It had been over a week since John left Sherlock's flat with more questions than answers. Until today, he'd come to terms with the fact that the whole incident was going to remain a worrying jumble in his head and Sherlock wasn't going to sit still long enough to be sussed out. He had been fine with that.

It seemed Sherlock had knack for surprises.


"Johnnyyy! Answer your phone, Doctor big-shot!"

John clamped his eyes shut against the slurred voice coming over the line – Harry, drunk dialing him and leaving a voicemail at two o'clock Christmas morning. It wasn't until John woke up at eight that he saw the bloody alert and, still half asleep, he'd considered just deleting the damn thing and pretend he'd never saw it in the first place. Instead he'd listened to it, but he wished he hadn't.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," his sister continued to shout over the obnoxious beat of heavy bass in the background. John pressed a hand against bleary eyes – Harry hadn't been keeping her promise of sobriety. John had already guessed as much when she avoided his questions on his last e-mail, but this was ridiculous.

"You're supposed to call! I want to tell you about this fantastic girl I met! Oh how she can snogs me senseless, baby brother! She –"

At that, John mashed the phone viciously, turning the message off, and tossed it across the bed. It overshot and clattered to the floor, but John couldn't be arsed to get up and find it again. He wasn't awake enough to deal with disappointment, so with fleeting concern as to how his sister got home, he stuffed the message to the back of his mind and climbed out of bed. The floor was freezing and John hissed out his discomfort as he danced across the room and downstairs to the toilet.

Christmas came and went for John like any other day. It was hard to celebrate the occasion without someone to spend it with. He'd briefly considered buying the small plastic tree he'd seen in a shop window on his way home the day before, but it didn't feel worth the money when he'd just pack it away or chuck it a few days later. It wasn't a terrible day, John had gotten his marks back for the finals and he'd done great, better than he expected he would. That alone was fantastic.

After the morning's fiasco, he put off calling Harry – not that she would notice, she'd be hung over for most of the day – and skipped to his mum. The conversation was dismal as expected: she gave a half-hearted effort to sound interested in John's progress. He would never admit it out loud, but it had been one of the best days of his life when he moved out of his parents house. Things were never exactly happy under that roof and at fifteen, when John presented as alpha, the bad turned that much worse. Sometimes he did feel guilty, as Sherlock so helpfully pointed out the other day, for not doing more for his parents. As it was, he ran off to college and the promise of a new life, never looking back.

He pressed through the conversation, listening to his mother complain and, when the call did come to an end, he promised to come visit her and dad soon – soon being a relative term.

The call was the unfortunate highlight of his Christmas. John had a sandwich for both lunch and dinner and went for a chilling walk near sunset to enjoy the Christmas lights while they were still relevant. A brief consideration went into a visit to the pub on his way back to the flat, but it just didn't seem worth the effort. The night ended with John watching Christmas specials and flicking through his phone book, musing over names to call to wish Happy Holidays.

Two days before the new year, John finally got his next shift at the coffee shop. He had certainly gone half mad during the downtime – his room was spotless now, along with the kitchen and the living room. He found himself willing the semester to start again quickly just so he would have his life back – it wasn't exciting, but it was something. John regretted his wish to have the flat all to himself.

The shop hours were a dreary reminder that the holidays were still upon London. People trickled in slowly from the drizzling rain, leaving John plenty of time in between to fuss over cleaning behind the counters and listening to Molly gossip and drift from subject to subject; the chatter filled the quiet and John appreciated the company after the lengthy bouts of silence of the last few days.

When time rolled on towards closing, John began the usual motions of cleaning up, but it was hardly a arduous task given how slow the day had been. It was five minutes to close, the shop void of customers, when John heard the familiar jingle and the brief rush of cold air. He set down the wash cloth as he turned to meet the almost too late customer. "Hi, What can I- uh..."

John's words failed him as he was caught under the pinning gaze of smoldering pale eyes. Sherlock. The tall omega strolled towards the counter with confidence and sway that John could never hope to master. The new leather jacket was speckled with raindrops as it wrapped around a deep purple shirt that looked like it would simply pop open if he stretched just so, and jeans that clung to him like a second skin. A well of elation bloomed in his chest, Sherlock walked in like he owned the place and came to rest across the counter from John, eyes locked upon his.

