Work Header

Alpha-Alpha Etiquette

Work Text:


This fic is dedicated to the anon who referred to my work as having a “refreshing hint of the bizarre,” and to the other anon who called me “a bold, enthusiastic writer who's not afraid to take on some serious kink now and then.” I know that not everyone enjoys what I do, but when the people who do enjoy it take the time to say such nice things about me, it renews my bold enthusiasm for taking on the serious kink. Thank you, nonnies!

This is a fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Anon said, “I'd like a fic that blends the idea of having tentacles with the omegaverse.”




Perhaps Mike Stamford believed that John was in such dire straits that any flatmate would do, even one who was otherwise completely unsuitable. (And by “unsuitable,” John meant “for anyone.”) Not that John couldn’t co-habit with another alpha. He’d spent years in the army, after all, and even in civilian life, two intelligent alphas could find a place of mutual respect and cooperation from which to interact with each other, so long as no omega was introduced to disrupt the fragile peace. But this bloke at Bart’s didn’t appear interested in observing any alpha-alpha etiquette, or any etiquette at all, really. He waltzed about the lab, speaking to John as though Mike had presented him as a potential mate. Did this genius not perceive another alpha when he saw one?

“That’s it?” John said, to demonstrate that he would not be pushed around so. “We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat.”


What an idiot. This cocky bastard actually can’t tell that I’m an alpha.

And yet, as he drew near to John, John couldn’t help but feel like this cocky bastard had something he wanted. Something inexplicable, intangible. It might not be in him, but it was on him, and surrounded him and clung to him, and whatever it was, John wanted in on it.

That was why he went to 221B Baker Street. In exchange for an enviably-located residence and the aura that hung on Sherlock Holmes, John would gladly tolerate his rudeness. Perhaps he’d even enjoy teaching him a thing or two about manners.




Sherlock didn’t come to heel so easily as that. But a nudge here and there calmed him down a bit, and they soon carved out a comfortable domestic situation. Sherlock might collect body parts and noxious chemicals, but he never brought anything into the flat that might cause serious discord, like an omega.




The first time John Watson knew he was capable of falling in love with another alpha was the night he watched Sherlock fall spectacularly from the back of a motorbike and skip like a stone across the road’s gravel shoulder before careening into a ditch. (To his credit, the process by which Sherlock had got onto the motorbike in the first place was even more spectacular.) Having procured a lorry under circumstances that were dubious at best, John got to watch Sherlock’s gruesome fall from his high vantage point behind the wheel.

John had seen many men die, men for whom he’d felt much affection. Not only had he seen them gunned down and blown up, he’d watched them disappear over ridges and had known in his heart that he would never see them again, and had never felt anything about it except stoic acceptance. In quiet moments, he might grieve for them, and their families, but this process was always punctuated by pondering whether he did so only because he felt he ought to.

But when he saw Sherlock launched from the bike, skidding across the shoulder and into the ditch, he felt a crushing panic, a split second of imagining his entire dull, decades-long, empty future without Sherlock. Surely that selfish fear was a kind of love?

John abandoned the chase and pulled to the side of the road. Sherlock was attempting to scream in pain or  panic, but he’d got the wind knocked out of him and had nothing in his lungs to facilitate any vocalization.

John briefly contemplated which would cause him less excruciating pain in his shoulder, a bridal carry or a fireman carry, but Sherlock was already staggering to his feet. “Nothing’s broken,” he wheezed. “I can walk.” But his left side was a mess of blood, gravel, and shredded fabric, from shoulder to shoe. (The one shoe he still had on.)

John gave Sherlock his left side to lean on, and together they hobbled. “Let’s get you to A and E quick,” John said as he gave Sherlock a boost into the cab of the lorry, “before the shock wears off and you start feeling it.”

“No,” Sherlock rasped. John seemed not to hear this, as he made his way round to the driver’s side and hopped in the cab. Sherlock reiterated: “No hospital. Take me to Baker Street. We can take care of this ourselves.”

