Chapter Text
Sherlock frowned as he reached for a vial high on the apothecary's shelves, and it was second nature by now to ensure his cuffs stayed tight around his wrists. For all the magic abound in the world, things that confused people also scared them. And for the alpha to have tattoos cover nearly his entire body, from his neck to his wrists and ankles, wasn't entirely unusual, it was far from common but it was known to happen, but the fact that they didn't seem to move or change was. He had learned early on that getting his first tattoo at age three (scrolls with vague scribbles from wrists to elbows when his then-beloved brother Mycroft introduced him to spellbooks) was not normal, and having just short of a full-body tattoo before he even left primary school was not normal, and that his tattoos not frequently moving or changing size was not normal. He'd been bullied as a child and treated with fear as an adult, sometimes to the point that he'd been thrown from flats and shops, and as this particular shop seemed to have the bees wings he required for an experiment, he was less than keen to be evicted because the shopkeeper was scared of an alpha with apparently-still tattoos. So, as was habit, he kept them out of sight.
John moved through once-familiar London, leaning on his cane. He needed to find a job, and soon. But there was a lot of prejudice against omegas, plus people could feel the damage by way of his broken and nearly unusable magic. His tattoos hadn't really moved since he got shot. The tattoo of a heart on his chest that marked him as a surgeon once beat at a rhythm all it’s own. These days, he might catch a glimpse movement every few days. Broken. The tiny room he rented was crowded with the cheapest alchemy equipment he could find. Alchemy. An adult wasn’t supposed to rely on alchemy for their magic. Only children and the few rare Mundanes did that. John had never been a mundane, even if he’d only ever had average magic, at least he’d had some.
With a sigh, John pushed open the door. His heat should be coming in the next week or so and he needed something to help him through. He'd tried finding alphas when he first came back, but scars and motionless tattoos freaked them all out. So he'd dealt with his short monthly heats all on his own. A tall, dark-haired alpha was reaching for something on a high shelf. John froze as he saw him knock it off by accident. Once a simple spell would have stopped the glass from shattering on the floor, but now no words came.
The alpha's eyes snapped to the side at the motion of the front door opening. A blue-eyed blond man (omega, military) took a halted, limping step forward as his hand raised and his mouth parted, as if he were about to cast a spell. Instead, the omega froze halfway through the motion as the vial crashed to the floor. The quick reaction, lack of actual spell, and the cane said 'invalidated; magic broken by injury'. Before he could do or say anything, the omega's outstretched hand began to tremble and he dropped it, face flaming and chin held high as he did an about-face and walked away. Ignoring the mess on the floor and rather curious, Sherlock first watched and then followed, wondering as to why a grown man who clearly had no children would even bother with an apothecary. How broken could one's magic become to be forced to resorting to early primary school methods? And then he saw what ingredients the man was picking up and it only piqued his curiosity further. Even as 'damaged' as the man appeared, he still smelled like an omega, better than most Sherlock had met, even, and so, why would he need magical assistance dealing with a heat?
John was aware of the alpha tracking his movements. He sighed and turned, waving his cane at him. "Whatever you think you want from me, I'm not interested." Christ the alpha had gorgeous eyes. And smelled amazing, even from here. His heart twisted in his chest as he forced himself to look away, knowing he'd never have an alpha like that.
"I would think a man stuck in a pension flat that requires two buses to the city would prefer a low-cost flatshare closer to the city's centre. I had also thought an army man may be interested in being a detective's assistant. But perhaps I was mistaken," Sherlock said smoothly, noting the way the man froze at his words. He wasn't mistaken , but it would take the omega several seconds to reach the same conclusion, and he walked back to the shelves to grab another vial, the glass from the first being subtly pushed under the shelves with the toe of his shoe. The alpha had just paid for his purchase when he heard the quiet thump of a cane behind him and the entire set of ingredients used by omegas to lessen unaccompanied heats was dumped by his elbow on the counter.