What is he doing here?

"Tea." The man leaned over the counter surface upon crossed arms.

"What?"

"You were asking what I wanted. Tea. Small." Sherlock answered with quick words while his expression turned amused in the wake of John's confusion.

"Right. You want that to go?" Just ignore the fact that you know where I work, then. John was struggling to find his footing against the alluring omega in front of him. Christ, what was wrong with him? He shouldn't be this excited about seeing the pompous arsehole.

John put on a forced smile and went to brew the tea. The familiar motions brought John back into the moment and he smiled when he asked, "two sugars?" He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder when Sherlock confirmed the question with a hum, followed by stark silence. In less than a minute, John had set the paper cup down before the lounging man. Sherlock picked it up with long, nimble fingers and stretched back to his full height once more. John was just pulling up the total when Sherlock dropped a few coins onto the counter.

"Going to drink it, this time?" John ventured as he gathered the coins – exact change, it turned out. The whole situation was odd, but after his last encounter he felt far more receptive to the oddities the omega projected about him. John looked up in time to see Sherlock tip of the cup and take a sip of the hot tea. John couldn't stop the grin from blooming across his lips.

It had been over a week since John left Sherlock's flat with more questions than answers. Until today, he'd come to terms with the fact that the whole incident was going to remain a worrying jumble in his head and Sherlock wasn't going to sit still long enough to be sussed out. He had been fine with that.

It seemed Sherlock had knack for surprises.

He wanted to ask why Sherlock was here. It couldn't be a coincidence, not with the way Sherlock looked so confident and put together across the counter. The omega wasn't shocked to see a familiar face serving him tea, nor was he pretending they'd never met in the first place.

"Well, goodbye," Sherlock turned then, breaking John from his thoughts as he watched the back of the omega sway towards the exit.

"Sherlock?" John called back in his sudden confusion. That was it? He was just leaving after that? Was he trying to prove something? "Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock didn't stop at John's call and the familiar jingle signaled his quick departure into the rainy London streets. His darkened figure moved across the window's view before he vanished into the night. What the hell?

"You know him?" Molly's timid question filled the void left in Sherlock's wake and John glanced over to see her watching out the window as well, hands clutching the broom handle she had been using to sweep around the tables. A splash of color ran across her cheeks and her teeth worried her bottom lip. She looked like she had just fallen in love and that was just hateful. He grabbed the cleaning cloth and began scrubbing the counter with a rough passion, "yes, he's a twat."

Five minutes later, the front door was locked and the shades were drawn, Molly counted up the till's content and everything was packed away to its proper place. John might have been upset at the idea of going back to an empty flat if he wasn't already fuming. What was that? He was certain that Sherlock had been playing with him and the idea made his blood boil. Where did Sherlock get off? John had done nothing to warrant being some victim in some madman's game of cat and mouse. He'd never met an omega like him. Hell, he had never met anyone like him. Wandering in and out of his life, stalking him.

Nothing about Sherlock was normal and John shouldn't want to see him again. He just wanted the man to leave him alone and let John forget about him. John closed his locker a little more forcefully than he had intended and he frowned as the door clattered against the latch. "I'm taking the rubbish out!" he called out to Molly, who was still shuffling about somewhere in the front room. He didn't wait for a reply as he left out the back door, bin bag in hand.

And right into Sherlock's familiar scent.

John's eyes flew up to the man standing across the dimly lit alley. The only light came from a dull yellow bulb hanging over the door he'd just stepped out of, but it was enough to cast a glow upon the man leaning upon the brick work across the way, almost turning him into some B-movie greaser the way he wore his jacket, the glow of a cigarette hanging from his lips – needed more gel in the hair.

"You," John snapped in surprised. "Where did you come from?" Sherlock turned his eyes to the open end of the alley and John could practically feel the smart-ass answer hanging in the air between them. "No, forget it," he corrected himself, "Have you been following me?"

"Of course not, John, stalking requires effort," the deep voice drummed a smug replied as Sherlock pushed himself from the wall and strolled towards the street, cigarette dropped and crushed underfoot. As he moved away, John binned the rubbish and hurried to stepped in beside the taller man's gate. Furious as John felt, he'd just feel worse if he let himself get left behind again.

