John chased Sherlock into the entrance of New Scotland Yard and finally said what had been boiling out his pores on the taxi ride over. He pulled roughly on Sherlock's arm and spun the lanky detective around.
"He's only doing this to get to you!"
"Yes, John." He wrenched his arm away. "I'm not an idiot!"
"Never said you were—although it's patently idiotic to go running into the fray with no concern for your own well-being, which you do. All the time!"
Sherlock literally growled down at him, and people coming and going turned to look.
The alpha in John flared. He had the sudden yearning to drop Sherlock to the ground and pin him until he calmed down. Of course, John knew that move would be the worst possible course of action considering Sherlock's inability to behave like a normal omega … which was a big part of what John loved about him: that toughness, that fight.
John held up one hand. "All right." He moved closer and took a gentle hold on one of Sherlock's suit lapels. "We will find her, but you have to promise me you won't leave my side."
"Fine," Sherlock rumbled. "Promise you won't leave mine."
John shook his head. "It's the same thing."
The consulting detective glared.
"Fine. I won't leave your side either."
Sherlock pushed John's hand away. "Despicable as it might be for your alpha sensibilities, you get just as injured as me on cases, if not more so." He turned away and kept walking.
"Alpha …" John hurried to catch up. This time, he didn't hesitate to use his dominant strength as he took hold of Sherlock's arm and shoved his back against the nearest wall. Sherlock made a sound of protest, but John pointed up at him. "No. You listen now. This fight is not about our physiology. It's about you and me and that's all. I, John, don't want you, Sherlock, getting hurt, not because you're some weak omega but because you're you. Get that through your thick skull."
Sherlock pushed him away so hard that John took a stumbling step to remain upright. "We don't have time for this." When he hurried away, John let him—but stayed close behind.
Despite John's scent all over Sherlock, Lestrade didn't blink. Saul West waited, handcuffed and smiling, behind the one-sided mirror. He whistled occasionally: shrill, high-pitched chords that echoed like screams through the small interrogation space.
The DI ran a hand through his white-gray hair. "He's not talking."
"We don't need him," Sherlock said. "Where's the surveillance tape from the hospital?"
Lestrade gestured to a computer on a nearby desk, and the three men crowded around. The security tape was shaky at best, but at least it was a clear shot of the hospital entrance. John watched a young woman chatting as she pushed Emily in a wheelchair toward a waiting car. It was impossible to miss the white-blonde of the petite omega's hair in the bright sunlight, and the woman pushing the wheelchair looked similar. Probably a sister or something, John thought.
Then, a tall man in a hooded sweatshirt approached—and got much too close. There was practically no sign of struggle as both Emily and her companion appeared to lose consciousness before being shoveled into the waiting car. The women both inside, the man climbed in, too, and drove off in the car intended for Emily.
Sherlock started talking immediately. "He had to wait until she was being discharged, which means he must be an alpha. They never would have allowed him into the omega hospital, so he waits outside, uses the same tranquilizer as Saul West, and drives off in Emily's sister's car."
"How'd you know it was her sister?" Lestrade asked.
"Obvious. They look almost identical. Omega, too, I'd wager. He used her car so that we wouldn't know what his own vehicle looks like, which leads me to believe his own vehicle is easily recognizable." Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Sherlock?" John reached out to touch him but stopped.
"Yesterday morning, I was abducted outside Baker Street, and no one saw a thing. How? A sting on my neck, hands on my shoulders, and nothing." His bright blue eyes sprung open. "Why did no one see?"
John shrugged. "Blocked view?"
"Yes, John. Yes."
John tried not to think of that same word uttered not an hour before under much different circumstances. He could almost still taste Sherlock on his tongue.
Sherlock's gaze snapped to West, who looked oh-so-pleased with himself, despite being handcuffed to a table. "Something big enough to fit both people and supplies." Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Saul West. Delivery driver for a flower company." He spun on Lestrade. "Which company?"
The DI stared at Sherlock for a few beats before suddenly realizing … "Shit." He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
John breathed out a sigh. He hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath.
From behind the glass, West began saying Sherlock's name in a singsong rhythm. "Sher … lock. Sher … lock. I can smell you from here, you filthy thing! You won't find her in time, gorgeous! She's probably dead already!" He spat on the table and stared at the mirror as if he could see right through.
Sherlock stared back, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just run a mile. John did not reach out to offer comfort, but he kept an eye. Very rarely did his flat mate look liable to commit murder, but he did that day. The way his long fingers twitched at his sides made John want to hide all sharp objects.
Lestrade spoke, phone still in-hand. "West's employer has GPS in all their delivery trucks. All of 'em are accounted for. Except one."
Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock stood behind Lestrade and his team in front of a warehouse eerily similar to the one they'd pulled Sherlock out of not twenty-four hours earlier.
Lestrade held his hands out in front of him like he was putting up an invisible wall. "You are not going in."
Sherlock's lips parted, and he pressed his tongue to the bottom of his top teeth. John recognized the look: Sherlock literally struggling to keep his mouth shut.
Lestrade continued: "Now, our man on the roof can see Emily and her sister inside, but there's no sign of their abductor. We'll make a full sweep and hopefully find him, but for now, you two don't move. You stay out of our way. John?"
John glanced at Sherlock. "Yeah. Okay."
