Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/943793.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Anthea/Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes/
      Sebastian_Wilkes, Victor_Trevor/Violet_Hunter, YEAH_I_DID_THAT_-
      Relationship, Clara/Harry_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes, John_Watson, Greg_Lestrade, Victor
      Trevor, Violet_Hunter, Mummy_(Sherlock)
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omega_Sherlock, Omega_Verse, Mpreg, Discussion
      of_Abortion, Forced_Bonding, Breeding, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Kid_Fic,
      Single_Parents, Fluff, Smut, Dubious_Consent, Schmoop, Angst, Unplanned
      Pregnancy, Teenlock, Teenagers, Age_Difference, Alpha_John, Bottom
      Sherlock, Top_John, Dom/sub_Undertones, Anal_Sex, Fingerfucking, Rimming,
      Porn, Dirty_Talk, Soulmates, First_Time, Eventual_Happy_Ending,
      Motherhood, seriously_dysfunctional_relationships, Child_Abandonment,
      sort_of, Rape/Non-con_Elements
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-27 Updated: 2014-11-03 Chapters: 22/? Words: 35619
****** And All I Loved, I Loved Alone ******
by damesansmerci
Summary
     For the kink meme, where most such things come from:
     Alphas and Omegas are forced to breed by the government. Omega
     Sherlock goes through his first heat and is bred by a gentle Alpha he
     doesn't remember. He's pregnant and bonded at a young age and it
     seems like his Alpha has no intention of finding him afterwards.
     Years later, he runs into John Watson. He seems vaguely familiar, but
     Sherlock can't place it.
Notes
     Couldn't resist this prompt. But read through the tags please,
     there's a decent heap of warnings. And yes, I'm crap at titles. EDIT:
     This was originally "A Memory Saved". Now it's a line pretentiously
     snitched from an Edgar Allan Poe poem entitled 'Alone'.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Sherlock was 17 when he had his first heat. Older than the others and cleverer
as well—old and clever enough to know that the propaganda about true pairings,
love at first sight, all that rot, was just propaganda in the end. The reality
was simpler:
Alpha and Omega genes were recessive. They ran mostly in the oldest lines in
the country, in families who were an incestuous bunch as it was. Without the
conservation project, they’d all die out in 50 years.
The ‘conservation project’ was the government’s politically correct way of
saying ‘forced breeding’. It involved mating an Alpha or an Omega from one
bloodline with a partner carefully selected to avoid cross-breeding and provide
healthy, true-gendered offspring. Sherlock privately thought that letting them
all die out would be nothing but good riddance and even Mycroft, to his intense
surprise, agreed with him.
“We have long since passed the stage where these forced structures do anything
but limit us,” he’d told Sherlock, when he was already 16 and still un-
presented. “They will tell you that your presentation will not affect your
life. But it is a lie and a poor one at that- even children do not believe such
rubbish. You had best hope you present an Alpha, brother dear, or else you will
find your world to be immensely difficult.”
But Sherlock had already learned that life was never anything but difficult for
him.
---
It was Mycroft who found him, 8 months later, curled miserably in the garret,
his teeth chattering from the cold.
“It hurts,” he told Mycroft accusingly. Even with a relative, his body stirred,
noting the Alpha scent with definite interest. Sherlock shied away from
Mycroft’s hand as it stroked the curls off his forehead, horrified at himself,
and Mycroft quickly snatched it back.
“I can’t do anything,” he replied, his expression briefly stricken. They both
knew that it wasn’t the cramps he was talking about. Mycroft didn’t have the
authority to override Sherlock’s fate. At 24, he was plump and useless and
Sherlock had never hated him more.
Mycroft sighed and tucked his hand away, his self-control impeccable as always.
“I am sorry, baby brother.”
---
He fought when they brought him in. Howled threats and clawed at their flesh,
until he was strapped to a bed and left there, his chest heaving with the
exertion.
Sherlock stayed there for hours, snapping his hatred at all the Beta and Omega
nurses who dared approach him. Finally, they brought in an Alpha doctor. Rare,
that. Alphas were not healers, as a rule. They were too aggressive, too
careless and egotistical.
But this one seemed kindly, with huge green eyes and a reassuring smile.
“Come here, sweetie,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.” She carefully stroked his
bare flank and he melted instantly, because she was pretty and kind, even if
she wasn’t compatible, and his body was begging him to submit.
She continued to coo over him, stroking and comforting, and he relaxed,
nuzzling trustingly into the flat of her palm when she offered it.
It wasn’t until he felt the prick of the needle that he realized just how badly
he’d been betrayed.
---
When he woke, everything was fragile and water-stained, the sedatives
transforming his world into a safe, pastel-shaded place. Still, he wasn’t
comfortable--this wasn’t home to him and he twisted frantically in the
unfamiliar surroundings.
He lay on a bed of sorts, his ankle chained to a far bedpost. Soft silk under
him, a pile of bedding which he burrowed under. It felt so wonderfully sleek
next to his bare skin, all that soft material rubbing up against his tender,
engorged flesh. He piled it together and curled up inside, whimpering
discontentedly.
His nest was ready- so where was his Alpha?
The ache between his legs was fast growing unbearable. He bit into a piece of
cloth to muffle his moans as the heat spiked. Fluid dribbled down the backs of
his knees, soaking into the sheet under him, but there was no one here, no
Alpha with a big, fat cock to satiate him, to take him and breed him. He
flipped onto his stomach and spread his legs, slid an inadequate finger into
his desperate body. When that was nowhere near enough, he added another and
then another, bunching them up into his tight, greedy hole.
Still not enough. Not full.
Sherlock whined again through gritted teeth. They’d left him without any of the
proper tools for a heat and that was simply cruel. There was no telling how
long he’d been here, nor how long they meant to keep him here.
The most terrifying prospect was being left here in his half-mad delirium for
the entirety of his heat. Surely not. Omegas of his status were too valuable to
risk and there was an absolute certainty that he’d do himself an injury if left
here to ride out his heat by himself. Sherlock slipped a pillow under his heavy
hips, biting back a groan at the feeling of the soft material cushioning his
painfully hard cock.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, rocking shamelessly against the pillow.
Relief was impossible without a nice cock in his arse and after a while he was
whimpering openly, wet tears sliding down his face as he thrust madly into the
bedding.
A sound pierced his stupor—the door was opening. His nostrils flared as he took
in the heady, unfamiliar scent that immediately permeated the room. Warmth and
wool, the sharp tang of antiseptic, a bit of sweet tea and sweat. Alpha.
Compatible Alpha.
He stilled immediately and whined, a plea as much as it was an invitation.
Footsteps edged nearer and the bed sank as a warm body settled in behind him.
Small. Female? Stocky, flat, very aroused. Male.
The man said something, his voice strained and sincere and Sherlock found
himself lulled by the gruff, soothing litany and fighting not to give in
(something told him he ought to be careful, that Alphas lied and betrayed, but
he couldn’t remember why, precisely, it was so important. Not when this Alpha
smelled so delicious, sounded so concerned.)
He squirmed closer despite himself, tilting back so that the Alpha could see
his fingers, still buried deep in his arse. The man inhaled sharply. His hand
hooked over Sherlock’s ankle, dragging him closer.
“Can I just--?” he asked, his voice strangled. “Christ, please, let me touch
you…”
“Obviously,” Sherlock said. “Don’t. Be. An idiot.”
His inner Omega cringed at the lack of deference in his voice, but the man, to
his surprise, only chuckled weakly.
Blunt fingers traced lightly over the curve of Sherlock’s buttocks, before
sinking lower, cradling his full balls in one hand. Sherlock moaned at the
sensation of warm skin against his heavy flesh. He felt a flush of shame, that
he didn’t have a small, pretty cock like an Omega ought to have. His was almost
Beta-sized, not all that tiny, but the Alpha behind him didn’t seem to mind.
“Look at you, you beauty,” he murmured, his earlier trepidation apparently
forgotten at the sight of a leaking, desperate Omega. One hand tugged
possessively at Sherlock’s balls, while the other rested on his lower spine,
pushing him down into the mattress.
Sherlock sank obediently on his stomach, rutting against the sheets before he
remembered himself and stopped. There was silence behind him and he waited for
the Alpha to scold him for taking his own pleasure.
A hand tightened on his thigh.
“Fucking gorgeous, you know that?”
It was all so very hazy after that.
Demanding fingers replaced his, a sleek, experienced tongue tasted him, making
him writhe against the bedclothes. Soon, they were curled inside Sherlock’s
nest and he gasped as he felt the thick cock finally, finally slide into his
waiting body, his eyes screwed tightly shut with the intense pleasure-pain of
it.
The Alpha tucked him possessively against his chest, curling their joined hands
against Sherlock’s belly. His weight was welcome and safe over Sherlock’s body,
burying him under its needy pressure, and his cock ground out slow, agonizing
circles inside Sherlock’s slippery hole.
He whispered in Sherlock’s ear as they lay there and later he wouldn’t remember
whether the man had told him or he’d deduced it.
A soldier, which explained the tang of blood, a doctor too, somewhere in his
mid-20s. A soft, common name- steadfast and simple, like the man himself.
Sherlock liked that name and he said it many times over the course of the
night, screaming it until he was hoarse, pleading and demanding, whispering the
soft syllables lovingly against the Alpha’s throat.
Breed me, fuck me, John, harder, yes---
Jesus, you’re fucking brilliant. Beautiful too, so fucking beautiful, you know
that?
John, please-, I want--
I know exactly what you want. You want my big, fat cock and I’ll fill you up
and breed you until my come’s leaking out of you.
Yes, yes, please--
My fucking gorgeous Omega. Say it.
Yes, yours
I’ll mark you and everyone will know your mine. And they’ll be so jealous that
you’re mine, only mine
Do it, please, please—JOHN
When he came to, hours, perhaps even days, later, the room was pitch dark. A
warm, strong body was pressed against his back and one hand trailed down his
chest, exploring the flat, lean planes, the soft fuzz at his navel.
“How old are you anyways?” the Alpha asked. He sounded stricken and Sherlock
gripped his wrist reassuringly. He was aware that the Alpha was waiting for a
response and he struggled through his muddled brain in search of one.
“17,” he said finally, lisping a bit on the s.
“Jesus. And they--? Fuck. You don’t deserve this.”
Sherlock flipped over at the consternation in his voice, nuzzling reassuringly
into his neck. “But you’re mine,” he mumbled and the Alpha groaned and pulled
him close.
“I wish that were true,” he said, before pressing his lips briefly to
Sherlock’s hair. "Wish I could keep you.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said, again. He curled his fingers around his
Alpha’s back, luxuriating in the strong, toned cords of it. An imbecile, his
Alpha. Because, of course, Sherlock was his. Completely and for as long as John
would have him.
The Alpha tightened his grip and Sherlock snuggled in closer, inhaling his
sweet, homey scent. He’d tell him as soon as possible, Sherlock decided. In the
morning, maybe, when all this was over, he’d tell this man that Sherlock was
his, for life or as long as he’d have him.
If he’d known, he might have said it then.
Because it would be years before he got the chance again.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Please note that this is purely a very strange AU and that the
     characters/government's thoughts on abortion, pregnancy, consent,
     etc, in no way should be taken to reflect the thoughts of the author.
     Basically: It's Omega verse. Read the warnings and 'enuff said.
Strangers invaded his room, their sharp, terrifying scents suffocating him. The
bed was cold and empty next to him and his eyes searched frantically for his
Alpha (he could smell, smell the distinct scent of him, but where was he?) . He
snapped angrily at all the Alphas who reached for him, because they weren’t
HIS, they weren’t, weren’t…
Mycroft slid into the room, plump and slimy as always. “Ah Sherlock,” he said.
“Time to come home, I think.” He looked insufferably pleased with himself as he
held out a hand.
Sherlock whimpered away, aware only that he was naked and vulnerable and that
this wasn’t the Alpha he belonged to.
“Where is he?” he demanded, drawing the bed sheet tightly around his waist.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Where is who?” he asked and his eyes caught on
Sherlock’s bruised neck, his snarling, swollen mouth. His nostrils flared as he
caught the changed scent. There was a bit of possessiveness underlying the
once-familiar odor of his little brother, a touch of—warning. Almost a threat.
“Sherlock?” he asked again, concern tingeing his voice.
Sherlock shook his head, willing the fog away. A flush crept up his cheeks.
“I don’t remember his name,” he said.
Mycroft hesitated. “Well,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, Sherlock—He
wouldn’t have bonded with you if he’d had no intention of returning.”
That was so logical that Sherlock almost dared to hope
---
Three weeks later, there was absolutely no sign of him.
According to the records, the man had left hours before Sherlock woke. An
extensive search had revealed that the name he’d given at the desk was a false
one (not too uncommon, as it was. As long as the gender checked out, no one was
too concerned with names. Breeding was breeding, after all.)
“We could find him,” Mycroft said, when a thorough search of the room turned up
only a worn beige jumper (which Sherlock immediately snatched up). “He’s
clearly an Alpha-prime. All we’d need is one bit of DNA and we could trace
him.”
Sherlock clutched the jumper closer, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, you
will leave him alone.”
“Sherlock, I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing about—“
“About what?” Sherlock demanded. He looked so young then, holding onto that
thick wad of cloth. Barely a baby with a security blanket himself, and Mycroft
shook his head.
“Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. It’s perfectly obvious by your scent. If don’t wish
to heed my advice on the matter, then at least allow me to find him.”
“He left,” Sherlock said. He buried his nose in the jumper, inhaling one last
time before tossing it clear across the room. “He didn’t want me then. Why
would he want me now?”
---
Sherlock considered it. Truly, he did. He stood sideways in front of the
mirror, naked save for a pair of loose pajama bottoms, and put a hand over his
taut stomach. His face twisted at the idea of something in there that wasn’t
him. Just a parasite, at this stage, feeding off of him, eating away at his
entire future.
He slid his fingers further down his navel, pushing slightly, and felt nothing.
Not mine, he thought.
Not mine, not mine, not mine.
---
Even if it was a part of him, this thing, then it probably wasn’t worth saving.
There was precious little about himself that he wanted preserved for future
generations—best leave the continuation of the Holmes name to Mycroft, who was
just as intelligent as him (not that Sherlock would ever admit it) and who was
at least responsible in the bargain.
The government wouldn’t take kindly to the abortion of a true-gendered embryo.
In fact, the act would likely land him in jail for murder, if he were ever
found out. But Sherlock had no intention of being found out. There were ways to
do such things—and if he played his cards right, no one save his brother would
ever even have to know that he’d been pregnant.
He hesitated and wrapped an arm snugly around his belly.
A memory rose, inconvenient and uninvited: Hands locked around his wrists and
pinned them to the bed. A mouth worked greedily at his throat, laying brutal
claim to his flesh as he gasped and arched under the weight of his Alpha.
So good—so gorgeous, love. Tell me you’re mine.
All of me, everything, yours
He had no loyalties, surely, to a man that had left him. No promises that had
to be kept when the most important promise of all had been broken. He didn’t
remember the man’s name or his face, didn’t remember if he’d been handsome or
ugly, intelligent or boring.
Stupidly sentimental, then, to remember being called ‘love’.
---
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.
“No doubt this will amuse you,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual
vitriol. “But I confess that I have no fucking idea.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
4 weeks
 
His scent shifted obviously within days. The barely-there curve of his belly
was easily hid under his usual baggy button-downs, but the smell was a dead
giveaway. Titters followed him in the hallway, strangers offered
congratulations. Alphas who would never have noticed him opened doors and
wrestled his books away from him. Sherlock would have liked nothing more than
to tell the burly Alpha who brought him a cookie at lunch that his chivalry did
nothing to disguise his preference for other Alphas, or to remind his Omega
professor that her congratulations meant little when she’d spent the entirety
of her career on highly illegal suppressants, but he held his tongue. He
couldn’t afford to expose them, not when he had his own secrets.
So he endured a month of it instead, with his teeth gritted and a fake smile
permanently plastered to his face. And then the inevitable questions began.
---
8 weeks
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy said, when he showed up on her doorstep like a lost
puppy. She dragged him in and let him stagger to the couch, her cool grey eyes
taking in his gaunt frame and weary expression.
She said nothing, however. Just rang for tea and folded herself delicately into
the closest armchair, a Victorian monstrosity that Sherlock knew from
experience was every bit as uncomfortable as it was elegant.
“So… you’ve dropped out of Cardiff then?” she asked. The query of a stranger,
not a mother. Sherlock refused to meet the questions in her eyes, taking in
instead the familiar gloom of his childhood home. Dark and dim, with antiques
and memories piled high in every corner. Not the place for a child, any child
and yet, what choice did he have?
He cleared his throat. “I have a… request,” he said.
“If you need money,” she began, “Mycroft will…”
“No,” he said. He tugged at his loose shirt and swallowed back the humiliation.
“It’s… not money.”
“Oh,” she said, after a moment. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Well. This is always your home, Sherlock. You must know that.”
He felt the thin prickle of tears and determinedly shook it off.
“Thank you.”
---
 
12 weeks
“Boy or girl?” the nurse asked, her pen poised over her clipboard. “Hasn’t been
noted.”
He stared at her, blinking wildly as he tried to squash the slight flare of
panic in his belly. Focus. Anything
Just out of school, judging by the age and obscene perkiness. Dyed blonde hair.
Engaged and thrilled about it. Beta, then, even with his scent compromised
from...Focus. Betas were always happy about such things. Hateful. Why waste
time on sentimental nonsense like that when one had the enviable option of free
will? Idiots.
He ducked his head as he calmed, his arm wrapping instinctively about the
slight bulge of his belly. “I don’t know,” he said, bracing himself for the
inevitable barrage of questions.
“Oh, your Alpha can’t tell?” she asked. “Happens, sometimes. The scent’s off
and it can be hard to pinpoint—“
“I don’t have an Alpha,” Sherlock interrupted.There was a long, awkward pause
and really, he should have left it alone. Not drawn attention to the obvious
lack, particularly when the last thing he wanted was sympathy.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, reaching for his arm. “I didn’t realize…I’m so, so
sorry. ”
It was easier not to correct the assumption.
---
16 weeks
“You’ve lost weight,” Mycroft said.
“That makes one of us, then.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the small packet
under Mycroft’s arm and then flicked determinedly away. “Here to offer advice?
Oh, but you can’t. You’ve never been pregnant and never will be.”
“It’s hardly my fault I’m an Alpha, Sherlock.”
“Here to gloat then?” Sherlock challenged. Pregnancy, Mycroft reflected, had
certainly not improved his temper.
“This is my home as well,” Mycroft pointed out. “Even if you have decided to
convert it into your personal nesting grounds. Speaking of which… where’s
Mummy? Isn’t she taking care of you?”
Sherlock shrugged and glared at the pavement, still stubbornly refusing to look
at what Mycroft was carrying.
“I don't need to be taken care of. And haven't seen her since this morning. You
know her: Probably cleared out at the first sign of nausea.” Which wasn’t
exactly fair of him, though, admittedly, it had its element of truth. Sherlock
leaned against the doorframe, suddenly looking tired. He indeed smelled faintly
of vomit and Mycroft wrinkled his nose, even as he felt a small flare of
concern.
Sherlock was still his younger brother. Still an Omega.
“I should be going anyways,” he said, after it became obvious that the Omega in
question was not about to invite him in. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly
around his belly and it took Mycroft a second to realize that he was preventing
himself from reaching out.
Mycroft pursed his lips. “You are… Should I send you someone to help?”
“Why are you really here?” Sherlock asked. “Don't pretend it's for me. You
despise the very idea of pregnancy. It probably affronts every bone in your
massive, complacent body.”
Mycroft knew better than retort. Sherlock was spoiling for a fight after just
two months at home, probably with very little to do. Best not to encourage him.
Best not to pretend they didn’t both know what he wanted either.
Mycroft silently offered him the dirty, beige bundle, doing his best to pretend
that it was an afterthought. Sherlock looked at it disdainfully. But his hand
reached out automatically, betraying his eagerness, and snatched it up.
He let out a tiny, inadvertent sigh of relief as he cradled the jumper against
his chest.
“What do you expect me to do with this?” he asked, as if he’d just realized
what he was doing. He swallowed. “Cry over it like some love-sick, hormonal
teenager?”
Mycroft barely restrained himself from coming up with the obvious rejoinder.
“If you wish. At the very least, sleep with it.”
Sherlock looked up sharply. “You’re not really serious.”
“I am.” Mycroft sighed at the incensed look on his face and held up a hand. “I
am aware that the simple absence of an Alpha will not in and of itself cause a
miscarriage. If it did, then the breeding program would never have been
implemented.”
“So why give it to me?” Sherlock demanded, his pale eyes narrowing.
Mycroft wanted to say it. But one misstep and Sherlock would destroy it. In the
end, he merely shrugged.
“Keep it. Burn it. It does not matter to me, Sherlock. But it is, for all
intents and purposes, yours.”
“I’ll burn it then,” Sherlock said.
“It’ll be good for the baby,” Mycroft offered delicately. “Pheromones.”
It was a weak justification and they both knew it. But Sherlock’s eyes were
very blue and very bright and his hands curled gratefully into the thick wool.
“Yes,” he said. “For the baby. Obviously.”
---
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
20 weeks
Mycroft had taken to visiting, of all the loathsome hobbies. Sherlock was quite
vocal about his opinion on that, but it seemed that the larger his stomach got,
the less inclined anyone was to take him seriously.
“It's a little odd,” Mummy admitted, when Mycroft announced his intention of
dropping by yet again. “Perhaps he just wants to make sure you have an Alpha
about.”
“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “It's more likely he's discovered another
torture technique that requires refinement.”
Mummy smiled faintly. “Chocolate biscuits for tea then,” she said. “He likes
those.” She said it in the slightly guilty tone of one hoping that their
admittedly random guess had passed scrutiny.
“Hates them,” Sherlock said. "Try lemon. He's not that allergic."
…….
Mycroft was the one who clicked smoothly into place in their childhood home. He
didn't try to sprawl across the unyielding furniture in a desperate bid for
comfort or slam the heavy antique doors to make a point. The house was ancient.
Suffocating. And while it rejected Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherlock reflected
sourly, probably suited it down to the ground.
“I could find you a mate,” the twat offered, his back irreproachably straight
in the Victorian chair. “One who was willing to overlook the complications of
your—“ he let his eyes linger over Sherlock’s rounded stomach—“delicate
condition.”
He'd certainly thought Mycroft might suggest it, at one point. And then he'd
dismissed the idea, partly because he'd assumed even Mycroft would see the
unlikelihood of him acquiescing to such a suggestion and partly because the
mere thought made him feel as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. And
even then, he'd thought... far in the future perhaps. Not now.
“You bastard,” he hissed. And Mycroft had clearly anticipated the response,
because his look said he was impatient with Sherlock's irrationality, angry,
even, but not surprised.
“I’m not going to belong to some bull-headed Alpha who’s either too stupid or
too dazed by money to be bothered by the fact that I’m heavily pregnant with
another man’s child."
Mycroft's face said he'd had just about enough. Sherlock resisted the urge to
shy away from him-- Despite the effort he invested in being a cold fish,
Mycroft could have a nasty temper when someone dared to question him. These
days, with his new government position, 'someone' almost invariably meant
Sherlock.
"I wouldn't say 'stupid' or 'greedy'. I would say 'open-minded', perhaps,"
Mycroft said now, his voice not quite as even as he'd no doubt have liked it.
"I don't fucking care what you would say," Sherlock snarled. "The fact
remains..."
"Oh yes, do tell me Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted. "What is the fact? Is it
that you're a brat who appreciates nothing--"
"What I don't appreciate is you yelling in my ear--"
"Or is it that you're enamored with a man who likely cares nothing for you and
certainly cared nothing for your unborn CHILD?"
Sherlock flinched. "Don't say that," he mumbled, after a moment. "It can hear
by now, you know."
"Oh for heavens' sakes..."
"You really shouldn't upset him so, dear," Mummy interjected. "He's not
completely himself." Sherlock flushed at the subtle rebuke as she swept
gracefully into the living room. "Though eventually, Sherlock," she added.
"You'll have to stop referring to it as 'it'."
