Sherlock woke quickly, eyes snapping open, body and mind on alert. The elderly plumbing in the building clanged on. John taking a shower then. Must be 06:45, John's schedule was nothing if not predictable.
He shifted, scowling at the untidiness of his bedspread.
Sherlock's head pounded. He hadn't felt anything like it in years. It was boarderline similar to a drug hangover. This time he blamed it on his more than likely usual dehydration after a Rut. He ran a hand through his hair, scrubbing his temples.
He froze.
He stared at his wrist, just within his line of sight. Flecked with brown, dried blood.
He inhaled deeply through his mouth, tasting and scenting the stagnant air.
Blood. Iron. Salt. Sweat. Semen. John.
John.
No.
He shoved the blankets off him, a feeling of blazing heat streaking through his skin, his hackles rising.
Blood. Brown against the stark whiteness of his pillow. Dark against the flannel of his sheets.
Old blood. Hours then. He'd been lying in John's blood for hours.
He bolted up and away. Check. Hands, arms, wrists—mouth.
He worked his tongue against his teeth. Copper penny tang. Blood flaked off his lower lip.
Sherlock searched his memory bank frantically. He remembered the doors (locked), windows (locked), John ("You're frightened. You smell different.") And then nothing. Nothing! Devastating blankness, his memory bank utterly eradicated during Ruts.
But he knew.
Mycroft had been right.
Right to fear for him and what he might do while unbonded at such an age. He'd been warned he was a threat, even to Betas, perhaps even especially to Betas. Trusting, compliant and easily ordered—They subconsciously wanted so badly to satisfy Alphas they would put themselves in danger if they felt it might benefit in the end. At least Omegas (when not in a Heat) knew to snarl and drive unwanted Alphas away. Even Omegas needed to be courted properly.
And then John. His trusting Beta. John would have done anything for him.
Sherlock felt sickened.
Where he should be entering the second day of Rut, he felt nothing No lust. No urge. No aggression. Only a numbness which encased him with suffocating discomfort. What transpired between him and John last night was enough to curb the desire.
He listened, rooted to the spot, as the water clanged off.
Inhale… one two three…
John could admit to himself he was frightened upon first waking. Sherlock's solid body sprawled on top of him, pillows and heavy fabric rumbled on their forms- he'd nearly had an eruption of panic at the overwhelming sensation of being trapped.
Sherlock's sheets were navy blue but even as John struggled out of them and out from under the unconscious Alpha, he didn't have to see to know. The scent of stale sweat and coppery blood assaulted him.
His neck was a mess.
His wrists were bruised.
But he would be fine. He was fine. He was alive.
The edges of his memory were frayed but he held enough awareness to know he was fully culpable. He'd led an in Rut Alpha to bed, he'd let him nest against him, let him handle him in intimate ways…He could have stopped it, he knew, he knew he was in most ways taking advantage of Sherlock's (lack of) coherency.
He stepped into the shower on autopilot, twisting the knob and letting the old pipes groan to life. Mechanically he washed himself, pulling the cloth against his skin, barely registering the stings along his neck and arms.
He found himself shivering, blinking at the realization the water had suddenly turned to ice, as the old system sometimes did. As he turned the water off he found himself still shivering, but he didn't blame it on the water.
Exhale… one two three.
Wiping the mirror down with his forearm he checked the wound on his neck. A solid, one puncture bite. Down and up, no ripping to tearing. He smoothed antiseptic over it along with a bandage, before quietly heading up to his room, avoiding the 11th step altogether, knowing its loose nail would make it squeak.
He pulled his clothes on, a turtleneck as he felt self-conscious enough as it was, (he didn't need people staring at what was clearly a submission bite), along with a cream colored jumper, faded jeans and a pair of trainers. He combed his fingers through his hair with uncharateristic neatness, smoothing the wet strands flat as trails of water ran down his nape. Self-grooming is a sign of attraction and/or nervousness, Sherlock had told him once. As he found himself fiddling with his hair once again, he decided that yeah, Sherlock at least knew that much about social cues.