John turned the ignition. “Sherlock, with just me, treating this amount of invasive abrasion will take hours, and it’ll almost certainly get infected.”

“I’m not going to hospital. I’ll bail right out of this lorry before I let you take me.” Sherlock put his hand on the door handle, in case John didn’t believe him. John did.

“Alright. I’ll take you home. Just calm down. Jesus, anything you want. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

A silence followed that made John claustrophobic. He dismissed it by bombarding Sherlock with questions, so that he might determine if Sherlock had sustained a concussion. (Despite the fact that Sherlock did not know who the Prime Minister was, and consulted his mobile when asked the date, John concluded that he had not.)




When John first noticed Sherlock’s respiration getting sharper and quicker, ascending the stairs to the flat, he assumed it was the pain catching up with him. But the closer he listened, the less the shallow breaths and harsh sighs sounded like agony, and the more they sounded like anxiety.

Standing next to the bathtub, John unlaced and removed Sherlock’s remaining shoe, then pulled it off along with his socks. “Everything else is getting cut off,” John said as he held up the implement that they referred to day-to-day as the Big Scissors. “And it’s not going to be fun. Ready?”

Sherlock flipped his hands, palm out, palm in, palm out, and sighed again. “Yes.” Yes meaning Not quite.

John began with the cuff of Sherlock’s jacket and shirt. The going was tough, both layers of fabric proving almost too much for the blades, but he made his slow way up the sleeve and across the shoulder to the collar. He filled a pitcher with water and poured it down Sherlock’s arm, to help separate the fabric from the wound where the blood had dried. Still, it required some pulling, but Sherlock took it bravely. There was no fatty tissue or bone visible in the newly exposed mess, which instilled in John a modicum of confidence that they could take care of this here. The right side of the coat and shirt slipped off Sherlock’s shoulder and down his arm.

It occurred to John then that, being in shock, Sherlock was probably dying of thirst. He re-filled the pitcher half-way, and Sherlock gulped it down while John kneeled to begin cutting again at Sherlock’s cuff. He scissored his way up over the knee, along the edge of the abrasion but not too near it. He poured some more water over the wound, and then, when he made the final snip, through the waistband, the weight of the fabric pulled the trousers down the other leg, and what John saw made him drop the scissors.

Below Sherlock’s navel, amidst the dark pubic hair, there was no ample alpha cock but a simple, three-inch horizontal slit.  Barely visible along this seam was a narrow sliver of pink mucous membrane. At this distance, John caught a faint whiff of something musky and compelling, but he collected himself and said, “Right. Into the bath.”

Sherlock laid on his right side. John brought a floor lamp from the sitting room, to better see what he was doing. He could have asked a stupid question, like “Is that why you didn’t want to go to hospital,” but didn’t. As he filled the pitcher again from the bath tap, he said, “Do you want a swig of whisky before we start? Or something to bite down on?”

“Just do it.”

The water cascaded over Sherlock’s skin, dislodging gravel as it went. As pitcher after pitcher was poured, the water pooled pink and gritty in the bottom of the tub, with bits of flesh mixed in.

John had never heard Sherlock curse before.

Once all the least-stubborn gravel had been flushed out, it was time to bring out the tweezers. The first aid kit had a pair still sealed in plastic; John opened the package and asked Sherlock if he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t have that whisky. Considering what he’d unexpectedly learned in the last twenty minutes, John wondered if Sherlock was refusing because he no longer trusted John to be around him when he was in any sort of compromised state.

While working on one area of the wound, John kept the rest of it covered with damp towels, to prevent it from scabbing over.

The longer the procedure went on, the more breaks John had to take: first to place a towel under his knees to ease the strain of kneeling over the tub; once to send Mrs Hudson out for all the Savlon and gauze pads she could procure at this time of night; and after that occasionally to unkink his spine, rotate his shoulders, and rest his eyes. Sherlock was sweating and shaking with fatigue, and, at about the ninety-minute mark, had finally exhausted his energy reserves and was no longer able to continue stifling his cries of pain.

