Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and the Godtiss.

Warnings for...you know, that bad thing that happens in omegaverse stories.

Bored.SH

Bored.SH

Bored.SH

Bored and about to die.SH

You are not about to die. JW

You have a cold and a short attention span. JW

Stop texting me. I have an exam. JW

Head hurts. SH

Still have an exam. JW

I also don't think that you're dying since you can still text me. JW

Also, you should be in class. JW

Class is boring. Like the rest of the world. SH

Diva. You should pursue a career in acting once you graduate. JW

Bored.SH

Sherlock, I really have to finish this. My professor keeps looking at me. We're not supposed to text. JW

You can always stop. SH

You're not going to quit even if I do stop. JW

Take a picture of your exam. I'll answer it for you. SH

Don't you have a headache? And no I'm not going to cheat!JW

Do it. SH

"Mr Watson."

Shitshitshitshit.

John quickly deletes Sherlock's last two messages before he looks up. Professor Hitchcock (also known as Dick Dick for being named Richard Hitchcock but John is trying very, very hard not to think about that) is standing in front of him, one hand already outstretched and waiting for his phone. "Next time I'll ask you to leave," he says before he sweeps away to harass another student. Next to John, Mike sniggers. He's close enough to be kicked and John does it happily.

"Damn you," Mike hisses, his voice loud enough to carry across the room.

"Mr Stamford, eyes on your paper!"

John finishes his exam while avoiding Mike's vengeful feet. He gets his phone back after class. Dick D—Professor Hitchcock (damn you, Murray, damn you) glares at him. "Do not text your boyfriend during my time, Mr Watson," he warns and John doesn't even bother saying the lines, "Not my boyfriend."

"So what was it this time?" Mike asks as they make their way through the bottleneck forming at the door. "Experiments? Trying to enter crime scenes?" Mike slows down. "Trying to enter crime scenes again?"

"Actually, he's sick." John scrolls past the new messages, all of which came from Sherlock. "Apparently, he's more Sherlock when he's sick."

"Cute."

"Annoying," John corrects but he can feel himself smiling. The smile, however, is soon replaced by a look of disgust. "Jesus, he just sent me a picture of his new 'experiment'."

Mike leans toward him. His face pales. "Is that a cat?"

"Was. Oh wait no. Sherlock says it's a dead rat."

"Didn't know rats could get that big."

"Oh wait. Got another message. It's a pregnant smaller rat inside a rat inside a cat. Also pregnant."

"The sewer rat?"

John rolls his eyes. "No, Mike. The cat."

"Huh."

John squints. "They're all dead, I think."

"You think? John, they're cut open."

They are indeed sliced open. Sherlock did it perfectly and John is almost tempted to call it art. But to do so would be a whole lot of not good. John knows he should be afraid that the person he's supposed to spend the rest of his life with can slice cadavers like a pro. But then John will be a doctor someday and it's not like doctors can't be killers. Look at the Black Dahlia for example. John is pretty sure (okay, Sherlock may have said a few things) that the person who killed her was a surgeon.

"You never know with Sherlock," John answers finally as he deletes the media files. "He's the catalyst for the zombie invasion."

Mike shakes his head. "I take back what I said about you being lucky," he says. "Kid seems like a nightmare. How do you deal with him?"

John shrugs. "I have a thirteen-year-old sister. Sherlock's just like Harry." John pauses. "Well, like Harry only with more drama and whining. Also, with better hair."

Mike just gives him this look and John sighs. There's no use explaining to any of his friends what his relationship with Sherlock is. John isn't even sure what they are. He's not sure if he's even Sherlock's friend. Surely friends don't wrap wires around your arm while you're sleeping and electrocute you without your consent? And no, no, he does not like Sherlock in that way so shut up Murray and you as well, Mike. He's probably an older brother, then, though Sherlock already has Mycroft for that and Greg fills in as well (Greg's more a father type actually but to say that to Sherlock would be cruel and things would end up badly for John). But it seems Mycroft only gets the 'don't you dare touch my brother' part and not the 'I'm your brother and I love you' part.

Or maybe John's just the guinea pig.

Mike opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a battle cry and one Bill Murray. Mike is sent sprawling to the ground with Bill sitting on top of him. Bill grins up at John, looking a lot like the Cheshire cat with his gaudy striped shirt and too-big smile. People glance at them but quickly move on. Nothing they haven't seen before.

"Murray, off," Mike complains from the ground. "You're heavier than you look."

"Your fat's already absorbed all the pain, Stamford," Bill counters. He jumps and lands on Mike again, making the other boy squeal—and John thinks—very much like a pig.

"Stop bickering," John orders and for once, Bill actually complies. John hauls him off Mike who looks like he wants nothing more than to repeatedly slam his fist in Bill's face.