He sat on his bed and found himself unable to stop shivering from his compounding anxiety.
He cupped a palm to his neck, testing the bandage with his fingers through his clothes. The sensory memory was there. Sherlock's hold. His teeth. Him baring it for the Alpha. The submissive, throaty noises he'd made coupled with Sherlock's aggressive grunts. It was utterly frightening and yet… utterly right. That complete sense of abandon, letting Sherlock take control and just letting himself feel.
My Omega. Mine.
Sherlock had asked him before he'd lost himself to his Alpha state, if they were 'getting worse'—And they were. To the point where the Alpha's desperate, deluded mind had conjured up for him an Omega in his bed as a replacement for John, so longing for a bond connection—John swallowed heavily, guilt ridden and just a touch jealousy.
John took a breath and held it for three seconds and exhaled for even more.
He had wanted it. He knew that. He could admit that, privately, to himself. He knew what would more than likely happen by leading Sherlock into his room, hand in hand. Even he, as a Beta, knew the implications of a nest to an Alpha while in Rut. He wasn't frightened (not entirely), and he'd wanted it. But even if Sherlock was content on just having him nearby, quietly having him at his side while he slept, that would have been enough for John as well.
Alpha's couldn't bond with Betas, not how they could with Omegas. But Alphas were these days forming sexual relationships with Betas more and more, it was less and less taboo than it was in days before.
But John had a hope. A small (foolish) hope that maybe Sherlock would want him, that they could-
"You washed away evidence."
John jumped nearly out of his own skin, hair rising suddenly on his arms. He stood from his bed and spun, facing Sherlock who stood cautiously just outside his door. He hadn't even heard it open.
"I'm sorry?" He asked idiotically, his heartbeat drummed in his ears, ceasing most of his coherent thoughts.
Sherlock looked unusually gaunt and cautious. Over sized T-shirt pulled over his slim, but broad frame, dark plaid pajama bottoms hanging off him. "You need to report me. You can't just… You washed away the evidence." He stated matter of factly, his head bowed.
What? Oh. "Sherlock—" He took a step forward, watching Sherlock tense up before him. "Hey." He said gently. He reached for Sherlock's arm.
"Don't you let me touch you. I have no right." The Alpha snarled at him, twitching away from the Beta's grasp.
"Sherlock stop it. Let me tell you what happened, you don't remember." John said in a harsher tone of voice, dropping his hand.
"I construed a theory based off the physical evidence." The Alpha snapped. "I harmed you. I'm-" An animal. A freak.
"Sherlock, I'm fine. It looked bad, okay, yes. It looked… bad. But I'm alright. If anything I'm the one who …took advantage." John swallowed hard, a stone forming in his chest.
"You led me into my room. How do I know? Because my sheets were pulled, tented around me, something I have never done before in my state, so, you did it. You pulled me into bed—"
"Sherlock—"
"—to nest me, to calm me. I was… frightening you. Everything would have been fine until you attempted to pull away from me and I - became territorial. I attacked you. I attempted to bond with you. I forced you to stay with me."
"No, you didn't." John rushed out automatically.
"Do not insult me John. I bit you. I saw the blood on the pillow. The angle, the splatter. I can deduce what I did."
"I cleaned it. It's fine. It won't scar." Although he was only 75% positive on that last piece. "You don't have to worry about me." He urged.
Sherlock sneered, sweeping his curled bangs out of his line of sight. "I do not worry, John. Those who worry are those who don't grasp or comprehend what is happening. You..You Betas," It dripped contempt. "You are practically genetically programmed to assist us. You did your job, you attempted to care for me and I abused that proclivity."
"Look maybe," John sighed heavily. Sherlock noted how suddenly exhausted he looked. "Maybe we can agree to disagree on that front. It's… extenuating circumstances."
Sherlock gave a slow nod, seemingly appeased. "Extenuating. Yes, alright." He paused, eyes sweeping over John's form, hidden by cloth. He felt a hollow pang in his chest, of not being able to remember John's naked form. Feeling his calloused hands, licking sun-tanned skin. Feeling him arch beneath him. Even if it was supposed to regret it, he wanted to remember it. "Are you alright?" He asked slowly. "Have I… did I harm you elsewhere?"
