all, I find the whole notion of using Omega’s as breeding factories , as your plebeian vocabulary so eloquently put it, to be outdated and completely unnecessary,” the critical gaze of this Alpha quickly focused back onto the much smaller man in front of him, “What I do find humorous is that you believed that Inspector Lestrade was actually wasting his time in asking you what you thought.”
“Oh, I’m sorry… but who’s actually getting paid here? Aren’t you here on what, a freelance basis?” John snorted and resisted the urge to adjust his collar, this was one Alpha he certainly wasn’t keen to let know he was an Omega, let him think I’m a beta. John made a point not to look at the tall Alpha, he ignored the man, and went about his job as best as he knew how. Lestrade had been correct when he said he was only needed for cause and time of death. Within a half hour, he and the DI were seated inside the DI’s car and headed to NSY.
It took nearly three hours, the paperwork, and John’s shoulder was cramping from having to fill out dozens of papers. He’d been spared the autopsy, the MI currently on payroll by NSY was more than willing to perform that gruesome task if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the Consultant. John wasn’t sure what was worse, the employment paperwork or the stack of paperwork required for the case. Lestrade handed John a cup of tea and apologized, saying next case it would be all on the computer, but that John would have to wait for IT to set him up with a login and a laptop. Still, it felt good to be working, to feel needed, anything even the pain in his shoulder, was better than sitting around his bedside just waiting. With any luck, he could move out of that hell hole and into something quieter, and cleaner.
With the paperwork finally complete, John rolled his head around his shoulders and let out a sigh. He got up from the empty desk he’d been using and stepped into Lestrade’s office.
“All set, I think. I hope.” John gently massaged his left shoulder and offered the DI a weak smile.
“Great. Thanks, by the way, for not running for the hills at Sherlock’s demeanor.”
“Sherlock? Oh, that posh Alpha who acted like he owned the place? I’ve dealt with worse, should have seen the chaps I had to deal with in the army.” John shrugged with his right shoulder and shook his head. “I can make it work.”
“Right. Let's see, today’s what…?” Lestrade looked hopelessly around his office, in search of a calendar.”
“Thursday,” John offered helpfully.
“Thursday. How ‘bout we have you come in, say 8 am Monday, we’ll go over the ropes, get you set up on our computer system, show you around. Today was… out of the ordinary, but we needed you.”
“Happy to help, and yeah, Monday.”
They exchanged mobile numbers, that way John could contact the DI over the weekend should anything arise, then John picked his way out of the confusing office, where one cubical looked like the next, and eventually found his way to the lift. Outside he hired a cab and with a slightly lighter mood than he’d had when he set out for St. James’s park, headed home.
After what seemed like an eternity the cab pulled into the carpark of his bedsit. Exhausted from the day, John fumbled in his wallet for a moment, paid the man then dug his keys out of his pocket. He was searching for his keyring for the right key, muttering about needing light, when his senses told him he wasn’t alone. That in itself wasn’t strange, there were always people coming and going here, John was hardly the only person living here. What was strange, was the feeling that he was being watched.
A hint of light and cigarette smoke caught his attention off to the left of the door. He’d have to pass by whoever was standing there, smoking. The hair on John’s neck rose and he stamped down an uneasy feeling. Deciding to face whoever it was head-on, John clutched his keys in his hand, making a fist with the keys facing out in all directions should he need to punch his way out of the situation. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light and waited for another hint of red from the end of the cigarette. He walked straight towards that solitary point of light, noticing as he grew closer the sharp cheekbones the red light lit up. Not enough to ID the man, but the smell… John recognized the scent, though by the time he put scent to person the man had made himself known.
Sherlock reached up with one of his gloved hands, taking the cigarette between his forefinger and middle before pulling the thin cylinder of finely cut tobacco from his mouth. Exhaling, the smoke traveled up from his lungs and cascaded past his thin yet supple lips. The smoke then lingered in the air for a moment or two before completely dispersing, leaving John and Sherlock alone with each other once again.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
It took John a moment to register the voice, only having heard it twice before. He blinked into the darkness, eyes stinging from the smoke and inhaled, confirming that the man in front of him, lurking, no leaning on his shitty bedsit outer wall, was that posh Alpha from the crime scene. No wonder Lestrade had a hard time keeping doctors employed. Did.. what was his name.. Sher… something, follow
everyone
home?
