Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2432561.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, professor/student, Omega!Sherlock, Alpha!John,
      Age_Difference, Johnlock_Roulette
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-10 Completed: 2014-11-01 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 11039
****** Because You Called Me Brilliant ******
by phipiohsum475
Summary
     John prided himself on his control, and though his subconscious may
     be betraying him, he resolved that he’d keep his attraction to
     Sherlock as friendly as he assumed it to be, before the traitorous
     dreams revealed otherwise.
Notes
     Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my
     errors!
     I attempted a PWP, but it didn't work. Plot avails!
***** Chapter 1 *****
John stood at the front of the classroom, trying to make himself look busy as
students filed in. When he’d accepted Mike’s plea to teach medical research,
he’d forgotten that’d he’d grown somewhat older, and in the desert, no less.
The youth on the campus seemed foreign to him. He didn’t speak the language nor
understand the customs and yet he found himself in a position of authority.
Thrust in blindly as though elected the King of the Pygmies based solely on his
height (which wasn’t that impressive to begin with).
He leaned lightly on his cane while flipping though his notes, reminding
himself once more what topics he’d planned on covering today, and for the rest
of the week. He kept on eye on his watch, waiting for the minute hand to stand
at attention. At exactly 1500, he stood straight and wrote his name on the
whiteboard behind him,Professor Watson. That’s what professors did, right?
Though those images came from professors writing on blackboards, and so he
hoped he’d not out himself as a dinosaur immediately to this flock of natives.
He grabbed the attendance sheet. Mike insisted that he take attendance, but as
far as John could tell, the professors in the lounge fell into two distinct
lines of thought regarding student participation.
He scanned the list, but realized there was no reason to; he wouldn’t recognize
any names. He positioned himself in front of the class, a large hall with
stadium seating, but it only held twenty students this term. The announcement
that Stamford was no longer teaching the course led to a massive drop out, and
the class was only taken by those who absolutely needed it to continue their
studies.
He introduced himself as Professor Watson, and instructed the students to go
around, stating their name and something that might help him remember them
better. The students were uninspired. Caleb had two dogs, Megan could whistle
bird calls, Darren could recite the alphabet backwards in less than five
seconds. It went on like that for a dozen more bland students with
uninteresting factoids, until John looked the next student. The boy was
younger, much younger than his peers, and John wouldn’t place him any more than
sixteen. He had a head of wild, unkempt curls, and spread his long, gangly
limbs out over three desks and chairs.
“Sherlock Holmes, and I’m bored,” He glared at John, as though daring him to
comment, “Can I just save you the trouble? The blond next to me is dull, like
the rest of these peons, and has failed this class twice already. His dreams
started out as physiotherapy, but have dwindled with his disappointments to the
ever outstanding physical education teacher. The redhead down the row is
cheating on her omega, has been, given the state of her shoes, but it’s fine,
since her omega, the brunet next to her, whose face is turning a angry crimson,
has been cheating on her with the alpha in the second row. Sally, I believe her
name was. And the mousy omega at the end of the row has a secret cat hidden in
her dormitory.
“Is that enough to be going on with? Can we move on to something more
intelligent?”
John blinked once in surprise, then smoothly chastised, “Mr Holmes, see me
after class.” He motioned to the twice-failed blond, “Let’s continue with you,
in the red shirt.”
-o-
The class filed out at the end of the hour, while Holmes lay spread out,
watching John pick up his materials with the eyes of hawk. John felt his
predatory gaze, and steeled himself for a potential Alpha tête–à–tête. The
younger ones often bullied about inappropriately, trying to find their place
amongst other Alphas.
“Holmes, up here.” John gently ordered, opting for subtle shows of dominance.
Holmes jumped up with a manic sort of energy, then smoothly glided down the
steps to the front of the room. Holmes approached him, and about ten feet out,
his scent hit John.
Omega.
John hadn’t even assumed Holmes could be a beta, let alone an omega, with his
cocky, bullheaded attitude. The boy exuded alpha in every mannerism and display
aside from his scent. His delicious, delightful, fuckable scent. Shit, scratch
that last one, John thought.
John reassessed the situation and minimized his dominant traits, before
scolding, “Listen, that little display back there was brilliant, but you can’t
disrupt the class like that.”
“What?” Holmes’ confusion bordered on cynicism.
“It’s a disruption, to make guesses like that. Upsets the other students.”
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What? How did you-“
Holmes cut him off with lightening quick deductions from shrewd observations,
almost all were spot on: soldier, doctor, invalided, here as a favor to Mike.
He ended, almost breathlessly, with, “I never guess.”
“Brilliant,” John repeated, slightly stunned. “That was, well, extraordinary.”
Holmes’ cynical look returned, and he looked away before muttering, “That’s not
what most people say.”
“What do most people say?” John could guess.
“Fuck off.”
John laughed, and Holmes smiled genuinely.
“Reign in the insults, Holmes, but keep that clever head of yours. I could use
a challenge.” John dismissed.
“Sherlock.” Holmes said, “Call me Sherlock.”
“Sherlock, then. Off you pop.”
“Laters, Doctor Captain.”
-o-
John found himself enjoying the interjections of the young man in his class
over the coming weeks. Sherlock, while abrasive and derisive to the other
students, was unerringly accurate, and challenged John as an equal, making him
work for his authority in the classroom. In addition to the assignments John
gave, he spent extra time anticipating Sherlock’s demands for further
information and did his own research outside the classroom to be equal in their
battles of wit. At times, an entire class period would be devoted to a stinging
debate between professor and student, while the others scrambled to make sense
of the complicated topics bandied about between what they soon came to them the
Freak and his Pet. John knew the class felt he catered to Sherlock, but
truthfully, Sherlock’s questions often naturally led to the next topics John
had already planned; to the point where his lesson plan actually included,
“Sherlock asks about [topic]” as a the transition between subject matters.
The students in his class found little to complain about, aside from petty
gossip. John was a talented story teller, weaving together the history of
medical ethics with suspense and drama, leaving no doubt or misunderstanding as
to the necessity of medical ethics boards, and the impact their lack had
affected so many in the early 20th century. From the Nuremburg Trials to the
Tuskegee syphilis study to the lesser known Fernand School using the incentives
of a “Science Club” to allow the “feeble-minded” children to become unknowing
subjects in radioactive experiments; John highlighted the travesties done in
the name of medical science.
After discussing the first chapter of the newest assigned book on the personal
and social effects of the lack of medical consent, Sherlock took his time while
the other students exited the classroom. John shuffled his notes together,
packing his briefcase. He smelled Sherlock before he noticed his approach.
“Sherlock, what can I help you with today?”
“I’ve finished the book you assigned, and was appalled to discover the
contamination of HeLa cells is so widespread. I spent all last night trying to
determine if my own experiments have been tainted by these cells, and found one
that was.” Sherlock pulled a Petri dish out of his satchel. “I’ve isolated the
cells, and thought, since I found them cumbersome and meddlesome in my own
experiments, that you might be interested in having them, Doctor Captain.”
So much of Sherlock’s explanation was impressive, and John smiled that Sherlock
had thought of him for the cells. He felt flattered, mutated cancer cells from
Sherlock was like the proverbial apple from any other student.
John stuck out his hand to take the Petri dish, “That’s fantastic, Sherlock.
You spent all night on this?”
