Archive of Our Own

As Sherlock Holmes stands outside New Scotland Yard, sweating beneath his Belstaff while he irritatedly smokes a cigarette, he allows himself the private admission that he may have, in fact, made a terrible mistake.

It’s been precisely nine and a half days since he began bypassing the blister packet in the medicine cabinet during his morning ablutions. The few days were wholly unremarkable, but he can no longer deny the flush and agitation that's been steadily overtaking his anatomy since. His sense of smell and touch have been subtly, but obviously enhanced; scents and sensations suddenly more complex and detailed than they ever have before. It’s been surprisingly marvellous for the Work, all things considered, offering up entirely new streams of data that he’s never had access to before. In terms of sheer amplification, it’s better than even cocaine.

He feels undeniably more alive; deliciously present within his body in a way he’s never felt before. It’s not at all an unpleasant feeling actually, similar enough to a mild high to be familiar, but better. He’s been enjoying it, really, if he allows himself to be completely honest. Well, the intermittent cramping in his abdomen that began approximately fifteen hours ago, he could do without. Likewise the incessant, low-level hum of arousal that's come to suffuse his every waking moment. But both are mild enough so as not to outweigh the more pleasant effects. It’s nothing he can’t ignore, really. Nothing at all like the constant, itchy, sort of all-consuming discomfort he vaguely recalls from his early teenage years.

He’d never have started on suppressants if he’d felt like this.

All in all, it’s been perfectly fine, interesting even, if not for how that previously marvellous effect on the Work was very rapidly devolving into something decidedly less so. He’d spent the morning with Lestrade, combing fruitlessly over the Darnell case files again, attempting to identify something, anything that they’d missed. Jacob Darnell was still unconscious in hospital, and, until he awoke and informed them what had occurred at the flat in Shoreditch, their hands would remain maddeningly tied. But, as the hours had passed, he’d found it increasingly difficult to focus; the scents and noises of the office rapidly growing overwhelming to his senses. It hadn’t been until he shifted in his seat and felt the tell-tale dampness within his pants that he’d made the realization. It may have been years, but he still recognized that tiresome little precursor to a heat.

He’d attempted to brush it aside as he did the various irritating demands of his transport, but it had hatefully persisted until he’d finally grown agitated enough that even Lestrade— astonishingly oblivious though he usually was— had noticed. When the DI had peered over the rim of his coffee cup to ask with a concerned frown if he felt unwell, Sherlock had accepted defeat. Having absolutely no desire in the slightest to elaborate upon his current state, he’d hastily made his excuses and fled, claiming a touch of flu, before the actual situation could become any more obvious.

For the best, in any case, as the last thing that he needed was having to fend off the bungling advances of the any of obnoxious Alphas or the Beta males that the yard was positively teeming with. He'd much rather hole up at a Baker Street to wait out the the entire bothersome affair privately. He had several experiments on the go that he’d been meaning to attend to, and this was a good a reason as any.

Of course, then he’d had to perform the indignity of ringing the Taxi service to request a Beta female driver, rather than just flagging down the first to appear on the street. If the inevitable propositions of the Yarders would be distasteful, the overtures of some plebeian cabbie were sure to be utterly repugnant.

And at least within the halls of NSY his safety would be ensured; despite his bevy of other complaints, the Met did in fact enforce some standards amongst their staff. The same, however, was by no means a guarantee if he climbed into the back of just any taxi that happened by.

Though he’d sooner take that risk than texting Mycroft to send a car.

As he drops the stub of his cigarette and crushes it under heel, an insipid Omega with her hulking Alpha brush by him, and their nostrils flare slightly. While his scent isn’t pronounced yet, it's likely growing somewhat detectable at such close quarters. The Alpha marginally slows his stride and looks him over appraisingly, and his Omega curls her lip in umbrage at the overt display of interest. He snarls a warning back at them in response as he rifles in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. The Omega's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on her Alpha’s arm and her step quickens as she practically drags him away with her.

“How indecent,” she hisses, and her Alpha nods absently, even as he throws a glance back over his shoulder. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he lights his next cigarette behind a cupped hand— typical ill-mannered Alpha swine.

Prefers men (obvious); particularly enjoys being dominated and degraded by them. Bond with female Omega deliberately arranged by wealthy, conservative father; an effort to bring him to heel, meanwhile ensuring another Alpha heir.

The former has clearly been less successful than the latter.

“If my mild scent concerns you so much, perhaps you should ask him why he showered so thoroughly with a scent-neutralizing wash after supposedly returning from the 'gym' this morning,” he shouts after them peevishly, then pauses to take a quick drag. “And specifically what sort of exercise led to that pattern of distinctly finger-shaped bruises along the back of his neck.” He turns away without waiting to see her reaction, but from the ensuing commotion behind him, it seems to be a poor one.

Apparently there’s only one female Beta cabbie in all of Central London, if the age that he’s been waiting is anything to go by. If the bloody taxi doesn’t arrive soon, one of Mycroft’s black sedans will, complete with some besuited lackeys ready to spirit him off to his brother— with or without his consent. Given the location and angle of the CCTV camera, he has one more confrontation with fellow pedestrians before Mycroft knows the exact nature of the muddle he’s unintentionally landed himself in this time.

As he puffs agitatedly on his cigarette and considers taking the gamble of flagging down the next passing cab, a distinctive purple one pulls up alongside the kerb. The driver’s window slides down and a middle-aged bottle-blonde Beta leans out to peer up at him questioningly.

“You Holmes?” She asks, drumming the garishly manicured nails of her left hand on the wheel. When he nods sharply and tosses his unfinished cigarette to the pavement, she flicks the switch to unlock the doors. She smiles at him in the rearview mirror as he climbs into the back seat. “Sorry ‘bout the wait. Accident up Victoria Street. Where to then?”

He rattles off the address succinctly, then squints at the her through the perspex and forces himself to focus through his growing haze on the myriad of infinitesimal clues she wears all over her person.

Lives alone, never married, no children. Several former long-term lovers; four at minimum, judging by the contrasting tastes of the various rings adorning her fingers and her earrings. Three cats, possibly four— hard to tell— one calico and at least two ginger tabbies. Poor relationship with her much more successful older… no- younger sister. Sporadically smokes menthol cigarettes; had one earlier today after a particularly aggravating call from said sister. Enjoys two glasses of red wine after dinner every night, often in the bath with a book. On that front, enjoys reading Mills and Boon’s Alpha/Omega series; finds the incredibly animalistic nature of the wildly unrealistic heats depicted therein titillating.

How odious. He rolls his eyes in disgust and, reassured of his obviously intact mental faculties, turns to stare out the window instead. His inability to easily focus at the the Yard had worried him, but clearly, his condition has thankfully left his mind relatively unhampered, so long as his senses aren’t overburdened.

“Here we are are, luv.” The cabbie pipes up suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. She turns to smile at him patronizingly over her shoulder. “Best get inside to your Alpha straight away, pet. They’ll give you a proper seeing to.”

Ugh.

He tucks his chin in contemptuously, not unlike that of an offended turtle. He’d assumed from her silence throughout the drive that his scent hadn’t yet grown distinct enough for her to detect through the small openings in the safety partition. Clearly, however, he's progressed somewhat farther along than he’d gauged.

Irrelevant, now that he was safely back at Baker Street, but subjectively mortifying all the same. He shoves his fare in her general direction with a grimace and virtually leaps from the cab. He’s pleased with how steady he manages to keep the keys in his hands while he lets himself in through the street door.

Mrs. Hudson is clearly in, going by the irritating clamour of vacuous daytime telly blaring out from beneath the door of 221A. He hesitates on the stairs briefly, considering whether to stop in to inform her of his...predicament, but thinks better of it. The balance of probability suggests that she’ll insist he stay and allow her to fuss over him, and while he’d really quite enjoy a cup of tea and some biscuits, he’d sooner not be subjected to whatever claptrap it is that she's watching.

Upstairs the flat is blessedly empty and quiet, a far cry from the bustling offices of the Yard. Precisely the balm to soothe his agitated nerves. He rubs his hands together and considers what he should set in on first— the kidneys? Or no, John isn’t in… perhaps he can finally work with the Amanita virosa specimens that he’s been hiding in the back of his wardrobe. Or maybe…

Damn it all— putting up with din and miasma of scents at the Yard had been unusually fatiguing, and the lassitude settling over him refuses to go unacknowledged. If he’s unable to focus on the case, perhaps, this once, the indulgence of a brief kip before starting in on anything mightn’t be amiss.

He tosses his coat carelessly over arm of the sofa and drifts to his room in a fog. Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he lets it fall to the floor— his entire outfit will need to go out to the cleaners before he can wear it again in any case. Unless he cares to run about stinking of Omega in heat.

Unlikely, to say the least.

He manages to toe off his shoes and socks before collapsing gracelessly onto the duvet, asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

It’s evening when the distinct pattern of John’s tread on the steps and clatter of the flat door opening rouses him back into full awareness.

What’s left of the daylight filtering in through the windows has grown dim, though it’s not yet dark enough for the streetlights. He’s warm and a tad sweaty, but the sheets feel blissfully cool and crisp beneath him. He listens to John bustle about the kitchen, putting away the shopping, and tries to identify the items based off where John puts them and the order in which he’s done so. He’s reasonably sure he’s succeeded with at least a 92% accuracy, but his mind is appallingly lethargic. It should alarm him— the very idea of it did, earlier— but he’s far too comfortable to find it in himself to be overly concerned at the moment.

