John laid out the food while Sherlock was pretending to use the toilet and having a small crisis. He didn't have much time before John became concerned, but he could still have a cursory cleanup of his scattered thoughts. His mind palace had been in a shambles since the incident, but a few minutes tending it should help calm him down and put things in proper perspective. He sorted out his thoughts on the matter of his recovery, both from the incident and from the drugs, which were tossed about the hallway floor as if a tornado had ripped them out of their places. They never stayed where he put them, but perhaps the primal fits that scattered his thoughts were an instinctive protest against an egregious misfiling of data relevant to his survival. As much as he'd resented living under Mycroft's thumb for years now, he had still trusted his brother enough that active harm was a bit of a shock. Seven years age difference meant that Mycroft had often been used as a babysitter when their parents were busy or wanted a night to themselves, and as they aged Mycroft's assurance that he knew how to best organize Sherlock's life had only shifted to handling finances instead of games. It wasn't intentional, of that Sherlock was certain, but as he sorted out his experiences since deciding to replace the cocaine with casual sex his brother's efforts were no longer merely ineffective or annoying. He was always in poorer condition after Mycroft visited, even if he had made some recent improvement. He would fail to eat properly for days, take unplanned doses of cocaine, or go completely without sleep in favor of focusing completely on experiments that were not actually time sensitive immediately following an incident of Mycroft's meddling. He blamed his inability to be objective and notice the pattern on the years of Mycroft taking care of him during his childhood. Without reading any of the replies to his last text, Sherlock composed a new message to his brother.

I am compromised, more so since the incident. I have allowed sentiment to cloud my judgment chronically. - SH

That is a relief. I'll have a car at the hotel in five minutes. - M

You continue to misunderstand. You have done me active harm. I did not see it because it was outside of what I considered possible. I trust you, so I allowed you to harm me. That stops now. - SH

I have been acting with only your best interests at heart, brother, no matter what that soldier has told you. - M

My current illness has a strong emotional component that has been ignored despite a physical inability to remove that aspect of the equation via any amount of self-mastery. My conclusions are based on objective analysis of recent actions after I was alerted to the possibility that I was being harmed by having control over certain parts of my life taken from me. -SH

I will take your lack of immediate response as indication that you are unable to refute this possibility. -SH

In future remember that my initial injury, such as it is, was caused by someone ignoring my preferences and desires and forcing me to do something against my will. Replicating that sensation, even while trying to aid me, does me active harm. I will no longer tolerate this. - SH

I will consider this and relay your concerns to your therapist. - M

Do not contact me for one week. I will be in touch if I need assistance, and am not naive enough to think you will pull your surveillance no matter how I feel about being constantly hunted. - SH

I expect at the end of that week to receive some explanation for why your precious therapists failed to mention any of this as a possible complication or to accurately communicate with me on the subject on any meaningful way when a GP a couple years removed from the relevant training could spot the problem after encountering me in a pub twice. - SH

Sherlock sighed, flushed the toilet and washed his face and hands. The room was a decent sized suite with a full bed, nightstand, couch, television, coffee table, two chairs, mini-fridge, microwave, and a combination dining table and desk - all fairly well worn but not yet shabby. Big enough to not feel claustrophobic after a couple weeks of habitation, and given the lack of amenities at this hotel likely well within modest means. A small trunk sat near the couch, likely housing those belongings that Watson could not fit into the drawers as nothing was laid out on the surfaces. The habit of a man used to staying in places where leaving things out meant inviting them to be taken. The table, directly to Sherlock's left as he exited the washroom, held two place settings, but Watson had removed the food from the table at some point and set the paper boats full of fried food on the radiator.

As soon as Sherlock left the bathroom Watson got up from the grubby couch to fetch the food back to the table, haphazardly abandoning the thick book he'd been browsing. It landed with a bounce before settling with the spine facing away from him on the cushion, leaving only a bland back cover within view and Sherlock without a clue as to the book's content without obviously going over to snoop. Perhaps a textbook, but it could be one of those thick fantasy novels that were in vogue. The Lieutenant seemed the type. There was Coke and water, two portions of fish and chips, and the bisected remains of the terrible salad on offer, with half a box of rather expensive-looking chocolates sitting open on the coffee table next to a closed box from a local pastry shop. A card peaking out from under the lid of the chocolates identified the sweets as a going-away present.

"I finished what I had to say to my brother," Sherlock said, for want of any better way to start a conversation.

"I suppose you come from a well-off family that wishes the old custodian laws were still in place for unattached omegas," Watson replied, trying to sound comforting.

"Don't be ridiculous, most of them are still on the books and those with the means still employ them," Sherlock corrected, tapping his fingers against his right palm as he hovered near the table. "They had most of their teeth taken out, true, but not all of them. I have a spending limit in place not only on my trust account, which as an adult I should have full use of, but also on my personal account which only has money in it that I have earned via my own business endeavors. I must also get permission to move house, though he hasn't been able to find a way to reestablish the part of the law that would force me to go home on command."