"It's a bit early," Mycroft protested. "I would think that--"
"Don't be silly now, he's at 20 weeks," Mummy dismissed. "And he had his
ultrasound, didn't you?"
Sherlock plucked at an embroidered cushion and scowled, not trusting himself to
speak, lest something else foolish slip out.
“Boy,” he grudgingly admitted, once he'd successfully recovered both his voice
and his petulance. It seemed churlish by then to mention that the ultrasound
had been two weeks ago.
“Sherrinford,” she said, with a pointed twirl of her index finger. She paused
mid-spin and favored Mycroft with a bland smile when he offered her his seat.
“I was going to name you Sherrinford, once.”
“I’ve always felt that Theobald was a good name,” Mycroft offered smoothly,
indulging her as always. “Theobald Holmes. Majestic, almost.”
“Rutherford, perhaps.”
“Archibald.”
“Siger.”
“NO,” Sherlock snapped.
---
24 weeks
The previous occupant of this room had clearly died, according to the folding
of his sheets and the nurse's left shoe. Sherlock turned away and stared up at
the brilliantly white ceiling, trying to ignore the throbbing in his right arm.
“May I ask how you ended up here?” Mycoft’s voice was low and dangerous. And he
so rarely asked obvious questions.
“I miscalculated,” Sherlock said flatly. “And I’m perfectly fine, but the
doctor insists upon being absurd and keeping me here for another day.”
“The doctor is worried, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “About the state of your
offspring. As you should have been worried, before you decided to be completely
reckless and experiment with toxic compounds-“
“White phosphorous isn’t a compound, it’s an element,” Sherlock said
dismissively, trying (and failing) to flap one heavily wrapped limb. “And why
do you care? You’ve nothing invested in this.”
“I—“ Mycroft was at a loss, another very rare occurrence. “I am merely
concerned for your well-being,” he said finally, his voice having regained its
customary touch of ice. “I should not like to have to deal with the mess of
your emotional state should something happen to-”
“Touching,” Sherlock spat. “Did you memorize that? You can pretend to care all
you like in front of Mummy, but I know you. I know exactly how much you care,
Mycroft. After all, we’re the same, aren’t we?”
“No,” Mycroft said flatly. “We are not the same, Sherlock.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Why? You’d have taken care of the baby,
is that it? Refused to succumb to boredom because of your superior self-
control, I suppose. Easy enough when you can’t become pregnant, I’d imagine…”
“I would never have chosen to keep it in the first place,” Mycroft cut in,
brutally. “I cannot understand to this day why you did. Sentiment, I presume.”
A defect, he didn’t say.
Sherlock startled, his arms immediately rising defensively about his belly. It
was getting to be a habit with him, an instinct to wrap himself around his
child at the first hint of upset. It was difficult for Mycroft to stay mad at
him when he became like that. Even on the suppressants, his Alpha nature
screamed to protect, to comfort this thin young creature who was so clearly
carrying a child. Not his, but a child all the same, one that smelled like his
own blood.
“Don’t,” was all he said. He took a deep breath. “Don’t you dare…”
“Oh please, Sherlock,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Let us not pretend that
you’re any more attached than I am. You couldn’t be bothered to think up a name
for the damn thing…”
“I did,” Sherlock interrupted.
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said defiantly. “I did.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. The fact remains that you did not and I
believe, do not, have any connection to the child itself. You're keeping it for
entirely selfish reasons.”
Sherlock snorted. But he didn’t deny it.
“Why then?” Mycroft asked, genuinely curious. “Why keep it at all?”
Sherlock glowered and turned away, curling up around his belly. “It’s hardly
relevant.”
“Sherlock?”
Mycroft sighed and turned away. He was almost at the door when Sherlock finally
spoke, his voice flat and queerly expressionless.
“I thought,” he said softly. “That there should be a little more of him in this
world."
Mycroft paused, his hand on the door. "Why?"
"Sentiment, perhaps."
---
28 weeks
Sherlock hadn’t actually woken up crying. Perhaps he had. His pillow was damp
underneath him and he felt hot and so very exhausted. It wouldn’t be the first
time sleep had eluded him . Not that he’d slept much, before, but now he was
constantly tired. And bored. So very, very, mind-numbingly bored.
The boredom, he was certain, would kill him well before he gave birth. That is,
if Mycroft didn't smother him in over-protectiveness first. His brother had
kept up the aura of apathy for a while now, but Sherlock knew better. Knew his
instincts demanded that he protect as much as was in his power (which was far
too much these days) even if he didn't particularly care for the infant in
question.
Sherlock prodded his round, bulbous belly. "I hope you realize that you're a
disaster," he said. He meant it to sound cross, but it came out frustratingly
despondent.
There was a tumbling inside his womb, what might even have been a vicious jab
and Sherlock sat up, his lank hair flopping into his face. “You’re really in
there then,” he blurted out. And immediately felt foolish. “I don’t usually
state the obvious,” he clarified, and only succeeding in feeling more
embarrassed when his voice echoed in the empty room. But there was another
slight movement. Perhaps a punch.
He raised his shirt up around his armpits and ran a hand down the smooth, tight
globe of his belly, his eyes widening at the gentle response.
“They say,” he said, feeling vaguely foolish. “That babies can hear their
mother’s voices outside the womb. If you aren’t a complete imbecile then
perhaps you recognize….me. Do you know who I am?”
Another soft jab. Sherlock swallowed. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I'm here.”
He eased himself back against the pillow and stroked his belly soothingly, from
the dark line of his pubic hair to just under his swollen breast tissue. In the
dark, hazy from lack of sleep, it was all too easy to pretend that the hands
weren’t his own. There was someone who ought to be here, who was not. He
couldn't resist imagining a blonde head resting against his stomach, turning to
press a kiss onto his bare skin, the allure of strong hands following every
kick and every murmur.
"He'll be as gorgeous as you, you know. Clever, too.
I would rather that he was like you
I'm pretty damn ordinary, love
Yes. But I believe... I believe I would love him more, if he was like you.
Don't be silly. You'll love him anyways.
Obviously. But you see, if he was truly like you...he might even love me
Chapter End Notes
     To everyone that takes the time to comment: thank you. Comments make
     my day. And you think I'm joking, but I'm really not.
***** Chapter 5 *****
32 weeks
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.”
“Do mind your language, Sherlock,” Mummy said blandly. She carefully turned a
page in her book. “And they’re merely contractions—you have weeks yet.”
“I am well aware I’m not actually in labor,” Sherlock said through gritted
teeth. Several months with his mother was something that he had hoped never to
have to endure after he left for Cardiff. There was nothing particularly wrong
with Mummy and never had been. Unlike Mycroft, she wasn’t insulting or over-
bearing. And yet… ever since the incident with Father and the (also Alpha)
gardener, she’d managed to make her neglect nearly tangible in it’s brutal
efficiency. They’d had the best of nannies and boarding schools. But she’d
never felt the need to mother her children or even, really, acknowledge their
presence until they became adults.
Nurturing one’s young--an instinct that the government assured them was an
innate part of every Omega. And his own mother lacked it completely.
It terrified Sherlock no end.
“You haven’t touched the room I set aside for the baby,” she said now and there
was a hint of something fragile underneath the apathy. “Haven’t you felt any
urge to nest?”
“I…” Sherlock trailed off, unsure for once. He cleared this throat. No point in
delaying. “I do believe I’ll take the baby and move out… afterwards.”
Mummy’s thin shoulders tensed, but she didn’t look up from her book. “I see,”
she said, finally. “But you’ll hardly be able to support him now,” she added
almost immediately. “You don’t have an Alpha.”
Sherlock winced. “Don’t need one.”
“Or a job…”
“I’ll find one.”
“Hmm.” Mummy didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps,” she said delicately, “You might
stay a few months. Just until you get yourself on your feet-“
“I can’t,” Sherlock cut in coldly. “I will not stay—“ He looked at her rigid
shoulders and took a deep breath. “Mummy,” he said, leaning forwards as much as
his inflated belly allowed. “Mother. I need…” To get the hell out of this
hateful torture chamber “I need to leave,” he said, suddenly fretful. “I
dislike the cloying smell of perfume, the ancient furniture, the heavy doors
and the awful, awful…” he trailed off.
“What?” she demanded, raising her head. “What now, Sherlock?”
Memories. The awful memories, of a lonely childhood and an awkward, depressing
adolescence, now combined with the boredom and heartache of the last few
months.
It would hurt Mummy to hear it and, while there was little that Sherlock held
sacred in this world, that was the one thing that both he and Mycroft agreed
upon. Never upset Mummy. But Sherlock was feeling sulky and he was not, really,
a good person, so he very nearly said it anyways.
“It would be better for the child,” she said, luckily interrupting his train of
thoughts. “He would have a stable place to grow up. He wouldn’t be shunted from
ramshackle flat, to ramshackle flat—“
“I can take care of my son,” Sherlock said furiously. “And I will.”
“So you say. Do you have any idea of the responsibility involved?”
“No. Do you?” Her mouth dropped open and he felt a vicious satisfaction. But it
took her barely a second to recover. She sighed and gazed sadly at him, her
eyes shockingly familiar under her white fringe.
“And…” she said softly. “You could finish your schooling.”
“I don’t need to go back…”
“Cambridge. Imagine, Sherlock,” she said, her voice quietly tempting. “The
finest of laboratories, the most excellent teachers and brilliant students,
nearly as brilliant as you. You wouldn’t be bored.”
Sherlock froze. “I can’t… I can’t think of that. Not now.”
“Of course you can, dear.” She leaned forwards, something almost like triumph
flashing in her eyes. “You always wanted that, didn’t you? You could read
chemistry and enjoy uni and be… Be as you were. ”
“My baby…”
“Would be happy. You would be able to see him anytime and he’d have everything
a proper Holmes should. A select education, the best teachers for sports and
music… You can’t give him all that, Sherlock.”
He hated how easy it sounded. Just… hated it.
“What would he think?” Sherlock asked, casting his eyes downwards. “He’d think…
He’d think his mother left him.” He didn’t bother curbing the accusatory edge
to his voice. “He’d feel abandoned.”
“We’d tell him you’re his brother,” Mummy said, too quickly for someone who
hadn’t thought this through. “And I… Give me a chance, Sherlock. I do regret…
But he’s my grandson too. And it’s really for the best, isn’t it?”
Sherlock refused to meet her eyes. “Perhaps.”
“You know it is. You can’t afford to be selfish, Sherlock. He’s… he’s your
child.” She paused. And then, because Mycroft hadn’t learned his manipulative
powers in a vacuum, she said cajolingly: “And think of your Alpha. You say you
love him… Wouldn’t he want his son to have the very best? Be everything you
are?”
Jesus, you’re fucking brilliant. Beautiful too
Sherlock shook his head.
But he didn’t say no.
---
37 weeks
“I can’t… I can’t do this,” Sherlock gasped. The nurse by his side held out her
hand and he grasped it. Her hand was warm and dry… grounding. He hissed as
another bolt of pain shot through his body.
“Come on, hold on,” she said gently. “You’re not anywhere near dilated enough
yet…
“Is that meant to be comforting?” Sherlock growled, his eyes narrowing. “Your
bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”
“Well, you’re not dying yet,” she sad dryly. It was on the tip of Sherlock’s
tongue to say something (something about her dyed-red-hair-desperate-desire-
for-children-unhappy-Omega-wife).
The idea, satisfying as it was, was lost in the wake of another contraction. He
gasped, throwing back his head, and her little hand squeezed his own.
“How bloody long can this last?” It was a rhetorical question. He knew the
answer. But the pretty little nurse answered anyways.
“6-12 hours,” she said, her voice infuriatingly calm. “You’re barely at 5 cm,
so you’ve got a bit to go. Do you need anything?”
“I would like a less unprofessional nurse and, oh yes, my dignity back.”
Sherlock glared at his raised, strapped legs. He could only imagine how he must
look and the picture was hardly a pretty one.
The nurse followed his gaze and grinned. “You look beautiful, sweetie. A bit
pained and uncomfortable, but other than that…”
“Fuck you,” he spat.
She eyed him appraisingly. “Sorry, I’m taken. And from one baby-incubator to
another, that’s illegal.”
At that, his eyes blinked frantically open. “You’re an Omega too. There's
always something…URGH.”
---
“You all right?”
“Is this contraption strictly necessary?”
“No, of course not, we just like embarrassing you.”
“Was that an attempt at humor? I don’t think you’re funny.”
“I don’t know, I thought it was rather clever… Oh. Hell. Shh now, don’t push.”
“’Don’t push’? You really expect me to fight over 56 million years of
evolution?
“Right, that… I’m calling the OB.”
“Oh, I knew I saw the spark of genius in you.”
……..
The contractions were terrifyingly painful. He wanted… he wanted an epidural,
he wanted everything and anything to stop this and he was blabbing, he knew it…
The red-haired nurse’s hand would soon match her hair with how hard he was
squeezing it. “Why so terrified, sweetie?” she asked. There were others in the
room, others who seemed more interested in what was happening between his legs
than in the panic on his face, but all he saw was her. “Focus on me, that’s it…
Now. What are you so scared of?”
Everything. Nothing. The future and the present and the crippling contraction
that shot through his entire body, making him gasp.
“You’re okay,” she said softly. She leaned over and swept a hand over his
sweaty forehead, bathing him in the sweet, comforting scent of her. And he
noticed that her eyes were blue, such a dark blue and her hair was so red, but
those eyes…She would understand, if he told her.
“What do you need?” she asked again. He tightened his grip and she winced.
“My Alpha,” he said, urgently “Where is he? Call him. He’d want…Tell him he has
to come. Tell him.”
Her mouth pursed in a desperately unhappy line. “I’m sorry,” she said gently.
“I am. If I knew who he was…”
“His name…” Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. “I don’t remember. I don’t…”
“Shhh… Quiet, love.”
Her eyes were so very blue.
“It’ll be all right.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
“Would you like to hold him?” Sherlock blinked blearily. He’d fallen asleep at
some point, or perhaps he’d simply been too dazed to realize when they’d
cleaned him up and (thank God) unstrapped his legs.
He remembered a wailing and reaching out, but…
“Is he all right?” Sherlock demanded instantly. “They said… with a slightly
early birth..”
The nurse (male, Beta, unmarried) chuckled, a blue bundle held securely in his
arms. “He’s fine. He wasn’t that early really… And I’d say he’s a fighter. He’s
already giving the nurses hell…”
Right on cue, the bundle began wailing again. Sherlock reached out
automatically for his baby.
“All right, careful now…” The nurse arranged him carefully in Sherlock’s arms
and Sherlock pulled him in close, cradling the small body against his chest
with hands that suddenly felt too-large and clumsy.
“He’s still crying… I don’t…” Sherlock began frantically. But at the sound of
his voice, the little bundle immediately quieted.
“You…” he looked down and swallowed. “Yes. I’m here.”
The baby gurgled appreciatively and Sherlock stared at him, open-mouthed. Dark-
brown hair (not blonde, not black) and sharp, delicate features that were
undeniably like his own. He felt a little flutter of disappointment, but it was
quickly over-shadowed by the…. Awe. He wanted to say love, but that wasn’t
quite the…
The newborn flicked open his eyes and Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Blue. A
sweeping, comforting blue, so unlike the silvery fish-scale translucence of his
own. The boy blinked slowly and Sherlock watched, rapt with attention, before
leaning in to scent his child.
His. Every instinct screamed his. And there was a little of his Alpha too, the
comforting odor of him, all layered over the distinct, milky newborn smell.
Eventually, the baby would develop his own, unique scent. But he’d always smell
just a little bit like Sherlock. A little bit like his father.
“Very touching,” a familiar, posh voice drawled from the corner. Sherlock
startled, immediately tightening his grip on the newborn.
“Go away, Mycroft.”
Mycroft tut-ted. “I’m here to see my nephew, Sherlock. Surely you wouldn’t deny
me that?”
“I said, go away.” Sherlock glared at him, telling him in no-uncertain terms
that he most definitely would.
“You’re being foolish, Sherlock... In fact, considering your little arrangement
with Mummy, I should say you’d better let go of him sooner rather than later.”
"No,” Sherlock’s face was stricken. “It's none of your business, you fat,
arrogant--"
“Is it not?” Mycroft cut in. “And you should consider for once what is better
for someone other than yourself.”
“Have you come in here just to harass me?” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve just given
birth, Mycroft, which I assure you is more than you’ve accomplished in your
entire life. So if you would, kindly….LEAVE.”
The boy whimpered and they both instantly turned to his scrunched up face.
“Oh,” Mycroft breathed. “He even… he looks like a Holmes.”
“I need to feed him,” Sherlock said flatly. He could feel the heaviness in his
breasts, the slightest wetness where his nipples stuck uncomfortably to his
hospital gown.
“You should… you should go.”
“I will. I assure you, I have little desire to see you feed the thing.”
“That thing has a NAME,” Sherlock snapped. “And is also your nephew, though the
latter is no fault of mine.”
Mycroft snorted in disbelief. “Ah yes, I did hear about that name…Sherlock,
really? A touch absurd, is it not?’
“I fail to see your point,” Sherlock said icily.
Mycroft sighed. “The false name that Alpha of yours gave at the breeding
station? You’d name your child that? Why, it might be anything… he might have
made it up or seen it in a magazine moments before or come up with the name of
a distant relative…”
“You know very well that’s not true,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s a real name,
most certainly. And for someone attempting to remain undetected, it’s rather a
foolish name to use… It’s unique to a particular region and unusual enough to
incite comment. No, that name meant something to him, Mycroft. And besides,”
Sherlock added, turning back to his infant. “He likes it. Don’t you, Hamish?”
The baby gurgled again and Mycroft rolled his eyes.
“He’ll be just as difficult as you then, I presume,” he said with a sigh.
“I certainly hope so,” Sherlock murmured. His eyes were glued back on his son
and he barely heard the door shut quietly as Mycroft departed.
“Hamish,” he said again. He bent and brushed the baby’s tiny nose with his own
and was rewarded with what might have been a small smile. His.
“Hello, you disaster.”
---
“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” a brash, female voice called.
Mycroft paused abruptly in front of the hospital’s staff-only back door and
turned to see a petite, red-haired woman slumped against the wall. She held a
cigarette in one hand and, despite her youth, her face was weary and her eyes
bloodshot.
“Ah yes. Pleasure to see you again,” he said. His voice indicated that it was
anything but.
She snorted and took a long drag on her cigarette. “I doubt that, somehow.”
Mycroft raised an immaculate eyebrow. “I may not be enamored with your visage,
my dear, but rest assured that I am grateful for your cooperation. You will be
adequately compensated…”
She blew a great, curling cloud of smoke into his face, sudden rage wrapping
her pretty features. “You bastard,” she said, her voice shaking. “Do you have
any idea…I could have cried. He’s just a child, Holmes. He’s a child and he’s
terrified and alone and he needs…”
“I am perfectly aware,” Mycroft cut in. “But do you think it would make it
easier on him, knowing the truth?”
Her lip trembled. “No, but--Oh god. He’s so in love, it breaks my heart. I
don’t understand…I’ve never seen a bond like it, not unless it was after years
and years of marriage. How…?”
Mycroft turned deliberately away.
“Thank you for your services,” he said icily. “I am sure that your pheromones
made the entire birth much easier for my brother. Do not think I am
ungrateful.”
She took a step towards him, suddenly looking frantic. “Now wait, you
promised…”
“You will have the marriage papers by tomorrow,” Mycroft said smoothly. “As
Omega to Omega marriage is punishable by life incarceration, however, I have
taken the liberty of changing you to an Alpha in all documentation. It should
be an easy pretense, considering your already low hormone production."
"I...." the woman nodded. "Thank you. I just.. there were rumors, after she
miscarried, and I was so, so terrified they'd take her away. Try to breed her
out again."
"I know." Mycroft paused, letting the silence sink in. "But you do know what
would happen if you were to let your involvement in the delicate matter of my
brother slip out…?”
“But… you’ll tell him eventually, won’t you?” she asked. She stabbed out her
cigarette and twisted her blunt fingers guiltily. “You tell him that.. that
John, if he knew, he’d be here and say fuck all to the consequences. Not that a
bloody cold bastard like you would understand, but if he were to hear-- ”
“Ah, but he won’t, will he?”
She buried her face in her hands. “God, he’s never going to forgive me. I
wouldn't forgive me, dammit.”
“That is your own concern, I’m afraid. Good day, Miss Watson.”
---
***** Chapter 7 *****
In the end, he didn't see what other option he had, even though he wondered, in
his more despondent moods, if he could even bear to be separated from Hamish.
Hamish, who was tiny and quiet and wide-eyed, with clutching little hands and
soft lips that permanently protruded in a miniature moue.
“Your Alpha must be a quiet man indeed,” Mummy mused. Or, as Mycroft put it:
“I’m rather inclined to have DNA testing done. Because you, my dear brother,
were born whining about the world and you haven’t stopped since.”
But Hamish was silent. He slept fretfully, clinging to Sherlock’s chest, fussed
when he was hungry, but never cried.
“Is this normal?” Sherlock asked after a week, of no one in particular. He lay
on the couch, too tired to move, one leg drooping limply off of the side. Not
sleeping because sleeping was boring was one thing, but a baby was entirely
another and he was very near to collapsing from exhaustion. He closed his eyes
and curled an arm protectively around Hamish, who’d fallen asleep against his
chest.
“You shouldn’t sleep like that with him,” Mycroft said reprovingly, turning a
page casually in his newspaper. “It’s not healthy.”
“Yes and you’re not the one he wakes up every time he’s left in his cot for
longer than 10 minutes,” Sherlock muttered drowsily.
“You always cried when you were put in your cot too,” Mummy said, glancing at
Mycroft. “Your nanny used to say she had such a time of it. Which reminds me:
Sherlock, we must get a nanny. I know a nice Omega girl, down by-“
“No,” Sherlock bit off. Hamish stirred at the sound and Sherlock rubbed his
back soothingly. “Not while I’m here,” he said softly.
Mummy smiled a little wistfully at the picture they made, Sherlock with his
thin body and gangly limbs and Hamish, sweetly tucked into his chest. “It’ll be
better, in the long run,” she said gently . “Weaning him gradually. It wouldn’t
be fair to him to switch suddenly from having you all the time.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. But it was suddenly quite clear where Hamish had
inherited his perpetual pout.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” he said, after a moment. “If Hamish is to dumped in
the lap of some unfortunate nanny…” He hesitated. “Perhaps I could bring him…?”
This wasn’t the first time Sherlock had brought up a variant of this idea. It
wasn’t even the fifth.
Still, Mycroft probably shouldn’t have snorted so loudly.
“To uni? Don’t be absurd, Sherlock.” His gaze softened. “It’ll be better for
him to grow up in a stable household,” he said carefully. “And there’s no need
to be dramatic--you’ll see him as often as you like. It’s barely three hours by
train.”
“He’ll think he’s not mine.” Sherlock said fiercely. “And yes, now I’m three
hours away. What of in another few years? After all, I would hardly want him to
think of me the way I think of you.”
“And I suppose you have a better option?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the slight,
save for a practiced pursing of his lips. “You’ll bring him up in some filthy
gutter in the middle of nowhere? You don’t have single pound saved nor do you
have the qualifications to go about earning a proper living. That’s no way to
raise a child, Sherlock.”
“Well, you did say…” Sherlock bit his lip, considering. “My Alpha. You said you
could find him.”
“Well, that’s not really possible, is it? Even if you did find him, no Alpha
would stay at home with a pup while his Omega was in uni,” Mummy pointed out.
“And yours hasn’t even cared enough to find you…”
“Busy, perhaps…”
“For 9 months, dear? Do be reasonable.”
“I would suggest,” Mycroft cut in smoothly, “That you disabuse yourself of such
a notion. In fact it might be best if… if you let the matter of your Alpha rest
entirely.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Let it rest? Why—Oh. You know something, don’t
you?” He tried to sit up and then thought better of it. “I might have known.
What do you know? Tell me.”
“You were the one who asked me not to track him.”
“Which you did anyways and without my permission. And now I am asking you to
tell me.”
