Probably shouldn't read this bit at work, for here there be Omegaverse sex with all the stuff that entails, though not as in-depth as it can get.
TRIGGER WARNING: Contains brief, non-explicit miscarriage imagery. Although it's only one sentence, a trigger is a trigger, no matter how small, and it's important to respect that.
It had started with generally feeling a little off, but that was easy to dismiss given their circumstances. Moriarty was loose, accusations were flying, the media was glaring down on them… it all came together in a thick, choking stew of stress. John would have been more surprised if absolutely none of it got to his head at all. As it was, the slight foggy-headedness and restlessness was easy enough to explain.
It was certainly a more convenient and welcome explanation than the only other thing that John knew fit his symptoms.
Everything went to hell the moment the Chief Superintendent entered the room, more or less. John found himself the victim of a sudden, intense feeling of warmth accompanied by a wave of hyper-awareness. If John's rational mind had the chance, it would have raised all the warning bells it had available to let him know his heat was coming on unexpectedly. But that in itself was the problem: John's rational mind was kicked, rather abruptly, into the backseat as pure, base biology took over.
He could smell everything, including that the Chief Superintendent was an Omega. His scent was incredibly dull, however, far duller than even an Omega who was now outside his fertile years. Even though this meant that the man had either always been sterile or had elected to sterilize himself years and years ago, irrational and primal rage hummed in John's blood.
Couldn't this idiot smell that this was John's territory he was invading? Was he after Sherlock? Oh no, no, Sherlock was his Alpha – only he could produce the perfect scent to make the world's only consulting detective mad with desire.
And then the man made the grave error of insulting the Alpha of an Omega in heat. He was lucky to just get out of it with a broken nose.
Dazed from the hormones coursing wildly through his blood, John barely registered getting slammed against the police car and handcuffed to – oh. Handcuffed to Sherlock. Well, that could prove interesting. Most of the officers must have been Betas with weak senses of smell, as nobody capable of picking up on the thickening fog of pheromones would ever dream of doing such a thing with an Omega in heat and an Alpha, especially if the two were bonded.
John vaguely heard Sherlock moan and grumble, "Your timing is atrocious."
"Can't help it," John panted. "And you don't mind. I can smell it. Can smell you."
He didn't remember much of the escape, as it corresponded with an especially powerful wave of hormones. There was a vague recollection of a loud shriek and a phony hostage claim, but what made the strongest impression on him was holding Sherlock's hand as they ran through the night. The feel of Sherlock's skin on his was stunning, every nerve alive and tingling and yearning for more.
The next thing John knew for certain was the feel of his back hitting cold, hard metal as Sherlock pressed firmly against him and how the mouth and tongue at his neck was like fire. He could feel Sherlock's erection throb against his lower abdomen and he groaned as he grew increasingly wet in anticipation at having it in him.
"Where…?" The question died in his throat as Sherlock bit down on his clavicle, his skin providing little defense against tooth on bone.
"Abandoned warehouse. Destroyed the padlock. Doesn't matter," Sherlock growled. "You're early. Your wonderful smell… early. Inconvenient."
John gave a gasping laugh as he looped one of his legs around Sherlock, pulling them closer. Feeling quite firmly in place between the metal shutter at his back and the Alpha trailing bites up to his jaw, he moved his hands from their bracing position and threaded them through Sherlock's sweat-damp curly hair. "Then make me a suppressant, Mr. Chemicals."
Sherlock hummed, and John's knees felt weak at the vibration. "Rather not."
"Was that a," John began, but interrupted himself with a series of pants as Sherlock ground into him. "A-a pun?"
"Ugh, puns. Pedestrian," Sherlock grumbled, but John felt the taller man's smile against his mouth.
Just the knowledge that he was in the presence of Sherlock's smile, let alone that it was burning pleasure into his own lips like a fire-hot brand, was enough to send John off into another haze. Somehow, the two managed to shed their clothing without tearing too many seams or sending too many buttons rolling away into the night. They ended up lying atop the discarded clothes as if they were some sort of makeshift mattress, and John wasn't sure if it was an accident or by design. In any case, it was nice for Sherlock's enormous coat to serve a practical purpose beyond making its owner look cool.
