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Sherlock pressed the makeshift ice compress gently onto his left cheekbone. It had begun to swell, and would result in a most glorious bruise that John's former hand-to-hand instructor would have been quite proud of. The Alpha himself winced a bit, moving the muscles in his face to check for any other damage (although John had already taken a good look and declared him 'not going to die'), of which there was none, unless you counted bruised Pride.

There was also a small cut just beneath the brunet's eye that John had cleaned, but deemed stitches unnecessary. It was obvious Sherlock wanted to argue; he even opened his mouth to try and speak before John flashed him with a truly monstrous expression.

Now they sat at the cluttered green kitchen table, staring intensely at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to delve deeper into what just happened and the events of the previous night. Sherlock, besides his swollen cheekbone and irreparably wrinkled dress shirt, appeared stoic and stone-faced. John himself sat with arms crossed and face set with a perma-scowl that might take weeks to resolve.

The tension grew even denser between them, until the buzzing of Sherlock's phone cut through the air, causing both men to lurch forward in their seats, surprised and shocked out of their protracted staring contest.

Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear in one elegant sweep, still not taking his jewelled eyes off the Omega sat across from him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, the almost unnoticeable tremor in his voice the only hint as to the near fight he had just recovered from, "…yes, I said I would be there. I know time is of the essence, for God's sake Lestrade; I'm not one of your idiotic team members. I said I will be there and I will be there," a pause, to which Sherlock sighed impatiently, "then tell Anderson to keep his incompetent paws away from the body until I get there. I'm leaving now. Yes. Fine."

He pressed the touchscreen on the phone with a frown; a sharp click accompanied the action and the glow from the screen went blank. The alpha frowned and then grimaced suddenly in pain. He stood quickly, long legs stretching themselves in distractingly well-tailored trousers, and dumped the ice pack into the sink with a loud clatter, each piece of ice slipping and sliding against the ceramic surface before settling into the drain.

The Omega, who had been silently brooding all this time (quietly wondering why he was still even in this blasted kitchen with this blasted man), finally found his voice, "So there's been another killing? Is it…a latent? Is it related to the case?" The Alpha was difficult and surly most of the time anyways, so his behaviour right now didn't seem to be out of the ordinary. John, however, was beginning to regret his hasty actions.

It wasn't long ago that he had mentally reprimanded himself for losing control, and his temper, in front of a Holmes. He was just…Sherlock was just so…John couldn't really explain it. Sherlock was amazing, intoxicating, fascinating, brilliant, and infuriating; John could barely control his own mind, let alone his body, when he was around the perplexing apex Alpha. It didn't help that his ridiculous pheromones permeated every corner of this flat and rolled off the Alpha in invisible, vaporous waves, reaching into John's brain and inciting the Omega into rash decisions and inappropriately racy dreams. Plus he was ethereally beautiful. If they hadn't discussed it briefly last night, John was sure he'd have droves of Omegas prostrating themselves at his feet. John reluctantly admitted that, in another world and another time maybe, he would have been one of them.

He ran his dirty hands across his equally dirtied face, waiting for the silent Alpha to answer his question. But Sherlock only stood stiffly, his slender back towards John, apparently lost in thought. After a moment, he turned around slowly, eyeing the good doctor in a way that John knew for sure spelled trouble.

"You're an Army doctor…seen a lot of action, a lot of violent deaths, I suppose."

This wasn't exactly what John was expecting, "Yes, yes I have...enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock prompted, leaning towards the Omega, his voice low and seductive. It didn't matter that the man was so close John could practically taste the Alpha's spice on his tongue, or roll his smoky essence around in his mouth. John couldn't have said no even if he wanted to.

And then it hit him. It hit him so hard that John was glad he was sitting because the force of the realization was so sudden and intense he was sure, had he been standing, he would have fallen (or fainted, like the delicate Victorian ladies of old).

He was smitten. He was taken with this man. Even after everything that had just happened; his duplicitous heart had latched onto the one person John knew he could probably never have.

He fancied Sherlock Holmes.

He, John Watson, a homeless war veteran was in love with an apex Alpha that was so far out of his league he might as well be taking up residence in the very bottom of the Marianas Trench.