Mycroft paused. “Of course I know nothing,” he said, enunciating slowly. “It is
merely my opinion that it is for the best if you leave matters be.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t want us?”
“Sherlock, I told you…”
“He doesn’t want us, does he?” Sherlock demanded. “Tell me the truth, Mycroft.
Or…” Horror passed across his face. “He’s dead. Is he dead?”
“SHERLOCK,” Mycroft exploded. “I know absolutely nothing-”
He was interrupted by a soft snuffle that quickly turned into a whine.
“Oh well done, Mycroft, you’ve woken the baby.”
“You’re letting your emotions get the better of your judgment,” Mycroft
remarked, as Sherlock patted Hamish until he quieted again. “I was the one who
offered to find him in the first place and you refused me.“
“Forgive me for doubting your commitment to respecting my wishes,” Sherlock
said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He carefully raised himself up and swung his
feet off of the sofa.
Mycroft shrugged. “It still doesn’t change the fact that I should have no
reason not to tell you if I had found him. Unless, of course, I wished to spare
you…”
“Spare me?” Sherlock’s voice hit a note that Mycroft would not have believed it
capable of. “Spare me—spare me what?”
Mycroft sighed and leaned forwards. “I could soften this, but I will not: Your
Alpha is not coming home, Sherlock. I am sorry.
“You’re lying,” Sherlock said immediately. He looked away, as if suddenly
fascinated by the detailing on the couch. “I’d know. I’d feel it, if something
had happened…”
“You may draw your own conclusions, then.”
“I will, you overgrown, pompous…Oh. I was right then, wasn’t?” Sherlock looked
up dully. “He doesn’t want…Of course. I should have known.”
“Many Alphas bond irresponsibly in heat and then find that the idea of a family
is more overwhelming then they’d anti—“
“Shut up.” Sherlock rose carefully from the couch, hitching up Hamish in his
arms. “I don’t require your pity. Either of yours,” he added to his silent
mother.
Mummy simply crossed her ankles, her eyes following her youngest son as he shut
the door rather more forcefully than necessary behind him. She waited for the
soft thump of footsteps heading upstairs before turning to Mycroft, who looked
distinctly ruffled.
“Now,” she said delicately. “Perhaps you might tell me the truth.”
---
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     I promise enough sweetness and sex to give you cavities at the end,
     but it's going to be a bit of ride until then. Hang in there, if you
     will. And lots of characters you might (or might not) recognize
     coming up for a bit.
Sherlock leaned his head against the train window and clutched his shoulder bag
to his stomach. Irrational though it was, the pressure made him feel less
bereft, a feeling that he was doing his absolute best not to analyze.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
A deep, feminine voice cut through his thoughts. The girl eyed him carefully,
light brown ringlets flopping artistically into her face. Faded denim shorts,
sleeveless, tucked in blouse— fashionably undone, two words that were forever
an oxymoron to Sherlock.
And yet: the scuffed heels really were old, the hair wasn’t so much artistic as
hurried. Less wealthy then she’d like to be, cleverer than she thought she was
and not even half as nice as the rest of world would like to believe.
She cleared her throat.
“If you must, then sit. But don’t talk. I have no desire to learn your name and
I distinctly doubt you’ll wish to keep company with me beyond this ride.”
Her mouth fell open and then rearranged itself into a pretty scowl.
Only child. Probably used to getting her own way and being liked.
Tough.
Sherlock ignored her and leaned his head against his window, staring at the
blandly green countryside and conscious of equally green eyes watching him.
“You’re very rude,” she said finally.
“Do you always state the obvious?”
“Are you always this rude?”
“Are you always this annoying?”
She blew out a sigh and sat back, looking cross. “Fine. Then I suppose I don’t
want to talk to you either.”
“Good. Incidentally, very mature of you.”
He turned to look at her (a mistake, in retrospect), just as anger flashed
across her heart-shaped face. “And I suppose you think you’re very grown-up, is
that it? Because you’re…” she pursed her lips and waved a hand. “Bonded? You
think that makes you an adult?”
“I guarantee I am more of an ‘adult’ then you,” Sherlock said coldly. She
seemed so young, all of a sudden. So utterly useless and filled with trivial
concerns and needs and wants and he felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that her biggest concern was twisting her hair
into perfect curls, while his insides felt ripped open and hollow with grief.
Wasn't fair that she'd be away and miss home and he'd be away and feel as if he
was missing half his heart.
She was angry and it all seemed so unbearably tedious and his shirt stuck wetly
to his chest, but he couldn't think about that...
“Why then?” she snapped, because she observed nothing, least of all slight
discolorations in his clothing and his contemptible wave of self-pity. “You
Omegas think the world revolves around babies and bonding and you can’t even
talk like a human being to a Beta. Because what? I don’t have a cock to stick
up your stupid arse?”
“Ah, at least you’re as sexist as you are annoying.”
“Sexist?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn. “I’m a Beta. There’s
nothing more sexist than hearing about the godly Alphas and Omegas day after
day… As if you lot are something special, because you fuck like rabbits once
every three months--”
“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” Sherlock spat, furious with the unfairness of it
all. “Having control of your body must be just frightful. What is it like not
being viewed as a fuck-toy by Alphas and a breeding machine by everyone else?
Not being a freak of nature? Go on, tell me. I wouldn't know.”
That silenced her.
“Your mouth is open again,” Sherlock muttered, after a long, humiliating
minute.
To his surprise, she snapped it shut, still looking mildly horrified. Well, if
it kept her quiet, he wasn’t about to complain. Silence stretched awkwardly
over the compartment and he turned back to the lush green of the countryside,
his cheeks still flushed with his outburst.
“Look, I…”
The pity was making his skin crawl so badly he wanted to claw it off. Shove it
in her awful, sympathetic face and watch her squeak with the horror of flesh,
torn and bloody, so that she’d have any, ANY other expression--
Nothing for it, then.
“The answer is no,” he said flatly. “I'm neither flattered nor interested.”
Sure enough, that provoked a resurgence of (admittedly deserved) outrage. “You
think I fancy you?” she demanded. “You’re bonded, I'm not a fucking sadist--"
"Masochist."
"You know, where the hell is your Alpha anyways? Don’t tell me, did you scare
him off too? I pity the sorry idiot who got saddled with you."
Sherlock cringed and curled up in the corner. “Shut up,” he mumbled and then
wanted to cringe again at how truly pathetic he sounded.
So pathetic, apparently, that she was regretting her words for the second time.
Indecisive pest. She'd realize she hated him eventually and the sooner she did,
the faster he could wallow peacefully in his misery.
“Shit, I didn’t… You’re such an awful twat, you know that?” she said, the
frustration in her voice nearly tangible. “I don’t even know—“
“One favor,” he interrupted, his voice acerbic. “Just one. SHUT. UP.”
They passed the rest of the ride in blessed silence.
---
His new flat mate was tall and thin with a mop of curly, reddish hair and a
long, elegant nose. His clothes said wealthy, his left wrist said lazy, but
clever. His bottom lip said nervous disposition, the back of his trousers said
polite to a fault and his socks and shoelaces said chronically late. Sherlock
didn’t hate him. Not yet.
“Victor Trevor,” he offered, after scrambling (unsuccessfully) to wrestle
Sherlock’s bag away from him. “I could, um…”
“No.”
“Okay then. Um, would you like to…?”
Sherlock hurried into his room and slammed the door shut on the rest of the
sentence, his arm crossed defensively across his chest. He dumped his luggage
on the floor and peeled off his t-shirt, wincing as he surveyed the damage in
the mirror. He was sore and leaking and he smelled thickly of lactation. He
rubbed a finger across one swollen, dark nipple and watched as the white fluid
welled and tear-dropped down his bare stomach.
Such an awful waste.
A fresh strip of cloth then, tied tightly about his chest—not that it did much
(and risked infection besides), but, at the very least, combined with a dark
shirt, it kept the visible evidence down to a minimum. There was a knock on the
outside door just as he finished tying it, biting his lip at the slide of thick
material across his sensitive flesh.
“Hello. Is your flat mate here?” an unfortunately familiar voice asked from
outside his door. “Tall bloke, awfully skinny. Bit moody. “
Both Victor and the girl jumped when the door crashed open. “What do you want?”
Sherlock demanded. “Haven’t you done enough for the day?”
The floppy-haired Beta from the train stared back at him from the doorway,
looking suddenly nervous.
“Listen,” she began. “I was thinking…”
“I sincerely doubt you’re capable of that.”
Victor looked desperately uncomfortable at this fresh bit of rudeness. “Perhaps
we….?” He trailed off, unable to find anything sufficiently compelling to
insert into the question.
The girl ignored him in favor of glowering at Sherlock. “Oh hush up. I was
going to say, I’m sorry. I don’t fancy Omegas anyways, but you know, if you
felt…well…”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re implying,” he said acidly,
stepping deliberately into her personal space and forcing her over the door’s
threshold. “I am, contrary to popular opinion, perfectly capable of taking care
of myself. Now kindly take your narrow-minded misconceptions somewhere else and
stop wasting my time.”
“No, I didn’t mean- God, you’re really a mess, aren’t you?” She let out all her
breath and thrust her hands in his face. “Look, that came out wrong. I wanted
to apologize for all the things I said about Omegas and just—to apologize.
That’s all. I was rude and you being a prick doesn’t justify…No, okay. I was
rude and—and-- ”
“Apology accepted,” Sherlock cut in. “You may leave, though if you wish to
blather anymore, I’m sure Victor would be happy to sympathize with you. Good
bye.”
“Wait, no—“ she shoved a skinny shoulder into the door, preventing it from
closing, and held out a hand.
“Violet,” she said, rather breathlessly, her hair now fully in her face.
Sherlock groaned. “No.”
“If we’re going to fight,” she continued. “I’d rather do it on a first name
basis. Make it official.”
He stared down at the offered limb.
“Who says we’ll fight?” he asked slowly.
“I do,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m smart, even though you don’t think I
am. I say things before I think about them. And you’re impossible. So we’ll
fight. Might as well do it properly.”
“Miss—“
“Hunter. But really, call me Violet. Everyone does. Or… Vi.”
“I will most certainly not be calling you ‘Vi”, ” Sherlock said disdainfully.
He looked again at the hand now waving somewhere in the region of his
collarbone. “And I’m not going to be rid of you until I shake your hand, am I?”
She looked grimly satisfied. “Now you’re getting the idea.”
“Very well then.” Sherlock grimaced and grasped her fingers delicately, as if
afraid it might pass on a contagious disease. “Violet. I trust that is all.
Now. If you would consider leaving…?”
“But…”
He slammed the door in her face and counted… 3...2...1...
Sure enough, there was a pounding on the door. He wrenched it open and Violet
nearly fell over in her surprise.
“He died,” Sherlock said casually, after giving her a moment to brace herself
on the doorframe. Her eyes widened. “What?”
He flicked his eyes over her tense form and sighed.
“You’re not actually here to apologize. Not entirely. Nor were you here to
introduce yourself: you didn’t even ask for my name. No, you were curious—about
what? Judging by our limited conversation, your lack of observational ability,
and my obvious scent, there’s really only one possibility: You want to know
what a bonded Omega is doing at university. So, I’m telling you: My Alpha. Is
dead.”
“Oh fuck,” she swore, real regret crossing her face for the first time. “Oh
fuck, I’m so, so sorry…”
He opened the door and waved pointedly at the hallway. “If we’re quite
finished, then?” Violet pressed a hand to her mouth and backed away.
“I…” Victor started helplessly, after the door had slammed shut behind her with
a satisfying thud.
“Don’t,” Sherlock warned.
Victor sighed. “I was just going to say…I could use a smoke. How about a
smoke?”
Sherlock stared at him.
“Well, it's not as if you have anything better to do, is it?”
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
_---
Victor would have been brilliant, if he’d bothered to care. But he didn’t care,
not the least bit. Instead, he was kind and lazy and spent hours at a time
smoking blissfully in their tight, stinky little room. He kept the windows
open, because he was polite, for a nicotine-addicted 18-year-old, but the truth
was, Sherlock didn’t care either. He’d never smoked seriously, nothing more
than the odd pilfered cigarette, but it soon became comfortable to lie down
next to Victor and steal his cigarettes. Companionable.
Sherlock talked to the ceiling and Victor listened as he spun off gossip about
their classmates and professors: who was sleeping with whom, who cheated on
exams and who took drugs, who lied and who stole, everything and anything that
was not about him. He’d worried at first that Victor would notice the gap, but
if he did, he never said anything.
“What do you think of Seb?” Victor said one evening, out of the blue
interrupting a long rant on Dr. Doyle, the anatomy professor who was quite
clearly adjusting the grades. He and Sherlock had taken one look at each other
and it had been hate at first sight, a fact which his chronic inaccuracy and
Sherlock’s need to correct him had hardly done anything to mitigate
“Seb? Sebastian Wilkes?” Sherlock frowned. “ I don’t think of him at all. Why?”
“Nothing, just asking,” Victor said, shaking his head. “He was asking about you
and I thought… well, never mind.”
“Horrid, pompous excuse for an Alpha,” Sherlock informed him. “Dating that
equally horrid Omega… Natalie? Norma?”
“Norah,” Victor said, blowing a cloud at their rapidly graying ceiling. There
was a fine layer of ash over everything in the flat by now.
"And really," he continued, dead-pan."“They’re all like that, I’ve heard.
Fucking Alphas, mate.”
Sherlock flipped onto his side and snorted. “You’re an Alpha.”
“Fucking Alphas,” Victor repeated, grinning slightly back at him. “I’ve heard
everyone wants to. ‘Cept you, of course.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock said irately. He knew Victor was teasing. He’d never asked
about Sherlock’s bond until now, never mentioned that Sherlock was an Omega and
Sherlock wanted desperately to keep it that way. Victor seemed to sense it, for
he backed off immediately.
“Oh fine then. But you should consider... Well.” He blew another puff straight
into Sherlock’s face. “Sorry. But how about Violet?”
“Vio-?” Sherlock narrowed his watering eyes. “Boring,” he huffed.
“I don’t know. I think she likes you.”
“Considering that she’s currently not speaking to me, I doubt it,” Sherlock
said dryly. “Or should I say, she’s currently not speaking to me AGAIN.”
“I realized it was true love when she screeched at you for getting
inappropriately familiar with that Bunsen burner,” Victor said reminiscently.
“I’ll never forget the delectable smell of burning wool—“
“Cashmere, if one is being precise.”
“And of course, one ought to always be precise… WHY are you two lab partners
again?”
Sherlock shrugged. “She’s not completely unintelligent. And there’s something
to be said for stress outlets.”
“For you and her, maybe. The rest of us get high blood pressure just from
entering that lab.”
"Idiots,” Sherlock declared, reaching over Victor for another cigarette. "All
they think about is sex and drinking, so it's not entirely surprising that a
chemistry experiment would make them anxious." Still, he had to admit, there
was something empowering about talking about sex with such flippancy. About
pretending, for a moment, that he was so very far above such trivial, human
matters.
“I was thinking more of the yelling. Oh, fine. Hmm. Gloria.”
Sherlock shuddered. “Beta, shallow, self-centered and terribly, terribly dull.
Next.”
Victor paused thoughtfully.
“Seb.”
“Please, the cigarettes are already making me nauseous enough.”
---
“You coming?” It was a Friday and Sherlock was lying on his bed and staring at
the ceiling.
“Mostly likely not,” Sherlock informed the dark, suspicious stain over his
head.
“Oh, come on, you don’t even know where we’re going!”
Sherlock lifted his head and took in Victor’s self-consciously slicked hair,
dark denim. “Drinking,” he decided and flopped back onto the bed.
Victor deflated. “Oh, fine then,” he sighed. “Can’t even go out on a bender
like a normal bloke, can you?”
“You do know Gloria is shagging Sebastian, do you not?” Sherlock asked
absently. “Meaning that simply bringing me along to make yourself look both
taller and less socially awkward will not help your chances.”
Victor considered. “No, don’t tell me… Lipstick?”
“Red, cherry—last week it was more—“ Sherlock waved his hand in the air,
frowning. “Salmon. Bright pink blush too, heavy foundation, that's new too. But
it was really the shoes, of course. Always heels and then flats, why flats?
Because she’s tall and he’s insecure. And the aftershave.”
“Dammit. Thought I had it that time.”
“You try too hard to pinpoint one fact,” Sherlock said dismissively. “It leaves
you open to false assumptions- you must consider everything.”
“But it sounds more impressive,” Victor pointed out. “And you ought to come.
Violet will be there.”
“Oh?” Sherlock said, already bored. “Violet ,is it?”
“She fancies you.”
“No she doesn’t, as you very well know. Oh- Of course. You simply want me to
confirm that she does not.”
Victor spun around and smiled hopefully. “So she doesn’t then?”
“Beta, not so very dull and, I'm given to understand, not altogether
unattractive either. No history of violent crime, addiction to deadly vices or
extreme sexual proclivities that I can deduce, but frankly a bit yappy,”
Sherlock said, distaste seeping into his voice on the last word. “You should be
very happy together. Your children will be very productive, very tedious little
workers.”
“Like little worker bees?”
“No, bees are interesting.”
"And children definitely aren't."
"I..." Sherlock turned his back on Victor and curled up into a petulant ball.
"I'm not going. You may leave."
“You're absolutely sure...?” Victor asked half-heartedly.
“Spare me,” Sherlock sniffed. He waited until Victor left, whistling happily,
and then flipped onto his stomach to reach for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Put the phone next to Hamish,” Sherlock said crisply.
“Oh, Sherlock dear! How ar--“
“I do not have time for your drivel. Now, my son, if you would.”
He heard a long-suffering sigh. “It’s completely silly that you insist on doing
this— a recording would suffice, if you really wanted…”
“He likes it,” Sherlock said icily. "And I can give it to him."
Enough of a justification for the moment. It was an argument Mummy would never
win and she, unlike Mycroft, knew when there was no point in fighting against
even the most irrational sentiments. Sherlock pulled the violin case out from
under his bed and lovingly picked the precious possession from the softly lined
velvet, just as fretful whine came through the phone.
Sherlock played. He played like he did every night he was able, rare though
they admittedly were. Tonight, it was Brahms and Schubert and something else,
something soft and sweet and easy, something of his own, until the muffled
snuffling quieted and then eventually faded altogether. And then he repeated
it. He was loath to stop, just in case Hamish woke again (or so he told
himself) and so he played until his arms tired and the air was suffocating and
then he dropped the violin down, realizing, suddenly, that the phone had gone
dead a long time ago. Sherlock closed his eyes.
“Sweet dreams, disaster.”
Chapter End Notes
     Again, thank you all for the amazing support and comments. You keep
     me going and I love you for it. I'm making an effort to go back
     through and answer as many comments as I can, but it might take a
     while, so no promises!
***** Chapter 10 *****
It was closer to Christmas than Sherlock would have liked to admit. He didn’t
count off the days or eagerly anticipate the break: wanting, pining, would only
make it worse. He couldn’t do this if he wasn’t numb and so he became numb.
None of it mattered and that was better, far better, than the tears that had
run during his first heat… after. It had been barely 2 months into classes and
he’d stumbled out of his forensics lecture, delirious and frantic, and found a
black car waiting for him. A luxurious hotel then and a thick dildo that he’d
forced into his own arse, cheeks wet with tears, body trembling with need.
“Where were you?” Victor hadn’t asked when he stumbled home three days later.
He’d merely gotten up and offered Sherlock a glass of water. Victor never
asked. It was the best thing about him. Still, Sherlock hadn’t missed how thin
the ring of brown around his pupils had become or the dull flush of arousal on
his neck. It was hateful, that his body could do that, even to his—only—friend.
Victor had been kind and controlled, but not everyone was. Male Omegas were
rare, prized even and he'd lost track of the number of times Alphas had tried
to lay a claim, even when he was well out of heat. It was only a few weeks
later that a deceptively small female Alpha nosed into the back of his neck
during lab. He stiffened, one hand still clutched around his beaker, as she
growled happily and ran a possessive arm about his wrist.
“Hey, keep your creepy hands off of my lab partner,” Violet said, glowering.
“He’s enough of a liability as is, don’t need you distracting him.”
Still, her hands curled around a glass vial of her own and Sherlock could see
all too clearly where that was about to come crashing down if the petite Alpha
didn’t heed her warning. She needn’t have worried. The girl took one sniff and
backed off, her hands rigid in front of her chest.
“You’re bonded,” she hissed and Sherlock felt a swell of misplaced pride that
his Alpha was strong enough, possessive enough, to send a potential suitor
scattering, even a year later.
“Your Alpha must’ve really loved you,” Violet said. Impulsively but curiously,
like she always was when Sherlock's past was mentioned. Sherlock simply
adjusted his shirt and turned back to his experiment. Perhaps. Or perhaps he’d
been a jealous, philandering bastard who had wished to ruin Sherlock for every
mate thereafter with no intention of reciprocation. Or…
“It’s quite possible he didn’t know his own strength,” Mycroft offered on the
phone, later, apropos of nothing. “There would be hardly any reason to claim an
Omega he’d just met, particularly if he had no intention of staying.”
Particularly if that Omega was you, Mycroft seemed to be insinuating.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said venomously. “And it seems I will be
spending my evening smashing every camera around this campus.”
---
Christmas did come, eventually. Sherlock barely heard Victor invite him over
before he left the dorm or felt Violet's awkward good-bye hug when the train
reached her station. He was home and Sussex was exactly the same, cold and wet
and this year, perfect.
He nearly ran to the doorstep of the Holmes mansion, as ridiculously grandiose
and starkly undecorated as ever, and then stopped, his heart pounding. Four
months. Four months without his son and early snowflakes swirled and melted in
his hair and his hands shook. He didn’t know if he could just waltz back in,
didn’t know if he wanted to.
The door swung open before he could so much as knock and a surprisingly
familiar face answered.
“He’s in the nursery,” the woman said without preamble. “And he’s been whining
all day, I could swear he knew you were coming.”
“That’s… ridiculous,” Sherlock said. But he hurried past her and upstairs to
where the cot was full of what appeared, at first glance, to be a bundle of
blankets. No. Bright blue eyes peeked out of a chubby face and a full little
mouth opened, clearly distraught, as Hamish kicked fretfully at the pile. He
stopped as Sherlock entered and leaned over the cot, pausing just long enough
to examine Sherlock’s entranced face, before tugging beseechingly at a blanket.
“He’s hot,” Sherlock said witheringly, as neat footsteps sounded behind him
“Look at him, the temperature in this room is astounding…”
“Sorry,” she said dryly, leaning on the doorframe. “I don’t speak baby, wasn’t
part of my training. ”
“It’s common sense,” Sherlock informed her. “Not that I’d expect you to know,
you’re not even a real nurse.”
“What--?” she tensed defensively,.
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s perfectly obvious that you only have basic training,
far too basic for a nurse. And I assume they thought an Omega would calm me, so
you’re what… An assistant? An EMT? Or simply a nanny?”
She relaxed a little. “Well, I’m a nanny now. But they often bring in Omegas
during difficult births. Calms the mothers. You know,” she added speculatively.
“Most of them are younger than you.”
“Of course. I was… late.”
He reached in and plucked up Hamish, who looked at him with startled blue eyes.
There was a slight, horrifying second where Sherlock was afraid he’d start
crying in earnest. But then a chubby hand went out and grabbed at his hair,
tugging gleefully, and Sherlock chuckled with relief.
“He likes me,” he said softly.
“Well and why wouldn’t he? You smell right to him… In fact, you smell like
you’re part of him.”
“Oh…” Sherlock gently untangled a hand and kissed the knuckles.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” she said softly. He turned, Hamish still cradled against
his chest, to find her watching him with sad eyes. “It’s a shame you can’t be
here. I mean, your mother’s here, sort of, and so am I, but it’s not the same,
is it? Though don’t get me wrong, I love him too."
"Love him? You're his nanny and you haven't been here long, looking at your
shoes. Don't be absurd," Sherlock said disdainfully. Jealousy dripped obviously
from his tongue and he bit back the rest of the rant.
She shrugged, a little defiantly. "I do. He reminds me… Reminds of someone I
used to know.”
“Who?” .