And then Sherlock was filling him. John saw stars as he clawed at the Alpha's back, leaving bold pink tracks against Sherlock's pale skin. The fact that they never really established a rhythm wasn't a problem, since both were too concerned with how wonderful it was that the raw thrusts and grinding were bringing them as close to the other as they could possibly get. John winced slightly as he felt Sherlock begin to knot, but his eyes slid shut and his mouth fell open as the thick swelling rubbed against his already highly-sensitized nerve endings. He came with a gasp, and as his muscles instinctively clamped down, Sherlock followed suit with a groan.
John was too busy swimming in a sea of sensation, hormones, and pleasure to think twice about the contraceptives he didn't even think he'd need for at least another week. All that mattered was the amazing feel of the slight rocking of Sherlock's hips every few minutes as more of his seed entered him.
Their wrists still bound closely together with the handcuffs, John and Sherlock laced their fingers together.
Only two hours went by before the cloud of pheromones began to dissipate and rationality and urgency returned to them. It was a far cry from the usual three or so days of John's heat, but in an odd way, that was almost reassuring. It made it easier for them to believe that it was a false heat triggered by stress, and that such a strange and ephemeral thing couldn't possibly count. They couldn't hear the police from their spot, so Sherlock offered to try to clean them up a little while John rested.
Gratefully, John allowed himself to slip into exhausted oblivion.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was a dark, oppressive overcast grey above him.
When he turned, Sherlock's corpse was beside him, the same broken, crumpled heap he'd desperately grasped as the world fell apart beneath St. Bart's.
When he scrambled back, gasping and sobbing and his ears ringing, he noticed that not all of the blood came from Sherlock.
When he felt something slick on his thighs, he reached between his legs and brought back a violently shaking hand covered in fresh blood.
John shot up in bed, screaming from the pleasant memory turned nightmare. He'd kicked his sheets off in his sleep and his hands were clenched in tight fists around the fitted cover of the mattress. Bile rose in his throat, and he covered his mouth as he stumbled to the toilet.
Still gasping, he rose to look at himself in the mirror when he was finished being sick. He filled the basin with cold water and splashed his face repeatedly, hoping it would wake him up more and get him further away from the awful dream. His hand tentatively drifted down to his stomach and his lips spread in a small smile. "You're still there," he gasped. "Oh thank God. Thank God."
As his ragged breathing slowed, he rested his forehead against the smooth, cool plain of the mirror. He shut his eyes tightly and took in a deep, shaking breath. He released it slowly, fogging the mirror with his warm breath. He opened his eyes again and left the bathroom.
Even though he had no appetite, he knew he needed to eat for the baby's sake. He was halfway through an impressively ugly omelette and a glass of orange juice which tasted especially acidic when his phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Get dressed.
Mycroft
John pulled a sour face as he crunched on a bit of eggshell that had made its way into the omelette. He looked around the flat, trying to think of likely hidden camera locations. Only a week had passed since Mycroft had discovered his pregnancy, so there couldn't have been any cameras lurking about in the past five months. On top of that, he hadn't been out of the flat much since Mycroft found out. Could he have slipped in and set something up somehow?
He texted back. WHY? ALSO, CAMERAS IN FLAT Y/N
Made an appointment with a top Omega reproductive specialist. You need a check-up. Get dressed.
Mycroft
"Way to not answer, Mycroft," John grumbled. WHEN?
Waiting outside now.
Mycroft
"Shit!" John hissed. He choked down the rest of the omelette and quickly finished off the glass of orange juice. FIVE MINUTES.
He ran up the stairs by twos and dressed himself quickly in a beige jumper and one of the few pairs of jeans that he hadn't outgrown. He scanned the wardrobe frantically, wondering if he'd missed anything. Then he spotted it.
Carefully, he pulled down Sherlock's dark blue scarf, the one he wore most frequently. He held it up to his nose and breathed deeply, closing his eyes as the scent – stale, but there and infinitely welcome – hit him. "For luck," he murmured. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, trying to tuck his nose as close to it as possible.
With that, he made his way to Mycroft's waiting car.