“I’m sorry?”
Sherlock took a moment to enjoy another round of his cigarette before gracing the man in front of him with an answer. “Did the war damage your hearing as well as your mind? I asked, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan. I’m… how?” having half expected to be attacked, John had been thrown off kilter. He hadn’t said anything to anyone about being in the military, Lestrade only knew because he’d seen his CV.
Sherlock propelled himself off the side of the building he was relaxing against and slowly made his way over to where John was standing. The Alpha was obviously in no hurry as his walk was both measured and, shockingly, rather unassuming for an Alpha. Coming to a stop a few paces away, Sherlock wrapped his lips around the pale filter of his cigarette, allowing his voice to permeate around it.
“You’re curious.”
"About?" John kept his voice neutral and held his ground as the Alpha stepped into his space. Despite the unwelcome closeness, John didn't feel threatened, so he let his fist full of keys drop to his side. His shoulder was aching anyways.
“About how I knew that you had been in the military. You believed the only one who knew was Lestrade. Quite foolish of you to believe that no one else is privy to such information, but then again, most people are idiots.”
"He said you were smart. Called you mad, too. I expect he was somewhat correct… though you don't look like a mad scientist to me. Possibly…" John stood tall, cocked his head to the side and tried to read the man in front of him. There was something off. As if the man didn't quite get social cues. "just above it all if I had to guess. And no, the fact that I was in the army is no secret. Hell, I'm staying in a military-funded bedsit, because my military pension hardly covers the cost of food. How you knew…" John paused for a moment and took in the sharp features of the man in front of him. "I am curious about that."
Sherlock removed the cigarette from his mouth, though not before taking a rather large puff. He then directly exhaled the smoke in the face of the man in front of him. Outsiders would probably think that the act was one of misfortunate circumstances, maybe even accidental. However, it was clear by close up visual cues that Sherlock’s maneuver was quite deliberate. Sherlock then threw the now offending article onto the ground before stomping it out with his highly expensive footwear. He then brought his attention back to John and fixed the shorter man with a very condescending stare.
“To begin with, you have a meticulous way of carving up that poor excuse for a haircut. You’ve been out of the army for months, however, deeply ingrained habits die hard it seems. Also, your face is tanned,” Sherlock then flicked one of his gloved hands towards John’s hands, “but the skin above your wrists does not match. Therefore, you’ve been abroad not sunbathing.”
Sherlock dug one of his gloved hands into his coat pocket, pulling out his half-empty packet of smokes. He pulled out the, what was it now...his eighth cigarette for that day? Sherlock rolled it between his fingers, seemingly trying to decide if he wanted to light it or simply admire the craftsmanship. In the middle of his musings, his kaleidoscope gaze flicked back up towards John.
“You carry yourself differently than the usual boring masses. You’re someone who demands respect, though whether you deserve it remains to be seen. You also have a habit of scanning your surroundings, as if you are constantly on the alert. Not to mention, you tend to position yourself where you can observe the entire room; obvious marks of a military man,” Sherlock suddenly swiveled his head to look at where John was currently residing, “Also, no one would willingly live in such deplorable conditions. Only someone with a crap army pension or a drug addict would find themselves here.”
“Remains to be seen?” John snorted, accidentally sending a spray of spittle in the direction of the stranger. “I was an army surgeon. Do you know what that means, precisely?” John stepped into the Alpha’s space, undaunted by their height difference and glared up at the man, “It means, Sir, that I had to perform life-saving surgeries, under pressure, while guns and bombs went off around me without flinching one iota. I had to pull my injured friends off the battlefield and tell them they were okay, when in fact they were dying in my arms. So, if you think I’m so easily scared off by you and your Posh-Rich-Boy attitude, think again.” John squared his shoulders, wincing a bit at the pain in his left, briefly thinking that it was time to start physio before it was too late, “So, yes, in short, I am highly aware of my surroundings. I just spent 3 years in a place where everything was a threat, and this,” he gestured to the shambles of a building behind the Alpha, “is how they thank me. A highly trained Army Captain, and field surgeon to boot, stuck in this hell hole because I dared get injured.” John stepped back, adjusted the collar of his shirt and gently massaged his left shoulder.
