A/N: This is my first Omega-verse. Ever.
There's a lot of emotional psychology in the works in between the smut here.
You may or may not see it.
This fic is not for the weak of heart.
Trigger Warning is as followed; SELF INJURY

&& smut there will be plenty of that in this story.
If angst/smut doesn't interest you.
You're in the wrong place.
Very wrong.
Stop reading this authors note and go away.

Everyone else? Please Enjoy.

.Chapter 1.

Molly only had her DNA to blame, she realized.

Molly had known she was an Omega from a time she was young. She was even younger when the physician told her parents that Molly was different. Her heat would come much sooner and much harder than the average Omega's. Her parents had looked at each other completely forlorn considering standard heat was bordering inhumane.

"Why? What do we do?" Her father had asked, his fingers locked with the hands of her mother, his bond mate, his lover, his wife.

"Your daughter-" The doctor is flushed as he rubs the back of his neck clearly uncomfortable. 'Your daughter is, because her bodies desire to seek out a potential mate, and at such a young age...the way I see it...your daughter will..." he coughed nervously. "She'll breed more like an animal than a person. Shes extremely fertile. Alphas would want to take advantage of her for that, at her age? I suggest we doctor everything. Soaps. Shots. Suppressants. Everything, to keep her safe, at least until she comes of age."

And so Omega Molly Hooper, became Beta Molly Hooper.

Except when she entered adulthood that hadn't changed.

Her physician had warned her, in her early twenties, a hand over hers. The same man, except much older now, hired specifically by Molly's family- paid for even after her father's passing- looked her in the eyes and would tell her the news, she now knew to be true.

"It will only get worse Molly." his voice was cracking and this time not with embarrassment but with pain. "The suppressants wont be able to stop your heats completely anymore. It will, dull them significantly but functioning will be...hard. The stronger alphas may smell you no matter what. And, I don't know if anything will be able to satisfy your need Molly. Try...try to find a bond mate soon. A decent Alpha before he realizes how special you are, biologically and...otherwise."

She had smiled giving his hand a squeeze and trying to assure him, that she'll be fine.

And she was, she was fine for a long time. She had even, mostly survived Sherlock. But, she had turned 31 this year and given the type of Omega she was, she was hurting.

Not just emotionally, but she was in physical pain. She ached. She had tried dating Betas, she was engaged to one for a bit thinking, maybe, just maybe it could work. And most of them were kind, even if they were so dreadfully boring, they were nice to her- the sex was...well there was a lot of it- but it was so bloody unsatisfying it made her want to cry.

Now there was Sherlock- the alpha of her desires, the alpha who had no desires other than to run around London, his mind revving like a race car. And oh, how she adored him. It had taken an ungodly amount of time, but she thought they had finally got around to be friends. Proper friends. And she thought, (like an idiot) she thought she counted. He had said as much hadn't he?

You're wrong. You do count.

But he was wrong.

Or she was wrong to cling to a sentiment he had shared over two years ago.

It wasnt until John brought him into her lab, looking like death warmed over, informing her she needed to drug test him. He had done so many drugs she hadn't even needed to run a test, all she had to do was look at his pale clammy skin, and dark sunken eyes and she'd known. She could smell it- his scent of cigarettes, aftershave, and traces of pine was completely tampered with. He smelled bitter somehow. So she hadn't needed to run the test- even though she did, even though she desperately hoped she would be wrong. She'd known before the results even showed up as clear and unmistakably as they had.

"Clean?" She had said, and she briefly wondered if John was an idiot. His scents as a beta were weaker, she could understand why he couldn't scent him like she could. She was drawn to Sherlcok, but how could he not see the brilliant shadow of a man before them?

The pain she had felt had hidden behind anger and clawed her way up through her muscles smacking him painfully across his face, not once, not twice but three times. She had poured everything into those hits.

"How dare you betray the beautiful gift you were born with. And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say your sorry."

How could you betray /me/? The Omega in her asked. What more can I do? Id do it.

"Sorry your engagements over. Though, I'm fairly grateful for a lack of a ring."