John used a magnifying glass to inspect Sherlock twice from head to foot, searching for any stubborn pieces of gravel that remained after two hours of picking. When he was absolutely certain that every bit of grit had been removed, John squeezed tube after tube of ointment thickly over the abrasion, not only for the antibiotic properties but to reduce the chances of the gauze getting stuck to the wound. He laid down the gauze to cover an area much wider than the abrasion, so that he would not be sticking any surgical tape to it.

The effort of getting Sherlock out of the tub was the greatest of all, as aside from the pain, Sherlock’s muscles had stiffened and his circulation had been significantly compromised while he’d been curled up in the tub. John wasn’t exactly a picture of energy and enthusiasm himself.

Once Sherlock was stood up and on the bathmat, John brushed away all the debris that had stuck to other places as it had been washed away from the wound. Only then did he realise how much additional pain Sherlock must have suffered as the grit on the bottom of the tub dug into his right side, all while John had ordered him to keep perfectly still while he worked. John wiped away these tiny pieces of gravel, but the angry red impressions they made in his skin stayed long afterwards.

Sherlock’s entire right side had fallen asleep, and before he could walk, John had to rub his flank and down his leg to get the blood flowing again. While doing this, he noticed that some debris was still clinging to Sherlock’s pubic hair. Without thinking, he reached out to brush it away. Before he even saw the resulting action, he felt it: his wrist was caught in a hot, powerful grip, and when he instinctively tried to pull away, it clutched him even more tightly.

A pink appendage had emerged from the slit below Sherlock’s navel, long enough to wrap around his wrist twice. It was shiny-wet, but not slick enough for John to slip free of its grip.

John kept calm, swallowed thickly, and said, “I’m gonna need that back.”

“I can’t control it,” Sherlock said. “Just hold your hand still, and it will let you go.” He added, “I think.”

John let his hand go limp. They waited in silence for a minute or two, until the appendage slowly uncoiled itself, still obviously suspicious of John. It seemed not so much to pull itself back inside, but instead to shrink, becoming shorter and thicker, and then at last to invert, before disappearing entirely.

“I was just going to brush the gravel out,” John said in his own defence. “Perhaps you’d better do it.”




There were sleeping pills and OxyContin in the medicine chest. John never worried about their presence, even on “danger nights,” because Sherlock was only interested in stimulants. And even now, when John offered them, Sherlock refused.

“They’ll cloud my mind,” he said as John helped him limp into the bedroom. “The case isn’t over yet. Le Fossoyeur and his gang are still at large. I need to think.”

John laid Sherlock down on the left side of his enormous bed. “I sleep on the right side,” Sherlock complained.

“If I put you on this side,” John retorted, “then I can sleep on the other side and not worry about accidentally kicking your wound in my sleep.”

As soon as he saw Sherlock’s expression, John realised what he’d just said. Or rather, he realised that he’d made that decision in his head but had not found a tactful way to sell it to Sherlock without seeming like he…you know...

John’s save was to be overly indignant. “For God’s sake, I’m not going to try to touch your bits. I just want to be right nearby in case you need me.”

“’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You are quite far from fine. If you were to get directions from your current location to ‘Fine’ on Google Maps, it would involve a kayak. Do you understand how close you came to death? You were thrown from a motorbike at sixty kilometres per hour with no helmet. You might have cracked your head open or broken your spine.”

“Didn’t though, did I.” Sherlock sounded just a bit smug, there. “Think I don’t know how to fall off a motorbike. Besides, I can’t sleep with someone else in the bed.”

“Oh, how would you know. You’re not going to sleep for hours, anyway, not with all the adrenaline in your veins and your refusal to take a sleeping pill. And don’t tell me you can’t think about drug kingpins who are still at large with someone else in the bed.”

Apparently Sherlock was prepared to accept John’s proposal, because he stayed put. John reached across him to grab the duvet that he’d pulled back.

