Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

John glanced up from the Forensic Pathology journal to look around the flat. It was neat, tidy, books shelved, alphabetized by author’s last name, and every surfaced gleamed. Well, except the skull. Only so much you could do to real bone to polish it, so John had to settle for dusting it four times a day. Nothing else was left to clean or organize, both activities leaving John with a good knowledge of what was available in the flat. No telly, no entertaining books, and no food, unless the grocery fairies had slipped in while he was engrossed in the exciting new breakthrough in fingerprinting technology: databases!

He’d selected a journal from the 1970’s to try and figure out why Sherlock would keep it, but every three boring, outdated sentences had him looking up for something else to do. John was bored. Being Mycroft’s minion had been many things, but hardly ever boring. Here, he’d tried to make his boredom productive, which is why Sherlock’s newspapers were ordered by date and publisher, neatly stacked in the upstairs room. Even Mrs. Hudson had run out of things for an able-bodied person to tackle.

She’d paid him in suppers, which was why his food supply had lasted this long. If Sherlock hadn’t turned up in two days, John would have to ask Mrs. Hudson for food. She’d be happy to, but it was embarrassing, impolite, and told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was a bad provider. Even if Sherlock was neglecting him, John still didn’t want anyone thinking poorly of his bondmate.

Bondmate. The word still gave John a pleasant feeling, though not as much as it had at the beginning, as he was happy to be out from under Mycroft’s immediate control. Mycroft was the head of the family, as least as far as John knew, so Mycroft was still an issue but he had to go through Sherlock. Mycroft had been the one who moved them to another suite to finish their surprise bonding, after Sherlock had lived through the experience. Two weeks of cuddling, talking, planning, and seeing how many ways their bodies could fit together.

Really, John had talked about himself and his life, while Sherlock had cut in with astonishing observations. Brilliant as it was, John knew it wouldn’t last once the honeymoon was over, but he hadn’t expected this separation. He’d been kept from Sherlock for a week of debriefing and physicals, eating a meal a day with Mycroft. Sherlock had smiled when John was brought to him, and they’d gotten into a black town car together. Sherlock was stiff and silent during the ride, so John let him be, figuring Sherlock wasn’t into public displays. The driver hadn’t needed instructions, so they arrived on a street John didn’t know before a door labeled 221.

Mrs. Hudson had been so pleased to meet John that he felt at home even before he followed Sherlock up the steps. John could easily see how cozy the flat would be once it was cleared out, and said so. Unfortunately, he’d said so right as Sherlock admitted ownership of the junk. Sherlock had flittered about, almost nervous as he explained the skull was a friend. John had gone to make a good cup of tea, instead of that rubbish from the heavily fortified yet nondescript building they’d been in. He’d returned and set Sherlock’s tea down next to his laptop.

Knowing how important Sherlock’s work was, John settled down next to him on the couch. Scowling at the computer, Sherlock sipped at his tea absentmindedly. John was wondering if Sherlock would do this with whatever was put beside him while working, as it would get some needed weight on the man, when Sherlock turned to stare at John. John smiled back, and Sherlock turned back to his computer. A flurry of typing and Sherlock closed the laptop and shoved it back into its bag.

“I have a boring case to attend to.”

Frowning, John shifted through his responses to find one that didn’t sound whiney. “I thought you didn’t take boring cases.”

“I told him I’d do it for an outrageous sum, and the fool actually agreed to my price.”

“If it’s that boring, ask for expenses on top of the fee.”

Sherlock smiled at that before moving over to a small suitcase, apparently still packed from the trip where they’d met. “I just have to prove which of his kids stole the family jewels and I’ll be back.”

John was still looking for the least whiney version of ‘you said I could come too’ when Sherlock shut the door behind him. John hadn’t seen Sherlock since, and that was almost two weeks ago. Careful rationing of the food, supplemented by Mrs. Hudson’s love of baking, had been John’s priority so he hadn’t thought to ration the things to do. He was up to four walks a day, and knew he lived on Baker Street.

He was getting to know the back alleys and shortcuts as well as the most promising locals and shops. Not having any money he couldn’t try these places out, and not having any identification, he couldn’t get a job. He might have picked up some cash when he was covered in beta scent, working as an unskilled, unregistered worker, but nobody would risk that with an omega.

Assassination and spying paid really well in the movies, but apparently John had been doing his for love of Queen and Country. The only thing John had was the clothes he wore, a grey track suit, courtesy of Mycroft. John considered himself lucky that Mycroft hadn’t shown up to take back the clothes, or charge him for them.

“Knock knock, John.”

John grabbed the Union Jack pillow as he stood, wondering if Mycroft was here to take back the clothes after all. Mycroft let himself in, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t on the landing with him. Bastard had a key to the front door. John had asked Mrs. Hudson for one, but she’d given them both to Sherlock. As much as Sherlock seemed annoyed by his brother, he clearly trusted him more than his bondmate. Not so much of a bondmate then, so much as Sherlock’s omega. His unwanted omega. Suddenly weary, John dropped the pillow back into his chair.

“Cuppa, Mycroft?”

“Very kind of you.” With a small incline of his head, Mycroft indicated his thanks for the politeness. “Since it is clean, a rare occurrence in my brother’s house, I would enjoy sitting at the kitchen table while we talk.”

“Suit yourself.” John shrugged as he went to put the kettle on.

“What tea do you have in?” Mycroft asked as he set his briefcase on the table.

John paused to consider his answer, though he knew exactly what his cabinets held. One quarter of a tin of English Afternoon that he’d taken a clump of mold out of and two slices of bread, frozen to hold back a different kind of mold.

“The English Afternoon is open, if that will work for you.”

“Yes, it would be very rude of me to expect you to open a new tin just for me.” Mycroft’s voice was so noncommittal it spoke volumes. “English Afternoon will be fine.”

John got the tin down, not the least bit bothered by the posh git knowing exactly what was in John’s kitchen. What did the bastard want, anyway?

“John, our parents were happily bonded for most of their lives. I can only hope you and my brother have the same in store for you.”

