Chapter 2 – First Heat
John grows suspicious when Sherlock basically dismisses him after he finishes lunch and tells him he needn't return with dinner.
"All this food makes my head spin," he explains, looking sincere.
It has taken Sherlock longer than usual to eat his food and it almost looks as though he had to force himself to get it all down.
The doubts and worry keep nagging at John the entire afternoon; not even the training drill manages to distract him.
"Where are you going, sir?" Lubitsch asks when John makes to leave immediately after training.
"Checking up on – Holmes." He almost called him Sherlock.
Hostage, not guest. Hostage, not guest, he reminds himself.
Lubitsch doesn't pry but nods curtly and gathers his weapons.
John nods at the guard who unlocks the door for him. Sherlock is curled up on the bed, a book open in front of him and his eyes are gliding across the pages but John can tell the man has just woken up.
"Wanted to see if you still didn't want any dinner," he states, watching Sherlock's eyes narrow. Something is off, yet John can't quite put his finger on it.
"My wishes haven't changed."
"Alright. If they do, tell the guard outside."
Sherlock nods and returns his attention to the book. John can tell the hostage is waiting for him to leave, but he lingers for a moment longer, considering Sherlock. In vain, it turns out, as nothing strikes him as off, so he turns around and opens the door.
xXx
After a very frustrating meeting with the Triumvirate (well, Ghandi's nickname is quite catchy) John finds himself in the break room reserved for higher ranking personnel, brewing tea.
A look at the time tells him that Sherlock is being led to the showers right now, and John decides to make him tea as well. Sherlock has never commented on it, but John suspects that Sherlock really prefers tea over bottled water.
China is hazardous – John wouldn't put it past Sherlock to come up with a way to use a cup of tea to make an escape – which is why John refrains from bringing Sherlock tea more often.
Unfortunately, they don't have many plastic cups at HQ, all part of the environmentally friendly side to their campaign.
He has folders to go through, so he sets the cup down next to Sherlock's empty mattress and leaves the cell again.
A commotion a few doors down the hall catches his attention – he feels his body tense, his senses sharpen, and a hand darts to his Sig.
When he rounds a corner he sees what the origin of the noises is: Sherlock, purple shirt half unbuttoned and missing his socks, is fighting a guard.
The attempted escape doesn't surprise John in the slightest, he only muses why Sherlock's plan hadn't been better thought out.
When the fighting pair turns so Sherlock has his back to where John is standing, he advances. The guard hits the ground after a particularly hard blow from Sherlock, but John's attack surprises the taller man and within a few moments, John has Sherlock pinned to the ground, hands around slender but strong wrists.
Sherlock is breathing hard, almost ragged, his eyes glazed. John releases one wrist when he is sure he can hold Sherlock down one-handedly and brings the back of his hand up to Sherlock's forehead.
The skin is burning.
John's hand returns to Sherlock's wrist and finds a racing pulse.
"You're sick," he says as he rises to his feet. That probably also explains the ill thought out escape plan. "I will get you to the infirmary."
He helps Sherlock up just as another soldier rounds the corner, whom he instructs to take care of the guard and the one presumably unconscious on the bathroom floor.
After a few steps Sherlock's feet give out from under him, so John readjusts his grip and half-carries, half-drags the man.
"You don't need to…" Sherlock protests faintly.
John chuckles. "I do, because your feet are too weak to do it on their own."
He can feel the attempted struggle, but Sherlock's heart isn't in it. After a moment, the man's arms wrap around John's neck for support and John quickens his steps. Sherlock's torso is hot against his chest, sending a shiver down his spine.
The prerogative about being the First Officer and a doctor is that no one objects to him entering the infirmary and handling the equipment, for which John is supremely grateful when he enters with a barely conscious hostage in his arms.
He gently sets Sherlock down on the bed, glad to put some distance between the warm body and his own. His first priority is to set an IV so he takes what he needs and pushes the fabric of Sherlock's shirt back until the veins of his armpit are exposed.
"What are you doing?" Blue eyes follow his hands though their gaze is nowhere near as sharp as John is used to by now.
