Sherlock climbed the stairs at Baker Street two at a time, as usual, and John made his own slow ascent—only to realize immediately that the flat still smelled vaguely of Sherlock's heat. John felt like his eyes vibrated in his head as he strode across the room and threw open the window.
"John?" Sherlock asked from behind him.
"It's … nothing. Bathroom. Let me change the bandages on your wrists, yeah?"
Sherlock blinked at him.
John lowered his brows in response.
Slowly, Sherlock removed his suit coat and hung it near the door. John watched him unbutton the cuffs of his shirt—until John realized he was staring and looked away.
The bathroom was much too small. John wondered when the bathroom had gotten so small? Sherlock seemed to loom over him as they stood there, facing each other near the sink. Even with John busy playing doctor, his fingers shook every time he touched the bruised, bare skin of his flat mate's wrists, and the way Sherlock stood there seemed tense—a six-foot-tall coiled spring.
"John?"
He exhaled loudly through his nose. "Yes?"
"Is it true what he said?"
John stopped moving and closed his eyes. He blinked quickly. "Who?" He looked up to find a deep wrinkle of doubt between Sherlock's eyes.
"Do you … find me attractive?"
John chuckled and finished bandaging the detective's wrist. "Everyone finds you attractive, you git."
"I don't care about everyone. I care about …" He sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Now I can't finish sentences. Going into heat always did make me an idiot."
John leaned against the sink. "Is that why you don't … That's why you take the suppressants? Because going into heat affects your mind?"
"Also because I don't like being controlled by an alpha."
"You've been with one then? An alpha?"
Sherlock looked away. "Yes."
John's chest felt much too tiny for his heart and the way it thumped like an auditorium full of drums. He stared at the ceiling in an effort to block out the image of someone else with Sherlock—some other man, some other alpha—with his hands on Sherlock's body, fingers in his hair, fulfilling his every omega need.
"That bothers you," Sherlock said. "Like the scent of Saul West on my skin bothered you. Why?"
He shrugged. "I don't want you smelling like someone else."
"You'd prefer if I smelled like you."
John shook his head, but it wasn't in refusal.
When Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, John stepped back. "Sherlock. No."
The consulting detective stepped back, too, face titled toward the floor. Quietly, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Please?"
John's eyes widened as he looked up at the strikingly beautiful omega within arm's reach—the omega who wanted what exactly? Wanted him? They'd lived together for years, and Sherlock had never made a single move. Of course, he did have a lack of respect for John's personal space, but John thought that was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sure, he'd been extra touchy feely since the kidnapping—since his induced heat—but …
John felt his body battle his mind, and his mind won. "You wouldn't want anything from me if you weren't recovering from a heat, Sherlock."
Sherlock laughed once, but he didn't sound amused. His voice echoed around the small space. "Of course I would. Just because I'm on suppressants does not mean I'm averse to pleasure. You have proven yourself to me time and again, never more so than last night when you did not take advantage of a defenseless omega in heat. You would never take advantage of me, John, and I am not asking you to, but you said that you love me in a way so I think that's …good." His shoulders slumped. "I merely want to feel you. For a moment. And it's not the drugs. It's you. You're not like other alphas. The things Saul West said—those hateful things—they're not you, even if you do feel an attraction to me. You would never hold me down or hurt me, so maybe for a moment you will kindly allow me the attentions of an alpha who could treat me gently."
John stepped forward immediately and put one steadying hand on Sherlock's arm, the other on the back of his neck. He pressed their foreheads together and told Sherlock to, "Breathe. Just breathe."
Sherlock's hands curled into the front of John's shirt as he did as told.
"Other alphas have hurt you?"
"They think it's amusing, I assume, to control me. Mother always said I should have been born an alpha. Instead I'm expected to be weak and pretty and subservient."
"Well. You are one of those things."
Sherlock's nose nudged at John's. "Please. If only for a moment."
He ran his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."
Sherlock's lips touched John's skin as he spoke. "You will. I trust you."
John leaned in slowly and danced a single kiss across his best friend's mouth before going in for a second and third until Sherlock groaned and licked at John's lips. Mouths now open, tongues vying for dominance, John lunged forward. A bottle of antiseptic tipped over into the sink as Sherlock fell backwards against the wall. John kept him upright with his hands in Sherlock's hair—finally, tangled in those beautiful curls. The air was awash with the sound of their panting breaths and hands clawing at fabric.
After a moment of shamelessly sucking on Sherlock's tongue, John pulled his lips away and shoved his nose against his flat mate's neck. "Jesus, your heat … I can taste it on you."
"You know I can't give you that," Sherlock gasped as he turned his head to give John better access.
"I'm not asking you to." He licked at the bruises left from West's assault. "No. I just want to touch you, taste you."
"Yes."
He pressed open-mouthed kisses over all remnants of black and blue. "I don't love you in a way, Sherlock. I love you, God, I love you more than anything."
"What?" Sherlock grabbed onto John's shoulders and pushed him back too far for kissing.
John licked his top lip, flavored sweet by Sherlock's skin. "I love you."
Sherlock's expression fell. He licked his own lips. "Do you know what you smell like, John? Taste like?"
"No."
He paused. "Sanctuary."
John tried to move closer, but Sherlock's hands kept him away. "What did I do wrong? Sherlock?"
Before he could answer, John heard the sound of a phone vibrating. Sherlock reached in his trouser pocket and answered. "What is it, Lestrade?" As he listened, the strange sadness in his eyes was replaced by an expression John had seen before: rage. "I'll be there," he said and hung up. He shoved John out of his way as he left the bathroom, but John was quick to follow.
"Sherlock, what's happened?"
In the living room, the consulting detective paused only to put on his jacket. "Emily has been abducted from the hospital. Saul West is claiming responsibility from behind bars."