The Titanic cuts through water like glass as John stares at the ocean, leaning over the apex of the bow railing, his favourite spot. Dusk is falling and the sky is painting itself blue and red and orange and purple, preparing itself for a marvellous sunset. But John isn't affected by the beauty of his surroundings or the din of the rush of water below. Nothing mattered to him as he feels the helpless feeling of having tried hard, yet having accomplished nothing. He closes his eyes, letting the chill wind clear his head.
"John."
He straightens up and turns around to see Sherlock standing there. He's a little surprised to see stains of tea on his otherwise pristine suit.
His eyes focus on Sherlock's face. He had heard sure footsteps behind him, not cared to turn and look to whom they belonged for he had assumed they could not belong to Sherlock. But they. . . did.
Sherlock's face seems to glow at the sight of him, a fondness creeping into the edge of the most honest smile John might have seen in him. Suddenly he is so ageless, so divine that John cannot believe how he, a vagabond, came upon this elegant Omega. Cannot believe that he was so stupid to have believed that Sherlock, in search for true happiness, would come away with him.
Sherlock shrugs, and grins, as if not able to believe himself, "I. . . well—you know. . ."
John stills. Sherlock couldn't possibly have said that. But everything else, every second-guessing is ruled out when Sherlock grins, as if he were the stupid one for not seeing this before. And no more words are needed. John feels his face breaking into a smile.
He knows. He should always have known.
Sherlock looks down, forming his story. John waits with bated breath, but already knows that Sherlock is only making it up. Somehow, the sight of him always gets him, "Your mates, they said—"
"Shhh. . ." he puts a finger to his own lips, and then extends one hand forward, leaning towards Sherlock, "Come here."
Sherlock narrows his eyes, and John can see in his face, he's thinking, metal turning gears, as to what John's intention with him might be. John knows as per custom he should be the one to go to mark his Omega with his scent, but he has far more important things on his mind than playing Alpha-Omega with the man who has put his entire trust in him. John knows he is like a last resort to Sherlock, but anything, anything for him.
With slow, but sure steps that he takes towards John, battling against the cool breeze and the roar of the ocean breaking below the hull, part by part the smile fades and Sherlock begins to exhibit the signs of nervousness that John feels. Somehow, it feels like all the suffering that John has had in his life pays off when he sees Sherlock walking towards him like he's walking the aisle for him. A brief whiff of his scent hits him like a virtual wave and John realises the change in it, what it had been two days ago and what it is now.
John blinks to clear it, trying not to let Sherlock realise that he's noticed it. His heart speeds up at the thought, at the very magnitude of it, what anymore proximity with Sherlock would mean.
Nevertheless, Sherlock comes near him, and smiles. Somehow, the noise seems to decrease in its intensity. John's eyes drink the sight of him in: his otherwise pallid cheeks are pink with the chilly wind, his curls blow wildly about his face, dishevelled and perfect. Anticipation pools in John's lower stomach. He doesn't have to look around to check if they're alone. In a world where someone like Sherlock existed, there could be nobody else for him.
"Give me your hand," John all but whispers, mesmerised. Sherlock's eyes, full of newfound hope, are now clouded with doubt again. He hesitates, contemplates, and then gives away his right hand in the anticipation of a kiss perhaps.
"Now close your eyes," he whispers, gently pulling him towards him. He's still somehow audible over the din. Sherlock's eyes grow wide with surprise at his request, making John chuckle.
"I asked you to close your eyes, you idiot!" He remarks, anointing it with Sherlock's favourite word, "Not make them bigger."
Sherlock heaves an all-suffering sigh as he closes his eyes, trusting the man in front of him. John turns away, urging him forward, the way the ship is going, with a hand in the small of his back, holding onto him. Sherlock's breath catches as he steps up onto the apex, the other hand feeling for the railing. This one time, his innate sense of trust in John surpasses his curiosity, and he keeps his eyes resolutely closed.
