Title: The Shifting of Self
Spoilers: vaguely ASiP
Pairings: Sherlock/Victor Trevor, Sherlock/John.
Rating: M
Warnings: alpha/beta/omega dynamics (omegaverse), consent issues
Wordcount: 3155
Summary: Sherlock knows what he doesn't want; it takes him longer to figure out what he does.
A/N: Please be warned that there's one scene in which two characters fuck under the influence of heat, though they'd never want to do so in their right minds. Furthermore, Sherlock struggles with his a/b/o identity in a way that may parallel struggles with gender identity. If these things might be triggering for you, please take care of yourself.
The lovely fallingvoices looked this over, although I've changed some things since it passed through her capable hands and at times inexplicably ignored her advice; all mistakes are mine.
Sherlock has his first heat at fifteen. It's nothing like what he's read about – the need curls under his skin, until all he can think about is being fucked and knotted, his wrists pinned down and teeth scraping at the back of his neck.
He fingers himself through it all, stubbornly ignoring the way it feels so utterly wrong and empty, and emerges from his room two days later. His knees feel like they might buckle at any moment and he'd very much like to vomit, but he shoves the urge away in favour of burning his ruined sheets.
Mummy tucks a sweat-soaked curl behind his ear and says, "Don't worry, darling. You'll find a wonderful alpha soon who'll take good care of you." Sherlock grits his teeth and doesn't bother to answer.
Mycroft, fat and complacent, is a beta. Sherlock researches suppressants and hates him a little.
The production of suppressants is tightly controlled, most of it reserved for military use. Sherlock might use the Holmes name, but that would raise whispers; so he buries himself in papers and brushes up on glycoproteins instead.
It takes two more excruciating heats before Sherlock manages to synthesise the inhibitor. He stands naked in the bathroom that night and jabs the syringe into his thigh almost triumphantly.
When he looks in the mirror he doesn't look any different, but he smiles anyway.
Sherlock spends most of his next heat curled up under his duvet, shivering uncontrollably. Mummy's too trapped in her own mind to even notice – she's been that way ever since Father died – but Mycroft narrows his eyes at the tight line of Sherlock's jaw over dinner.
A week later there are unmarked, clear vials on top of his bed. The accompanying note suggests that he "refrain from being an idiot".
Victor Trevor's tall and lanky for a beta and sits two rows down from Sherlock in chemistry lecture. He looks at Sherlock as if he can't look away.
Sherlock likes that about Victor. Sherlock likes him.
The first time they have sex Victor has two fingers inside him when Sherlock starts leaking.
"Sherlock?" Victor asks, withdrawing with a slick sound. "Are you—"
"Just fuck me," he gasps, "do it, Victor, please," and the whine he bites off might be what finally convinces Victor, because there's the sound of a wrapper being ripped open and then Victor's pushing into him and it's not nearly enough—
When Victor pulls out with a gasp Sherlock's cock is still hard against his stomach.
"Don't say anything," Sherlock says almost furiously, "it's not—" but he doesn't get any further because Victor's moved down the bed to wrap his lips around Sherlock's cock.
"That's not going to work," Sherlock manages, even as his fingers curl into Victor's hair and his hips buck upwards. Victor only takes him in more deeply, his fingers sliding into where Sherlock's still slick and open, and in the end Sherlock comes with an inarticulate groan caught in his throat.
The orgasm, however, does little to dull the frenzy in his bloodstream, and Sherlock bounds to his feet and starts pacing in front of the window just to stop himself from clawing at his skin. His eyes drift closed as he imagines pushing back onto some faceless alpha and the knot, filling him completely and stretching him out almost to the point of pain—
He wrenches his eyes open and absently notes Victor's taken one of his hands in his own. "Are you okay?" he asks. "I'm sorry, did I—"
"Don't apologise," Sherlock snaps, and yanks his hand back. "It's not—" and then he stops, because of course it's not Victor's fault, it's his. He looks out the window to avoid looking at Victor and when he finally says, "Heat," he's proud that his voice is steady. "I didn't realise it was this close."
"Um," Victor says after a moment. "So you're…an omega? Because you don't seem—" He winces and doesn't finish.