A knot of visceral pain curdled in his abdomen, taking probable permanence between his heart and stomach. Is this what it felt like to realize you loved someone and know they would never love you in return? Was this heartbreak? What was the latent Omega to do now? He felt a familiar prickling behind his eyes and blinked quickly, pushing the impromptu feelings down and away, swallowing the sharp lump in his throat and returning his attention to Sherlock.

After John failed to answer his question (John himself being somewhat stricken and battling with an internal array of emotions Sherlock might never understand), the Alpha took his silence as a 'Yes,' and quickly strode from the kitchen to seize his Belstaff. He donned the heavy coat with appropriate grandeur, pulled his gloves on one long finger at a time, pocketed his phone and then finally turned his attention to the suddenly reserved Omega.

The Alpha narrowed his eyes, his face taking on that intense look of concentration when he rapidly deduced a particularly convoluted puzzle. Whatever he decided, whatever solution formed in his mind, he shared with no one. Sherlock flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply as he moved back towards John.

"John?" He asked gently, more gently that he would usually.

At this point, John had managed to stuff down his life-changing revelation into a little red ball in the pit of his stomach. He would deal with all this later, no need to complicate things now.

"What? Oh…oh yeah. I just...I'm fine, yeah?" He forced a wan smile on his pale face, but stood and took in Sherlock's readiness to leave, outerwear in place et al.

"Yeah, I'll just…" he looked around the living room uselessly until he located his own worn canvas jacket. John pulled it from the hook and slung it inelegantly across his thin shoulders. It wouldn't do to compare himself to Sherlock Holmes, but dammit, he just couldn't help it. For once he wished he had some nice clothes, or maybe had had the chance to shower and change before running out of the flat once more.

Oblivious to John's morose thoughts, Sherlock strode into the hallway and down the stairs, long legs taking him down much faster than John's ever could. The Omega considered asking him to wait, but he just sighed and limped down as fast as his bum hip would take him. He was lucky he didn't slip and tumble to his death, although that was more than just a little bit tempting after the epiphany he had had upstairs in the kitchen. It would certainly end his misery; John had never been one to pine over an Alpha, after all. John had never been the kind to pine after anyone, for that matter.

When things didn't work out with Mary (well not so much as not worked out but, purposefully shut down by Mr. Morstan), he held his chin high and moved on with his life. He found the courage to hide his Omega latency and finish medical school, eventually finding himself on his way into the RAMC. When things ended badly with James Sholto, he was angry, incensed even, but he moved on quickly and rarely spared a thought towards the man nowadays.

But this man, Sherlock Holmes, this man could ruin him.

When John finally found his way to the heavily lacquered front door, Sherlock was stood on the sidewalk waiting, a black cab idling at the kerb. A faint look of annoyance settled on the Alpha's face, but John paid it no never mind; the man knew he couldn't move very fast, so he could just be patient or leave without John, his choice. Sherlock held the door open for the blond and prompted him to enter first; again, thoughts of fragile Victorian damsels flitted across his mind, and the Omega scowled. But he did manage to climb into the cab after all, his hip twinging as his right leg was forced to turn at an odd angle for a moment. Then he finally got settled in.

Sherlock slid in next to him, his movements as smooth and fluid as usual, and shut the door. Almost immediately, the Alpha pulled out his phone and began to text as he gave the cabbie an address John was only vaguely familiar with. The cab pulled away from the kerb with a lurch and accompanying cloud of petrol exhaust as they both made their way to the crime scene.

The last time Sherlock and John had shared a cab, it was a drawn out, silent, uncomfortable affair. John had sat stiffly on his side of the seat, and Sherlock kept his nose to his phone as if John barely existed. Though the Omega was mildly acquainted with the address, he knew it was all the way across London, and (against his better judgment) he thought maybe this time he'd strike up a conversation with the apex Alpha.

After all, he really knew very little about this madman he had unwisely fallen in love (or lust, or whatever) with. It would only serve him well if he could uncover some dark and horrible secret about Sherlock, something that could destroy this overwhelming want inside him, pierce his heart and let it shrivel up and die like the useless and inconvenient thing that it was. He cleared his throat after a moment and then licked his lips, an unconscious action he had never managed to get control of.

"So, why did you do it then?" He regarded Sherlock from across the seat, deep oceanic eyes questioning.

John could be wrong, but the brunet appeared to stiffen, the languorous line of his body hardened and he purposefully did not look at the slight blond.

"Hmm?" He hummed in response, feigning ignorance and distraction.

