John's finger hovered over the send. It wasn't anything spectacular for a text, but it felt like he was standing at the crossroads. He could send it and find out why Sherlock had been sending all those messages, or he could ignore it like all the others and just count this moment as a weak point.


John woke the next morning to the chime of his text message alert. His bedside table lit up with the blue glow of his mobile's screen and rumbled with the phone's vibration. One new message. John squinted blearily at the device until the light faded and the room went quiet. Whoever they were, they could wait. He closed his eyes and wilfully tried to summon up sleep once more.

The bloody alert chimed at him again, only seconds later. Who the hell was texting him at… what time was it, even?

John pressed his palm against an eye, rubbing at the film that blurred the world into unreal half dreams; a dull ache loomed behind his sinuses, reminding him of the day before. He could still smell the hints of bleach lingering after the second shower he took before bed. He scrunched up his tired face and read out the bold green lines of his digital clock; 5:55 AM, far too early for texting.

He rolled onto his side and grappled with the phone, sending it clattering across the surface of the table before he could catch it in clumsy fingers. The charger offered brief resistance until he severed the connection with a yank. The screen flared to life and John squinted at the message notification of the two texts he'd failed to check in the last two minutes.

The number wasn't saved in his contacts. Already he had an inkling to whom it might be. The first text read:

The brother attempted to flee the city. The police are idiots. - SH

The second followed by saying:

Found him attempting to board a train. - SH

John scoffed into the predawn gloom. Was Sherlock trying to show off? Suddenly yesterday's fiasco came flooding back with vengeance and John let out an embarrassed groan at the horrid memories. He wasn't the sort that got arrested — that just didn't happen to him. He was the sensible one, the one who went to university and the one who was going to make something of himself no matter what. Drug lords and addicts didn't factor into his life and he wouldn't throw everything away on some careless, stupid adventure. There was just too much at stake.

Letting himself get caught up in the rush shouldn't have happened in the first place; the moment Sherlock said danger he should have turned and walked the other way. He had been excited, thrilled even at the idea of helping the omega at a murder scene. Yes, he had been apprehensive, but he let Sherlock convince him regardless. It must have been the boredom of the holiday getting to him, that was the only excuse and he had paid for his lack of judgement in the end.

He almost lost everything and here Sherlock was: gloating at his success. John mashed out a reply.

Fuck you.

He frowned, finger hovering over the send button. It was blunt, yes, but not what he really wanted to say – okay, yes, it was one of the many things he wanted to say, loudly, but it didn't seem like the right thing to say. He could just imagine Sherlock reading the message and rolling his eyes like the bored, spoilt child he was. The message was erased and he thought a bit longer before he typed out a new one.

How did you get out of the flat?

Less angry than Sherlock deserved, but maybe it would prompt an apology from the bloody git. At the very least, John could figure out how he had got past the police without detection. Getting past John would have been a piece of cake in the state he was in, but there was no way he could have strolled right past the pair of policemen coming in from the hall.

dropping the phone onto his chest, he glanced over to his alarm clock. Maybe he could do with a few more –

Oh – oh no wait, it was New Year's day, wasn't it? After all the chaos the day before, he'd completely forgotten the day by the time he'd dragged himself home from New Scotland Yard. He'd taken a shower and gone straight to bed. New Year's Eve he'd meant to call his sister, hoping to circumvent the binge she'd fall into 'celebrating'. They hadn't spoken since she left that drunken message on his voicemail on Christmas Day and he'd just been putting it off ever since.

With dread hanging over his head, he dialled Harry's number; it didn't ring at all before the voicemail picked up and her chipper greeting was all John got for his trouble. He bit down on his apprehension and left a quick message, asking her to give him a call. Maybe he'd hear from her before the end of the day.

When he hung up, there was a new message waiting for him:

Down the fire escape. - SH

John grunted at his phone as if it itself had personally affronted him. Not an apology in sight and not likely to show up anytime soon. The fire escape, why hadn't he thought of that?

Because thats not what normal people do.

John dropped the phone on the bed and climbed off the side. There was no time to deal with this mess now, he'd forgotten completely that he had work this morning, he hadn't even set his alarm and he was late for work already.


John inched through the back door of the coffee shop half an hour late for his opening shift. The usual sounds of the coffee machines came in from the front as he hastily threw his jacket into his locker and dashed to wash his hands. The morning rush was in full swing by the time he met Fred at the counter; the beta man looked a bit flustered, but at the sight of John, he cried with relief, not anger. "Oh, John, thank god, I've ruined three orders already and it's barely past six!"