Sherlock nodded, “It was fascinating.”
“I really appreciate this; but next time, get some sleep. You’ve got a
brilliant mind, far beyond more adults, but you’re still an adolescent – you
need some sleep. It’ll stunt your growth.”
Sherlock smirked, “I’m already taller than you, Doctor Captain, how much taller
do you want me?”
John blushed briefly at the inappropriate thoughts that flashed though his
mind, before he trampled them down with self-admonishment. “God, Sherlock, this
is fantastic, really. Are you sure you want to give these up? There are so many
things you can do with them.”
“I’ve kept a few for further experimentation, but I don’t need them all. Take
them.”
“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it,” John went on, teasing with
affection, “Look how thoughtful you can be when you aren’t decimating your
fellow students with your intellect.”
“They’re just as cruel, but not as clever.” Sherlock answered, darkly.
“Not in my classroom, they won’t be. I won’t stand for it.”
Sherlock smiled again, a half smile John came to realize only occurred during
their conversations; never during class. “Thank you, Doctor Captain.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
John noticed Sherlock’s deference in his class over the next month. Sherlock
would begin a scathing assessment of a fellow student, and with a look and
raised eyebrows from John, Sherlock would roll his eyes, utter, “Fine” and
stop. It was after one of these occasions that the opportunity arose for John
to prove to Sherlock he was a man of his word.
“Looks like you got the Freak on a leash,” Sally, the alpha Sherlock called out
on his first day, commented, the third time Sherlock tamed his tongue at just a
look from John.
Rage flared in John; a protective alpha rage he barely understood, before he
tampered it down, and responded levelly, “Sally, you’re in uni. I’m not having
petty name calling in my class. You’ve got a problem with another student,
handle it like an adult. Ignore him, file a complaint if you feel you’ve been
assaulted in anyway, otherwise justmove on.”
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the involuntary half smile twitch from
Sherlock.
After class, John pondered on the rage he’d felt when Sally verbally attacked
Sherlock. He’d felt it before, when he’d dated omegas in the past, but he’d
never felt it for someone for whom he had a general friendly affection. And,
John reassured himself, friendly affection was all he felt for Sherlock. The
boy was a good ten years his junior, and so though the boy was brilliant,
fantastic, challenging and all around wonderful, he simply was not anyone John
was allowed to care for, beyond friendly, perhaps brotherly tenderness.
-o-
John’s dreams betrayed him that night, destroying the pretence of friendly
attraction. He awoke, sweating, hard, knotted with visions of the young student
in his head. Scenting Sherlock, holding him, sliding into the tight heat of his
arse, John filling his cloaca over and over again with his hot seed. John
cursed himself as he wanked to completion, letting the images from his dream
finish him off, then wallowed in his guilt as he made a cup of tea.
The boy, he was just a boy, John reminded himself, didn’t need the lecherous
advances from a washed up, injured army professor at least ten years his
senior. Sherlock was amazingly intelligent, gorgeous and John was certain he
couldn’t be the only one for whom Sherlock’s abrasiveness wasn’t an issue. It
just didn’t help that the omega smelled delicious, more so than omegas he’d
attempted to date in the past. And betas had little smell, but the sexual
differences made partnering with them harder.
John prided himself on his control, and though his subconscious may be
betraying him, he resolved that he’d keep his attraction to Sherlock as
friendly as he assumed it to be, before the traitorous dreams revealed
otherwise.
John resolutely ignored efforts to revise his decision. Sherlock wore tight
button down shirts, ruffled his lovely curls when thinking, smirked during
their conversations, and John ignored all the signs of his alpha side clamoring
to pull Sherlock tight, scent his long, gorgeous neck, and claim him for his
own. His dreams continued to be treacherous, and he washed his sheets almost
daily, but his outward demeanor remained professional.
-o-
“Doctor Captain?” Sherlock asked, approaching him after another class. John
breathed deeply, accidently inhaling the wonderful scent of Sherlock’s omega
hormones, and wishing he hadn’t.
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“I’ve been investigating super tasters since you mentioned it in class. I’m
curious to determine if alpha supertasters taste at higher concentrations than
beta or omega supertasters. I’ve been conducting an experiment.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve created a consent form, and I’ve already been approved by the
university’s ethics board.”
John smiled. He’d finally gotten through to Sherlock, who’d originally believe
that the pursuit of scientific inquiry was superior to individual patient
consent.
“Excellent, Sherlock. I’m glad. I’ll be happy to participate.”
Sherlock beamed, “Fantastic!” He offered a consent form, and John read it
thoroughly, obligated to do so from the perspective of his teachings. He asked
questions, demanded explanations of Sherlock of his study design, and generally
grilled him on each part of the consent, until Sherlock answered to his
satisfaction, as any decent principal investigator should. Once the document
was signed, Sherlock circled around John and placed a blindfold over his eyes.
John’s cock immediately perked up, and he thought desperate thoughts of his
grandmother’s hollow, toothless mouth during her bedtime rituals until the urge
to mount Sherlock subsided.
“The consent said nothing about a blindfold.”
“This is a blinded taste test; it is imperative that I minimize bias. Really,
Doctor Captain, I’m just following standard research protocols.”
“I’d expect nothing less from you,” John complimented, letting Sherlock guide
him to a table and chair; then listened to the quiet rustling as Sherlock set
up his experiment in front of him. A few moments of silence, and then John
trembled at the touch of Sherlock’s finger to his lips, softly forcing open up
his mouth.
“First, the control.” Sherlock spoke quietly into his ear. John savored the
morsel of bitter dark chocolate Sherlock slipped between his lips and let it
roam around his mouth as it melted. He inhaled, Sherlock hovering so close John
could practically taste him; his scent mixed with the luxurious chocolate.
John’s prior attempts to tame his arousal faltered for the second time in ten
minutes.
“Excellent,” Sherlock exhaled, though John wasn’t entirely sure why. “Onto the
samples.”
Sherlock placed each sample tenderly against his lips, waiting for John’s
tongue to snake it into his mouth. It felt almost romantic, if medical
experiments could be such, and John cursed himself for his lack of control. By
the sixth sample Sherlock introduces to his mouth, John was hard and throbbing
in his trousers, eagerly anticipating each of young man’s fleeting touches.
He’d given up fighting at the fourth sample, and resigned himself to enjoying
the contact; not-quite convincing himself that his pleasure stemmed simply from
touch starvation and nothing more.
The experiment ended after the ninth sample, when John’s stomach retched at the
bitterness and threatened to empty itself on his feet. He was privately
relieved for the revulsion; it controlled his erection and arousal, and he was
able to regain his composure before Sherlock took off his blindfold.
John dreamt that night of lapping up Sherlock’s slick as it dripped down his
fingers.
-o-
Two more weeks passed without incident, unless one called nightly wet dreams
“incidents.” Sherlock dazzled in class, annoying his classmates and impressing
John. On a drizzly Thursday, the class emptied, Sherlock waving his goodbye
with an arrogant wink. John gathered his material, shoving them in his
suitcase, and prepared for the long walk back to the tube.