“Sherlock,” John calls to him from the kitchen, over the familiar clatter of ceramic and gush of the tap that always precedes tea. John is nothing if not a creature of habit. “Are you up? I’m making tea. Would you like some?”

Sherlock means to reply in the affirmative, but as he turns onto his side and unintentionally nuzzles his face against his pillow, the vocalization devolves into a soft moan instead. His interest in tea is immediately discarded, in favour of further exploration of this newly discovered pleasure of the soft, cool surface.

It feels lovely. How has he never noticed how lovely that feels? Has it felt so lovely before? Furthermore, is the sensation exclusive only to his right facial plane, or will other surfaces of his body experience the same? It’s something that will require significantly further investigation.

“Sherlock?” John’s in the hall now, his voice tinged with concern, and moving closer between the first and second syllable of Sherlock’s name.

Lovely John, with his warm jumpers and steady solidness. His incredible, completely inexplicable, talent for filling Sherlock’s head with his presence.

He really should be unfathomably dull… and yet.

John’s dependable ability to constantly surprise him has come to inspire an alarming degree of sentiment within Sherlock’s otherwise coolly logical mind. Sentiment that he normally firmly denies— even in the privacy of his own thoughts— but which suddenly doesn’t seem terribly bothersome.

It seems rather wonderful in fact, and makes something clench pleasantly in his abdomen as John appears in the doorway. Sherlock peers up at him from the delightful mound of the pillow, a pleased little smile blooming on his face without conscious thought. He lets out a small, warm hum of greeting, which only seems to slightly unnerve John; or so the way he frowns back at Sherlock would seem to indicate.

“Are you alright? You’re looking a bit peaky.” John questions as he perches gently on the side of the bed. He reaches to rest his hand against Sherlock’s brow, brushing aside sweat-damp curls to do so. “You feel feverish.”

It feels much better than any clinical appraisal has any right to: hot, and cool, and tingling all at once.

John’s hand shifts from his forehead to his cheek, and the movement sends frissons of pleasure wavering across Sherlock’s skin. The proximity floods Sherlock’s nose with John’s scent. He smells like tea, gingernuts, and woodsmoke, with the faintest underlying trace of cordite. It makes Sherlock think of comfort, and safety, and home. He moans before he can stop himself, turning his face to nuzzle blissfully against John’s palm. He keeps his eyes shut, but he feels the tension snap into place beneath John’s skin.

“Sherlock, are you,” John begins hesitantly, a near undetectable tremor in his voice. “Have you taken something?”

Oh. Oooh— John thinks he’s high.

A reasonable enough deduction actually; working with the limited data set of his knowledge as a medical professional and Sherlock’s personal history with narcotics.

Dilated pupils, flushed skin, lethargy, perspiration, and a slight tremor. Exhibition of uncharacteristic behaviour, and euphoric response toward positive stimulus. Easily attributable to various combinations of recreational substances, most of which Sherlock has at least a passing acquaintance with.

Wrong, but oh, very good.

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ in a tiny exhale against the warm skin of John’s palm, easing his eyes open to assess John through his lashes. John’s shoulders relax, and he heaves a deep sigh of relief.

And then promptly freezes again.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, eyes slamming shut as he begins scenting the air unconsciously. “Are you...in heat?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbles in response, rubbing his cheek against the pillow again in a lazy semblance of a nod. “It was an experiment, for the case. Needed to determine what sort of symptoms Maggie would have begun to exhibit if her suppressants were switched out with placebos, and how quickly. Obviously I was the most easily accessible test subject.”

He tosses himself onto his back restlessly, the presence of an Alpha beginning to intensify the prickle of heat beneath his skin. The fabric of his shirt chafes unbearably against his nipples, so he shamelessly unbuttons it. “I apparently miscalculated the speed and severity with which they would arise.” Over the lean line of his belly, his eyes catch on the increasingly noticeable bulge in his trousers and a giggle escapes him. “Pun entirely unintended.”

John joins in with a low chuckle, reaching discreetly with his free hand to gingerly make an adjustment in his own lap. He doesn’t mention it— doesn’t draw attention to it in the slightest— but Sherlock’s eyes flick unconsciously to the movement, and he finds himself pressing his teeth into his lower lip. Ever considerate John, carefully obscuring his own involuntary arousal, so as not to make Sherlock feel any more self-conscious than he already does. The thoughtfulness inexplicably causes that unnamed something inside his abdomen to throb again.

And also, admittedly, his cock.

Thankfully, John doesn’t appear to notice the outwardly visible of the two, distracted as he his with his attempt at discretion.

“Didn't think you were capable of miscalculating anything other than social situations.” John teases, before visibly transitioning back into Doctor mode with a small, firm shake of his head. “When did you stop taking them?” He moves his hand from Sherlock’s cheek to press two fingers against his pulse point. The continuing contact sets Sherlock's already fluttering heart to racing, and he squirms helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut to help focus as he responds.

“Nine and a half days ago. I began feeling symptoms after about three days. But…it's too, ah…” Sherlock trails off, fighting against a creeping flush of mortification. He knows that it's foolish to feel embarrassed about this; he’s an adult and John is a medical professional. But he feels oddly exposed, discussing something so openly that he’s tried for so long to repress. “I shouldn't have gone into heat until next month at the earliest. Not according to my usual cycle.”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty unusual.” John’s voice takes on a concerned note again, and Sherlock doesn't even need to open his eyes to know that he's frowning. He finishes assessing Sherlock’s heart rate, but he doesn’t pull his hand away, just leaves it resting over his collarbone. Sherlock’s certain it’s meant to be comforting, but it’s anything but. Even the casual contact between their bodies feels maddening.

It’s as though a strangely pleasant fire has been set alight beneath every millimetre of his skin, wherever it touches John’s. A minute shudder wracks his body and he gives into the urge to pant lightly. John’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips in it’s habitual manner, and Sherlock’s eyes feel magnetically drawn to the sight.

“More unusual than you miscalculating, even. When was the first day of your last placebo pill cycle?” John asks in the no-nonsense, shameless tone of Doctors everywhere, despite the unquestionably intimate nature of the question.

Do they practice that in medical school? Possibly they chant, in unison, the most abjectly mortifying queries known to humanity, crescendoing until they finally reach a sort of nirvana of shamelessness. Seems unlikely. But maybe.

He knows he's dithering, but he's not particularly enthused to incite John's anticipated reaction.

Oh, sod it.

“Approximately… six years ago?”

“Six…” John goggles at him as he trails off in horror. Ah yes, there it is. “Jesus, Sherlock! Please tell me you're joking.”

“Um, no.” He drags out the vowels as long as he can, as though it might actually delay this tedious exchange.

“Six years? And then you just stopped— just like that? Are you mad? What were you thinking?” John’s eyebrows appear to be trying to flee from his indignation up into his hairline. He resembles nothing so much as a displeased hedgehog.

It would be more comedic if he weren’t the target of said indignation, but it’s still terribly endearing.

Rather than let on to that particular thought, he waves a hand dismissively in response to John’s prompting. “Well, obviously not that it would be an issue. Aside from my mild discomfort at present, I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t-” John pauses, brings his hand from Sherlock’s chest to pinch the bridge of his nose and takes a long, deep breath. “Sherlock, a sixth former could have told you that was a terrible idea! What, did you delete basic biology along with the solar system?” Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but John swiftly lifts his hand up between them in a motion to cut him off. “That was rhetorical! You’re definitely experiencing rebound estrus. It’s a kind of false heat, triggered by major hormonal fluctuations. Most common after a miscarriage, but also known to happen after sudden suppressant cessation.” He scrubs his hand over his face with a growl of aggravation. “It’s one thing to skip the odd heat here or there, but the whole point of a placebo cycle is to allow your system to moderate it’s hormone levels. Expressly so that if suppressant use is discontinued, the inevitable hormonal spike will be limited.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose that may have been worth retaining.” He grants begrudgingly. It’s a rare occasion that he regrets deleting wholly uninteresting data, but he admits that perhaps, in this case, it may have been somewhat imprudent.

“Christ, Sherlock. Your hormones are probably skyrocketing.” John reaches out to smooth a hand comfortingly over Sherlock’s curls, and he just barely suppresses the gasp that threatens to escape him.

“You become remarkably religious when you’re irritated. Did you know that?” He announces, and John’s soft laugh sends a shiver through him. “Is there anything that could stop it?” He asks plaintively, partly out of real desperation, and partly to distract from his reaction to John’s touch.

“No, unfortunately not. If you’d have started back on your pills as soon as the preheat symptoms started, or had even gotten a high-dose suppressant shot a few days ago, maybe. But this far into a heat? Anything would be incredibly dangerous to your reproductive system. You're just going to have to… ride it out.”

Despite his state, Sherlock can’t resist the opportunity to needle John a bit, and so he raises a brow at the arguably poor choice of words. As expected, John blushes furiously. It's possibly the most adorable thing Sherlock's ever been witness to in his life.

“You know what I mean!” John protests weakly, face still flaming, and develops a sudden, determined interest in the periodic table on the wall. He opens his mouth as if to speak again, closes it, and then ventures hesitantly, “Well, um, actually there is… uh, one thing.”

