It was more difficult to wake up this morning, but then again, it was difficult to do most things nowadays. The chill of the frozen dirt beneath his makeshift bed seeped through his threadbare clothing to settle deeply into his bones. He had only slept fitfully the night before, the ache in his shoulder becoming more and more uncomfortable as the temperature dropped. Finally, he gave it up as a lost cause and simply rolled over onto his right side (much to the dismay of his hip), and watched the foggy London night play out its nightly dramas and heartbreak. He wished, just once, that he could manage a good night's sleep. He had served his Queen and country dammit, for all the good it did him, didn't he deserve one blessed dreamless bit of respite?

Obviously not.

He raked his hands across his haggard face, fingertips catching on several days' worth of auburn stubble peppering his chin. It was almost time to visit the day centre again; he realized with a fretful sting of pride, one could only go so long without bathing before it became obvious you had nowhere to properly call home.

He sat up stiffly, letting the sleepless night work itself out of his shoulder. With the flexing of his abdomen, an accompanying twinge of pain awoke fiercely in his right hip. He winced, and sucked in a breath through his teeth before he could help himself. The long-embedded shrapnel made itself known early today, probably because all of the extra weight it bore throughout the night. Some days were better than others, and he supposed today wouldn't be one of them.

The others, laid out in their own slapdash cocoons slowly came to life, equally resplendent in their wretchedness. John didn't judge a single one of them. How could he? He had found himself here of his own accord, just like most of the others. After all, where does one go when one can no longer function in society, but doesn't have the guts to swallow a bullet?

It was different when he came back from Afghanistan; though he was battered and scarred, he still had a bit of hope. He thought maybe he could find a modest place and practice medicine again…and even though that would never fill the constant hollowness in his heart, he figured he could make it work. He wasn't very old (if you count 35 very old); he was a bit too skinny now but still in good health.

He supposed he could take advantage of his half-gender status, if things truly got desperate. Though, his life would have to be fairly out of control for him to consider that option. Being a latent Omega, there were a few halfway houses or homes in which he could stay, but again, John knew he could make it on his own. He knew he could rekindle the dying embers of his life and find meaning again. Even if that involved spending most of his time painfully limping from one failed interview to another, pretending not to notice the looks on prospective employers' faces when they realized he was naught more than unrealized reproductive potential and damaged goods. Regardless, he could, and would, make it work.

And it did, for a little while.

London was just so damn expensive, and even though his depressingly beige little bedsit was subsidized by his pension, it wasn't a home. With every passing day he watched his bank account dwindle. Of course, there were the monthly stipends. A little 'Hey thanks for letting us ruin your life, here's a few pounds,' thrown his way. But it was like tossing stones and sand into a river, watching it catch the current and float momentarily before disappearing into its watery blue depths. His expenses and debts soon became too much to bear, and with his parents gone and Harry god knows where, he had no one to ask for help. Not that he would.

If he had the choice, and the money, maybe he would have finally gone through with the Treatment he could have had years ago, making him full Omega and at least something desirable. Honestly, he wasn't even sure if this was a viable option at his age. He had heard the older the subject, the more painful and damaging the process. Plus, there was no guarantee he would even be fertile. John laid a hand across the lower part of his abdomen, picturing the underdeveloped ovaries and uterus floating there, useless and atrophied, just like his life.

Just like him.

Originally, it was his parents that decided he not be Formed. John grew up desperately poor with working-class parents that were just as happy to drink away their earnings than to put anything aside for the well-being of their children. His sister, Harriet, she had it a little easier. She was born naturally a Formed Alpha, and lucky for her too. As a teenager she was willful, disobedient, and didn't give a good god-damn what people thought. Her height and extra muscle mass worked in her favor, as she was constantly getting into fights, both verbal and physical. That is, until she found Clara, a naturally Formed Omega who came from a well enough to do family that didn't seem to mind Harry's rough-around-the-edges attitude; as long as they were able to provide offspring. Just goes to show how people will forgive almost anything as long as you are able to fulfill your 'reproductive duty.' What nonsense.

Oh well, John had washed his hands of Harriet years ago. Her misplaced Alpha bravado kept her in and out of prison, following in the footsteps of their parents, drinking away her sorrows while simultaneously ruining the life of the woman who loved her.

The snuffling and shuffling noises of the people around his area grew gradually louder, and he could hear the crunch of gravel under the feet of the homeless that sheltered themselves under the crumbling, sooty bridge. Time to get up properly, he supposed.

He bent his left leg and brought his right leg stiffly out from underneath him, barely managing to raise himself up to his full height. This was yet another indication of his latent Omega gender: slim build, boyish face, short stature, among other things. Outwardly, he didn't look any different from the Formed Omegas; it was the pheromones that truly gave him away. Those that had Formed naturally or synthetically were easily sniffed out by Alpha's, their keen sense of smell was the most sensitive of all the genders, and a Formed Omega's pheromones were an assault to the senses that few Alphas could resist.