John sighed in exasperation, "Sherlock, you know what I mean. Why did you do it?"

Their confrontation this morning had been intense. John was justifiably enraged and thinking purely with his fists; but afterwards, when he had calmed, the doctor in him kicked in and he tended to Sherlock with a quick and gruff manner. He did not apologize. That was something he flat out refused to do. One does not apologize for being drugged.

But, they hadn't talked about it at all. John knew Sherlock wasn't the type for flowery explanations and, let's face it, normal human communication. Regardless, they needed to get this out in the open because, frankly, it was just not on to drug people.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jammed his phone in his pocket, it was clear he did not want to have this conversation.

"John, that first night I met you, I mentioned you had a background in the Army. You seemed surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" John was intrigued, that was an emotional night for many parties involved, not the least of which was John himself. Sherlock had rattled off deduction after deduction, and the Omega was suitably impressed…until Sherlock mentioned his service the Army.

"I didn't know I saw," Sherlock continued in his crisp public school diction, the kind that made John's heart thump a little harder and left hand flex unconsciously, "You're a trained doctor, that much is obvious since first I met you. My homeless network actually calls you the 'Good Doctor' so no real deduction needed there. When I came across you in that alley the first night, it became clear you knew how to fight, and I'm not talking about dirty pub-type fighting, but actual grappling and hand to hand combat. Most doctors usually don't receive that kind of training. When I brought you back to my flat, you were unconscious and mumbling; you mentioned a Major Sholto, a rather large clue there, as you can see. When you woke and cleaned up, I noticed you had taken the clippers to your hair in what is known as 'military regulation' or close to it. It comforts you, to revert back to your military ways, or as near to it as possible. You have a wound to your left shoulder and another to your right hip. As I obviously have not seen you unclothed I cannot ascertain as to what caused these wounds, though your limp is rather prominent and your hip pains you more often than not. So," he paused then, glancing at John, his eyes glowing vividly in the muted light of the cab, "an Army Doctor honourably discharged due to injuries sustained in battle. Easy."

John was at a loss for words, and it clearly showed on his expressive face. That was…

"Amazing," he managed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, feeling rather exposed and laid quite bare, "but it still doesn't answer my question."

The Alpha continued his prolonged eye-contact, and John stared back in kind. He couldn't pull his eyes away from this enigmatic man if his life depended on it.

"You choose to be homeless John, oh don't give me that look. Frankly, I don't care what you do with your life. But that does take into question as to how you received those wounds. Doctors are caregivers, and it's not surprising that one such as yourself chose the RAMC, since besides your doctoring tendencies you also have an unfulfilled penchant for danger. Were you trying to save someone, when you were wounded? Oh…of course you were. Of course. Always the martyr, John," the Alpha's face seemed to soften for a second, but John couldn't be too sure, as it was gone in a moment, replaced by a coldness that was more appropriate for Sherlock, "the people you take care of out on the streets, they love you for it. You give them your pension, and keep little for yourself. I'm sure you tried to make a decent life when you were discharged; perhaps you even thought you could practice medicine again. But the social stigma surrounding latent Omegas of your age, though anachronistic, still abound. I'm sure the Army supplied a place to stay…some horrid little one room bedsit or some such, but I can barely imagine a man such as yourself being satisfied with that kind of life. So when your bank account ran low, as I'm sure it did, what did you do? You went to the streets. You found others of your ilk, younger ones that needed protection and care more than what they could find at some shelter or public home. You care for others John, deeply, but you do not care for yourself. Not nearly enough. I drugged your tea because you were exhausted, overworked, underfed, and too proud to admit you needed help. I thought a good night's rest would benefit you both in mind and body, I didn't realize I'd get punched in the face for my troubles."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side then, eyes looking out into the misty London scenery, "although looking back now, I guess I should have expected it. You do have a temper and quite a tendency for violence."

John sat and stared at the Alpha in abject distress, while Sherlock had already resumed his ubiquitous texting on his phone, as if he hadn't just gutted the blond right down the middle.

He wasn't expecting that…any of that.

