Author's Note: This is my original plotline. My time and effort was place into this piece. If you happen to see it it posted anywhere besides on this account or my AO3 account of the same name, please report it and contact me. Thank you for your cooperation.
Limping into the clearing, John perked his ears as he remained on high alert for any movement or sign of threat. Although he had been back from the war for three months, he could not break the habit of always being on guard – of always searching for the next threat. It didn't help that he knew they were there to fight another pack, so they could be ambushed at literally any second. John still thought they were making a mistake by coming here and fighting over territory. After all, their pack was small - only five wolves - and they didn't need much room to roam on the full moons, especially since they had a prime section of the park in London. It bothered him more because he also knew they had been given the territory by the pack they were about to fight – the only other pack in London. But his pack alpha, Billy, had been insistent; they were going to take more land and prove themselves as formidable opponents for any wolves who thought about encroaching on their territory.
Suddenly, Billy lowered himself slightly and growled deeply. The grey alpha looked back at John and signalled him to do the same. Crouching down, John flattened his ears as he heard a rustling from in front of him. Six wolves stepped out of the bushes; the glow of the moonlight served as their only light, but John's wolf eyes could see all six of them just fine. Two females and four males, going by size and shape, and all of them were definitely in fighting form. Rising up to his full height, Billy stepped forward towards a large red wolf with bright, intelligent golden eyes. The red wolf matched Billy's steps pace by pace until they were standing just a meter away from each other. Unfortunately, the other pack was downwind of them; being thus, they could scent each wolf and learn something about all of them, but John's pack couldn't do the same.
Richie, a large grey wolf who had been the one to introduce John to this pack, stepped up next to John. Quickly, he checked John's leg, and John bristled. He hardly wanted that brought up in front of another pack, one that they were about to fight. Without missing a beat, Richie snapped his jaw at John, telling him to get into position. John quickly stalked around Billy and the other alpha as they were having a silent conversation through body language and sounds. In a defensive position to protect his pack alpha's right flank, John found himself standing across from a jet black wolf. He was thinner than the others; it posed an issue with strength, yes, but John figured he made up for it with agility. His black fur curled slightly, which John found curious due to the fact that he had never seen such a feature before. Suddenly, John's gaze locked onto that wolf's. Blue eyes seemed to pierce through him, and he was immediately draw in. The wolf took in a deep breath before his eyes widened further. Lowering himself slightly, the wolf appeared ready to spring at any moment. John found the entire situation baffling.
A sharp bark caught John's attention, and he looked over to find Billy and the other alpha at a standstill. Neither were willing to negotiate, and John couldn't help but still feel like they were in the wrong. If anything, they should be appreciative of this pack, who had released rights of some of the territory so John's pack could stay in London. John's fur stood up on end as he prepared for the fight to begin. Suddenly, Billy lunged forward at the other alpha, who quickly sidestepped the attack. Richie, Daniel, and Thomas both launched forward to attack the closest two wolves to them; Alexia sprinted around, trying to attack from behind; and John turned his attention to the wolf in front of him. Before John could even react, the wolf leapt at him. Unable to manoeuvre well due to his leg, John snarled and snapped, hoping to intimidate the other wolf enough to make him back off. It didn't work. The wolf came crashing into John, who tumbled down and yelped as he jarred his shoulder. Disoriented, John went to jump to his feet only to feel a jaw at his throat. A low growl warned him not to move just before John was overwhelmed by the wolf's scent. It smelled familiar to him, and John relaxed despite the fact that he was just a bite away from death. Taking in another breath, he tried to place the scent; it was utterly intoxicating and annoyingly comforting. Instinct took over, and John flipped on his back. At seeing this, the wolf pulled his jaw away and began scanning the area for any potential threats. It was at that moment that John realised the wolf was protecting him, not fighting him.