"Stop it. Just...stop it."

He had known Tom wasn't going to work out just as well as she had. Though, he probably thought it was just because of him (not because he wasn't an alpha and her needs just weren't being met, not even a little, not even in the slightest.) It was that night she had realized, she had run out of tears.

She never had any misconceptions about crying, it was healthy she had always said, a healthy way of releasing tension, of erasing the pain. Now, she didn't go around sobbing at every little thing, mind you. But she had spent a handful of times hidden away in her office shedding more than a couple tears over Sherlock.

But now she couldn't do it. And the pain, coupled with the emptiness, left Molly feeling hollow and unbearably sad.

She was 31 years old, unbonded, and had never knotted. Probably would never knot with anyone. She wouldn't even know how to go about finding a proper alpha who didn't flinch at her intellect or want her merely to 'pup' her. She winced at the thought. She wanted a proper family, what was so terrible about that?

She had ached and tried and yearned and she wasn't sure how she could alleviate the problem. She had no idea how to get what she wanted, let alone get over the only Alpha who had ever, probably would ever catch her interest. The only one who thought that maybe, she was interesting, who thought maybe she was worthwhile.

She hates him for making her hope.

It's with that thought she misses the tumor she's suppose to be cutting out of Alexandria and slices her finger. It's not to deep, no more than a couple inches deep and most importantly- her blood missed the brain entirely. It isn't until she throws her gloves away, washes, disinfects, and bandages her finger does she realize some of the ache within her has become muted, almost like...background noise.

It's alarming how much better she feels.

.

It hadn't meant to become a habit. Molly was a practical, cautious woman, and while she was willing to risk her career to save Sherlock's life by faking his death- she certainly was going to risk her career by putting her scalpel to her skin. No, it would be such a waste for a few days of silence in her funny little brain of hers.

But when Lestrade accidentally lets slip that Sherlock had been shot and was almost killed, twice. Well, Molly cant seem to breathe. The pain is so overwhelming she clutches her chest and falls forward. Greg catches her of course, eyes wide, and a fumble of apologies.

She hears a "I thought you knew- Molly. Molly you have to breathe."

She hears herself sob and it's like a train-wreck from the stories of his sex life in the papers, to his actual life having almost ended does she realize she's so inconsequential to him that he couldn't have been bothered- that even John couldn't have bothered to just...

"He's a liar." She breathes, and it's a choked, strangled, inhuman sound as she clutches Greg desperately, fingers tearing into his arms. "I don't count."

And still. Her tears do not fall despite the feeling of her lungs crushing in on themselves. She shoves Greg away with a force she didn't know she had and rolls into herself as if that- whatever that was hadn't happened.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry. God that was so, so silly." and she tries to slap on a smile but it literally pains her to do it- and he for one second isn't buying it. But she can tell by the look on his face, he's going to let her. He's going to let her pretend.

Oh, small mercies

It isn't until Greg leaves does she make a small three inch deep incision on her arm, just above her elbow, and she watches with a sick interest as the blood flows over and down the pale of her skin, her worries flowing away with each little current.

And so the habit begins as she had been told by Sherlock, (in a means to insult her she remembers) "You cant kill an idea. Once it's made a home, right there."

.

It's two weeks after she see's Moriarty's return video on the tv screen does Sherlock and John come stalking into her lab carrying himself in his larger than life alpha way and smelling like sin. Her core thrums with life at the sight of him- its been almost two months since she saw him, and the last time she had- she had slapped him.

He pauses sniffing the air, and she freezes, wondering if his presence had been enough to cause her true scent to sneak through. She breathes deeply trying to calm herself. No, she hadn't. She'd been great about taking her pills every six hours (her body burned them up much faster than it use to, determined to get her with child- a constant reminder of her ticking clock)

She watched his eyes ghost over her, and she can almost see the words he's associating with her popping up wildly, her lack of make up- the way her hair is parted, the look in her eyes as she's seeing him for the first time. It isn't until she starts imagining all the things he's capable of does her body respond, the slightly raised scars on her arm seemingly pushing against the fabric of her lab coat.