“What?” Sherlock demands, propping himself up on his elbows in eagerness. His unbuttoned shirt falls open completely as he does, but the cooler air against his skin provides more relief than the exposure does self-consciousness.

“It’s uh, fairly certain that you're not actually releasing a viable ovum, given how long you've been repressing your cycle. So it should be perfectly safe for you to um... share your heat, with an Alpha. Without... any concerns.”

Sherlock gapes at the crimson side of John’s face for a beat, slowly absorbing the meaning of his words. “You mean letting an Alpha knot me.” He hadn’t thought it possible, but John flushes even deeper.

“Bloody hell,” John curses and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I was trying to be a little less… explicit, but yes Sherlock, that is exactly what I mean. Now, I know you haven’t deleted that much. The endorphins released when the glands inside the bartholic ridge are compressed ease the discomfort of heat, and help end it as much as a day earlier. So. Is there, um… someone you could call? To, uh, come over?”

“N-n-no.” He finds himself stammering, his own face blooming scarlet to match John’s, the heated blush creeping all the way down to his chest. “Ah, I didn’t mean- I do understand the, uh, uh, particulars of the physical act. What I mean to say is- No. There isn’t anyone that I can, um, call.” He bites his lip, tries to keep them in, but the words spill out of him unintentionally. “I’ve never actually…”

“You’ve never actually… oh.” John face snaps toward Sherlock’s, goggle-eyed. “Do you mean- at all?”

“No! I’ve done… things. But never during a heat.” They’re both red enough now that they could serve as traffic signs, but Sherlock’s somehow unable to look away. It’s a small consolation that John doesn’t either, but instead looks oddly... relieved?

“Oh, well that’s-” John starts.

“Have you?” He cuts John off, overcome by the sudden, fierce need to know. He’d deduce the answer for himself, if his mind wasn't so scrambled by his condition, but it is, and he needs to know.

“Have I…?” John looks momentarily befuddled, then smirks and laughs. “Given how much time you’ve spent haranguing me about the time I spend with girlfriends, I think that’s fairly obv-” Sherlock abruptly interrupts him again in exasperation.

“Yes, thank you John, I’m not an imbecile. I meant, have you ever... with an Omega. Shared a heat.” He listens to himself, his words clipped and suffused with an irritation he can’t explain, and wonders why on earth John’s answer to this matters so much.

John remains utterly unfazed by his sudden display, and gives him a small, somewhat self-conscious smile as he raises his free hand to scratch lightly at his nape.

“Ah, well, no actually.”

Sherlock searches John’s face intently— he can still manage that thankfully— reading his expression as easily as writing on a page. What he finds there surprises him.

“You’re not lying to make me feel more at ease. You really haven’t.” He declares, unable to keep the note for surprise from his voice.

But it is surprising.

Even more surprising is the strange sensation of relief that washes over him because of it.

“Yes, well I…” John shifts uneasily on the edge of the bed, and then turns to make a bit of a shooing gesture in Sherlock’s direction. “Ah hell, you may as well budge over; if we’re going to make a proper slumber party out of this.” Sherlock sputters a bit, but shuffles to the far side of the bed to make room for John regardless. John clambers up onto the duvet, plumping one of the pillows up before settling back against it with a sigh. “Much better.”

“And exactly what do you mean by that?” Sherlock sneers with a curl of his lip.

“Well, I’m not twenty anymore. Twisting about like that to talk to you is murder on the back.” As if to prove his point, John wriggles a hand beneath him to rub briefly at his waist with a wince. His body arches with the motion, inadvertently drawing attention to the as yet unacknowledged, but apparently very persistent erection straining the fabric of his jeans. The sight brings the warm thrum of arousal back to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind. He allows his gaze to linger, peering surreptitiously through his lashes while John resettles and folds his arms up beneath his head.

“No, not that.” He clarifies sharply, snapping himself out of his daze, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. “The other bit. We’re not having a ‘slumber party’,” he huffs, the very concept offensive, and John laughs good-naturedly.

“Aren’t we though? Best friends, faffing about, sharing secrets in the dark?”

This synopsis of their current circumstances catches him off guard, and he ruminates on it briefly, weighing the evidence. Are they, indeed, ‘best’ friends? Friends are generally defined as non-relations with whom one has a bond of mutual affection and enjoys engaging with socially. Inexplicable as it may be, he and John’s relationship has undeniably come to be describable as such. Supposing that the standard for ‘best’ lies in the cumulative amount of time spent in one another’s company, he could, plausibly, be termed as John’s best friend.

The very idea makes him feel strange; simultaneously deeply pleased and oddly melancholic.

The rest of John’s statement is thankfully far simpler. They are, completely inarguably, engaging in exactly the sort of ineffectual activity that one might describe as ‘faffing’. And the bedroom has indeed grown dark with the setting of sun. The light spilling in from the kitchen and the dim glow of the streetlamp beyond the undrawn curtains lending them just enough light to make out one another's features, but he will allow the technicality to pass.

“Hmpf. I suppose that's not inaccurate.” Sherlock grudgingly concedes, and settles back down on his pillow.

They lay in silence for a brief span of time, and he allows himself to think of how lovely it is— John lying here next to him. Warm and cozy, while that buzzy tingle spreads out over him, simmering pleasantly below his skin. He can manage this just fine. In fact, maybe the agreeable distraction of John’s company can help keep his mind off of his deplorable condition while he waits it out.

“Well, out with it then. So you’ve… y’know...” John abruptly shatters the comfortable silence and Sherlock freezes in the midst of folding an arm beneath his head.

Ah. So they’re actually going to talk then. About that.

Lovely.

He swallows and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.

“Yes. In university.”

“Ah.” John blanches, the gears in his head almost audibly whirring, and his body goes suddenly stiff. “Was it- it wasn’t while you were… using, was it?”

“No! Nothing so sordid as that, thankfully. It was only ever one person. And it started prior to the development of my… habit.” Sherlock grimaces at the thought of the potential scenarios implied. “I may have managed to somewhat evade Mycroft’s interference during that period, but that he would never have tolerated so much as a suggestion of.”

“Oh thank god.” John releases a puff of air with the words and the rigidity drains out of his body again. “I’d thought that maybe… well. As much as it pains me to say this, thank goodness for Mycroft’s interference.”

Sherlock snorts derisively at that, more out of principle than anything resembling argument. It pains him to admit it as well but, in this exceptional case, John may just have the right of it. Not that he’d dare say so aloud.

God knows where that pompous, interfering prig has managed to secret recording devices again since Sherlock’s last sweep of the flat.

“His name was Victor. Victor Trevor."Despite the fact that he’d had absolutely no interest in starting this conversation to begin with, he finds the words spilling out of him unchecked. Clearly the verbal disinhibition of estrus has begun to set in. "He was a classmate of mine at Cambridge; a Beta. He was a year ahead of me, but we met when his bull terrier— Fairfax— bit me during my first week, while I was exploring the grounds.” 

Well, if it’s unavoidable, he may as well utilize the situation as best as possible. He casts a sidelong gaze in John’s direction, intent on scrutinizing his reactions to Sherlock’s divulgences. “Yes, if pressed to choose, I’m inclined toward the sire-gendered— males preferably. Or did you assume that I might have more deviant predilections? Fellow carriers perhaps?”

“Wasn’t sure you really had any at all, to be honest.” John carelessly shrugs his shoulders; the very picture of impartiality.

It’s deliberate of course. John knows full well that Sherlock is perfectly cognizant of the fact that John is hanging on his every word. But if John would like to play out this little fiction, very well. Sherlock is happy to indulge him this once, in exchange for this diversion.

“Mmm, well that’s not entirely inaccurate either,” Sherlock acknowledges with a pleased curl of his lips. John’s own simple sort of observation, while nothing at all like his own, is so often charmingly clever in it’s own way. “I began taking suppressants shortly after I presented, and the dosage has always substantially subdued my libido. Later, the addition of more... recreational substances only exacerbated that. I did say, after all, ‘if pressed’.” John’s eyebrows draw together in at this, the familiar crease between them making an appearance.

“Wait, if that’s the case, how, or why, did you end up in a- a-” he stumbles on his words, feigning a cough to conceal the fumble, “sexual relationship with this Victor bloke?”

“Well, after Fairfax bit me, Victor insisted on seeing me to the nearest Urgent Care centre. And then he wouldn’t leave until Mycroft arrived and ordered him off. He found out where I was residing and started showing up at my rooms the next day, constantly bringing me food and trying to usher me to my lectures. It was all horribly aggravating, and I tried rebuffing him, but he remained determined to befriend me. I discovered over the next several weeks that— despite his irritating persistence— he was actually remarkably intelligent, and-” He frowns as John cuts him off with a sharp bark of laughter.

“You thought he was ‘remarkably intelligent’? The man must have been pretty bloody brilliant in that case.” John scoffs, his face pinched in an oddly resentful manner. It’s easily identifiable as jealousy, though Sherlock can’t imagine why. John’s normally quite accepting of his exceedingly average intellect, and only grows snappish about any disparity if he’s overly hungry or Sherlock has made too many quips at his expense.

Interesting.

“Hm, according to standardized testing yes, his intellect was classified as superior. Though their standards are usually remarkably lower than mine.” He hesitates briefly before making a cautious attempt at reassurance. “There’s no need for jealousy John— while Victor was technically more intelligent, he wasn’t nearly as objectively interesting as you happen to be.”