Didn’t matter if he was legitimate, he was still a bastard. Mugs prepared, John turned to look at Mycroft while he spoke. John had found it endearing when Sherlock read his mind. Mycroft; not so much.

“I do like to be prepared, however, so I have had a will drawn up for Sherlock. It would be in your best interest to have him sign it, when he returns.”

“I don’t suppose you know when that will be?” John ventured, hoping Mycroft could predict the future as well as read minds.

“I do not expect him back very soon; missing children can take a while to find.”

“Kids? I thought he was looking for some jewels?”

“The Jaria Diamond? He solved that weeks ago. Really John, you must try harder to keep up with your alpha.”

John turned away to poke at the kettle, as if he could make water boil faster. There wasn’t a working telly or radio in the place and even if he’d had a phone he didn’t have Sherlock’s number. Sherlock clearly got his news and information from the internet, and guess who didn’t have a computer? The kettle whistled then, like it knew the answer and John snapped it off. Pouring the water as slowly as he could, John tried to cover over what he felt. He was a soldier, not a lovesick omega. John handed Mycroft his mug, hoping Mycroft took it black, because he couldn’t pay John enough to beg milk off of Mrs. Hudson.

“Lovely.” Mycroft said after a sniff of the brew. “John, I couldn’t help but notice you wear the same outfit for every one of your walks. You are even wearing it now, so I do wonder when you find time to wash it.”

John put his tongue between his teeth and bit it, hard enough to hurt. He was not going to tell Mycroft he wore one of Sherlock’s robes while the clothes washed and slept naked while they dried.

“Secrets of the gender, I expect.” Mycroft’s voice was knowing and smug, even if his face didn’t show any of that.

John kept his tongue trapped. He’d thought he’d found all the cameras and ‘accidentally’ covered them up while tidying.

“It has occurred to me, John, that Sherlock might have left before seeing to certain legalities. I hope you don’t mind, but I asked around and could not find any paperwork on you. No bonding certificate, no request for identification, and no request for access to funds at the bank. Could it be, I wondered, that John wears the same outfit every time he goes into public because Sherlock didn’t buy him anything else? Knowing my brother as I do, it was far too possible.” Dipping his hand into his briefcase, Mycroft brought out a stack of paper. On top of the Will and Testament was a plastic card. It had the trademark of an exclusive bank downtown and the name John Ω Holmes.

“This card is from my accounts, as I could not open one for you under my brother’s name. The funds will be unlimited, provided you do a small job for me.”

“Who do you want me to kill?”

“You gave up your days of killing, John.” This reminder was sharp, making the soft words after it sound false. “As Sherlock’s omega, you must be worried about him. I worry about him, constantly. It would ease both our minds if we could communicate about what he is doing; the things that make us worry.”

“You want me to spy on Sherlock for money?”

“Nothing too personal, as Sherlock is your alpha, just anything you feel like telling me.”

“I’ll sell my heats first.”

“Please, don’t become overemotional about this. Sherlock will take care of you to the best of his ability. The last two weeks must have shown you just how able he is in this area. You should be able to see that you will have to take care of yourself, and anyone else that comes along.”

John didn’t press a hand to his abdomen, wondering if Mycroft’s test knew something he didn’t. “I can, and I will.”

“Trust issues, did you know? Your original psychiatric evaluation upon joining the army said you had trust issues. As you were lying about your gender, that is to be expected, but my evaluators said the same thing. Could it be you’ve chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

“Hormones.” John snapped back, before trying to make himself sound like a teenager omega in a movie. “It’s all just hormones, because a silly little omega like me only wants to make my alpha happy.”

“Charming.” Mycroft returned with a condescending half smile. “Read the papers and think about my offer, John. After all, selling your heats isn’t likely to bring Sherlock running back to you, is it?”

John forgot how to see as he realized what was going on. Somehow, for some strange reason, Mycroft had convinced Sherlock to leave him. Was it temporary or full out abandonment? When he could focus past his rage, John saw Mycroft at the door, picking up his umbrella. Mycroft turned to speak from the doorway.

“The place looks lovely, my dear.”

John’s mug smashed into the door where Mycroft’s head had been only moments before. John sighed, happy the mess would at least give him something to clean up, once he’d found every last camera in the flat. When Sherlock did return, he was going to have a very detailed report of what his acid collection could do to recording equipment. The Sherlock from their honeymoon would appreciate that.

The light bulb had burned out in Mrs. Hudson's bathroom, earning John a solid meal and some leftovers. As such, it was four days after Mycroft's visit that he ran out of tea and breadcrumbs. Mycroft's card had provided an excellent report for Sherlock about which of his acids dissolved credit card plastic best. It was a handwritten report, complete with Oxford citation from the relevant materials that could be found around Sherlock's flat.

John had resigned himself to it being Sherlock's flat and moved into the second bedroom, the neat stacks of newspaper providing insulation in case the electricity ran out. John's basic chemistry classes had been enough for him to titrate and label the unknown acids in Sherlock’s lab, but couldn’t help him stretch one serving of tea leaves to four cups of tea. As such, he was trying to convince himself the dirty looking hot water would taste just fine when the doorbell rang.

It wasn’t for him, as nobody knew he was here, but it did remind him of the mouth-watering Irish Stew Mrs. Hudson had made him for fixing the doorbell. He didn’t even lock the door anymore, hoping Mrs. Hudson would drop by with the baked goods she ‘accidentally’ made too many of. He wasn’t sure if she pitied him or wanted someone to talk to, but he did know that wasn’t her gait on the stairs. Looking out from the kitchen, John watched as his door was opened without the tiniest hint of a knock. A man with silver and pepper hair was first in, and stopped only two steps in.

“This can’t be the right place.” A woman said as she stopped behind silver hair.

“God no,” agreed a bearded man with weasel eyes. “This place is actually livable.”

“Be that as it may, our warrant is for this address.” Silver said, taking a few more steps inside. “Besides, who else in London would put a skull on their mantelpiece?”

Amused, John smirked at that even as he waited in the kitchen. They had warrants and had passed Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, so they must be real cops with a real reason to be here.