“Just the sheet,” Sherlock said.

“You should stay as warm as possible. It will improve your circulation, and that’ll help you heal faster.”

“You’re going to be a bloody furnace under here with me.”

“Yes, well, try to control your excitement about that while I go upstairs. I’m just going to change clothes and I’ll be right back.” He cringed at the sugary-reassuring tone he’d injected into that last sentence.

John took a few extra minutes to brush his teeth and treat himself to a whore’s bath in the sink before returning to Sherlock’s bedroom. He put two different bottles of pills and a glass of water on the bedside table, in case Sherlock changed his mind, and got in the bed.

Sherlock must have known the real reason John wanted to stay so close by. It was nothing to do with Sherlock’s genitals or the faintly arousing scent they emitted. It was John’s own fear. The way his stomach had flipped when he saw Sherlock hit the ground. He’d spent the last four hours being the focused, detached physician, and now he just wanted to indulge his abandonment anxiety and keep one hand on Sherlock’s good arm as he fell asleep.



Dawn’s light came and went; John never saw it. He awoke at--

“Twenty past two,” Sherlock said.


“Whenever you wake up, the first thing you want to know is what time it is. It’s twenty past two.”

There was no clock in the room. Sherlock could always tell the time by the angle and intensity of sunlight, indoors or out.

John mumbled, “Did you sleep at all?”

“For a few hours. But I’ve been awake since Noon.”

With one eye open, John could see that Sherlock was flat on his back, holding nothing. “You must be bored.”

“On the contrary. I’ve kept myself occupied assessing the extent of the impact trauma I’ve suffered. I’ve tried moving three hundred and twelve of my six hundred and forty skeletal muscles, and so far all of them hurt except my orbicularis oculi.”

As he worked through his morning grunt-and-yawn routine, John shoved back his side of the covers and swung his feet over. “It hurts to do anything except blink. Guess I’ll be making breakfast, then.”

“Oh! I’ve just now discovered, my perineum doesn’t hurt, either.”

John sighed, “Yeah, I’ll definitely be making breakfast.”

With some supplementary materials provided by Mrs Hudson, John managed to put together a decent fry-up: bacon, eggs, beans, sausage, and tomato. He brought Sherlock his on a tray, and helped him sit up before placing it in his lap. He’d just turned to go fetch his own when he heard Sherlock say, “Not hungry.”

“Not having any of that. Eat.”

“If I eat or drink, I’ll have to get up to use the toilet.”

“Yes. That’s what people who are alive do.”

“Everything hurts. I don’t want to have to get up.”

John had a feeling, a premonition. Sherlock was about to upend that tray. He calmly walked back and took it from Sherlock’s lap before he said, “If you swear off fluids until the pain is gone, you won’t get up ever again because you’ll be dead in three days.”

That. That right there would have been the moment when the food would have gone flying. Instead, Sherlock snapped, “Don’t think you can start telling me what to do.”

“I’m a doctor, and I think you should eat food. This isn’t a power thing.”

Being a doctor is a power thing.”

John smiled, already pleased with himself for he was about to do. “I understand that you are not refusing to eat because you’re not hungry. You’re refusing to eat just to be contrary. I can’t be angry with you because I understand your motivations and I sympathise with them. Instead, we can have a calm, grown-up discussion about your feelings, and how our relationship has changed in light of new revelations, and by doing so we should reach a mutually--”

“Oh, shut up and just give me the food. You’ve gone and taken all the fun out of it.”

John put the tray back in Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock devoured everything on his plate without another word. When John returned with his own plate, he found it had gone cold in the kitchen during their discussion, and the congealed grease put him off. It didn’t put off Sherlock, who stabbed at the slimy tomatoes and bacon with his fork and ate them as well.

After breakfast, John helped Sherlock lie down again. John reclined beside him and read the paper. This idyll lasted for several minutes, until Sherlock said, “You could do that in the sitting room. I can just shout if I need anything.”