John reaches out to take the restricting scarf off his neck and puts it in the pocket of his greatcoat, before taking it off his shoulders as well. Sherlock wonders what he is doing, but does not question. He stays unnaturally quiet and patient as John tugs the suit jacket away from him, and dumps the garments on the floor.
"People are going to talk now," he says jokingly, "Me taking an innocent Omega's clothes off in here."
Sherlock smiles, "They do little else."
John smiles into Sherlock's hair, taking in large amounts of Sherlock's slowly intensifying pseudo-Estrus scent now. He knows he's a contributing factor to its strength, but he isn't capable of caring. The forefront of his savage Alpha instincts is screaming my mate, my Bonded, my Omega. and John is far overpowered by the sensation of Sherlock's scent flooding his olfactory senses and seeping into his skin, aware of his own body rejoicing at the reunion with that of his mate after the previous night.
"Now hold on to the railing," John is directly behind him now and he guides his other hand to the railing, "Keep your eyes closed. Don't peek."
"I'm not."
John swallows, controlling the Alpha instincts inside him as he smells his own scent mixing in with that of Sherlock's, the dim arousal of scenting finally seeping through his body. He kicks away the temptation to lean into Sherlock's brow and smell him, and instead places him hands on his waist, with only fabric between them, preventing the contact between skin and skin, "Okay, now. . . step up onto the rail."
Sherlock takes the cable in his grip as he steps up. John follows suit behind him, stepping up two rods so that he is level with him. Sherlock lets go of the rail, balancing himself. His heart starts pounding when he realises that one slip can send both of them tumbling underwater. But somehow, that thought isn't as terrifying as it should have been. John takes his free hand, squeezing it slightly.
"Hold on. Keep your eyes closed."
Sherlock can tell that they were standing up on the rail, doing God-knows-what. But he still doesn't see the point.
"Do you trust me?" John asks, already knowing the answer.
"With everything." And beyond. There's so much to say, so much to confess, so much to be sorry for, but they don't say much. The roar of the ocean below is nothing compared to the noise of all that they're not saying.
He gently reaches out for Sherlock's arms and raises them slowly, uncertainly. He is not sure whether Sherlock would appreciate his gesture, but he outstretches them anyway. Sherlock frowns and smiles, still not able to understand why they were doing whatever they were doing. He turns his head halfway several times to ask John but doesn't say anything. He simply goes along with him. When John lowers him arms, Sherlock's arms stay up. . . like wings. He knows that John would not let him fall if he were to lose his balance all of a sudden. He knows that John would come after him. He does not need anyone to tell him that.
John wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist tentatively, slowly relaxing as Sherlock leans into his touch, their hearts still pounding furiously. The feeling of closeness is just. . . good, not frightening anymore. The intermixing of their scents as John fits his chin snugly in the hollow between Sherlock's neck and shoulder more so, but Sherlock doesn't complain. The Beta scent that John had smelled earlier on Sherlock is thankfully long gone, and so is John's trepidation about indulging in such an intimate gesture as scenting in an incriminatingly public place.
"Okay," John whispers in his ears, "Open your eyes."
Sherlock gasps. There is nothing in his field of vision but water. There is no ship under them at all, just the two of them soaring like birds, like the seagulls around them. The Atlantic unrolls toward them, a hammered copper shield under a dusk sky, celebrating them with the magnificent sunset. There is only the wind, the hiss of the water fifty feet below, Sherlock's heart so close to his and their intermixing scents.
"I'm flying, John! See!" he cries out in excitement and wonder.
"I know, Sherlock," John says softly, "I believe you."
"I'm flying. . .we're flying. . ."
Sherlock leans forward, arching his back, revelling in the moment. John wraps his hands around his waist to steady him, rejoicing at his happiness, his deep laughter, the sound of freedom and the feel of the chilly wind blowing through his hair. The feeling is unearthly, thrilling, something Sherlock has never felt before. The seagulls join them in their flight, one last time before the sun slipped down the horizon, just for them.
It's his first taste of what being free is like, and by Jove, it is exhilarating.