“Oh,” she hesitated. “Someone I loved. My brother, actually.”
“He’s not…” Of course, he wouldn't be. Silly to think and yet...
“No he's not,” she said quickly. “I mean, he IS an Alpha. But never been in the
breeding program. You know how it is, there’s like 3 Alphas for every Omega, so
they get that choice and he said he’d never be able to live with himself if he…
well. He’s got a bit of a thing for female Betas, anyways and…” She trailed off
again, as her eyes grew suspiciously wet. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… haven’t
seen him in a while.”
Sherlock swallowed and eyed the coppery tang of her faded hair, the roots
peeking through.
“The blonde would be an improvement,” he said suddenly. “It would make your
features look less… harsh, somehow.”
She laughed a little. “Thanks. I prefer not to see it though. I look like my
mother when I’m blonde and that’s not really… me.”
Sherlock nodded. “You never told me your name.”
“Oh. Er… Harry.”
"Harry?" he asked dubiously.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes challengingly. "Harriet is my mother. I"m
just Harry."
“Harry, if you like then. I….Thank you.”
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm actually shocked at how all over the map the reactions to this
     story have been. In a good way, it's always an adventure reading the
     comments! So warning: this might get slightly worse before it gets
     better. But it will assuredly get better and hopefully I can clear up
     some character motivations for you.
     And lots of love to the 99% of you that leave supportive,
     constructive comments, this story wouldn't be getting written without
     you.
The house was quiet this Christmas. It had been years since Siger Holmes had
packed the house with his rambling circle of acquaintances (or friends, if one
was willing to stretch the definition of the word). And the family too, of
course: there would always be the family, the uncles and the aunts and more
cousins than anyone knew what to do with. But those awful parties had dwindled
after Siger moved out. The Holmes family had never cared much for each other
and when the last of the cousins married (or died, they’d never been a
particularly healthy bunch either) the fragile connection was more than done
for.
This year, there was only Grand-mere, Mummy’s own mother, with her fast,
cynical tongue and ready criticism.
“Oh Sherlock,” Grand-mere said, when he finally wandered in, and even Mycroft
winced. Grand-mere’s attention was never a good thing, particularly when it was
offered in that tone.
“Pregnant and single, I never saw the like,” she tut-ted, sure enough. “No
proper Holmes would stand for such a thing.”
“Well, things are a little difficult now,” Mycroft said smoothly, his foot
crashing squarely onto Sherlock’s before he could so much as scowl at her.
“With the new conservation project, bonding can be hard. Even if the—“ he
coughed delicately—“Breeding takes, it doesn’t guarantee a bond.”
“Don’t be absurd, child,” she interrupted. “I’m old, but I’m not senile yet. He
IS bonded, with that smell on him.” Her sharp, pale eyes locked onto Sherlock.
“So where is your Alpha then?”
“If I knew…” Sherlock began testily.
She stabbed a fork vigorously in his direction. “You should know. If it’s any
proper bond, you should be able to find him from anywhere.”
“No one bonds like that anymore,” Mummy said, in her quiet, distant way. “Bonds
like that... soul bonds… they did away with them after WWII.”
“And for good reason,” Mycroft added pompously.
“Nonsense,” Grandmere huffed. “The only proper way to bond. The things you have
nowadays are just pale imitations of the real thing. Why, if you’d agreed soul-
bond, my dear Violette, Siger could never have left—“
“Or our bond might never have taken in the first place. There are dangers
associated with such things,” Mummy said, her eyes showing just the tiniest
hint of fight. “What kind of person would ask for that? What kind of person
would agree? And the risk, if something should happen to one half—“
“Are we going to keep talking in cryptic sentences?” Sherlock drawled, bored.
“Or are we simply going to ramble on evasively about some silly, fantastical
story about souls bonding.”
“Sherlock, that’s basic history.” Mycroft looked thoroughly scandalized. “Even
you can’t have deleted soul-bonds.”
“Clearly, I did.”
“Might have your Alpha if you hadn’t,” Grand-mere told him coldly. “If any of
you insolent children bothered to pay attention…”
Sherlock shoved his seat away from the table, silencing her rant. “This is
entirely irrelevant,” he announced. “I can neither find my Alpha nor do I have
any desire to do so.”
“And where do you think you’re going?” Mycroft demanded. “We’ve hardly gotten
through the first course.”
“No worries, I’m sure you can find space in your endless stomach for my share,”
Sherlock answered promptly. His grin, when it flashed across face, had teeth.
“And please don’t fool yourselves. I’m not here for any of you.”
“You're so very rude, child, I don't understand…”
“Oh, let him go,” Mummy interrupted suddenly. Grand-mere stared at her in
surprise and she shrugged, focusing her empty gaze on her plate. “He’s too
tense here," she added belatedly. There was another awkward pause.
Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, Sherlock, you’re hardly adding
anything to the conversation, you might as well—“
The door crashed shut.
---
 
It was nearly an hour later that he heard the inevitable footsteps behind him--
delicate with all the experience of a practiced nanny.
“What are you thinking of?” Harry asked, leaning on the cot with him. Her long
hair glittered copper in the dim light and he realized she must have dyed it
again. A pity, really. He turned his gaze back to his sleeping son.
“Nothing.”
“Clearly something.”
Sherlock was silent for a long moment.
“Go on.”
The words burst unexpectedly out of his mouth, as if they'd been sitting there,
waiting patiently for him to acknowledge them. “How many times can I do this,
Harry?"
"Do what?"
How many times am I supposed to say goodbye?
“Sherlock?” Harry laid a warm hand on his elbow. He looked at it for a moment,
but realized, to his surprise, that he felt no inclination to shrug her off.
Her touch was oddly…comforting.
“I can’t do this,” he told her flatly. “Maybe this time. But not the next and
the next after that.”
“Then don’t,” she said immediately. Sherlock turned to look at her, his eyes
narrowed.
“Do you honestly believe that if I had any choice, Hamish would still be here?”
he asked disbelievingly. “Surely you’re not that dull, Harry.”
“You always, always have a choice,” she insisted. “Always. Don’t ever start
telling yourself you don’t, sweetie, because the moment you do, then you won’t
have it anymore.”
“It’s easy to say,” Sherlock dismissed. “I can’t just take him…”
“Why not?” Harry asked sharply. She tugged at him until he looked at her, his
eyes boring into hers. “Look, I asked you once and I’m asking you again: What
are you so afraid of, sweetie?”
Everything. That hasn’t changed.
“I won’t be able to give him anything. I won’t be able to give him a proper
education or musical training or perhaps even a proper roof over his head,
don’t you see?”
“You’re smart, you’ll figure it out,” Harry argued. “You’ll do something.”
Sherlock turned on her, his eyes cold and set. “And if I don’t? What then? If
something happens and I can’t… He deserves better than that.”
“No, what he deserves is his mother,” Harry retorted. Her own eyes were
suspiciously bright. “That’s all any child deserves, Sherlock. And don’t think
he’s going to thank you for it. He won’t, even with all his fancy gifts.”
“Its just rhetoric,” Sherlock said. “It’s sentiment, but it’s not rational,
Harry. You’re not rational. It’s not going to work out simply because I will
it.”
“It might.”
“But that’s a risk I can no longer afford to take.”
Harry sighed. “All right. But… don’t do this. Don’t give up, please. You’ll
find a way, I know you will. Just… find it, Sherlock. You’d think, with all
their money, they could help you—“
“I won’t accept their charity,” Sherlock interrupted. “And they won’t. Mycroft
doesn’t trust me and Mummy wants another chance.”
“That’s fucked up.”
Sherlock’s lips curled nastily upwards. “Not any more than deciding to keep a
child without any means, any support and all in the name of a man who clearly
never cared for you at all.”
“You don’t know he didn’t…” Harry began.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done. What I have now is my son.” Hamish stirred and
Sherlock automatically reached in. One fat hand curled sleepily around his
finger. Harry bit her lip.
“I have to go. I have… I promised someone I’d be there for their call.”
Sherlock nodded and she hesitated. “I… Happy Christmas, sweetie.”
He tilted his head back as she leaned in, her intention all too clear in the
dip of her head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but…”
Harry grinned and stilled him with one hand across his cheek, so that she could
press a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth. “That’s… that’s a kiss by proxy,”
she explained, slightly awkwardly. “Because I know, if your Alpha were here…
He’d give you that. He’d want you to have someone at Christmas. Even if it’s
just a friend.”
Sherlock snorted. “I highly doubt you know what my Alpha would want.”
“Mmmm, I don’t know…” Harry teasingly chased his lips and Sherlock ducked, so
that she ended up kissing him on the side of his head instead. Her hand
tightened briefly on his shoulder when he rose, his cheeks flushed.
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”
---
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     *warning* mentions of abuse here, though it never gets very graphic.
     Next chapter should be out very soon, as in like the next three days.
     Sorry for the long delay-- My laptop decided to be all glitchy and
     then the charger died on me. And I'm abroad, so finding one wasn't
     exactly a picnic! And love to all of you as always, you're fantastic.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Won’t you be cold?” Mummy asked him, yet again. “It’s snowing outside and that
old coat of yours is getting so worn.”
The blue wool coat that hung off of Sherlock's shoulder might have been best
described as something closer to 'ratty' than 'worn'. But here, inside the
front hallway, it was warm for the first time that Sherlock could remember. For
Hamish, of course, and while Sherlock supposed he ought to have been grateful
for the attention to detail, he almost resented it. It was difficult not feel
that every bit of detail not overlooked was a subtle slight on his own
parenting abilities.
Utterly irrational, but standing here, with his heartbreakingly quiet son
tucked in his arms, rationality seemed to have taken on a whole new meaning. At
nearly 8 months, Hamish didn't so much as whimper. All of the Holmeses had been
early talkers ('And never stopped talking after", Siger used to say) but Hamish
was deathly quiet, as he'd always been.
"Do you know that infants understand object permanence after five months?"
Sherlock asked abruptly. "Do you know what that means?"
No one said anything. Mummy merely looked resigned, but Harriet looked
bewildered..
"It means," Sherlock explained slowly, his gaze fixed on Hamish's bright,
curious one. "That he knows that just because he cannot observe something, it
does not wink out of being. He is aware, for instance, that when I am not with
him, I still exist."
There was dead silence.
"Harriet, go fetch him something to wear under that coat," Mummy murmured.
Harriet nodded briefly.
"Sherlock..." she began, as soon as the door slammed shut.
"I do not need either your counsel or your justifications," Sherlock said, the
words coming out more sharply than he intended. It did occur to him, briefly,
that the sharpness was directed more at himself than at Mummy by this point,
but he quickly dismissed the thought.
"Ah. You're still blaming me, then. After all I've done, for you and Hamish..."
“I refuse to have this conversation with you,” he said tightly. “I simply… One
moment.”
Mummy hesitated and then patted his arm awkwardly. "I know it's hard."
"You always left," Sherlock said and oh, that edge had turned so very bitter.
"What, dear?"
"How would you know?" Sherlock asked slowly. He looked up and caught her eyes
(his eyes, with their grey and blue and green, but her eyes first, translucent
and depthless). "You always left."
Mummy's gaze darted away, but Sherlock was feeling too cruel to let it rest at
that. "What was, it mother? Were we too boring? Too time-consuming? Could you
simply not be bothered? Or was it that we reminded you of---"
"Will this do?" Harriet interrupted, far too brightly for someone who hadn't
heard the tail end of that conversation. She handed Sherlock a familiar, thick
jumper.
“Found it in the closet,” she explained, when Mummy turned to eye it
suspiciously. “Dunno whose it is and it’s a bit big—“
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said impatiently. He let her drape it haphazardly around
his shoulders. Mummy straightened, her expression familiarly blank once more.
“You’ll miss your train, dear,” she rebuked quietly.
“And I suppose I’m meant to care about such trivialities.”
“It wouldn’t hurt, certainly.”
Sherlock ignored her, his hand slipping up to cradle the back of his son’s
head. “How am I to be certain he’s all right? He can’t talk, he can’t tell me…”
“He’ll be fine,” Harry said firmly. "He has his grandmother."
Sherlock snorted. "And he has me,” she added. She reached for Hamish, who went
to her without a fuss. But his bottom lip shook slightly and his eyes remained
on Sherlock's face. Sherlock bit his own lower lip and nodded.
"Fine."
“It’ll be summer soon enough,” Mummy mused encouragingly, apparently fully
recovered. Not surprising. Like every little argument (excluding the continuous
feuding between Mycroft and himself), this too would be swept neatly under the
covers, half-concluded. “You’ll come home then, won’t you?”
“Obviously.” Sherlock kissed Hamish lightly on his downy head and the lip
tremble grew far more pronounced. A hand reached for him and Sherlock grasped
it with a small cry and leaned forwards, until his lips brushed Hamish's ear.
“Don’t not cry,” he whispered fiercely. “You cannot cry or else your mother—Or
else I will cry as well. And we’re far too good for that, aren’t we?”
There was absolutely no chance that Hamish could understand him. But he didn’t
cry, even then. He never had. Born a Holmes and yet Sherlock fancied that there
was something far too understanding in his eyes, even now, for him to be just
Sherlock’s.
Harry watched him with a remarkably similar expression. “Go,” she urged. “It’s
not going to get easier.”
“Your train, dear,” Mummy reminded him yet again. Sherlock began backing away,
his eyes still fixed on Harry.
“If I call—“
“I’ll give him the phone.”
“If he cries—“
“Then I’ll call.”
“If anything, anything happens and I can’t answer--“
“I’ll leave you 30 messages and be on a train to Cambridge before you can
blink,” Harry said easily. “Now. GO.”
Sherlock didn’t so much go as run.
 
---
(5 weeks later)
“You’re doing it WRONG,” Violet hissed, for the third time that afternoon. “3
mL of .10 M HCL.”
“This IS 3ml of .10M HCL—“
“That’s what you said the last two times, too. And it’s STILL NaOH.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t make such an amateur mistake.”
“You haven’t even read the bloody lab,” Violet shot back.
“Problem?” Sherlock asked, his eyes turning into slits in his annoyance. “I’m
perfectly capable of such a basic procedure—“
“If you were even using the right chemicals,” Violet finished. She brandished a
bottle at him and Sherlock glanced at it briefly, frowning.
“THIS is the HCL, you fool.”
“Oh,” he said slowly. “ I suppose it is.”
“You’re so fucking slow today, genius, I don’t know why I put up with you—“
“Violet,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Enough.”
“What?” Violet stared at him. “Are you actually upset? You know I’m not-“
“No. Just—Not today.”
Violet was silent, her eyes flicking quickly over Sherlock’s set face. She
might well be surprised: Sherlock was never upset, not really. It was part of
their understanding, because while he and Violet had never lived up to the
promise of being great enemies, they certainly never lost a chance to indulge
in slightly vicious banter.
What was the fun without an archenemy anyways?
But now he efficiently stripped off his goggles and apron and dumped both in
the hands of his startled lab partner. “Leaving,” he said curtly.
“What--?”
“I don’t feel well,” he said. “Don’t follow me.”
Several curious stares followed his flight, but no one stopped him, not even
the thoroughly bewildered looking lab instructor. No one was about to stop an
Omega from leaving a class. Heats weren’t always so kind as to be on time and
the possible (probable) consequences of detaining a student entering oestrus
were far too awful to risk.
He’d barely rounded the corner before he heard the determined tap of footsteps
behind him. It had always been a rather futile hope that Violet would leave him
alone for any length of time. Sherlock ducked into a toilet (that had
fortuitously decided to put in an appearance at his side) just as she rounded
the corner.
“Sherlock—? The hell Sherlock, are you okay?”
If his head hadn’t been pounding, no doubt he’d have had a few very choice
words for annoying, interfering people who refused to leave him alone. Then
again, if his head hadn’t been pounding, he wouldn’t have been in the toilet to
begin with. And at the very least, he ought to have noticed that he wasn’t
alone before the stall door clanged open.
The boy that stepped out was tall and strongly built, though Sherlock could
already see the slight thickness around his mid-section from too many beers.
His eyes were wide and dilated and his hands shook so very slightly as he
straightened, wiping quickly at his nose.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said and flashed him a dazzling smile.
“Sebastian,” Sherlock managed. He looked up at the slightly taller boy and
swayed. A hand automatically reached out a hand to steady him, but Sherlock
snatched himself away and curled against the wall, his hands crossed
defensively across his chest.
Sebastian Wilkes’ smile still didn’t reach his eyes, but he tucked his hand
carefully back into his pocket. “Something’s off about you, buddy.”
“Oh, very clever. And here I just assumed you were an idiot.”
“Well, they did say you were unfriendly,” Sebastian said complacently. He
leaned forwards and there was something suddenly predatory about the way he
cupped a hand around Sherlock’s shoulder and sniffed his neck. Sherlock pushed
him away.
“Control yourself.” He frowned at Seb’s leer. “That is, if you’re even capable
of it: I believe willpower is considered a higher brain function.”
Seb straightened, his handsome features wrapping nastily. “Oh, I wouldn’t say
I’m really the one without control now, would you?” He ran a careful finger
down Sherlock’s arm, blazing a warm line of contact over the thin T-shirt, and
Sherlock flinched.
“Best run off then, before you really start to smell like a bitch in heat.”
“Best wipe your nose before someone figures out what you do with your breaks,”
Sherlock said, grinning insincerely back. “Oh. Too late.”
Seb flinched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“And I suppose that’s talcum powder rimming your nose? Please.”
Seb tightened his grip on Sherlock’s elbow, his eyes cold with fury. “Clever
trick there, buddy, but you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.” Sherlock wriggled his arm experimentally. “Let go.”
“If I don’t?”
Sebastian was stronger than him by far and his ham-like hand was clenched far
too tightly to entertain the possibility of running. Well, there were always
options.
Sherlock pivoted and spat squarely in Sebastian’s face.
---
Victor found him not too long later, curled determinedly under every blanket in
the flat.
“A locked door generally implies that you are unwelcome,” Sherlock informed
him, his voice muffled.
Victor sighed. “You stole my sheets. Look, Sherlock, you all right? Wouldn’t
interfere, but Violet was all for barging in here herself and you know how she-
-“
“Infuriating, meddling woman.”
There was a creak as Victor leaned against his door. “Fully normal then, “ he
said wryly. “I’m sure it’ll make her day.”
Sherlock snorted and burrowed deeper under his pile of blankets.
“Quite serious, though, you’re really okay?”
“I’m not dying, unfortunately enough for you,” Sherlock said, his voice
muffled. “But I suggest you leave before you feel the need to fuck me into the
mattress.”
“Oh… really? No, I don’t think you’re going into heat. You’ve got to just be
sick,” Victor mused, his voice clinical. “You smell fine and I don’t want to
fuck you.” Sherlock heard him shift slightly. “Well,” he amended. “Not
particularly more than I always do, at any rate.”
“Your honesty is less refreshing than disheartening.”
“Just pheromones, of course,” Victor said. He sounded distinctly untroubled.
“But I’m pretty sure I don’t, at the moment.”
"There is still some grace left in this world then,” Sherlock grumbled. “Though
not much. My leg hurts. My back. Everything hurts. And I’m cold.”
Something thick came to rest comfortingly over him and a peek out of the
blanket revealed Victor looking at him thoughtfully, one hand still on the
extra duvet he’d heaped over Sherlock’s bed.
“Look, don’t get mad—“
“If there is a “but” at the end of that sentence, then I make no promises.”
“BUT,” Victor said firmly. “Did something remind you of your Alpha over break?
Something you smelled, maybe? Because you seem like you might be… well.
Wasting.”
“’Wasting’?” Sherlock was outraged enough to sit up in bed and throw his covers
off. “Don’t be absurd. That’s not even a real disease.”
“The medical community says there might be some evidence—“
“The medical community is clearly compromised of imbeciles, then,” Sherlock cut
in. “Labeling a sick Omega as ‘wasting’ is as the equivalent of diagnosing
sexually repressed people with hysteria: convenient, indiscriminate, and
completely scientifically invalid. Surely you aren’t suggesting—“
“What’s that on your face?”
Sherlock belatedly raised a hand to his still-stinging cheek and scowled.
“Nothing.”
He desperately hoped that Victor would adhere to his usual strategy of casual
indifference, but apparently, his friend had chosen this particular day to
affect concern for him.
“It’s pretty red….Oh. Who’s history did you deduce then?”
“I merely informed Sebastian that his drug habit was becoming all too
noticeable,” Sherlock said haughtily. “And then he presumed that I would be
amiable to being forcibly restrained in my weakened state. “
“He presumed wrong, I take it. And so you…?”
“Spat in his eye, yes.”
Victor was silent for a moment. “Had it coming to him,” he said at last, a
ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You know how he treats Omegas. You know
Gloria’s Violet’s flat mate, right? She says he's always out with another Omega
and then Gloria reels him back in for a bit and why on earth she wants the
bastard is beyond me. ”
“I know her rouge got darker after she began dating Sebastian,” Sherlock said.
“The make up was thicker--stronger. I did tell you.”
“Yes, but I don’t see… Oh. Of course. She uses it as a cover up.”
“You see but you don’t observe,” Sherlock said loftily. But Victor’s normally
bland expression was suddenly annoyed.
“No one ought to treat Omegas like that…”
“We’re not any more fragile than the rest of the population,” Sherlock
interjected.
Victor ignored him.
“It’s a fucking shame. Particularly when half of us never even have the chance
at an Omega or a family and that prick just abuses her and cheats on her and
from what I hear, she never says a word.”
“It’s not unusual for an Alpha to treat an Omega like that, surely,” Sherlock
began.
“Unusual?” Victor looked at him as if he’d perhaps sprouted an extra ear in the
middle of his forehead. “I’d say it’s unusual. Never heard of it happening,
actually. An Alpha has much more to lose by leaving an Omega, particularly if
they aren’t bonded. There aren’t enough Omegas, so he’s unlikely to ever have
that chance again. Unless he’s an Alpha-prime, course, but there are so few of
those about. And I don’t think…”
“Sebastian is not,” Sherlock said. “He swaggers as if he is, but it wouldn’t
fool any Omega for a moment.”
“Then why stay with him? He’s objectively attractive, clearly, and he has
money…”
“As are and do you. No. That can’t be it.”
Victor shrugged. “Well, you can’t explain people, I suppose.”
“Wrong,” Sherlock said crisply. “People would like to believe they are highly
original, but in reality, the vast majority of them are driven by the same
basic instincts and are predictable in the extreme. Typical abuse scenario, he
treats her badly and she stays with him. Not unusual in the slightest.
"No,” Victor shook his head. "I'm telling you, it's different. Something in her
face, like she needs him...say." He raised an eyebrow. "You tell me, genius:
What's really going on with Gloria Scott and Sebastian Wilkes?"
“I’m sure I don’t know or care,” Sherlock sniffed. “Tawdry gossip.”
. “It might keep you busy for a bit. And that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”
“What?”
Victor grinned.
“Tawdry gossip, of course.”
Chapter End Notes
     Crit and love welcome as always. I always want to improve as a
     writer, so I'll appreciate whatever you've got, as long as it's
     constructive!
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     If you feel that the tagging on this could be done differently/
     expanded, by all means leave a polite comment, I'll probably add it
     in. EDIT: thanks to everyone who weighed in!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
‘Wasting’ indeed. Sherlock was burning up with an all too familiar fever and he
wanted to claw his own skin off, because it itched and throbbed and Victor was
an idiot. Everyone was an idiot. Everyone except… Sherlock struggled out of
bed, heading straight for his closet. The beige jumper, already fraying at the
edges and fairly dirty, was lumped benignly in the corner, as if forgotten. As
if Sherlock could forget about the damned thing.
Sherlock dragged it out, scattering a pile of folded clothes in the process. He
hadn’t had it for a heat in a long time: it felt like a crutch, a reminder that
he was very much not forgetting about that… no… HIS Alpha.
And why should he?, he thought irately, as he stripped off his tight, confining
clothing. Why force himself through the pain of forgetting when he still had
the thin scar of a bite on his neck, the vivid memory of a warm hand in his
own… when he still felt comforted by even the slightest scent of the man?
Little marks of ownership that, even a year and a half later, refused to fade.