"Fine, I'll bite. How did you know where I work, exactly?" John peered up to tall Sherlock. The man's eyes were bright and his movements came easily. He didn't look high, and John was relieved to see he hadn't come strung out on cocaine or whatever else he let soak into his systems, cigarettes notwithstanding.

It bothered him, knowing Sherlock was an addict. Knowing that he could end up on the street again without someone to come to his rescue. He noticed, with a sinking feeling, that it was the exact same worry he had for his sister, or his father, when they refused to listen or take care of themselves. Sherlock wasn't a friend, barely an acquaintance and already John worried. He really didn't need someone else like that in his life: someone needing to be cared for.

His thoughts must have shown on his expression, because when he looked up again Sherlock was studying him, observing John with those dazzling eyes. The way he looked at John, he seemed to take in everything and give nothing back. John felt a heat rush to his cheeks and he looked away.

"Simple," Sherlock broke his own enchanting spell when he spoke, "You reeked of coffee when you returned my mobile, your trousers and shoes were stained with twelve different varieties. You walked from your work to my flat on both our brief encounters, therefore you not only work at a café, but one near to both the university and your place of residence. There are four possible locations, only one that matched the style of the napkin you had forgotten to remove from your back pocket. Your schedules are hanging behind the coffee bar for anyone to walk in and see."

He was doing it again, observing and taking apart a problem, bit by bit and he was explaining himself this time. "That... Wow." John shook his head. "That wasn't simple at all." Sherlock gave him a perturbed look. "I do stink of coffee, though. All the time." He added as Sherlock's lips finally twitched up into a brief grin. It only made Sherlock look even more alien than usual.

"John!"

He tensed just a little when he heard the soft voice calling for him. Shit, he'd forgotten to tell Molly he was leaving. He turned to see the smaller omega jogging to catch up with him and Sherlock, her face flushed from the effort – or perhaps Sherlock's presence, John thought glumly. "Sorry, Molly." John gave an apologetic smile, "I didn't mean to up and leave without warning." He glanced to Sherlock, then did a double take, Sherlock was practically glaring at the poor girl. John nudged his arm with an elbow.

Molly looked between the two men before she gave John a brief, understanding smile, "It's alright. I was just hoping, maybe, we could walk to the bus stop again? If you want, I don't mean to get in the way."

John was about to say how fine it really was when Sherlock's sharp words interrupted. "You've got a stalker."

John rounded his head towards Sherlock at that blunt admissions, while Molly was just stunned. "What?" John demanded, "Sherlock, you can't just – "

"How did you know?" Molly's small voice laid over John's reprimand and his mouth snapped shut, his gaze shooting back to Molly.

"An alpha," Sherlock continued with that sharp, calculating edge to his voice. "He's been following you for months, at least since August. You're not interested. You prefer your own gender." Sherlock's mouth twitched into another, far more hollow smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Molly was blushing furiously at this point, and John couldn't believe the man's tactlessness. "Sherlock."

But his attempts to quell Sherlock's outburst went ignored and the tall omega stepped closer to Molly, as if the very idea of standing still was preposterous, "He's approaching you at work now. I saw the way you looked when I came in, you were expecting him. You are walking with John," He waved a hand towards John like that might highlight his point, "because you think he won't bother you if you're with him."

There was a stiff silence that followed Sherlock's biting words. John looked between the two omega's with hesitating glances before Molly finally stammered out "I... yes."

"Mol? Really?" John gave up on Sherlock when Molly sounded so crestfallen. He turned his full attention to her as she gave a small nod. He reached out and took hold of her upper arms, giving them a gentle squeeze, "Have you gone to the police about this?"

"Yes," Molly said, offering one of her smiles, "but he hasn't threatened me – he's just a creep, you know? Everything's fine –"

"No it isn't, Molly," John growled out, she shouldn't just shrug something like this off. He looked at Sherlock again, hoping for some sort of support in this, but the taller man wasn't even watching them any more. Instead, he had wandered further down the pavement away from them – having the gall to look bored.