A loud yelp caught John's attention, and he looked over to find Richie limping. John automatically began to flip when he heard a warning bark from above. Flinching, he remained still as Richie was pinned under a stocky grey wolf. Daniel was the next to fall, unable to fend off two females at the same time. But the fighting still continued until a pained howl pierced the air. John shivered as he heard it, and he twisted slightly to see Billy beneath the other alpha. The other alpha had his teeth around Billy's throat; Billy snarled and tried to squirm out from underneath the other alpha. Before John even knew what was happening, the other alpha bit down, successfully breaking Billy's neck and ripping out some of the flesh. John felt indifferent about the death, which surprised him. In Afghanistan, he had seen so much violence and death that slowly he had become numb to it. Even so, the doctor in him acted out, and he lurched and flipped onto his stomach. Maybe if he could just get there in time, he could do something to make the death easier. The wolf above him pressed down and growled, warning him to remain where he was. Alexia tossed her head back and let out a heart-wrenching howl; Billy had been her chosen mate, and John knew from the books that he read that she would experience a break in her bond that would cause her physical and emotional trauma for upwards of a year.
Richie snarled and snapped at the grey wolf above him. After a moment of struggle, he met the same fate. Daniel rammed into the grey wolf, knocking him off Richie. As if a trigger had gone off in him, the alpha surged forward and collided with Daniel. Teeth and claws lashed out at each other as the alpha gained dominance. Just as the grey wolf was issuing a warning bark, the alpha broke Daniel's neck. Shaking, John felt adrenaline surge through him as his fight-or-flight syndrome finally took over. A small panic attack started, and he trembled underneath the wolf above him. Alexia and Thomas were outnumbered and outmatched in every way. Turning to face them, the alpha straightened himself out. The hesitation was clear enough to convey what he wanted to say: they had a choice, surrender or die. Alexia blinked a few times and looked over at Billy's unmoving body. Whimpering, John recognised the look in her eyes; it was the look of defeat. She was dead on the inside – the loss of her mate and the inability to avenge him was too much for her. Slowly, she turned back to the other alpha and proffered her neck. A second later, John heard a sickening crunch and watched Alexia's body crumple to the ground. The alpha then turned his gaze to Thomas once more. Without thinking, John barked out warningly; he didn't want Thomas to think that he had to die to have honour. John was still there – still alive for whatever reason – and Thomas wouldn't be alone in an unfamiliar pack. Looking past the alpha, Thomas locked eyes with him. John barely registered the wolf above him shifting and snarling; his concentration was just on Thomas. After a few blinks, Thomas slowly looked away from John and back to the alpha. John howled in anger and sadness when he saw Thomas proffer his neck as well. In a second, it was all over.
And then the alpha's eyes locked onto John's. They softened just a touch as the alpha began heading towards him. Quickly, the wolf above him hunched lower and began growling lowly – possessively. The alpha blinked in surprise, and his eyes widened in what appeared to be understanding and astonishment. Confused, John cocked his head to the side and glanced around. With a flick of his tail, the alpha turned and began sprinting across the clearing. The other five wolves immediately followed, and the wolf above him was nudging John to get to his feet. After a few staggering moments and a yip when he stepped too hard down on his bad leg, John got his legs underneath him. The black wolf pressed against John, and once more he was overtaken by that lovely scent. Despite the fact that he had just watched his pack die in combat, John felt relaxed and at ease. He felt – contrary to all logic – safe next to this wolf. Nothing could touch him here, and the night's previous experiences no longer mattered. Gradually, John began to move faster; his limp kept him from breaking into a full sprint, but he was running faster than he had ever before. Several minutes later, they emerged next to a street. The wolf led him towards the building directly in front of them. After a nudge, John slipped in through a particularly large doggie door. He entered a living room – fireplace lit and crackling – with five humans standing in front of him.
Pinning his ears back, John retreated a step only to feel a warm body press against him. He looked over to find the black wolf next to him. In seconds, the wolf contorted and transformed into a human. He was gaunt and pale with dark black curls wild; his skin was perfect – smooth and clean of any scars, much to John's envy. Bright blue eyes locked onto John a moment, and the male smiled before rising to his feet. One of the men stepped forward; he was approximately 185 centimetres tall, from what John could tell, and had auburn hair. He held out a small pile of folded clothes. Without a word, the black-haired man took it from the auburn one and dropped everything but the pants to the floor.
"Are you sure, Sherlock?" the auburn-haired man asked the black-haired one. At least John was learning names now.
Sherlock locked eyes with the man who had just addressed him for a long moment, as if silently questioning the other man for asking. After a moment, he resumed putting on his clothes. "Of course I am, Mycroft," he said curtly. Another name to store in his memory. "There's no mistaking it."