On the way out the door, a flash of blue caught his eye. Sherlock’s scarf lay
draped over his empty chair. John picked it up; he’d be sure to return it to
Sherlock the following class period. He hung it over his briefcase and made his
way out of the building. The wind picked up around him, and the chill of the
damp breeze traveled down his spine, sending tendrils of ice down his
extremities. He glanced at the scarf, but resisted. It seemed far too intimate
to wear Sherlock’s scarf, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
But the wind persisted, and a slight drizzle fell, and he had several more
blocks to go. He draped the scarf around his neck, bringing it up high to cover
the lower half of his face. And instantly realized his mistake. The scarf, so
close, was drenched in Sherlock’s sweet omega scent. He knew logically he
should rip the soft fabric away from his face, but his alpha instincts fought
him with each deep breath he took.
His mind swirled with Sherlock, the lithe, gangly boy with the brilliant mind.
The intelligent, but caustic commentary and the pale porcelain skin with the
dark raven curls. The hard lines of his body, that John dreamed, quite
literally, of tracing with the wet tip of his tongue. The tight body underneath
expensive linens, the way his buttons quivered under duress when he got
excited.
Fuck, John cursed, he fucking craved Sherlock Holmes. Only six more weeks until
the end of the course, and then he could cease his completely inappropriate
crush on a sixteen year old boy.
***** Chapter 3 *****
John found himself inexplicably sleeping with the scarf over the weekend,
inhaling the scent each night until he fell asleep to more filthy wet dreams.
He was sure to wash his own scent off the article and bring it to class the
following week to deliver it the object of his questionable affections.
He tried to busy himself with his notes and not notice when Sherlock walked
into the class; but failed miserably. As Sherlock opened the door, the breeze
from the hall came in with it, wafting Sherlock’s omega fragrance in his
direction. John bit back a moan, and hated the instant arousal he felt at the
smell. He tampered down his lustful thoughts, and stood straight to deliver the
day’s lecture.
When he dismissed the class, he called Sherlock behind again, ignoring the
snickers from some of the other students. He pulled the soft sapphire scarf out
of his bag, and offered it to the boy. Sherlock took it from him with a smile,
and wrapped it around his long, pale neck with thanks. Sherlock rubbed it
gently around his neck, apparently reveling in its texture.
John watched, slightly mesmerized by Sherlock’s long fingers and thin arms. He
couldn’t help but notice that they were slightly ill-defined in a distinctly
adolescent way, and he could imagine how strong and firm they’d be in just a
few short years. Why, oh fucking why, couldn’t Sherlock be bloody eighteen? And
not his student. And not smell so damn good.Sherlock’s eyes flicked open, and
John panicked. Did the scent of his arousal permeate the air? Was his interest
evident?
Sherlock spoke in a deep voice that clearly must have caused ridiculous amounts
of cracking through puberty. “Oh! I forgot, Doctor Captain. My brother bought
me a new scarf. Same color and everything.” He unwrapped it from around his
neck, and placed it onto John’s, “You keep it.”
And with a smirk, he turned on a dime and strode confidently out of the
classroom.
-o-
Back in his temporary office, John leaned back in his chair, and took a deep
breath. The delicious aroma of Sherlock sent shivers straight to his cock and,
without the fear of getting noticed, his cock started to stiffen in his
trousers. In disgust, John ripped the scarf off and threw it onto the chair
across the desk. He rubbed his temples, and a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” he called, and smiled at the entrance of Mike Stamford.
“Mike! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home?”
“Needed a moment to myself, from the screaming and crying and diapers and spit
up. My wife had her day yesterday, and today is mine. Thought I’d check up on
my favorite substitute.” Mike went to sit in the chair across the desk and
noticed the scarf.
“Ah. Sherlock Holmes. He’s a right nutter, I’ve heard. Driving you around the
bend, yet?”
“No, not as such. He can be a right bastard, but he’s brilliant. Keeps me on my
toes.”
“Really? The story is he shows up to the first class, insults bloody everyone,
then not again until the final. Always aces it.”
“Huh,” John contemplated, “He’s never missed a class. I mean, he can be
vicious, but he can be pretty thoughtful. He found some HeLa cells in his own
work and brought me a sample,” John motioned to the Petri dish on the corner of
his desk, where the cells had already duplicated considerably.
“Gifts?” Mike teased, “If he weren’t an alpha, I’d think he was courting you.”
John stilled. He considered Sherlock’s actions. A gift, the HeLa cells.
Providing food; the tasting experiment. Offering a scent item; the scarf, which
he had re-scented before gifting it to him. Oh God, he was being courted by
Sherlock.
He looked at Mike in a slight panic, and choked out, “He’s an omega.”
Mike smiled wide and chuckled in sympathy, “Oi, mate, you’ve got yourself an
admirer.”
“What do I do, Mike?”
“Well, just ignore it. I’ve always found student’s scents unappetizing, even
before I was bonded. Something about them being so… immature, I suppose. And
once they’ve left the class, their infatuation typically moves on with them.”
John absentmindedly thanked Mike, but couldn’t help but wonder. Was Sherlock’s
scent so attractive because he was mature, was mentally on par with John? Or
was John just a horrible person?
-o-
A week passed without a single incident from Sherlock. John sighed in relief.
Without these incidences, perhaps his crush would fade. The scent had gone from
Sherlock’s scarf, so all temptation, beside the wicked dreams in his head, had
deteriorated.
In fact, Sherlock had seemed downright docile for the last week. He scowled
just as frequently, and was just as consistently brilliant, but the biting
commentary on John’s intelligence and the general derision on the worthiness of
his classmates had ceased completely. John actually worried. As a doctor, such
sudden changes in behaviors were considered suspicious. He decided that if
Sherlock behaved this way for another week, he’d talk to the boy about seeing a
doctor for a workup.
After class, Sherlock sullenly plodded out the door. John considered catching
up to him, but decided it hadn’t yet been a full two weeks and approaching a
student about a potential medical issue might be unseemly, with only minor
deviations in behavior. John took his time gathering his items, then grabbed
his briefcase in one hand, his cane in the other, and made his way slowly to
his office.
When he arrived, he found the door had been jimmied open. His soldier went on
alert, dropping the briefcase, and gripping the cane as though ready for an
attack. He gently opened the door to his office, all senses heightened. He saw
the intruder and relaxed slightly. Sherlock. And then, it hit him, and all
Sherlock’s behaviors made sense. In his office, waiting for him, was Sherlock,
an omega.
In heat.
-o-
John’s eyes widened, and instinctually, he made a few steps towards Sherlock
before his brain kicked in. He recoiled in horror, “Oh God, Sherlock, you can’t
be here.”
“Don’t be absurd, Doctor Captain, I can and want to be here.”
“No, you can’t consent at this age, especially not with me as your professor.
This can’t happen.” John pressed himself as close to his door as possible,
trying to breathe in the fresh air drifting in from the cracks of the door.
Sherlock stood, and crowded John against the door, offering his neck in
submission. The wet, luscious bouquet of Sherlock’s scent overwhelmed his
senses and he dug his nails into the back of his hand to ground him and
distract his instincts of fuck.mate.breed.
“Oh fuck, Sherlock. We can’t.” John’s sentences were getting shorter and
shorter, as his mind was preoccupied with the fight to maintain coherence
before he ravaged the sweet young omega.
“Doctor Captain, I consent. I want you. Fuck me, please. I’m so fucking empty.
I need you. Your thick, monstrous alpha cock is the only thing that can sooth
me right now. The toys they give us are laughably useless. Please. Please, I
want you. Fuck me. Fill me. Fill me full, please.” Sherlock had never begged in
his life, and John was sure he was quite out of his mind, and at the mercy of
his hormones. He fumbled behind him for the door handle.