“Suppose you’re right,” John deadpanned. He folded the paper and made half a move to get up to leave.

“Wait.” Sherlock’s right arm twitched, like he was about to reach out. But he didn’t. “On second thought,” he said drily, “perhaps it is more practical if you stay here. After all, the further away you are, the longer it will take for you to do the things I ask.”

“That’s practical thinking,” John said, and resettled himself on the bed, slightly closer to Sherlock than he was before. He considered that his reward for having successfully called Sherlock’s bluff.

Being unaccustomed to digesting large, heavy meals, Sherlock dropped off to sleep shortly thereafter. Typically, he slept on his stomach, but now he was on his back, and so he was snoring. John continued to read and found he didn’t mind the snoring at all. He concluded that that meant he was in love for certain, and also that Sherlock was now officially his omega. Everything that had happened in the last fifteen hours had basically been their ceremony, the rituals custom-designed for them, just like some couples these days had Star Wars-themed weddings.

True, he and Sherlock might not have mated yet, but that was just a formality. He was quite pleased with himself, actually, that he’d not even felt tempted, despite Sherlock’s nakedness and vulnerability. Don’t know what the fuss is about in all those screwball comedies, John thought. This living with an omega around is a breeze. Easy-peasy.




In the evening, between two of Sherlock’s naps, John uncovered the wounds and examined them.

“That’s healing nicely,” he said. “We did a good job of keeping it from scabbing over, so you won’t have much scarring.”


The pink skin made John think of the pink tentacle. He shook his head to banish the thoughts.

After applying more Savlon and re-dressing the wounds, John covered Sherlock with the duvet. That’s when one arm shot out from beneath the covers and gripped John’s wrist, changing the whole atmosphere of the room. “John.” Sherlock looked past him, out the window, and held the both of them perfectly, intensely still. “Thank you. You are a good doctor. If I didn’t have you…I mean, if you hadn’t been there…I’d have had to go to hospital…”

John was about to offer a platitude, but Sherlock turned to look him in the eye. “You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“Of course, I would never,” John said. “But who else knows?”

“I won’t tell you that. I don’t want you discussing it with them. Don’t assume that anyone knows.” Then, as if the last two minutes of conversation had not happened, he pulled the covers over his head and said, “I want a curry.”

“You just ate an hour ago.”

“A curry,” Sherlock repeated more clearly, as though that were the problem. Le Fossoyeur might still be out there, but with no new leads to tempt Sherlock out of the flat, he took to convalescence like a duck to water.




Four more days went by, and when John pulled the gauze away, he announced, “Look at all that nice new pink skin. If you promise to take it easy, we can have all the bandages off.”

Sherlock’s attention remained fixed on his laptop, which had occupied him all the while John was tending to him. His enforced indolence offered an excellent opportunity to catch up on scientific journals, though the article he found most intriguing eluded him, as his Urdu was a bit rusty. He nodded vaguely to indicate that John could leave all the bandages off if that’s what pleased him.

John smiled and gave a little snort of a laugh. “What am I saying, take it easy. You’ve been taking it so easy lately, you’re making me nervous.” With a fist full of gauze, John stood up, then leaned over and playfully admonished, “If you keep eating the way you have, and stay in bed all day, you’re going to end up with a little belly.”




Ultimately, it didn’t matter what had prompted it. It might have been the fact that Sherlock had begun keeping much closer quarters with an alpha. Or it may have been the increase in the amount of physical contact he received, which would stimulate the release of certain hormones. Perhaps it was just because he was eating properly and inching ever so slightly toward a healthy weight. It might even have been the stress caused by his brush with death. The confluence of factors made it difficult to puzzle out.

The first thing that John could be certain of was, he woke up in the middle of the night feeling a hand playing with his cock.

“John,” Sherlock whispered as soon as he perceived that John was awake. “I think my wounds might have got infected after all. I feel so feverish.” His hand continued working, as if he wasn’t aware of what it was doing.