Sherlock closes his eyes, letting the wind wash over him, feeling himself floating weightless far above the sea, letting wild imagination take over cold reason for the first time. He smiles dreamily, then leans back, gently pressing his back against John's chest. He pushes forward slightly against him, resting his chin in the hollow between the side of his face and his shoulder again, and this time he can tell that Sherlock is registering it and he's still not complaining.
Sherlock wants to scream, to jump like a child, he feels like he's on the top of the world, towering over the sea, invincible with John behind him, always to hold him, to steady him. Anything he wants to do just isn't enough, not enough to match this surreal and yet lifelike moment. His family, his name, his fiancée, his whole life vanishes in thin air, all deleted scraps, awaiting disposal from his mind. There's John, only John and his scent and the mark and proof of how they consummated their courting. No one else. Nothing else
Slowly John raises his hands too, arms outstretched, and they meet Sherlock's. . . fingertips gently touching.
"It's a crime," he whispers.
"Hmm?"
"You being a tall and lanky Omega. Puts a strain on me, just to make these bloody fingers meet."
Sherlock giggles softly. "I'm not going to make it easy for you, John," he teases, "you jumped headfirst into dangerous territory."
"Oh, are you? I'm always up for a challenge, love."
He extends his arms a little more till their fingers touched and intertwined in each others. Moving slowly, their fingers caress through and around each other sensually, like the bodies of two lovers. It is nothing like the hormone-induced daze that Estrus is bringing in. It's deeper, much more, inexpressible, surpassing all logic. John slowly lowers their arms, till they're at the level of his waist as his fingertips sweep gently over Sherlock's arms. He buries his face into his curls, letting his scent wash over him, until his cheek is against his ear. A slight brush creates the dangerous amount of sparks alight, making Sherlock turn around, until his lips are close to his.
"You've scented me," is all Sherlock whispers. John breathes in their shared air saturated with the sweetness of their scent. Sherlock breathes in deeply.
"It seems that I have," John smiles and leans in for it.
Turning further around, Sherlock leans in tentatively. His last thing he sees is John's eyes closing, his blond hair now turned copper, and his kind, radiant smile. John finds his mouth with his, wrapping his arms around him lovingly from behind. Lips meet, and they kiss with his head turned and tilted back, surrendering to him, to sentiment, to the inevitable. They kiss, slowly and tremulously, and then with building passion and frenzy.
John and the ship seem to merge into one being, lifting him, buoying him forward on a journey, soaring onward into a night without fear. The ship isn't a slave ship anymore. It is not even a ship anymore. Titanic has set him free. John has set him free from his gilded cage.
They break away, noses still touching, hearts pounding, to catch a breath. John smiles, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to ruin the moment. Sherlock's eyes travel upwards. In the crow's nest, the two lookouts are gawking at them, maybe at their kissing, maybe at their public display of affection, or at their daredevilry at kissing in public and that too at the apex of the bow. John follows his gaze, and waves at the two lookouts happily. They burst into laughter as the lookouts look away, slightly embarrassed.
"We're. . . so stupid, aren't we?" John pants, completely out of breath. For he is, not having made his move that night itself. Sherlock leans in again, making their foreheads touch. The scenting was over.
"Well. . ." he's just as out of breath as John, "I don't. . . know about you. . . but. . . I'm definitely. . . not stupid!"
John giggles like a schoolgirl and plants a chaste kiss on his lips before leaning over the bow again, pointing into the distance and grinning, "Look, I can see the Statue Of Liberty already!"
Sherlock rolls his eyes, linking their hands together, "Really? Is she facing you, or away from you?"
"It's so small!" He protests, "I can't really make out."
"Show-off," he mutters.
"Says the one who shows off!"
In the glassy bow-wave two dolphins appear, under the water, running fast just in front of the steel blade of the bow.
"Look!" John points them out to Sherlock.
They rush ahead of the liner, competing with her speed. They do it for the sheer joy and exultation of motion. They watch the dolphins and grin. The majestic sea-creatures breach, jumping clear of the water and then dive back, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing ahead of the juggernaut. Competing for a last time before they retreat to their depths, leaving the ship's company. Sherlock pulls back from the apex but John's hands keep him in his place.