"Look," John spoke through clenched teeth, he released Molly and dug into his coat pocket for his phone, "I'll give you my number and if you ever feel like you need help or... or just someone to talk to, you call me." John waited until she nodded before he finally surrendered a relieved sigh. He ignored the grunt of disapproval that came from Sherlock – whatever the reason for it, he could shove off. John was happier knowing Molly would come to him if she needed. The two exchanged numbers and John felt a bit better about the whole situation. He would have done this much sooner had he known.

After that was settled, the three continued their way towards the bus stop. John and Molly shared a quiet conversation about her plans for New Years, but Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, even when Molly attempted to lob bashful questions at him. John might have tried at conversation with tall dark and handsome too, but this way he could pretend that he wasn't being ignored as well.

When they reached the bus stop, John said his goodbyes to Molly while Sherlock stood off to the side, fiddling with a cigarette and ignoring them both until Molly's bus rolled away. Only when the bus was turning the block corner did he move once more to John's side and together they started off in the general direction of home. Silence reigned as John watched a match's flame light up Sherlock's features in a brief burst before the tip of the cigarette came to life with a curl of red embers and grey smoke tendrils.

"That was rude, you know," John spoke up.

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He drew out a long pull of the cigarette and sighed a heavy breath of smoke into the night air. "Rude?" he asked, sounding utterly unconcerned. "Why should I care?"

"Yes. Rude," John insisted, "you could have been a bit kinder at least. Molly is a sweet girl and she doesn't deserve to be harassed by some brute stalker." John eyed the man, but Sherlock seemed immune to his lecture and shrugged a lazy shoulder.

"Is this what you do? You look at people and read their life's story?"

"I observe, John. I see what everyone else is too ignorant to catch." Sherlock flicked the end of his cigarette and smoldering ash drift down and died on the cold, wet pavement.

"So when you said all those things about Molly-"

"Obvious conclusions from observable evidence. She wasn't even trying to hide anything." Sherlock held an edge of irritation to his voice, but John just felt guilty for being so blind. He had noticed something was off when she first asked to walk with him, but he'd ignored it; he never imagined it could be something so serious.

John wanted to change the subject. "How did you know I want to be a surgeon?"

"The jumper you wore when returning my phone had a rip under the sleeve. You mended it with a surgeon's knot. Well done, you practice."

"Oh, right." John watched the man's profile as they passed under another street light, "You could tell all that with a glance?" Maybe the lights were playing with his eyes, because the smile Sherlock made almost looked predatory.

"You obtained the jumper some years ago," Sherlock continued with an eager gleam in his eye, but John was too interested in what he had to say to stop him now. "It doesn't fit you exactly, it was made to fit someone a size larger than you. But you're an alpha, you wouldn't wear clothes that smell like some stranger. It came from someone in your immediate family. Harry. The label was sewn onto your bookbag the night we met. Wouldn't be your fathers, he would have no reason for a bookbag. An older brother then."

"However, you still wear the jumper to the point of mending rips, the bookbag was far past its prime. If your family were helping you now, you wouldn't be having these problems. Therefore you aren't often in contact with them, nor are they contacting you..." Sherlock hesitated a moment, his eyes narrowed, "Or they're all dead," He swung around to observe John's reaction, "No, not dead then."

"When you found me in heat, you didn't take advantage of me."

"Alphas aren't all chest thumping brutes, Sherlock." John felt a tenseness enter his voice, but Sherlock ignored him again.

"Instead, you resisted the instinct enough to get me home and safe. You are accustomed to giving care to the helpless. You have a strong sense of morality and that was strong enough to override your instinctual desires. You have been caring for someone else for some time. Your brother, correct?"

That was getting a bit too close to territory John did not want to venture in to. He clamped his mouth in a pointed silence and Sherlock finally turned his all seeing eyes upon him, "Oh I see... not just your brother?"

John felt his jaw clench against Sherlock's scrutiny, willing himself to remain quiet until Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away. The silence that followed almost felt awkward and John was about to attempt to break the lull when Sherlock beat him to it.

"The way you carry yourself, the way you react. It all gives you away, John, like everyone else. Obvious." Sherlock almost sounded remorseful as he paused to stamp out the butt of the spent cigarette. John paused long enough for Sherlock to start walking again before he spoke.

"It's not obvious to just anyone," he points out, "I've never met anyone like you, no one that could just look at someone and know so much." What was it like inside that brain of his?