Sherlock hesitates with the "yes" on his tongue and settles for a bark of laughter.
"I'm on heat suppressants," he says, because that's somehow easier to talk about. "Although that's a misnomer. A more accurate description would be to say that they dull the symptoms until heat is…tolerable. I didn't consider that intercourse might heighten the mating instincts."
"Okay," Victor says, and he seems to be choosing his words very carefully. "Do you want—is there anything I can do?"
"Get me an alpha," Sherlock says without thought, and then, "No, don't. That's not—I don't mean that."
The urge to drop to all fours and present himself takes a sickeningly long time to fade, but it's eventually replaced by a need for a warm body wrapped around his. When he uncurls his fingers and turns around, Victor has a hand held out and his mildest smile on as he says, "Come back to bed."
Too tired to protest, Sherlock crawls under the sheets and falls asleep with Victor softly stroking the back of his neck.
Victor marks Sherlock's heat cycle on his calendar. They don't talk about it, but they manage, somehow.
To this day, Sherlock can't remember if he missed a dose, or if it was merely the stress of revision wreaking havoc on his body chemistry.
He hasn't eaten all day but he's used to ignoring the hollowness of hunger, which is perhaps why the wave of prickling need sweeping over him is such a surprise. The scrape of clothing on skin is suddenly too harsh, but he determinedly ignores it and excuses himself from class to retreat into an empty washroom.
When he looks into the mirror, darkened eyes stare back and his breaths are coming in short pants. He's never going to make it home like this, when all he wants is to bare his throat and have someone mark him.
He forces himself into a stall and flips down the latch with fumbling fingers before reaching up to undo the top button of his shirt. It slips free easily, and when that only fractionally eases the choking feeling, he undoes another. There's sweat seeping into his collar and he tries not to think about the state of his pants.
He ought to call Victor – he can't possibly stay in the toilets for the duration of this.
There's a sudden draught of air and Sherlock's nostrils flare wide.
"Christ, what—" someone breathes. The voice – faintly familiar – is the roughened growl of an alpha that's scented an omega; and then there's a frantic scrabbling outside the stall. Sherlock nearly sobs as he wrenches the door open.
"God, you smell so good," the man groans. "You can't hide, not like this, when it's obvious to anyone with a nose that you're dripping wet. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Taking my knot—"
"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock says, braced against the wall with his trousers pushed down to his knees, and then he can only whimper as he's filled and it feels so gloriously right.
When Sherlock regains the ability to think, the tiled floor is cold under his hands and Sebastian Wilkes is perched on the toilet, peering down at him with chagrin in his face.
"Holmes," he coughs, "I didn't know—or intend, obviously—what just, ah, occurred. Don't know what possessed you to wander about in that condition, anyway, but just so we're clear, I don't see this as creating an obligation on either of our parts. Although I should ask, are you on any form of contracep—"
"Shut up," Sherlock snarls. "Say one more word and I will make certain every single person of importance learns about your affair with your father's mistress. I'm sure your family would welcome that bit of news."
Wilkes goes from embarrassed to ashen in an instant, and Sherlock takes that opportunity to stalk out, doing up his buttons as he goes. He has to flip up his shirt collar to hide the bite-marks littering his skin.
Victor tells him it's fine, but something twists in Sherlock's chest at the tilt of his mouth and he still smells too muted, too dull.
There's the soft press of Victor's fingers on Sherlock's skin, but Sherlock can't let himself take comfort from that.
It's okay to lose control when you're high, isn't it?
The man behind the desk is a beta, married with two kids. Works long hours, newly promoted to detective inspector, and entirely unaware of his wife's infidelity. "Thank you," he says slowly, "you saved a life tonight."
"But?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
"But no matter how good you think you are—or actually are," he adds at Sherlock's twitch, "if you want to be able to consult with us you're going to have to stop using."
Sherlock lets a corner of his mouth lift up.
"Right, you already knew that," the DI groans, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "You could benefit from an hour or two in a holding cell, I should think, but I'm going to take you home instead. Do at least try to keep out of trouble, yeah?"
He switches to hormone patches instead of injections and bins the last syringe in the flat.