"Sorry," he offered a quick apology, "slept through the bloody alarm this morning." It was a small but plausible fib in place of a story John had no interest in sharing. Hell, the whole mess yesterday almost sounded too farfetched to be believable anyway.

He shoved those thoughts out of the way and took the next customer's order while Fred eased out of his frantic, edgy state. The beta was a nice guy most days, but he didn't handle stress all that well on his own. It made John wonder how he'd got himself into a dentistry degree.

John offered an ear as usual while Fred went on to vent over the next semester. Classes were just around the bend and Fred was worried over his last semester's grades. John's came out grander than he'd hoped they'd be and he was going into the next semester on good terms. That, at least, was something to look forward to.

The shift ended without incident just before the lunch rush, after hours of Fred's constant fussing. The guy likely didn't realise he was being such a killjoy, but after a while John just wanted to shake the man and tell him to just suck it up and deal with it. He only just escaped the front room and Fred's chatter about an ex when he heard Molly calling from the back door.

"Afternoon!"

"Hey, Molly," John waved while he struggled to escape his apron ties, "have a good New Years?"

"Oh, yeah," She grinned while she pushed her bag and coat into the narrow locker, "had a night in watching films with some friends. What about you?"

"Not very exciting, really," another fib. John tossed his apron onto the top of the lockers and opened his own, "You're on the closing shift, yeah? Want me to swing by? I've got nothing planned."

The offer had surprised Molly, judging by the way she stuttered a moment and he shrugged under her gaze. The offer was there, he really had nothing to do that night.

"Thanks, John, really," She recovered, "but I asked a friend to come pick me up, we're going to dinner after."

"That's fine, as long as you've got someone watching out." Maybe he was just being overly worried again, she had said her admirer hadn't done anything too serious, but it was better safe than sorry, right? Pulling his jacket on, he went to check his next shift on the clipboard.

He tugged it off the wall and checked the grid chart clamped to it. Sherlock had said he'd known John's shift because he'd seen it on the chart. The schedule was, in fact, up in the front for the world to see, was this why Molly had had bad luck with the bastard at work? A quick glance was sent suspiciously over the scattering of customers seated at the tables. Like he'd said before, better safe than sorry.

After scribbling a quick note in the margins, John left the clipboard by the lockers in the back safe and out of sight. Now he was definitely being overly worried.

Either way, he had work tomorrow. With a quick shout goodbye to Fred and Molly, he headed out the back door now reeking of coffee and not a hint of bleach. Back to normal.

Well, almost. Another set of missed messages displayed on his phone when he'd checked for any calls from Harry – none. He couldn't decide which upset him more.

Your job is dull - SH

The first one was encouraging, as usual, and came around eight that morning. The next was time stamped at 10:32 am.

You cleaned - SH

Then immediately after, at 10:33 am.

You threw away my results, I wasn't finished cataloguing them - SH

The petri dishes? What could he possibly be cataloguing them for? They weren't even labelled.

John's eyebrow twitched in a delayed realisation, how had he not known his flat had been clean until half an hour ago? Had he been out all night or had he just not noticed? Honestly, either was a possibility for the mad omega. A twinge of concern bubbled in his chest at the horrible image of Sherlock spending New Years with his awful addiction; it was so akin to the concern he felt for his sister that his stomach twisted in dismay. Sherlock was an arse and he wasn't worth the burden of concern.

Besides, John took heart in the fact that the omega's earlier messages implied he'd been hunting down the murderer at least part of the night.

No, John wasn't going to worry about him.

He jammed his phone into his pocket, messages left unanswered, and quickly steered towards a second hand bookshop he'd found in his first year. The new semester was fast approaching and he might as well get his books before all the students were back from holidays and the things on his reading list went out of stock.


Over the next few days, John received, and proceeded to ignore, various odd messages from the great Sherlock H-something – because the git never bothered to tell him his last name. Most of them were nonsensical, or they were asking him to do something mundane, but none of them contained any sort of apology or even an acknowledgement that he had done something decidedly not good. Yet despite John's continued silence, they kept coming in fairly regular intervals. John wondered if Sherlock even realised he was being pushed away, or if he did and this was just his strange attempt to get John's attention. John had started several replies with various levels of frustration or anger, but he never managed to send a single one of them.

The last time Sherlock wanted his attention, he showed up at John's work and tricked him into a date – not that the omega had to work terribly hard for John to come bounding after him. Despite all Sherlock's problems, there was just something about tall, dark, and handsome that called to John. He'd never been attracted to another male before, omega or not, but Sherlock… he was something.