His heightened senses alerted him to the change in the Alpha’s mood. The cocky man had gone to something close to, self-satisfaction to mild annoyance. Though he couldn’t tell if the man was annoyed at him, or something else.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a rather interesting day, and I’d like to go strip to my pants and have a cup of tea. Was there some other reason you sought me out at my home? Or was this just some sort of hazing?” Though he could tell the man meant him no immediate threat, John held onto his self-defensive anger and willed the man to step aside.
“Oh,” he said offhandedly, “These things will kill you.” John plucked the unlit cigarette out of the hands of the Alpha and, holding the man’s gaze, snapped it in half and tossed it to the ground.
John wasn’t sure if he’d offended the Alpha, it wasn’t something Omegas could do naturally. They were born and bred to be in their alphas shadow their entire life, but John had spent enough time in the military to stand up for himself, he had never been a passive Omega, always fighting the expectations life had handed him. The man, he finally remembered was named Sherlock, kind of half smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his ears, and plucked another cigarette out of the pack in a defiant gesture, then stepped aside.
“Night,” John muttered, brushing past the Alpha, and just happened to inhale deeply, filling his senses with the scent of the man. It was overwhelming. Rumor has it, that an Omega could smell and tell from the smell, their true bondmate, that the scent of the Alpha would send them to their knees out of pure desire. Looking back, John assumed the only reason he hadn’t fallen at Sherlock’s feet was because of the Alpha who currently laid claim on him, hundreds of miles away. Hopefully roasting to death in a hot desert.
He fumbled with his keys for a moment, then smelled the scent of burning tobacco as he pushed his way into the lobby of his bedsit. In his flat, a small three-room, if you counted the bath, living quarters, he did just as he said he would to Sherlock. He stripped to his pants, then shamelessly wanked to the scent of Sherlock.
Over the next few months, John worked in many cases for NSY. Most of them, if he were being honest, were boring easy cases. Simple, “I found dear grandad dead when I went to check on him this morning,” cases, and he didn’t see Sherlock again for nearly two months.
The case was a triple homicide, the three bodies on scene were, before John even arrived, identified by the mother of the Omega as Matthew Bryant 30, Omega, Cecilia Hines 34, Beta, and Ramsy Bryant, age six, son of Matthew. Everyone one scene was visibly affected by the sight of the small child, and even John found it hard not to let it get to him when he pronounced the cause of death. Everyone, that was, besides Sherlock. The Alpha strolled into the room, snapping a pair of latex gloves on, eyes darting over the scene. His eyes landed and stayed on John for what felt like a solid minute. John found he couldn’t hold the man’s gaze without fearing the Alpha would know exactly what he had wanked too on their last visit.
With as much professionalism as he could muster, John cleared his throat and willed himself to stop sniffing the air in a vain attempt to fill his senses with the smell of Sherlock over the scent of death. Remembering how abrupt Sherlock had been on the last case, John busied himself with rattling off what he knew.
“He,” John pointed to Matthew, “died of blunt force trauma, he was hit on the back of his head. Early judgment, going by the blood on it, was with this.” With gloved hands, he picked up a cast iron bookend and held it for Sherlock to examine.
“The beta, she was stabbed no fewer than six times. Loss of blood was her COD, she was the one who made the 999 call, sadly enough.”
John paused, licking his lips and feeling a little bit of his heartbreak away as he turned their attention to the small child lying beside his Omega parent.
“Poor kid was suffocated, it’s hard to say, but I put his time of death just a few minutes before the adults if you look at how he was trying to protect him. It almost looks like the child was in his Omega parents arms before the Omega was murdered.”
The elderly Omega mother began weeping in the background, John did his best to ignore the poor parent. This was why Sherlock had been called in. It was most likely domestically, but the parents of the deceased Omega we wealthy, and were demanding fast results. Calling in Sherlock simply assured the yard that the case would be wrapped up by evening.
“Mrs. Brooks there, was out taking the eldest child, twelve, Douglas, to football practice when this all occurred.”
“This is hardly a six,” the Alpha said, wrinkling his nose in the direction of DI Lestrade, “Even you know the Alpha did it. She murdered her Omega, his mistress and their child, probably for leverage. She’s a drunk, Lestrade, you’ll find her in a pub called Bennies three blocks from here.”