And yet there were so few places he could smell that distinct scent, now. The
jumper still held hint of gun-smoke, yes, but mostly it was wool and a sweet,
innocent milkiness that reminded him of Hamish. He sniffed again.
No. That WAS Hamish and a very recent smell too.
Sherlock frowned blearily at lump in his hands. Someone must have given it to
Hamish to sleep with … Not Mummy. Mycroft, maybe, but unlikely and, oh, Harry,
but then she’d said she hadn’t seen it before, so why…
Sherlock’s thoughts drifted away and he curled back under his covers. He hadn’t
been lying when he’d told Victor that everything hurt. But it was unusual for a
heat: not need, but throbbing pain, where had that come from?
Sherlock whimpered as he tucked the jumper close to his chest. He was already
fast losing his ability to think clearly and soon, of course, would come that
feeling of utter wretchedness. Once his Omega nature truly took over, it would
be a long night of self-flagellation, torturing himself by wondering why his
Alpha left him (what was wrong with him, how had he driven him away, why…)
Sherlock groaned and twisted, pressing his face against the thick wool. And
there it started. Thoughts which he’d buried but were far, far too close during
his heats. But the scent comforted him (what was left of it) and he slowly
sagged back. His head was spinning and god, it hurt, everything, everything
hurt…
His last thought, before his head hit the pillow, was that he’d never blacked
out during a heat before.
---
The heat was blistering, burning and he felt as if it might flay the skin off
of his very bones by it. There were noises too (so many of them, where had they
come from?) and they forced their way into his head and caught there, pounding
on the walls of his skull …
A flash of light sparked behind his eyelids (were they shut? Of course, he was
sleeping, of course his eyes were shut and god, his head was pounding).
Someone touched him and he turned (sleeping, dammit), and there was another
flash and a sharp pain tore up his leg, his side….
Sherlock jerked awake and tore off his blankets before he could quite register
what he was doing.
Calm down. Think.
A nightmare. Of that he was sure, but the details slipped away like water
through fingers, until all he could remember was the unadulterated terror of
it. He was shaking and shivering now, but still, it was hot (far too hot) and
he stumbled out of bed and pulled on the clothes he’d discarded earlier, before
barging out of his flat.
The halls were thankfully silent. Well into the early morning then, when even
the latest sleepers were in their rooms. But outside, it was still dark and
moonlit and blessedly cold.
Sherlock flung open a door, but he only made it a few steps before the nausea
hit him and he was forced to bend over and brace himself against his knees.
Heat, but not heat (so much worse). His hair was damp with sweat, his forehead
burning, and now he could feel the liquid seeping down the back of his
trousers, sticky and uncomfortable. He attempted to straighten and then reeled
again, this time dropping backwards into the powdery snow.
Stupid, stupid. He should never have left the safety of his room.
Stupid.
He tucked his arms around his knees. He’d move in a second, but the world
seemed so very hazy at the moment (and yet too acute at the same time, how was
that). If he sat back against what?, laid in the grass the snow, of course, not
grass, he’d see the stars, so many and too close there are no stars here…
“Aren’t you cold?” a gruff voice asked. Sherlock startled.
Sebastian Wilkes walked out of the shadows, and Sherlock shook his head numbly.
Sebastian stared at him for a moment, splayed out on his elbows in the snow,
clad only in a thin t-shirt and jeans.
“You really are a freak,” he said resignedly. But he shrugged out of his jacket
and offered it. “Here. Have it.”
Sherlock meant to refuse. But the warmth engulfed him as he struggled up,
(sweet and woolen) and he relaxed despite himself. “You followed me,” he
accused.
Sebastian shrugged but his eyes shifted away in embarrassment. “Yes. Why?” he
added, his voice suddenly challenging. “Got a problem with it, buddy?”
Sherlock eyed him wearily. He felt, really, that maybe he ought to have a
problem with it, but he was oddly comfortable at the moment. Sebastian relaxed
at the lack of protest and flopped down next to him. And it seemed perfectly
natural then, really, to lean over and rest his head on Sebastian’s shoulder.
Perfectly reasonable for Sebastian’s hand to trail up over his chest and cup
the back of his head.
“You shouldn’t be out,” he said, almost kindly.
Sherlock nodded in agreement, his head drooping heavily forwards. Seb caught
him and tugged him up. Natural, was it then, for there to be a sharp, cruel tug
in his hair and then a wet, hot tongue that pushed it’s way into Sherlock’s
mouth, thick and uninvited. Seb’s hand swept over Sherlock’s chest and
viciously pinched a nipple, tugging and Sherlock whimpered.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sebastian muttered. “I bet I could make you scream.”
Sherlock didn’t really care for screaming, but he moaned obligingly as
Sebastian’s hand made it’s way between his legs and groped at his hard cock. He
thrust up, whining, and the needy, high sound, seemed to wake Seb up a little.
“Come on,” he muttered. He dragged Sherlock up by the front of his shirt and
gripped his wrist tightly. “You’re coming with me,” he said roughly, as if
there was some off chance that Sherlock might protest. “But be quiet, freak.”
Somehow, they made it. Stinking of pheromones and dodging security, Seb’s hand
pushed into the back of Sherlock’s trousers. Seb pushed Sherlock roughly onto
the bed and whirled around to lock the door. His eyes swept suspiciously over
the windows until Sherlock moaned again and splayed his legs open invitingly.
Seb growled.
“Yes. Look at you, you fucking little slut. You’re dripping for me, aren’t
you?” He walked over and wrenched at Sherlock’s trousers, tearing them open. He
shoved them to the floor, taking the boxers with them and Sherlock could feel
the fluid soaking into the soft sheets. His hands went automatically out,
reaching for a warm, familiar body. Instead, one met Seb's chest, the fingers
spreading out as if to hold him off. The other struck the side table, upsetting
a book and something small and glinting gold.
Seb growled again as they clattered to the floor and leaned over. He grasped
Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them brutally to the bed, his fingers clenching
hard enough that Sherlock blinked, some of the haziness fading. “Seb, that
hurts—“
“Shut up,” he snapped and Sherlock obediently closed his mouth. Seb’s mouth
went to Sherlock’s throat, his heavy weight pressing Sherlock’s thin form into
the mattress. But it only made it worse, because this was wrong and he couldn’t
remember….
Sherlock whimpered, bucking up under the body that suddenly seemed to be
imprisoning him.
“Seb… Please Seb,” he said, suddenly frantic. “I…”
“What’s wrong now?” Seb demanded. His hands ran over Sherlock’s body and they
seemed heavy and too rough, but they were there at least, thick and smelling of
Alpha pheromones. Sherlock’s legs seemed to spread wider of their own accord,
and Seb looked at him smugly, on hand firmly grabbing Sherlock’s bare hip.
Sherlock closed his eyes, hit by a brief clarity. Seb… wanted him. It was odd,
being wanted, despite the lingering traces of his bond. And Sherlock could ride
this heat out by himself in his own flat, pathetic and whimpering and crying as
always. Or he could use Seb as much as he was using him, get up in the morning
and leave before the idiot even realized what had happened.
Sherlock shook his head, biting his lower lip. “Nothing,” he decided, finally.
“Nothing is wrong.”
---
Chapter End Notes
     Sherlock is... difficult.... He never cooperates with me.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The man in front of him was hazy. Blonde, tanned and stocky and here, he
recognized him immediately, in a way he never would in real life. He didn’t
turn when Sherlock approached.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man said and his voice was curiously
hoarse.
“And yet, here I am.”
Explanations were hardly necessary in a dream world and besides, if his
subconscious had just given him the gift he thought it had, there was no
possible way Sherlock was going to waste his time on irrelevancies.
The man turned and took an uncertain step forwards and then they were in each
other’s arms, nose to nose, Sherlock’s wide eyes flicking down over a face that
could not possibly have looked any other way.
“Christ, I miss you. Don’t even know if you even remember me,” the Alpha said,
as if Sherlock wasn’t clinging to him like a limpet, and Sherlock opened his
mouth, an acrid reply ready on his tongue. But the man's breath was warm and
tender against Sherlock’s lips and his hand traced down Sherlock’s chest,
rubbing soothingly. “And I never even told you that you…you were fucking
perfect, love.”
“Am not. Never was.” Half-formed thoughts spiraled through his head, bringing
with them a slight sense of panic. Hamish and his mother and… and that boy,
he’d left with, had he left with? The one that smelled like sweat and too-
strong aftershave and was so very, very wrong… But no that had been a
nightmare. Had to have been, because this, this was his and how could he have
forgotten?
The man was trying to speak, but his throat was too dry and Sherlock could see
now that his lips were cracked and nearly bleeding. His tongue slid out to wet
them.
“You….” he said finally. He trailed off again and Sherlock closed his eyes,
knowing precisely what he would say. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he
realized suddenly that it was hot, why was it so bloody hot here?
But the man was wrong and Sherlock had to tell him. Tell him that he was in
love with a dream (maybe they both were) and that this would never work if they
did meet. Because then the Alpha would realize that Sherlock wasn’t perfect. He
wasn’t even…
“I am not anything near what you presume me to be."
Sherlock could feel the wetness trickling down his cheeks, sweat perhaps, or
tears, and the softest brush of lips across his own. A thumb swiped at his
tears and wrong and wrong again.
His Alpha stretched up and pressed a kiss to the bottom of his jaw.
“Whatever you are," he said softly. "You are loved.”
---
Sherlock blinked slowly awake, half-certain that he must still be dreaming. Or
perhaps the bit before had been the dream, because there was a warm body next
to him and he held out his hand, struck by a sudden sense of relief. His Alpha
was here, of course (where else would he be?) and if Sherlock could just touch
him…
The Alpha rolled over, one arm flopping across Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock
automatically flinched as the onslaught of pheromones and sweat hit him.
Oh.
Seb. Of course.
An unreasonable wave of disappointment swept through him, followed almost
immediately by distaste. Seb, here, naked, and he realized suddenly that he was
still wearing the tattered remains of his good shirt, rucked up high over chest
and that he could feel the dry, flaking remnants of their fluids on his body.
Seb had rubbed the foul substance over him, like as not, and presumably,
Sherlock had let him and now it sent a roil of disgust through his abdomen.
He needed to leave. It was still dark outside, meaning he couldn’t have been
sleeping for long and, with a little bit of stealth, he could make it back
before the next wave of his heat hit and he lost clarity again.
Seb grasped sleepily for him when he climbed hastily out of the bed, but he was
too slow and satiated to make a proper effort. Sherlock impatiently batted his
hands away. Later. He would examine this later.
He found a pair of trousers (his) and a shirt (not his) and sniffed them
warily. The stench clung to them too, the stench of him and Seb and… Something
glinted near his feet and in a fit of pique, he snatched that too.
He needed a shower so very badly.
Back at his flat, he stood under the hot spray until his skin turned wrinkled
and the water ran cold. It was soothing, for one thing, and if he felt a
peculiar urge to scrub more intensely than usual, well, his classmates had
always claimed he was a bit precious. He fancied he could still smell it (that
smell) and, worse, he could taste it in the back of his mouth. Taste sex, hot
and filthy and pungent, how irrational.
His stomach shifted uneasily.
Victor knocked at the door after an hour, uncharacteristically determined.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, when Sherlock finally stumbled out. “You
didn’t come home and the entire flat reeked of heat and I was… worried,
dammit.”
“I’m FINE,” Sherlock dismissed. “Really, Victor, I can take perfectly good care
of myself.”
Victor sniffed him and wrinkled his nose.
“You smell…” he started, but Sherlock wrapped the towel tighter around his
waist and hurried away before Victor could recall exactly what (or who)
Sherlock smelled like.
---
Sherlock avoided Seb, after. Not for any clear-cut purpose, but because the
very idea of Seb gave him a slightly fluttery, nauseous feeling in the pit of
his stomach. Silly, of course, but the heavy stench of still sex plagued him
and he winced at the slightest reminder of it.
Disgusting, really.
But then again, perhaps Seb was avoiding him as well. Unsurprising: he had an
image to maintain, after all, and nowhere in that image would a liaison with
the ‘freak’ be condoned, Omega or not. He was dating Gloria again (a bit of
news that Victor delivered with a touch of curiosity and a pointed look in
Sherlock’s direction) and really, it was all very well that that had gone
nowhere. Sherlock had no desire for attachment and Seb, though convenient, was
only marginally less repulsive than the idea of a heat spent alone.
Which was why, when the door to his bedroom swung open three weeks later,
Sherlock was, to put it mildly, surprised.
“Well, what is it then?”
No answer. Sherlock spared a brief glance up to note that Seb’s face had gone a
vile shade of green. He looked back at the array of chemistry equipment in
front of him and nearly grinned.
“No need to get excited,” he said crisply, going back to his microscope. “It’s
just a sample of pig’s blood.”
It wasn’t. It was a sample of his own blood, as any idiot who glanced at his
heavily wrapped finger should have been able to tell. And so far, this sample
seemed perfectly ordinary for a bonded Male Omega, as had every other makeshift
test Sherlock had run on himself.
Wasting. Humph.
“You—er. You left this.” Seb placed a bundle of clothing on the side table,
looking mildly annoyed at being upstaged by animal blood.
“Clearly not why you’re here,” Sherlock bit off. “If you have something to say,
say it and stop wasting my time.”
“I just thought…”
He could feel the smug entitlement rolling off of the Alpha and his skin
crawled.
“No.”
“You haven’t even…”
“No, I will not engage in sexual intercourse with you simply because my heat is
coming up,” Sherlock clarified. He swiveled in his chair and narrowed his eyes.
Seb had turned a predictable shade of purple. Humiliation, possibly, or, with
any luck, asphyxiation.
“Listen, I'm not really...“
Dull.
“Yes, yes, infertility and perhaps even occasional impotence is no doubt a side
effect of your prolonged drug use. Though I imagine it has enabled you to land
quite a few encounters without having to worry about the consequences. And
thoroughly destroyed your sense of scent in the bargain, but let’s focus on the
positives, shall we?” Sherlock flashed him a patently false grin… and ducked as
a fist came crashing at him.
The anosmia had been fortunate as well, in fact, as that was no doubt why
Sherlock’s bond had had no effect on Seb’s willingness to tumble into bed with
him in the first place. Or unfortunate. Sherlock hadn’t decided yet, but he
certainly wasn’t about to give Seb the benefit of the doubt.
“I believe you’re over-reacting,” Sherlock panted, noting absently that he
really ought to cut back on the cigarettes. He scrambled out of the way of
another blow, narrowly avoiding a punch to his nose.
His microscope was not so lucky. But the ear-splitting crash seemed to bring
Seb back to his senses. He looked wildly about the room for a second, as if
waiting for someone to barge in and demand what he was doing, (which they
wouldn’t—Victor was out and, anyways, large crashes were not unknown from
Sherlock’s area of the flat). He relaxed after a moment passed, and, to
Sherlock’s intense relief, lowered his hand.
Sherlock pursed his lips and edged warily around the edge of the room, avoiding
shards of glass.
“I’ll require a replacement for that microscope, it was tediously expensive.”
“Sure, buddy,” Seb muttered, in a way that made it abundantly clear that
Sherlock would be receiving no such thing.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Or I shall certainly be telling the requisite
authorities about HOW it was broken.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“Won’t they?” Sherlock gazed pointedly at Seb’s nose and Seb self-consciously
raised a hand to wipe at it before he realized what he was doing. He scowled
and then, suddenly, his face went blank. Back to his usual, congenial self,
slick and sure. Sherlock didn’t trust him.
“What? What is it?”
“Awfully high strung, aren’t you?” Seb said and for a moment, he sounded
genuinely sympathetic. “You Omegas always are. Shouldn’t you be taking
something for that? Calm you down a bit?”
“And by something, I presume you mean those illegal suppressants you slip to
your girlfriends?”
Seb’s face was shocked and Sherlock sighed. “Even you wouldn’t be stupid enough
to rely on infertility. And of course it’s obvious: how many Alphas can afford
to have easy relations with Omegas and not be saddled with numerous children?
Though really, we might consider it a blessing to humanity that you choose not
to procreate…”
Seb recovered quickly. “So you wouldn’t?” he persisted.
He hesitated and he knew Seb saw it.
“No,” he said, too quickly and too late.
“Not even to be normal… for a second? Not to have to worry about your body
betraying you?” Seb said and dammit, he’d underestimated Sebastian Wilkes.
“Might be a relief, really. Think about it: none of that pathetic whimpering
about in heat. You wouldn’t be so sloppy, then.”
Sherlock shook his head. Seb curled a hand into the front of his shirt and
Sherlock grabbed it, suddenly furious.
“Let. GO.”
“Or so slow,” Seb continued, his eyes cold. “You could be brilliant. Your
tricks are one thing, but if you didn’t have to worry about every Alpha that
passed you in the hallways? Didn't have to worry about being assaulted or
hurt?”
It was clear that he’d given this speech more than once and yet, Sherlock
doubted it had ever not found it's mark. “Concerned about me? How very
chivalrous of you, Sebastian. But tell me, why would you want me to be free
from my heats?”
Seb grinned. “I don’t believe you need to be in heat to end up in my bed now,
do you?’
“Charming,” Sherlock said dryly. It made sense, of course. An Omega in heat was
a prize (he managed not to shudder at the thought), but a casual and readily
available bed partner was infinitely more valuable. Omegas were potent even out
of heat and for an unbonded Alpha to have constant access to one and that too,
without running the risk of an unwanted attachment…
“So?" Seb prodded.
Sherlock looked away, his eyes unfocused. “Addiction. Anxiety, irritability,
depression, permanent damage to the reproductive system, breast pain, heart
complications and even death, depending on the batch. There’s no regulation of
it, after all.”
Sebastian didn’t look remotely fazed.
“All of that,” he said agreeably.
Sherlock blinked.
“Fine.”
Chapter End Notes
     There's a lot of violence waiting to happen in the comments around
     here, you guys are fantastic.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     I rushed this off right before the New Year. But this (unedited and
     likely awful, I'm sorry) chapter is for all the lovely and
     encouraging people who've been waiting so patiently. And particularly
     for fayfayfay who also writes a brilliant OmegaSherlock. (I'm sorry
     to have driven you crazy, dear)
The pills were innocuous and blue. Three of them, wrapped up neatly in plastic,
taken once a week. Often with a little extra, a bit of white powder or whatever
else it was Seb had managed to procure. Sherlock didn’t have any excuses to
offer for that habit, not even to himself. But the drugs made everything a
little more...bearable. The rush was exhilarating and the sharpness of his mind
gratifying, but the control- The control was addictive.
Today, he felt a hand slip something into his back pocket as he stood,
shirtless, near Seb’s window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
"Come on then," Seb said pointedly. He slung one arm around Sherlock's bare
waist and drew him roughly backwards. "Unless you like being watched."
Sherlock instantly stepped away and snapped the curtains shut, bile rising in
his throat. He stood there for a second, holding onto the very edges of the
drapery, willing himself not to turn and acknowledge the amusement on Seb's
face.
"Blushing?" Seb asked, his voice laced with false concern. "Why freak? Does it
turn you on?"
The idea of voyeurism was clearly turning Seb on or else they wouldn't be
having this conversation. Or perhaps it was the red stain of anger seeping down
Sherlock's chest, the one that Seb had so conveniently mistaken for false
modesty
"It would be your reputation ruined, not mine," Sherlock said finally, when he
could trust his voice. He managed to inject a note of utter apathy into the
statement. "After all, Seb," he said, unbuttoning his trousers and letting them
fall to the floor. "Surely you know there is no one whose opinion I truly care
about."
"I forgot,” Seb said agreeably, as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Just
transport, isn't it?"
Sherlock ran a palm over the flat slope of his abdomen, feeling the raised
lines that stood out against the pale skin and swallowed.
“Indeed,” he said carefully, tucking his arms protectively about his belly. The
very idea of Seb finding out about Hamish nauseated him, but, luckily, Seb was
a fool. Sherlock turned and raised one sardonic eyebrow, looking the very
picture of boredom. "Might we finish this sometime before the end of term?" he
drawled. "I have better things to do and no doubt Gloria and her ample trust
fund are missing you already.”
---
In his pocket, Sherlock carried the gold ring he’d snatched from Seb’s floor
that first night, with its etched graving and solid weight. Because Seb was a
bit more than annoying and besides, the pompous fool hadn’t even noticed it was
missing yet. And likely never would, Sherlock mused rather cynically.
Call it insurance.
---
“Go on and say it,” Sherlock said, after the silence had stretched for nearly
an hour. Victor shook his head “no’ and slouched in his seat.
“Nothing to say,” he lied and Sherlock snorted, but didn’t pursue the subject.
Left to his own devices, Victor would forget completely, no doubt. But Victor
surprised him yet again.
“Bit worried,” he said casually. “Just a bit, Sherlock.”
“None of your business, is it?”
“No,” Victor said thoughtfully. “It isn’t, really. But you never liked Seb.”
Just a statement, a statement without judgement, but Victor had that ability,
to convey absolutely everything he meant in a simple, flat observation and
Sherlock bristled with the implications.
“It's for a case of sorts,” Sherlock said. “Gossip, if you prefer.” And he
plucked the ring from his pocket and tossed it, gleaming, into the air. Victor
watched its glimmering descent and then his eyes widened.
“Whose is that?” he demanded. “It can’t be a---
“Seb’s,” Sherlock answered. “And yes, it is.”
The corner of his mouth crooked up as he flipped it in his palm and read the
inscription.
“With love from Gloria”.
“That explains it then,” Victor said and Sherlock nodded curtly.
“It seems the gossip is a bit more sordid than we thought,” he said.
----
Seb was in a playful mood and it was awful.
He lazily pushed a hand up Sherlock’s shirt as they lay smoking in a hidden
clump of grass, pulling until it rode high over Sherlock’s chest, exposing his
pale, flat nipples. Seb tapped the powdery column of his cigarette over the
line of pubic hair extending into Sherlock’s jeans and the ash landed grey
against dark, curling hair, causing Sherlock to scowl and wriggle away. Not
that Seb would hurt him. Sherlock was fairly certain he didn’t care enough for
that. Still...
“Why do you keep doing that?” Seb asked abruptly.
“Doing what?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes narrowing.
“Holding your arms around your middle. You do it all the time.”
“Do not.”
“You look like…” Seb snapped his fingers in the air and Sherlock tugged his
shirt gratefully back into place as he waited for the inevitably erroneous
conclusion. But Seb was not truly an idiot, for all that Sherlock had
difficulty thinking of him as anything but.
Now, the git smiled.
“You know buddy, you look like my mum when she was pregnant with my sister.
Wrapped her arms around her stomach all the time.” He appeared to find this
very amusing, Sherlock noted sourly. Perhaps it was.
“Very clever, Sebastian, you’ll make something of yourself yet,” Sherlock
drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. But something in his tone must have been
off, because Seb pushed himself up on his elbow, his gaze narrowing.
“You’re not… you haven’t actually gotten yourself knocked up, have you?” he
asked. “You can’t have, with the pills, but if you missed one…”
“Don’t be a moron,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “As if I’d have a child
with you.”
Seb grinned tautly and sagged back against the grass. “That’s a relief. And
here I was afraid you were getting clingy.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Make me.” Seb had apparently regained his good humor.
Sherlock ignored the blatant invitation in favor of flopping backwards on the
lawn, but Seb rolled over and pinned his wrists to the grass. Still grinning,
though there was now a touch of predatoriness to it. “Oh quiet now, are we?”
“Stop it,” Sherlock said. Seb’s grip didn’t loosen, “Stop it,” Sherlock said
again, a warning creeping into his voice. “I know three different ways to kill
you from this position and another four possibilities to incapacitate you. I
suggest, for your own personal benefit, that you let go.”
Seb scowled and released him with a huff. “All right, all right. Just a
harmless bit of fun. You’re so fucking proper all the time, Sherlock. Loosen up
a bit, mate.”
Sherlock stood up silently and brushed himself off.
“Hey, where are you going, then?”
“Chemistry,” Sherlock said briefly, slinging his bag across his shoulder. “I
would so hate to be late.”
“See you tonight then? I have a new shipment,” Seb cajoled, clearly realizing
he needed to sweeten the deal.