"Did I get anything wrong?" The smooth baritone turned up at the end and it drew John's gaze towards the man again.

"Sorry?" he frowned.

"I do hate repeating myself, John." Sherlock flashed his teeth in a brief grimace, "Wrong, was anything wrong?"

"Oh... right... yes, actually," he finally caught up with the jump in subjects. Sherlock's eyes narrowed upon him and John shrugged. "I don't have a brother."

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. He almost seemed offended. "Just a sister. Harry is short for Harriet." John smiled.

"Sister?" Sherlock bit out an indignant huff and John's smile grew. This was nice.

"Beta, did you guess that one?" John wiggled his eyebrows, earning him a distasteful snort from the taller omega.

John let out a huff of laughter as the two walked along, "But everything else, yeah. Right on point. That was great." The rain was picking up now, and John wished he had thought to bring a more waterproof jacket, or a brolly. His shoulders hunched some and he glanced sideways to Sherlock. The man didn't seemed bothered by the rain, it beaded off his leather coat and turned his brown hair dark.

It wasn't so bad, John was lulled into a calm by the sound of the quiet drizzle hitting the damp cement and the tapping of their shoes as they moved, side by side. The break in conversation gave him time to puzzle over the man walking beside him. This was the same man John found just a few days before – vulnerable, about to be assaulted in an alley. The man who trashed his own flat and left John behind at the summons of a text. John should want nothing to do with Sherlock or his antics – he was an addict for Christs sake.

And yet, Sherlock was brilliant, John couldn't deny that. He was an interesting, unique thing against a repetitive background. Dangerous, his mind supplied, intense, amazing, beautiful... . John wondered what it would be like to kiss him properly, outside of his heat.

"Dinner?" Sherlock's voice broke through John's runaway train of thought and he flushed with guilt, loosing the smile he hadn't realized he was wearing. That was dangerous, thinking up fantasies like that. He looked back to Sherlock, the omega had stopped walking. John stopped and turned back to the man, his eyes drifting up to the restaurant front Sherlock had stopped at. Angelo's? Italian, maybe?

"I shouldn't," John admitted after a moment's debate. He really didn't have the cash to spend on a nice dinner. Rent was due soon – that time of the month always made him gloomy.

"Nonsense, I'm buying." Sherlock put on a sharp smile as he twirled and vanished into the restaurant before John could flat out deny him. Was he serious? John scrunched his nose in frustration. Who was he kidding, it was Sherlock, of course he was serious. Without any better ideas presenting themselves, John straightened his jacket and followed after the omega.

The smells that hit John then shot straight to his stomach and it clenched with a hungry growl. When was the last time he'd eaten at a decent restaurant, or even cooked a decent meal? He took in another deep breath as he found Sherlock settled in a booth by the window, stretched out and lounging like he owned the place. It seemed a default stance with the omega, and the sight sent a warmth down his spine that only briefly distracted him from his rumbling belly. "Sherlock," he stated firmly as he settled into the seat across from him, "I can't let you pay for my meals. I hardly know you." And though John didn't want to admit it, his alpha pride wasn't about to accept such a token. "I'll pay for my meal." John waited, but Sherlock looked to be off in his own world, his gaze drifting back and forth through the wandering souls out the window, "Sherlock, are you listening?"

Sherlock turned his head, a smile graced his expression briefly, but it wasn't for John: the waiter was upon them. Sherlock gave his order with practiced ease that only left John stuttering through a drink order before giving a quick look through the menu. Lasagne it was. Christ, John hoped this command Sherlock had over him wasn't going to become a habit.

When the waiter was gone, John glanced around the quiet restaurant. It only just occurred to him that he was sharing a dinner with the omega he really shouldn't be hanging around. He settled back in his seat and regarded the man across the table. "Sherlock, what is this?"

Sherlock slid a hand across his purple sleeve as he leant upon the table. They had taken his coat at the door, John noticed, and he felt a bit silly for still wearing his damp shooting jacket. "I was hungry," came Sherlock's simple reply. John could hear the unspoken 'obviously'.

"You don't have to buy my meals, I can manage just fine, you know," John shot back a bit too quickly.

"We both know that isn't true." Sherlock's gaze became sharp as he stared John down, as if he were waiting for John to deny him.