With a quick movement, he pushed Sherlock off of him. Sherlock let out an
anguished cry at the loss of contact, and John took the opportunity to escape
his own office, and then lock the door behind him. Sherlock wailed against the
door, pounding in anguish.
John took a few minutes to lean against the locked door and breathe deeply. The
pureness of the air outside his office cleared his head in moments, and he went
on the hunt for an open computer. Logging in, he searched out Sherlock’s
contact information. The primary contact was a brother, Mycroft. Who the hell
named these children? John questioned himself, baffled.
He found the number quickly and dialed. A voice, impossibly more posh than
Sherlock’s, answered the line.
“Holmes.”
“Is this the contact for Sherlock Holmes?”
A deep sigh preceded the man’s next sentence, “And what has he done now?”
“You’re brother is in heat and tried to present to me. He’s confused. I’ve
locked him in my office, but you’ll need to come and get him, or send another
omega to fetch him.”
“And you are?”
“Dr. John Watson. I teach his medical ethics course.”
“Ah, yes. Dr Watson. I shall be there as expediently as possible. I trust you
can control your urges until them?”
“Yes, I ensure you there will be no problems. I’ll stay outside the office just
to ensure no other alphas find him.”
“I appreciate that, Doctor.” Mycroft spoke, and then hung up the line.
John hovered outside the office doors, growling at each student or profession
who passed, regardless of their gender. He felt a fierce protectiveness over
the boy, even if he weren’t able to act on his instincts. He growled again as a
strange man, an impeccably dressed ginger holding a completely unnecessary
umbrella, approached him.
The man extended his hand, “Mycroft Holmes. You must be Dr. John Watson.”
“Oh thank God,” John sighed. “Can I see some ID?”
Mycroft flashed a government badge, and John’s tension melted some. He’s in
here,” John walked over to his office and unlocked the door, allowing Mycroft
entrance. He shut the door behind them rapidly, not wanting to be inundated
with the powerful hormones yet again.
He heard raised voices in the room, and then an argument between the brothers.
He could tell that Mycroft struggled to be the voice of reason, while Sherlock
hollered erratically, and John’s name was mentioned more than once.
After ten minutes of muffled bickering from inside his office, the door opened,
and Sherlock preceded Mycroft, hunched over and submissive as he avoided John
entirely. Mycroft stopped momentarily and looked intensely at John, as though
he was reading every detail of his life.
“Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your integrity in this matter.”
“Of course. Sherlock’s safety is tantamount.”
Mycroft looked at him curiously again, then moved on, to direct Sherlock down
the hall.
***** Chapter 4 *****
“You called my brother?” Sherlock raged at him.
John stumbled back at the sheer force of Sherlock’s anger, but rallied quickly,
“Of course I called your bloody brother! You were drunk on hormones; I couldn’t
let anyone take advantage of you like that!”
“Why didn’t you?”
John raised an eyebrow, “Why didn’t I what?”
“Take advantage of me?! Do you think I was so asinine that I placed myself in
your office during my heat on accident?”
John reeled at the information. He’d suspected Sherlock had been courting him,
but to hear it straight from Sherlock seemed unreal. Why would this gorgeous,
clever, fantastic young man even be interested in him?
“Christ, Sherlock, I’m your professor. It’s immoral, illegal, and besides, why
the hell would you want a broken ex army doctor? I’m twenty seven with a
fucking cane!”
Sherlock stopped suddenly, and asked sincerely, “Is that how you see yourself?”
The change in Sherlock’s demeanor unsettled John, but he answered honestly,
“Why wouldn’t I? I can’t be a soldier anymore, I can’t be a doctor. What’s the
point of me? Teaching this class has been a good distraction; you’ve been a
good distraction, but Christ, Sherlock, why the hell would you want me?”
Sherlock gave him the intense stare he’d grown accustomed to during their
acquaintanceship. John felt naked under his stare, but stayed still to allow
Sherlock his deductions. Sherlock nodded once, twice, then turned, and exited
John’s office in a flurry.
John sat at his desk, slightly stunned at the chaos that had just occurred.
What the hell just happened?
-o-
There were limited interactions between the two of them in the following weeks.
Sherlock continued to give him thoughtful looks during their classes together,
but leaving as soon as class was over. Given that John had no logical reason
for Sherlock to stay after class, their interactions were minimized. John
finally came to accept that he’d convinced Sherlock that he wasn’t worth
Sherlock’s time. He hated himself for feeling more depressed than relieved. And
though their interactions had been limited, John’s brain taunted him nightly,
dreaming of the scene in his office, dreaming of having less control, of
accepting the offer of Sherlock’s heat. Of ripping the clothing off that pale,
gorgeous body, lapping the slick from Sherlock’s ready and leaking arse,
tasting the sweet tang of arousal, and fucking tight into the young body
beneath him. Of having Sherlock whimpering for days underneath him, begging for
his cock, of it all being acceptable to ravish the omega that demanded his
attentions.
John carried on with his teaching, ignoring the call he felt to embrace
Sherlock, to talk to Sherlock, to scent Sherlock during each class. He acted
admirably, not once succumbing to his weakness for his young student. He
discussed participant coercion, elements of verbal versus written consent, and
allocation bias, each time reminding himself the consent that was legally
absent between him and his pupil.
The next month, Sherlock missed two class periods, and John knew. John started
going to the gym, trying to exhaust his mental facilities so that every waking
moment he knew Sherlock was in heat wasn’t preoccupied by thoughts of plowing
into Sherlock’s brilliant body. He spent hours tormenting his body, trying not
to imagine thoughts of post-knotting conversations. How Sherlock would take one
look at him, and just know how to pleasure him, the gorgeous debates they could
have, fighting over experiments and viruses living in Petri dishes in random
rooms. He didn’t know what it was about the thoughts of Sherlock’s heat that
had him thinking so domestically.
He’d spent the last few months imagining consuming Sherlock’s body, but since
they’d barely been speaking, all he could think about now was consuming
Sherlock’s mind. He dwelt on the conversation he’d had with Mike. He’d asked
around since then, and found that Mike was right. Sherlock hadn’t attended any
classes more than once other than his own. The other professors abhorred the
sight of him; anxious to avoid his acerbic observations. John had already seen
the way the other students treated him. He wondered if Sherlock had any
friends.
He didn’t quite understand it. How did no one else seem to understand how
phenomenal Sherlock was? How did they let their insecurities override his
brilliance? How did Sherlock’s lack of social etiquette translate him into a
social pariah? He hoped Sherlock’s private life made up for his academic one.
Certainly there must be other people like him, who could appreciate the genius
for what he was.
-o-
Two weeks after his heat, Sherlock showed up unannounced in John’s office. John
opened the door, and stopped cold at the sight of ivory skin, tucked away
behind a tight turquoise silk shirt, and covered with his black suit jacket and
slacks. Sherlock’s ebony curls cascaded almost into his eyes, and those eyes,
those silver green blue gorgeous eyes bored holes into John as John recovered
and sat down at the desk.
John gathered himself, and looked back at Sherlock, and tried not to imagine
evenings on the sofa, where Sherlock would solve murder mystery shows in the
first five minutes, making the boy a cuppa while he bent over his microscope.