"You have a fever, you need fluids."
"You should have someone else do it." It's barely more than a whisper but the commanding tone is clear nonetheless.
It makes him look up from where he is disinfecting the pale skin he has uncovered. "Why?"
Sherlock doesn't specify and John finishes setting the IV. He gently moves to unbutton Sherlock's shirt further to gain better access with the stethoscope and those blue eyes follow his every move.
When his fingers brush against the skin of Sherlock's chest, blue eyes flutter closed and the man shivers.
John jumps back as if he was burnt, eyes scanning Sherlock's body for any other symptoms.
Fever, elevated heart rate and sensitivity to touch… he has seen that before.
Carefully, he inches closer and focuses on his sense of smell. A deep inhale and the usual odour of the infirmary hits his nose but there is a new smell beneath it all. Spicy-sweet, raw, increasing in intensity and even now, it is tugging at something primal and deep within John.
His eyes snap open. He didn't even realise he had closed them.
Sherlock's eyes are wide as they undoubtedly see comprehension dawn on John's features.
"I will get you a different doctor," John says and backs away, drawing the curtains around Sherlock's bed.
xXx
The fever takes over Sherlock's mind soon after he feels the soft infirmary bed underneath him.
Everything is a blur, people coming and going, but that scent, John's scent, never leaves entirely.
"What are you taking?" John's voice sounds urgent.
"Metamoxin," he mumbles and feels more than sees the doctor nod.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, notes the changes in his body as the hormones are washed out of his system and detox takes its course.
He wakes up with a start; sweat heavy and wet on his skin. He looks around – he isn't in sickbay anymore, this is a separate room. There are two bags on the IV stand next to him.
"Sherlock?"
His eyes follow the voice – John is sitting near the door, papers and folders in his lap. He gathers them, advances, is suddenly next to him.
Sherlock swallows, but his throat remains dry.
"The worst is behind you, but you still need to rest, alright?"
Sherlock nods, the action draining him as if it took colossal effort. He must have drifted off after that, for when he opens his eyes again, the room is dark and John is gone.
His brain is less clouded now, the haze of drugs still there though not as strong as before. Pieces of realisation float in and out of his mind.
He is off the Metamoxin. The Reformists know he is an omega. He will go into heat at some point.
Sleep comes, but it is restless.
xXx
"Before we can discharge you, Captain Watson wanted to speak with you," the doctor explains as he withdraws the IV line from his aching veins.
Sherlock nods. He gathered as much. The Reformists want answers and John has come to get them.
"How are you feeling?"
"You're the doctor, you tell me."
John raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "If you're being clever, I'm guessing better."
Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Please. I've been deducing the staff here all morning. Nurse Jones is sleeping with that Beta doctor."
"He's married," is all John says, surprised though not questioning Sherlock's findings.
He snorts in response. "If you're that naïve, you're a lot less intelligent than I thought."
John chuckles before his expression turns earnest. "We need to talk."
He doesn't acknowledge the statement, so John goes on.
"Just that we're all on the same page: You're an omega who has been taking Metamoxin to pass as an Alpha. Is that true?"
Sherlock dignifies that with an annoyed sigh and a "yes."
"How long have you been taking it?"
"Since I was three."
John looks shocked. "Three?"
"Is there something wrong with your hearing?" he asks as scathingly as he is capable of.
"No, it's just… taking the meds that young – it's dangerous."
"Not as dangerous as letting the world know I'm an omega." He tries to keep the disdain out of his voice, though John's empathetic look tells him he failed.
"About that… Your brother knows you're missing. They are going to make him an offer today. If it goes well, no one will ever learn the truth from us, as far as I'm concerned."
"It won't. Mycroft will never negotiate with Reformists."
"If that's the case, we will use the knowledge about your status to blackmail him."
John doesn't look comfortable with that, Sherlock notes with interest.
"Won't make a difference."
John doesn't answer. Sherlock opens his mouth, wants to ask for he can't deduce the answer, yet he can't actually say the words "Will you kill me if it comes to it?". It is unthinkable. Sherlock Holmes, killed by petty rebels.