"I need to inspect him first," Mycroft stated, motioning towards John, who took a small step back. He was ready to flee at any moment. Eyes narrowing, Sherlock tensed up. "Little brother, please. Control your instincts. You're better than that."
"It's rich hearing something like that come from a man who killed a were only because he knocked Lestrade off balance," Sherlock jabbed angrily.
A grey-haired, older man warned, "Leave me out of your childish feuds!" He must be Lestrade then…
"I won't touch him," Mycroft negotiated without missing a beat.
After a moment of contemplation, Sherlock added, "And you'll move slowly so you don't scare him off. He's about to bolt as is."
With a confirming nod, Mycroft stepped closer to John, who stilled and became rigid. The doggie door wasn't too far behind him. If he was fast enough, he could get out before anyone could react. He would be in the woods before any of them had the chance to transform back. "I'm not going to hurt you," Mycroft tried to reassure him, almost as if he could read John's mind. John wasn't buying it, though; he had just watched this man single-handedly kill almost all of his pack. "I just have to check you. Make sure that you're alright." Gradually, Mycroft dropped down to one knee. "I won't touch you, but you're going to have to move for my inspection. Can you do that for me?" John blinked twice and glanced over at Sherlock. His gut told him to trust Sherlock. After all, Sherlock had protected him during that fight. Had he not been looking out for John, John probably would be seriously wounded right now. Sherlock gave him a curt, confirming nod, and John slowly relaxed his body. Mycroft smiled encouragingly, but John wouldn't let his guard drop completely. "Very good. Now just follow my instructions."
John had to spin around once so Mycroft could see his whole body. Then he had to open his maw, curl his lips, move his ears, blink his eyes, wag his tail, roll onto his back, and get back up. He performed everything with little difficulty, only being cautious with rising back up off his back; after all, he didn't want to hurt his leg again. When he received his last order, though, John backed up and flattened his ears. He didn't want to let Mycroft examine his scar. It was the very mark that made him into a were. Once more, Mycroft reassured him once more that he wouldn't be touched before he shifted towards John. He was now much closer than John wanted him to be. Lips curling, John gave a warning growl, his eyes locked on Mycroft's hand.
"Is he threatening you?" a nasally voice sounded out. John looked up to see a brown-haired man with angular features and a nose that was rather too large for his face. "Show some respect for your new alpha!" he snapped at John.
"Anderson, do us a favour and just leave. Your stupidity is strenuous on mankind at best," Sherlock snarled back, stepping forward defensively. John filed the name away with the others.
"Oh, that coming from the psychopath?" Anderson countered challengingly.
Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock replied, "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a psychopath! I'm a…"
Mycroft cut in, "Enough both of you." Both men snapped their jaws shut, glowering at each other. There was definitely history between those two, and this argument was not going to be forgotten any time soon. "He wasn't threatening me, Anderson. He was warning me to not touch him."
"You're his alpha now," Anderson pointed out, and John almost flinched as he heard this. He was well-versed enough in the social intricacies of weres that obeying one's alpha came first and foremost. To be so bold about his feelings was unusual and could be punished if Mycroft wished. "If you want to touch him, he has no right to complain."
Eyes flickering, Sherlock became tense, clearly about to lunge. Mycroft swiftly responded, "I could, but I'm not particularly interested in having to fight Sherlock. Nor am I interested in sending this poor man into a panic attack." Surprised, John blinked. How could Mycroft possibly know about his panic attacks? About his internal struggle with his PTSD? Mycroft gazed into John's eyes. "Sherlock, what can you tell me about him?"
"I can tell you enough. His limp is at least partly psychosomatic. He forgot about it when I originally pinned him down but limped the entire way here. When here, he forgot it again when he was on the verge of fleeing, but now he's favouring it. That means the origin of the wound was traumatic. The position he took was strictly a defensive one, and he appeared confident at the beginning of the fight. He wasn't excessively disturbed when his pack mates chose to die, which means that he's assimilated to death and violence. So where does a person with fighting experience become assimilated to death and violence? A warzone. By the scent, I would say Afghanistan," Sherlock rattled on. John was awed by his insight.
Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't bat an eye at it. "You missed something," he noted, causing John to look at him.
"Oh?" Sherlock pressed, clearly displeased.
Nodding, Mycroft said, "He's a changed wolf, not born. That much is obvious by the fact that he didn't know how to properly fight in his wolf form nor does he know the customs and rights of weres in combat. Recently changed, going by the fact that he doesn't want to revert to his human form. It's still painful for him to change, so he's avoiding doing it for as long as possible. The mark on his shoulder is that of a wolf bite. Several, actually. He must have been attacked in Afghanistan by a pack of wolves then." Mycroft rose to his feet and smiled down at John. It was almost sympathetic in a way. "The only wolf attack I know of happened four months ago in Maiwand, Afghanistan. There was one survivor – an army doctor by the name of John Hamish Watson."
At hearing his name, John felt utterly vulnerable. They knew who he was. He hadn't said a single word to them, and they had managed to figure out his name. Turning sharply, John made a break for the doggie door only for someone to lunge forward and block his way out – Sherlock. He slipped and clawed at the tile as he tried to stop himself. Finally coming to a halt, John shook slightly. He was trapped – trapped in a house with people who had just killed the only weres he knew. People who knew exactly who he was and his history. And he was trapped there, not knowing what they wanted from him or why they wanted it. He began to panic – his heart racing and bile rising in his throat – as he searched for another way out. Mind racing, John found no alternative escape. Not without fighting his way out.
"John," Sherlock's baritone voice called out to him. A hand lightly touched his ear, and John flinched away from it, fighting the instinct to lash out and bite it. But that scent drew him in again and made him release all the tension from his muscles. There was something about that scent that was soothing, even despite the fact was a mixture of chemicals, tea, perspiration, and something that John couldn't quite identify. But it was distinctly Sherlock, and John found that calming. Very slowly, he stepped towards Sherlock, who had sat on the floor to be at John's level, and inhaled again. "That's it. You're safe here," Sherlock coaxed, placing a warm hand in John's fur. Closing his eyes, John sat down next to Sherlock and nestled closer. Sherlock's scent overwhelmed him, practically wrapping around him. Yes – he was safe here. For whatever reason, John knew that Sherlock wouldn't lie to him. He wouldn't let John get hurt. Very carefully, Sherlock wrapped an arm around John and stroked his thumb down John's side. "Good," he murmured.
"Wait," a quiet voice from the back sounded out. John opened his eyes to find a small, almost mouse-like woman in the back. Her long, straight brown hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Clearly nervous, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Is this man your soul mate, Sherlock?"
"Soul mate?" another woman echoed. She had a darker complexion than the others, and her black, long curls were wild, probably due to the night's events. Sherlock tightened his grip on John as she spoke, and John instantly knew that he wouldn't like this woman. "How do you get a soul mate?" she sneered, clearly offended.
Sherlock ignored her. "Yes, Molly," he said, directing his answer to the smaller female. She looked utterly heartbroken, and John wondered if there had been something there between them. That thought is quickly shoved off to the side as he realised the words that they were throwing out. According to the books John read, soul mate was a term that the weres used to describe someone who was predestined to mate with someone. Only born weres were known to have soul mates, although it did not matter if the soul mate was born or turned. So that meant… John went rigid under Sherlock's touch, not sure if he felt comfortable with where this night was heading.
"A soul mate!" the woman with the darker complexion scoffed. "The freak got himself a soul mate!"
Lestrade stepped in. "Oh, come off it, Sally!" he snapped before glancing over at Mycroft. Everything triggered in John's mind then – Lestrade must be Mycroft's soul mate. That was why Mycroft had reacted so poorly at seeing Lestrade being attacked.
"Sherlock," Mycroft called out warningly, "you need to be careful. Your instinct will be-"
"I know, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back, cutting him off.
Glaring at him, Mycroft continued, "Don't force the bond. Those relationships never end well. Take your time with him. Be patient for once in your life. And make sure he bloody well understands everything before you proceed." He paused a moment before backing away from them. "And for God's sake, don't expect him to submit willingly. Changed weres have no understanding of such bonds until after they're bonded." Shifting uncomfortably, Lestrade flushed as Mycroft said this.