John gave him a small (sad?) smile, and Sherlock's head tilted anxiously. "No, Sherlock. I'm fine. I told you I'm alright, ok?"
Sherlock nodded, but the Alpha inside him paced in agitated circles. "Are you—" He hated himself for asking, but the urge was too strong. "—still mine, John?" My flatmate. My friend. My only friend.
The smile was gone, and sadness crept to John's eyes. He looked away but for a moment, before inhaling deeply and facing him, shoulders squared. "Sherlock—" That heartbreaking tone caused Alpha to tense considerably. "I've always been yours. I care for you. You know that just- do you think-" He took a brave step forward. He pointed a finger at Sherlock and himself back and forth twice, illustrating, before adding. "This? That this could… happen?"
Sherlock frowned, following John's finger, not comprehending, before—Oh. Oh John.
"I-," He steeled himself. "I can't. Biologically, I'm unable."
"Biolo-… Look if you don't want to, then just say that. Don't make excuses, I'm an adult Sherlock, I can… I can handle…" John backed away, hands clenched at his sides. He swallowed hard as his face burned, mortified.
"John—"
"No, really. Just stop. I know Alphas can be with Betas. It happens all the time. But it's fine, I'm telling you it's fine. I get it. It's—"
"John!" Sherlock barked, impatient, crossing the room in two long strides, catching the Beta's elbow (gently). "Listen, to, me. I am unable. My lineage… I am incompatible with Betas." He released John and continued to peer down at him, willing understanding.
John frowned, licking his lips. "Alright so… What does that mean, exactly? What happens?"
"We go mad."
That made John bark out an unexpected laugh. "We drive each other mad every other day Sherlock—"
"John, I need you to listen to me for we will not be having this discussion again. I understand your knowledge is… lacking in this area. You didn't have the advantage of attending A/O Classes, so I will forgive ignorance. Most, I say most, Alphas are able to faux bond and successfully procreate with Betas. Some, like myself and my family, are of an older line. It's a biological imperative we bond and mate with, and only with, Omegas. If we lead ourselves outside of that, our Alpha selves go mad. Crazed. Self induced harm. They murder their mates. It's dangerous. It just… I can't."
With each sentence John's heart sank further and further still. To his credit Sherlock looked miserable detailing his biology. John could only nod. He attempted a smile but it felt broken and inappropriate, so he pulled it back. "Alright." Is all he said, not trusting himself to speak further.
Sherlock hovered in his room, before closing the gap between them and pulling John to him. The Beta didn't flinch as Sherlock pressed his lips to his temple.
Alphas didn't kiss, John at least knew that. This was as close and safe a kiss Sherlock would ever bestow. A concession, a meeting of the middle, an apology. John could only nod. Before Sherlock pulled away from him, he tucked his head under the taller man's chin and inhaled, breathing in the scents from their previous night's coupling.
And Sherlock left, casting and meeting John's eyes in a coldly shuttered, withdrawn look, quietly shutting the door behind him.
And again, John found himself back at square one. The last intimate gesture he'd ever receive from Sherlock. The last conversation regarding sex, or biology, or genders.
Back to being the assistant, the ever compliant Beta.
Back to cases and blogging and experiments ruining the carpet.
Back to normal.
But it took a few days for things to feel normal. Sherlock had withdrawn from him completely, closed off in his room or hounding Lestrade repeatedly over text for cases. He gave orders and requests to John without even looking up from his phone or laptop. Tea, research, takeaway, more research, more tea. And what could John do? He obeyed, half autopilot and half numb. God Damnit, Sherlock was right there and John could only feel lonely.
"How's the neck?" Sherlock suddenly asked, a full week after. It was the first time since then he'd asked how John was, much less spoken about the 'incident'.
At first John stared, suddenly apprehensive, before forcing himself calm. "Fine. Healed up I think. No scar." Not quite the truth, but enough of it.