John, on the other hand, seems to guess what is going through his head.
"I don't know what they'll want to do with you if your brother refuses all our offers. But I promise you, I won't stand for them killing you."
Determination is etched in ever line of John's body, every fibre of the Captain promises sincerity and Sherlock finds himself compelled to believe him. John doesn't even look surprised at his own confession which is what startles Sherlock the most and does things to him he can't find the words to express.
xXx
John is pacing in the conference room when Mycroft Holmes' answer reaches them. The soldier who has been tasked to meet with one of Mycroft's men returns with a clear message: "We don't negotiate with Reformists."
Marc groans in frustration, Bhabha sighs, and Irene's hand comes down hard on the table. John isn't surprised in the least. Sherlock has been sure enough for the both of them that his brother won't budge, even if it means giving Sherlock up to rebels.
The confirmation of how little Mycroft values his brother sends something dark and vicious through John's body and he has to stifle the urge to punch something, hard.
"We need to consider when we will launch our next move," Marc says as he rises. "Do we have any indication when the hostage will go into heat?"
He looks at John expectantly and John would love nothing more than being able to shrug, to say he has no idea, because that would mean he hasn't noticed how Sherlock's smell has grown more and more distinct. How the Alpha inside John stirs, primal and raw, tearing down the walls of self-discipline and restraint he has built up so well.
Instead, he clears his throat. "Soon, I believe."
"When the first signs appear, we will show Holmes that we know of what he has done to his brother."
"And you think that will make a difference?" John asks, holding Marc's stare.
"He has gone to great lengths to conceal this from the public. If everyone knew his brother was an omega, it would cause great upheaval. People will be angry. He won't want that." Irene is standing now, too.
Bhabha merely nods and John knows his concerns have gone unheard.
xXx
"Mycroft declined."
It is a fact, not a question and Sherlock goes right back to his supper, expression blank, and John has no clue what the man is feeling.
"Yes."
"Surprise." It sounds bitter.
John wills Sherlock to eat faster so John can leave faster, get away from the spicy-sweet smell that is drawing him nearer.
"What is the plan?" Blue eyes are meeting his gaze steadily, no hint of emotion in them.
John swallows, uncomfortable repeating what Marc explained.
"Wait until you go into heat, then threaten to reveal the truth should Mycroft not comply."
Sherlock looks up, stares for a moment, but averts his eyes again. Sherlock's body is tense, John would say he is scared if "the great Sherlock Holmes" could feel fear, which, John is sure, Sherlock would deny.
John's thoughts wander while his hostage finishes the food and with sudden clarity, he realises what could have the world's only consulting detective worried.
"Sherlock, is this your first heat?" John asks without thinking, the words out before he can stop them.
Sherlock freezes, refusing to look up. "I've been on Metamoxin since I was three. You have medical training, do the math," he snaps.
"We will move you to a special room," John says after long silence. "You will have your privacy, a bathroom of your own."
It's all they can do down here. John knows that there are facilities that are specially equipped to handle omegas who are being weaned off the hormones after a longer period of time. All they can do here is to give them privacy.
Sherlock nods and pushes the plate away. John picks it up immediately, eager to leave, but something makes him linger at the door.
"It will be fine," he says on a whim. Sherlock doesn't reply.
xXx
The heat hasn't really started yet and all Sherlock wants to do is jump out of his skin.
They moved him before his usual shower – his pheromones have been increasing in intensity during the afternoon hours and Sherlock has seen the effect his smell has on everyone around him.
He is glad for his own room; it is secure, still locked from the outside but has a real bed, not a mattress on the floor, and a bathroom like John promised.
John brings him supper again, yet he keeps his distance even more than before. It doesn't matter – Sherlock can sense the Alpha's presence nonetheless; can smell his strength; can feel his own body respond with pure want he had never known before.
He tells himself that his body is merely a vessel, wills the feelings away – in vain. He gulps down the food, pushes the plate away and John is out the room faster than Sherlock would have deemed possible.
He finds little sleep in his seventh night with the Reformists.