“How can I help you today, Sherlock?”
“I thought you might want the results of my earlier research,” Sherlock offered
a medical journal to John.
“You’ve been published?” John asked. He thought he should have been surprised,
but in truth, he suspected this wasn’t the first article Sherlock had
published. “That’s excellent, Sherlock.”
“It hardly takes a genius. You should see some of the drivel that gets
published. It’s actually a hobby of mine to write the editors of medical
literature to call them out on the worst of the studies.”
John laughed, feeling the awkwardness melt away between them, “God, Sherlock,
that’s brilliant. You’re fantastic. I can’t speed read, though; I’ll take this
home tonight and let you know what I think next class.”
“Understandable, Doctor Captain. A celebratory chocolate?” Sherlock offered a
dark chocolate that John assumed must have been the same chocolates Sherlock
had so tenderly pressed against his lips during their experiment. Thankfully,
he offered only halfway across the desk, so John took it with his fingers, and
didn’t have to concern himself with how hard his dick would be if Sherlock
pressed it against his lips like he had before.
John popped the chocolate in his mouth, and asked Sherlock about his other
experiments. Sherlock smiled mischievously and rambled on with his current
research, offering more details than he’d ever offered before. He explained his
hypotheses to John in excessive detail and John furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock
never offered to over explain himself. He always preferred to give minimal
details so that his conversational partner had to prove their worth.
John began to ask Sherlock why he was being so helpful, but he found the
connection between his mind and his mouth faltering. His face crumpled in
confusion, and he laid his hands on the table. He stumbled over his words,
“You’re awfully explainy.”
Shit, John thought, Sherlock would badger him for that. But instead, Sherlock
smiled and continued his explanation. John struggled to follow the
conversation; stringing together the words Sherlock spoke became harder and
harder, until he hung his head in bewilderment and shame.
Sherlock reached across the desk to pat John’s hand, “It’s okay, Doctor
Captain, just go with it.”
John vaguely recognized that Sherlock’s statement was a confession of sorts,
but then his mind slowly dimmed without his permission. His last conscious
thought was, “Shit, he didn’t consent me for this experiment.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
John arose from his stupor blurrily aware of his surroundings. He felt the hard
wood under him and on his back; sitting on a chair then. He went to steady
himself to discover his arms were restrained behind his back, and his legs were
somehow strapped to the chair. He blinked a few times to clear the fog from his
eyes and started to focus on his surroundings. He appeared to be in someone’s
bedroom. The bed was four posted, drapes of fine fabric hanging from it. The
room had an en suite, cherry wood furniture, and old looking paintings in fancy
frames. Someplace rich, then. He turned to his left and saw a table full of
beakers, Bunsen burners, an expensive microscope, and other miscellaneous
chemistry apparatuses. Clever.
Memories started filtering in, and sparse images of Sherlock and luscious sweet
dark chocolate on his lips drifted on a breeze through the consciousness of his
mind. He licked his lips in memory, and tried to hold onto a train of thought.
He heard the door open and shut behind him. In the corner of his eye, he caught
the flash of a turquoise silk shirt, and the memories rushed back to him.
Sherlock’s odd behavior, the drugged chocolate, and now his imprisonment. John
felt his anger rush to the surface.
“Sherlock, what the hell?!”
“Ah, Doctor Captain. Although, I suppose titles are unnecessary at this point.”
“Why the fuck am I tied to a chair? What did you drug me with?” John turned to
shout at his captor, “And why in sweet Jesus are you setting up a video
camera?”
“All in good time, John.”
“Sherlock! This isn’t okay! What are you doing?”
Sherlock ignored him for a moment while he tinkered further with the tripod,
then turned on him with a predatory smile. “My John,” he cooed, and stood too
close for John’s comfort. Sherlock traced the outline of John’s jaw with a long
finger, then let the finger drift over John’s bottom lip. John’s anger trampled
the urge to let his tongue taste the digit, and he resolutely glared at
Sherlock with a deep scowl on his face.
“John, I tried to do this the easy way. If only you had taken me in your
office. I begged, John, do you understand how rare that occasion is? Only for
you. Only ever for you.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s short hair,
then straddled his lap.
John bit back a moan at the feel of the omega with the sweetened, citrusy scent
clamoring over his legs. Despite his anger, his cock acted of its own accord
and slowly throbbed underneath his slacks. Sherlock continued, deliberately
wiggling on John’s lap as to stimulate John’s cock, “So, to answer your
inquiries in the order presented. You are tied up because my previous attempts
to bond with you were unsuccessful. Your morality is stronger than I had
expected. Clearly, I needed to reassess my strategy. I drugged you with an MHRA
approved drug, I was able to obtain the prescription through minimal deception
of a locum doctor; therefore no consent was necessary, as I was not performing
any experiment on your person. The video camera is to prove your innocence in
this matter. When a fourteen year old omega is bonded in a forced heat, the
alpha is typically suspect. I am recording our bonding to ensure there are no
misguided attempts by the local authorities, or worse, my meddlesome brother,
to dissolve our bond.”
John’s head was swimming with the wealth of information he’d just received. He
started with what he believed to be the most obvious. He tried to speak calmly,
but the quiver in his voice suggested a sense of urgency to convince Sherlock
of the errors of his ways.
“Sherlock, there are different kinds of consent. You tying me down to bond with
me is a violation of consent, as I am not consenting to this bonding.
Additionally-”
Sherlock interrupted him, “John, those laws only apply to omegas. I’ve tripled
checked. There are no laws in England that say an omega can’t force a bond with
an alpha, only that an alpha can’t force a bond with an omega. That’s what the
cameras are for. I have no desire for our actions tonight to be misinterpreted
as a crime. This is all perfectly legal.”
John moved onto the next red flag in the conversation, “But fourteen, did you
say you were fucking fourteen?! Christ, Sherlock, I’m thirteen years your
senior! You’re just a kid. I’m fucking handicapped. How can you possibly think
that I’m a viable choice for mating?”
“I am not a child, John. I am more mature than every student in your class, and
they are all legally and morally acceptable. And as for your limp and self
perception, this will be the first thing I train out of you once we’ve bonded.
This low self esteem is unacceptable. You are fascinating. You are an army
doctor. A healer and a killer. You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, you aren’t
offended by my personality, you’re a fucking marvel.”
“And exactly how do you think we’ll bond, Sherlock? You’re not in heat and I
refuse to bite you.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Sherlock smiled broadly, beaming proudly. “I’ve
synthesized a drug that should force my heat. I had considered creating a
separate drug to induce your rut, but you taught me that experimentation on
subjects who hadn’t consented was illegal. So I’m only experimenting on myself.
I’ve heightened the drug to induce a stronger heat than I might otherwise have.
The goal is to then let my pheromones trigger your rut. The rope with which you
are bound is only strong enough to contain a complacent alpha. Once you’ve
entered your rut, the rope should break under your strength, provided that your
alpha strength is at least greater than the 25th percentile.
“The rut should allow your instincts to override your moral compulsions, and
combined with my induced heat, I fully expect that you’ll knot me almost
immediately, and bond with me in the process. I’ve thought this through, John.
It has to be you.”