"What?"
He points at the purple and orange dusk sky, "Sunset."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It'll stay for another four minutes and thirty six seconds."
"Oh," John grins at him, "how do you know? Calculated the speed of the sun going down? Did some weird math?"
"Nothing of that sort, doctor."
John crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look offended and failing miserably, "You making fun of me now?"
"I told you," he smirks, "I'm not going to make it easy on you."
"Neither am I," he pulls him down for another heated kiss. Sherlock leans down eagerly, wrapping him arms around his shoulders. This time, the kiss is more awkward because John has never kissed anyone taller than him and likewise, Sherlock has never kissed anyone shorter than him. But nevertheless, they were together and that was all that mattered now. They fumble down, giggling again and break away, stumbling down the bow and back to the well deck, after collecting Sherlock's greatcoat.
"Your scent's fading," John says suddenly.
"Yeah, it'll return," Sherlock doesn't look at him, "later when. . .you know."
John blushes to the roots of his hair at the insinuation. Although an Alpha, he's never given seduction much thought, done it once or twice on instinct with women, but never with an Omega—let alone Sherlock. And to think that the consequences of scenting Sherlock would soon result into a full-blown Estrus cycle instead of the relatively tame pseudo-Estrus Sherlock had been going through and seduction would be childish compared to the magnitude of Alpha-Omega mating. . .
Convenient that the scent is fading with the conclusion of pseudo-Estrus and will return later. An Omega in Heat and outside his safehouse could shake the entire ship.
Sherlock will be going into an Estrus cycle a few hours later, John thinks, still high on the residual scent from Sherlock's brow on his. John doesn't know what to make of it. It's been only three days, and even though his decision is made, he isn't sure about Sherlock.
Suddenly, Sherlock sees the Marvin couple and points at them, "Have you ever seen a camera?"
John clears his head. He has to stay with Sherlock now, keep him off-limits, his inner Alpha screams but John gives it a kick to the shin, "I see it now. Come on!"
Daniel Marvin is still stuck with filming his wife, giving her patient and repeated instructions.
"Look at the sunset, dear! Your heart yearns for him. This is the last time, and you don't want to live anymore. Bring that in your face, sweetheart!"
Suddenly, John shoots into the shot and strikes a hero-sort-of pose at the rail next to Mary, chest puffed, chin up. Mary bursts out laughing. John pulls Sherlock into the picture and makes him pose as well.
Marvin grins and starts yelling and gesturing, silently thanking God for getting him a better cast for his beloved camera.
"Woohoo! Let's do this, fellas! Mary, by the rail, sad, depressed, crying. Blond," he mentions to John, making Sherlock chuckle, "freeze in a position, left hand stretched towards Mary. Other leg pointing towards her. Express helplessness and horror. Otter face," he points at Sherlock, making both John and Mary laugh out like idiots as Sherlock's face drops and transforms into a snarl, "between the two of them, like a theatrical villain. Separating them. Look down at Blond, body language triumphant, eyes glinting with menace. Put that coat on!"
The three of them pose while Daniel Marvin captures them against the gloriously blazing sunset.
"Now," he barks, making them jump, "Blond, on your knees, plead with your hands clasped. Mary, out of the picture now. Otter face—"
"I'm not 'Otter Face'!" He demands petulantly, "I'm Sherlock!"
"Yes yes," says he dismissively, his director persona not giving a damn about what Sherlock felt or said, "Stand, turn your head in bored disdain. You're Blond's father. Make your face 'no can do'."
"You're a horrible director!" Sherlock declares, as if passing a verdict.
Marvin grins, "Yeah, I know. I get that all the time."
"Why're you doing photo-shoots?"
"Bad director, huh?" says Marvin challengingly, "You do it then!"
Sherlock eagerly takes the camera, his plan successful. He cranks it up, while Mary Marvin and John have a western shoot-out. John winks and leers into the lens, twirling an air moustache.