John returns with breakfast and Sherlock hears him swallow in quick succession.
"You don't need to return if this is too difficult for you," he drawls, something in him wishing for John to stay despite the pheromones in the room. He hates himself for it; it's biology, that's all there is to it.
"You're my responsibility." The same determination fills John's eyes as when he promised Sherlock he wouldn't let the Reformists kill him, and it touches something in Sherlock.
They don't talk that day, with the exception of John explaining about the blackmail tape the leaders want to make. An omega comes by his room after supper, which Sherlock refuses to eat because he can't. All he can think about is that strong urge deep in his stomach, how his body aches for touch.
Heat hits him in the late afternoon with all its force. He doesn't dare move on the bed for every bit of friction sends sparks through his body, down his groin, and has him wanting more.
Shame is burning high in his cheeks when he feels himself lubricating, a bit of slick trickling out of his body and into the fabric of his underwear. He hears the door open and close.
John stands rooted to the spot, plate in hand, but Sherlock can't smell the food. The only scent filling his nose is John John John, strong, steady, reassuring.
Sherlock feels blood filling his cock and has enough presence of mind to start breathing through his mouth.
"Sherlock?" John's voice is rough, unusually deep. Sherlock shivers as he realises that John must smell it, his arousal, the way his body responds to the Alpha in the room.
"Go."
He hears the door close but a trace of the scent still lingers.
xXx
After the omega leaves, apparently satisfied with what he filmed, Sherlock is alone again. His mind is racing, going in a hundred different directions at once though at the same time, nothing registers.
Sleep comes with hot dreams about strong hands holding him down, pushing into him, soothing the burning inside of him and Sherlock wakes with a start, gripping the sheets and rutting into the mattress.
He sends John away when he enters in the morning, the little wave of smell enough to ignite Sherlock's body, make him even harder. His hole is positively dripping now with self-lubrication and every movement makes Sherlock whimper against the sheets.
Time loses meaning, only John's return tells him it has to be around noon.
"Go," he whispers and it takes every bit of discipline to do it. He isn't to be ruled by biology. Sherlock Holmes is able to experience his first heat without the help of an Alpha.
He is stronger than his urges. Stronger, he keeps repeating in his mind, stronger.
But it feels like he is burning up from the inside, desire filling every cell of his body, and his hands start shaking from the strain of denying himself release. Deep in the corners of his mind Sherlock knows that he has already lost.
xXx
John takes a deep breath before he retrieves the keys to Sherlock's room.
His hands are steady but he feels far from it, he isn't sure he would be able to leave again if Sherlock told him to this time.
He enters swiftly and opens his mouth to speak but can't. The spicy-sweet smell envelops him, he wants to dive into it, let it consume him, corrupt him. His cock fills on its own accord, straining against the constraints of his uniform.
"Sherlock?" he tries and hears his voice tremble. He can see the figure on the bed in the dim evening light, sees the man shaking underneath the covers and prays to whatever god that is listening to give him the strength to go, to turn around, to rein in his biology.
"John," Sherlock breathes. John, not go away.
His feet carry him into the room against his will.
"Sherlock?"
"Please."
He moves closer until he can look into those blue eyes, dark with arousal and pure need. John's fingers itch to touch, wipe away the sweat from Sherlock's forehead.
"Please what?"
He needs Sherlock to say it, needs absolution for his own sanity, at the same time knowing that Sherlock is in no position to consent to anything. John has seen omegas in heat, has smelled their scent, has nursed their wounds after they scratched their skin raw from wanting and not getting because they had refused when they were still able to consent.
John can see the white knuckles of Sherlock's hands where they are gripping the sheets so tight they would tear soon.
The man draws in a shaky breath. "Help me. Touch me."
"Sherlock, I don't take advantage, I don't abuse my status," he says in a hurry for he feels his resolve crumbling around him, wondering Why am I here, then? Why did he keep coming to Sherlock's room, fully aware of the heat cycle approaching?
"Please."
It's barely audible but Sherlock shifts slightly, blue eyes begging, body straining up against the blanket, cheeks flushed. His dark curls are damp from sweat.