“Very well,” Sherlock said, hating himself just a little. “Until later, then.”
---
Gloria Scott was blonde and buxom and taller than Sherlock by at least three
inches. Her voice was soft and cultured, even in anger, and Sherlock thought
that, really, she wasn’t so stupid. He might even have liked her, if they’d met
in different circumstances. As it was, she'd rounded the corner as he stood,
smoking, against the chemistry building and Sherlock had known from the look in
her eyes that bolting wasn’t going to be an option.
“You’re awful,” she’d said as soon as she’d seen him and it was clear that
she’d had already begun this conversation without his participation. “Do you
even have any idea what you’re doing, Sherlock Holmes? You can't, or else you
wouldn't.”
It was a statement and it was false. Sherlock felt the weight of the ring in
his pocket and lied. “Possibly not,” he said, flicking ash across her shiny
boots. “But I’m quite sure you intend to inform me.”
“He didn’t tell you?” she asked in disbelief. “About us… nothing?” And then her
face crumpled before he could so much as answer and Sherlock felt that perhaps
it was time to be leaving after all. But he’’d barely turned when her voice
drifted out from behind him.
“It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?” she asked, a slight edge of hopelessness
pervading her voice for the first time. “You don’t even care about any of it,
really, you just want your kicks…”
“This is not about me at all,” Sherlock said, spinning slowly back around. “Lay
the blame at my door if it makes your feeble romance any less pathetic in your
mind, Miss Scott, but the truth is, Seb has never cared for you and likely
never will. You were engaged at what… 15? Right after your first heat?”
Gloria nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“Typical story then, I was right,” Sherlock said dismissively. “A bond, forced
and made too early, an abusive, conniving, manipulative brute who took
advantage of it and…” Sherlock flicked his eyes over Gloria, the new, flat
shoes, the heavy makeup applied with an inexperienced hand,, the bitten nails
and the torn designer jeans, hastily sewed and shook his head. “And the girl
who let him,” he finished.
“Let him?” Gloria asked in disbelief. She smiled, a little, torn smile, and
cocked her head, heedless of the rivulets of tears flowing freely down her
cheeks. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? I need him,
Holmes. It’s not a choice I have---”
“Then I pity you,” Sherlock cut in. “But the good news, as far as you are
concerned, is that I would not keep Sebastian even if I could. The bad news is
that it likely won’t make a difference to his philandering.”
“That’s not even the point,” Gloria said, frustration seeping through her
voice. “You won’t believe me, you won’t see and can’t prove it to you Holmes,
but I need him, I--- I would give so much, not to need him, but I can’t help
it, I- I’m--”
“You’re soul-bonded to him,” Sherlock said curtly and she stepped back as if
she’d been slapped. “Yes, I know. And I know what it means, as well.” He
hesitated and then pulled Seb’s ring from his pocket and tossed it to her. She
caught it automatically, her eyes tearing up again at the sight.
“But does Seb know what that means?”
“He gave this to you?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock said. “What good could it do me? The trouble he’d
be in for losing it is far beyond the value of that much gold. No. I took it.”
“Why?” she demanded, clutching it in her palm.
Because I needed something to hold over his head, just in case. And because…
“Because he deserves it.”
He thought, for a second, she might punch him. She took a step forwards and he
tensed, preparing to duck if needed, but her hands stayed clenched at her
sides. “You’re a bastard, to say such things,” she said furiously. Sherlock
opened his mouth and she held up a hand, silencing him. “But you’re right,
aren’t you?”
She pushed the ring back into his hands and Sherlock gaped at her, even as his
hands closed instinctively around it.
“Keep it,” she said, a touch of humor glinting in her eyes. “You’re right… He
does deserve it.”
“And what about you then?” Sherlock asked, surprising even himself. “Without
that bond-- wasting, hurting, death, are the stories even true?”
She shrugged.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” she said.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
     Long chapter. And John. To make up for my prolonged absence. But the
     computer is back!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Seb noticed, albeit after two weeks. He was bound to realize Gloria was
willfully ignoring him, particularly considering her lack of subtlety in the
matter, though it was still debatable whether he noticed her lack of attentions
before he noticed his deteriorating health.
“I don’t understand,” he said. Sherlock furrowed his brow at a spot about eye-
level on the left wall. A slight pink mark, faint, but recent, or else he’d
have remembered it.
“Was she here?” he asked.
Seb paused. “Who?” he said. “No.”
“I have experiments to run,” Sherlock said. “Blood-staining. Pink, red or
brown? Depends on the surface. Red is obvious, but unlikely in a realistic
sense. Blood rarely stains red, unless a large quantity has been spilled. ”
“You’re a funny little thing, buddy,” Seb said. “And I don’t know why I bother
talking to you, it’s not like you’re even listening.”
“I am,” Sherlock said. “I simply wonder, sometimes. Stains...rather telling, I
should say.”
---
 
“Gloria looks awful,” Violet said and Sherlock tilted his head to indicate he
was listening. “Like Hell chewed her up and spat her back out.”
“Yes…” Sherlock mused. “Yes, she would. Deteriorating? Pale skin, wasting
flesh, pinched cheeks---” He reeled off the list with a certain sense of
satisfaction.
Gloria wasn’t a bad sort. In another world, he might have liked her. In this,
though, he had recently had the pleasure of watching Seb trip down the stairs
because his legs were barely supporting him. He still bore a nasty, angry
bruise on his forehead and Sherlock admittedly took a vindictive pleasure in
its presence.
“You’re a terrible person, you know that?” Violet said. She mimed throwing a
beaker at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“In my defense, I have never denied it.”
“But no," Violet continued, as if he hadn't spoken. “Not that type of awful.
Upset, is all. Mopey. Don't think you should start digging her grave just yet,
it'd be a bit soon."
"That… that is funny."
"Why?" Violet asked. "Wouldn't expect a girl to go die because her boyfriend's
an arse, would you? Didn't take you for a romantic."
Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe not. Though in this case… Hmm. No. Maybe not."
---
"Will you shut that fucking thing off?"
Sherlock rolled over, one hand instantly settling over his mobile and drawing
it to his ear.
"Sherlock," Seb growled from the corner. "You can take that later."
Sherlock ignored him and sat up, the phone already cradled against his ear.
"Harry?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetie, don’t worry.”
Sherlock relaxed.
"Was it really necessary to disturb me at this time in the morning?" he said.
"Really, when you deviate from schedule with such wild abandon, you can hardly
expect that I won't be worried..."
"Yes, that's me. Reveling in wild abandonment," Harry said and Sherlock felt a
grin twitch at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
"Do try to restrain yourself, Harry, you have a child to take care of."
Seb turned to glower at him and Sherlock edged off the bed and towards the
window, until he was safely out of reach.
"I just wanted to know when you'd be arriving home, genius."
"Arriving home...?"
"It's near the end of the Lent term, isn't it? Sherlock..." Harry's voice took
a decided turn for the suspicious. "You didn't forget, did you?"
"Of course not. I will be home by nightfall," Sherlock said, covering up his
surprise. "Trains shouldn't be difficult to catch and...."
"What about your exams?"
Sherlock had, in fact, forgotten utterly about his exams. He was spared
answering by the very-nearly fortunate (and thoroughly predictable) occurrence
Seb slamming the phone of out his hand. It clattered on the floor, Harry's
befuddled tones emanating faintly from it.
"I told you," Seb said, his face inches from Sherlock's own. "To shut the damn
thing off.”
“It was important,” Sherlock replied. He stepped carefully backwards and
scooped the mobile off the floor. “Harry,” he said, keeping a wary eye on Seb.
“I will talk to you later. Something has come up.”
“Are you all right? Sherlock? Sherlock what WAS--” He rolled his eyes and hung
up on her.
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he told the now silent
mobile, frowning.
“Sherlock do you ever listen to me?" Seb said. "You better---”
“No, sorry, you were quite enjoying your rant, weren’t you? Pray continue.”
“Give it to me,” Seb demanded. “Give me the bloody phone or I will hurt--”
“Oh, for the love of--I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock snapped. Seb lunged
for him and Sherlock narrowly avoided being punched in the nose. Instead, the
blow merely glanced off his cheek, though it didn’t do much to improve his
temper.
“I do everything for you,” Seb said. “I give you pills, I fuck your sorry arse
when you’re whining for it and you’re still want to sit there and be all high
and mighty buddy, but what are you, really? You’re just a fucking Omega, no
matter what your last name is or how much money your family has. You all like
getting fucked the exact same, don’t you?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re always ‘leaving’,” Seb said. “And you always come back. Funny, isn’t
it?”
“Hilarious,” Sherlock said. He reached for his clothing and was stopped by a
hand on his wrist.
“Let go.”
“Hey, hey,” Seb placated. “I’m not…”
“I have to go home,” Sherlock said, wrenching his hand away. “And you… you
should find that ring, Seb. I hear the consequences of breaking a soul bond are
nothing less than disasterous.”
“How would you know about that?” Seb said. “You don’t. You’re just making
things up, as usual, aren’t you?”
“I make it my business to know things,” Sherlock said. He grabbed his coat and
headed for the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have things of some importance
to do.”
-----
He ended up skipping the exams and taking the night train back. There were more
important things, after all, and the idea of seeing Seb's repulsive face even
once more before break didn't appeal to him. Not that his own monstrosity of a
childhood home was anything less than repulsive but still… It had been a nearly
interminable few months away.
By the time he made it home, it was nightfall and the house was silent. He
headed directly for Hamish's room and was just about to enter when Harry
stepped out, a phone pressed to her ear and a severe look on her face.
"He's sleeping," she mouthed. Sherlock tried to step past her and was instantly
blocked by exactly 1.57 meters of stubborn Omega.
Harry took the phone away from her ear just long enough to admonish him. "I
just got him to sleep, Sherlock, and he's so frightfully cranky anyways--
" Right on cue, a miserable wail began from the room behind her.
"Oh, fuck, really--No. Stay here. I'll get him to sleep, you'll only excite him
and--" A deeper, puzzled sounding voice emanated from the phone in her hand and
she groaned before answering.
"Yes, John, I'm here--Christ, you're a bigger baby than anyone else."
"Harry--" Sherlock began.
"All of you," she burst out and Sherlock stepped back, surprised by the
vehemence in her tone. "Every single one of you is so damned stupid and you all
want attention and then I just wonder--" She huffed and stared at the phone in
her hand for a second. The voice within had risen to slightly more indignant
pitches. "I.. Hmm." She placed one hand on Sherlock's chest, stopping him as he
tried to sneak around her yet again. "Hold up a second."
"I won't be denied entrance to--"
"Oh, for god's sakes, shut up." Harry was looking at him, but speaking into the
receiver, so it wasn't readily apparent who she was talking to. Still, she had
a gleam in her eyes which Sherlock heartily distrusted. "Yes," she said now.
"Yes, John? Still there? Okay, here. I have someone you can talk to. It's the
mother-- No. You'll be fine. Here."
Harry smiled and tossed the mobile at Sherlock who caught it automatically.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"Go on, Hamish needs a change and you need a break, you look like hell," Harry
said. “Besides, John won’t bite. Or well… he can’t through the phone anyways.”
“This is you brother?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Harry said and then she was gone, the door slamming
firmly behind her.
Dammit.
Meanwhile, the man on the phone was sounding increasingly frustrated.
"Hello? Harry-- Harry are you there?" he asked, when Sherlock finally deigned
to raise the phone to his ear.
Hmm. Deeper, slightly raspy voice, authoritative, impatient. Used to being
obeyed and likely didn't react too well when he wasn't. Typical Alpha male
then, and an army Alpha at that, likely at least a Captain.
This was going to be tedious.
"I am afraid your accursed sister has left you with only me for company,"
Sherlock said. "Likely, this conversation will prove dreadful for you. If you
should wish to hang up right now, I should not fault you. In fact, I should
encourage it."
"Right..." the man (John) said. "Well that's-- that's just lovely really, but
I'm bored enough that I'll impose on you a bit and take the offer."
Bloody Alphas, always assuming rights even where there were none.
"There was no offer," Sherlock said.
"I don't know," John said. "I reckon you implied that if I DIDN'T hang up,
you'd talk to me. "
"No."
"You did."
Sherlock hesitated. Typical, really, all of it, but something about that voice,
that tone-- Sherlock rallied.
"That was not the implication at all," he said.
"I rather reckon it was," John replied.
"No."
"You're a bit of a stubborn arse."
A bit short-fused, this one. He'd jumped from trying to persuade to insulting
so fast, it was disconcerting. Too young to be a Captain, maybe, too
volatile...Still, he didn't sound annoyed. Just… amused. Which was very nearly
infuriating.
"So I've been told," Sherlock said curtly. He glanced over his shoulder, but
Harry was nowhere in sight. Confound the woman. Meanwhile, John didn’t seem to
know when he was beaten. Perhaps it ran in the family.
"Hey there,” he said, now. “I was joking. People are awful. They shouldn't say
things like that. 'Specially to you, you're pretty brilliant, I hear."
"Yes. Wait. You do?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "From who?"
"Harry, of course," John said. "She talks about you a lot.”
“She shouldn’t. It’s hardly her business," Sherlock said. "And flattery will
get you nowhere," he added, just in case.
“Christ, but you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”
Sherlock flinched, despite the clearly jesting nature of the words. But he'd
been called worse on a good day, so it couldn't matter, what this stranger
thought of him, could it? And yet, he felt the urge to please John, make him
say... what was it? Brilliant? Useless flattery, that, but, Sherlock wanted it
and that, THAT was just… insufferable.
Time to hang up. Quickly.
“Look, this is clearly not a productive use of either of our times. I know
precisely how this conversation will go, so I’ll give you the short form, shall
I?”
“Wait, now---”
Sherlock talked right over him.
“First, you will continue to attempt to make polite conversation. I will
continue to rebuff you. Finally, you will get annoyed, if you are not already,
and then you will either launch into a list of my perceived faults or hang up.
And considering your general impatience and your limited amount of time, one
would suspect the latter.
"Just one sec--"
"Then again," Sherlock continued. "You are persistent and clearly desperate for
human contact. So no, I believe you’ll chose the former, at which point I shall
get annoyed and hang up instead. Therefore, in order to curtail that chain of
events, I should, rationally, hang up right now.”
John said nothing for a moment and Sherlock waited for the dial tone, sure the
Alpha would see the sense of it. Disappointing, slightly, but then, he'd rather
counted on that fact that no one could take his particular brand of vitriol for
too long--
“And why haven’t you then?” John said and Sherlock started.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. He held the phone away from his ear and frowned
at it for a moment, before tucking it back against his shoulder. “Ingrained
politeness, perhaps.”
“I doubt it. Wouldn’t say you have much of that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Harry.”
John had the nerve to snort. “Right. No, none of that."
"Fine. Then, by all means enlighten me with your brilliant suggestion."
"Got me there. Maybe... it’s because you’re curious.”
“About you?”
“Yeah.”
That threw Sherlock for a second. “Well, then... you think very highly of
yourself.”
“I didn’t-- oh never mind. But maybe it's because I haven’t gotten angry yet or
hung up. And you want to know why, don't you?”
“Admittedly, I would have estimated two minutes. But it has already been closer
to 10.” Sherlock stared at the door, but only silence greeted him. “Hmm.
Clearly, your sister saw something I did not.”
“Well," John said reasonably. "The fact that you’re an arse doesn’t change the
fact that you’re brilliant.”
“And here I thought you were simply making small talk because you were bored.”
“I’m not. Well. Not any more. What was your name again?” John asked.
“Sherlock," he admitted.
“Sherlock, then. Good to meet you.”
“You haven’t. Yet.”
“I will, eventually. And until then, I'll need someone to talk to, sometimes,
and you're not-- eh. Not too bad.”
The tone had changed again and Sherlock felt nearly dizzy from the unexpected
whip-lash of it. Easy, still, amused, even, but there was another note there
that he couldn't quite--
“Are you flirting with me?” he asked, startled.
“Problem?” John said.
Definitely amused.
“Yes. No. Yes. I am bonded.”
“Pity, that. All the interesting, cynical ones always are. Byronic hero thing,
I guess. Are you tall, dark, and handsome too?”
“You ARE flirting with me.” He had just enough presence of mind to hope the
implied ‘idiot’ hadn’t been lost in the surprise.
“Well done, genius. But I'm not actually-- well. Not exactly looking, either.
But friends, you can always use one of those, can't you?”
Apparently, it had been.
“No, you can’t,” Sherlock said. “Or rather, I can't and won't. People are
idiots.”
“That they are," John agreed. "Well, I guess you’ve got one at least, like it
or not.”
“Hardly.”
“Yes. Lieutenant John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, at your service.”
Sherlock could practically see the sardonic salute that he was sure had
accompanied those words.
“Well, I don't--”
“Got to go. I’ll suppose I'll talk to you later then?"
"John, I--"
"Right. Bye, Sherlock. I'll expect you to call then."
He hung up, leaving Sherlock gaping indignantly for a few moments.
“You may expect no such thing,” he said, finally, and he could have sworn the
dial tone was mocking him.
Chapter End Notes
     I always imagined that a younger John would have a rather wicked
     sense of humor. And an inability to curb his flirtatious side.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     Shorter chapters in the interest of getting this out and not driving
     you all crazy. Love and appreciate all your comments, they make me so
     happy!
It was always this hot. Sun and sand and wind and Sherlock wondered why it was
here, after all, that they had to meet. It didn’t matter. He was in no position
to complain about the sporadic dreams, not if that was all they ever had.
A rustling behind him and then his Alpha was there, one arm wrapping around
Sherlock’s waist from the back. He knew him by his scent and the stockiness of
his body, but mostly by that incredible certainty that only a dream can bring.
“Hello, love.”
“I can’t see you, why can’t I see you?”
“Can you ever?”
A hand stroked along his neck, down his chest, between his legs and Sherlock
shivered and let his head fall back. Let his Alpha do what he would, let him
touch. Just feather prints of fingers over the length of his body. Familiar in
a way they had no right to be.
“Touch me,” he said, trapping his Alpha’s hand against the sharp curves of his
own hip. It was a challenge as much as a request.
“Seems that’s exactly what I’m doing.” An exasperated huff. That was new.
“You’re not,” Sherlock accused. “You never have.”
“I’m sorry,” he said and Sherlock shook his head.
“You wouldn’t recognize me if you did.”
“I’m--
“Don’t apologize to me. I need to see you. I need to know--”
“I’m sorry.”
“I just told you not to--stop it.” Sherlock grasped his Alpha’s hand and curled
his fingers possessively around the blunt fingers, brought them up to press to
his mouth. “Stop apologizing. Kiss me. Punch me. Something, anything--”
“But I’m not even here, love.”
“Liar.” Sherlock wrenched himself free and turned around… but there was nothing
behind him save piles of sand, shifting, scorching.
Blinding.
---
“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, you were screaming.”
Sherlock sat up and reached blindly for the voice at his side. It took him more
than a moment to realize, in his disorientation, that that wasn’t-- wool and
tea and sun and gun-metal--
“You--” he said, rounding on Harry, who was kneeling by his side. “You-- you
smell--like--”
“No, I don’t,” she said, dropping his hand.
“I didn’t say what you smelled like,” Sherlock pointed out.
“You were screaming,” she said, again. “About your--well. Here, look.” She held
up her wrist and he sniffed it gingerly. A bit of tea, yes, a hint of milk and
cherries and ginger, but not uncommon scents, those. A very faint...antiseptic.
Baby wipes. Just baby wipes.
“Scent memories,” he mumbled apologetically. “I must have… still been
dreaming.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked around the living room and shook her head. “Did you
fall asleep on the couch again?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, get to your bed,” she chided. “You need rest. Your smell is all off and
you have bags under your eyes. Look a right mess, you do.”
“I was going to--sleep with Hamish. After you left.” He hadn’t planned on
telling her that. But there was something about Harry, after all, that invited
confidences and it wasn’t his fault that she--that she--
“That I what, Sherlock?”
He blinked. “Sorry.”
“You were rambling.”
“Oh. Where’s Mummy, then?”
“Asleep, I suppose.” Harry allowed him to divert the conversation, though not
without a pointed look that said she knew exactly what he was doing.
“How was talking to John?” she asked, playing along.
The fogginess lifted a little and he arched an eyebrow at her. “Your brother?
Well. He isn’t entirely an idiot.”
“So you liked him?” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.
“I said not entirely,” Sherlock corrected. “He’s simply-- slightly more
entertaining than the general population. Not a fool, by any means.”
“You liked him a LOT, then.”
“Shut up. I didn’t mean--” Sherlock made to get up and staggered. “For gods’
sakes,” he said, grasping the arm of the couch. “Confounded leg.”
Harry was up in an instant. “What’s wrong, then?” she demanded. “Sherlock?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “My leg. It's been- Doesn't matter. I'm just going to--”
“Not like that, you’re not.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to unleash all manner of abuses upon her. But
she set a gentle hand on his shoulder and he simply clenched his teeth and
glared at her.
“I’ll bring him here, if you like,” she said, finally.
“You’ll wake him.”
“He’ll wake up by himself in a few minutes and cry for a bottle if I don’t.”
She smiled at the confused expression on Sherlock’s face. “Don’t worry, it’s
normal enough. And I swear, Hamish is like clockwork--” As if on cue, a low
wail emitated from the radio fastened at her hip and Harry grimaced. “See?
Here, I’ll get him and a bottle and you can feed him. Calm you both down.”
“I can go--”
“Sit DOWN, Sherlock.”
----
The first thing Sherlock noticed was how much louder he seemed. A few short
months and Hamish was already a plump, nearly unmanageable riot of limbs and
sulky gestures. He blinked sleepily when Harry attempted to deposit him in
Sherlock’s lap and then shook his curly head.
“Noooo,” he said, pushing at Sherlock’s chest.
“It’s your bro--” Harry hesitated. “Your mother, sweetie,” she continued,
setting her lip. “Mum, see?”
She tried to give him to Sherlock once more, but he scrunched up his face and
began to wail. Sherlock bit his lip, reaching out for son again and Hamish
began crying in earnest, until Sherlock dropped back, his face tense.
“Take him, Harry. He doesn’t--he doesn’t want me, right now.”
She settled him back onto her lap, frowning. “Sherlock, don’t--he’s just sleepy
and hungry, is all. He’ll be fine in the morning and you--”
“No,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes. “He won’t. He doesn’t-- recognize my
scent.”
“Bullsh--Oh.” She glanced contritely down at Hamish, who was now peacefully
nuzzling into her chest as he sucked on his bottle. “Nonsense, I mean. He’ll
always recognize you. That’s why the entire brother story was never going to
hold, right? Babies recognize their mother’s scents and you smell a bit off
right now, sure, but I’m sure it’s just uni and--”
“Stop blathering, will you?” Sherlock snapped. “It’s hardly any of your
concern. In fact, it’s all for the better. If he doesn’t realize--.” Sherlock
clenched his fingers into his own arm as he spoke, his nails leaving red tracks
in the pale skin. "Then he can't ever be ashamed of me," he finished,
tightening his grip.
“Oh Christ, you and your dramatics. Stop that. Sher--” She reached for him and
Hamish began crying again. “Oh, no, no, Hamish--” She juggled him on her lap
and then looked back at Sherlock, who had stopped abusing himself and was now
watching the both of them with blank eyes.
“Put him to bed, Harry. He must be--exhausted.”
She nodded and stood, cradling Hamish on one hip. “I’ll be back in a few
minutes. Just--you wait here, all right? Don’t move. Do you hear me?”
Sherlock gave a sharp, jerky nod of acknowledgement. He heard Harry clatter up
the stairs, Hamish still fussing at her hip and buried his head in his hands.
He would leave, of course, before she returned. Barricade himself in his room,
perhaps, because she’d have questions, questions he couldn’t answer… He’d
fucked up this time, failed the only person who mattered. But he’d never been
the person who could do this, anyways, they’d all known that. Mummy and Mycroft
and who was Harry, to say he could, when she didn’t...She hardly knew him. He
barely knew himself, anymore, and there was no one to turn to, no one whose
help he'd even accept and anyways... his Alpha was long gone, better to accept
it, but these foolish, absurd, unfair dreams---
 
Vanilla and tea and gun-powder and blood. Chemicals and sweat and sun and wool
and somewhere, somewhere… the memory of love.