He'll deduce it, stupid girl. And any respect he had for you, if he ever had any at all is going to be gone!

"Molly." he says crisply his baritone making her wanton and anxious. Its an awful way to feel.

"Yes?" She manages to squeak out, torn between the animal instinct of fight or flight.

Stay the Omega in her orders.

Run cautions her cognitive thoughts

But the Omega wins as it often does in regards to Sherlock and she stands still waiting for him to tell her whatever his deduction is.

"You're aware I was shot." He says slowly, and she wonders why he's putting so much emphasis into those four words as if he thinks his deduction was somehow going to be incorrect.

"Yes." she says and she cant hear how begging that one word sounds, begging for him to explain himself as to why she couldn't have been bothered to even be informed.

"You weren't aware of it when you brought in for questioning about my bolt holes."

"No." She smiles, and it hurts, but she doesn't think he'll be able to tell, and even he does. There's a difference between seeing someones pain and caring about it. "That would have been classified of course."

He smiles softly at her statement, and its so, kind she wants to bathe in his affection. It's brief and fleeting and it makes the omega in her want to wrap herself up in it.

"Greg then?" He says finally putting his sample under the scope, wrapping up their conversation.

"mm" she says knowing his attention on her has drawn to a close. It's a noncommittal sound but it signifies the yes. "I'll leave you to it." she says softly, before her eyes meet Johns briefly as she walks past him.

"Molly." John says and she thinks he means to apologize for not telling her maybe. Or something Greg had told him about her reaction, but as his hand grasps her arm the kind gesture is lost and she winces at the contact despite herself before pulling out of his grasp with the ferocity he hasn't seen since she slapped Sherlock.

"Don't." she hisses. "Just don't."

She bolts out of the lab and locks herself in her office, trying to swallow down the bulge in her throat.

She hopes if Sherlock's deducing that it has to deal with the fact that John didn't say anything to her and not the fact she thought maybe if his gaze had lingered any longer he'd feel the scars beneath her lap coat, or the fear that he may open a more recent injury.

.

The following day she is called into the morgue specifically under Mycroft Holmes orders.

She's standing over a body that hadn't seemed like anything to spectacular, she had already checked it off her list earlier that day, a pretty straight forward death, collapsed lung, the only thing suspicious was the skin cells under his fingernails were not his own, in fact they weren't even alive..,But nothing that required a government official. But apparently the man, Mark Sloane had been worth something because Mycroft simply didn't do "leg work" according to Sherlock. He was above all of that.

She remembered he had been here once before on Christmas to look over the body of the supposed Irene Adler. Her interaction with Mycroft were almost non-existent in person. He accepted her roll in his brothers faked death, and was he reason she was even able to work at Barts still honestly. But truth be told she hadn't seen the man since they were around the corpse of "Irene". She remembered the way he had only briefly glanced at the body, his eyes trained on Sherlock.

He barely even spared a look at Molly even as she had asked him,"How did Sherlock recognize her from- erm- not her face?"

He had grimaced and turned away leaving Molly with the rotting feeling of jealousy. She's appalled that she feels the same way now as she stares down at the body.

It's the only way I'll be interesting. She thinks to herself. Is if some psychopath carves me up for Sherlock to look at here in the morgue.

"It's Moriarty." He says slowly. "Collapsed lung Molly?"

"Yes. And under his fingernails he had-"

"Skin cells belonging to someone other than himself-"

"Skin cells belonging to someone who is deceased." Molly interrupts. "Unfortunately whomever is deceased hasn't been through our morgue so..."

She doesn't get another word out before Sherlock is storming out of the morgue, his coat flying behind him. She feels another rush of pain, an ache that goes bone deep at his departure and she bites on her lip trying to stiffle the urge to whine.

"Miss Hooper."

The voice is crisp and firm almost like a whip crack and she snaps her head up, wondering if she looks as bewildered as she feels.