John didn't even bother, he glared right back to the omega as he changed tactics, "Then I –"

"You owe me," Sherlock continued and the very sentence caused John to grunt. Owe?

"What exactly do I owe you?"

"You stole my seven percent."

"What? The –" John stopped, then glanced around. When he continued, it was at a whisper. "The cocaine? Sherlock, I got you home safe that night!"

"Fine, then I owe you." Sherlock countered. It seemed the more flustered John got, the more obstinate Sherlock grew. What could John say to that? He tapped the table in his agitation, but the sound of the man's phone cut off his thoughts. He watched as Sherlock pulled it free from his pocket, and a sudden dread jumped in the pit of John's belly. He felt an urgent need to pull his attention away from whatever message he had just received, lest he be ignored again – or worse: watch Sherlock walk out on him and his order.

"What do you do, anyway?" John latched upon the first question that came to mind. "Are you a student or...?" he added, when Sherlock broke eye contact with the phone.

"Sometimes," he answered cryptically.

"Sometimes...? Sometimes you're a student?" John attempted to urge a straight answer out of him.

"Sometimes I'm not," Sherlock confirmed without a hint for John to work off. What did that even mean? It didn't work like that. Had he been to uni in the past and dropped out? Maybe he was part time and only took one or two classes a semester. Sherlock was clearly brilliant, John didn't doubt that Sherlock could excel in whatever field he picked.

"Something to do with chemistry?" John remembered the beakers and equipment at the flat.

"When the mood strikes," Sherlock hiked a shoulder in a shrug, "There are far more interesting experiments than what is allowed on University grounds. The professors are morons and the lessons are sluggish at best. I've found far more advanced material on the internet alone."

"Do I even what to know what sorts of experiments you do conduct?"

"Probably not," Sherlock replied with an amused gleam in his eyes.

John puzzled over the man and his sometimes student status when their food arrived quicker than John expected. The smell made his stomach rumble again and John let the subject drop in favor of digging in. Three mouthfuls later he noticed he was practically shoving food into his mouth while Sherlock was poking his pasta primavera like it might bite him.

John hummed, watching Sherlock watch him. Didn't he say he was hungry? "You do know you look like a twig, right? All skin and bones, its not a very attractive look."

Alright, a small lie. Sherlock was bloody gorgeous, but he was still way too skinny, probably all elbows and knees and sharp angles in bed. John shut those thoughts down before he could form any mental images that could get him in trouble.

Across the table, Sherlock raised an offended eyebrow. Or perhaps it was just to humour John, he couldn't tell.

"You should eat." John pressed, poking his fork towards the food in front of Sherlock. "You said you were hungry." He watched, avoiding his own meal until he saw Sherlock pull a decent forkful into his mouth. Satisfied, John nodded. "Good. You won't be starving today, at least."

Sherlock gave an unconvinced hum around his food and it only encouraged John's smile. A sudden idea struck him and John gave a quick glance to the other patrons of the restaurant before he nodded his head towards the table nearest the kitchen, where a young couple sat. "So you claim that you can read people."

"Claim, John?" Sherlock replied in a deceptively flat tone, but his eyes were turning to follow John's gesture nonetheless.

"Yes, claim, I'm not so convinced," John teased Sherlock, his smile growing when Sherlock flashed him an offended glare, "you enjoy showing off." Then the glare shifted to look put on. "Come on, tell me about that couple. Why are they here?"

The remainder of the shared dinner was spent with Sherlock's clever deductions floating between the two of them and John's rapt attention to every bit of it. Each time Sherlock jumped to wild conclusions John struggled to find the connections Sherlock so easily saw. Some of the things Sherlock pointed out were so far fetched that John would shake his head and giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. Honestly, how could Sherlock tell that the man in the corner was a janitor for a local cleaner service and was currently wearing a red lace thong under those scraggly old black trousers?

It was amazing, really, and John was dazzled when Sherlock took the time to explain the reasoning behind his deductions. Sherlock was in his element when he watched people like this, he shined each time John was wowed by his words but, really, how could John not be? He finished his lasagne off at some point during Sherlock's break down as to why he believed the two women sitting in the booth near the door were having affairs with each others husband and how neither were even remotely smart enough to figure that out. John had convinced Sherlock to take several more bites throughout the night, but his plate remained unfortunately full by the time the bill came. In the end he couldn't bring himself to complain when Sherlock paid for their meal without even glancing to the cost and they took their leave back into the streets with leftovers and a content ease.