Slowly, Sherlock untangled himself and rose to his feet. "Come on, John," he said, walking forward. John glanced back at the doggie door. He could technically escape right now. No telling for how long, though, since they had his name. But even so, he could get one last taste of freedom. "John!" Sherlock called out again, his tone a bit warning this time. John grudgingly turned away from the only escape. Instinct told him to follow Sherlock, so he trotted after him, limping past all the staring eyes. They headed up the stairs, and Sherlock opened a door. John peered in to find the rom was a bedroom. The walls were a dark green with mahogany floors, bed frame, and furniture. Glancing up at Sherlock, John hesitated before entering the bedroom.
"You're going to need to change, John," Sherlock said as soon as the door to the bedroom closed. From what John could smell, it was a guest bedroom that hadn't been used in a while. Leaping up onto the bed, John turned around and whimpered. Changing while awake hurt, and it reminded him far too much of the first time he had changed by accident. Sherlock slowly turned to face John, and he frowned. "I know it'll hurt, but we don't have the time to wait for you to fall asleep and revert back to your human form naturally." Walking over, Sherlock sat at the edge of the bed.
John gazed at him, blinking slowly. Sherlock maintained his gaze, not blinking. For a long moment, they remained at a standstill. Eventually, though, the silence began to wear on John. He knew he had to change back sooner or later – apparently sooner, according to Sherlock. Steeling his resolve, John closed his eyes and forced the transformation. He howled out in pain as it felt like fire seared through his body. John let out another howl as it felt like thousands of razors slice across his skin. Bones began rearranging and resizing themselves, and John convulsed as they moved. And then he felt it again: the sharp, tearing bite into his shoulder. He could feel those razor-sharp teeth piercing his flesh and ripping it off, and he almost vomited. John reached around and clutched his left shoulder before convulsing once more as his tail drew itself into his body. Eventually, his howls turned into blood-curdling screams. His vision flashed white as it felt like his entire body was electrocuted. John screamed out again, thrashing as the rest of his fur pulled back into his skin. Slowly, the pain subsided, and John was left naked and shivering as he tried to reorient himself in his human body. It was only then that he felt a pair of hands on him, one gently stroking through his hair and the other one caressing his side.
"John," Sherlock called out gently. "Can you hear me?"
Swallowing hard, John sucked in a few deep breaths before managing a shaky, "Yeah." He shifted slightly to get a better look, and his body ached in protest.
As John shifted, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and darkened. "Mate," he growled, leaning forward.
John planted a firm hand into his chest. "Not yet," he stated decisively. "We have to talk first."
"About what?" Sherlock spat out, taking in a deep breath. "There's nothing to talk about. You're my soul mate. Mine. No one else can have you."
"And that's the issue," John pointed out. "I know very little about the mating process or what any of it means. I refuse to jump head-first into something I don't completely understand. I learned my lesson after joining the army." The last sentence was meant to be a joke, but Sherlock didn't even so much as smile at it.
Growling, Sherlock grudgingly pulled away. "Of course," he muttered, sitting on the corner of the bed. "Soul mate is a term coined by our kind to describe the natural attraction between two weres, at least one of them being born into lycanthropy. It's unknown what decides who is whose soul mate, but it is on a chemical and biological level. Our personalities will also compliment each other. I will be everything that you need, and you will be what I need. It's still unclear if our mates define our personalities or if our personalities define our mates."
"And what happens if I become your mate?" John asked, utterly baffled by the whole situation.
Sherlock responded, "You will be mine. Only mine. We'll be bonded for life. I'll provide you with protection and a home, and you'll provide me with company."
"And the pack?" John inquired.
"You'll become a full-fledged member the moment we bond without having to go through those tedious initiation tests," Sherlock said, shrugging indifferently. "You'll answer to me first and Mycroft second." John cocked his head in confusion, raising an eyebrow. As far as he knew, it was mandatory that the alpha's orders came first. Sherlock quickly explained, "It's a special condition that only extends to soul mates. Mycroft's best interests lie with the pack as a whole – or Lestrade, depending. Mine will revolve around you."
John shifted, blocking his genitalia with his arms. "And the process?" he inquired. He had never expected to be anyone's soul mate and he hadn't been planning to mate at all, so he had barely glanced at those sections of the book.