John’s face lights up in pleased surprised at the endorsement, and Sherlock covertly savours the sight as he returns to his confessional tale. “As I was saying— he was bright and not at all unattractive, and to my complete surprise, I grew to enjoy his company. Despite my expectations.” Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth in a smile as his fondest memory of his time with Victor comes to mind. “Also, Fairfax and I became quite stalwart companions— once we overcame the unpleasantness of our initial encounter.”

“So what you’re saying then is that he was a fit genius, and you liked his dog.” John interjects wryly.

“I suppose that is a very pedestrian way of summarizing it. Anyway, we became friends of a sort, and when he kissed me a few months later I found that I had developed somewhat of a... fondness for him. Also, the potential for data collection on sexual response was too compelling to resist. And so, in the usual progression of things, we began engaging in a number of progressively more intimate sexual acts on a regular basis.”

“So you slept with him… as an experiment?” John concludes incredulously, eyebrows drawing back together again as he visibly digests the information. It’s really a wonder that the wrinkle between his eyes isn’t significantly more pronounced, with how often he repeats the action.

Sherlock purses his lips, and presses his fingertips against them as he thinks back on the decision. Was it, indeed, an experiment?

It wouldn’t be false to define it as such; an experiment on both his own nature and the worth of sentiment. He inclines his head in agreement.

“In a sense, yes. Even so, not a terribly successful one in the long run,” he waves his free hand about in a vague, disdainful manner. “While I didn’t find the new physical aspects of our relationship as…satisfying as Victor did, I did occasionally enjoy our activities to a degree. But I grew to find Victor’s continual insistence upon them incredibly tedious. At his request, we attempted full intercourse once— very unsuccessfully. I wasn’t able to respond as required and it made the proceedings far too disagreeable to continue, so I made him stop.”

“Well, that’s not surprising.” John remarks indignantly, his features having reordered themselves from confusion and set firmly into a scowl instead. Sherlock lifts his brows inquisitively and turns his head to face him on the pillow.

“It isn’t?” He questions, feeling strangely unsure in the face of John’s displeasure.

Is John upset about the the fact that he stopped Victor? No— incredibly unlikely. Sherlock had clearly expressed that the act had been unpleasant for him, and John’s concern for Sherlock’s well being has always, as a rule, exceeded his own concern for such matters of transport. John is an Alpha— perhaps he disapproves of the idea of an Omega copulating, even unsuccessfully with a Be- oh!

Despite his brief experimental foray, Sherlock has never been overly interested in the intricacies of copulation and gender dynamics. A basic understanding of sexual relations was useful for the work, but given how unbelievably mundane it all was, he’d never bothered to take his research any deeper. John, on the other hand, had a manifest interest in such matters, and as a Doctor, a greater insight on the pertinent physiological details. Brilliant! Perhaps he’d be able to corroborate some long discarded hypotheses for Sherlock.

“Was it to do with the Beta-Omega pheromonal dynamic do you think? I’d abstracted some theories regarding hormonal response between gender cla-” He begins postulating excitedly, before John rudely cuts him off, again.

“No Sherlock,” John sighs in his familiar put-upon manner, “that whole ‘Omegas can’t be satisfied by anyone but an Alpha’ bit is a load of rubbish. People will fancy whoever the hell they fancy. Hell, Clara was absolutely mad for Harry before she went and cocked it all up. What I meant was, well, it’s not very sexy for someone to be pressuring you into doing something you don’t want to do, is it?” John rolls his head in the cradle of his palms to meet Sherlock’s eyes. The steady, serious gaze inexplicably steals the breath from Sherlock’s lungs, and his heart stutters against his sternum.

“N-no. I suppose it isn’t.” He stammers breathlessly in reply. They lie silently for a beat, eyes locked together in the dim light. The quiet of the room grows positively palpable, until Sherlock finally swallows and resumes his story, much quieter than before; almost hesitantly. “Victor was adamant that the irregular nature of my arousal was entirely due to my usage of suppressants. He didn’t comprehend that I was just not as interested in it as he was. I had no desire to discontinue my suppressant usage and return to the unpleasantness of heat cycles, but... I had also grown very accustomed to his companionship and was likewise loath to lose it.”

“Y’know, this Victor sounds like a right cock.” John chirps with a brittle smile, teeth bared and eyes hard.

“Well, we did have a fair bit in common,” Sherlock jokes with a soft smile; a subtle attempt at placation. “In any case, while I briefly considered acquiescing, the more he pressured, the more I disinterested I became. Especially once he introduced me to cocaine, which was infinitely more pleasurable and only repressed my physical urges further.”

“He did what?!” John jolts upward suddenly, twisting his torso to glower down at Sherlock, completely incensed.

Sherlock blinks up at him in surprise, startled by the intensity of John’s reaction. He doesn't understand why John takes any reminder of Sherlock’s past substance abuse so poorly. It’s long done and over with, and while he acknowledges that perhaps he’d not had the control over the habit he’d thought he did at the time, he refuses to let the spectre of it haunt him forever.

Nevertheless, perhaps it may have been more prudent of him to have left out that little detail.

The way John is almost vibrating with barely suppressed protective rage above him, however, is only adding fuel to the fire currently slithering through his veins. His inner Omega wants nothing more than to arch backward and offer his throat in submission. He quashes the impulse fiercely, refusing to give in to his base instincts, and instead tilts his chin up haughtily.

If the gesture exposes his throat anyway, he tells himself it’s merely a happy accident.

“Oh yes,” He surprises himself with how level he manages to keep his voice. He doesn’t break eye contact with John for so much as an instant as he coolly recounts the decision that catastrophically upended two years of his life. “He developed a proclivity for it during the course of our relationship, through the influence of some of his fellow upperclassmen. He surmised— quite correctly— that I too might enjoy it’s effects, and subsequently acquainted me with its use. An action that rather spectacularly backfired on him, I should think, given its incidental effect on my libido.”

John stares back at him inscrutably for several moments, then finally blinks, nostrils flaring fleetingly before he turns to rest his elbows on his knees and fist his hands in his hair.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have- I just… I’m sorry.” He breathes deeply through his nose and blows it back out again sharply. “So whatever happened to him? Please tell me something terrible.”

“During my second year, his father passed away suddenly in the midst of a financial scandal, and he was forced to withdraw from the college. Shortly after that he decided to relocate to America to join his mother, and that, as they say, was the end of that. I’m certain that Mycroft had a hand in the decision, though neither would ever admit it. He was paying Victor to keep him informed on my activities after all.”

“Hold on just a tick. You mean, the way he tried to— with me— when we first met?” John cuts in, angling his head back at Sherlock, eyes wide. Sherlock rolls his eyes at John's incredulous expression.

“Yes, of course. Exactly like that. How did you think I knew? You were hardly the first person Mycroft attempted to bribe to keep tabs on me John.” Sherlock scoffs. “You just happened to be the first to refuse.”

“Fucking Mycroft,” John declares contemptuously to the ceiling as he flops back bodily against his pillow with a huff.

“Now there’s an especially distasteful image,” Sherlock drawls witheringly as he shudders in distaste. His insistent erection deflates slightly at even the thought. Perhaps that may just help rein in his newly rampant libido. “At any rate, I imagine it was my introduction to narcotics that soured their arrangement. I can only imagine the apoplectic fit that ensued when Mycroft discovered he was inadvertently funding his baby brother’s new drug habit. Or perhaps he finally caught wind of our other joint activities. This may come as a shock, but Mycroft is somewhat traditional.” John snorts at this and he chuckles in return. “He wouldn’t have approved of my having any sort of assignations outside of a bond, especially then, though likely even now, undoubtedly. Far too vulgar. An embarrassment to the Holmes family name, and to him as my Alpha Familiae. It would be nearly as bad as the cocaine- if not worse- in his mind.”

John has no rejoinder for that; he knows very well that almost any remark would be unbearably trite. Nothing he hasn’t heard before from some over-enthusiastic student protester campaigning for Omega rights.

I’m sorry your life isn’t your own. I t’s wrong for someone to have that kind of control over someone else. You should have the right to do whatever you’d like, just like anyone else.

Dull, dull, dull.

Useless, empty platitudes.

Instead, John says nothing, which reveals a greater depth of understanding than that of any bleeding-heart activist. Despite any complaints, Mycroft’s allowed Sherlock an astonishing amount of freedom, and they’re both well aware of the fact.

And so they stare up at the ceiling together in silence, the hush settling over them like a thick quilt.

As the minutes stretch out, Sherlock becomes increasingly aware of the their closeness again; the uniform rhythm of John’s breaths, the warmth radiating off his body. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch, and he’s overcome with panic. He needs shatter this stillness before he does something truly regrettable. He frantically rummages through his heat-hazed thoughts for an appropriate action until the thankfully obvious occurs to him.

“Well, now that I’ve shared my banal little narrative, it do believe it’s your turn. That is how these “sleepover” engagements work, is it not?” He demands impatiently, and John starts a little, turning to him with wide eyes.

Evidently he’d assumed this would be more of a monologue rather than a dialogue.

Why on earth would Sherlock have any desire to divulge any of that sordid little personal history if not in an exchange of information? Good god, sometimes the man really was an imbecile.

“Right, right. Well, um. Wait- I don’t actually have to tell you my entire sexual history do I?”