Yes he ignored John, yes he threw him under the bus and yes he was an addict mixed in with the wrong crowd, but John feared he was inevitably going to forgive the man. Two days after the first text and he was already starting to think his own anger at the omega and the fear for losing everything had just been a knee-jerk reaction to the situation and the more he looked at it, the more he saw there was no reason for it.

The police would have eventually let him go, right? They'd already cleared the scene before John had even got there and all the evidence wouldn't have an ounce of 'John' there. No connection, motive nor history of delinquency was connected to John, no reason for being there other than to help. They would have eventually found the killer too – especially if the man was trying to run during a police investigation.

Even Greg had mentioned some footage proving he hadn't been there – though how they had gotten footage specifically of John in the tubes had puzzled him. So his life wouldn't have been ruined, and he had just panicked. He wasn't fined or arrested and he had helped catch a killer, maybe even before he had the chance to get away from justice for good.

And yet, when John caught himself rationalising Sherlock's bad behaviour, he wanted to scream in frustration. Even if everything turned out fine, the omega didn't deserve forgiveness when he didn't seem to see he'd done something wrong.

And then there were the messages themselves. They weren't even nice messages, most of them were just Sherlock being a demanding arse while a few made him do a double take and wonder if Greg should be informed.

I am out of petri dishes - SH

What do you suppose the decomposition rate of a human heart would be if it were completely encased in cement? - SH

I need to borrow your student ID. - SH

What is the best method for removing cow bile stains from carpet? - SH

There is a report in the paper today about a suicide. It wasn't suicide. You can tell by the shoes. Dull. - SH

That last one was disturbing enough to convince him a call New Scotland Yard was necessary. He got transferred three times and was almost hung up on and, when he finally got to Greg's line, it went straight to voicemail.

"Lestrade – Greg, this is… er… John Watson. I know this might sound weird," John began his message, not sure what could be said in this situation, "but I got a text from Sherlock. He says there was a suicide in the paper today, but it wasn't actually suicide. I think he might have meant it was something worse." John felt a bit silly without any details. He didn't even know which paper. What was Sherlock doing going through newspapers? That didn't seem like something he'd do, and how could he know what shoes were involved unless he saw pictures? He stumbled through the last of the message, leaving his number in case Greg wanted to call him, though it wouldn't do much good.

The whole thing almost had him texting Sherlock back, hell, he almost called right out, but he was afraid if he did, he might forgive Sherlock.

Greg called the next morning asking if he'd got any details from Sherlock about the not suicide. All John had was the text. Not suicide – because of the shoes. There wasn't much John could say, he had to admit that he hadn't exactly spoken with Sherlock since New Year's. What little information he'd had came via a one way text message conversation. He wanted to ask the DI if this was something Sherlock regularly did to people – texting them at all hours of the day, whether or not they ever got a response, but the man seemed too irritated by John's lack of help to ask. When it was clear John didn't have the information, he thought perhaps Greg was going to ask him to call Sherlock but the omega didn't. He only asked that John give him a call if he got anything else out of the git and left it at that.

Again he wanted to call Sherlock, he just felt bad that Greg had to put up with this sort of thing. Was it worth it? He wouldn't have called John for details if Sherlock had been willing to give them. Why did he put up with Sherlock at all? Sherlock didn't work for him, he was a troublemaker.

So far Greg had only ever sounded frustrated with Sherlock, and yet he came to him when he needed help, he got John out of a tight spot too –probably didn't even arrest Sherlock for disturbing the crime scene.

What was he missing? Surely Sherlock's brilliance wasn't worth all that trouble for the DI.

John really didn't need this sort of trouble in his life right now.


Things really started to get back to normal once John's flatmates came back from holiday. Everyone was back before lectures started, but Bill was the first one to the flat on the third day after New Year's day, belly aching about the 'worst hangover of his life' and bragging about the wild party he'd been privy to somewhere on the north side of London. He surprised John that night when he showed up with a case of beer – 'John, I don't give a shit if you can't pay me back, get a god-damn beer and sit down' – and the whole story about how he'd stumbled upon the unforgettable party with a sixth form friend after they went pub crawling.