 
---
When she returned, Sherlock hadn’t moved. A still statue, with his curly head
bowed, the dim light and his hands blocking her view of his face.
“Oh Sherlock,” she said, when he didn't stir. “Oh love. What have you done?”
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
     John's in between deployments, FYI. Yeah, frustrating, I know. I like
     to make things frustrating, I guess.
He told her the important things, in the end, because she wouldn't be satisfied
with just letting him go. Glossed over the suppressants and his own
involvement. He'd berate himself for not simply leaving, later, but in the
moment, she was comforting and he was so…tired.
“It wouldn’t work like that, you know,” Harry said, once he'd finished. She
eyed the ring glinting on Sherlock’s palm. “Rings-- just symbolic nonsense.
Wouldn’t break a soul-bond, taking it. If such things even exist and mind you,
I’m not so sure.”
“Well, there’s certainly something wrong with them,” Sherlock said. He clenched
the ring in his hand. “Something’s breaking Seb and Gloria and if it’s not
that--”
“Seb?” Harry furrowed her brow in distaste. “Is that the charmer I met on the
phone?”
“Yes,” Sherlock admitted. Harry’s eyes widened.
“And you’re--doing what then? Sleeping with him? You’re sleeping with a bonded
Alpha?”
“Yes. I told you that already, Harry, do keep up," he said, sagging back into
his seat. He'd forgotten how simply infuriating it could be to explain things
to average people. But Harry had become fixated on that (trivial) point and she
wasn't about to simply let it go.
“Well, that’s it, you great idiot," she said, ignoring Sherlock's eye-roll.
"No, listen. Christ, for a genius, you really are so stupid. ‘Course it wasn’t
the ring that broke their bond. It was broken as soon as he took another
Omega.”
“Alphas can take multiple Omegas---” he pointed out.
“Not if they’re not Alpha-primes, they can’t," she said firmly. "And those are
rare enough.”
Rare, but certainly not rare enough, Sherlock couldn’t help but think. He
surpressed the image that rose, unbidden, of HIS Alpha with another Omega.
Probability suggested that that was the most likely scenario, after all. Easy
too, for an Alpha of that nature to find another mate, one not saddled with an
abrasive personality, drug addictions and oh yes, a child...
“Sherlock?” Harry laid a hesitant arm on his own. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. He ruthlessly locked away the explicit scene his mind
insisted upon conjuring--a familiar warmth curled around a pliant Omega, sweet
and kind and soft like he wasn’t-- Harry squeezed his arm and he looked down at
her hand in some surprise.
“Seb?” he said, shaking her off. “No, he’s not an Alpha-prime. But he’s had
Omegas before and it has never affected his bond.”
“Omegas in heat?” Harry asked pointedly.
Sherlock hadn’t considered that and suddenly, he was furious. He’d missed so
much, while he’d been wallowing in sentiment, been so useless---
“Look,” she continued. “I’m not saying I believe in all the hocus-pocus soul-
mate bullshit, but there’s a lot of things there. Biology, ritual, magic--god
knows what. But damn straight, it’ll fuck with you. And no one really
understands bonds, anyways, but they’re physical as well as emotional, so--”
Sherlock snapped his fingers. “That’s it then.”
“What’s it?”
“Wasting,” Sherlock said, leaning forwards. “If it exists, then it might simply
be the breaking of a physical connection that was there and the tales of death
are simply exaggerations. Wrought by over-active imaginations and village
gossips to keep bonds from being purposefully broken, no doubt. One more way
for society to prevent couples from seeking happiness outside their narrow
confines, I’d presume--”
She paused. “You might have something there,” she admitted. “But I don’t know.
You’re right that wasting was always an old wives tale, really, like the soul-
bonds. And obviously, many Omegas go through the breeding program”--she
grimaced sympathetically--”But--”
“They don’t bond,” Sherlock finished. “And I--I did. Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m--I’m sorry--”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Be that as it may, biologically, it
doesn’t make sense,” he said. “None of it. Hormonal attraction taken to
extremes, perhaps, but other than that, I fail to see how bonding in the
breeding program is possible. We didn’t have enough time for our scents to
imprint. Seb and Gloria must have been raised together, as such couples are, so
of course my scent would begin their bond deterioration. Stupid, to not have
seen it before. But as for myself--”
“What I don’t understand,” Harry said. “Is how it should matter to you. Do you
want Seb for yourself, then?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock said. Was he imagining it or had she relaxed, just a
little?
“Not worth it,” she said (and yes, she sounded distinctly happier). “You
deserve better, is all,” she added hastily. “If a half of what you’ve told me
is true, you should leave him. There’s other Alphas, sweetie, Alphas that would
love to have you--”
“I don’t WANT an Alpha,” Sherlock snapped. “For god’s sakes, is that all you
paltry people think about? Bonding? If I could be rid of all of this useless--”
he gestured vaguely down his body, “Transport, I would do it in an instant.”
“Then why?” she persisted.
“I just told you,” he said, rising unsteadily from his chair. “You have the
facts, now put them together. But if Hamish is upset by them--” He clenched his
eyes shut.
“Hamish…” she said and he could practically feel the cogs turning. “Sherlock
Holmes, you’re not on those bloody suppressents, are you?”
He'd been rambling. Talk too much and you got caught in the lie. But there was
no point in denying it now. He looked at a fixed point above Harry's head and
took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
Harry rose and he could see instantly from her eyes that she was going to be
tiresome. “But those will fuck you up, they will. You’ll never be the same and
you know they cause all sorts of problems--”
“You’re one to talk," he spat.
She faltered. “Sorry?”
“Hypocrites,” Sherlock ranted. “All of you. You think I can’t smell it on you,
Harry? None of your scents are your own and they were, once… Vanilla, cherry,
but they’re fading. There’s something covering them.” He stalked forwards until
he was nearly nose to nose with her and her eyes…
He groaned. “I cannot. Not with you. Alpha hormones. Why? Your Omega mate? I
should have realized then--”
“Realized what, Sherlock?” she said. Her hands gripped nervously at her skirt,
but she didn’t break his gaze. “What? Go on.”
“You do have an Omega mate. And you’re an Omega. So you’ve been procuring Alpha
hormones from somewhere, illegally, no doubt, and--”
To his surprise, she seemed to relax a little. “Don’t do as I do, I suppose,”
she said. “There isn’t-- much choice, is there? Sometimes.”
“No. But you’ve been lucky. Hamish still responds to you, something to do with
your cocktail, no doubt but I… I have no scent. Not anymore.”
Harry hesitated and then nodded firmly, as if having reached a decision.”
“I’m going to call John.”
“What earthly good is that supposed to do?”
She shrugged. “He’s a doctor, maybe…”
“No. Absolutely not. Harry--” he said,
“Sherlock, it might help, look at you--you’re barely walking--”
“I forbid it,” Sherlock snarled, realizing even as he did so that his reaction
was out of proportion with the statement. Just her bloody brother, anyways,
what did he care-He took a step forwards and would have fallen if Harry hadn’t
caught him.
“Your leg,” she started.
“Don’t,” he warned. The effect was rather spoiled by how heavily he was leaning
on her and she rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I won’t. But how long has it been,” she asked. “Since you took your
pills?”
Sherlock cast his mind around, but it was more than a little fuzzy. He thought
he’d taken them that morning, but perhaps--
“Today, probably,” he said, because it was as good of an answer as any. “But
Seb isn’t here, so it hardly matters--”
"No, you didn't," Harry said. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock Holmes, you smell like
a bloody harem."
Sherlock managed to convey his precise opinion of that with a twist of his lips
and she groaned. "Christ. You idiot. You absolute--fucking--idiot.” She pushed
him into his chair and knelt. “Sherlock? Listen to me. You’re going to go into
heat, okay? And it’s going to be a nasty business. I’ll call Mycroft--”
“Don’t,” he suggested. She ignored him.
“And your mother,” she said. “And I’ll tell them to stay away. But you--let’s
get you to your room, all right?”
Sherlock nodded and eyed the stairs warily. She huffed.
“Oh, don’t try it. I’ll help. Bloody tosser.”
--
It was only after Sherlock was safely ensconced in his room (daylight was just
visible out the windows, when had that happened?) that Harry's eyes fell on the
phone. If she was being honest, she'd been thinking about it for hours now. And
it wasn't that she had any moral qualms, really. Because Sherlock was an idiot,
but--if Mycroft were to find out--she bit her lip and wrestled with herself. It
was really such a bad idea to get involved…
As if she wasn't involved enough already.
--
“You know, I don’t really have time for this,” John said, as soon as he
answered. “Not at all, really. Family emergency, is it? Again?"
“Yeah, well, last I checked, you’re not on base for another hour,” Harry
pointed out. “So, if I know you, you’re just running about with your third cup
of tea and toast between your teeth."
“I think I’m going to go mad, Harry, I swear.”
“You can talk to me for a moment," she insisted. "What if it really IS a family
emergency?"
"Considering you're the only family I have--"
"JOHN. I could be dying, right now, and how would you feel, your only sister…"
John blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. Quickly, then. I need to work too,
you know.”
“You know Sherlock?” she said.
“The kid I was talking to earlier?" John asked, through a mouthful of what was
no doubt dry toast. "Sure.”
“He’s been on suppressants. And then he forgot to take them.”
Silence. Then--
“Fuck. Well, that’s going to be a nasty few days all right. I hate to say it--
but does he have any more of them?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted.
“Well, see if he does, weaning him off of them will be easier on his body,"
John said. There was crash and then John swore under his breath.
"John, pay attention here."
"I just dropped--Okay. If he doesn't have any more, then does he have anyone?”
They both knew precisely what that meant. An Alpha, willing to get Sherlock
through his heat without bonding. It wouldn’t have been an unusual arrangement
by any means: sex with an Omega in heat was still considered a bit of a prize
for any Alpha and, then too, an Alpha would be the best deterrent for anyone
looking to take advantage of a vulnerable Omega. In theory, at least.
Harry huffed disgustedly. “No one I’m about to call.”
“Fine. Do I-- no, I don’t want to know. Just get any Alphas out of the house,
then, don’t care how you do it. Other than that--food? Water? Er...toys, I
guess." A clatter and Harry winced. John didn't appear perturbed.
"Hang on," he said, as if coming to a realization. "Why are you calling me for
this?”
“Well, I thought-- if you could talk to him--he seemed to like you--”
She could practically feel his glare through the phone.
“We talked about this, Harry. I’m not looking, not for that--”
“Well, maybe it’s not about you,” she snapped. “Maybe, he’s a lonely person who
needs someone, ever thought about that?”
“There are plenty of lonely Alphas about, sure you could do better than calling
me,” John pointed out. “Ones that aren’t, you know, about to be sent halfway
about the globe and all.”
“Unbonded Alpha-primes?” she asked. “How many of those do you think I know? The
bonded ones are always just looking to add to their harem and an normal Alpha
wouldn’t work, not when the arse who left him was a prime and Christ, all you
do is gripe. I care about him, I’m not suggesting he bond with you, you
inconsiderate, sulking, whiny--”
“ALRIGHT,” John barked. He sighed. “Okay. Fine. You--do what I said for him,
all right? And if he needs someone--”
“I’ll have him call you,” she said, instantly cheerful again.
“No,” John said. “No, hang on, I’m not on vacation here.”
“John--” she said, again.
“Evening,” he said. “I'll probably be free then. You’re lucky there’s fuck-all
to do at the moment. Allergies, Harry. Bloody allergies and the flu, Christ, if
I had a pound for all the flu cases--”
“It’s almost like you want someone to get hurt, John, really,” she reproached.
“Besides, reckon you’ll have enough of all of that soon. You're getting
deployed abroad--when?"
"Next week," John said. "And I can't tell you…It's awful, but it'll be a
relief."
Harry was silent.
"I worry about you," she said finally. "I do--"
"Goodbye, Harry," he said and she knew that was the end of that conversation.
"I'll talk to you soon," she promised.
---
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the delay, yet again! And also all the dawdling, but this
     is important to the storyline, I swear it... Also, I'm looking to do
     a few shorter but quicker chapters this month, so the length is a bit
     less than usual.
     Also, fayfayfay dedicated this_beautiful_Omega!Sherlock_fic to me and
     then I only discovered it long after the fact, because clearly I
     don't know how to use AO3 yet. It's the Sherlock POV of the series of
     hers that I mentioned earlier and it's perfect <3.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mycroft showed up anyways, of course.
The twat never knew when to keep his nose out of other people’s business and
besides, he would never have missed an opportunity to chastise his little
brother.
“You’re quite pale,” he observed, leaning casually on the doorframe (a safe
distance away, because even Mycroft Holmes wasn’t immune to so base a
temptation and that that was the way disaster lurked. It would be unacceptable,
of course, to have mated siblings in this modern age, but as it happened,
biology cared very little for social convention. They wouldn’t have been the
first family to have to sweep such a scandal under the carpet. But Mycroft was
nothing if not careful.)
“You're not in heat,” he said now, sniffing delicately at the air. His spine
slouched all of a millimeter in his relief. “Not yet.”
“How very perceptive of you.” Sherlock said. He rolled over onto his side,
taking his blankets with him, and peered disgustedly at his brother. “I believe
I asked you explicitly not to come. If you simply must disregard all my wishes,
the least you could do is to not drone on about the obvious….”
“It doesn’t strike you as strange?” Mycroft made a show of disdainfully
examining his umbrella as he spoke.
“Is it interesting?” Sherlock asked politely. “The brolly,” he clarified, just
in case. “You seem fascinated. But then, you always were fixated on the most
unimportant things....”
Mycroft sighed and raised his head, finally deigning to meet the accusing stare
of his baby brother. “If only you paid as much attention to your surroundings
as you did your insults, brother dearest. I always did say your habit of
underestimating people would hurt you one day—“
“Are you lecturing me on egotism? How very ironic," Sherlock sniffed. “Isn't it
you who likes to talk about 'goldfish'?"
“That,” Mycroft said. “Is simply fact, for me. Let’s not forget that I am the
smart one.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So then I’m a goldfish.”
“No, you’re far too much trouble,” Mycroft said dryly. “Perhaps… one of those
Siamese fighting fish. Flashy and aggressive.”
“Touching, I’m sure,” Sherlock snapped.
“The proof is here,” Mycroft indicated Sherlock’s spread body with the tip of
his dratted brolly. Sherlock curled up, instinctively shielding his body from
this Alpha, the one who wasn't his. But he despised himself almost instantly
for the small show of irrationality (vulnerability) and it was barely a few
seconds before he stretched carelessly, pointedly, back out.
Too late. Mycroft tilted his head in a manner that was both a trifle apologetic
and entirely condescending. “You’re sick, are you? But it’s not heat… Think
Sherlock, surely even you aren’t this dull.”
“I forgot my pill,” Sherlock said. “Since I’m sure Harry told you…”
Mycroft raised an affronted eyebrow. “As if she would have to tell me…”
Sherlock refrained from biting off the caustic reply that came automatically to
his lips, the one that pointed out that Mycroft would almost certainly have
stopped the drug abuse if he had known about it. But that was Mycroft to the
core, of course, always trying to seem omniscient and it was better, really, to
let him live under the delusion that Sherlock believed him to be as all-knowing
as he claimed.
“Oh very well,” Sherlock said. “Let’s hear the theory then. I’m sure you have
one, else you wouldn’t have risked coming down here to begin with.”
“I never theorize,” Mycroft drawled.
“Now you’re just being difficult…”
“Sebastian Wilkes,” Mycroft interrupted. “First-born child of one of the
wealthiest banking families in the land. Engaged, I hear, to one Gloria Scott.
Not a very old family, but wealthy enough, I dare say.”
Sherlock flopped over onto his stomach and mumbled something that managed to be
simultaneously both unintelligible and dismissive into his pillow.
“Strange isn’t it,” Mycroft continued, unperturbed, “That an Alpha such as that
should jeopardize his bond. He is narcissistic, certainly, but having an Omega
is not to be taken lightly, not anymore.”
He was right, of course. There were far more Alphas than Omegas. That and the
fact that Alpha-primes often took multiple mates meant that there was rarely a
shortage of Alphas in the breeding camps. Wealthy Alphas from established
families never needed to worry about being mated against their will, but,
conversely, there was always the threatened shame of being saddled with an
Omega from a lowly family or, worse, a Beta.
Still, this was all old news and why Mycroft felt the need to harp on it now
was anyone’s guess. Sherlock pressed a hand to his pounding head, his patience
long since worn out. “Get to the point, Mycroft, or stop wasting my time.”
“Mr. Wilkes,” Mycroft said, every bit as glacially as before, “Cheats on his
promised mate every chance he gets. He is not an Alpha-prime, so why risk it?
Just think, Sherlock. Illegal drugs, the risks of a broken bond, all for casual
sex? Why not just find a pretty Beta, if he’s offering to suppress the Omegas’
heats anyways?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, “And furthermore, I don’t care. Mycroft, I have
a headache and I’m rather sore, so if you could just---“
“What makes Omegas out of heat different then Betas?” Mycroft asked, merciless.
“Think, for once in your life. Omegas can’t produce hormones out of heat, he
clearly doesn’t want to bond, so therefore---“
Sherlock sat up, finally paying attention. “We can carry children,” he said.
“We’re fertile. “ His pale eyes flicked over to his brother. “But no, that
doesn’t make sense. If the pills prevent pregnancy—“
Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and waited patiently. Sherlock’s eyes widened.
“Oh, oh of course, obvious... But then… how? And why? ”
“The first is obvious as well,” Mycroft said. “As to the second--Lines of
succession, Sherlock, that’s all it has ever been about. The majority of the
oldest families in the land are Alphas and Omegas, but not all Alphas and
Omegas are from old families—it’s why the breeding program is able to exist.
But it does result in a certain…dilution… of the blood.”
“I still don’t understand,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly.
“The Wilkes asked for your hand,” Mycroft said. “After you—After Hamish. I did
mention an Alpha, but you were far too spoiled to listen to me. As it is,
perhaps it is for the best. There are very few Alphas who would take an already
bred Omega. I should have been suspicious and I was not.”
“I still don’t—“
“Do try to think, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. He turned to leave, clearly at
the end of his patience. “It will do your underutilized brain cells some good.
And do take care of that leg,” he added, as a parting shot.
How had he-- Mycroft. Meddling git.
Think--All very well for Mycroft to say, but Sherlock's head protested
vigorously at merely being moved. The answer was unbearably obvious, he knew
it, far below his usual capabilities-- He groaned as yet another sharp pain
shot through his body (his leg, now, awful thing) and sank down so he could
bury his face in his pillow.
Whatever it was, it could certainly wait until he felt a little less like a
train wreck.
Chapter End Notes
     So I've been very busy and I'm a generally awful person with the
     internet and also forgetfulness and I'm full of excuses, but
     basically: If there's anything wandering about that you created/
     wanted me to see/had a question about and you attempted to contact me
     about it but I never responded: It's either AO3 or me being an
     absolute idiot. Drop me another note and, if relevant, a link, I'll
     get back to you.
     Much love to all of you who're so patient with me and so supportive
     of this unwieldy monster of a story. I never saw it going quite where
     it did and that has created all sorts of problems, I have no doubt <3
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Summary
     DID SOMEONE SAY 2000 WORD UPDATE? (unedited, mind you)
     Christ, I'm sorry, and what's worse, I still can't promise a regular
     update schedule, but I'm going to try harder and here's 2000 words of
     schmoop to make up for all of it.
It was against John’s better judgment to call that evening. Harry had not
called him back after all, despite her insistence earlier. Typical of her, to
make mountains out of molehills. She wanted the best for him, of course and, in
her mind, dwelling on the past was exactly the opposite of what was best for
him. She was probably right too, though it meant fuck-all to him. He couldn’t
just let it go so easily, not like that. And so what, if he still thought about
the boy, sometimes.
Alright, more than that.
Especially at hours like this, when he came home, weary and bored and
thought... What, exactly?
That he’d like some cute, posh little Omega waiting at home, to cook him dinner
and dazzle him with charm and brilliance? What earthly good would that do? It
wasn’t as if he could keep an Omega like that. That one would be used to better
things and John wasn’t exactly rich. Probably never would be.
But he’d been so sharp, brilliant even in heat. What would he have been like
out of it?
No, that was no good either. He’d never know. Didn’t even know his damn name.
He was creating a fantasy, a fucking lifetime, from a few small moments and now
that was an exercise in futility if there ever was one.
It would be better, when he left. Something else to fixate on, occupy his time.
He was running from it, maybe, and there was a little part of him that wondered
if it wasn’t a bit cowardly, not to even look for--
No, useless again.
He couldn’t do anything, not after what had happened. That Omega wouldn’t want
to see him, he’d been told as much and, well, why would he? Best not forget
that he’d been forced into the liaison. God, it made John heartsick when he
thought about it like that. That undernourished body, those fucking eyes. He’d
tried to be gentle, he had, but it killed him that he didn’t remember.
Did I take your hand? Hold you? Tell you you were fucking perfect? Would it
have made a difference to you, any difference at all?
Jesus Christ, Harry was right. This wasn’t healthy. That Omega was long gone
and John was still here and no, he needed to stop this.
Maybe it was time… to move on. A year and half, pretty long in the scheme of
things. Especially for a one-night encounter. Maybe he could… he could call.
Wouldn’t mean anything. Just a medical call, to help…Sherlock, was it?
Ridiculous toff name.
But as a favor to Harry….
And Sherlock was, well, Sherlock reminded him of that boy, a bit. Same age,
probably. Affluent. Definitely a bit snottier, mind you, harsher too. And he
had…a child.
Sherlock, then.
---
 
Sherlock blinked blearily at the phone. Harry had left it next to him
In case you need anything, I can’t find yours—
Who the hell am I supposed to call if you don’t have your phone, Harry, don’t
be tedious…Harry?)
It had been ringing for a rather long time now, he suspected. Wasn’t sure. It
had only begun irritating him a minute or so ago and he had yet to summon the
energy to answer it. No, he should. It was probably just Mycroft. But he was
surprisingly clear-headed, for being this far in heat and it was exhausting and
messy, but also just so very dull, lying here.
Ah. 2 missed calls, one voicemail. He stabbed haphazardly at the buttons until…
Harry, it’s John. Since you, you know, implied you’d be calling. Guess it
wasn’t that important, then? Call me if you or Sherlock needs anything. Right.
Later, then.
John. Oh, yes. That John.
Not my Alpha a voice in his mind whined. Not mine, not mine, not mine
And yet….Sherlock squirmed at the sound of his voice. The slight impatience,
the clip of command. His own name, the middle syllable slurred over and
misplaced. Well.
He’d said… to call. This Alpha.
Not mine, not mine, not mine
 
--
“Jo—John?”
“Yes? Who…Sherlock. How are you feeling?”
Sherlock blinked in annoyance. “Presumably, if you’re calling, then you’re
aware—“
“It was just a question,” John said. “You know, those awkward space-fillers
people use when they’re talking to an Omega in the middle of heat who they’ve
never met before—“
“Whom,” Sherlock managed.
“Sorry?” John said.
“Whom they’ve never met before—“
“Christ, you’re impossible,” John said. “No, no, I didn’t mean---Sorry, I don’t
know…Must be miserable.”
“Hot,” Sherlock said. Which wasn’t quite true. He was alternatively frozen and
sweating….Though that wasn’t a normal heat symptom, was it? The pills had no
doubt wrecked his system. “Wet,” he continued. “Sticky, sore, desperately
uncomfortable---Shall I go on? Oh yes. Irritated.”
“No,” John said. “No, I’m assuming that just about covers it.”
“Not that you’d know,” Sherlock said. He bit back a moan as a rush of fluid ran
down his thighs.
“Not that I’d know,” John admitted. “Still. If I can help—“
This was useless. Who was John, anyways? And what on earth could he possibly
do…Just another Alpha, after all. Not his. Not the one he wanted.
“Oh.” John’s voice softened and Sherlock realized he must have been talking out
loud. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, in that same, infuriatingly understanding
tone. “It’s going to be bad for a bit. What do you need?”