John turned away with a snuffle. “You’re having a weird dream or something. Go back to…”

Then he scent hit him. It was sweet and dark and it made it difficult for him to think. Years in the army had kept him far away from any opportunities to experience it in close proximity, but he knew it immediately for what it was.

Next to him, Sherlock lay naked, draped enticingly in his sheet. John put his palm over Sherlock’s heart. His skin was burning up.

“Yes, John. Yes, keep touching me. It feels better when you touch me.” Sherlock looked at his hand now, intrigued. “I don’t know why I’m touching your prick. I just want to.”

“You’re in heat,” John said. “Do you understand?”

“Oh. Well, yes, that makes sense.” Sherlock took a deep breath, let it out with a groan. He was perspiring, and the street light coming in the window made his body glow; it highlighted every plane and curve as he softly arched and fidgeted. So much for the self-control John had been patting himself on the back for, the last few days. Now that he was actually being tested, he readily admitted that he was suffering a crushing defeat. He cursed himself for the wasted time: How have I lived all week in this room with this tender morsel and not devoured him?

“Okay, yeah,” John muttered aloud. “This is happening.”

He got up on his hands and knees, moving so that he was perpendicular to Sherlock, and began inhaling Sherlock’s scent, starting in the crook of his neck and making his way down, toward the most potent, concentrated source. He pulled the sheet down to expose the slit. It had opened, just slightly, just enough to see the barest hint of the moist, glistening flesh within.

Sherlock made another grab for John’s cock, which by this time was throbbing painfully in time with the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Do you want that?” John whispered across Sherlock’s skin.


John rearranged the pillows, pulling one from beneath Sherlock’s head and placing it under his arse. Sherlock’s legs naturally parted to either side of the pillow in this position, and John got between them.

The instant John’s cock was close enough for Sherlock’s skin to feel the heat of it, that damned pink tentacle darted out and wrapped itself around John’s cock and balls, squeezing tight enough to make a point.

John squeaked, “I thought…you said…you wanted it.”

For his part, Sherlock was fascinated by his own autonomic reactions. He gazed intently at the torture being inflicted upon John’s genitals, gathering data, remaining calm. “I guess I need more convincing,” was his conclusion. With that, he grabbed John by the nape of the neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

It was awkward. Sherlock had no experience with the act, and John was having his own problems at the moment. But John’s tongue came out when he gasped at the pain, and incidentally entered Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock groaned. John used the moment as an opportunity to express his intentions. He licked into Sherlock’s mouth using delicate, mischievous strokes, which grew firmer as Sherlock’s little cries grew more insistent.

Gradually, the tentacle relaxed its grip. But rather than retract and invert as it had done before, it sinuously explored its new conquest. It seemed not to fear another attempt at intrusion, as if it were perfectly aware that it had already done all it needed to discourage any wayward cock that got ideas above its station. It felt its way all the way up John’s considerable length, and when it reached the slit it teased gently, mixing John’s pre-come with its own slippery fluid. It snaked around the crown once, forming a firm ring that made John flinch but which proved a much more comfortable grip than the one he’d suffered a few minutes previously. It stroked down to the base, where it uncoiled itself so that it might have a feel of the weight of John’s balls.

John broke the kiss to look down at it, watching it narrow and lengthen as it traveled further from its nest, then shorten and thicken as it retreated. The air did not dry out the smooth soft tissue of the surface; its moisture was constantly replenished. At the base of it, John noted the tiny pinprick of a hole, the urethra, which normally remained tucked just inside the slit.

Now the appendage had fashioned itself to match the length of John’s cock, though not quite the thickness. John pressed it between their bellies and rubbed himself up and down the length of it, enjoying the endlessly renewing lubrication it produced while he and it got better acquainted. For a while, the tentacle was as rigid as his cock, but after a few minutes of teasing the slick, pink flesh, it began to yield to his touch. John found that when he held himself just behind the head of his cock, he could press it against the very tip of the appendage, and it blunted, then inverted, so that soon John’s glans was nestled inside. Having accomplished this, John understood that he had at last triumphed over his wary adversary, and pulled away slightly, only to press in deeper, deeper each time. More and more of his cock was engulfed, until he had pressed all that hot wet flesh back inside and buried himself in Sherlock’s body.