“God no. Not in any detail at least, or we’ll be sat here all week.” He taps his fingertips thoughtfully against his lips. “Given the genesis of this trite little discourse, an overview on how an Alpha could acquire a nickname like ‘Three Continents Watson’ without ever having shared a heat with an Omega should suffice.”

“Oi! Are you calling me a slag?” John squawks. “And how in the hell did you find out about that?”

Sherlock levels an impassive glance his way.“Please John. You should know by now that it’s pointless to expect anything potentially embarrassing to escape my notice.”

“You are a menace,” John proclaims decisively.

“Mm, thank you,” Sherlock drawls with an impish smile and John laughs, shaking his head fondly.

“Alright. I’m sure you’ve already deduced most of it anyhow. Ah, well, I was a bit of one off in the family. My Mum and my Da were both Betas, and so were their own folks. There was Harry, and then I came along and it was a bit of a surprise. One of my Great-Granddads on Mum’s side was an Alpha, but besides that, we Watson’s have had Beta blood through-and-through. I honestly didn’t give it much thought to be honest— it’s not as though Omega’s are thick on the ground. And you lot tend to come from the posher set— I only ever even knew a few of them growing up.”

Sherlock nods in assent. John was completely correct on both counts. He had, of course, deduced John’s lineage fairly easily within the first week of their acquaintance. And his statement regarding the frequency of Omega’s within the lower social stratas was relatively accurate.

“It’s largely due to marital practices of the elite— traditionally we were essentially sold off to the highest bidder. Being that the gene is recessive, it was only a matter of time before Omegas were largely bred out of the lower classes and into the upper. Even today, working-class Omega’s are essentially guaranteed an advantageous union without any sort of real effort, if they so choose. Financial security in exchange for our fecundity. Given our lack of independence, it’s a sensible trade.”

“God, that’s such bollocks.” John scrunches his face in distaste. “Well, I did know some, but I only ever dated the one actually. Tisha Hughes. We met at Uni; she was close friends with one of my flatmates, and training to be a nurse, so we had some common ground. It wasn't that we never slept together— I mean, it was university, and we were both young and fit. But sharing a heat seemed a bigger step, y’know? Because I was an Alpha instead of a Beta, and neither of us had done before, I think we thought it might be harder to resist the bonding urge. We’d been dating maybe six months when... she meant to surprise me. Or, at least, that’s what she said afterwards…” John snorts and concedes sarcastically, “Mind, I did get quite the surprise.”

“Hm, I may not actually be a mind reader, but I suspect something occurred at that juncture to make the relationship go awry?” Sherlock wagers cynically. John's always had terrible taste in women, as far as he can ascertain.

“Deduce that, did you?” John laughs drily, but with no real bite to his tone. As he speaks, his brings both hands up to ruffle through the hair at his crown in a rough, self-conscious manner. Sherlock watches the action from the corner of one eye, and finds his own fingers twitching with a sudden desire to slide through ashen blonde strands. Instead, he presses his left hand tight against his thigh and keeps his eyes trained intently on the ceiling above them as John continues. “That’s one way of putting it. I got in after a late lab to find her and one of my flatmates, Liam O’Donnelly, shagging each other blind on the sofa of the shared lounge.”

“That seems particularly tactless of them.”

“Tad bit, yeah.” John giggles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It turned into a scene straight out of crap telly. Alpha/Omega: Essex, or the like. Liam and I got into a punch-up, and our flatmates had to break us up, Tisha crying and carrying on the whole while.”

“Good God.”

“In hindsight it was terribly melodramatic.”

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock drawls, deadpan and positively dripping with false astonishment.

“She wasn’t even a very good girlfriend to be honest. Always making little snide comments about how I wasn't very Alphalike. Not at all worth the split lip and black eye. I figured it wasn’t worth the fuss after that- it’s not as if I need a heat to get a leg over.” John twitches his shoulders against the duvet in a prone approximation of a shrug. “Besides which, with no Omegas in the Army, I hadn’t even met an unbonded Omega above twenty in years, until you.”

Sherlock waits a few moments for dramatic effect before letting out a short hum and coolly announcing, “I’ve always assumed that the bother of heats and breeding was all just a distasteful inconvenience. Thank you for confirming that for me.”

Sherlock attempts to affect an imperious air but the giggle that bubbles up out of John in response is impossible to resist. He joins in, softly at first, but the giggles rapidly devolve into breathless howls. They clutch at their bellies helplessly while they fall about laughing. Whenever either attempts to stop, the merest glance at the other has them dissolving into frantic giggles anew.

Finally, once the amusement has run it’s course, Sherlock rolls to his side, gasping in an effort to catch his breath. When John turns over and attempts the same, he graces him with a wild grin.

“While I’ll certainly refrain from repeating the error with my suppressants, I believe I can confidently declare this a successful experiment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” he pulls his brows together thoughtfully, “Disregarding the physical discomforts at least. It’s provided me a wealth of data that I neglected to record in my youth.”

They lay quietly, staring back at one another across the duvet, only the gradually levelling off of their breathing disturbing the silence.

“Your scent is thoroughly agreeable,” Sherlock finds himself murmuring across the strikingly paltry distance between their faces. “I’m always aware of it, of course, but it seems especially pleasant in this state. Like tea and woodsmoke, and biscuits.

John smiles back at him, scrunching his face sleepily atop the pillow. It’s a small thing, warm and bright, and just for Sherlock. It makes something flutter inside of him.

In the dim light and quiet of the room, it feels as though they’ve created a pocket in time that’s just their own; separate from the rest of the world.

“Hmm, yours too.” John hums, “Like… smoke, and pipe tobacco, and a hint of something tangy, but sweet— blood oranges maybe? Smells good. A little too good,” he gestures down to the incredibly obvious bulge in his trousers, finally acknowledging the elephant in the room. “Sorry about that.” He blinks rapidly, looking a tad gobsmacked. “I have no idea why I just told you that.”

“Hormones,” Sherlock declares decisively, breaking their gaze to stare back up at the ceiling. “The pheromones of an Omega in heat precipitate response, otherwise know as estrual inebriation, in any Alpha’s within close proximity. While sensationalized film and literature would have us believe that affected individuals swiftly devolve into mindless beasts, incapable of denying their animalistic urges, in reality the resultant hormones merely lower social inhibitions. Similar to the effect of moderate alcohol consumption. Hence the term. It's really only at the climax of intercourse that the physiological urges are actually anything approaching impossible to resist. And that stage of events, I'd think it's a rather moot point.”

“Yes, thank you. Doctor, remember?” John points at himself. Sherlock ignores him and continues on inattentively, rattling off the relevant data that comes to mind.

“Some exhibited behaviours of estrual inebriation are heightened flirtatious behaviour, speech disinhibition and mild to moderate aggression toward other unbonded members of the same gender class. Case in point; you and Liam O’Donnelly bashing each other’s noses in over Tisha Hughes.”

“Know it all.” John snorts, smiling in that fondly exasperated way that he saves just for Sherlock. The expression never fails to light something warm in Sherlock’s belly, but more so now than ever before. “And yet you deleted the bit about suppressant withdrawal. Brilliant. So what you're trying to say, in your incredibly roundabout way, is that I’m drunk off you.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums in agreement. He quite likes the idea of that. His own pheromones— compounds composed of infinitesimal molecules of himself— slipping up inside of John and triggering a surge of dopamine and serotonin, intoxicating him. Not unlike a cocaine high, but unfathomably better.

It’s a delicious thought, and he luxuriates in it indulgently for a short while.

Except it’s possibly longer than he realizes, because when he comes back to himself John has grown uncomfortably stiff next to him. He tries to think of something to say that will bring back the hazy feeling of contentment, but as he’s searching for it John speaks up.

“I should probably go. Do you need anything? I think we haven’t much in, but I could pop out for you.” He rolls away and swings himself up to get off the bed.

A sudden, miserable panic swoops through Sherlock at the thought of John leaving. Before he can think better of it, he darts out his hand and clamps it around John’s wrist. John freezes, one foot already on the floor, and looks back over his shoulder down at Sherlock. Their eyes connect, and suddenly a new tension that hasn’t been there before thrums between them.

“John,” He whispers hesitantly. An idea occurs to him— a very terrible idea perhaps.

One that could destroy everything and drive John away once and for all.

But…then again.

Despite what he may pretend, he’s not actually oblivious to the lengths that John goes to for him.

It’s quite likely despicable of him to even consider exploiting it, but oh— how he wants to. He swipes the tip his tongue out to wet his lips, and John's eyes snap to the small movement almost magnetically.

“You inquired, earlier, whether I had an acquaintance with whom I had some sort of, um, arrangement. To assist me with this sort of thing. It occurs to me that you are, without question, the most dependable person that I know. My closest and most trusted friend. And I find that I would not be adverse to- that is to say, I was wondering, if you would possibly be amenable to…”

“Are you asking me to…” John stares down at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“I- I- no!” Sherlock stutters uncharacteristically as he stares back up at John, panic flashing across his features for an instant before they go carefully blank and, releasing John’s wrist as if burned, he moves to turn away. “Nevermind! Yes, I do think it’s best that you go now.”

“Sherlock, wait!” John clambers back up onto the bed fully, throwing an arm out over Sherlock to prevent him from rolling away. He looks down, bracing himself over the detective with one hand against the duvet next to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t, I- Yes! Of course I’ll… ” He closes his eyes briefly and inhales deeply through his nose as though steadying himself. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Sherlock gapes up at him in surprise, finding himself suddenly breathless. “Alright.”