"How do you know all that?" asked John, anger and curiosity warring inside of him. "I doubt I could afford any flatshare in the city, but I do need a job. You're a detective? But not police if you're looking for an assistant." Standing so close to this alpha was making his body react. Stupid. He silently told his instincts to behave, no matter how good the alpha smelled.
Carefully, the alpha laid out his observations, watching the expressions on the ex-soldier's face. He felt oddly nervous at the way the man's expression didn't change, more used to anger or outrage; he'd never been met with expressionlessness before. It was curious and new and intriguing and he was still waiting for that blank façade to break and to be punched, not convinced by the alpha-twaddle than an omega would never attack an alpha. When Sherlock finished, the unnamed man was silent, as was the attendant behind the counter, watching them with wide eyes.
John was amazed. He wet his lips, realizing that the alpha was waiting for him to speak. “That was brilliant,” he said finally, watching surprise form in the man’s eyes. He cracked a smile. “My name’s John Watson,” he said, offering his hand.
"Ah, Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced in turn, blinking as he shook the offered hand. "You thought that was brilliant?" he couldn't help but ask, his hand lingering and the familiar tingle of a new tattoo spreading across his skin. He suspected it had something to do with having someone praise his deductions rather than deny or ridicule them, but just because John had accepted them once didn't mean he would continue to do so. The alpha ruthlessly quashed the sensation and finally let go, clearing his throat as he stepped back.
Blinking a bit, John continued to smile at him. He felt the shift on his skin and chalked it up to one of his tattoos moving at the very idea of having a human conversation. He’d barely spoken to anyone in months, after all, other than for the fruitless job search. “I do,” he said honestly, unaware he’d stopped leaning on his cane. The shopkeeper moved then, quickly bagging his purchases, still looking a bit wide-eyed between the two. John paid and tucked the brown bag under his arm. “Do you really think I could afford my share of the rent?” An unbound omega rooming with an unbound alpha was generally a bad idea, but if he saved his pennies then perhaps he could get a room during his heat; some places offered discounts for that sort of thing as a public health and safety measure.
"I know the owner. Did her a favour once and now she takes a bit off the rent. It will be affordable," Sherlock assured, walking to the door. He didn't even realise until after John had passed him and the sweet scent of the omega tickled his nose that it had been as natural as breathing to hold the door open for the other man and allow him through first, a courtesy rarely received by others, and even then it was only given to those he'd know a great deal of time. The sky outside was the same overly-cloudy that dominated London's spring, and when they turned to each other, the wind rustled the omega's hair into a rather attractive state. "We could take a cab there now," he suggested, slipping his purchases into his large coat pockets. He found himself eager to get the intriguing man into his territory, to pick him apart and see what made him tick, what made him find Sherlock's deductions 'brilliant' rather than a hundred other antonyms. And if he prefered going through his heats on his own, then there was a less-than-seven percent chance that he would call on the alpha for that particular duty.
It was easy to follow Sherlock’s lead, John realized, going through the open door, and then getting into the cab. Not as if he had much to lose, after all. The flat was nice, if messy and he happily took the upstairs bedroom.
The over the next few days he learned about Sherlock and his cases. He was brilliant in his deductions, but the alpha was foolhardy and a few other words John could think of. A distinct lack of self preservation, at the very least, as they chased a suspect through dark London streets. The man suddenly turned and John felt the spark of oncoming magic. Well his own magic might well be broken, but he could sure as hell tackle the surprised criminal, making him miss and knocking his head against the hard ground.
Sherlock lowered his hand and let the counterspell he’d readied dissipate, feeling a bit startled by John’s quick reaction and unusual readiness to protect him. “That spell would have snapped your neck,” he commented lightly as he came up behind the omega, kneeling to cross the stunned criminal’s wrists behind his back and taking out the latest pair of cuffs he’d nicked from Lestrade’s pocket. John just gave a dismissive hum and stepped away, posture straight and sentinel-like, sharp eyes darting around for any other dangers. As the alpha clasped the metal around unresisting wrists, he felt his heart flutter and his skin tingle for the... well, he’d actually lost count how many times that had happened over the past week. The omega had gotten under his skin, affected him like no other human ever had, and even his scent was starting to appeal to the alpha the way he suspected omegas smelled to normal alphas. Even worse, he could smell the pheromones indicating an oncoming heat, and he wondered what John would do: ask for his assistance, weather it alone, or ask for the assistance of another alpha entirely. As he stepped back and hauled the criminal to his feet, he realised the latter made him feel ill.