“Holy!” Silver had turned his head and apparently seen John. He recovered quickly and the three that had already spoken moved toward John. This let uniformed officers swarm into the room and get to work.

John fought the urge to reach for the knives in the drawer beside him. As much as he’d wanted something to do and people to talk to, being advanced on like this was not what he’d had in mind.

Silver might have got a hint, because he stopped a few feet from him and reached into his coat pockets.

John caught the scent of two alphas and a beta, so he’d just have to sort out who was which when they got closer. John looked at what Silver was holding up, an official looking paper in one hand and a badge in the other.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. We have a warrant to search this flat for illegal narcotics.”

“You think Sherlock’s a druggie?” John almost laughed. “Have you met the guy?”

“So, Sherlock does live here?”

That was a far more loaded question than John wanted to answer, so he ducked and covered with a shrug of the shoulders. “His name is on the lease.”

“Who are you?” Beardy demanded, with an aggressive growl that let John know who one of the alphas was.

“John.” Another shrug and a long moment where they realized he wasn’t going to offer any more information. Beardy straightened and bit of alpha scent reached John, confirming his hypothesis.

“Anderson.” Lestrade barked out, naming and reprimanding the alpha in a single word.

John could appreciate that technique and wondered if he’d ever get to try it.

Lestrade put the warrant and badge back in his pockets and stepped closer, as if to say something calming and friendly. He inhaled through his nose before saying it though, getting a whiff of John. He blinked twice, then leaned forward and sniffed.

John considered smashing the mug up against his rude silver head, but hesitated when he did his own sniff test. Lestrade was a beta, and in charge. John was impressed, knowing how hard that was, since he’d spent most of his army career as a beta.

“God help you, you bonded with Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice was soft, surprised, and confused. But he apparently was also loud enough for the other two to hear, as they both responded at the same time.

“What?”

The woman recovered first, stepping forward to get a better sniff. Anderson stuttered to do the same several seconds later, so the woman alpha was clearly the smarter of the two.

“He followed you home, didn’t he?” She asked, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

John kept himself from breaking her wrist, even as he turned to put the mug in the sink which moved her hand off his shoulder.

“What happened?” She continued in a sympathetic voice that probably worked well on trauma victims. “Your first heat after being widowed and he tracked you by your scent? Things like that are grounds for dissolution of the bond and you can forget you ever met the freak.”

Lestrade and Anderson weren’t much help, and a glance at them showed why. They wanted the answers as well and probably thought her approach was best. John was disappointed in Lestrade, simply because the man had to know what it was like to be talked down to because of his secondary gender.

“I was being forced to bond with another alpha. Sherlock fought for me and won, in the traditional way. Why are you looking for drugs now?”

“Donavan, Anderson, go find those drugs.” The two alphas reluctantly obeyed, shooting looks at John as they did so. Lestrade watched them go before talking to John again.

“Sherlock has a record for drug possession, and he’s been to rehab at least three times. I’d hoped it stuck this time, but we got a call that someone was seen buying drugs at this flat, and he matched Sherlock’s description.”

“An anonymous tip, I suppose?”

A nod. “Caller said he saw this last night, though they didn’t call until this morning.”

“Wasn’t Sherlock then, as he wasn’t home last night. But a false drugs bust sounds like the sort of thing an archenemy would do.”

“Archenemy?” Lestrade asked with a flicker of his eyebrows.

“That’s what Sherlock calls him, but he’s a manipulating git and I’m going to shove that umbrella up his three piece suit.”

“Umbrella, waistcoat, very posh, tall, articulate, and a bit ginger?”

“You’ve met then, Detective Inspector?”

“Bastard kidnapped me the second time I let Sherlock help with a case. Drove to some parking garage and tried to bribe me into spying on Sherlock.”

“I was locked in a building for a week after the bonding.”

“Sorry John. I wouldn’t throw him out of my bed but I couldn’t find any leads on him after my kidnapping.”

John winced, realizing he had to explain something. “Um, Sherlock calls him an archenemy. His name’s Mycroft and he calls Sherlock his brother.”

“Sherlock’s brother is the posh ginger that keeps kidnapping me?”

“Keeps, as in repeatedly?”

Lestrade looked around, as if searching for another topic, when Donovan walked up and gave him one.

“Sir, could I have a word?”

Lestrade nodded at John before walking out of the kitchen to talk with Donovan. They spoke too low for John to hear and kept their heads close together. Anderson poked his head in a few of the kitchen cabinets and the fridge before going over to join them.

John had cleaned the flat, searched it for cameras and entertainment, so he was pretty sure there weren’t any drugs in it. He’d found some needles but thought they were part of the science equipment. John did know that moving away from a person was a universal sign that you didn’t want them to hear what you were saying so it was probably about them, at least in John’s paranoid universe. The signs of omega neglect were all over the empty kitchen and he wouldn’t be able to prove who he was beyond the mingling of his scent with Sherlock’s. He could run and be down the steps before they realized it, but he’d still be unable to earn money or eat. It went against every self-preservation instinct he had, but he’d have to sit tight and wait to be rescued.

Maybe. Idea forming in his head, John moved around Lestrade to go to the partner desk by the windows. Digging through the stack of papers the lab techs were testing for drugs, John pulled out the will Mycroft had left. John had wanted to burn it, but thought it would be leverage in getting a job. The will showed Sherlock had very little money to his name, little enough that John had wondered how he was paying for the flat.

Lestrade broke away from the conference and walked toward John, face tight. Anderson and Donovan walked behind him, looking a little too smug for John’s taste.

“John.” Lestrade started, regretfully but determined. “Do you have any identification?”

“The paperwork is still processing, and it can’t be picked up until Sherlock gets back. Like I said, he wasn’t here last night to buy drugs.”

“How long ago did he leave?” Donovan asked, still in that sickly sweet tone.

John ignored her, handing the will to Lestrade. “This has my name on it, showing I belong to the Holmes family.”

John hated that he was willed to Mycroft if anything happened to Sherlock, but knew it was standard in traditional families. Lestrade flipped quickly through the stack, too quickly to read anything and looked up.