Lestrade nodded at them both before barking orders. Quickly, things started happening. A team of black-clad cops mobilized while John and Sherlock lingered behind a corner, away from the action.
Sherlock still seemed out of breath, blinking more than strictly necessary.
"She's going to be fine," John said.
Sherlock nodded, even though John wasn't even sure he'd heard.
The sun was slowly setting toward the end of the alley, taking with it the warmth of the day—and what a day. John rested his head back against brick and tried to shake off the feeling that his life had changed, perhaps not for the better. Something had gone terribly wrong back at Baker Street, but what? What had he done to make Sherlock pull away? John wiped his nose, trying to dislodge the smell of a nearby dumpster.
Which was when he noticed the scent of an unfamiliar alpha a moment too late.
John turned, ready to fight, but a jarring pain on the side of his skull sent him to his knees. A second later, he heard a mishmash of noise: something metal hitting the ground … Sherlock saying his name … a fist hitting flesh …
He tried to shake away the pain and overwhelming dizziness. A warm wetness dripped down John's nose, which was when he realized he was bleeding. From his crouched position, he turned slightly, just enough to see Sherlock on his back with a massive alpha straddling his chest.
It was obviously the tall man from the security tape: same height, same hoodie. Although the alpha's nose bled—Sherlock would never go down without a fight—he looked pleased as he pressed his knees against Sherlock's biceps, pinning him to the pavement. One of his huge, alpha hands covered Sherlock's mouth as he leaned closer.
"You're awfully strong for an omega," the alpha said. "But not strong enough."
Sherlock's voice came out muffled against his attacker's palm as he fought to lift his shoulders off the ground.
The alpha practically purred. "I like feeling you struggle. Would be fun to wrestle in your sheets, but don't got time for that. West just sent me to kill you." With the hand not covering Sherlock's mouth, he pulled a knife from the back of his pants. "Waste to kill something so lovely, but needs must, heh?" The alpha lifted the knife just as John's equilibrium returned enough for him to lunge forward and tackle the man who meant to destroy the most important thing in the good doctor's life.
Still woozy, John had little understanding of what was happening as he fought—tooth and nail—to tear another alpha to shreds. There was the flash of angry eyes, the baring of teeth. Hands pounded and tore as the two men tumbled across concrete. John's wrath made the whole world red, but it also robbed him of clarity. Just as John saw the sunset reflected in metal, he realized he'd forgotten about the knife. He realized he was about to die.
Only then, he didn't. His assailant groaned and fell sideways, knocked out. Above him, Sherlock stood, a rusty tool in his grip. "I'm strong enough to swing a wrench apparently," he said to the unconscious villain on the ground before dropping his weapon and kneeling next to John. He grabbed John's head and stared at it. "You're bleeding."
John reached up and touched the side of Sherlock's mouth. "So are you."
Sherlock wiped the back of his hand over his lip, smearing red across pale skin. "I'm fine."
"Are you though?" John pushed himself up to sitting.
John saw it—a slight movement of Sherlock's head, a reflexive "No"—but it was gone the next moment, especially when Lestrade found them.
Emily was all right. Her sister was all right. They weren't even injured, although Sherlock made a promise to check on her the following morning.
The DI berated John and Sherlock on the drive back to New Scotland Yard. (Honestly, it's like trouble seeks you out … Why do I even try to keep you two safe? … You know, from now on, just do whatever the bloody hell you want …)
By the time they got upstairs, where Saul West waited, Sherlock's lip had stopped bleeding. John held a towel to the gash on his forehead but refused medical attention. (Lestrade: Oh, perfect, now he's rubbing off on you …)
Sherlock walked into the interrogation room without preamble, and John let him—his brave omega. He winced. Sherlock wasn't his, and it was becoming wildly apparent he never would be.
There was a moment of disappointment on West's face. The overhead lights reflected off his bald head as he leaned back in his chair. "Well. Triumphed again? Hmm. Gonna have to try harder to kill you."
Sherlock rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Not if you're dead."
"Better be careful. Don't want that kind of thing on tape."
Sherlock slid into the seat across from West. "This conversation isn't being recorded."
John looked at Lestrade, who made a point to look nowhere near John.
Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. "I don't need you to tell me you talked your coworker into helping you. I already know that. You previously admitted you were behind Emily's abduction, so I require no further confessions from you. I merely came to tell you your life is over. Maybe there will be something in your food. A little known chemical compound rubbed on your clothing. Suffocation in your sleep. Who knows? But do know this: you don't have long."
West, two shades paler, struggled to smirk. "You can't make threats like that." He gestured to the mirror. "People are listening!"
"Yes. My people." Sherlock stood and spoke as he buttoned his suit coat. "I don't know what you were thinking, coming after me, but you shouldn't have."
West tried to stand, still tethered to the table. He stood there, hunched over, face red with rage. "This isn't over! Someone's gonna put you in your place, Sherlock Holmes!" He bellowed, "There will always be alphas like me!"
Sherlock paused at the door. "Yes. Good thing there will also always be alphas like John Watson."
As Sherlock slammed the door on a screaming Saul West, John tried to swallow the sudden urge to wrap the consulting detective in his arms. In that moment, it was all John wanted: to hold Sherlock, kiss him, call him "Mine."
Sherlock leaned against the closed door and sighed. He looked so miserable, so tired, as he looked up at John and said, "Home?"