John watched Lestrade put the criminal into his car. He looked at Sherlock. “I need to get some things and go for a few days. My heat’s coming on pretty quick.” His heart ached a bit as he looked at the alpha, but he told himself it was just the nearness of heat. Something shifted against his skin, near his wounded shoulder. He’d noticed the alpha watching him, but it was probably just his own pheromones. He didn’t dare screw this up by involving Sherlock in his heat. Besides, he knew what happened if he showed his skin. ”I’ll just get a room until this passes.”
“Why bother paying for another one when you have one at Baker Street?” Sherlock asked, frowning in confusion. “I won’t bother you if you do not wish me to.”
Blinking, John looked at him. He smiled. “All right then.”
By the next morning, John was in full heat. He curled up in his blankets, miserable. He could smell Sherlock downstairs and couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. At least it was only for a few days. He grit his teeth, trying to simply bear it.
Sherlock had been surprised to find himself unable to leave his own home when John’s heat had started, filled with a strange need to remain and ensure that the omega was left untouched by outsiders. He logically knew that there was no one who was going to be barging into Baker Street demanding to knot his flatmate, not unless he opened every window in the house and put fans in front of each to blow John’s heat-scent out into the air. Still, he did not change out of his lounge clothes, nor did he even venture down the stairs to visit Mrs Hudson. By day two, he found it difficult to even stray beyond the bottom of the staircase. Late morning that same day, he realised that he had never seen the doctor, as he’d come to learn the surprising man also was, had never stocked up with water or food. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock spent hours in the kitchen for something other than an experiment, determined to make the omega as much nutritional food as he could. While he worked, he cleansed as many water bottles as he could and filled them, leaving them outside John’s room. When the last dish was completed and carried up the stairs, laid on the floor, he gave the door a short rap of his knuckles.
“John? I made you food and I brought your water. Please try to ingest some when you next have the opportunity!” he called through the wood. He knew he should leave, knew what an alpha’s pheromones could do to an omega in heat, knew what the scent of an omega-in-heat could do to an alpha, but so far, Sherlock had managed to put to the back of his mind how much he wanted that scent in his nose and that taste in his throat, and John had likewise managed to remain in his room, not fallen victim to a biological imperative to pierce himself on whatever alpha cock was closest, something the alpha knew his friend would regret should it occur, and would thus lose him the friendship he treasured above all else. There was no answer beyond the door and he rapped on it again. “John?”
Groaning, John dragged himself out of bed. He didn’t think about his naked state as he opened the door, just a bit. Christ this alpha smelled good. He looked past the food, up to Sherlock’s face, though his stomach rumbled. A wave of desire rolled through his body and completely on instinct he grabbed the front of Sherlock’s robe and yanked him into a kiss.
For all that he'd heard of omega instincts during a heat, the kiss took the alpha completely by surprise. So much so that he responded without thought, pressing John against the doorframe and sweeping his tongue into the sweet mouth, chasing the taste of his omega. Then a hard erection rocked into his hip, and there was a sudden and dramatic increase of the scent of slick and of omega arousal and he could feel his own cock responding. He tore himself away, breath coming out in ragged pants, fighting every instinct in his body, and his mind, that told him to shove his friend to the floor and knot him until the omega's heat was relieved, they were bonded, and John was full of his seed. It wasn’t something the man had shown any signs of wanting before his heat and it something that the alpha would never force on anyone, least of all the one person he loved. There was a desperate noise and, for once, Sherlock was unable to identify who it came from, too busy wrangling himself back under control. Once he'd felt that he managed, the lanky detective turned and ducked, pressing his shoulder into John's stomach as he held one wrist, hoisting the shorter man into the air and carrying him to his bed so he could dump him on it. Bright blue eyes stared up at him and thighs pale compared to the rest of John's skin spread invitingly, increasing the scent of slick in the air. Sherlock's jaw clamped shut, and then he turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him.