John slumped in his restraints. If everything worked as Sherlock described, it
was likely that he’d be bonded to Sherlock against his will. His attraction to
Sherlock had always been overshadowed by the impropriety of the relationship,
and even faced with the inevitability, John couldn’t imagine giving in to
Sherlock and allowing this non-consensual, age-inappropriate bond. Sherlock
deserved better, and he was truly too young to understand the long term
consequences of bonding at fourteen. John shook his head; why the bloody hell
did Sherlock have to be younger than he appeared? If John’s estimate was two
years off, why, oh why couldn’t have he been two years older?
With resignation, John asked one last question, in hopes of getting Sherlock to
see the errors of his ways, “Sherlock. You could have anyone. Why me?”
“In fourteen years, I have been ridiculed, taunted, beaten, and ostracized for
simply being more observant that the average peon. My brother is even smarter
than me, thought it pains me to say so, and he never lets me forget it. My
parents are ashamed that my behavior doesn’t conform to the rich manners they’d
attempted to instill in me. Do you want to know why, John, why I’ve decided
that at fourteen, I’ve found my bond mate? Why I would do anything to secure
you?”
Sherlock leaned in, his own erection pressing against John’s traitorous one,
eliciting a gasp from both, and whispered hotly into his ear, “I want you John.
All of you. Because you called me brilliant.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
John paused in his struggles. Was that all true? Did Sherlock truly feel that
alone in the world? Had no one given him the precious compliments he so richly
deserved? He nearly felt sympathy for the boy, and for a nanosecond, just a
single moment, noted that he wanted to take all that pain away and treat
Sherlock as the magnificent wonder he was.
Sherlock took John’s obvious distraction to his advantage, and leaned in to
kiss the detained doctor. John momentarily relished the lush lips pressed
against his own, hot and soft, before his brain caught up and he jerked away.
Sherlock licked the taste of John off his lips and sighed.
“Oh, John. I was hoping you would accept our bond without the drugs. I find
heat to be quite the irritant. But for you, I can accept the discomforts. I’ve
heard that it can even be pleasurable with an alpha present. I suppose that’s
another experience I can catalogue for future knowledge.” Sherlock scrambled
off John’s lap and over to the table strewn with chemistry equipment. He
grabbed a strand of rubber tubing and a syringe of clear liquid. He wrapped the
tubing around his bicep with a practiced ease.
John bit his lip, and asked, “How do you know how to do that?”
Sherlock looked John in the eyes, and spoke softly, “You don’t want to know the
answer to that question.” He looked away, not wanting to see John’s reaction.
“Christ, Sherlock! Are you a fucking addict?!” John, while alarmed, thought
that drug use might explain loads about the situation he was currently in.
“An addict?” Sherlock scoffed, “I am not an addict. I admit I have dabbled in
intravenous drug use and I have found a seven percent solution of cocaine to be
rather stimulating. Sadly, there is too little in my life which requires that
level of stimulation, but I suppose the physician in you is likely glad that
I’ve only experienced those heightened senses a handful of times.”
“The physician in me is appalled you ever tried at all! Bloody hell, if you
think we’re going to bond, I won’t fucking stand for drugs.”
Sherlock grinned, “Excellent, John, you are already starting to accept our
bond.”
John groaned; he hadn’t meant it to sound that way. His mind raced, attempting
to find a reason, any reason to get Sherlock to abandon his plot before he
injected the drug into his system, starting down a path they from which they
couldn’t return. “Your brother!” he shouted, without explanation.
Sherlock knew, of course he did, and replied to the implied defense, “Out of
town for the week. My parents are summering in Bar-Le-Duc. Won’t be home for
another month. Won’t they be surprised?” He chuckled darkly, and with one last
meaningful look at John, slid the needle into his arm and plunged the solution
into his vein. “If my calculations are correct, and they always are, I’ll be
emitting heat pheromones within twenty minutes. Within thirty, you’ll break
through your restraints, and soon, my dearest John, we will be bonded.”
-o-
Sherlock’s scent filled the room. The luscious aroma was unavoidable, and it
filled John’s senses at every turn. The earthy tang instantly recalled a scent
memory; vivid images of waxy tropical leaves and moist mosses, with just a
blush of the citrus he’d smelled earlier. As the hint of lime seemed to etch
its way into John’s every cell, he felt his cock swell and a blush spread
across his chest.
Sherlock positioned himself on John’s lap again and grabbed his face, peering
into John’s eyes. “Excellent, your eyes have already began dilating.” Sherlock
shifted awkwardly, but smirked none the less, “And my body has began to produce
its own lubrication.”
John wriggled with a grimace underneath him; Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, then
opened his eyes wide in realization at the thickness he could feel underneath
him. “Feeling uncomfortable, are we?” Sherlock slid off John’s lap and onto his
knees in front of him. “Let me help you with that.” John gasped at the image of
Sherlock, submissive between his legs. However, from seemingly nowhere,
Sherlock pulled a pair of scissors out and began cutting John’s slacks.
“Sherlock, what the hell? Destroying my clothes is hardly the way to-“ John
faltered as the cloth fell away, exposing his thick cock. “Sherlock, please.”
John begged one last time. He knew his time of being able to resist was rapidly
diminishing.
Sherlock grinned mischievously, “Please? Please relieve you of the rest of this
constricting clothing?”
“Fuck no, Sherlock, fuck!” John cried out as Sherlock stripped the pants and
shirt off him. He felt his resolve begin to weaken, as his cock jutted up
proudly ready despite his brain.
Sherlock blinked twice as he gazed upon John’s bare form. “John. I, that is,
you, uh, I find you more aesthetically pleasing than I had, um-“ Sherlock
gulped, and his hands seemed to unconsciously paw at his shirt buttons. John
watched clearly as Sherlock began to succumb to the hormones that he’d
deliberately instigated.
John found his words escaping him as his rut began to overcome his conscious
thoughts. He simply drank in the sight of Sherlock disrobing, scraping off his
clothing as though it ached to wear. John supposed for an omega in heat, that
might be true. He tried to consume the vision of Sherlock’s delicious, pale,
lean body, and the way John started to see the sheen of sweet slick trickle
down his thighs.
God, he wanted to lick Sherlock’s juices up his thighs and delve into that
tight little hole, sucking the- shit, John swore, he was close to losing
himself.
Sherlock began to tremble once nude, and offering, in his weakened state,
“John, I hate this part. Please, John, make it better.”
“Restraints.” John could barely form a sentence in the haze of pheromones.
Sherlock made to cut John’s ties, but stopped. “No, you’ll leave. You don’t
want me. I have to wait.”
“Christ, Sherlock. Want you. Crave you. Dream every night. Fucking brilliant.
Gorgeous. Let me lick you. Fuck you. Fill you.” And John was gone, a slave to
his biology.
Sherlock groaned, and John watched another wave of his juices drip down legs.
John growled, and Sherlock dimly and slowly made the connection. He straddled
John’s lap one last time, his drenched backside sliding against John’s
throbbing arousal. John struggled hard against his bindings; he was so close to
having, taking, mounting, breeding his omega. His omega. John had given up. He
would have Sherlock. Sherlock would be his. Sherlock dragged his fingers
through the slippery lubricant his body was producing in copious amounts. “You
crave my scent, John? I imagine I taste even better.” And he presented his
dripping fingers to John, who opened his mouth involuntarily to accept the
offering.