The sight, the single word Sherlock whispered is John's undoing. He realises he has been fighting his biology these past hours, losing every time he even stepped into Sherlock's room but still strong enough to leave. Sherlock's "Please" renders it all mute and John gives in, has probably given in the moment he realised Sherlock was an omega without wanting to admit to it.
He reaches out to caress Sherlock's cheek and the man leans into his touch, mouthing at his thumb.
John steps closer, hand running down Sherlock's body and eliciting a deep moan which turns into a whimper when he cups Sherlock's leaking cock through his pants.
John captures Sherlock's lips in an open-mouthed kiss, hot and urgent, intoxicating and before he knows it, he has climbed into the bed and is tearing at the shirt buttons. Underneath is pale skin, so inviting, and he licks at Sherlock's collarbone, making him moan and cling to him like he is his reason to breathe.
He pushes his shirt over slim shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. It is too hot suddenly, so he removes his own shirt as well and presses down. Skin meets skin and Sherlock shivers against him, a keening sound leaving his lips.
John lets his hands roam across strong muscle that quivers under his touch, exploring hurriedly before his fingers find their way to Sherlock's fly.
He pulls both trousers and pants down in one swift motion that has Sherlock crying out loudly, back arching off the mattress.
The sight of his bare cock, fully erect and glistening with precome makes John's mouth water.
He shuffles on the bed and takes Sherlock down in one movement.
"Fuck!" Sherlock cries out and John bites back any sexual innuendo in favour of taking Sherlock deeper, sucking hard and swallowing around the leaking head.
It only takes a few strokes of his tongue and Sherlock finds release, bittersweet down John's throat. The taste leaves him dizzy as he shuffles back up, sliding one arm behind Sherlock's back and cradling his head against his chest.
They fit together perfectly.
His own cock twitches inside his trousers, but John knows that Sherlock won't take long to recover. Usual heats are vicious, but with an omega that has supressed for so long? John can only imagine.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs against his chest.
"I'm here."
He lifts his head to look into John's eyes.
"I believe I need you to fuck me," Sherlock says, traces of the clear analytical detective still there but clouded by heat, and every cell in John's body screams in agreement.
"I will if you want me to."
"Yes," Sherlock breathes as he takes John's hand that is resting on his waist and guides it downward, sliding it between his cheeks and John's breath hitches when he feels the wetness there.
Experimentally, he presses a finger into the heat and Sherlock groans wantonly, pushing back, so John quickly adds a second finger and pushes deeper into the seductive, tight heat.
Sherlock starts moving, rutting against John's hip and he can feel Sherlock getting hard again as he fucks himself on John's fingers.
A third finger has him panting, a fourth drives him insane.
"Please, John, do it, fuck me, hold me down, I need it, can't think about anything else, please…" Sherlock whispers between moans and cries and the Alpha in John takes over completely.
He withdraws his hand sharply and turns Sherlock around with more force than necessary. His shoes, socks, trousers and pants hit the floor and the air is a welcome sensation against his painfully hard cock.
He uses both arms to draw Sherlock up so he is resting on arms and knees. He gives Sherlock's leaking cock a few strokes until the man is grinding back against John's groin and it becomes too much.
He draws Sherlock's cheeks apart with a steady hand and exposes the dripping hole.
"Please," Sherlock all but begs and that is it – John pushes in without remorse, in one motion, hard and fast, and the man underneath him cries out in pain and pleasure.
Sherlock is tighter than he ever imagined and oh so responsive. John draws back slowly, agonisingly slowly and enters Sherlock at the same pace. Sherlock shivers around his cock and John increases his rhythm, gripping Sherlock's hips tight enough to bruise and the thought of lasting marks drive John halfway out of his mind.
He bends forward and sucks hard on Sherlock's shoulder, soon biting down, growling when he feels Sherlock's hips stutter and hears him cry out as he spills hot semen across the mattress.
John doesn't stop but keeps pounding into Sherlock, slower than before, fucking him through the aftershocks, fucking him until he can feel Sherlock's cock stir and fill again.