John stared at the door, shocked for two heartbeats. Then everything hit him at once, and he curled up into a ball, punching the bed. That wasn’t good enough. He grabbed the lamp from the endtable and hurtled it against the wall. Not good enough. The only alpha he’d ever wanted to bond with and he was too broken, too beyond repair. Part of his brain knew it was Sherlock, and that their friendship was too important to waste on something vulgar like mating. But that didn’t stop the tears stinging his eyes as he looked for something else to throw.
The alpha paused at the bottom of the stairs at the sound of destruction coming from the room he'd just left. His instincts screamed that another was coming for his omega, that his omega was fighting off an intruder come to challenge Sherlock's claim. But his logical mind recognised the sounds of a solo occupant, and the lack of an unknown (unwelcome) scent only enforced the knowledge that they were alone in their home, that the only danger to his friend was Sherlock himself. And John's body. Hm. John's body. John's naked body. Which it only now registered that something was not-quite-right about it, besides the bullet wound. Eager to dig into his mind to distract himself from the temptation three metres from his head, the alpha silently prowled the flat as he put all his attention on the matter. It took him two hours to realise none of John's tattoos had moved, thirty milliseconds to diagnose it as psychosomatic, three seconds to realise what he'd done to fix the ex-soldier's leg hadn't helped his magic a whit, and the remainder of his flatmate's heat to come to terms with the fact that love was not enough to fix the ones you loved, no matter how much you wished for the power.
John emerged from his room late the next morning. He'd barely slept, if at all, and went to the shower first, running it as hot as he could stand to wash away the last of his heat. He dressed in the steam-filled bathroom, buttoning his shirt all the way up. Emerging, he said nothing, but went straight to the tea kettle. Sherlock was on the couch, but John could feel him watching. Silently he wondered if the alpha had categorized all the ways he was wrong yet. His heart was heavy, but he knew he was a fool. Sherlock had only responded because of the pheromones. Opening the fridge he found the milk was gone again. With a sigh he went to grab his coat, not noticing the hint of a limp had returned. "I'm going to the shop."
Sherlock didn’t bother to stop John. But as soon as he left, the alpha was up off the couch, dressing in a flurry, the tattoos covering his skin as familiar to him as Baker Street’s wallpaper. Something on his bicep fluttered, but he ignored it in favour of dashing to the omega’s room. As expected, it was in absolute disarray: the bedside table was knocked over, the lamp from it was in shards against the opposite wall, there were clothes everywhere, and the only thing he could smell was the scent of John’s heat. It made him waver on his feet, the way it overwhelmed him, the way he wanted to just lay among the still-dirty sheets and roll around, cover himself with his flatmate’s scent and soak enough of his into the sheets to mark the other in his scent in return. But he knew that, even if it took him a while, the doctor would return, and Sherlock had things to do before the other man could come back. He turned on his heel, and was out the doors of the flat with a flutter of his coat.
John came home sometime later. He grabbed a cup of tea and headed up to his room. He stopped in the doorway and stared. The room had been cleaned up. He blushed as he saw the made bed with clean sheets and the new lamp. Mrs. Hudson must have come up here. He should have taken care of that himself before he left. With a sigh he went back downstairs.
He was grateful when a case demanded his detective's attention. And the man was still brilliant. Probably he'd noticed John was making an effort to hide his omega scent. His magic was still broken, of course, but Sherlock excelled at his the way he did everything else. Even if a John had to live like a Mundane the rest of his life, he'd be glad to work by Sherlock's side. And if he sometimes dreamed of the alpha, or stole surreptitious sniffs of his scarf, well that was his own business. He couldn't risk damaging the best thing that had ever happened to him. Already he was setting aside funds for his next heat; no point putting the man through that again, he'd just get a room.
TBC