“This could refer to anyone, as there aren’t any pictures in it. John is a pretty common name, so that doesn’t help much either. Worst of all, it’s not even signed, so John could be a typo.”

“When Sherlock gets back, I’ll have him drop by your office and clear all this up.” John offered with a friendly smile.

“Omega neglect is a serious issue, often found in alphas who bond suddenly or without preparation. You don’t have any food, or money, or a bank card and ID to get money or even a job. My team reports separate bedrooms and they haven’t seen any clothes for you.” Lestrade paused to run a hand through his hair. “John, do you see where I’m coming from?”

“Don’t forget the chemicals in the kitchen.” Anderson added. “Who knows if Sherlock marked them correctly?”

“I titrated those and labeled them, so they’re not dangerous to me.” John offered, fighting to sound reasonable and not as irritated as he was. He’d really had enough of being locked up and assumed to have the IQ of cabbage, thank you.

“Alphas and betas…” Lestrade started.

“Take omega protection very seriously.” John finished for Lestrade, who had the grace to look embarrassed at the trite response. “I understand. There’s no need for a muff.”

Donavan made a cooing noise, as if she couldn’t decide the omega was sweet for not resisting or a danger to himself for risking normal handcuffs.

John closed his eyes, hoping they wouldn’t seem him rolling them. He was a soldier, he wasn’t so fragile that they needed to put his right hand under his left elbow and wrap his forearms in bubble wrap for a muff.

“Cults brainwash people by restricting their food.” Donovan added, a bit of harshness in her tone. It was a nice change from the voice she had been using.

“Feed him up proper and he’ll divorce the freak in a heartbeat.” Anderson added, the look in his eyes suggesting he’d like to be John’s rebound alpha.

John had seen that look in far too many of the men Mycroft had sent him to trap. Even if his killing days were over, John still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Stepping into Anderson’s personal space emphasized their height differences. Looking up through his eyelashes, John stroked two fingers lightly down the center of Anderson’s beard.

“I can’t promise anything, but I do think you’d look cuter without the beard.” John stepped away and Lestrade was there, taking his bicep in his grip.

They were out on the landing before Lestrade whispered in John’s ear. “If he shaves that ugly think off, I’ll give you twenty quid.”

John gave a small laugh, but Mrs. Hudson moved into view at the bottom of the stairs. She looked worried, so John stopped to give her a reassuring hug, Lestrade still clutching his arm.

“John?” She asked as he pulled away.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Hudson. They want proof that Sherlock is my alpha, so if you see him would you let him know?”

“Oh, that boy!” Mrs. Hudson muttered before speaking up as John was led out the door. “I have a more than a few words for Sherlock, don’t you worry.”

As Lestrade showed him to a car and took the driver’s seat, John started to see the potential in this ride. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said too much about her past with Sherlock, just enough to let John know he shouldn’t ask. Anything he asked about Sherlock had been met with variations on how it was Sherlock’s place to tell him, so John wondered if Lestrade would be so closed mouthed. Looking at the traffic before them, John asked as casually as he could.

“So, how did you meet Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at the imbecile across the table from him. Said imbecile had parents who had become rich while he was still in school. This prevented him from having the manners and diction of a public school education, and the fact that he’d graduated showed his parents had quickly learned how to quietly buy him out of trouble.

Killing a beta woman in a hotel room was a new mistake, one easier to punish than his slaughtering of grammar. Sherlock wanted to educate him on the important difference between hang and hung, but instead he was here to provide the parents with proof that their darling boy was innocent. Seeing the man’s easy temper, Sherlock decided the parents would have to settle for less guilty.

“Go through it all again.” Sherlock snarled at the imbecile, realizing he’d already deleted the alpha’s name. While he talked, Sherlock looked thoughtful, but only because he was thinking about an important subject: John.

The week he’d been separated from John by Mycroft’s need to debrief him had been torturous. It had been even worse when his attempts to see John resulted in meeting Mycroft and being forced to listen to lectures on how to care for his omega. Mycroft had clearly contracted some brain disorder, probably through one too many paper cuts from all that red tape Mycroft loved, because the things he said didn’t apply to John.

Other omegas might need or expect mansions, silks, and jewels to feel valued, but not John. Sherlock’s mate was steel wrapped in terrycloth and would love to be out in the real world. Most of Mycroft’s lectures went unheeded and straight into the delete pile, until he’d hinted that John was pregnant. If John was or was not, there was still the possibility of children in the future, which would require money. Mycroft or Mummy would take John in if anything happened to Sherlock, but the thought of John being forced to live with either of them was horrible. John would need a nest egg, the children would need trust funds, and Mrs. Hudson would need tenets who paid on time, so Sherlock needed money.

John was fascinating, and every minute spent with him made him more interesting, so Sherlock had all he needed, the rest was for John’s benefit. Though there was one thing Sherlock wanted. Both Mummy and Mycroft had sent him pictures of bonding bracelets, and Sherlock wanted to see John wear one. The one Mummy had sent was gold, encrusted with diamonds and had four chains that lead to four rings, one on each finger. Mycroft’s choice had been a bit more refined, plain gold with a single chain leading down to one ring that would match Sherlock’s. Neither had seen enough of John to know that he would need platinum to contrast his honey skin tone, and that the chain would have to be removable. Sherlock knew John was really good at punching people and didn’t want the man to hurt himself on his jewelry, should the need to punch arise.

John, any children they had, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock’s desire that the world know John was his, were the only reasons Sherlock was now out in the world, making money. If he could find this imbecile a way out, Sherlock would have enough to start with and be able to go to John. Go home, and didn’t that put a warm feeling in his chest. The imbecile shut up, so Sherlock took this as his cue to speak.

“Listen carefully. You have never been with an omega in heat.”

Imbecile opened his mouth to protest his alpha status, but Sherlock cut him off with a hand gesture and a glare. Doubtless, they were being recorded.

“You have never had an omega’s heat. You got lost on your way back to the hotel and smelled an omega’s heat. Upset at being lost, drunk, and now with an omega in your nose, you overreacted to the way the beta with you smelled when you got to the closed environment of the hotel room. The laws in Belgravia allow for heat frenzy to excuse many actions. A competent lawyer will get you some counseling and a two year jail sentence. Sound harsh, but much better than being the newest chandelier in this place.”