They never really stopped talking as they walked, though John wasn't sure what had got him started on his own medical career or why he felt so at ease talking about it with Sherlock. "I want to help people," he had said, "I always have. All the way back to when I would play doctor with Harry." He grinned, only to falter when Sherlock wasn't beside him any more. He turned around, finding the omega stopped in front of... oh. His flat. Had they really got all the way there so quickly? Walking back to Sherlock, John felt a sudden, tight feeling deep in his chest. How did all this become like... like a date.

John's focus jumped to Sherlock's hand as it moved from the omega's side to brush against John's cheek. His touch was cold, his hand smelled of cigarettes and of the sweet honey smell John could only identify as Sherlock's omega scent. His mind shuttered and his gaze snapped back to those grey, shifting eyes, hooded now by the shadows of the stoop they stood upon. Sherlock had that look again, that look that tore through John like a hot blade and damned if that didn't prickle his skin with chillbumps. "Sherlock? I don't..."

Sherlock's hand slid easily to the back of John's neck as thin fingers brushed at the damp strands of his hair. The touch was so sudden that he should have jerked and pulled away on instinct, but the sweet scent drew closer and John couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. He was tugged forward, his lips met Sherlock's soft bow and his world narrowed down to the contact between them.

This kiss was nothing like the fierce grapple they shared during his heat, this was gentle and soft and yet still so very much. John's nose was filled with the smells of leather, cigarette smoke and sweet omega. A wetness touched John's lip and his own tongue jumped to chase after the promise of more and he slowly licked his way inside that hot mouth. It tasted of sharp spices, remnant of Italian, and the bitter tar of his stupid cigarettes and under it all was a definite, intoxicating taste of Sherlock. Gods, how did this happen?

Hands lifted up and John nudged against the omega's chest, firm and insistent until Sherlock broke the connection with a low groan. The man pulled back, but only so much as his lidded gaze met John's, his arm still wrapped around him like a vice unwilling to let go.

John struggled to find his words in that sharp stare and his tongue darted out to taste the lingerings of the omega on his lips. "Sherlock, what the hell?" The omega's mouth twisted in a sinful smirk – a look that sent sparks down John's limbs, "what was that?"

"A kiss," Sherlock purred, eyes shifting down to John's lips, and John found himself licking them once more. "Evidently."

"Yes." John cleared his throat. He thought to pull away from those long fingers stroking the hairs at the base of his neck, but he seemed to have forgotten how. "Yes it was, but I'm not... I'm not into guys, Sherlock, I'm sorry if–"

John's words cut off with a grunt when Sherlock whirled the both of them around and pushed John against the front door of the flat. The omega loomed over John and it was so familiar with that night that John was breathless in moments and his trousers were suddenly uncomfortably tight. Oh, God. A move like that would normally send his fists flying, but the way Sherlock was looking at him: hungry – his brain supplied for him – he did everything in his power not to fucking whimper.

"I see the way you look at me, John Watson." Sherlock leaned his weight into John, his lips brushing at the shell of his ear as he whispered his words. Cool air tickled as Sherlock inhaled deeply so close to his neck. He was scenting John, and fuck if that didn't go straight to his cock. John's fingers twitched in aching need to reach up and touch the man.

"You want to touch me," Sherlock purred against John's ear, "you want to kiss me." A warm tongue brushed against John's ear, dipping through the folds and this time John groaned out obscenely. "You want to fuck me."

"Jesus," John groaned. He couldn't even pretend that wasn't true.

Sherlock's head tilted and warm lips touched high on John's exposed neck while adept fingers slid down his side to press against John's hip. John's left hand jumped up and snaked into Sherlock's damp curls while the other grabbed at his jacket and tugged him closer, holding him as that tongue made large swaths across his skin. "You are... interesting, John." The voice was heady as Sherlock moved back towards John's ear to nip at his lobe. "I want you to fuck me."


Thanks so much to CrackshotKate over at ao3 for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.