John, however…well, he generally smelled of the sweetest perfume that someone put on several days ago and never quite washed off. His scent was so faint, his glands so immature, that he could almost pass for a Beta; that is, a genetically neutral Beta human. There were times, however, when he was under great stress (or distress for that matter), that his scent became stronger…but it happened rarely nowadays, and he was just fine with that.

John couldn't even count how many times during his life that he wished he was a Beta. For all they made up about 37% of mankind, they were sterile. Oh sure, they could enjoy a quick rough and tumble in the sheets, biology wasn't that cruel, but nothing would come of it. Just another reason why there was so much pressure on Omegas to be fertile and reproduce, and another reason why Unformed latent Omegas were so stigmatized. All this nonsense about starting a family, going through Formation, finally giving his due to society just about did his head in as a child, and threatened to do just the same as an adult. Those ridiculous gender studies classes in secondary school were partly to blame for his apathetic and frankly avoidant attitude towards his half-gender.

The day he realized Latent Omegas only constituted about 5% of the population, had been the most devastating of his life. He was 15 at the time and well past due for secondary puberty. Earlier in the year he had been given the unhappy news by his doctor, who assured him that great advances were being made in gender medicine and latent Omegas were not as discriminated against in this day and age. John didn't believe him for a second. He saw the looks at school, both pitying and disgusted; some curious, and some downright malicious. He was handed some ridiculous pamphlet showing a young man smiling blandly, the title read 'Latent Omegas: Today's options for Formation and Reproduction'. He threw that disgustingly pink piece of trash in the bin on his way out, not even bothering to read the tiny text inside, and he didn't bother to look at the colorful posters on the office wall that displayed the A/B/O Gender Spectrum to see where he fit in, because he already knew. He didn't fit in anywhere. That night, he cried himself to sleep.

Every day, his face stayed beet red as he sat through his gender studies class; he felt as though everyone in the class was looking at him, judging him for being only half a human, half a gender. It wasn't his fault his mid-pituitary gland was faulty, nor was it his fault that his parents couldn't afford the necessary hormones to correct his gonadotropin insufficiency. The NHS could only do so much with latent Omegas; the Treatment was considered elective and was thousands of pounds and months worth of pills and/or injections. It took consultation after consultation with several gender specialists for John's family to decide he wasn't worth it. It wasn't much of a surprise. Of course they didn't think he wasn't worth it. As much as a 15 year old could hate his life, John certainly did.

A few weeks later, as he made his way across the empty rugby pitch late after school, things got immeasurably worse.

"Hey Watson!" The hard blow of a rugby ball glanced across his back, causing him to stumble and drop his tattered book bag. Gathering himself together, John looked behind his shoulder, taking in the familiar and angular face of Edward Hutchison, two years older, Formed Alpha and great big bloody brute. Wonderful.

This fool sat two seats over from John in gender studies, and never passed up an opportunity to make John's life hell. He already had to deal with name calling from a few of the other less imaginative Alphas in his class, but the way Edward looked at him was something else entirely. He would never admit it, but deep down it frightened him in a way that he couldn't completely understand. Edward licked his lips like he could taste John's fear each and every day, shamelessly staring at the diminutive blonde like a hawk ready to bloody his prey. John avoided him as much as possible, but it wasn't a large school, and one could only fight the inevitable for so long.

He left the rugby ball on the grass where it landed and hunched his shoulders forward, trying to appear as small as possible. "What do you want Ed?" He couldn't keep his voice from sounding weak, though inside his anger began to build.

"I been thinking 'bout it…you're one of them aren't ya? Those half people Mrs. Johnson talks about in class. The uh, wha's it called? Unformed?" Ed's bulky form leaned over and picked up the ball, bouncing it from one hand to the next, nonchalantly. He looked no more dangerous than as if he had just asked John about the weather. John knew better. He glanced behind the larger teenager and saw two more of his cronies, Pete and Jason, walk up behind him.

Somewhere inside, his anger began to morph into an edgy kind of nervousness. What the hell did these meatheads want anyway? They weren't his friends. John had tried out for the rugby team earlier this year but was practically laughed off the pitch due to his size, or lack thereof. Jason and Pete fell over in fits when they heard John's name called out on the roster, he should have known then that he didn't stand a chance.

John took a few steps back, his trainers crushing the grass under his feet. He shifted his bag back onto right shoulder. "I don't-I don't know Ed. What does it matter? Just, leave me alone."

All three boys formed a line in front of John now, Ed moving forward with every step John took back.

"You know what my Da says about your kind?" Ed's lips turned up into a disarmingly innocent smile, and in another lifetime, John might have thought him handsome. "He says all you really need is a good mounting, and you know, one good bite on that pretty little neck, and BAM" his large hands clapped against the side of the rugby ball for emphasis, "there you have it, just like jump starting a car."