The man shouted out his thanks as Sherlock walked away. Guards led him to the front where he could collect his personal belongings. He ignored the four calls from Lestrade, knowing he was going to have to force Lestrade to pay him, and wondered at the call from Mrs. Hudson. She hadn’t left a message which meant she was either looking to chat or so angry she didn’t want to waste her rant on a recording. Which was a shame, as some of her tongue lashings should be recorded as an example for mothers everywhere, but Sherlock couldn’t have done anything wrath worthy as he was here, so he put off their chat.

He searched the internet while a taxi drove him to the parent’s hotel, so he had facts at the ready. He explained the local laws about omega heat frenzy, showing the relevant cases to the lawyer who was with them. Next were a few places that were within walking distance to where the killing took place and had a likelihood of causing a heat frenzy. An apartment that catered to bonded couples and a nightclub that used synthetic pheromones weren’t too far from each other, so imbecile stood a good chance of getting off.

After they transferred the money they owed him, Sherlock headed for the room they were renting for him. After finding the earliest method of getting back to London, Sherlock showered, the water as hot as it would go. He hated to use his skills for these simple, boring things, just as he hated people using their gender as an excuse. John hadn’t used his gender to keep him from being a doctor and a soldier. Happily, Sherlock had reached his monetary goal and could return to John. He needed to smell the man, get used to living with him, and learn what John expected of him. Sherlock accepted he would have to change many things about himself to keep John around but he thought John was worth it.

After showering and packing up everything he’d brought with him, Sherlock still had six hours before his flight. Flopping on the bed, he set the alarm to wake him in four hours and called Mrs. Hudson. He could sleep through her chat and she’d be too happy he slept to think him rude.

“Sherlock Holmes, be silent for once in your life and listen to me.”

Sherlock suspect he’d deduced wrong the second Mrs. Hudson had spoken without waiting for him to identify himself, but the seething anger in her voice was more than enough confirmation. Angry though, and not upset as she would have been if John was hurt.

“Of all the things you’ve done, I have never been this angry, disappointed, or ashamed of you. You begged me for the flat when you knew I had a nice, stable couple ready to sign the lease and pay a full rate. Since it was for you and your mate, and because you signed the no drugs clause, I let you move in. At no point did it occur to me to have you sign a clause about not abandoning your mate!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to correct her, but Mrs. Hudson was still talking.

“I spent the night with Mrs. Turner so you would have some privacy on your first night in a new home, only to return and find you’d left John with nothing more than the clothes on his back and food meant for your experiments. While he was upstairs hovering, I ran up and down, trying to sneak as much food in your kitchen as I could before he noticed. Did you not notice how independent that man is? He won’t take charity and I’ve run out of things to break so he’ll take food as payment for fixing it.”

Sherlock found himself half grinning, proud of John and Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, I don’t know why you brought home a man almost as independent and stubborn as you, only to force him to be dependent upon you. The police dropped by and since John didn’t have any identification they took him to the Yard. What have you to say for yourself?”

So many thoughts raced through Sherlock’s head he couldn’t find the one to make her happy. He was doing this for John, John was his how dare the Yard touch him, he thought Mycroft was taking care of things... “Mycroft.”

“Don’t mention that name to me! He came by several days ago, made John so upset he broke a mug against the door. And John was not happy about being dragged away but at least they will feed him.”

“I’ll be in London as soon as I can.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ll do when you get here? Drag John back and leave him again? Or just let him rot until your bond dissolves and Mycroft gets him?”

Sherlock found he was growling into the mobile and forced himself to stop.

“Yes, John is yours, and don’t you forget it.” Mrs. Hudson warned and acknowledged at the same time before disconnecting.

A moment of stunned silence while he thought about things, and then Sherlock was up and moving. Bags packed and computer stowed away, he checked out and got a cab to the airport. Once he was through airport security he pulled out his computer and connected to the internet, finding the British Omega Registration website.

He hated the boring bureaucracy that Mycroft thrived on, the things Mycroft usually took care of for him, but meticulously filled out the forms to claim John. From the government site to his bank and the registrar of bondings, Sherlock spent over four hours filling out fucking forms and thinking up revenge on the people who created them. He resorted to googling ‘how to legalize a bonding’ just to make sure he had all the correct offices notified before texting Mycroft.

How is John? SH

It was the same text he’d sent every day since he’d left on his business trip, and always earned similar replies from Mycroft. Replies that said John was safe, dining with Mrs. Hudson, reading a book, or cleaning the flat. Simple replies as to John’s current occupation, suggesting that he was safe and watched. That had comforted Sherlock, but he doubted a similar text this time would be so graciously accepted. Shoving his feelings away, Sherlock focused on the words that showed up on his phone.

Today is a busy day for me, but my subordinates report John got on well with DI Lestrade. MH

Why was Lestrade there? SH

Must have a case he wants you to solve. Did he not text you? MH

Ignoring his texts until I discuss payment options with him. SH

A sound business strategy, though working for me would be more profitable. MH

No and never, you interfering wanker. SH

Keep my lucrative offer in mind. Omegas are rare and expect to be treated as the valuable things they are. MH

John was not a thing, and Sherlock forced his emotions aside yet again. Mycroft was holding back information on John, apparently believing Sherlock would trust Mycroft over Mrs. Hudson. Why though, would Mycroft work so hard to keep Sherlock from John? The texts made it sound as if Mycroft was doing all this to get Sherlock to work for him. Mycroft had always wanted that, so he could control and monitor Sherlock constantly, but there was always a hidden plan with Mycroft. The only thing that had changed recently was John, and buying things for John was a strong motivator, but why encourage Sherlock to run around and make money, which only confirmed his independence from Mycroft?

Mrs. Hudson’s words came back to him then, in her angry voice, ‘until your bond dissolves and Mycroft gets him’. Was it that simple? A new bond, formed under difficult circumstances and without an emotional connection could be dissolved with an extensive separation. Many bonds made during the first presentation were dissolved that way, often by sending the omega to finishing school in another country. Sherlock could admit to an unexpected emotional connection with John, but didn’t think John’s appreciation for getting him out of Mycroft’s service was enough for John to desire the bond.