"You don't have any way out of that? If you are earning your own money you shouldn't have to ask permission to use it. I mean, if you can prove you are self-sufficient you must be able to get emancipation." Watson tilted his head as if trying to get the incongruous ideas within to fit together properly by letting gravity slide them around within his skull.

"Unfortunately not, my brother has retained custody of me 'for my own good' for the next several years at least," Sherlock huffed out as he took a seat at the table. "My only option is to transfer that control via legal marriage to a bonded alpha, which isn't any less distasteful."

"I'm sorry you have to go through that, particularly on top of the rest," Watson said. Sherlock scrutinized him, but the statement that would be boilerplate from others seemed sincerely meant. "Why don't you tell me more about your job?"

Sherlock started to list out the little problems he'd fixed that week as part of an explanation that few of his recent clients had been very interesting. Watson interrupted to ask about a couple that he thought sounded interesting enough, and so they began. Deducing who was cheating and with which suspect based on the lingering scents hovering around them and the state of a woman's knees got him a chuckle. Laying out the identity of a thief based on a five minute look around the property in question had praise slipping easily from Watson's mouth. 'Amazing,' 'brilliant,' and 'so clever' surprising him with the blunt honesty fueling the words. Watson might be good at regulating his behavior in order to dance around Sherlock's severe reactions to being ordered about, but he wasn't putting on an act for this - he hardly seemed aware he was doing it. A little frown marred Watson's face suddenly while Sherlock was laying out how he'd helped an Italian alpha named Angelo beat a murder charge by proving he'd been housebreaking instead at the beginning of last year. Rather than finally start calling Sherlock a freak, as everyone eventually did, he picked up one of the chips from Sherlock's untouched meal and held it up a couple centimeters from Sherlock's lips.

"Eat something, Honeybee."

"I don't feel hungry."

"That's your hormones affecting your thyroid and suppressing your appetite. Your scent tells me you are starving. Please eat," the doctor elaborated. When this was met with stony silence he continued, "I put the time you spent in the toilet to good use and brushed up on the symptoms a bit."

Sherlock considered his situation and called the man's bluff by leaning forward to eat the offered chip straight out of his hand. Rather than back down from the inappropriate behavior, the man pushed the remains of the chip to the tips of his fingers to offer Sherlock the rest. Felling quite odd, but unwilling to back down from the double-bluff, Sherlock did precisely that. The alpha licked his lips and broke off a bit of fish, the crispy batter crinkling as he offered to hand-feed Sherlock one bite at a time as if it was a normal thing to do. As this when on, one bite after another in silence out of a stubborn unwillingness to back down, Sherlock started to feel light-headed. John moved closer, mixing offerings of chips and battered cod with sips of water. When the basket was half-empty Sherlock suddenly tipped sideways out of the narrow chair.

"Hey, hey, alright. Tell me what's wrong," John cooed in his ear.

"Just a bit of a rush," Sherlock said, his mind churning sluggishly. His earlier assessment that the doctor was not the type to drug him twirled lazily through his mind, taunting him.

"Do you feel nauseous at all? You said you hadn't eaten today, but what was it you last ate and when?"

"I... no. Tea, yesterday morning, with toast and honey," Sherlock said, sounding quite calm to his own ears as he sat on the floor at John's feet. Wait, he knew what this was: Kneeling at John's feet. A rush, like achieving a high from dancing for hours or immersing himself in the sound of his violin. Dear god, he'd thought this sort of thing was exaggerated romanticism for the sake of appeasing alpha egos.

"I should have gotten you something lighter, if you've been just nibbling toast," John said apologetically. "Try to finish the water, then I'll help you lie down on the couch for a bit."

"No, I'm... good. This is good." Sherlock dropped his eyes back down to his knees and straightened his back a little, tucking his feet under himself to make the pose his body had insisted upon taking more obvious. "I'm hungry now that we've begun," Sherlock admitted clearly.

"Oh." Was the only response for a long moment. Then fingers grazed across Sherlock's brow, sliding back and following the curve of his scull to tickle the back of his neck briefly. It was quite nice, and Sherlock closed his eyes to pay full attention to the sensation. He noted with mild appreciation that John had used his right hand, as his dominant one was coated in grease. "Please don't push yourself, honeybee, but I'll give you as much as you like." A chip hovered in Sherlock's field of vision when he reopened his eyes, and the hand feeding resumed.