"Party tonight," Bill tells them as he puts his arms around their shoulders, squeezing once and thankfully, only once, because Bill can crush cars with those arms. He's not the type of person John should like but Bill is somehow different from the gym-addicts-with-red-sports-cars type in campus John had originally put him with. And the fact that he's an Alpha as well should put John off (because that idiot part of his brain cannot shut up about Sherlock) but Bill Murray is someone nature does not agree with. Mike on the other hand is safe. Beta, smart, quiet, and surprisingly sarcastic. He also seems fond of Sherlock even though he's never met him in person. It is either that or Mike is secretly waiting for John to show signs of madness.

John frees himself from Bill's grasp. "Where?"

"Kendra's place. You know her."

Kendra must be one of Bill's 'acquaintances'. John doubts Bill even knows her. Or remembers her for that matter. Kendra might be one of Bill's drunken one night stands and Bill might have just remembered that Kendra the Acquaintance told him about a party in a strange town. This mistake has happened before and John never wants to relive it again because it included bars and too much tequila and John had woken up with his wrists bound to a bed post (thankfully still clothed when a still sober Mike burst in). There is also still no explanation to the turtle he found happily crawling on his groin and John has had enough sea creatures near his penis, thank you very much. He doesn't really want to know what the next thing will be but he has a good feeling it won't be turtles anymore.

Relief washes over him when Mike says that he does know her. "She had an affair with Mr Stiles," Mike informs him helpfully.

Definitely one of Bill's 'acquaintances'.

"So are you coming?"

John shrugs. He shouldn't be near alcohol—to much history of alcoholism in his family. Also, Sherlock is sick and John can practically feel it. He doesn't feel sick but he does feel restless which is probably how Sherlock is feeling right now. He's not sure if there should already be an empathetic link in a pre-bond but as there aren't many people who have pre-bonds, John can't compare. He has thought of asking Greg but he really does not want to hear about Greg talking about Mycroft in that way. That is just more than a bit not good.

On the other hand, Bill and Mike have been complaining about John no longer hanging out with them. John can't keep saying that it's because of Sherlock. Mike already keeps teasing him and Bill will just snort and tell him that Sherlock won't mind if he sleeps around a bit. Bill won't hear it if John says it's not about sex. Okay, maybe it is about the sex. He slept with Sarah (they were drunk and John woke up and asked her out on a date out of guilt) and the whole time there was a part of him that was screaming wrongwrongwrongwrongnotyourmateabortmissionNOTYOUR MATE). John can't really sleep around if every time someone strips in front of him sirens are going off in his head. He can even hear it being whispered when they change in the locker rooms.

There is also the fact that a fifteen-year-old is controlling his life. And John's supposed to be the Alpha in their god-knows-what relationship.

"Alright," he says and Mike cheers. Hopefully there won't be any sea creatures near the place where they're going. He sends a quick text to Sherlock that tells him to get better.

John is, again, wrong (not a surprise as John is often wrong about many things even though John is three years older than him and is already attending uni). Not about the short attention span but about the cold. Sherlock has no idea what this is but he knows that colds are supposed to suppress your sense of smell, not enhance it until your head feels as if it's about to split open. It's not only his sense of smell. Everything is intense. His clothes feel like sandpaper. There may be a rash forming on his ribs but scratching it is not an option because he's quite sure that his fingernails will feel like knives against his skin. His hearing is so sharp he thinks he can literally hear a pin drop. He put on Soo Lin Yao's headphones earlier but they don't do the job properly. Removing them doesn't even cross Sherlock's mind, though. They feel strange on his head and his ears are beginning to itch but he'll take the discomfort over the possibility of his ear drums bleeding. His sense of sight hasn't been spared either. Sherlock is pretty sure that the room isn't supposed to be spinning. And when has that desk been such a bright blue? It used to be almost black.

What he does have is a mystery to him. He doesn't get sick often and he has John to ask about illnesses whenever his curiosity is piqued (must remember further self-study for the future). His stomach feels like there is a scalpel cutting through the inner lining. His abdominal muscles jump when Sherlock places a hand there. He makes the mistake of pressing against it. Breakfast (tea and Red Bull) rises up his throat and escapes his mouth. It falls on the picture of Carl Powers that he forced Mycroft to give to him.

"Fuck," he says before another wave of nausea hits and Carl Powers' picture disappears into soup. The puddle is a pale brown that contrasts sharply against Soo Lin Yao's fluffy white carpet.

There is a great possibility that she will hurt him. A slap, no doubt, followed by a kick to his shin. She's too merciful to land her foot on his groin but even the idea of being spared the worst doesn't appease him. He thinks of hands grabbing him forcefully and he shakes.