John exhaled a shaky breath he didn't even know he was holding; his eyes growing wide when he finally realized what this was all about…what was really going to happen here. His hands gripped the worn canvas straps of his bag, white-knuckled.

"Ed, please-," He couldn't help it; he began to shake.

The Alpha only shrugged and tossed the ball behind him, the previously innocent gleam in his eyes turning predatory. This was a look John knew well. His heart jumped and thumped against his ribcage, hammering about wildly in his chest. One quick glance confirmed that they were alone on the pitch, and there was no one around to help him…save him.

"Don't worry, Watson. You'll like it; I promise. I haven't gotten any complaints so far anyway. I mean, who knows? We could even make it a regular thing." He motioned to the other two who sprang forward quicker than John though possible, each grabbing one arm painfully, before the small boy could even react.

John tried to scream, he tried to curl his fingers and scratch out the eyes of his attackers, but he was roughly brought down face first onto the loamy ground. Pete and Jason were both breathing heavily, the latter pressing his knees cruelly onto John's left forearm. Pete did the same but used one hand to crank John's head painfully to the side and other hand to cover his mouth. John bucked and kicked, panicked and shrieking into the barrier at his mouth. His screams were muffled, and he could barely hear them over the exertive grunts of the Alphas holding him down. He fought as hard as he possibly could.

This could not be happening. This could not be happening.

Edward ran his hand over the back of John's head, the sandy blonde hair filtering through his wide fingers. The touch was gentle, almost loving as he straddled his legs over John's backside, rubbing his crotch just enough to give himself a bit of friction. A disgusting moan rumbled through his chest and he leaned forward, running his long, thick tongue against John's neck, directly over his underdeveloped scent glands.

"I can still smell you, you know, even if you aren't normal. Every once in a while, I catch a whiff. Right now, like this, it's so much stronger…Oh god…" John could feel Ed's hardness against his arse, and hot, bitter tears stung his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, catching as a desperate sob. "You know it doesn't have to be this way…why don't you just calm down and let it happen. You want this." Edward rubbed his hands up under John's jumper, tugging on the crisp white shirt underneath. John managed another panicked buck, which only managed to inflame the larger boy even more. His hands gripped at John's sides painfully, clenching at his ribs with bruising force.

"Come on Ed!" Peter spat. "Get your rocks off and let's get going!"

"Shut it Pete!" Ed began to fumble with his uniform belt, and John could hear the slip and slide of leather against cotton. He closed his eyes tightly, letting the tears falls and breaths hitch in and out at a dangerously rapid rate. He began to feel oddly disoriented, and dully, in the back of his mind he realized he was hyperventilating and dangerously close to passing out.

Suddenly, the pressure on his arms and backside let up completely. The hand from his mouth disappeared and John inhaled a God-given breath of fresh air. In the distance, he could faintly hear the abrupt sound of his attackers beating it across the pitch, running as fast as they could.

A new, deep male voice bellowed across the pitch, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

John laid on the grass, though he rolled over to his side, clutching at his forearms and finally letting his tears fall unhindered down his reddened and grass-stained cheeks. He cried uncontrollably. He tried to stop, he really did. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

He could hear quick footsteps approaching him from across the lawn, and a hand was placed gently on his rumpled shoulder. Through his tears he could see Mr. Travers, the rugby coach and Maths teacher. His face was livid and lined with fury. He glanced behind John, brow furrowing as he focused on something John could not see, almost assuredly his fleeing assailants.

After a long breath, he helped John into a seated position, and offered him a handkerchief for his face. John felt so humiliated. Why did this have to happen? Why did he have to be this way? It was his own fault; Ed said he could smell him, everyone always said Alphas couldn't control themselves. All the textbooks and doctors said he shouldn't even have a scent, they all said so. It was his fault.

Throughout all this John actually said nothing, only wiping his face whilst his tears faded to blood-shot eyes and pathetic hiccups.

"Can you tell me what happened, son?" The look on Mr. Travers' face was open and quite earnest. But John could only stare towards the ground, unable to utter a single word.

The next day at lunch, when his best friend Mike made a comment about the numerous blue and purple bruises lining his forearms, he didn't say anything then either.

John blinked; he blinked hard, pulling himself out of his own head and back into the dimly lit London morning. The memory was sudden and intrusive, completely unbidden, but even dulled now with time the emotional destruction of the attack had stayed with him for years. It was one of the reasons he decided to become a doctor and enlist in the RAMC.

In order to help others, you must first help yourself. He read that once, though for the life of him he couldn't remember where.

With a deep breath, John straightened himself and stood, favoring his right leg. He shook his head, clearing the emotional debris and scattering the memories like the autumn leaves that padded his dirty and torn bedroll. That was a long time ago, and he had long since made peace with his history, and to a lesser degree, his biology.

Right now he was only John Watson, veteran, homeless, practically penniless, and general practitioner to those who had nowhere else to go, or no one that would have them.