Mycroft had never wanted an omega dragging around after him, demanding his time, but he was interested in the Holmes’ line. If Sherlock saw John’s independence, then so did Mycroft, and Mycroft must have decided John was the only omega for him. He could impregnate John and leave him at home, not needing to waste time with caring for John. Mycroft would use John’s needs to keep Sherlock away long enough to dissolve the bond, and take John for his own. He probably expected Sherlock to react to the dissolution by falling for Mycroft’s manipulations and becoming one of his brainless minions. Mycroft wanted John, not realizing he’d only get him over Sherlock’s dead body.

John looked around the omega cell and, strictly to fight off the same boredom in a different place, thought up ways to kill himself. Maudlin, sure, but the cell was symbol of everything wrong with societies’ view of omegas. Special furniture with rounded edges and excessive amounts of padding, because omegas were so fragile. Instead of the cot, sink, and toilet of a standard cell, John had a double bed, a rocking chair, a toilet and a sink.

Most surfaces were covered in a softer version of the paper covers John had used as a doctor. Pulling off the little corner elastics and tying them together to hang himself with brought his possible death count up to six. If he tore enough off of the padding off the sink and commode, he’d get to the porcelain and could bang his head on it until he died or was stopped. His thoughts were interrupted when a woman came in, bearing a food tray.

The tray was special made to fit into the sink, so an omega could reach it from either the rocking chair or the toilet, though John hadn’t figured that one out. Surely, if you needed to eat and excavate at the same time, you should be seen by a doctor. Either way, that was where Lestrade had put the tea when he dropped John off. As the mousy woman walked by, John caught the scent of an unbonded omega and, strangely, chemicals. Just like Lestrade had stayed to make sure John didn’t hurt himself on a cup of tea, the woman sat gingerly on the bed to make sure he didn’t hurt himself on supper.

“Hello, I’m John.” He offered with his friendliest smile. He was actually glad for the food and company, even if he resented the reason it was offered. The food looked like standard prison and military food, so John ate at it while focused on his companion.

“Oh, I’m Molly. Hi.” Molly gave a shy smile in the direction of the floor before looking up long enough to blush and ask. “Are you really bonded to Sherlock?”

“He stopped me from being forced to bond with another alpha, one I didn’t like. Poor Sherlock just got caught in the hormonal crossfire.”

Molly bit her lower lip and looked away, and John almost felt her heartbreak.

“Sherlock left and I don’t know when or why. He might have gone to dissolve the bond with distance, if he had a prior commitment to, um, anybody.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t do that!” Her outburst seemed to surprise her, but she seemed honestly insulted by the idea. “Sherlock’s a nice, well, not nice, but honorable, about certain things. I mean, he treats me badly but just the same as he does everyone else, and I’m sure there must be something special about you.”

Her brain caught up with her words and John could see the instant she realized the insult. He replied with a gentle smile. “Believe me, I know all about the simply joy of being treated like a normal person. That’s why I hid as a beta for as long as I could.”

“I’m a late bloomer.” Molly rushed to get that out in defense of her lifestyle before explaining. “I was about to graduate and I had job waiting at Barts’ when I went into heat. Missed the ceremony, but they were ever so nice about mailing the diploma to me. And the bosses at St. Barts let me have the job anyway. I’m a forensic pathologist, which is how I met Sherlock, when he came to the morgue.”

John took a meditative sip of the tea-like beverage provided and heard what Molly didn’t say. Her diploma probably had the name of the school removed and she’d had to beg to get that. Barts gave her the job, doubting she’d work one day before an alpha snatched up such a wisp of a woman. This many years later, she was probably still the lowest person on the totem pole and hadn’t had a single pay raise.

“Surprising number of late presenters wind up with degrees in biology and chemistry.” Was all John had to say to her situation. He hoped it conveyed that things were slowly getting better, though he didn’t really believe it.

“You’ve met others?”

“Many. I lived as a beta because I learned to hide myself before the internet was popular.”

Molly blushed deeply, confirming that she knew exactly what he was talking about. The way she looked away indicated she might have had something to be embarrassed about, or hide, but it did let her see John’s empty plate.

“Oh, you’re finished. I need to go then, make my report.”

“What report? I thought you worked in the morgue and I’m not dead yet.”

Molly gave an embarrassed sort of laugh. “They ask me to help out when they have omegas in here. I’m not scary like some of the beta cops.”

“Very true Molly, and I’m sure the other omegas are as glad as I am to meet you.”

Smiling, she got to her feet and carried the tray away. Two quick taps on the door got a uniformed officer to open the door, his curious look lingering over John.

John sat back and rocked his chair, wishing he could have had another plate or two of that slop. He was careful not to think too deeply about Molly’s age, and if he was guessing right, her first heat would have been about the time authorities had narrowed down the search for a certain Miss Kitty. Someone John had hoped to find and thank just as much as the governments of the world had sought to punish.

Using the anonymity of some impressive internet hacking, Miss Kitty had posted a simple guide for creating heat suppressors with household supplies. Molly was about the right age, had gone into a field that required chemical and biological knowledge, and was careful to keep her head down. Clearly, Miss Kitty was an omega rights activist and not a shy, identified omega in a dead end job, waiting for her alpha to rescue her. It was John’s desire to meet the hacker and biologist that had him placing Molly in the role. No, Miss Kitty couldn’t be Molly, simply because Mycroft could read John’s mind.

Greg liked to plan out his day as he walked into NSY and to his desk. He went over what he had lined up for the day, even knowing it never worked out the way he planned. A suspicious death would come in, or Sherlock, something to keep him busy and away from those hateful stacks of paperwork. After all these years, planning out his day was mostly about mentally shifting away from the worries of his personal life to being the guy in charge. It wasn’t often that his days deviated from plan the second he saw his office, and even rarer where the occasions when these deviations were not caused by Sherlock, but apparently this day was very special.