Instead of questioning how Sherlock knew, John stared at him in wonder. It wasn't until Sherlock turned his gaze from the grisly scene back to him that John realized he’d said out loud, instead of thinking it, “Fantastic.”
“Proof, Sherlock.” Lestrade sounded wrung out as if he and Sherlock played this game every time. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked imploringly at Sherlock.
“The proof is all around you, if you’d only just look.” Sherlock snarled and twirled in his spot, pointing about him to the room. “Go through his mobile, I’m quite certain you’ll find messages between him and the beta here, bonding went wrong, after all, he was bonded to a drunk. Look at the bottles on the counter! Either they’d just hosted a kegger, or someone in this family has a drinking problem. My money is on the Alpha. As for bennies, there’s a bottle opener on the counter sporting their logo, as well as a mug. Send a car, pick her up, I’m sure given enough pressure she’ll admit to the whole thing.
"Fantastic," repeated John, looking around and seeing the evidence all around him as if it had been alarmingly obvious the entire time.
"You know you do that out loud?" the Alpha cast a quizzical gaze in John's direction, making him blush.
"Sorry," John muttered quickly, but Sherlock quirked a smile and that single smile sent tendrils of pleasure coursing through John's body, turning his insides to jelly.
"No... it's, it's fine," Sherlock replied, and then the quirk of his lips became a full smile, and oh did the smile do things to John. John wanted to apologize for being such a jerk during their first meeting. He wanted to praise this Alpha again, to coax out smile after smile, knowing he'd caused it. Instead, he cleared his throat, broke their gaze and busied himself with packing up his medical kit.
Some point, while his back was turned, the Alpha left. Leaving John wondering when he'd see him again. As it turned out, it would not be long. When John was finally cleared to leave the crime scene, Sherlock was waiting just outside the roped off area, a lit cigarette between his lips, clearing waiting for something. Or someone.
"John!" gracefully he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between two fingers, pacing the yellow tape in the direction John was walking. John was struck with the image of a prowling panther.
"Doctor Watson," he tried correcting, though somehow he knew his attempt would fall on deaf ears.
"Still at the bedsit, I see." It was a statement, not a question, and John found he couldn't stamp down his curiosity.
"And you know this, how exactly? Been following me again? Lurking in the shadows like a vampire."
"Your shoes," the Alpha said as if that 100% cleared everything up.
"My shoes?" John rolled his eyes, then looked down at his tan Loake dress shoes.
"Yes, your shoes, they're new. If you'd found a flat here in London you wouldn't have money to spend on new shoes. So, new shoes mean you're still at the bedsit. Child's play."
"Fine yes, I'll play along." John rolled his eyes and ducked under the yellow tape to the side of the scene. "I'm still in that horrid place," he shifted his medical bag from his left hand to his right and flexed his left shoulder a bit.
"War injury? You what, got shot?" Sherlock said after looking at John with narrowed eyes.
"War injury, yeah," John said, not answering the bit about being shot. He did his best to remain honest, and if people wanted to believe he'd been shot rather than attacked and nearly raped by some blood-hungry Alpha, then he'd let them believe that.
"I have my eyes on a place in central London, landlady owes me a favor, rent is cheap. There are two bedrooms." Sherlock fell into stride beside John, and John wished he wouldn't. The Alpha smelled divine. He'd always believed it to be a myth, about being able to smell your ideal mate. But here he was, bonded, and he still wanted to stop, grab Sherlock and rub his face all over the man.
"And you're telling me this.... because?" John spared the Alpha a glance and was struck with how young he looked. It was a complete 180 from how he'd been at the crime scene, he'd been so sure of himself, confident. Now he appeared shy, uncertain as if he were the new kid at school asking if anyone wanted to play with him. "Are you.. you're offering the second room to me? As what? Flatmates?" John was astounded, but the idea was intriguing, even if it meant he'd have to face living with an Alpha and hiding his bite daily. Surely the offer would be redacted if Sherlock knew he was an Omega, wouldn't it? Better not risk it.