All he needs is a beta flatmate to cover his own scent. Instead, he meets John Watson, who leans on a cane even though his stance is steady; whose hand trembles minutely as he holds out a phone; who shouts at Mrs Hudson and apologises in the same breath; who doesn't seem capable of hiding the amazed smile on his lips or the wonder in his tone.
And then he shoots a man and shakes it off with a laugh, and Sherlock wants very much to crawl inside his head.
"So, do you have a partner, then?" John asks. His tone is nonchalant, but Sherlock can make out his pulse jumping even in the dim light.
He gives John a deliberate stare. John licks his lips, an unconscious motion.
"I—" he opens his mouth, all too aware of the patch on his hip. "John, I'm flattered," he says, heart pounding, "but I don't date betas."
"But aren't you a—oh." John's mouth falls into a surprised curve. "That's. Um. It's fine. Completely. I mean, Harry, actually, alpha as they come, but Clara's a beta, so, you know—"
"John. You're babbling."
"I'll shut up," he says with a slightly mortified grin. "Let's just stop—yeah."
And that should be it, except they go for Chinese with adrenaline still thrumming through their veins; and John's laugh is easy when he looks up from his fortune and tells Sherlock his prediction is rubbish.
It won't work.
There are hormone patches stashed in Sherlock's closet with nicotine ones; and despite that, on the wrong days when Sally stalks close to demand some sort of explanation, his fingers start to tremble and he's left fighting the desire to go pliant in the middle of a crime scene.
He sneers at John's string of beta girlfriends and boyfriends and bitterly wishes it were that simple.
In the end, the way John finds out is utterly mundane.
Sherlock's in the A&E for a stab wound to his arm. John sits next to him muttering about Sherlock's tendency to run off, when the doctor enters, takes one breath, and leaves again.
A nurse comes in a minute later. "Sorry," she says, apologetic, "she says she didn't realise you were so close to heat. We've paged a beta, he should be right with you."
"Heat?" John frowns. Then he takes a look at Sherlock's face and shuts up.
There's a sudden lump in Sherlock's throat. He swallows until he can say, "She has an excellent sense of smell, then. Most alphas can't pick up any scent over suppressants."
"Suppressants," John says. His hands are tugging at a piece of loose thread on his sleeve.
"Don't make me repeat myself, John," Sherlock snaps, and he would say more except the doctor enters just then and asks him to hold his arm still while the stitches are put in.
On the cab ride home John fidgets and determinedly stares out the window. Sherlock feels like there's something crushing his sternum.
John's in the kitchen making tea and Sherlock perches restlessly on the sofa for a minute before wandering in to blurt out, "Well, go on, then."
"What?" John says, a mug in each hand.
"Oh, I don't know, whatever question you have regarding suppressants. You've been trying to keep yourself from asking and it's extremely irritating."
"I'm not—" John blinks, putting a mug down to swipe at his face. "Look, whatever you are, I don't have a problem with that. Just, suppressants can really fuck up your reproductive system in the long run and I don't know—"
"I don't care," Sherlock snarls. "Do you think it's pleasant to lose all rational thought? To need something desperately when you'd never even consider it in your right mind? Or have you bought into all the romanticised rubbish that says the perfect alpha finds the perfect omega and that's it? Please. I'd rather not have a reproductive system at all."
He stops, panting for breath. John stares at him with wide eyes.
"Oh, forget it. You're a beta, how could you understand?" Sherlock stalks off to his room. Behind him, there's the sound of the kettle clicking.
"Hey, Sherlock," John says tentatively outside Sherlock's door. "It's kind of late. Thought you might be hungry."
Sherlock can hear his feet shuffling on the carpet.
"Right," he says after a moment. "There's some Thai in the fridge, if you want." And then, with a cough, "You know, I meant it. Really, it's all fine, all right?"
The sound of footsteps quickly retreating. Sherlock breathes and concentrates on the cracks in the ceiling, and all the while his patch feels much too tacky on skin.
Things go on as usual. And sometimes, when Sherlock puts a hand on John's elbow or tugs at his sleeve almost thoughtlessly, John still looks at him with his eyes hot and bright.
Sherlock would like to do something, but anything he could say makes him feel all wrong.