Obscene noises leave Sherlock, sprawled out beneath John, and all he can think is mine, mine, mine when his hands move to Sherlock's shoulders and press down, hard.
Sherlock whimpers and goes wild under him, grinding back against him, meeting every trust until John hits his prostate.
"John!" he shouts straining upwards but hands hold him down and the power John feels surging through his veins almost sends him over the edge.
His hands draw back and hold onto Sherlock's hips, pulling him up. John leans back until he is resting on his heels and he pulls Sherlock's lithe body against his chest, his hips never ceasing their movements.
Sherlock groans deep when John's cock hits his prostate again and his head rolls back, resting on John's shoulder, exposing his neck.
It's an invitation and John takes it, licking, biting, sucking until Sherlock is squirming, breath coming in spurts, and John moves one hand to Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock's fingernails dig deep into John's thighs and the pain finally vanquishes the last of John's restraint. He feels his knot filling, growing, and Sherlock notices it too when he slides down John's cock again.
John stills for a moment and lets Sherlock simply feel his knot as it tries to breach the sphincter. He is rewarded with a full-body shiver.
"Do you want it?" he asks because even in this state, John would not knot an omega without consent. As far as one could speak of consent in this situation, a voice in John's head whispers.
Sherlock growls deep inside his chest and pushes down, intention clear, and the friction against his knot is enough to make John moan and bite down hard on Sherlock's skin.
He lifts Sherlock up once more, arms tight around his torso, and when Sherlock sinks down, John shifts his hips until he can feel his knot entering Sherlock, stretching him almost beyond capacity.
John shudders as the sensation runs through his body and he gives them both time to adjust before he pushes Sherlock forward, once more positioning him on his knees and arms.
His rhythm is merciless, forceful, brutal even as he rams into Sherlock until all of him is buried inside. Sherlock wines and John can sense the heat pooling in his stomach. One hand grips Sherlock's cock tight, he matches his strokes to the rhythm of his hips and then, Sherlock arches his back and pushes back, coming in hot spurts, John's name on his lips.
With Sherlock convulsing around his cock and his knot, the orgasm rips through John with enough force that he sees stars behind his eyelids and he blacks out for a second before he collapses on Sherlock.
His first coherent thought is that he has to move if he doesn't want to suffocate Sherlock, so he shuffles until they are lying on their sides, John still buried inside Sherlock, whose back is pressed against his chest.
The second thing that registers is that their scents have mixed and for a second, John feels blind panic considering what that might entail before he forces himself to calm down and think about it later.
All that matters right now is Sherlock, whose hand covers John's as he holds it tight against his chest.
John can feel the heart beating underneath, relieved that it is slowing down. Sherlock isn't trembling anymore but breathing evenly, drifting off into the realm of sleep where John gladly follows.
xXx
It is still dark in the room when John wakes again. They shifted during sleep, Sherlock is lying across his chest, drawing circles with his fingers.
"Sherlock?" he asks tentatively.
Blue eyes meet his and John is glad that they are clearer now, still filled with desire but not glazed anymore. He feels Sherlock's erection press against his thigh and blood starts rushing into his groin.
"Better?"
Sherlock nods. "But I'm still burning," he adds, voice tight as if he had expected the heat to be over by now.
"That's normal. It will take a little longer to pass."
Sherlock groans in frustration, burying his head in the crook of John's neck, and John thinks he understands.
"Just a vessel, right?"
Sherlock dignifies this with a nod and a strangled sound.
John's left hand caresses the pale skin over Sherlock's shoulder blades for a while until the man lifts his head and meets his eyes again.
"What do you want?" A part of him hopes that even though his mind is clearer now, Sherlock will still choose him for this.
Sherlock shivers and swallows hard. John follows the movement of his throat with his eyes.
"I need you to fuck me again."
John's heart flutters in his chest and he shifts on the bed, facing Sherlock. His hands stroke up and down Sherlock's sides until he feels goosebumps cover the skin. He shifts until he covers Sherlock with his body and rolls his hips against the man beneath.