"Sexual intercourse that ends with an exchange of bites," Sherlock responded. "Fairly simple. Since we're soul mates, we don't have to have our wolves mate as well. We'll be bonded just from mating in our human forms."
Pressing his lips together, John pressed, "And what if I don't want to mate with you?"
Sherlock went rigid, and his gaze sharply locked onto John. "I could force you," he stated, his voice dangerously low and heavy with lust. Tensing up, John glanced at the bedroom door, trying to gauge if he could get there faster than Sherlock or not. "I won't," he added, making John look back at him. "We will eventually have to mate. It's my instinct to mate you, and it's your instinct to submit to me. I can stave off my impulses for a while, but you would have to restrict your movements and schedule."
"What do you mean?" John inquired curiously.
"You wouldn't be able to leave my side," Sherlock stated, his eyes roaming around the room once more. It felt nice to no longer be under such a scrutinizing gaze. "You wouldn't be allowed to touch anyone nor could anyone else touch you – unbounded or not. If you did any of these things, I wouldn't be able to fight my urge to mate you."
Swallowing, John nodded. It really was only a matter of time before they mated then. "And after we mate? Would you be just as possessive?"
"No," Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. He looked back over at John, and his eyes were softer this time. "My instinct would tamper down knowing that no one else could mate you. Knowing that you were mine." After a long moment, he continued, "Trust me. I didn't want this either. I never wanted to be tied down by a soul mate. I enjoyed my freedom to the fullest, and I don't want my lifestyle to change. But my wolf won't let you just walk away. My instinct can't let you walk out that door. You're mine, John Watson, whether you accept it or not."
John hadn't realised that Sherlock was inching closer with every word. Suddenly, that exotic scent filled his nostrils again, and he shuddered. He leaned forward and felt the light brush of warm lips against his own. Melting into the kiss, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. He felt Sherlock's tongue slide across his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth in compliance. Immediately, Sherlock's tongue plunged into his mouth, exploring and mapping out every nook and cranny. John moaned, drawing himself closer. When he felt a pair of hands grab his arse and draw him closer, John realised what he was doing.
Breaking the kiss, John said, "Wait!"
"Don't!" Sherlock warned him, drawing John into his lap. John felt a hard grind, and he whimpered at the friction. Damn, when had he become so aroused in the first place? "Don't overthink this. Your instincts know better – know what to do. Listen to what your heart is telling you to do, not your brain."
Suddenly, John felt a mouth assault his neck. He tossed back his head and moaned as he felt a nip at his collar bone. Sherlock's hands travelled across John's back, carefully stroking down each vertebrae and gliding across his shoulder blades and sides. John bucked down against Sherlock's trousers, groaning in frustration. Quickly, he set his hands to work, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt before undoing his belt. Sherlock's mouth moved south, kissing down John's neck and chest. A tongue flicked at John's left nipple, and John arched into the touch. With one quick movement, John pulled down Sherlock's pants and trousers. Sherlock chuckled, his chest vibrating; he then obliged, quickly letting his shirt, trousers, and pants hit the ground. John admired Sherlock's flawless body once more; tentatively, he reached out to touch Sherlock's skin. Very gently, Sherlock caught John's hand. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through John's body. Sherlock slowly brought John's hand to his chest, and John gasped as he felt the warmth underneath his palm and fingers. It felt like a high temperature fever, and John became concerned.
"It's normal," Sherlock reassured him, drawing closer. "There's no need to worry."
Before John could even think about objecting, Sherlock kneaded his nipples. John gasped and bucked; he had never found that zone erogenous until Sherlock touched him. Regaining his breath, John began exploring Sherlock's body with his hands as well. He slowly slid them down Sherlock's chest, feeling each contour carefully. He could count every rib and measure the length of each of them. Slowly, his slid his hands back up and then down Sherlock's sides, which rewarded him with a shiver and a nip at his neck. Suddenly, John felt two hands on his arse again. He tensed up, preparing to object, only to be silenced by a languid kiss on the lips. Sherlock's tongue slipped into John's mouth as he gently lifted John up and laid him back into the mattress. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock stared down at him with half-lidded, dilated eyes. John was panting and utterly aroused.