Two days later John found himself moving in to 221B Baker Street. The flat was messy, Sherlock clearly had never lived in a military atmosphere, but John found the clutter comforting. Oh, and did the flat smell like Sherlock. It was glorious. John had to actually stop, halfway up the stairs with an armful of boxes just to catch his breath when he'd first entered. He'd passed it off as a stitch in his side, and Sherlock Holmes, as he'd learned was the man's full name, simply shrugged and carried his load, a box of John's medical books, up the remaining stairs.
John stood on the landing, staring after the Alpha for a long moment, silently cruising himself for agreeing to this whole situation. Yes, this flat was a much nicer place than his bedsit, but he was beginning to wonder if he'd completely cracked up, agreeing to move in with an Alpha. Especially the Alpha his senses told him was "the one". Even from here, from halfway between the hall and the flat, all John could smell was him. Sherlock smelled like the finest, sweetest tobacco mixed with honey. His scent was intoxicating, it made his head swim and his knees weak.
John had spent the night before, his last night at the shitty bedsit, searching online for stories of Omegas and Alphas claiming they'd gotten together over the smell. Apparently, if the world wide web of relationship forums were to even remotely be trusted, it was no myth. It seems, if John hadn't been bonded as he was, Sherlock would be able to smell him, and it would affect him in much the same way. It would send the Alpha into courtship mode. Courtship, where an Alpha would promise to provide shelter, food, prove that they can take care of any potential future family.
But, wasn't that was Sherlock was doing? Their second meeting and he'd offered him a place to stay, nearly rent free? John groaned, his head hurting from overthinking and from lack of sleep, and trudged up the remaining stairs to the lounge where the majority of his belongings were stacked next to the sofa. He'd already seen his room, one more flight up. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson had shown it to him earlier while Sherlock was busy arguing with someone named Mycroft on the phone.
His bedroom, by some small miracle, didn't quite smell like the Alpha, and he wanted to keep it that way. Sherlock hadn't complained when John said to drop the boxes halfway to his room, and that only meant John had to run them up one, not two flights of stairs. John took it slow, taking a box at a time then unpacking it. His room was spacious and overlooked the street below. He had a bathroom attached to it, which he was secretly pleased about, though this one had just a toilet and sink, he'd still have to shower downstairs. It was late evening by the time John finished unpacking. his back ached and his shoulder was still, but his stomach was growling, he'd eat then take a hot shower afterwards. He headed downstairs and found Sherlock sitting in an ugly leather chair cleaning a violin. The Alpha looked up and stared at John with such intensity that John felt as if he were naked on stage.
"There's a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street, I could order dinner. I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of keeping food around. We'll have to do some shopping tomorrow."
Shelter, food, shopping. John's Omega brain preened, but he stamped down the feeling and simply nodded.
"Ta, I don't have to work tomorrow, unless I get called in, so we can stock the fridge then. I enjoy cooking."
"I know, and good. I don't usually bore myself with trivial things like cooking." Sherlock put his violin down carefully, John noticed, almost reverently, then stood and fixed his suit. "Coming? No, wait, you're back is sore and you've overworked your shoulder. You were planning on eating then taking a shower. Go shower, I'll be back shortly with food. There are towels in the cupboard. Make yourself at home."
"Pull yourself together, Watson!" John chided himself as he simultaneously yanked on his cock, images of Sherlock sitting in that chair fingering a violin bow filling his mind as he came, letting the hot water wash it, and his guilt down the drain. As he washed up he promised himself it would be the last time he masturbated to the thought of the Alpha. Especially now that he was living with him.
It was a promise he kept for roughly two months. Then the time came when his natural heat cycle would have been upon him. Due to the bond, and separation from his Alpha, he wouldn't have a true heat. However, that didn't keep all the symptoms from rearing their ugly heads. For the rest of his life, or the rest of the bond, whichever came first, every few months he would have to suffer through a week of being miserable. He woke up that morning both physically and emotionally sensitive. His already heightened senses were increased tenfold, to the point where he could smell, from his bedroom all the way down two flights of stairs, that Mrs. Hudson had chosen coffee over tea to go with her breakfast. His backside was wet, a little of his natural biology making itself noticed, and the smell of Sherlock did nothing to help his situation.