"So," John says one afternoon with the latest copy of the BMJ, "it looks like Dr Mortimer's going to keep pushing on with her study."
Sherlock, in the middle of Praeludium and Allegro, doesn't respond.
"You know," John goes on, "she's been saying for years that it's possible to prevent heats completely."
Sherlock misses a note and barely manages to lurch on.
"Apparently the team's almost reached the clinical trial stage," John offers casually before going upstairs.
He leaves the magazine on the coffee table.
"Two cases," Sherlock says. "You can finally straighten out the problem with the French ambassador."
"Are you sure about this, Sherlock?" Mycroft looks down at his desk. "You understand this may be permanent."
"I've read the papers," Sherlock says in a hard voice. "Of course, if you're reluctant for the news to spread that a Holmes is involved with such a project…"
There are tight lines around Mycroft's mouth. "Three cases," he says in the end. "And you have to come for Christmas dinner."
"Fine," Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Is that it?"
"I will…make some calls. Of course, that's no guarantee—"
"Yes, I realise," Sherlock says impatiently. "Just do it. Please."
Mycroft's shoulders slump downward at the last word. "Very well, Sherlock," he concedes, sounding pained. "Shall I call someone to see you out?"
"No need." Sherlock pushes himself to his feet. "Good-bye, Mycroft."
He sweeps out of the office as Mycroft heaves a sigh.
"Here's how this goes." The woman holds up a packet of blue pills. "For the first two weeks you'll take these, twice a day with food – that's important." She puts them back on the table, and then picks up a bottle of narrow capsules. "And after that you'll have these, once a day. Might make you a bit drowsy, mind, so we'd suggest just before bed. That course should run for a month."
Sherlock clears his throat. "I already received an information packet," he says. "It's not complicated."
"Sure," the woman nods. "And of course, you'll be coming in once a week so we can monitor your hormone levels. If you start feeling dizziness, vertigo, or nausea, please let us know right away – it could be turn into something much more serious. Do you have any questions?"
"No," he shakes his head. Everything feels thick, dream-like.
"All right. But feel free to contact us anytime, if you have any concerns." She gets up, sweeping the medication into a bag. "Thank you, Mr Holmes, and we'll see you next week!" She holds the bag out with a cheerful smile.
Sherlock reaches for it and attempts a smile back.
It happens slowly, like this:
Sherlock swallows the last blue pill and looks down at himself, wondering if anything's changed.
He's called in for a double murder and explains it all with his hands perfectly steady, even as Sally stands across the room with her arms crossed in challenge.
The lab tests from his last check-up come back and someone has penned in the margins, "Subject displays hormone fluctuations characteristic to betas."
"That was brilliant," John pants as they stumble into 221B. "When he turned around only to see you coming around the corner, god, his face."
"It was quite a sight," Sherlock grins, turning to face John, and he suddenly feels curiously, steadily warm, without the usual choking edge of desperation.
"Sherlock?" John says softly, looking back.
"John, I—" Sherlock stops to shake his head. "I told you before I didn't date betas."
John's lips are slightly parted. "You did," he says. His back is to the wall and his stance is open; Sherlock would only have to take one step forward.
He can let himself do this.
"I think," he says slowly, "I'd like to retract that statement."
"Okay," John nods, eyes wide and perfectly clear. "What now?"
They take their time.
John drops quick kisses onto Sherlock's mouth before going to work some mornings, and Sherlock occasionally takes John to Angelo's even when there's no case on.
Then there are languid evenings when Sherlock presses John back against the sofa and tries to taste every inch of his skin. John murmurs almost incoherently beneath him while Sherlock looks at John and knows perfectly that he wants.
It's much after that that they lie tangled in the sheets, Sherlock slowly pushing into John. "God, Sherlock," John groans, strangled, "you have no idea how long—"
"I think I might," Sherlock says breathlessly, his fingers pressing into John's hips; and when John comes it's with Sherlock's teeth gently grazing the back of his neck.
Afterwards, John curls around him in comfortable satisfaction and asks in a sleepy, sated voice, "Everything all right?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, and finally feels wholly himself.
- Fin.
This is what you get when you throw the concept of omegaverse at a writer who fails at writing porn, apparently. Comments/concrit always welcome (loved).