"I want you to agree to this," Sherlock told him, leaning down and nipping his collarbone playfully. He spread John's legs a bit and slowly stroked down his thighs. "Do you want to be my mate?"
John hesitated, his mind clearing a bit. He hardly knew this man – this Sherlock… whoever. He didn't know where Sherlock lived or what he did for a living or what hobbies he has or his likes and dislikes or interests. All he knew was that Sherlock was his predestined soul mate. Or was it the other way around? Sherlock stilled as the silence passed between them. Hesitantly, he looked up at John's face; it was like he was bracing himself for what he might see there. John let Sherlock study him, unsure of how that would help at all.
Another pause passed between them before Sherlock said, "You're anxious."
"Yes," John confessed, knowing there was no reason to lie.
After another moment, Sherlock continued, "You have trepidations." John said nothing in response, knowing Sherlock didn't need a verbal prompt to know he was right. "You're fighting your instinct to give yourself to me. You're fighting your very nature." Sherlock frowned. "I suppose that's only natural, though. You were a soldier. Your career has been based off fighting your instinct to preserve yourself."
"I don't know you," John said quietly, his voice barely audible despite the silence surrounding them. "How can I mate with someone I don't know?"
Sherlock sighed in irritation. Suddenly, John was grabbed and brought into a burning kiss, and he moaned into it, drawing himself closer to Sherlock and that smell of his. Breaking away, Sherlock said, "My name's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm a consulting detective – the only one in the world – created the job myself. I live at 221B Baker Street in London, just a 30 minute cab ride away from here. I'm an alpha by nature, but my brother runs the pack; normally, I don't mind. It's too much work and much too boring for my taste. I play the violin when I'm thinking, which could be at any time of the day. In between cases, I experiment, which takes up the whole kitchen table. I can go without food or sleep for days on end without it bothering me." He pulled John in for another kiss, this one much gentler than the hungry one before. Keeping their foreheads pressed together, Sherlock continued, "My soul mate is one John Hamish Watson. That's all there is to me. Satisfied?"
John's head reeled with the new information, and he barely managed to nod in acknowledgement. Nostrils flaring, he took in a deep breath of Sherlock's scent. His instincts told him that this was right. He was meant to be with this man, come Hell or high water. And although he knew he might – and probably would – come to regret this decision later, John honestly couldn't picture tearing himself away from the man in front of him. It felt as if they were already connected in a way. After another moment's hesitation, John finally said, "I would be honoured to be your mate."
As soon as those words tumbled out of John's mouth, Sherlock pounced and pinned him to the bed. John felt Sherlock's lips against his own again, and he complied immediately, opening his mouth. Instead of invading, though, Sherlock gently flicked his tongue at John's, coaxing it out to investigate. Tentatively, John began to explore Sherlock's mouth. He enjoyed the taste of Sherlock, and he impulsively pulled Sherlock closer to him. Meanwhile, he could feel one of Sherlock's arms moving, clearly searching for something. Just as John was pulling back from the kiss, he felt a slicked finger slowly invade his entrance. John gasped and tensed, realizing that Sherlock must have been grabbing a bottle of lubrication. Gently, Sherlock licked and nipped at John's Adam's apple. Once his finger was completely inside, Sherlock remained motionless for a long moment as John tried to get used to the feeling.
"You've never had anyone claim you before," Sherlock noted without even the hint of a question in his voice. Sherlock crooked his finger and pressed it against John's prostate, making John whimper and buck down for more. "I'm the only person to have ever seen you like this – whimpering and writhing." Slowly, he drew his finger back out before thrusting it hard back in, making sure to strike John's prostate once more. John's erection twitched from the stimulation. Kissing up John's jawbone, Sherlock added, "And now I'm the only one who ever will."