A faint moan escapes Sherlock and he arches his back, wrapping his feet around John's hips, pressing him closer.
"Pushy," John chides in amusement.
"Take me already," Sherlock commands and it would have worked if he hadn't whispered it, breathless and needy.
Without the heat motivating him, Sherlock must be one bloody cocky bottom, John muses but quickly derails that train of thought.
He has no guarantee that they will share a bed when the heat is over.
Perhaps that's what spurs him into action, nudging Sherlock's legs apart and settling between them. Sherlock's cock is leaking precome onto the skin of his stomach and John buries his nose into the dark curls in Sherlock's groin, drinking in the smell of sex and lust and spicy-sweet slick already pooling below.
With one swift motion John flips Sherlock over, noises of protest muffled by the pillow and then his tongue is on Sherlock's back, cool and wet against the still hot skin.
Sherlock shivers, throws his head back in a silent moan which turns feral when John cups his cheeks and pulls them apart, tongue sliding closer until he reaches the cleft of his arse and the man beneath him stills in anticipation.
It occurs to John that no one ever did this to Sherlock before, a thought which makes him tighten his grip and slide his tongue lower until he can feel the hole. The slick tastes like Sherlock, spicy-sweet, and it will hunt John in his dreams, he knows it even now as he circles the ring and breeches it, dipping his tongue inside.
Sherlock is keening, squirming against the mattress, and John swirls his tongue, drawing back and pushing in in a steady rhythm that has the other man whining with pleasure. John pushes and pushes until he can kiss the ring and suck tentatively, but the sensation is enough to have Sherlock arching his back and crying out, loud and animalistic, in pure need.
John loses himself in the smell, the taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He pulls Sherlock's hips up a little, winds his hands around the body and touches Sherlock's pulsing cock, works him in time with his tongue until he feels the muscles contract around it and Sherlock is coming hot over his fist.
John drapes himself over the omega, possessive instincts taking over, a voice in his head chanting mine, mine, mine, and he sucks a love bite onto Sherlock's shoulder, stroking the purple bruises on his hip with deep satisfaction.
It doesn't take long before Sherlock stirs again, turning and rolling on top of John who can do nothing but gaze up into blue eyes.
Sherlock's hands skate across his chest, arms, stomach, touch the drop of fluid at the tip of John's cock in wide-eyed fascination.
Sherlock's eyes glaze over before focussing on his cock again and it is the only warning John receives before warm lips close around the tip and a tongue licks at the glans. Sherlock slides his tongue across the slit and down along the shaft as he swallows as much as he can take, starting to move and suck. John fights to keep his eyes open because the image of Sherlock's cheeks hollowing and his cock buried inside that mouth sends waves of pleasure through his body.
The hand that is not working his shaft dips down until it massages John's balls. He moans as his hips snap up, hitting the back of Sherlock's throat accidentally and John is about to apologise when he notices that Sherlock's pupils are even more dilated than before and firm hands push his hips forward, urging his cock into Sherlock's mouth.
John's brain short-circuits for a moment at the implication, but then he buries his hands in those black curls and fucks up into the tight heat of Sherlock's mouth, noticing the tears in the corners of Sherlock's eyes but the content humming noises tell him it's alright.
One particularly deep push has John crying out Sherlock's name and he pulls the man off before it's over way too soon. Sherlock slides up his body, salvia and precome leaving traces on pale skin, and then his mouth is on John's and he can taste himself on Sherlock's tongue as they devour each other.
His hands find Sherlock's hips and lift them up until the omega catches on. He can see Sherlock's thighs quiver as he grips his cock and aligns himself, nodding at Sherlock who sinks down slowly, taking him inch by inch, moaning above him.
"Ride me," John orders, and sees blue eyes roll back inside Sherlock's head before he does as commanded, moving in a steady rhythm.
He wants to stay like this forever, buried deep inside that heat, breathing in Sherlock's scent.
Sherlock shouts when he finally hits his prostate and John grips his hips to support him, making it easier to find that spot again and again. John is mesmerised by Sherlock's face, screwed up in pleasure, so expressive, so human.