"Good. That's good." Came the clipped response, as Sherlock flipped the page of his newspaper. He didn't look up at John once.
They had two cases in the month that followed, ("A beheading John!" Sherlock cried out, excitedly.) It had been the first real smile Sherlock and John shared, despite how morbid the actual reason behind it was.
John began to hope that maybe they'd be okay.
Two months later, they found themselves chasing a jewel thief, John berating himself for leaving his Browning back at the flat. It wasn't meant to be a confrontation; they merely went to question the quiet, helpful Beta assistant of the shop they'd met the day before—who had turned on them with a single shotgun blast which shattered the window behind them.
With a mutual, silent look and nod at one another, they each took off in opposite directions, Sherlock heading north and John east, attempting to hedge him off.
The first cramp in John's gut stumbled him off his feet, knocking the wind out of him. He tripped, landing hard on wet pavement next to some rubbish bins. It was so sudden it sucked the breath right out of his body, his eyes barely able to focus ahead as he watched the culprit vault the chain link fence on the other side. Fuck!
"John!" Sherlock was beside him, arm linked around the crook of his elbow, attempting to pull him up when the second cramp struck, curling his insides he dropped back to his knees. Sherlock knelt beside him, hand against his neck, scenting him for blood or injuries. "Alright? Are you alright? Where did he hurt you? Where?!" John wasn't even sure Sherlock realized he was snarling, hovering over him protectively.
The wind wouldn't come back into his lungs, he couldn't speak, he could only shake his head helplessly and pointed to the fence frantically, eyes pleading. There there he went that way, there! But Sherlock shook his head, taking in a few large gulps of air to catch his own breath back. "No, no you're injured. You can't even stand. Here."
He roped a lanky arm around John's waist, the Beta finally getting a whoop of air back into his lungs. "I'm sorry," he managed to rasp out, before the third hit. It nearly crippled him, and he collapsed in Sherlock's arms with a cry.
"Jesus, John!" The Alpha carefully lowed him back down, propping him up against the brick of the building. He kept a firm hand on John's arm as he went to fish his mobile out of his pocket.
"No! Please, I'm fine. No ambulances, alright? I'm-" He swallowed air quickly. "—fine. Fine just- let me sit here for a bit, yeah?"
The Alpha gripped him harder and snarled. "You are not FINE. You are in tremendous pain, I can smell it. Your heartbeat is rapid but your pulse is weak. Your damned near in shock. You're protecting your stomach, so what is it? Appendix? Tell me your symptoms."
John hesitated, quickly running down a mental list of medical conditions. He was loathed to admit it was more than likely him being out of shape, getting a side cramp from the sudden burst of mad running he had done.
As he ran through his list, nothing came up and Sherlock was waiting, anxious and expectant. They felt like contractions, a timed pulse in his abdomen that seized, gripped hard then released, every 30 to 60 seconds. Nothing in his doctoral catalog could explain it, and his body tingled in what he could only name as fear.
He caught his breath and looked up at the Alpha and shrugged as casually as he could manage. "I…. I'm fine now. I don't know what it could have been. How's my pulse now?"
Sherlock crossed his arms tightly, eyes suspicious. "Calmer now I suppose. I still would recommend a hospital visit. That was very sudden."
"Yeah, well," John heaved himself up, bracing against the wall. He didn't miss how Sherlock's fingers twitched to assist him, but he remained still. "No hospital. I'm fine just… Probably just lost my breath for a bit."
Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes, uncrossing his arms. "You doctors truly do make terrible patients."
John gave him a weak smile and nodded, wiping his palm against his jeans, brushing off the dirt. "Ta. We really do." He let his grin broaden; its sincerity seemed to calm the Alpha.
He glanced at the fence and let himself give a dramatic sigh. "I'm sorry. I let him get away."
"Hm. Well, we know who he is now. He didn't have time to have set up adequate resources to successfully get out of the country. I'll let Lestrade know."
"Alright. Call a cab then?" John asked. Sherlock merely nodded, eyes directly fixed down at his phone, but peripherally, he also warily watched his Beta.
Worried.