John sits down on the steps leading to the bow, pretending to be some sort of a Sultan, while Mary comes up to him, pantomiming fanning him like a slave girl. He winks at Sherlock, with the aim of making him a little jealous, which surprisingly works. Sherlock grabs John and walks away rudely, leaving John to do the apologizing. He doubles up with laughter on seeing his indignant face.
"Very funny, John. I can barely contain myself."
John doesn't counter with anything, still shaking with laughter, "Otter face!"
"At any rate, it's better than 'Blond' and 'Hamish'!" he snaps, but John still keeps giggling until Sherlock gives in too.
"You know, people are going to think that we're mad!"
"Of course, we are! I'm a man who jumps off steamer ships, and you're a man who jumps after those who jump off ships. Any other description would be a lie," and they end up laughing again.
"Mr. Holmes!" comes a voice from behind them.
"Shit!" John exclaims and looks behind involuntarily, "Your brother's sent the bloody master-at-arms after us!"
Sherlock laughs out loud, "No, John. He's here because of the Jennifer Wilson case. If he had to send anyone it would have been Mr. Gregson. Victor's valet," he supplies helpfully, upon seeing John's confused face.
"Mr. Holmes, about that—"
"Yes, yes. The Wilsons' case. The statement. May we trouble you tomorrow? You'll have them under arrest till we reach New York, is that right?"
"Yes, but the—"
"Good evening, sir. We're getting late for. . . dinner!"
With that Sherlock sweeps out of there with John, leaving the master-at-arms bemused at what had just happened.
". . .Anyway, speaking of arrests," his face lights up, like he's plotting something bad in his mind, "How much apprenticeship have you had working as an assistant to various Practitioners?"
"Not much. I just know how to do stitches, first aid and stuff. Couldn't manage a permanent job," John frowns, "Why?"
Sherlock and John make their way into the gymnasium, picking the lock effortlessly. John updates his profile in his mind again: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, violinist, lock pick. . .
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure that you get enough medical practice aboard the ship!" says he with a wink. John isn't entirely sure by what he means.
A few minutes ago, Sherlock had borrowed an electric torch from one of the littler seamen, using his commanding voice to intimidate the man. John had no idea what Sherlock planned to do with an electric torch in a gym, clearly when it was time for dinner. He sets down on every machine, setting to work with a small screwdriver and pliers he had. . . borrowed, shall we say, from one of the engineers rushing through the Boat Deck. It takes John a long time to process that Sherlock is loosening the screws off every exercise machine. John pulls him away.
"Sherlock!" He cannot help the smile which creeps up on his face, "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Told you," he confesses innocently, "getting you some medical practice. There aren't enough doctors aboard, only three, including you."
"But Sherlock, those who. . . they'll fall down and break. . . something!"
He frowns, "That's the point. You get to treat them. Some medical experience on the Titanic. You could put that in your résumé."
"No—"
"Look," he motions at the stationary cycle, letting him on his real intentions, "Mycroft pretends that he doesn't care about his weight. But I know that he works out every morning, before everyone arrives. Tomorrow morning, he sits on here, and falls down with a mighty crash with at least a broken hip. Just imagine!"
John bursts into laughter at his idea, "God. . . you're demented, you know that?"
Sherlock leans in for a small kiss in the darkness, "That's an awfully good pickup line, Doctor Watson. Where'd you get it?"
John tiptoes up to return it, "Got the inspiration from an Omega who tried to jump off the back of a ship."
He swallows when the horrible memory comes back to John, and the person associated with him.
In Pseudo-Estrus, John remembers, and suddenly his "illness" strikes him, That's why he was indoors yesterday. And naturally, another thought crosses his mind.
Had Victor known?
He swings his arms around his neck, watching the shadows and the white light from the electric torch dance across his regal face. Sherlock leans in again, this time till he's at John's level. But instead of a kiss, John buries himself in his chest, inhaling him, making sure that he was there for real, with him. He recalls Sherlock's desperation from the afternoon. He simply couldn't think of it. He couldn't say it.