There was a large, angry man yelling at Anderson in the open area before Greg’s office. Anderson sported three squares of loo paper, apparently out of practice at shaving. The newest member of Anderson’s fan club was not Sherlock, his recently identified brother Mycroft, or anyone Greg could recognize from the back and side. His voice had been yelling about family heirlooms while Greg walked toward them, but Sally had beaten Greg to intervening in the fight. Leaving them to it, Greg hurried by, deciding he’d go see how John was doing before starting his day.

The men’s room opened after Greg had passed it, but he was only partially aware of this and not expecting to get grabbed by the bicep. Greg turned to fight off his attacker, only to find he was being hauled down the hallway by an irate Sherlock. Wrenching his arm free, Greg stopped and glared right back at Sherlock.

“Let’s go. John needs to be let out.”

“Since when do you care about what John needs?” Greg saw his words make Sherlock flinch, before he pulled up his defenses.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to release John to me.”

“Make me understand. Explain to me how leaving an omega without food or the resources to get food shows you care.”

“My archenemy is attempting to steal John from me.”

“I saw the will, where Mycroft Holmes gets him if anything happens to you.” The statement was a question, Greg looking for confirmation of what John had said.

“What? Oh, that fat git!” Sherlock started pacing in the hallway, forcing everybody else in the hallway to dodge around him.

John had been right then, Mycroft was the archenemy and brother. The kidnapper Sherlock had let Greg worry about and try to track down, knowing exactly who he was.

“Why does he have to interfere with everything? Only interesting man on the planet and Mycroft decides he has to have him, when he’s never wanted an omega any more than I. He sent me out to make enough money to support John, assuring me he’d look after John and clearly this is my fault for not making sure that ‘looking after’ wasn’t code for spying on with cameras while he starves to death and rots from boredom until he has to be rescued.”

“Sherlock.” Greg snapped out in his best commander voice. It got an angry Sherlock completely focused on him, and Greg continued. “You’ve never wanted an omega either, so maybe you should let this bond dissolve.”

“No!” His reply wasn’t the possessive growl of an angry omega; more like a man in love being told to give up his love. “I would want John even if he wasn’t an omega. No longer than I was with him, he kept getting more and more interesting. He never says what I expect him to and he thinks, well, he appreciates my deductions.”

Greg smiled; he knew how to handle a man in love. Turning towards John’s cell, Greg walked away with Sherlock right behind him. Turning a corner, Greg hoped Sherlock couldn’t see too clearly over his head, at least not clearly enough to identify the five officers staring in at John.

“Get back to work.”

The men turned to look before scrambling away. Greg could feel Sherlock’s glare as it followed the four alphas until they found another turn to hide behind. One remained behind, as he was the guard on duty, and he was blushing and scared when they reached him.

“What’s with the peep show, Harrison?”

“Sorry sir, they just walked by and got interested.”

Looking in the window himself, Greg saw what got the alpha’s blood pumping. John was awake and doing one-handed pushups. The layout of the room had his left side to the door and gravity had pulled his trousers tight around his bum, including a little divot down the crack between cheeks. Sherlock began to growl and Greg pulled his eyes away.

“Let Sherlock in.”

Harrison and Greg had to turn their keys at the same time to get the door open and Harrison only dropped the key once under Sherlock’s glare. John bounced to his feet when the door was opened and grinned when he saw Sherlock. That was all Greg saw before John was smothered in a hug from his taller alpha. It would have been polite to give the reunited couple some privacy, but policy dictated that they watched, to make sure the alpha wouldn’t get violent or harm the omega.

Greg was distracted by a text, and since he doubted Sherlock would do anything stupid, right this minute anyway, he checked his phone. It was from Sally.

You are needed in the squad room. Mr. Barry is upset about an antique dagger being destroyed by evidence processing.

Ron Barry, his brother’s wife was killed in the case he’d been texting Sherlock about for a week. The dagger had matched the wounds but wasn’t the murder weapon, but they’d had every legal right to check. It was interesting that he was here about that and not his sister-in-law’s unsolved murder.

“Sherlock, John, anytime you’re done.” Slightly embarrassed blue eyes looked around Sherlock’s arm before John struggled free of Sherlock’s embrace. When John was visible again, Sherlock looming behind him and daring others to look at John wrong, Greg felt it was safe to speak. He spoke to John because he was bound to be the more sensible of the two.

“I’m letting you go with Sherlock because I can smell the blending of your scents. Clearly you’ve bonded, and you haven’t said anything about wishing to dissolve the bond or if there was any abuse. When you get papers, I will need to see those documents, in this office, in person. Otherwise, I’ll have to arrest Sherlock and press charges for omega neglect. Understood?”

“I’ll do my best to get you those papers.” John nodded. “Thanks.”

“I have a case Sherlock could help on, and I do owe you that twenty quid.” Greg offered, hoping that would be enough to get Sherlock and John to follow him, and headed back to the confrontation in his office. Two sets of footsteps followed, struggling to find a pace they could walk together. The three of them had just rounded the corner when the noise stopped.

If Greg hadn’t been looking for Sally and Anderson, he might not have seen the reason for the sudden silence. Mr. Barry had just stabbed the evidence bag into Anderson’s stomach and the dagger blade had penetrated bag and skin. Mr. Barry jerked his hand away but the evidence bag stayed in place while red bloomed around it. Sally grabbed Mr. Barry’s hands and handcuffed him as John shot by Greg, Sherlock on his heels. The nervous omega from Sherlock’s kitchen was gone, replaced by steady hands and a commanding tone that everyone obeyed.

“Anderson, lay on this desk. You, clear your desk and call for medics. Someone get me a first aid kit.”

The stuff on the desk was shoved to the floor, and a mobile was used to call for paramedics. Two first aid kits were placed on the desk and John flipped them both open. A pair of scissors was used to cut open Anderson’s shirt and John snapped on gloves before probing around the wound. He frowned at what he saw, and started packing rolls of gauze around the dagger and holding pressure on it.