Do gonadotropic hormone levels arrest the cardiovascular structures?

He doesn’t recall currently, but clearly they must, to some extent.

“Are you sure? I mean- you just told me all about how you don’t really go in for this sort of thing.”

“I believe also mentioned that my suppressants were responsible for the disparity in my libido, which is quite clearly not an issue at this point in time.”

“Right, ah-” John laughs self-consciously. “Another experiment then?”

“We can certainly think of it as such.” Sherlock smiles in return, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

They stare at one another, and Sherlock blinks up at John anxiously from where he lies pinned halfway beneath. He feels unexpectedly flustered; painfully conscious of his pale, naked chest with its scattered freckles. Which is downright preposterous, considering the activity he just proposed that they engage in.

As if realizing his sudden bashfulness, John pulls away and sits back on his heels. Sherlock braces himself up on his elbows in turn, to better maintain eye contact between them.

“So, how would you like to, um…” John rubs the back of his neck as he gestures awkwardly with his right hand between them. “You know.”

“Oh! I suppose we should, uh… disrobe. To my knowledge, it’s generally a requisite step of the entire process.” Sherlock babbles, fully extending his arms beneath himself to sit up.

“Well, I wouldn’t say requisite… but yeah, it’s um, preferable.” John agrees, reaching over his head to yank his jumper off. Sherlock carefully undoes his cuffs and pushes his shirt off of his shoulders, tossing it over the edge of the bed to drop on the floor. John huffs a laugh as his head reemerges from the bottom of it and he launches the jumper across the room before starting in on his shirt buttons. “Neither of us knowing what the hell we’re doing makes me feel a bit like I’m sixteen again; skiving off school to have it off with Hannah Davies while my Mum was still at work.”

“I can honestly say that I never did that.” Sherlock sniffs disdainfully to disguise the frankly ridiculous twinge of jealousy in his gut. The image of a softer, younger John rolling about in bed in the early afternoon sunshine with some faceless teenage girl springs unbidden into his mind.

How intriguing— the oestral aggression toward perceived sexual rivals apparently carries over even to the imaginary. That’s considerably more significant than his research had implied. Twenty years after the fact, and still; the absurdly illogical Omega side of him wants to grab the girl by the hair, and yank her unceremoniously off of his Alpha.

“Good job that.” John grins at him, completely oblivious to the absurdly possessive nature of Sherlock’s thoughts. “I’m pretty sure that Hannah would have been a bit old for you back then.”

“Hilarious John, truly.”

Sherlock is just moving on to the fastener of his trousers when John stops and says, “Wait. You’ve never done this before.”

“Yes. I do believe we covered that. And neither have you. You know how much I abhor repetition.” Sherlock replies without even looking up at John. He feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He can’t recall undoing his own bloody trousers ever being this difficult. His fingers feel oddly thick and clumsy— as though finer motor control is quite beyond them.

“Maybe we should...”

Sherlock fingers still and he looks up apprehensively as John trails off.

“John,” he groans. “Please don’t be tedious. Just because I haven’t shared a heat before, I’m hardly a virgin.” He feels oddly petulant in a way he only ever has when itching for his next hit. That buzzy feeling under his skin is beginning to drive him a bit mad. “You did say that you would assist me with this… dilemma, and if you’re thinking of changing your mind because of some terribly misplaced need to protect my rather questionable virtue… please don’t.”

“What?” John blinks, looking more than slightly befuddled. It’s achingly attractive, despite the fact it has no reason to be. “No. I just meant- Um...” He trails off again, blushing deep scarlet and biting his lip. He reaches out to cup his hand against Sherlock’s face, and brushes a thumb gently over the arch of his cheekbone. The gesture sends a bolt of lust straight to Sherlock's groin. “Maybe… we should just- be a little less clinical about it? We could undress together, and maybe I could… kiss you?”

“Oh.” Sherlock replies dumbly. Oh god, please yes. “Yes. I mean, um, yes, I suppose that would be acceptable.”

“Oh good. I’m glad you agree,” John chuckles warmly and, without any further warning, rocks forward and presses their lips together.

Sherlock is absolutely certain that his heart momentarily stops before starting up again at a breakneck pace. A sound mortifyingly not unlike a squeak escapes him, and John pulls back to scan his face.

“Okay?”

Sherlock swallows, bobbing his head in a shaky little nod. “Yes. I- yes. It’s… good.”

John hums in approval and leans back in slot his lips against Sherlock’s again. The kiss starts chastely, but before long his tongue is teasing against the plump swell of Sherlock’s lower lip, seeking entry. Sherlock moans unthinkingly as he opens to it, and shuffles his knees forward, giving himself over to the frantic drive to press himself against the solid Alpha body before him.

It’s John who groans then, as Sherlock's half-naked, feverish limbs press tightly against and around him. They swallow greedily at one another's mouths in a tangle of tongues and nibbling teeth. When John breaks away to mouth along his jaw, he whimpers plaintively and offers up his neck.

He wrestles the remaining buttons of John’s shirt free while John successfully fumbles open the resistant fastener of Sherlock’s trousers. They break apart fleetingly while Sherlock to wriggles out of them and kicks them over the edge of the mattress. In the meantime, John tugs the now crumpled duvet out from beneath them and shoves it off to the floor. Sherlock clambers back up on his knees, and slides his hands beneath the hem of John’s vest as soon as John shrugs free of his shirt. He rucks it upward while tipping his head up to lick into John’s mouth in a blistering kiss. Together they eventually manage to peel it over John’s head, though it takes twice as long as it should.

John’s always been exceptionally modest around the flat, especially for a military man and doctor. It’s obviously meant as a respectful gesture, in awareness of their differing gender class, but Sherlock’s found it inexplicably grating.

He’s had glimpses of course; the dangerous nature of their work has occasionally required him to assist John in cleaning and dressing a wound, and on occasion John’s wandered about in his dressing gown after bathing.

But it’s always been frustratingly… not enough.

Now, finally… Sherlock sits back on his heels to admire the long-awaited view, and all the new data that comes with it.

John’s small for an Alpha, but that’s not unusual in the heterozygous— which John undoubtedly is. Even discounting his size, he’s far more level-headed and overall more intelligent than any homozygous Alpha could ever claim to be. Why would anyone lust after one of those hulking brutes over this?

John’s form is sturdy, and well-muscled, with a bit of soft padding over his middle that only serves to make him look all the more pleasantly touchable.

And oh how he wants to touch.

As he watches, John wrestles open the fly of his jeans, impatiently pushing them down his hips. He only manages to work them just past his pants, before the fabric bunches, clinging frustratingly to his thighs. With an impatient huff, Sherlock unceremoniously shoves him backward. John hits the mattress with a bounce and comedic expression of surprise; a startled ‘oof’ of air escaping him. Sherlock grasps both the trouser hems and toes of his socks and swiftly yanks.

John props himself up onto his elbows and beams in amusement while Sherlock flings the offending articles off the bed as though they’ve personally wronged him.

“Well done you,” he snickers commendingly. “Never let it be said that an Omega can't be the one to do the ravishing.”

Sherlock’s face burns with embarrassment, a wave of awkward insecurity overtaking him. He hadn’t meant to be so obviously overeager. Stupid, stupid. He’s ruined this opportunity; showing his hand and making John think he’s just a desperate, needy Omega after all. John catches on immediately, clambering back onto his knees quickly and framing Sherlock’s face soothingly between his palms.

“No, no- that’s not a bad thing! I like my bed partners keen.” He murmurs reassuringly, and Sherlock turns to nuzzle into a palm, his eyes falling shut in bliss as he breathes in the warm Alpha scent. John lets him scent for a few moments, then his hands slip down to cup Sherlock’s shoulders and gently press him back onto his pillow.

He watches, enraptured, as John shamelessly works his pants down over the bulge of his erection, and finally (oh god, finally) reveals his cock.

Sherlock breaths a mental sigh of relief that it’s nothing like the over-large monstrosities that the Alphas in pornography present. It’s slightly longer and girthier than the average Beta’s, but not by much. The true difference lies in the spongy looking erectile tissue at the base of it, where his knot will form at climax. It’s swelling slightly already, in reaction to the scent of Omega in heat permeating the air, but remains soft and yielding for the time being.

“It’s very… nice.” He says without thinking, and immediately cringes internally at the pitiful compliment.

Nice? He may as well have patted John the head and offered him some biscuits.

John doesn't seem bothered in the slightest however. In fact, he looks rather pleased, so Sherlock pushes determinedly past the mortification and reaches out shyly to stroke his hand down the warm, softly padded line of John’s abdomen. All of John is very nice. His fingers brush over the dusting of tawny hairs beneath John’s navel, trailing down until he reaches the thick nest of curls that surround his erection. He wraps his hand around the scorching hot appendage and squeezes lightly. John moans unabashedly, then reaches down and draws Sherlock’s hand away.

“Ta,” he grins wolfishly,crawling up over Sherlock’s body to nip playfully at his lower lip with a friendly growl. “Your turn.” He grasps the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and begins to slowly peel them downward. “God,” He huffs. “These feel extraordinarily expensive. Do I even want to know how much a pair of them cost?”