He can feel that he is getting close so he fists Sherlock's cock, thumb spreading the fluid leaking from the tip, and the omega loses his rhythm as his hips stutter.
John sits up swiftly, presses Sherlock flush against his chest and ruts up against him, cants his hips until he finds that spot and Sherlock clings on so tightly that John thinks he will have bruises for a week, but he doesn't care.
His knot fills and the next time Sherlock slams down, John pushes hard, holding the omega down, knot breaching the wet hole easily this time. Sherlock's eyes fly open and they find John's before Sherlock leans in and presses their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss. It's messy with too much teeth because John is pushing into Sherlock again and again, pressing him against his chest so Sherlock's cock is enveloped by their bodies, but it's perfect nonetheless.
Sherlock bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he comes with a shout and it only takes John a few more pushes before he fills Sherlock up deep inside of him, the knot trapping his release.
John shuffles back until he hits the head board, Sherlock a dead weight against his chest but a welcome one. He presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead tenderly, rubs soothing circles across his back and waits for him to return from the high.
xXx
It is late afternoon as Sherlock's eyes are finally clear of the heat when he opens them.
John has lost count of how many times he was inside Sherlock in the past hours, of how often his mouth mapped the pale skin, of how often he held the omega down with brute force and claimed him with hard thrusts.
They look at each other for a long time and John is almost sad the heat has passed, that those blue eyes are as piercing as before.
"We should clean up," he suggests and Sherlock straightens immediately, disappearing into the bathroom without another word. John climbs off the bed, considers the stained sheets and for the first time notices the smell in the room.
He opens a window with his authorisation code and changes the sheets. By the time he is finished, Sherlock is still in the bathroom, so John opens a cabinet to retrieve fluffy pants and a soft shirt which he leaves on the chair inside the bathroom.
Steam is rising above the curtain and the urge to simply step inside as well is overwhelming, but the heat is over, John reminds himself. Sherlock isn't an omega in heat in need of release anymore, he is their hostage, and even though he consented in a moment of desperation, that doesn't give John the right to assume there is any kind of connection between them.
He knows of bonds, and their mixed scents make his heart beat faster and the Alpha inside him growl possessively, yet he supresses every implication and every possible reaction.
A piece of paper at the bottom of the door catches his attention. He muses someone must have pushed it through the slit above the floor when they noticed he was gone.
John really isn't looking forward to his next meeting with the Triumvirate or the Council for that matter.
The note is brief, telling him to report to Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau as soon as the hostage's heat has passed.
John is gathering his clothes when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom, curls damp, smelling like soap and water, the shirt lose around his body.
John passes him by with a nod and is soon immersed in hot water, scrubbing away Sherlock's scent with a heavy heart.
Once he is dried off and dressed he returns to the room to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, looking at his bare feet.
"How are you feeling?"
Sherlock looks up and merely nods.
"I'm sure even you are hungry now, so I'll have someone bring you food and plenty of tea."
He catches the smile that skitters across Sherlock's expression.
"I'll see what I can do to have you stay here for a little while longer."
Another nod. John wishes that Sherlock would say something, anything, to reassure him that things are alright between them.
Sherlock clears his throat when his hand is on the keypad next to the lock, so John turns.
Sherlock's eyes are soft as they meet his.
"I just…" He swallows nervously and John can't believe that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, omega in heat and a post-heat Sherlock Holmes are the same person. "It was very considerate of you to help me."
It is probably as near to an actual thank you that Sherlock allows himself to get; the thought makes John smile.
"You're welcome."
They share one last look and then John leaves the room.
His first action is to down what feels like a gallon of water, then he switches on the stove and cooks, brews tea and instructs two of his soldiers patrolling the hall to take the food, water and tea to Sherlock's room.
xXx
End Notes: There goeth the porn :)
Any particularities about A/B/O-physiology are due to the fact that I'm no expert... I did my research but I ended up writing it the way it suited the story and the characters, just fyi. For future references, in my verse, omegas are self-lubricating even outside the heat (when aroused). Just to avoid confusion^^