He feels the extraordinarily powerful throbbing in Sherlock's chest. He didn't need to think of it. He doesn't not want to remind Sherlock of it by telling him.
"John."
He pulls back and looks up into his eyes. Even in the dark, it was like staring into the sun and the desire to look away was immense, but even as he feels himself flush he keeps his eyes on Sherlock, grounding himself to reality while letting himself float. Something comes over him as he gently presses Sherlock against the wall.
"I'm going to kiss you again," John breathes out, and Sherlock's breath hitches as John runs a thumb on Sherlock's lower lip. So precious, so delectable. If Sherlock consents, he can undress him right now and mount him and take him and Bond with him.
"I will kiss that mouth of yours," John is close, his mouth ghosting over Sherlock's lips and Sherlock looks back at him with arousal evident in his eyes, "that lip of yours, I will kiss it and I will touch it with my tongue and then the upper one."
The air around them is thickening again and John realises that triggering Sherlock's Estrus is entirely in his hands. Whatever he does, his Omega's body would follow.
"And then I will bite into it, take the sweetness for myself," he leans in, closes his eyes. It doesn't even occur to him that the door is open and the gym is the worst place to make love. Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks of flying. So precious, so. . .
"Hey, why's the door to the gym open?" comes a raspy voice from outside. Sherlock and John break apart instantly, with Sherlock almost jumping to switch the light off. Suddenly, someone throws the door open. They sneak into a dark corner as the seaman looks around for any intruders.
"Through here," John whispers breathlessly, pointing to the open door. They rise from the nook and make it stealthily to the door, only to be spotted by another seaman outside.
"They're in here, Frank!"
John looks back. They're pointing towards them.
"Quick! Take my hand!" Sherlock cries out and they break into a run in the direction of the First Class Entrance, the rush of blood and adrenaline from earlier immensely helping them outrun the two seamen, surprising the stewards and a lot of people marching in for dinner. Fortunately, no one manages to recognise Sherlock, or the change in his scent. The run past the Grand Staircase and manage to merge into a group of people heading towards the elevators. The seamen don't get in, of course, and Sherlock and John heave a sigh of relief.
"That was—" John pants, "That was ridiculous. Breaking into the gym. . . most. . . ridiculous thing. . . I've ever done!"
"And to think you survived the streets!"
"What now?" John asks him, laughter subsiding as people look around at them. He realises, with a pang, that Sherlock's scent is gone again. Lost in the adrenaline rush. Sherlock has seemingly forgotten about their tryst and their state of arousal.
Sherlock looks at the elevator, "I have an idea."
One of the patterns that the White Star Line had created for future liners while considering the sheltering of Third Class passengers in its ships was that the single men were quartered in the forward areas, while single women, married couples and families are quartered aft. So, effectively, they had come the right way, Sherlock decides. The elevator takes Sherlock and John till E Deck, after which they walk together to the stairs leading to F Deck.
"You want to see the swimming pool?" John asks hopefully.
"We'll go there tomorrow," says he decisively after a moment of decision, thinking about the Beta scent he had been preparing with the help of his chemistry set, "Right now, I have other plans for us."
John does not fail to notice the glimmer in his eyes as he speaks and laces their fingers together. He grins up at him as they finally get to G Deck berthing after lots of running around, through the corridors where they run into several mail clerks, messing up their post parcels, and some other people going up for dinner. At last, they end up near G-60, the cubicle which John shares with Mike and the two Swedes.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Sherlock asks with a smirk, one eyebrow up in midair. John opens the door for him, "After you, Monsieur Holmes."
Sherlock casts his gaze around the room. It is a modest cubicle, painted enamel white, with four bunks. Exposed pipes overhead, with a washbasin near one of the bunks. A porthole is opened to keep the room cool during the day. John sighs and reaches out to close it.
"Your drawing supplies," he points at what he assumes to be John's bunk, "We'll need them."
John frowns, but acquiesces anyway, "Okay."