"Yes, sorry?" She says tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ears that had fallen loose from her pony tail. "I should erm, put him back yes? Is there something that you-?"

She says finally meeting eyes with the man in front of her. It's the first time she really looks at him she realizes. He's well tailored and lean, but his eyes that had shown nothing but indifference before seemed wide suddenly as if he were shocked. She licks her lips self consciously, what on earth could he be?

"You're bleeding Dr. Hooper."

Her heart thunders in her chest and she knows exactly where to look but she doesn't instead she stares at him blankly, "I'm...bleeding?" Idiot. She chastises herself.

"Just, there." he says pointing to a thin line of blood that has formed on her white lab coat.

There's something unreadable about his expression that makes Molly shudder just a bit.

"T-thank you. I guess I better. Go see...after I uhm clean this up of course." She says gesturing towards the body. Her heart is racing in her chest as he leans forward and grasps her forearm with a slight squeeze over the corpse.

"I know what you are." his voice is a low whisper "And I know what you've done."

She can feel a chill crawling it's way up her spine, and she literally has to swallow the proverbial knot in her throat before she can manage a "What?"

"You're an omega, for starters, and all those suppressants and beta toxins do next to nothing to hide your true nature. How you ever pass for a even weak beta is beyond me."

"Than Sherlock-"

"No, Miss Hooper. My brother is rather, slow." and here he pauses to smile, and it looks positively sinister and drawls another shiver of fear down her back. "And the rest of the world. Pah. Well, they're goldfish isn't hard to fool any of them."

"You.." she blinked shaking her head as she stared at him, "You truly think, people, normal minded people are- you think I'm?" She always assumed her stutter stemmed from attraction since she fumbled over herself so much with Sherlock, apparently she is also completely inarticulate when she's angry.

"No." Mycroft says cutting her off with the wave of a hand. "No...you aren't a goldfish. Though I'm afraid what I would compare you to is about as insulting."

She swallows back a bit of her disdain. "So what if I'm an omega?" she says finally. "It's not unethical to not make that information known. It's..it's private, and what I did for Sherlock in the fall that was much more.."

"Yes, yes" Mycroft says dismissively. "That's not what I was referring too"

And she knows she shouldn't ask but before she can stop herself, the words come spilling out. "Than what do you know?"

"I know you're sexually frustrated and that you have never been knotted much to your dismay. I know you haven't been able to cry in five months and your biological make-up has sent you spiraling into a inhumane depression that you are currently trying to alleviate with cutting." He pauses a smug little smirk on his face. "Though I have a feeling the relief is getting shorter isnt it?"

She feels faint and she grips the cool metal slab Mr. Sloane is on to keep herself upright. Oh how she wishes she could switch places with him right now.

"How could you even know all that?" her voice is shaking, and her gaze is turned to the cold deceased man on the table.

"Your scent. Your tear ducks. Five months between your penting sexual frustrations, and Sherlock's consistent dismal of you rather real or projected I cant pretend to understand completely how a mind like yours works- And the cutting itself is obvious in the pattern of the blood on your lab coat and an incident regarding John Watson yesterday."

He sighs as if explaining these things to her had wasted not only his time, but his energy. He lifts up his slender wrist to glance at his watch before his gaze falls on to hers.

"So what are you going to do about it?" She says finally, shoulders hunched completely resigned.

She can smell the alpha rolling off him, dormant almost, seeping from somewhere much deeper than his physical presence and it's erotic and terrifying at the same time. She turns her eyes to meet his and he smiles, and she swears its positively sadistic and her core thrums with something- a spike of adrenaline, a clenching of muscles, a release of endorphins.

"Time to take your suppressant, Miss Hooper." He says softly before extending her a card with his name, and a handful of numbers.

"You may use that when you are in need of a good cry."

He pauses his umbrella tapping the floor, once, twice, and she's spinning around to face him as he stands perfectly posed at the double door.

"Wha- what if I need a good cry?" She says desperately. "Right now."

He smiles and this time, she thinks maybe, its a little more sincere.

"Than, Miss Hooper, you are indeed in the company of the right man."