“Likely not,” Sherlock drawls, lifting his hips to allow John to ease them past his bottom. John draws them down Sherlock’s legs and off, throwing them over his shoulder with a cheeky smile. Sherlock laughs and spreads his legs slightly, pulling John down to press their lips together again. Their hips roll together, the sweat slicking their skin making for just the right amount of friction. John breaks the kiss to mouth down along the curve of Sherlock’s neck desperately, biting and sucking while Sherlock moans and arches into it.Then, reaching one arm out above them, John begins paw ineffectually at the bedside table, and Sherlock glances up between John’s face and hand in bewilderment.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Condom?” John says, then after a beat, drops his head down onto Sherlock’s shoulder with groan. “You don’t have any, do you.”

Sherlock raises an sardonic brow.

“I believe you can infer the answer to that from the fact that I’ve not had a sexual encounter in over a decade.” He frowns dismissively. “Besides, we don’t need one.”

“We don’t-” John raises his head to gape at him. ‘“Of course we need one Sherlock!”

“Why? You said there wasn’t any concern regarding… that.”

“Yeah, but- Sherlock condoms aren’t just for contraception!” He shakes his head disbelief. “I’ll just pop up to my room and-” As he moves as if to rise from the bed, Sherlock groans in irritation, and grabs his forearm to pull him back.

“You habitually undergo thorough testing before and after any new sexual partners, and I'm certainly not a concern on that front.” He winds his limbs around John in his best imitation of a cephalopod, pressing their sweat-damp bodies together enticingly. “You’re welcome to go and retrieve them later, but for now, I’d prefer it if we moved swiftly along toward the penetrative portion of the evening without further interruption. Before I-” he grinds their hips together pointedly making them both gasp. “- lose my mind.”

“Okay,” John pants agreeably. “Okay. This once- but I’m nipping upstairs straight away afterward. I don’t fancy making that much mess, since we both know I’m the one who’ll end up dealing with it later.” Sherlock’s face pinches in an affronted frown.

Well, that’s just an unfair implication. Why, only last month… He opens his mouth to argue, but John rounds him off before he can.

“And don’t even try bringing up the laundry you did last month again. I had the flu— and it was the one load! And you shrank my favourite jumper!”

He snaps his mouth shut. John may have a point. Well, it’s for the best that he continue to manage the household chores anyway- he’s much more efficient at them.

“Very well.”

John settles back down at that, mouth returning to its exploration of Sherlock’s neck— clearly Sherlock’s won the argument.

If only John were always so acquiescent. He is, of course, far more content overall when his sexual needs are being met.

The idea has never occurred Sherlock before, but he would be more than amenable to some sort of copulatory arrangement between them. He wouldn’t even be averse to the occasional placebo-cycle heat, so long as they haven’t a case on. His relations with Victor may have been largely unexciting, but this unexpected venture with John has been incredibly stimulating thus far.

It would hardly be a sacrifice to repeat it.

And if John needs were being adequately fulfilled at home, he would likely spend less time berating Sherlock about his experiments, or running about with dull, irritating Beta women. Moreover, the risk of him eventually leaving with one of those women would dwindle entirely.

It really would be an ideal solution come to think of it— if John weren’t so determinedly inclined toward females.

The thought has his pathetic inner Omega smarting with rejection, but he harshly quashes it, and pointedly directs his attention back to John. Or, more expressly, his hand where it trails possessively down the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s chest.

“I've never- well, you know I’ve never… been with a male omega before.” John admits in a slightly nervous tone. “So I don’t really know what to- you’re just going to have to tell me what you like.”

“I'm given to understand that the, um, equipment is relatively similar to that of an Omega or Beta woman, with only the one,” Sherlock cuts off with a gasp as— with only the slightest trace of hesitation— John wraps a calloused hand around his length and gives a smooth stroke. “Ah, prominent exception.”

“Prominent is certainly one way to put it,” John quips, and Sherlock squirms a bit at the unexpected praise. He’s well aware that, as an Omega, his penis is markedly smaller than an Alpha’s, or even most Beta’s. The proof of that is quite apparent between them after all.

He’d hardly expected John to ridicule it, of course, but for him to compliment it?

He blinks rapidly, and John chuckles good-naturedly at his stunned expression, then leans up to press his face into his neck again and scents him. The proprietary gesture sets Sherlock positively aflame and squirms and he clasps a hand over John’s nape to encouragingly hold him in place.

“I’m certain that whatever you like yourself would more than suffice in that… area. But I don’t expect you to, um-” he pants feverishly, instinctually parting his legs further as John’s hand continues it’s casual stokes. He tilts his head to better expose his neck to John’s ministrations. “You needn’t feel obliged to-”

“Sherlock,” John stops and braces himself on an elbow to look at Sherlock in exasperation. “I'm not just going to- to- stick it in!” He promptly lowers himself down again to resume mouthing at Sherlock’s neck. “It's called foreplay,” he adds, punctuating with a playful nip at taut muscle.

“I don’t care what it’s called!” Sherlock grumbles, but his body belies his protests, writhing up against John’s lips as he works his way down. When he stops to lap and suck at pebbled nipples, Sherlock mewls in frustration, hips jerking upward of their own volition. Finally, John slides even further, settling on his belly between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock seizes onto the momentary respite from sensation to argue further. “I don't require any sort of play. The reproductive organs of an Omega in estrus require little to no preparation prior to intercourse. You‘sticking it in’, as you so eloquently put it, is perfectly acceptable.”

“Not to me it isn’t.” John replies placidly, unmoved. He makes more room for himself, pushing upward insistently until Sherlock folds his left knee and plants his foot flat against the mattress. He strokes his thumb gently over the slick opening just below Sherlock’s cock, where testicles would hang were he an Alpha or a Beta, then carefully slides two fingers inside. “God, you're so wet.” He gasps in pleased surprise, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s milky thigh to watch his fingers work. “Does that feel good?”

Sherlock drops his head back against the pillow and groans brokenly, nodding. He’s vaguely aware that, had he currently greater command over his faculties, he’d be absolutely mortified over the noises he’s been making.

“It's a bit different, I guess- but also not really? I mean, yes, you’ve got a cock instead of a clitoris, but otherwise…” John observes affably from between Sherlock’s thighs. He props himself up slightly on his elbows and his tongue peeks out to wet his lips as his features take on a sly, determined cast. “Now, let's see how well those anatomy lessons paid off.” His fingers swivel deliberately, searching carefully for something along Sherlock’s inner walls. Finally, they stroke over a small bundle of nerves, and Sherlock keens, arching his back and spreading his legs unconsciously wider. John lights up with a self-satisfied grin. “There we are! Vestigial prostate.”

“I was right.” Sherlock gasps.

“Hmm?”

“When we first met. I thought that it would be useful, having a medical man around.”

John laughs as he clasps the base of Sherlock's member with his unoccupied hand. “I’ve never actually done this before, so I’m might be complete bollocks at it.”

“What,” Sherlock pants, raising his head in confusion from the pillow at the non-sequitur. He blinks down at John’s mouth, and it’s torturously close proximity to his cock, dumbfounded.

Surely John isn’t planning to attempt that. 

Alpha’s don’t do that— certainly not for Omegas at least.

Granted, his reasoning abilities seem to be rather diminished, but he can’t think of anything else John might mean to do. And he’s slightly concerned that he might actually spontaneously combust if John does what he appears to be planning.

“Th-that really isn’t necessary. I’m already more than aroused enough to proce- oh god.” The velvet heat of John’s mouth envelopes the tip of his cock, and while his brain is quite possibly in the process of evaporating, he can’t be arsed to care.

“I’m sorry- you were saying?” John pulls off to smirk up at him. Sherlock resists the urge to reach down and push John’s head back into place, but only just. Instead he twists the sheets even tighter between his fingers and whines. He’ll do anything, say anything, so long as John resumes what he was doing.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to, as the Alpha sets back to it immediately. From the first few slightly awkward bobs of John’s head, and the way that he fumbles to coordinate his hands at first it’s obvious that he has no experience at it. But he takes to it quickly, and before long, he has Sherlock writhing and moaning helplessly beneath the twin sensations of his mouth and the steady twist of his fingers inside. The urgency of the feeling builds quickly, until Sherlock’s startled to realize just how close he is to climax.

“John…” he sobs, hitching his breath when John hums around him in response without stopping. It’s so good, so very incredibly good, but he can’t- he needs something else. He whines with increasing desperation, reaching down to scrabble frantically at John’s hair. “John, I- I- stop.”

John slips off instantly with a wet pop, releasing his cock and slipping his fingers out entirely to look up at Sherlock, red-faced and concerned.

“Are you okay? Did I do something-” He freezes and takes in the sight of Sherlock’s heaving chest and glassy eyes. A mixture of relief and amusement melts across his face. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Sherlock wheezes slightly as he brings himself under control, just barely managing to keep his hips from rocking upward. “I just- I need-”

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay." John soothes Sherlock, petting his abdomen gently. “I know what you need.” He sits back on his heels in a smooth motion, and rubs at his nape. “How would you like… um, from behind would be-”

“Like this.” Sherlock hears himself pant, clutching John’s sides insistently and trying to coax him forward. “I want to see you.”

“Oh.” John blushes and ducks his head a little. Absolutely absurd, considering where his hands and mouth have just been, but painfully endearing nonetheless. “Yeah, that’s uh, good.” He shuffles forward on his knees between Sherlock’s legs, then hesitates. “Are you sure? Afterward we’ll be…”

“Yes, John, I am aware of the mechanics involved.”