It was a strange ritual Bill began for the both of them, John caught on to his ploy the second holiday after moving into the flat. Bill always saved a night after both alphas were back under the same roof to sit and play catch up, 'alpha to alpha'. John figured it was his way of getting familiar again with the second alpha sharing his space. He'd often mentioned having big nights out with his brothers during family holidays, and all three of them were just as alpha as Bill. He had to admit, he always felt friendlier towards the alpha after playing catchup.

Bill told his story, flourished with his usual, colorful embellishments, and inevitably poked at John about what he'd done over the holiday. John, with a few beer already buzzing through him, finally felt the need to get Sherlock off his chest. Keeping the story to himself seemed ridiculous after he began to talk, he ended up spilling the whole thing – save the drug lord, just in case – over beer and takeaway. Half the story left poor Bill in stitches, especially the bit about John freaking out in the police station, only to run into the one man who owed John a big enough favour to let him out scot-free.

Honestly, telling the story felt good. It was the only good story he'd had all break and the rest of it was bloody grey and forgettable. He had been so wound up about the trouble he'd catch that he'd forgotten how thrilling it was while it was happening.

Then Bill asked him if he'd fucked Sherlock again with his usual tactless grin – it was no wonder the bastard didn't get many dates.

No, he hadn't, that earned a scoff from Bill.

He hadn't even texted the man back. Bill nearly exploded on him for that one.

"Wait a damn minute, you're telling me this gorgeous omega just drops into your lap and you're going to chase him away?!" Bill made a show of taking a big whiff of the air between them, "You smell mighty beta, John. What's wrong with you?"

"God, do you ever think without your cock?" John snapped, "Yeah, he's.. brilliant, but he's a whole lot of crazy and selfish too! You should see half the shit he texts me!"

"What, like obsessive stuff?" Bill gave him a doubtful glance over his bottle.

"No, just stuff like… strange stuff? He asked me about heart decomposition rates in concrete once," John shrugged when Bill bellowed out a laugh, "and he won't stop texting."

"John, I've got a secret for you," Bill looked far too proud for his own good. "You've checked that phone of yours over a dozen times tonight. You're like a teen omega swooning over a massive crush!"

"Oh, shove off!" John threw his sofa cushion at the grinning berk.


It was five days after the New Year and two days before the start of lectures when Harry finally got in touch. This was after John left two more messages on her voicemail and texted half a dozen times, much to his frustration, he'd almost called his mum to see if she'd checked in with her. The call came as John was just out of the shower and about to turn in for bed – on a Saturday no less, he saw her name light up his mobile and, for a second, he worried that she was calling drunk again.

"Harry," he answered on the third ring, "Where've you been? I've been phoning."

"Oh, don't be like that," his sister admonished from the other end of the line. She didn't sound inebriated, but neither did she sound particularly happy to be talking to him. "I'm just fine, busy as ever with my new job and everything, I'm a secretary now."

John's brow furrowed, and here he didn't know she was even looking for a new job. Had she lost the old one? "That's great, Harry, but I've been worried about you –"

"I know, you keep texting me about it. I'm fine, Johnny, you don't have to keep checking up on me. Really, nothing's changed since we last talked and, honestly, you act like an old granny sometimes."

She was pretending everything was alright and John had seen the act a hundred times before, enough to recognise it right off the bat. Harry knew John wasn't going to be fooled but she kept on pretending. Everything was great, fine, wonderful, until the day she's calling John at three in the morning sobbing because her girlfriend had kicked her out and she was too drunk to get off her arse and help herself.

John was having none of it, "What about the drinking, Harry?"

There was a sudden, pregnant pause over the line, ending when Harry hissed out an accusing reply, "what drinking? I told you, I've been –"

"Shove it, Harry, you drunk dialled me on Christmas morning and you've been avoiding my calls, do you think I'm an idiot?" John shot back. He was walking himself right into a fight and he just couldn't stop himself. "How bad has it got? What about the meetings?"

"I've not got bad!" she snapped, "I had a bottle of wine at Christmas, so what?" She was starting to shout now. He always hated this part. "You can't blame me for having a little fucking fun!"

"A little fun? Harry, you don't know when to stop! Last time, you –"

"Oh, save your speeches," Harry clipped back, "If you didn't want to bloody help then you should have saved both of us the trouble! You act like the perfect little angel, but you're not! Stop spreading your guilt around because I don't want to hear it!"

"Harry! Would you stop –" John sputtered when the line went silent; Harry had hung up on him. Of course, she never wanted to hear it. He yanked the phone away from his ear and gave it a frustrated squeeze.

So, Harry was off the wagon.