With that, Sherlock inserted another finger, stretching John painfully. He cried out his protest only to be shushed by lips on his own. Sherlock began scissoring him, making sure to strike the prostate nearly every time, and waited until John relaxed before inserting a third finger. In what felt like no time at all, John was grinding down against Sherlock's hand, trying to get more contact. It was maddening to be filled up so much and yet not feel like it was enough. And on top of everything, John's erection remained completely untouched, the tip dripping pre-cum. Much to John's horror, Sherlock removed his fingers; he whimpered in protest, causing Sherlock to smirk and gently kiss John again. Then Sherlock grabbed John's hips and flipped him over. John heard the cap come off the bottle of lube and Sherlock hiss in need. Before he knew it, John felt Sherlock's erection pressed at his entrance. John braced himself, pushing out in order to force himself to relax, as Sherlock slowly entered him. Moaning, Sherlock shook with self control and panted hard once he was completely inside. John, on the other hand, bit his bottom lip in order to keep from crying out as he was painfully filled. Both of them remained motionless once Sherlock was completely inside.
Shifting around a bit, John got used to feeling Sherlock inside of him. The ache faded just enough for John to buck back, prompting Sherlock to start moving. Hands resting firmly on John's hips, Sherlock smoothly pulled out before thrusting back in. John felt his prostate get hit, and he tossed back his head and moaned out in pleasure. With every thrust in, Sherlock gained speed and force. John's arms collapsed, and he fell face-first into the mattress. Moaning, John felt his entire body being rocked with thrust after thrust. The sound of flesh meeting flesh mixed brilliantly with Sherlock's controlled grunts and John's moans and whimpers. John swallowed and reached down to touch himself only for Sherlock to bat his hands away. Hearing John whimper in protest, Sherlock reached around and began stroking John in time with his thrusts; as soon as Sherlock's lithe fingers wrapped around his erection. John began moaning out encouragements, which only spurred Sherlock to pound into him as roughly as possible. All too soon, John felt himself reaching the edge. Suddenly, Sherlock's other hand grabbed John's hair and pulled his head up. Pain mixed with pleasure, quelling John's orgasm a bit.
"Bite me when you come," Sherlock ordered.
Gasping for breath, John took Sherlock's wrist in his mouth. Sherlock's thrusts weren't as smooth due to the position change, but coupled with two more flicks of Sherlock's wrist was enough to send John toppling into his orgasm. Biting down hard, John moaned and tasted blood in his mouth. His vision flashed white, and his entire body went rigid, toes curling and back arching in the process. Just as he was coming down from his orgasm, John felt a sharp sting at the base of his neck. It registered instantly in his mind, and John panicked as he felt teeth sink into his skin. It all came rushing back to him: the chill of night's air, the uncomfortable feeling of sand in all the wrong places, the howls in the distance, the shouts of orders mixing together, and the sense of fear. Once more, John could feel those eyes on him. Bright, intelligent eyes of wolves that were much too large to be normal. He could feel the sharp sting of teeth cutting into his flesh again. Jerking, John snarled as he pushed himself up. Pressing his weight down on him, Sherlock broke away from his skin.
"John, it's me. You're alright," he murmured reassuringly in John's ear. "You're safe. It's me. You're in London, not Afghanistan. You're with your mate.:
John slowly processed those words and stopped fighting. As soon as John stopped, Sherlock twitched inside of him, and John could feel himself being filled as Sherlock came. Riding out his orgasm, Sherlock eventually slowed down. John felt Sherlock lap lazily at the back of his neck, and he repeated the motion for the wrist that had just been bitten into. Carefully, Sherlock slid out of John, and the both of them collapsed onto the mattress. As John laid there, he could feel a connection begin to form. It was invisible and not like a string wrapping around the two of them. No – their bodies were slowly syncing with each other. John could see Sherlock's breathing pattern change to match his own, and John's heartbeat was slowing down much faster than it ever had before. Shivering, John drew himself close to Sherlock to escape from the cold air.
"You mustn't touch anyone else while the bond is forming," Sherlock warned him. "it could disrupt the process."
Laying his head on Sherlock's chest, John inquired, "When will the bond be over?"
"It depends on the pairing, to be honest. There's no set time. But I will know when it's completed," Sherlock answered, running a hand through John's hair. "I'll tell you the moment it happens." Nodding, John closed his eyes and fought the pull of sleep. Gently, Sherlock pressed, "Sleep. You've been through a lot today. Your body needs to recuperate. I'll be right here when you wake up."
John nodded, not feeling up to fighting Sherlock on this matter. Closing his eyes, he relaxed and let the pull of sleep drag him into the peaceful abyss of sleep.
And for the first time in months, John didn't have a single nightmare.