A/N : Thanks to everyone who's read and is following this story. This update has been unforgivably slow. I had two weeks of broken intetnet followed by well, Christmas- so here we are. I will try to do better – honest.

Sherlock stalked around the crime scene, crouching to examine something now and then, occasionally returning Donovan's glare.

He had solved it within minutes of seeing the body, his wife had killed him (dull) though she had moved the body to the building site the deceased worked on with the help of her lover, confusing the issue (pathetically slightly) by staging the most appalling fake fall he'd ever seen.

Barely a four and if the pathologist hadn't trampled the scene like the moron he was it would have been a three. It wasn't worth his time really but he was grateful for anything that provided the slightest distraction. Even Mycroft was no help at the moment, off fixing some mess or other in the far east.

John's words as he had pressed against him, a needy, glorious mess played back breathlessly in his head.

'Tell me you don't want this.'

When they had talked in the flat he had barely been aware of John's scent. By the time he had seen him safely to the other alpha's door he was drowning in it. Chemically speaking, it must have been some sort of pheromone feedback loop, exacerbated by the confined space in the cab, his suppressant wearing off. He understood the mechanism but still couldn't help being pulled under by it. He had wanted to ask the driver, an already disgusted beta, to turn around and take them back to Baker Street. To take John into his bed and do whatever it took to give him relief and pleasure. The relief and pleasure he was now getting from someone else. A proper, dominant, experienced alpha. He forced his mind back to the case, such as it was.

Unable to spin things out any longer, he launched into the usual quick fire explanation, adding in a few dramatic touches for the benefit of two uniforms, who were staring at him starstruck and Donovan who (to his satisfaction) looked as if she was close to hitting him.

Ten minutes later Lestrade was walking him out through the cordoned off site. He had hoped the case would occupy him for hours or, better still, days but now he had no reason not to go home where he knew that he was likely to lie on the sofa with John's forgotten (wonderful smelling) scarf bundled on his chest. The same way he'd spent the last two days.

As they walked through the half-finished building he answered a question from Lestrade about John's whereabouts with a blush and fumbled words. Grateful when the Inspector started to describe a particularly gory cold case he was working on as a way to cover the awkwardness. It was just getting interesting when they both heard the flap of heavy polyethylene. They looked at each other for a second- the day was windless-before Sherlock took off in the direction of the noise. Lestrade following behind, shouting into his radio.

|Sherlock soon caught sight of a young man running for the nearest exit down a narrow passage in the scaffolding. He made after him deducing as he went. The lover. A gym-maintained physique, probably how they met. No suggestion of martial arts or combat training-good to know in these circumstances. They quickly ran out of passage. The man faced Sherlock.

'You police?' He panted. Sherlock took his time with the reply. He could hear Lestrade and at least four others moving closer.

'Not really.' Sherlock noted the brick in the man's hand and could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as panic set in.

When he moved Sherlock was ready for him ,dodging the brick and kicking a half empty bag of plaster into his path, Lestrade and two uniforms now visible through the dust cloud.

That was when he overbalanced. The hand he put out to steady himself meeting yielding polythene rather than the solid wall he'd expected. He fell inelegantly through the hole, feet scrabbling for solid ground that was too far away. His leg was a sudden mass of agony, the crunch of bone breaking reverberating through him as the rest of his body flopped heavily to the ground.

Mortified.

There was no other word to describe how John felt as he unlocked the front door and quietly climbed the stairs, steeling himself to face Sherlock. It had been heat stuff. He couldn't help it, very possibly wasn't even remembering a lot of it (thank God) but he still wanted to crawl under a rock in embarrassment.

He knew he should, first and foremost, be livid with the detective, hiding what he was. John also knew it was pointless. Sherlock just wasn't wired like everyone else, probably didnt even see the issue. He had, however, made very clear there wasn't some plan to have his wicked way with John.

More was the pity.

He shook the thought away as he opened the flat door. It was mercifully empty and smelled of pine floor cleaner, Mrs Hudson's calling card. He dropped his bag and flopped into his chair.

He had spent most of the more lucid parts of his heat vaguely fantasizing about the detective. There was something in the way he handled the violin, the intensity he brought to his work. Something that had been compelling since they'd met but now, with biological compatibility in the mix, was a lot more complicated.

He knew that Sherlock, even if he was interested in omegas, would be out of his league. Sherlock Holmes would doubtless want someone younger, prettier, with bluer blood and maybe even a nice trust fund to supplement his own. He would have no use for a pensioned army veteran with a bad leg.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door.

'Oh John you're home didn't Greg get you?' Mrs Hudson bustled in, a pair of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt draped over one arm.

'What's wrong?' John said. The landlady didn't usually touch their stuff.

'He's only broken his bloody ankle. Fell through a wall chasing a murderer.'

'Of course he did.' John said dryly, another one of Sherlock's nine lives gone.

'You know what he's like. Racing about, no food no sleep. Violin at all hours. I'm going to take his pyjamas and things in at visiting. Better look lively, I'll need to get a cab in half an hour. You'll come won't you?' She said, making for the bathroom.

'Yeah of course.' John said reluctantly. He didn't particularly want his first conversation with Sherlock after everything to be in front of an audience. Then again he didn't want to face him alone.

'Why are they keeping him in?' John asked doing a quick inventory of the kitchen, no sign of much having been eaten while he was gone. No milk bought either.

'Something to do with his blood tests.' Mrs Hudson said, putting shampoo and the pyjamas into an overnight bag.

'He didn't say much. Meet me downstairs when you're ready.'