Sherlock whimpered into the phone, unable to communicate his need any other way
and then immediately clenched his teeth.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he spat. “I—“
“Perfectly normal reaction,” John said. “Alpha voice, you know—“ He trailed
off.
“It hurts,” Sherlock accused. This wasn’t right, he told himself, firmly. This
wasn’t his to have, not the right—
“Do you… need something?” John asked, again.
“You,” Sherlock said automatically and then started. “I was not implying…”
“Hush,” John said. Sherlock could hear his breath, uneven now, and he couldn't
help himself. He imagined that breath, drifting across his body, exhaling on
his chest, his belly, between his spread legs, and let out a stifled sound that
was very nearly a whimper.
“Oh, Christ. All right—All right. Sherlock. I haven’t, not for a while. But
what do you need?”
“John? I--”
“Tell me what you need, Sherlock.”
“You. " It slipped past him again. “You—no, not you—“
“I want to touch you,” John said. “I shouldn’t, but I do and god help me, it’s
not even me you’re after, is it—“
The last of Sherlock’s defenses crumbled. “No. You. I need you.”
Hesitation. Too long and Sherlock’s cheeks were burning with embarrassment.
Foolish of him and better to hang up than let this…. But John was speaking
again.
“Describe it to me,” he said and the newly clinical note to his voice was
almost disappointing but—a relief, really.
“It’s just…increased vascular blood,” Sherlock started. “And localized increase
in blood pressure. Induced by—arousal.”
“Vasocongestion,” John said, now sounding slightly amused.
“Yes, yes, exactly,” Sherlock said.
“Causing…plasma seepage. You know. Natural lubrication,” John said. “Quite a
lot, I’d imagine.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, swallowing. “Yes. Male omegas—“
“Produce more in heat by necessity, I know.”
Sherlock trailed his fingers up his thighs, swirling them in the wetness.
‘’It’s not comfortable,” he said, again. “Particularly when…”
“You’re alone?” John suggested.
Sherlock bristled. “I don’t need anyone,” he said. “I don’t.” He rolled over,
away from the wet bed sheets and lay flat on his stomach, frowning into the
phone.
“You’re pretty clear-headed for heat, I’ll give you that,” John said. “Not
quite yourself, I’d imagine, but you’re not…Hmph. Odd, really.”
“Disappointed?” Sherlock asked. “Of course you are, did you imagine I’d be
begging for your cock by the time you called? Wriggling about in my own juices
help me John.”
The sarcasm was, admittedly, spoiled a bit by the actual break in his voice.
“Quite frankly, I’m glad you’re not,” John said. “It’d be a right mess if you
were, just a bunch of frustration on either end, not worth it, believe me, and
with you bonded and me—well—not free, as it were, no, not a good idea—“
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Sherlock said. “And
failing.”
If he was flirting, just a little, he was blaming it on the haziness of
hormones. But then again--
“I’m not whatever you’re imagining,” Sherlock said. He felt the need to let
this Alpha know, that he wasn’t untouched, unclaimed. “I’m not some quivering,
pretty little Omega… “
“I know you’re not. I do,” John hastened to reassure him. “I just thought, if I
could help—“
“I’m older,” Sherlock continued over him. “Almost 20—“
“Ancient, you are.“
“Long face and skinny limbs—“
“Never had a thing for horses, you know, but I could develop one. Hell, if they
had your charm--”
John wasn’t understanding and it was far too easy to slip into amiable banter
with him, but some instinct made Sherlock push, even if he’d regret it, later,
because this Alpha needed to know—
“My personality is abrasive in the extreme and I have an affinity for danger
and a short temper, particularly when it comes to those less intelligent than
I, which is everyone—“
“So you said. And Byronic heroes are in style, have been since the 1700s—“
Sherlock’s already thin patience snapped utterly. “You do not understand,” he
snarled. “I’m an addict, as you’re clearly aware, and I’ve had a CHILD, John.
I’ve belonged to another Alpha, my skin is scarred with---bloody stretch
marks—“ He pressed a hand flat to his belly, feeling the raised skin and
swallowed. “You’re flirting with me and you seem to conveniently forget—“
“Don’t,” John said. “Don’t, for Christ's sake...”
“Across my stomach,” Sherlock said, ruthlessly. “They look quite awful in the
light and they feel awful in the dark and--” He paused. “I wouldn’t give them
up,” he said. “Not for you.”
“Not for anyone,” John said and Sherlock started at the venom in his voice.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, what sort of hormonal—chaos-- is
making you think I require this sort of information—“
“Don’t get attached,” Sherlock said. “Not to me and especially not to whatever
image you have of me in your mind, John. I’m not that.”
He felt no better for saying it, but it had to be said. Of course it did. John
had everything—army doctor and Alpha-prime, charming and most likely handsome—
Everything except status and wealth said the Mycroft that inhabited his brain.
Of course he doesn’t mind, Sherlock, what’s the responsibility of a baby
compared to having a mate from the Holmes bloodline?
“I suppose we’re done here,” Sherlock said. He closed his eyes, pain exploding
behind his temples. “If you’d like to leave the phone—“
“No,” John said and his voice managed to drown out even Mycroft’s in its
intensity. “No, we are not done, Sherlock. I know, all right? I know you think
I’m an idiot and you’re right, I probably am, but it doesn’t matter, because
you’re—Hell. Anyone would be lucky, if you let them even try to keep up with
you and that brilliant brain of yours and I bet…I bet…if your Alpha was
there...”
“Yes, well, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “So that’s a rather--- useless—“
“God Sherlock, fuck it,” John said. “I don’t know why the hell he left, but if
I could be there—No, fuck, I shouldn’t, I’m sorry—“
“Tell me,” Sherlock demanded. John was worked up and inarticulate but he
believed what he was saying, that much was obvious. “Tell me.”
“If I could, I’d kiss you,” John said. “I’d kiss you all over, every damned
stretch mark and scar, and if you let me keep you, you and your baby, the both
of you--I’d do that too, all right?”
“It's quite far from 'all right"," Sherlock said. “You're leaving tomorrow, so
this is all highly theoretical."
"No, it's not," John said. "Not--I haven't felt this way since---"
"All right," Sherlock cut in.
"Sorry?"
Sherlock swallowed.
"I said "All right", did I not? Come home, John. And keep your promise."
--
---
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for abusive relationships and violence. Also, I'm going to
     take this opportunity to apologize for the editing on this chapter
     and the next. I'm about suffocated in work at the moment, but I
     didn't want to post just this one (you'll likely see why), so I
     definitely skimped on the editing. Feel free to give me edits in the
     comments.
The heat lasted for two days and the fogginess for three more, but the moment
Sherlock regained his mental capabilities, he was abruptly furious. At Mycroft,
of course, for wallowing in his omniscience and refusing to share crucial
knowledge--though that was hardly new, was it?
Well, possibly it was John, who deserved his anger, because…He wasn’t quite
sure, yet. But managing to pull such a frightful statement of sentiment from
Sherlock deserved some anger, for certain, even if the mechanics of ‘why’
escaped him.
Not that it mattered.
John was gone, which was likely for the best. And Mycroft, as was his wont, had
disappeared entirely into the stifling cesspool of the government, unlikely to
emerge until he was most unwanted.
At least there was still one Alpha left to bear the brunt of his rage. Hardly
satisfying, because he’d never expected anything else from that one, but
Sherlock had been fuming for the better part of two days, now, and, by this
point, his rant didn’t require input so much as it required an audience.
----
“You deserve an award,” Sherlock announced, upon returning to uni and finding
the chosen perpetrator conveniently seated on Sherlock’s own bed. “You’re a far
greater bastard than even I’d imagined. Surely that takes talent.”
Sebastian didn’t so much as look up from his phone.
Sherlock raised his voice, undeterred. “Talent of a mediocre and petty variety,
granted. But even I am not so far out of my mind as to suggest that you have
any measure of actual intelligence, so undoubtedly petty is the best you can
do.”
Seb made a show of stretching.
Lazy.
Indifferent.
Calculated to infuriate.
Surprisingly effective, all the same.
“Do you find yourself amusing?” Sherlock spat, his carefully crafted speech
deteriorating as his temper rose. “Ah, of course you do. You think you’re
clever, but you’re not, you’re not even among the bottom dregs in a cesspool of
incompetent criminals. You’re stupid, plodding, slow. Petty. Unable to pull off
anything but a dirty manipulation and shoddily at that and yet you’re quite
smug. Though I suppose you ought to be, why it’s almost an accomplishment,
isn’t it? Considering your non-existent brain capacity—“
At that, Seb let out a put-upon sigh and squinted at Sherlock. “Is it that time
of month or something?”
“This has nothing to do with my biology and everything to do with you being a
brainless, obtuse, insufferable bastard,” Sherlock snapped.
“You should apply for a job as a thesaurus,” Seb said, still feinting
indifference, though the twitch of his right eye gave him away. “I’m sure
there’s some freak show out there that’s hiring.”
“Half-witted, simple-minded, imbecilic, dumb, asinine, moronic-- I’d continue,
but presumably the lobotomy that removed your entire brain left you only with a
small capacity for stereotypical insults and zero capacity to understand
anything coming from the mouth of someone with less testosterone than your
thick-witted self—“
Sherlock paused reluctantly for breath and only then noted Seb’s repellent
face, gone slack with shock.
Oh, so very satisfying. He was going to store that look of flabbergasted
confusion on the front door of his mind palace—no. It’d be the doormat, so he
could wipe his shoes triumphantly on it every time he entered---
 
Seb blinked his way back to the present
“Didn’t catch all of that—“ he started.
“No doubt,” Sherlock muttered. And then jumped as Seb unexpectedly crashed a
fist into his nightstand---well, not so unexpectedly, he always had a poorly
concealed violent streak, refuge of the mentally weak and those eye twitches
always did give him awa---
“Fucking hell, you Omegas are such bloody drama queens,” Seb said. He tried for
an unamused laugh, but it came out choked and furious. “Gloria won’t stop
calling and now you—Well. Just be a good boy and take your little temper
tantrum somewhere else, won’t yo—Oww.”
Bad idea, really.
The slipper flopped next to the bed, leaving a red stamp on Seb’s cheek and
bright blue pills scattered across the floor. Seb’s nostrils flared with rage
and Sherlock reconsidered.
Not a bad idea, after all.
A truly terribleidea.
“My apologies,” Sherlock said, stretching his lips in a strangled approximation
of a grin. “I was aiming for your nose, but I never was the best of shots.”
“What the FUCK was that?” Seb demanded, rising. “You don’t want them, fine,
I’ll give them to someone who appreciates them. But don’t you—“
“Appreciates them?” It was rather ironic, all told, how very alive Seb’s death
threat made him feel.
Adrenaline, his rational mind noted clinically. You’re a danger-addict,
Sherlock Holmes.
“Yes, appreciates them,” Seb said, finally. “And consider yourself lucky,
buddy. If I wasn’t feeling rather nice today, you’d be half a pulp by now—“
Sherlock dismissed the concern—transparent, really, once you knew why—with a
wave of his hand. “Oh no, I wouldn’t worry. I checked, of course. I’m hardly
pregnant. So if you’d like to hit me, don’t hold yourself back on account of
your frightful spawn, which doesn’t exist, and, if humanity has a modicum of
self-preservation left, hopefully never will.”
You idiot, stop baiting him
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastian said. He took a step
forwards and that voice in the back of Sherlock’s brain had gone remarkably
shrill, all of a sudden.
shutupshutup you FOOL shut up
“No use denying it, it’s perfectly obvious. Should have been from the
beginning, of course, stupid of me. Well. Never mind.”
Seb continued to advance and Sherlock unconsciously retreated, even as his rant
went uninterrupted.
“They delay heat. Not prevent it, no, but not sugar pills either-- Even the
dullest person would catch on eventually when they went into heat every month.
One hopes. So, delayed—you gain an Omega’s trust and then, when their heat does
come--well, that’s not your call, is it? They forgot to take a pill and who
could blame you? And if the Omega doesn’t quite believe you, no matter, heat
suppressants are an illegal substance, who would say anything to the
authorities?”
Leave, you fool, you’ve given away the only protection you had. If you’re not
pregnant, why would he care what happens to you? Why would anyone? He’s never
been stable, you’ve known that. You’ve been willfully ignoring the signs, of
course, but you’re not stupid, Sherlock, you see even when you don’t want to---
“So a very little bit of talent, as I said. Not much, but enough to protect
your slimy skin. How unfortunate for you that I went into heat over break. Not
that I’d have carried your spawn for any length of time, but it saves me from a
highly unhygienic, untested and illegal procedure—“
“What are you on about—Did you forget a pill? Is that why you’re being
hysterical?“ Seb was no doubt attempting for condescending. But the words came
out desperate, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions.
“I wouldn’t forget,” Sherlock hissed. “Not a pill, not in this case. I know all
too well the consequences of an unintended heat and I do not forget Sebastian,
not when the alternative is carrying your seething hell-spawn.”
The solid surface of the door hit his back and Sherlock blinked in surprise.
Seb’s face was inches from his own. “Not my fault your biology’s freaky, is
it?”
“My biology is perfectly fine,” Sherlock retorted. “One of the few things that
works altogether too well, in fact. It’s yours that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
 
Now you’ve done it
“Does Gloria know you’re the one who’s impotent? Or did you not realize that
either?”
For god’s sakes Sherlock, have a modicum of self-preservation
“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said, his fingers scrabbling for the door knob. “You did
know. You just hadn’t accepted it. Pathetic, really, the things one denies,
even to one’s self—well, I’ll just leave you here, then, to wallow in your—“
He registered Seb’s fist before it hit him squarely in the abdomen, once and
then again and he was on the floor, doubled up with the pain, his brain
filtering out the abuses from Seb’s mouth in favor of the point of rational
thought left.
Leave you idiot
I can’t, I can’t move--
He’d been quick, once, but he was off, emotionally compromised, Mycroft’s
unforgivably rational voice offered. Sherlock registered with a dulled sense of
apprehension that Seb had grabbed something, the microscope, oh, how utterly
fitting, ironic, even---
Indeed, sentiment might be the literal death of you this time baby brother.
 
---
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Name?”
“She’lock.”
“How many fingers do you see?”
“3.”
“Where are you?”
“Uh—“
“Good enough.”
Sherlock had half-expected to see Harry when he opened his eyes, but even with
a blow to the head, it’d be difficult to mistake this crisp, curvaceous woman
for his blunt, overbearing nanny.
He’d give so much to have it be Harry.
Instead, his bedside companion was one of Mycroft’s newest minions, whose name
forever escaped him. Her presence was at least mildly reassuring, however, in
that it indicated that Mycroft himself was far too busy to visit.
“Paramedics said you were lucky,” she said, now. “No injury to your brain, at
least. You had a severe blow there. Awful bleeding. Head wounds do that, you
realize.”
“Hmmm.”
“Cannot say the same for your abdomen. That was blunt force trauma too. But
they haven’t got the CTs on your liver and spleen yet. Dreadfully slow around
here.”
“Ah—“
“No, don’t try to talk.” There was no arguing with that voice. “I was simply
told you’d want to know as soon as you were oriented. It took 2 days, you
realize.”
Her tone implied that the wait was entirely his fault.
“You’ve been blathering nonsense at me the entire while.”
“Wha—“
“I said ‘don’t talk’. Go to sleep.”
He’d never quite thought that THIS would be the way he’d end up back in the
hospital.
----
He couldn’t have said how long it was before he awoke again. The devastatingly
efficient minion had left after her brief report and the next thing Sherlock
knew, it was dark and an unfamiliar voice was swimming in and out of his focus.
“Hey. Hey kid---“
Sherlock grudgingly turned his head. Only to immediately groan as a blinding
wave of pain hit his face.
“Yeah, hold up there. Don’t move—“
“Do I look like I can?” Sherlock said. Or tried to. What came out was more of
an indignant wheeze.
“Did quite the number on you, not going to deny it.” The scent by his bed
shifted—beta, clearly, rusted steel and stale coffee, the sharp familiarity of
blood and boredom—
“Here. Sit up.” Something cold pushed against his limp hand and Sherlock
blinked tentatively.
“Water,” the voice offered. “Here. Have it. Christ. Can you hold it?”
“You’re a rather bad nursemaid,” Sherlock managed, after a moment. He grasped
the cup gratefully.
“Not my job, is it?” The man settled on his chair, next to Sherlock’s bed.
Hospital bed.
Sherlock ran his eyes over the man next to him.
“You’re a police officer. ”
“No kidding.”
Sherlock continued, more for the relief of confirming his undamaged mental
abilities than anything else.
“Sergeant, to be precise. You want a promotion and you’re long overdue for it.
But you won’t get it. You take the jobs no one else wants, out of a misguided
sense of justice, no doubt. Not to mention the toll your increasingly difficult
marriage takes on you. She’s cheating, you realize.”
The man started. “What on—Did you make that up?”
Sherlock attempted to wave his hand and succeeded only in slopping water down
his front.
“Your ID is hanging out of your pocket.”
He pointed as he reached for the offered napkin.
“Your age, profession, and rank are rather clear. As for the promotion,
naturally you want one. And you’re overdue, because, while you’re younger than
you look, you’re still old enough to be an inspector and you clearly work
grueling hours—oh don’t look like that, simple enough to tell overtime, the
coffee stains on your trousers are days old and the trousers themselves are
uncomfortable, far too loose. They fit you once, no doubt, so you’ve lost
weight, indicating stress over a period of time, and you’d have changed if
you’d gone home, so you haven’t---Long hours, then, and you’ve let yourself
go.”
“My wife—“
Sherlock settled for pointing, this time. Marginally less expressive, but
magnitudes less painful.
“Story of your home life is told in your shirt—but it wasn’t always like that.
Someone cared, once, enough to sew up the torn hem on your right cuff, but
doesn’t care enough to fix the more recent tearing on the left side. You hardly
look like you sew and if you did, you’d have fixed it by now. So your wife did
the sewing, most likely. But something must have changed, then, if she hasn’t
noticed the newer tears. Not you-- everything else is dirty, but you wear your
ring on a chain about your neck. Might easily have made an excuse to take it
off, leave it at home, if you were so inclined, but you made an effort to keep
it on, despite your job. Looks like it’s your wife who has new priorities,
priorities unrelated to the household. Might be any number of things, but
considering your long hours and general unkemptness, I’d say she has a new love
interest altogeth—You realize jaw is hanging open?”
The man snapped his mouth shut and then opened it again just as quickly. “Fine,
then. How do you know I take the jobs no one else wants?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re here, aren’t you? “
“Impressive.”
Sherlock blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. Don’t know why you didn’t turn that brain on your skunk of a boyfriend,
not that it’s any of my business—“
“It’s not,” Sherlock cut in. “And he’s not—my Alpha.”
The man—Lestrade, according to his ID—was clearly skeptical. “You’re obviously
bonded, mate. But he’s not your Alpha?”
“I’m in no condition to have that conversation,” Sherlock snapped. “Look at me.
I’ve been beaten to within an inch of my life. I should rest.”
A half-smile played upon his companion’s face. “You’re talking enough, for all
that.”
“Why are you here?” Sherlock demanded. “Not for a statement. If I know anything
about the justice system in this country, then this little tussle has already
been swept under the rug.”
The smile slipped off the man’s face as quickly as it had come and he gave a
short nod of acknowledgment. “They wouldn’t look at it twice. But you’re smart
enough to know that, aren’t you?”
“So why are you here? Your sense of justice can hardly do me any good—“
“Look, kid,” the cop interrupted. “I’ve seen my fair share of bad
relationships, all right? And just—he beat you up this time. It won’t get any
better, you know? Don’t go fooling yourself.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Thank you. I’m not an idiot.”
Lestrade met his eyes at that, his face tragically hopeful. “You won’t go back
to him then?”
Oh for god’s sakes. “Are you going back to your wife?”
“It’s not the same—“
Sherlock decided to put him out of his misery. “No. I won’t.”
Lestrade relaxed back into his chair. “Well. Good, then.”
“Brilliant,” Sherlock agreed. But the man wasn’t done.
“I’d put the lot of them in jail, I would,” he said, a touch defensively. “If I
could. But it’s not my job and I can’t and the bastards run amok.”
“Humph.” Sherlock lay back, his eyes drifting closed with whatever cocktail
they’d pumped him full of. Morphine, possibly.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Better sleep.”
And you’d better go, Sherlock thought, but never got a chance to say.
 
-----
He did go, but he came back, a few days later and hovered in the doorway until
Sherlock waved him in.
“You have something to say, Officer--”
“The name’s Gregory Lestrade. Call me Greg.”
“I know.”
“You had a child,” Greg said bluntly.
“Very good. Found my records, did you?”
“No. I was just thinking about it, talking to you and--Stretch marks.”
“Stretch—oh.” Sherlock took in the faint lines running down the lower half of
his bared abdomen and raised an eyebrow. “Surprisingly well-observed.”
“Well, I am a police officer, you know.”
“Like I said—surprising.”
The officer didn’t grin, not today.
“Where’s the tyke?”
“Not with me.” Sherlock’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh. Oh, I see. No,
he’s not—that Alpha’s not his father and the child doesn’t live with me. Hamish
is with my mother. He’s quite—safe. I heard him on the phone just this
morning.”
The tension leaked out of the officer’s shoulders. “Oh. Good. Well. Sad. But
also good.”
“You came to ask about that,” Sherlock said, a bit amazed. “Just that.”
“Well, I figured—no one was going to look and it’s not like someone would have
said something, if that abusive bastard took the kid. You just never know—“
“Thank you,” Sherlock cut in.
“An’ I was a bit overreaching my job, I know—Really?”
“Yes.” Sherlock swallowed. “Of course, thank you. For checking.”
The officer eyed him speculatively. “You’re not such a git.”
“Well, let’s not make any snap-judgments.”
“Sorry. I was just thinkin’ you’d run off and left the kid to have some sort of
druggie fun but that’s not—“ He cut himself off, chagrined. “Sorry. Shouldn’t
have said that either. But you know how it looks.”
Sherlock knew perfectly well how it looked, but it didn’t prevent him from
bristling. “I am the child’s mother and horrid as I may be at the job, I would
never, ever, allow him to be in any situation where he was in danger—and if I
was given any choice in the matter, nor would I allow myself to be separated
from him. Never---”
He was conscious, abruptly, that he’d said too much. The officer was looking at
him with a sort of dreadful compassion in his eyes, unbearable, really--
“Well,” the man said, shifting. “Look, kid, you need anything—I’ll be there. My
name’s—“
“Do try not to endlessly repeat yourself Geoff Lestrade.”
“Oye, it’s—never mind. Close enough. Um, I’d better—“
Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, not just yet. His mind was deteriorating
with boredom and no doubt that was the only reason that he thought Lestrade was
not such bad company.
“You never told me,” Sherlock blurted out.
Lestrade turned around. “Told you what, then?”
“Why you’re here.”
“Oh. That.” Lestrade looked uncomfortable again. “Let’s just say—because I
care, all right?”
Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to snort at that. “Sentiment.”
Lestrade shrugged as he headed out the doorway. “Sure.”
“It’s why you’ll never get promoted,” Sherlock called after his retreating
back.
He was treated to a half-turn accompanied by a brief eye-roll. “Don’t I know
it. Look kid, I’ve got to get to work. There’s a hell of a case down in
Hampstead and everyone’s half mad over it—“
“The one about the bridegroom who disappeared into thin air?”
The officer paused. “Yeah. That one. Been reading the papers?”
“It’s something to do.” Sherlock bit his lip. “Look, about that case—“
“Yeah?”
“The step-father. He knows where the bridegroom is.”
“You can’t—“
“I can.” Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes defiantly. “Let’s say the stepfather and
the bridegroom are quite—close. You’d do well to question him thoroughly.”
Lestrade opened his mouth as if to say something, thought better of it and
shrugged again. “Right. Sure. Why the hell not?”
 
----
Chapter End Notes
     I'd apologize for how late these are, but at this point, we're just
     trucking it to the end, however slowly. Doing my best, thanks for all
     the encouragement and hanging in there with me!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!