After they have got all the necessary materials, they navigate their way up. Their fingers touch, and sometimes their arms brush together, but neither of them mention anything about it. None of them want to talk of their future, that now they have scented, John is expected to trigger the Estrus in Sherlock and claim him as his Mate, and that they had been about to make love in a gym. As a distraction, Sherlock occasionally drops appalling conclusions about the people walking past them. Almost every time, Sherlock can manage a straight face while John doubles up with laughter. People look at them once because they're a very odd couple, twice because John keeps on laughing to himself with Sherlock at the pinnacle of sobriety.
"Stop that!" he snarls as he bursts into laughter for the umpteenth time, "Stop making me laugh!"
"Well, you don't really seem to mind," says he, with an amused sort of expression, "And look at that one," he points at an elderly man looking pretty much like all the First Class elderly men looked like. "Tripped over his dog today and also fell into the pool. Pushed, I'd say."
John pinches himself to prevent himself from laughing like a maniac at the very helpful mental picture. They make their way to B Deck into Victor's suite. Sherlock opens the door to let John in, who gazes around in undisguised wonder. He truly is overwhelmed and fascinated by the opulence of the room as he sets his sketchbook and drawing materials on the marble table.
"Well. . . I'm not sure if I can draw such. . . 'orreeble things," he says jokingly, "if zat's what you want. But let me tell you, I do have some standards, Mr. Holmes!"
Sherlock smiles. John would truly be surprised when he puts forward his request. The smart, witty adolescent in Sherlock cuts John a scathing reply, "Your French is awful, has anyone told you that?"
"All part of the charm," says he, bowing and scraping, "But don't tell me you want me to draw the room. I do human figures best."
Sherlock smiles, "I know. That's why I've summoned you here."
John's gaze seems to wander away inside the suite. He smiles and points at the table near presumably Sherlock's bed, "Is that. . . you're a chemist as well?"
"I'm learning things by myself. They don't teach an Omega such things in school. Destroys fertility. What a bunch of bollocks!"
John smiles sympathetically, "You hate being an Omega, don't you?"
He looks at his chemical apparatus, immersed in deep thoughts. At last, he floats back to the surface, "Not anymore."
John smiles at him, kind and loving, "What do you do in there?"
Sherlock looks surprised when John asks him that question. No one had ever expressed any interest in his experiments. Mrs. Hudson. . . well, she just screamed when purple became blood-like crimson, or pink became colourless. She deemed it magic, instead of science, making him scoff heavily.
"See this," he motions John to come inside and shows him a colourless water-like liquid in a beaker, "Inhale it. Tell me what it is."
John takes a quick sniff and almost drops the beaker in surprise. His eyes widen as he looks up at the wonderful Omega in front of him. He has lost count of the number of qualities he has attributed to Sherlock.
"Beta scent," he gasps, "Wow! But why?"
"How do you think I was out today? It's the only odour that won't affect me."
John tries his best not to blush at that blunt question. He busies himself as Sherlock points out various reactions he knew, including a reagent that precipitated only haemoglobin, nothing else, his own discovery, eliciting various exclamations of surprise and appreciation from John, and pleased smiles from Sherlock. After sometime, they retreat back to the living room. Sherlock takes off his engagement ring and throws it away. It hits the floor with a dull thud, just like his marriage with Victor would have been.
"You just. . . threw that away," he remarks.
"Brilliant, John! Great observational skills."
John heaves a sigh, "Why?"
"This ring is a proof that I'm still tied to Victor. I can't have this sitting on my finger while you draw me."
John's eyes go wide when he hears it.
"I—I mean. . ." Sherlock shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips and a faint blush appearing on his sallow cheeks, "Not—only if you're comfortable with it, of course."
"With. . . drawing you?" he asks uncertainly. He feels like he's skirting around dangerous waters again.
"Drawing me," he confirms with a nod, looking quite sure of himself. Even underneath all that nervousness, he's quite sure that John would not decline, "like one of your French girls."
He nods at him, "Alright. I'll sharpen my pencils—"
"Drawing me," Sherlock interrupts, looking down and licking his lips, his lean body taut with expectation, "Only. Me."