John shook off the post-heat urge to sleep and tried to think if there was anything else he could usefully take to the detective in hospital. He gathered a couple of issues of a forensics journal and a cold case file Lestrade had given Sherlock before going downstairs.

Sherlock had a good sized private room. Whether this was Mycroft pulling strings from a distance or the nurses pissed off with him deducing staff and patients alike every five minutes wasn't clear. John couldn't decide if he was grateful for the privacy or not.

There were two typically uncomfortable hospital chairs at the side of his bed and John let Mrs Hudson take the one nearest his head. The landlady chattered about about new carpet and the state of the fridge for a solid fifteen minutes. He avoided Sherlock's gaze and the detective avoided his.

It was a relief when Lestrade turned up halfway through and John could give up his chair under the pretence of going and seeing someone he knew from medical school. He came back ten minutes later to find Lestrade helping Mrs Hudson into her coat.

'I'll give you both a lift back if you want to leave now, I need to go back to the Yard to sign off on something.' Greg said.

'I'll stay till the end of visiting, there's a couple of other people I should go and see while I'm here anyway.' John lied through his teeth. He needed to at least try and clear the air.

Mrs Hudson made an unappreciated fuss of Sherlock, kissing him on the forehead, and they left. John awkwardly circled the room, pausing to take in the fine view of the loading bay from the window before the silence was broken by an exasperated sigh from the detective.

'For God's sake John sit down.'

John came to sit, in the closer chair this time, resting his folded hands on the edge of the bed. 'Look, I'm sorry. I know I must have been a bloody nightmare, especially for, well, someone like you. Next time I'll make sure I'm well gone out of the flat before I'm anywhere close to starting...'

'It's fine.' The detective broke in. 'No reason why you should have to leave home just to make me more comfortable.'

'Now, ask me about the case.' Sherlock said, shuffling himself up the bed. They neatly avoided any further mention of heat or related subjects for the next ten minutes. Sherlock describing the murder in great detail, obviously unimpressed by the whole business. John, happy the awkwardness seemed to have gone, flicked through one of the journals he had brought, looking for a relevant bit on fall injuries he had read. When he looked up the detective had dosed off, his mouth slightly open, his face softened by sleep. John instinctively adjusted his pillows and blankets as best he could without waking him.

There was only ten minutes of visiting left and John knew he should really go but sitting so close he was drawn to Sherlock's scent all over again. Post heat it soothed rather than inflamed and he felt his own drowsiness catching up with him. He rested, just for a second, on the scratchy blanket, his head pillowed on his arms next to the detective, somehow ridiculously comfortable.

'Dr Watson?' The voice penetrated the fog of sleep.

'You're a bit past visiting I'm afraid.'

John rubbed his hand over his face and looked round at a pretty blonde female omega. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of her lab coat.

'Sorry-I must have dosed off.' He sat up everything was stiff, he was embarrassed to note he had been resting against Sherlock's leg but the detective slept on oblivious. 'No problem, that's the longest he's slept since he got here, he's been driving the nurses batty. Besides, I wanted to talk to you. I'm Dr Sloan.'

She jerked her head towards the corridor. John followed, stretching his spine as they went into the relatives room opposite.

The room was fairly cheerful as these places go, the air faintly perfumed with a bunch of carnations in a vase. The doctor sat on the small sofa and looked at her notes.

'Can I ask what you are to each other?' She smiled pleasantly, professionally.

'He's my flatmate. We've lived together about four months I think.' The doctor looked surprised and scribbled something.

'Well, the thing is his brother asked that you be treated as next of kin in his absence.' She raised her eyes and read John's blank expression.

'First I've heard of it, though Mycroft does like to delegate. I did wonder why he was kept in?' John asked.

'I'm guessing this may be the first of you've heard of this too but he's being transferred tomorrow to a private clinic. Armadale House it treats drug problems mostly, though that isn't his problem this time. How much do you know about alpha suppressant?'

'Very little, I know he was taking it, told me he developed it himself.'

' Something similar gets used in the prison service, a last resort for very violent alphas. They keep it quiet for obvious reasons. The stuff he's been taking is probably a bit more refined but we have to assume he'll still get some of the side effects.'

'He did mention dizziness and nausea.'

' Good chance that's how he fell. At the moment we're more worried about the way it can inhibit healing. He needs to come off it to let his ankle heal – hence the rehab.'

'So you're saying he has to be committed to come off suppressant? Seems a bit drastic. Is this Mycroft?' Sherlock's brother could interfere for Britain (Come to think of it, that's sort of what he did for a living.) but this was extreme even for him.

'Dr Watson, this is all Sherlock himself. I think...' The Doctor looked at him awkwardly. 'I think his brother may have requested you as next of kin because he thinks you could help.' She finished.

Suddenly the penny dropped with John. Mycroft thought John would be a compliant omega the catch-all solution to any alpha hormone problem according to some people- no wonder Mycroft had offered him so much money when he had moved in with Sherlock at first.

'You're suggesting what, I become his fuck-buddy?' The irritation in John's voice was obvious.

Dr Sloan blushed and rolled her eyes. 'Hardly Dr Watson. How far off a heat are you?'

'Just finished, early hours of this morning.'

'Ideal, your pheromones should be mostly calming. All I'm suggesting is you take him home sit with him. Maybe sleep in the same room.' In John's exhausted state Dr Sloan seemed irritatingly cool.

'You think that's all it will take? He was unconvinced.

'Look I'm not saying he won't get – twitchy – but he's going to be hobbling about for the next couple of weeks, full of painkillers. You look like you can handle it. You do trust him don't you? I mean you looked close earlier.'

'Of course I trust him.' John said simply, convinced of that at least.

'When can I take him home?'