The taste exploded all John’s senses in one glorious detonation of rutting
alpha lust. The taste, the scent, the feel, the look, and oh god, the sounds
that Sherlock was making burst outwards from John’s chest and radiated through
each of his limbs and down to his fingertips. With one strong flex, John burst
from the ropes holding him prisoner and he lifted Sherlock up in his arms as he
stood. He snarled, one short, binding word, “Mine” and launched them towards
the silk sheets in a fury.
Fuck. Breed. Mate.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John aggressively mauled Sherlock’s mouth, with teeth and tongue too rough to
be called a kiss. John savored the taste of Sherlock, not unlike the gorgeous
scent the omega emitted as his pheromones filled the air. John slipped his
tongue into the boy’s mouth amid the bites, tasting the omega sweetness that
sent John’s alpha into further fits.
He flipped Sherlock onto his flat white belly, taut and strong, but only
beginning to have the sinewy strength of a man. John savored the muscles
flexing in Sherlock’s back as the boy writhed under his administrations, and
bit wet marks on Sherlock’s shoulders and down the sides of his spine. The
alpha in John demanded he plunge into Sherlock’s sopping omega arse, fast and
hard, consequences be damned, but enough of John’s consciousness existed to
deny the urge. Sherlock was young (too young, his brain protested, and his body
ignored) and had not yet shared a heat. Biologically, Sherlock should be
physically able to withstand a rutting alpha, but that didn’t mean the
viciousness would be comfortable during his first heat. Sherlock, despite his
aggressiveness, despite his complete lack of concern for John’s consent, needed
love and comfort, tenderness and consideration. He needed the soft touch of
someone who cared, who appreciated his brilliance as well as his body. John
opted for gentility.
He began by dipping his head to Sherlock’s thighs, licking the sweet juices
from the boy’s legs, sucking bruising kisses onto his thighs, while Sherlock
preened and gasped. His tongue made its way from Sherlock’s knees, to his inner
thighs, up to the gorgeous loosening pucker that leaked the deliciously earthy
fluids. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s pale white arse, pulling the cheeks
apart to allow access to what John most craved. He plunged his tongue into the
hole, and Sherlock shrieked, squealing with bliss while trying to remain still
enough to allow John access.
Once pleased with how well Sherlock appeared opened underneath him, John lined
up his aching cock to Sherlock’s arse; John’s arousal red and angry for
release, and, gripping tight on Sherlock’s hips, began to breech Sherlock
slowly. Painfully slow. Every cell in John’s body screamed to shove deep and
fast, but he abstained, trying to take pleasure in watching Sherlock’s arse
open wide around his thick cock, accepting the intrusion with a gripping
pleasure. Sherlock slumped underneath him, sighing his pleasure as John invaded
his body. The boy’s relaxation made the intrusion easier, and John slid in,
inch by inch, feeling the warmth and slick and ridges of Sherlock’s arse, then
even silkier texture as he slid into Sherlock’s cloaca. Once fully seated, John
paused, the unbelievable heat from the omega radiating in a way John had long
since forgotten.
John could resist the call of his alpha no more. John pulled out until just the
head of his cock remained embedded in Sherlock, and thrust back with force that
nearly slammed Sherlock into the headboard. Sherlock cried out, moaning in
encouragement, begging John, “More, John, please, more!” John obeyed the
demands of the omega thrashing in need beneath him. He pulled Sherlock onto
himself, filling the boy bollocks deep over and over as he chased his release.
John babbled back, “Fucking amazing, Sherlock. You’re goddamned fantastic.
Fucking made for me, you brilliant boy.”
As he neared, one hand left Sherlock’s hip and gripped the raven curls, and
yanked the boy onto his knees. Sherlock cried out, startled, then his cries
evolved into an evoking groan, as his cock pulsated out his climax in short
streaks on the bed cloths below. Pleasure tingled down John’s spine, from his
ears to his cock, where Sherlock’s arse clasped tightly, and John’s alpha
demanded he reduce Sherlock into a babbling quiver. They both muttered sweet
nothings intermingled with filthy curses, neither aware of his own words. John
hooked his arms under Sherlock’s, then clenched the boy’s shoulders forcefully
as he drove himself upwards into the tight heat, Sherlock’s slick dripping off
him and down John’s bollocks, down his thighs, and drenching the sheets beneath
them.
With a sudden rush, John realized his orgasm was forthcoming, and he impaled
Sherlock harder and faster, working his growing knot into the boy’s welcoming
hole with strength John hadn’t know was possible. Sherlock cried out as the
knot rubbed in and out of his sensitive flesh, catching painfully, wonderfully
on the rim of his abused hole. Finally, John’s knot fully formed, and he
plunged one last time into Sherlock, locking them together. John’s cock began
to pulse thick, copious amount of come into Sherlock’s cloaca; John’s alpha
instincts bellowing BreedMateBreedMate in overpowering form. He snarled,
obeyed, and viciously sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck, puncturing the flesh
and the gland underneath, claiming, finally, Sherlock as his, as his own, as
his omega.
Sherlock screeched, the pain of the bite combining with the pleasure of the
bond forming from the perforated gland releasing yet another wave of ecstasy
from his body, further spurring on John’s own elation. John’s body released
further throbs of ejaculate into Sherlock’s sealed body, six, seven, eight
times, and then they collapsed, spent from endorphins, onto the bed.
For several moments, the only sounds in the room were the heavy, wheezing pants
of a boy and his successfully seduced professor. John rolled he and Sherlock to
their sides for comfort, out of the dampness of Sherlock’s release to the other
side of the bed. John draped an arm around Sherlock, resigned to being knotted
for anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes. Bonding knots were known to last
longer, and he couldn’t be sure of the time frame. As the alpha instinct
recessed and John regained partial awareness, he complimented, “That was…
brilliant.” Then his voice took on a scornful note, “And goddamn you, Sherlock,
for making it so.”
“John. My John. It’s done. You have done nothing wrong and now I am yours,”
Sherlock reassured him. “All that longing, those dreams you’ve been having,
yes, I know about the dreams, it’s all yours now.”
“Bloody hell, Sherlock. It doesn’t make it right. I have dreamt of you, you
know that, I have wanted you. But I wanted you older. Legal. I wanted us to be
consensual.”
“If I had waited four years, you might have found someone else. I couldn’t take
that risk. You’re mine now.” Sherlock’s voice waivered, as though he wasn’t
quite sure about that last point.
“Yes, Sherlock, I’m yours,” John comforted. “I won’t petition to dissolve the
bond. You are fantastic, and extraordinary, and if it weren’t for your age, I
would have pursued you long ago. But dammit, I’m going to fucking punish you
during your next heat.”
“Why wait? I’d rather you punish me now,” John could both hear and feel
Sherlock’s smirk. “I appreciate your tenderness for the bonding, but I’d really
liked to be fucked properly for the rest of this.”
With a soft growl, John acquiesced, “Good. Then I’ll do just that.”
Chapter End Notes
     The epilogue will follow!
***** Chapter 8 *****
John spent three days devouring Sherlock, who greedily accepted his attentions.
“Fuck me, John, harder! Bite me again, make it bleed. God, I want it to hurt.”
“Christ, you wanton little masochist, I’ll tear you apart so beautifully.”
-o-
“Dammit Sherlock, you’ve got to stop begging me to hurt you. You’ve got great
bloody bite marks like a collar around your neck.”
“Excellent. Why would I stop?”
