John spent a fitful night sleeping on the couch, Sherlock down the hall in his own bed exhausted from his ordeal, but clean tip to toe following a thorough bath. John rarely slept on the couch, but the alpha instinct said, "Stay close to your omega," even if Sherlock wasn't his omega.
Sherlock was no one's omega and probably never would be.
Still, the lingering scent of his induced heat floated like a mist throughout 221B, and when John woke, he frankly feared the smell would never go away. It would haunt him forever—that warm, welcoming perfume of his best friend.
Sun streaking through the window, John paced between their chairs and waited. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. He sputtered the occasional cuss word until Sherlock finally came out of his room in a navy blue suit, light blue shirt, and wool scarf already around his neck.
John wondered when Sherlock had snuck out to grab his scarf. How had he managed to grab the thing before John could see his neck that morning and the mouth-shaped bruises his attacker had left?
Sherlock must have noticed John staring. "Don't," he said.
"I want you to know I'm against this."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not a vote." He reached for the door and almost fell over.
John balanced the consulting detective with a hand on his elbow. "Jesus, you can barely stand straight."
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and blowing a slow breath out through parted lips. "I'm fine. And if I'm not fine, I've got you."
A sense of alpha pride washed over John and left him soaking with unfamiliar want. Of course he'd always been attracted to Sherlock. Of course. He'd have to be blind to not notice the way the man filled out a pair of tailored trousers. But it had always been fine, because Sherlock never went into heat.
Then, yesterday, he had, and John hoped he could forget it—the look of him, the smell of him, the weight of a vulnerable Sherlock Holmes in his lap. He needed to forget about it.
When he looked up, John felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by Sherlock's steely gaze. "John?"
Hand still supporting his friend, John rubbed his thumb over the inside of Sherlock's elbow. "I really wish you wouldn't do this."
"I have to, John. I have to show this man that omegas can be strong. That we're not to be trifled with." He again moved for the door, nimble and balanced as usual, but revealing the bandage beneath the cuff of his shirt.
John stopped him from leaving with a hand on his shoulder. "How are your wrists?"
Sherlock tried to hide the wince. "Fine."
John pressed his lips together and prayed for patience. "Tell me the bloody truth, or you're not leaving this flat."
"For Christ's sake, John, I'm not a China doll!" he roared.
John stepped forward and poked a finger into Sherlock's chest. "You think I don't know that? You're the strongest man I've ever met, but that doesn't mean you can't still hurt."
Sherlock looked away, and John stepped back.
"And, okay, yes, I panicked last night. I'm panicking today! I can't …" He sniffed and stared at the floor. "You need to realize, Sherlock, you need to heal from this—physically and emotionally. Instead, we're rushing out this morning to talk to the man who …" John gestured to Sherlock's neck. "It's sixty degrees outside!"
Sherlock growled in annoyance but tore his scarf off anyway, which was … Well.
John's chest ached as he took in the sight of Sherlock's long, pale neck now mottled with dark purple bruises and, near his jaw, the angry outline of teeth. No, it wasn't a bonding mark (thank God; John would have murdered the alpha in question with his bare hands), but it was unforgiveable, this visual evidence of a helpless omega's assault.
Without thinking, John advanced on Sherlock, who took two stumbling steps away until his back hit the wall. John held him still by his hips, and Sherlock froze when John nosed at his neck. As if on instinct, though, Sherlock's head tilted back as John scented him, and John groaned his approval. He'd always thought Sherlock smelled like nothing, what with the suppressants keeping him out of heat, but he'd been wrong. Sherlock smelled like spicy cologne and something sweet, almost like pipe smoke.
Sherlock's Adam's apple hopped as he swallowed. "John?" An odd tremor in his deep voice made John pull back immediately to see Sherlock's hands curled into claws on the wall behind him.
John took a few steps back. "I'm feeling very …" He cleared his throat. "Territorial about you right now, but it'll pass, all right?"
Sherlock nodded and adjusted the lapels of his suit—although his cheeks had taken on a warm shade of pink. "I know." His brow furrowed. "Lestrade is going to smell you on me."
"Well, so is that murdering psychopath, so if you insist on going to talk to the bloody lunatic, at least give me …" He ran his palm over his face. "At least go in there smelling like you're loved. Just the way you are."
A sliver of a smile passed over Sherlock's face before he nodded. "Ready?"
John chuckled, shook his head, and followed his flat mate down the steps.