Over the course of their rooming together, John had devised creative ways to hide his bite. Most mornings he would shower early, change for work (or just the day) in the bathroom. On especially lazy days where he couldn't be arsed to put clothes on until at least 10 am, he would simply wear his dressing gown and drape his damp towel over his shoulder, then go sit in his chair and read the newspaper. He wore only collared shirts and had even gone out and purchased a few short sleeve shirts with a collar. All in all, it worked. Better yet, it seemed natural.
However, this particular morning, waking up in his own slick, even his sheets felt scratchy to him. The last thing he wanted was to have a stiff collar scratching up and down his neck all day. He shot Lestrade a text, telling the DI that he wasn't feeling well and to forward any cases to Glover (the only other MI on staff who could even remotely tolerate Sherlock) and that he expected to be back on his feet in a day or two.
As for dealing with Sherlock, perhaps if he pretended to actually be sick the Alpha would leave him alone. Theoretically, except for food and to shower, he could avoid the lounge, thus avoiding most of his chances of running into Sherlock.
Avoiding all instinctual desires to pleasure himself John laid in bed for nearly an hour. He could hear Sherlock moving around downstairs, could smell Sherlock every time the alpha moved. After an hour, however, John couldn't take it any longer. Blessedly, Sherlock began playing the violin, which meant there was a good chance he was looking out the window or simply just lost in thought.
Thinking this was as good a time as any to get up, and trusting that his natural scent couldn't be smelled by anyone other than his bonded Alpha, he gathered up his softest button up, a pair of slacks and his most worn out, comfortable pants and headed downstairs.
Sherlock was, in fact, looking out the window and paid John no heed whatsoever when he ducked through the living quarters towards the only shower. He took a long hot shower, decided against shaving, hoping the stubble would help aid to his "I'm not feeling well" case then dressed.
Sherlock was still composing, so he took his time rummaging around the fridge looking for an easy breakfast. He was craving protein, but in the end, he settled on a bagel nearly drowned in cream cheese and tea with a little bit of sugar added into it.
He sat, carefully, at the small table in the kitchen and was just taking his first sip of tea when Sherlock waltzed into the room on his way into his bedroom. However, he stopped halfway through the kitchen, turned, and stared at John.
"You look... something's wrong. Something's different." He stepped closer, and John had to nearly bury his nose into his mug of tea to help keep the scent of the Alpha of his dreams from flooding his senses. He didn't trust himself, not like this.
"Don't feel well." John tried to keep his voice even and was pleased to find he at least had control over that. Sherlock still stared at him with narrowed eyes, making John feel like he was some sort of specimen on a glass tray, so John faked a cough. "Might be contagious, best not get to close."
Though still suspicious, Sherlock took a step back and considered him. There was something off about his friend. The thought gave him pause. Friend? Yes, he guessed friend was the closest word to how he felt for this strange man who came into his life so uniquely.
John had woken up late, much later than the military trained man normally woke, and through his back had been turned to John when he'd finally come downstairs to shower, Sherlock could smell the guilt bubbling off the man.
That was another odd thing about John. He had no exact smell, as an Alpha Sherlock had a good sense of smell, he could detect if someone was lying, just with his nose. But he never got much off John. It was as if John had been born something new, something not quite beta... just... normal. Oh, he could smell the man's moods, but never much more than that. It intrigued him to no end. Perhaps it had something to do with his time in the military. Regardless, he saw it as a puzzle to be solved by him, if it were solvable.
And now here he was, smelling of guilt and a tiny bit of fear, dressed in a tattered polo shirt and sweatpants. As someone who was strict about his own appearance, he couldn't help but silently judge John for his worse-than-usual clothing choice. Aside from what would clearly be a solid reason to call the fashion police, John looked like shit. He was pale, he couldn't sit still as if he had ants crawling over his skin, and now he was coughing? Sherlock couldn't tell if the man was faking or if he really was coming down with something. Perhaps, if John didn't wash his mug out Sherlock could swab it and run a few tests on John's saliva.
"Your clothes don't match." Is all Sherlock said and continued on his mission to go check on the mold cultures he had growing beneath the sink in the bathroom. He wanted to see how the steam from John's shower had affected their growth.
John's period of discomfort lasted for two days. He was thankful to report, to himself, that it hadn't been terrible. Knowing what to expect in the future he could probably even work through it. In fact, working through it would limit his exposure to close proximity to Sherlock, and his drug-like scent, probably making this pseudo heat easier to bear.