Having fulfilled its purpose as a defence mechanism, to assure that not just any unworthy suitor gained access, the appendage had reverted to it true purpose, as the lining of a birth canal and womb. It clung to John’s cock, applying a perfect undulating pressure. It was so wet inside, but the strong grip kept it from becoming too slippery.

Beneath him, Sherlock was flushed and wriggling. He’d been a mere bystander while John had grappled with his body, but now he was obviously loving the feel of John’s cock going in and out of him. Every stroke seemed to surprise and delight him in a new way, which made John quite certain that he’d gotten there first. He began to babble things that, at the moment, his clouded mind considered endearments.

“Yes, you want it now, don’t you. You like my cock? You like how big it is? Tell me what you like most about it.”

“It’s yours,” Sherlock gasped. “I want it inside me so you can make me yours with it.”

John wanted to do that, as thoroughly as possible, for as long a time as possible. But at the same time, he much more desperately wanted to relieve the pressure in his balls. Oh God, but when that happened…

“If I stay inside you,” John grunted as his prick dug deeper into Sherlock, “you might have a baby.”

The damp, frantic atmosphere surrounding them suddenly dissipated. John held still while Sherlock blushed and squirmed with new disquiet, trying and failing to make eye contact.

“Do you want that?” John prodded. “I’ll give you one if you want one.”

Sherlock nodded his head. Or he might have just shivered, but it was as good as a nod to John. It almost occurred to him that it might not be a good idea, but ultimately there were chemical reactions going on that were preventing them from thinking such thoughts. With every stoke, John’s cock dragged out more of Sherlock’s fluids, until they were dripping down between Sherlock’s thighs, and the wetness made obscene sounds as John’s balls slapped against Sherlock’s skin, and the smell was driving John crazy. He was fucking Sherlock as hard as he could, but he just wasn’t fucking him enough.

Sherlock’s body was no longer merely holding John in a snug cradle of flesh. It was squeezing him, pulling at him. Sherlock sobbed, “Ooh, John, now, you should do it now. I can feel it. This is when you’re supposed to do it.”

“Yes,” John said as the rippling clasp of Sherlock grew more urgent. “I can feel it too.” The base of his cock tingled, where the knot was trying to form, and he chased that feeling, and oh God, it was so sweet, to be milked so enthusiastically. With one powerful thrust, he shoved his knot inside, where it was snared by Sherlock’s grip. He was well trapped inside now; he’d got to have his way with Sherlock’s body for a while, but now it was time for it to have its way with him again. The instinctive panic he felt at being caught inside only enhanced the sensation, made him come harder.

Three times, he was certain he had nothing left to give, but three times he felt the rolling of those muscles, taking it from him. Finally, that tight passage slackened ever so slightly, allowing John to remove himself. But he could feel it tightening again after him as he slipped out, securing his fluids inside.

John rolled off Sherlock but not away. In fact, he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving Sherlock’s side at the moment. He listened to his own heartbeat: thunka-thunka-thunka-thunk…thunk…thunk… When it slowed so drastically, he realised he’d been holding his breath to hear it.

“I think I’d like to get up,” Sherlock said.

“If I let you.” John made a move to cover Sherlock’s body with his own, but the task proved too exhausting.

“Our lives are going to be very different,” Sherlock said, “now that you know my secret. I don’t know if my injury will ultimately prove to have been fortuitous.”

“Don’t know if it makes a difference, but I had pretty much wanted to do that to you even before I found out you were an omega.”

Sherlock turned over, so that John could spoon up, his front to Sherlock’s back. “Why didn’t you try?”

“Some of us have manners,” John said, as he gathered Sherlock to him.