-0-
“Good boy, I’m gonna fill you so full you’ll leak my come for days, my sweet,
gorgeous boy.”
“Yes, please, sir, my alpha, fuck, knot me, please, knot me knot me, oh fuck Oh
FU-“
-o-
“Sherlock, you’ve taken birth control, right?”
“Really, John?”
“Yes.”
“Ugh. Yes.”
-o-
“Oh, hell, John, it’s starting again. I can barely move, I need you.”
“Bloody buggering fuck, Sherlock. Did you have to make the injection so damn
strong?!”
“Yes. I needed to make sure you couldn’t resist me. If you had just fucked me
when I asked, we wouldn’t be having this problem. Please remember this the next
time I request your assistance.”
“Assistance? This is not assistance. God, Sherlock, just roll on your side, my
arms can’t hold me up anymore.”
-o-
John awoke, still naked, still smeared in his own come and Sherlock’s slick,
and yet again tied to a chair. He groaned, but didn’t try in the slightest to
test his restraints; his body too weak from Sherlock’s intense needs. He opened
his eyes, and took in his surroundings. Windowless, but carpeted. Obvious
support beams, so basement, despite the ornate table and chairs to his left,
one of which was missing; he assumed he was currently tied to it. John saw a
wet bar, in a classic style. The richness of the room suggested he might still
be in Sherlock’s estate, although it might be possible he’d been moved to
another manor.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, with the added thunk of a cane.
Slowly, the luxurious form of Sherlock’s brother (Mycroft?) came into view, the
cane revealed to be an umbrella. Did he carry that everywhere?
“Dr. Watson,” the elder Holmes addressed him dryly. “Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s
elder brother, should you have forgotten.”
“No, can’t have forgotten you,” John mocked.
“Yes. Well. It seems that my prior assessment of your morality was ill
informed.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Have you even spoken to your brother?”
“Unnecessary. One of two things is true in this scenario. Either, you have
taken advantage of my brother’s tolerance of you, or he has taken advantage of
your tolerance of him. If it is the latter, then, knowing my brother, there
will be evidence eliminating your culpability. A video, I expect.”
“And I could show you, but I appear to be bloody tied to a bloody fucking
chair!”
“The video, should it exist, will surface soon. Let us discuss your intentions
with my brother.”
“I think it’s pretty obvious at this point, don’t you?”
“If my brother has influenced you, I can have the petition to dissolve your
bond complete and approved by tomorrow.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Mycroft’s face flickered, the first true emotion John saw flash across the
stiff man’s face. He suddenly understood just a bit more about Sherlock.
“You don’t believe me.” John accused.
“Fourteen years worth the experience would suggest otherwise.”
“Fourteen years worth the people are idiots,” John smirked, thinking fondly of
his bond mate.
A voice rang out from the top of the stairs, “Mycroft, you fat git! Give me
back my bond mate! He’s mine!” Sherlock stampeded down the steps and thrust his
hand out in Mycroft’s direction, “Here’s the video. I’m sure that’s why you
kidnapped him. To see if you should kill him to protect the honor of your
property. I am not a thing you own, Mycroft. I can make my own damned
decisions.” Sherlock sneered at Mycroft, then strode confidently to John and
used a blade to slice through John’s restraints.
John smiled and spoke softly to Sherlock, “Is this a thing with you Holmes?
Kidnapping and restraints?”
Sherlock laughed, then pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, “You must admit, my
version is far superior.”
-o-
Aside from the obvious bond, Sherlock’s plan had other benefits. He’d
deliberated waited until after class on Thursday, so they could share
Sherlock’s heat over the weekend, and have John back, ready to teach, on
Tuesday.
However, John had to be ready to teach on Tuesday. One day after the end of
Sherlock’s heat. After being kidnapped by Sherlock’s brother. Of their scents
comingling in the most obvious of ways. After leaving a ring of ravaging bite
marks around Sherlock’s neck, and receiving one or two of his own.
John wasn’t actually looking forward to class at all. He’d have to register
their bond with the school, despite being a temporary professor. The students
would accuse him of favoritism, although he couldn’t possibly understand how,
given the contrast between Sherlock’s intelligence and their own.
He arrived early to register the bond at the office of Student Affairs. The
registrar choked on her coffee when he revealed the name of his bond mate;
apparently, Sherlock had quite the reputation. Once he’d assured the woman of
his sincerity, he moved onto the dreaded task of facing his other students.
John’s scent was noticeably different, but far away at the front of the class,
he avoided any awkward looks by the students who filed in. It wasn’t until
Sherlock flounced in, loudly and attracting attention, that the class stilled.
Sally, the alpha he’d offended the first day, took in Sherlock’s new scent and
bite marks, and spoke disgustedly, “The freak bonded? Jesus, who would want to
mate with that?”
John felt the same rage he’d felt the first time he’d defended Sherlock, and as
he spoke, heads whipped in his direction, “I would. And I’ll thank you not to
speak of my bond mate that way.” Alpha protective pheromones poured from his
person, and the whole class, save Sherlock, shrunk submissively under their
strength, even as they gaped at him in disbelief.
John looked to Sherlock, to ensure he hadn’t been unduly affected by Sally’s
harsh words.
But Sherlock met his eyes, and beamed.
-o-
When class finished, the students filed out after an especially somber
discussion; John’s protective scent emitted for at least half the period, until
he felt reasonably sure that they knew Sherlock was, in all forms, off limits.
The pheromones completed subdued the class.
Sherlock came up and gave him a deep kiss before announcing he’d be at the
chemistry lab until dinner. “Italian?” he asked, not waiting for the answer
before rushing out the door.
John smiled at Sherlock’s enthusiasm; a force unmatched in any topic he held
interest. He finished gathering his materials when the door opened again.
A man, older than the average student, and too confident to be a student, came
down the aisle and addressed him, “Dr. John Watson?”
“Yes, can I help you?” John stopped packing up, and addressed the man politely.
“I’m Sergeant Greg Lestrade. Can we talk?”
“Uh, sure, what about?”
“Sherlock Holmes.” The sergeant looked deadly serious.
“Oh Christ, what has he done now?” John asked, exasperated.
The sergeant looked at him closely with a scrunched brow, “He’s fine. Can you
come to down to the station with me, so I can ask you a few questions?”
John felt his features contort into the same concerned look the sergeant wore,
“What is this about?”
“His bond.”
“Oh god, not you, too,” John rolled his eyes, and resumed putting the last of
his papers in his case.
Whatever reaction the sergeant was expecting, that was not it. He asked warily,
“Who else have you spoken with?”
“The elder Holmes. Mycroft, if you’re familiar,” John replied, taking a small
memory drive from the case before closing it up, and passing it to the
sergeant. “Here, this should give you all the information you need.” John had
to hand it to Sherlock; the video feed of their bond really did make this whole
process of questioning much smoother. Although he was slightly mortified that
such a young, thin omega could capture him, he remained grateful for the proof
that he had done nothing untoward, and in fact, could be declared quite
honorable in the whole situation.
It was actually rather perfect, he thought; John had everything of which he had
hoped and dreamed in a bond, and completely guilt free. He rather suspected
Sherlock might have been plotting this from that first day, eking his way into
John’s life, with John being none the wiser, from the day he first noticed
Sherlock, smiled at the clever boy, and called him ‘brilliant’.
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