How the hell was he supposed to respond? The Omega swallowed convulsively, the cab suddenly feeling too hot and too small to be comfortable. His heart hammered in his throat, the tips of his fingers tingled, and his chest felt too tight. He was about to have a panic attack, he was about to have a damn panic attack in front of Sherlock in a damn cab. Sweat began gathering at the nape of his neck, darkening the slightly curling locks of blond hair that brushed against the collar of his grimy sweater. He dropped his chin and looked down into his lap, both his hands were fisted, and his breathing came in uneven gasps. He hadn't had a panic attack since he'd first come back from Afghanistan, when his dreams were loud, raucous things full of mortar shells and screams of the dying.

A sudden, dense wave of calming pheromones assaulted the Omega, and John felt a large, cool hand place itself on the back his clammy neck. The hand pushed his head forward gently, ever so slightly coaxing the blond to bend forward and place his dampened head between his knees.

"Breathe John," a sibilant whisper in his ear, Sherlock's voice so low and quiet one could swear it was subsonic, "breathe for me."

And John did, he breathed in to five counts, and then exhaled to the same. In this moment he felt so weak…so damaged. Gone was the furious bravado that prompted him to clock an apex Alpha in his face, gone was the bravery that had him step into an alleyway to protect a fifteen year old kid against two men twice his size. Here was John Watson as he was just after he came back to London, scared, unsure, struggling with life, purpose, and just enough PTSD to keep himself miserably awake at night.

He breathed in to a count of five, and then exhaled to the same.

After what seemed like an eternity, his heart calmed, the knot in the pit of his stomach released and he was able to think clearly again. The Alpha's hand was now a warm, comforting weight on his back; having shifted when John bent down to prevent hyperventilation. For a few moments, John could imagine the hand moved in slow, soothing circles, but he couldn't be sure as the warmth soon disappeared, leaving behind a cold hand-shaped void.

"Are you alright?" The Alpha asked; something similar to concern in his voice. Sherlock's voice was soft, the timbre low and intimate, and John felt that (just for a moment) they were the only two people that mattered. There was no one else, just the two of them against the rest of the world. The thought supplied him with a modicum of comfort and he managed a weak smile, just a twitch at the corner of his lips, and nodded.

"Good, we're here." And it was as if a switch was flipped. Sherlock's tone was brisk and business-like once more as he paid the cabbie, opening the door and leaping out in quick succession. John was left in the cab, his breathing finally regulated to normal parameters, before he slowly sidled his way out of the car.

The scene set before him was like something out of a crime novel, or an incredibly realistic police series. There were several panda cars parked near an alleyway and John could feel the heavy dampness of the air around him. He surmised they must be somewhere closer to the Thames, though quite a bit further east than his current haunt near the bridge. People milled about, some talking on their mobiles, others filling out paperwork against metal clipboards. The black Coroner's van was situated quite a ways down the alley, and there was no sign of Sherlock.

John sighed and began to feel more than a little grumpy. It had been an emotionally tumultuous day and he didn't care to be left behind. He limped through the gathering crowd; most people ignored him or didn't even care to acknowledge his existence. After all, he was a small man, non-descript, wearing nothing more than a dingy canvas jacket and dirty jeans. John couldn't be more invisible if he actively tried.

The scene itself was cordoned off with ghastly bright yellow and black CAUTION tape, strewn every which way and just this side of haphazard. Standing next to the tape, looking like she'd rather be somewhere else, was a tall Alpha woman with curly hair the colour of coffee with a touch of cream at the tips. Her face, though relatively attractive, was rather pinched, and her brown eyes looked tired. She held a radio in her right hand and every once in a while pushed the button and spoke into the contraption in short, terse sentences. Several yards behind her, gesticulating wildly, prowling around and speaking to a man wearing a long, drab trench coat was Sherlock. The other man, older and with salted brown hair, looked exhausted, stretched thin, and at his wits end.

John waited by the tape, hovering around the perimeter and wondering if Sherlock would remember he was even here, or if he should start making his way back to the bungalow…however far away that may be. The Omega craned his head a little further to peer past the detritus on the ground and possibly garner a look at the body.

His blood suddenly ran cold, his heart dropped dead into his stomach and he blanched noticeably. The young woman standing by the tape turned her weary gaze towards the blond and furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Sir…excuse me! This is an active crime scene and I am going to have to ask you to leave." She took a heeled step towards him, crowding into his space.

John didn't hear her; he didn't even seem to recognize she had spoken to him. His navy blue gaze was fixed immovably on the body lying supine on the squalid concrete. He knew that hoodie, he knew those worn jeans, and he knew that face.

"Oh my god, Jimmy."