This was a positively ancient alpha-omega bonding ritual. Yesterday, Sherlock would have gladly launched into a long soliloquy about the ridiculousness of an alpha 'providing' for their omega by hand feeding them like a feral kitten in order to gain their trust and calm them. The idea of entering a submissive mindset instinctively and enjoying the experience was laughable to him, as no one with any pride could enjoy such demeaning treatment. Yet, there he was, kneeling at John's feet, taking comfort and feeling quite calm indeed because an alpha who was attentive to his needs was spending an evening protecting and providing for him. It was oddly comforting to let John take care of his body's needs. As the natural high consumed him Sherlock's mind stopped buzzing with worries, deductions, and what-if scenarios. It was like his mind had been filled with water, everything moving slower, but also smoother as his thoughts floated lazily along. Eventually Sherlock had finished his food and water, declined the coke and salad, and allowed John to spend a couple minutes using his clean right hand to play with Sherlock's hair while he finished his own meal.

"It isn't too late to get something ordered in, but you should probably let your body digest what you've had. Are you still hungry?" This was a good question. All relevant data provided, simple yes or no response sufficient, John's opinion stated but not pushed, willing to comply with either answer.

"No." Sherlock's answer prompted a lot of rustling as John used the paper napkins to get the majority of the oil off his hand.

"We could go sit on the couch a while, watch whatever is on the telly or talk a bit more. If not, then I could read up some more on your condition and go over it with you, that might help you discuss it better with your own doctor at your next check-up. Or we could do something else, if you like." Sherlock considered this for a while, watching John's hands as they repeatedly ran over the paper napkins. "Of course, you can always leave, if you have had enough of me."

"I don't want to leave," Sherlock said decisively. The actual question was much more open ended and his mind was moving slowly, churning up possibilities as if out of deep mud.

"That's fine. I'm going to clean up a bit, alright? You think it over." John cleared the remains of dinner and popped into the washroom. When he came out Sherlock was sitting on the couch where the medical textbook had been, the book now laying face-up on the far side of the coffee table.

"Television this time of night is usually horribly dull," Sherlock said. "The news programs are all over."

"We might catch a talk show," John said, coming over to sit close to Sherlock without touching him, "or a decent movie if we're lucky."

"It's something to do, I suppose," Sherlock said with a shrug. John put something on, but whatever he was watching wasn't the point. The point was sitting next to John and consuming as much alpha pheromone as possible now that his body had found some it would accept. His scent was laced with a bit of surprise, lingering from when Sherlock had entered a submissive haze earlier, but was mostly just pleased and protective - perfect for getting Sherlock's wild hormone spikes to even out. The haze continued to be a strange and novel experience. It was a little like being high, with the contradictory feeling that he was more aware and clear-minded paired with a detachment that made it seem like most of his actions were instinctive or involuntary.

Over the next hour Sherlock slowly leaned sideways into John's personal space until he was laying with his head on the other man's lap. The intermediary stages of the maneuver had been quite pleasant: The pressing of his side against another warm body was comfortable given the draft coming in from the window. The snuffle of John scenting him again and Sherlock's obvious reciprocation, less a diagnostic tool than an instinctive exchange of information about the other's current emotional and physical state. There was a hint of arousal in the smaller man's scent, but he did nothing about it and was as good as his word. Even when the program John was watching ended and they shifted to the bed there was no suggestion of sexual activity. John offered Sherlock a pair of pajama pants identical to the ones he changed into. They were not army issue, but certainly official merchandise purchased at the same time as his uniforms, made of offensively bold stripes of red, gold, and dark blue. Still, the cotton was soft enough and Sherlock would be unable to sleep in his jeans. In the loo he hung up his button-down shirt and flipped his vest inside-out, then swapped his jeans for the eyesore pajamas that were too short.

Sherlock did have to pull the drawstring quite a bit. Perhaps he had lost more weight than was technically healthy. Mycroft had been twice Sherlock's width when Sherlock had reached his full height and it looked like they might be at that point again. Looking in the mirror, Sherlock could admit to himself that it was his poor eating habits at fault this time, not that Sherlock was likely to admit aloud that the strict physical requirements working with MI5 put on Mycroft in his early career had done his brother a world of good. It was a legitimate excuse to stock his flat with pastries that Mycroft would not be able to resist, which would be a fine way to punish his brother for breaking their agreement if he showed up before he was welcome.

Sherlock woke up tangled in the soldier's arms, the warm scent of arousal clinging to them. John was still deeply asleep, his deep even breaths puffing against Sherlock's neck while Sherlock's face nuzzled the short blond fuzz of a military haircut. Despite the perfectly logical explanation that an alpha and omega sharing a bed would react to one another while asleep, the knowledge that he and John had matching morning erections made him uneasy. John could easily interpret it as consent for further activities and Sherlock was very much not ready for that. The long minutes it took to escape the bed were made more difficult by having to suppress a rising panic, but he managed to slip away and shut himself into the loo with his clothes. Quickly deciding he could shower when he got home, he tossed his work clothes back on. Before leaving the hotel (in a perfectly dignified manner and not at all fleeing as if the room was on fire) he wrote his address on the back of one of his business cards and tossed it onto the table.