Greg had moved over without thinking about it, without letting his emotions out. Once Anderson was taken care of, then he could be pissed about what had happened. He could hear John talking to Anderson, in a calming voice and see Anderson looking at John as if he was as much in love as Sherlock. There was a clatter and then Dimmock was leading in the paramedics. John saw them and changed back to his commanding tone.

“Stab wound to infudibulopelvic ligament, will need x-rays to see if the ureter has been nicked, can’t move the knife until then, which lets out the MRI.”

The paramedics understood all that, or at least enough to know they needed to steady the knife with foam blocks before moving Anderson to the gurney. John led the count and Sherlock moved Anderson’s head, almost as an excuse for standing so close to John. The paramedic nearest Sherlock clicked the safety belt in place before grinning at Sherlock.

“You must be so proud of your alpha.” She offered in a stage whisper before the gurney was rolling away, a startled looking Sally following behind.

John really had an adorable blush as he peeled the gloves off. He was probably dreading what would be made of that comment, as most alphas would have reacted badly to being mistaken for an omega. Sherlock looked a foot taller and so proud you’d have thought he was the one who taught John how to care for knife wounds. Looking at Sherlock, John was clearly confused by this response and looked to Greg for help. Greg could only shrug back, hoping John took it to mean ‘it’s Sherlock, he’s always different’.

“Right. I should go wash up.” John muttered, heading for the same bathroom Sherlock had come out of earlier. The door closed behind him, breaking some spell Greg had been under and he was turning and snarling at Mr. Barry.

“What are you playing at, stabbing one of my men in my house?”

“It was an accident!” Barry yelled back, but he was shaking and couldn’t look Greg in the eye. “He destroyed a priceless family heirloom.”

“That dagger was a fake.” Sherlock interjected casually, mind probably still on John. “You needed it back before Anderson discovered it was fake, which requires a level of competency that Anderson has yet to reach, so you were safe. The real dagger is what the police need to make their case. Antique, family heirlooms are lovely, but easily traceable murder weapons. Not often used in premeditated murders, so a weapon of opportunity for a crime of passion. Had the fake one for insurance or display purposes, so gave that to the police when they noticed the real one matched the wounds.”

“Mr. Barry, you are under arrest for the murder of your sister-in-law and assault on a member of the police force.” Lestrade was pleased to say. “Dimmock will read you your rights and escort you to the interrogation room. Before I get there, I strongly suggest you think about how badly cops take it when one of their own is hurt.”

Dimmock stepped up to take Mr. Barry to interrogation and most of the office turned to watch. Greg turned to Sherlock.

“Well, you can ignore those texts from me for the last week.”

“I did. I have a mate now and I have to make money. If I don’t get enough private cases, I’ll have to start charging you when I catch your murderers.” With a face splitting grin, Sherlock focused on Greg at last. “Or maybe John will charge for saving your lives.” Raising his voice so the whole office could hear, Sherlock continued. “Did my John forget to mention he was a surgeon? He’s so humble.”

Several of the alphas in the room shifted and glared, but they didn’t dare say anything. There were several betas in Greg’s squad and they looked impressed and cheered up by the announcement. Either way, they all turned to look when Sherlock started striding across the room so he was there when John stepped in sight. John blushed at the stares and Sherlock put an arm around his shoulders. Sherlock only needed a tail to fluff out and he’d be the world’s proudest peacock flaunting his mate.

A quick flip through his wallet and Greg walked toward the increasingly flustered John, breaking the line of stares. A quick handshake transferred the twenty pounds to John. “That was some quick thinking, John.”

John grinned back, and kept the twenty.

“Naturally.” Sherlock added, because he’d only take to fast thinkers. “Come along John, apparently we have some shopping to do.”

Sherlock’s voice was as commanding and dismissive as normal, but he waited for John to start walking. A small courtesy, yes, but Greg watched them walking away, feeling like he was going to owe John a great deal of thank you’s in the not too distant future. Smiling, Greg went to interrogate his murder suspect.

A cab magically appeared when Sherlock waved his hand, and John got in first. He slid over, only to find Sherlock had opened the door on the traffic side of the car. There was a moment of confused staring before Sherlock closed that door and returned to the first door. He settled in, carefully not looking at John. Fastening his seatbelt, John gave the address before he realized it was the first time he’d said it out loud.

“221 Baker Street.”

Hyde Park was on their left before Sherlock spoke, though he stared out the window as he did.

“It was not my intention to leave for this long, certainly not to abandon you. I have applied for your documentation and it should be here soon, if Mycroft doesn’t interfere anymore.”

“Anymore? He did make you leave, didn’t he?”

That got Sherlock to turn and look at John, looking rather pleased at something as he nodded.

“He wanted me to spy on you, to assuage our mutual concerns.” John said.

“Considering that I’ve just picked you up from jail, I take it you didn’t agree to his terms?”

“He called in a drugs bust so the Yard was sure to find out how I was living.”

“I do apologize for that, John. I spoke with Mrs. Hudson and she assures me that if I give you any further trouble she will make me hurt for days.”

John snorted. Despite the woman’s small, frail looking frame, he’d no doubt she could carry through on that threat.

“She has also agreed to organize the kitchen, sorting out the basics of food and cleaning supplies. We are to stop by for breakfast and further instructions before purchasing you a wardrobe.”

“Must be a thousand things you’d rather do than go shopping.” John found himself grinning as he said it. If he had clothes, he had a few hundred things he’d rather do than shop.

“Most of the time, you’d be right.” Sherlock said, as he stared at John with a frown. “But I think I will enjoy the time I spend with you, no matter what our activity is.”

John felt another blush heat up his cheeks, and wished for his suppressants. An unexpected side effect of the hormone suppressers and scent blockers; John hadn’t blushed when he’d been on them. The cab stopped, and a quick look confirmed they were home. Sherlock passed a card to the cabbie and got it back before getting out.

John slid across the seat to get out on the same side and took one step towards the door before pain bloomed across his chest. A quick look showed a dart and John jerked it out before body blocking Sherlock from the sniper. A gurgle told him Sherlock had a dart in his throat, and then two more were in John’s chest. He fought, but soon enough the darkness pulled him from Sherlock.