It had been a few days until the pain became bearable enough to get out and about, and a week and a half before his body started to slow down and take its time growing its new "female" organs. Sherlock seemed only slightly phazed, which angered John to no end.

His fucking body was changing, because of this git, and all he did was stare into his microscope and grunt replies to John's questions?

John was so depriving him of sex the next time the demon went into heat.

He got his coat and wallet, slipping his hands through the sleeves of the jacket and jamming the wallet down his back pocket.

"I'm going out."

"Obviously."

"Fuck you, Sherlock." John growled, lurching the door open and slamming it shut, stomping down the stairs.

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Sherlock flung his coat on and wrapped his scarf around his neck, breezing out of the building. He briskly made his way to a small coffee shop and slid into the metal chairs facing a man staring at the menu with slight dislike.

"Dear brother, why did you call me to this..." he looked around distastefully, "...establishment so late into the day? You know I have—"

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock weazed, bringing his elbows done on the table with quite a lot of force. He brought his hands to his face and hid his wild eyes.

"Sherlock, you look absolutely dreadful." Mycroft's usual calm and calculating facade was gone, his voice filled with brotherly worry.

"I take it you know of John's... current state." Sherlock breathed out roughly.

Mycroft blinked. "He's been under the weather, or so have my sources tell me."

Sherlock looked up, a pained expression on his face. His arms dropped from his face and the table, drooping to his sides. "Well then, get better sources. I... Mycroft, When I was in heat, I couldn't think. I didn't expect it to affect him, but somehow it did. And we... Mycroft, I changed him."

Mycroft looked taken aback. "You made him your mate?" He made it sound more of a demand.

"No." Sherlock breathed. Mycroft's face and body relaxed slightly. "Not yet."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft said in a warning tone.

"I already made him a submissive, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. "It doesn't help that my body knows that I did it. Every single molecule of my being screams at me every single second of the day to... to mate him, to make him mine. I've been horrible to him to try and stop myself, but that only makes it worse." He shook his head angrily. "I've buried everything, Mycroft. Buried all my instincts, my needs, my impulses. I've locked away my uutra for so long and then it just..." he leaned back, his voice breaking. "...exploded in my face. In one single go. Last week, when he was... better, I brought him on a case. And he ignored me, of course, he's stubborn, but then he started talking to a victim, a dominant angel, and I just..."

Mycroft shifted closer, worry on his face. "You didn't do anything rash, brother, did you?"

"He was making a pass at John. And then... John brushed him off."

Mycroft groaned, nodding. "Dether."

"It was intoxicating, Mycroft. I could hardily breathe." Sherlock hissed. "I knew it was irrational and obviously not what John was meaning to do... but.. but I just felt so damn happy and proud and it was so stupid—"

"Sherlock." Mycroft cut him off. Sherlock looked up at him. "You need to show him this." He said sternly. "He does not know you are suffering. He does not know how much you... you care."

Sherlock looked perplexed. "But.. that... you know I can't do that. Sentiment, Mycroft, it not my area."

"What would you do if there was a gun pointed at John, and the only thing that could save him was that you jumped off a building?" Mycroft snapped. "What would you do?"

"I would over power the gunma—"

"Its a sniper," Mycroft interjected, sounding annoyed. "And you have thirty seconds."

Sherlock didn't even blink. "I would jump off the building."

"Ah." Sherlock watched as his brother got up and dusted off his suit, his umbrella hanging from his arm. A black unmarked car slid up next to him on the street, idling as he turned back to eye Sherlock. "Sentiment, Sherlock, is not your area of expertise. But I'm pretty sure John is." He then climbed smoothly into the car and shit the door.

It rode off, leaving Sherlock sitting with a look of annoyance and worry on his face.