Damn this. Damn his body and its betrayal. There is a case, a real one this time and one that he knows he can solve. Mycroft told him he has three days to figure it out and Sherlock is almost finished. But his body has to have its way and make him so ill that it feels like he's being torn to shreds. He can't even think straight.

If this is a side effect of that experiment with the decomposing rate of mammals compared to that of fowls Sherlock will never hear the end of it.

But now is not the time to worry about that. He thinks it's about time he swallow his pride and go to the nurse's office before his stomach juices plan on destroying any more evidence. Mycroft can only pull so many strings.

The world tilts as Sherlock gets up. He puts a hand on the wall. Hot. On the door. Cold.

The doorknob practically burns a hole through his hand but Sherlock manages to wrench it open. The others are still in class so he meets no one as he makes his way down the hall. He walks slowly and he has to stop every now and then to lean against the wall and try not to pass out at each spasm of pain. He seriously regrets deleting the nurse's number from his phone (only contacts are John and Mycroft and a number that belongs to Greg but one Sherlock didn't bother to save properly).

Oh.

Nurse's number. Pain in the senses.

Oh.

Perhaps he shouldn't have deleted those sexed classes from his hard drive, either.

Sherlock freezes when the door to his right is wrenched open and Jason Mathews steps out. Ah, Sherlock thinks, so that's where the awful smell is coming from. Sherlock grits his teeth. Mathews steps forward. One look in his eyes and Sherlock can't tell he isn't even bothering to fight his second nature. He did blatantly announce that he was going to rape him weeks ago so Sherlock isn't surprised by Mathews' reaction.

He throws up one more time just as Mathews grabs hold of him.

"You okay, John?"

John looks at the crowd warily. There is a strange feeling in his gut. "Are you sure it's okay? I don't know anyone here."

Bill grins. "That's what the pints are for."

He shakes his head. It's probably just nerves.

A sticky glass filled with beer is handed to him. "Drink up," Bill says and John does.

Mathews throws him down the bed. Then his hands are everywhere, tearing at Sherlock's clothes, pulling his head back to bare his neck. He smells disgusting and his touch is painful. It's as if he's holding hot coals and pressing them against Sherlock's skin.

Mathews jerks his head back again when Sherlock tries to sit up. He'll bite me, Sherlock thinks, his eyes widening. He'll replace John.

There is a part of him that is panicking. There is a part of him that is calling for John. But these parts aren't him. He's still Sherlock, mostly, and when Mathews takes his belt off, Sherlock does his best to ignore the pain and to listen to his mind. He twists away from Mathews, grabs hold of the belt, and quickly wraps it around the Alpha's neck.

"What's wrong with you?!"

The guy shoves him. "Sorry," John says as he stumbles backwards. He's not sure why he did it. He's only had one pint. It's either he underestimated his alcohol tolerance or it's Sherlock.

"Sorry?" The guy shrieks. He's an Alpha and John already knows that things will get ugly pretty quickly. People are looking at them now. Bill is squaring his shoulders, ready to defend John. Behind the guy, John can see three people doing so as well. All Alphas. "You just punched me in the face!"

He should check on Sherlock. There must be something wrong. Sherlock must be feeling murderous right now—

The guy's fist slams in his stomach and all thoughts of Sherlock fly out the window.

Mathews is struggling. He's bigger than Sherlock but Sherlock's not the one who's about to suffer from asphyxiation. His hands are now trying to pry Sherlock's off his neck, his fingernails raking Sherlock's skin. Sherlock begins to bleed.

He tightens his hold.

"Get him, John!"

"Punch his stupid face!"

Someone knocks him down. His phone slides out of his pocket and falls on the floor where it's crushed beneath the foot of his assailant.

"That was worth three months of rent!" John yells.

"Fuck you!"

The Alpha part of him takes over fully. Someone makes the mistake of handing him a golf club.

Well, it's not really much of a party without bloodshed, right?

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes are you in there?"

Someone is pounding on the door and the sound is loud enough to make Sherlock let go of Mathews. The Alpha slides to the floor, the belt still looped around his neck. It takes Sherlock a while to notice that he's not breathing.

There is a crash and the door swings open.

"What's going on h—"

Headmaster Whitman's mouth falls open. "Oh my god," he croaks and Sherlock thinks that he looks ridiculous, that everything is ridiculous. Mathews is the most ridiculous of all. Sherlock draws his knees to his chest and winces as the adrenaline leaves his body.

"It's pretty obvious what happened," he answers before his body betrays him once more and the world turns black.

A/N: Because Sherlock is definitely not a damsel in distress. Some of you may think, oh come on Sherlock, surely you should have known you were going into heat you idiot. Sherlock's heats are different from other people because of his heightened senses. They're a lot more painful. Sorry, Sherlock.