Of course, he knew that already. He'd known it for certain since Christmas, and guessed for longer than that. Before, he'd hoped it hadn't got serious, but he couldn't push the niggling worry away now. Damn her, and damn himself for feeling so concerned, so responsible.

It was getting late, but John felt closed in and confined in his room with the sound of his roommates shuffling outside. Grabbing his old jacket, he shoved his phone into his pocket as he marched out and down the stairs. Mike called after him when he crossed the living room, but he was out the door before the question even registered. Where was he going? Out. Didn't matter where.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he turned left towards the park he'd often go to jog. He just needed to clear his head a bit, to think things through. Going to his sister's place wasn't the answer, he'd tried that already. The summer between college and university was spent sleeping on her sofa. There was hope that his presence would help quell her partying, but really all it did was turn him into a glorified babysitter on the nights she didn't get home until after midnight, or when she didn't show up at all and he had to fetch her when she finally did call for him. Conversations turned into screaming matches, and nothing John tried ever stuck for long.

Whether he was there or not made no difference to her. This was something she had to fix herself, but she never did, and she always, inevitably, dragged John down into the muck with her.

He trudged on to the park and picked a path to follow. The chill and the late hour kept most of the people out of the park and John didn't see anyone else as he walked against the wind, his shoulders hunched and his hands digging deeper into his pockets. This couldn't bother him, he had lectures starting Monday and those were his priority. Sometimes he wished he could just forget his sister, just let her dig her own grave and let her pick up the pieces when everything blew up in her face. Never, not once, had she been there when he needed her. They never really got on. Why did he let this bother him?

His father flushed away his whole fucking life for the bottom of the bottle and John got over that just fine. No, it was never that simple, was it?

A muffled chime startled John out of his thoughts and his fingers squeezed around his phone. A text.

I'm out of milk. Bring some over. - SH

John stared at the message lit upon his phone, unsure what to think about it. Unsure what to think about any of it. Was Sherlock was testing him? Or did he really expect John to bring him milk after five days of ignoring him? It wasn't some bad attempt to get him to come over, was it? Maybe. He was certainly the bossy sort. Not only that, he was frank and impatient, and never seemed to care whether it was polite or not.

So why all the texting? There had to be a reason for it that John wasn't seeing, some ulterior motive, but after everything John had witnessed, he couldn't judge Sherlock as bad sort. He solved a murder for fun and he did it even when the police didn't want him to.

That was brilliant.

John walked on for a while, the phone tucked back into his pocket. Brilliant, yes, but there was still part of Sherlock that screamed danger. The drugs, for one. Sherlock didn't deny his association with them, but besides the first night, John hadn't seen him using. Was he avoiding them in John's presence? How often did he use?

Surely he knew the risks, as smart as he was. The reason must be that he just didn't care. John had never been privy the effects of cocaine on a person up close, but how different could the addiction be to alcohol? It provided only brief what – enjoyment? Escape? Whatever it did, it was never worth the price. Did he not have loved ones to help him?

John laughed at that, of course he did. Greg might as well be family with as much as he puts up with Sherlock. A 'Mycroft' was mentioned once, muttering about how the man was supposed to help tidy his flat. Maybe he was family? Regardless, John knew how impossible it was convincing a person that their addiction had to end. He thought Harry was bad to talk to, Sherlock might be ten times worse. John could just imagine.

Maybe Sherlock just revelled in the danger, or maybe there was something seriously wrong with his head. The omega always seemed so put together though – John thought back to the night they shared together, really thought about it for the first time since he'd been picked up by the car outside his flat. That night Sherlock had shined. He pulled John into his orbit and knew exactly what buttons to push to get John to do exactly what he wanted – what they both wanted. John had wanted that night, yeah, and he had wanted to help Sherlock with his case the next day. Even the drug lord hadn't scared John away.

Sherlock wasn't ever as bad as Harry, and what was the harm, really? If that woman in the police station was right, Sherlock wouldn't be texting if he'd lost interest in John... or maybe he would, maybe he was reading this whole thing wrong and Sherlock was just texting because he'd nothing better to do.

Somehow, John didn't think that was the case.

He pulled out his phone and looked over the message again. Milk? Honestly?

I'm not bringing you milk, you git.

John's finger hovered over the send. It wasn't anything spectacular for a text, but it felt like he was standing at the crossroads. He could send it and find out why Sherlock had been sending all those messages, or he could ignore it like all the others and just count this moment as a weak point.

John let out a nervous laugh when he pressed send.

It wasn't until he was halfway back to his flat before his mobile chimed again.


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