“It might be uncomfortable for you. A bit smothering.”

“John, I do not mean this to disparage you in any way, but you're hardly going to crush me.” Sherlock is unable to keep the hint of mirth from his voice.

“You berk. Fair enough.” John huffs, hitching Sherlock’s knee up over his right arm as he braces himself down on his left. “Suppose we can always roll over it gets too much.” Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders, pulling him close, and lifts his legs to encompass his waist.

“Oh god John, please just-” He starts, then breaks off to moan as John reaches to guide himself forward and pushes inside.

God, yes.

Perhaps Victor was right all those years ago, and it was only a matter of his suppressants holding him back from feeling this. He doesn’t regret it in the least. Had he listened to Victor then, he likely wouldn’t be here with John now, and there’s no one he’d rather experience this with. It’s amazing. There are surely better ways to describe it, but they escape him at present. All he can think about is the blunt, unrelenting pressure making a space for itself inside of him. John carefully buries the entire length of his cock then stills and takes a long, deep breath.

“Alright?” He whispers, trembling with the effort of hold himself still. Sherlock nods and rests his forehead against John’s cheek, then wriggles his hips restlessly.

“Yes, just- I need… More.” He grips John’s shoulders as the smaller man plants his knees for better leverage, and begins to steadily pump his hips. He starts gently, but at the urging of Sherlock’s own shifting hips, and the demanding instructions hissed into his ear, he’s soon thrusting in earnest. Sherlock moans, digging his fingers deeper into the sweat-slick curve of John’s back and lifting his hips desperately to meet the increasingly hard thrusts.

Oh, oh.

He revises his previous thought— it’s better than amazing.

He hadn’t realized just how marvellous sex could be. It’s John all around him and inside of him; his sweat and saliva smearing across Sherlock’s skin, his breath mixing with Sherlock’s as they pant together. It’s better than cocaine, or heroin, or morphine, or any combination of chemicals that he’s ever injected into his veins. He suddenly has a much better understanding of why people seem to be so mad for it; lying, cheating, stealing and killing over it.

Clearly, his data on the subject has been woefully lacking.

They continue on like so, gasping against one another’s mouths when they no longer have the coordination to kiss properly.

“This isn’t going to…” John’s gulps desperately for air enough to speak. “Last… very long.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, nuzzling rapturously into the damp hair behind John’s ear. “Initial copulation during estrus is-” He groans at a particular motion of John’s hips. “Yes, right there- is typically the shortest in duration. Ten to… uh, fifteen minutes… on average. Oh god, yes, there. Harder.”

“How do you remember that,” John happily obliges him, hands pressing Sherlock’s hips upward to better maintain the angle. “And not…the bit about your suppressants?” He huffs with amusement.

The new angle sends a stream of breathy little 'ha-ha-ha’s' falling from Sherlock’s lips, delaying his response. “There was… ah… a case.” Sherlock manages.

“Of course there was.” John sits up, pulling Sherlock's hips into his lap as he does, thrusting relentlessly into him all the while. Sherlock winds his legs about John instinctively to keep him seated inside, hands fisting the pillow on either side of his head. “There’s a good lad,” John pants appreciatively as he wraps one hand around Sherlock's copiously leaking erection. The words ripple like a shock through Sherlock. Something in his groin clenches wonderfully, and he whines plaintively at the sensation.

“God, look at you,” John praises, stroking his cock with a tight, merciless grip. Sherlock feels the knot bumping against his slick entrance with every thrust. It’s swelling quickly now, almost at it’s full width; if John doesn't knot him soon, it won't be able to fit past the tightening ring of muscles just inside his opening. John's never shared a heat with an Omega before- perhaps he doesn't realize. He's seized by a sudden flood of panic. He needs it- it's the only thing that will extinguish the maddening want.

“J-John,” he cries, and John drops down over him again, releasing his cock to smooth hands over Sherlock’s sweat-damp curls instead.

“Don't worry, I've got you, don't worry,” he murmurs against Sherlock's ear, nipping gently at his earlobe and Sherlock quivers in relief. Of course he does, of course. John's never let him down before. “Do you want it?” John growls, slowing the speed of his thrusts to a teasing drag. Sherlock's confident that he's about to burst into flame at any moment, but he nods frantically regardless. John's answering laugh is hardly more than low, heated rumble just below his ear, where he mouths wetly at a patch of skin just above Sherlock’s scent gland. “Yeah? What do you want? Tell me.”

Sherlock’s mind stutters to a confused stop.

What does he want? He doesn't think he should need to spell out fo- oh. Ohhh— John's teasing him. He bites his lip and moans at the realization. Why on earth is that so incredibly arousing? John rolls his hips steadily all the while, neither slowing or speeding up. At the end of each stroke he deliberately presses the hot swell of his knot tightly against Sherlock, pulling back just before it slips inside. Sherlock sucks in a shaky breath and sobs.

“Your knot. I want your knot. Please John.”

John groans deep and low at the words and thrusts, his knot shoving past the slight resistance, throbbing as it swells to completion. The ring of muscle clamps down around it, squeezing and holding it snugly in place. As John’s cock twitches in release, he bares his teeth against the taut skin of Sherlock's neck and, for an instant, Sherlock's sure that John’s about to bite him. He doesn’t of course— and even the thought should fill Sherlock with horror— but instead, his eyes roll back and he cries out as his cock spasms, hot fluid splashing up between their bellies. John lifts his head to clumsily mash their mouths together in a kiss as they ride out the aftershocks, shuddering against one another helplessly.

Finally, John slumps on top on of him, face buried in Sherlock’s neck and chest heaving from the exertion. Sherlock lets his legs go slack about his waist, but leaves his ankles crossed loosely, to avoid jostling them where they’re joined. John’s somewhat heavier than expected, but Sherlock finds the warm weight pressing him down into the mattress to be oddly comforting rather than stifling. He hums contentedly and absently rubs his palms over John’s back.

“D’you wanna roll o’er?” John mumbles sleepily.

"No. I’m perfectly fine like this.” Sherlock replies, surprised to find that it’s entirely true. “Go to sleep.” The haze of heat clearing reassuringly from his mind for the time being. He knows it will return soon enough, but it’s a relief nonetheless. He listens to John’s breathing even out as he drifts to sleep, resisting his own lethargy to instead begin filing the encounter in his mind palace. It was unaccountably pleasing experience, and he finds himself readily anticipating the next. Given the national average of approximately ten bouts of intercourse, over the course of two to three days of estrus, there is ample opportunity for him to accumulate a wealth of data. He should be able to establish a fairly thorough grasp on sexual intimacy and the Alpha-Omega oestrual dynamic.

More importantly, he’ll be able to expand exponentially upon John’s wing. He has approximately seventeen minutes before John rouses. No time to lose. He raises a hand to stroke John’s hair and begins with itemizing all potential sexual acts and positions that John would likely be amenable to.

“Thank Christ I’d at least thought to put on my dressing gown before I headed back down,” John concludes with wry appreciation as he finishes off the last of his tea. Sherlock burrows his face into his pillow, shaking with laughter over John's harrowing account of dodging Mrs. Hudson’s motherly attentions on the landing.

After John’s knot had finally receded, he’d clambered out of bed to retrieve both the agreed upon condoms, and a damp flannel for Sherlock to clean up with. Sherlock hadn’t protested in the slightest, his limbs by that point quite uselessly numb from the pressure of John’s body on top of him.

Incidentally, he’d also returned with a tray of tea and scones, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson.

Despite John’s mild embarrassment, it was really quite convenient actually. Besides providing the much appreciated spot of tea, and it had given John the opportunity to concoct some excuse involving the flu that would provide them privacy for the remainder of his heat.

Sherlock gives a final snort, taking John’s empty plate and mug in hand and setting them alongside his own on the bedside table.

“Though I’d hazard she’d have avoided the flat for several days of her own accord had you neglected to.”

“Several lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to live that down,” John chuckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve been to many slumber parties like this.” He grins cheekily, fishing over the edge of the bed for the long-forgotten duvet with one foot. He hooks it and drags it back up onto mattress and over himself triumphantly, holding up the corner for Sherlock expectantly.

“Haven’t you?” Sherlock teases, wriggling beneath the proffered duvet to press up against John’s side, resting his chin on John’s chest. “Frankly, I’m quite surprised. You've given the impression of being rather free with your favours.”

“Now you’re definitely calling me a slag.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock smirks. He shifts slightly and feels a dribble of wetness between his thighs; his and John’s combined fluids leaking out of him. It should be utterly repulsive, but instead it’s absolutely delicious, and he feels the subdued spark of arousal flaring up inside him again already. “In any case, should you have any intent to reform your ways, I’d prefer you do so at a later date. I believe I’ll be requiring said attentions for some time yet. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, is that so?” John tugs Sherlock to sprawl on top of him, smiling teasingly up at him. Sherlock doesn’t bat an eye, settling himself unabashedly astride John’s hips with a pleased sigh, before continuing on in mock seriousness.

“Oh, yes. We did agree it was an experiment after all; scientific rigour calls for repetition.”

“Well, if you insist.” John buries his fingers in Sherlock’s riotous curls and pulls him down to suck his lower lip into his mouth. “I suppose I can oblige.”