A/N: A bit of K rated (yes I said K) Omegaverse teenlock that has been nagging at the back of my mind. Hope you enjoy it!
It's humiliating, is what it is. To be brought to this impersonal room, locked inside, and wait for "The One" to find you, to sniff you out like a police dog sniffing out drugs.
But it's also a tiny bit exciting, and there isn't enough exciting in your young life. Everything is always the same, day after day; this day at the so-called 'Bonding Market' is the only thing you've looked forward to - and dreaded - since puberty hit and your biology became painfully obvious.
Of course you protested your fate, because who wants to be treated like a piece of meat to be sniffed at and slavered over? Who wants to be put on display, promenaded before potential mates in an enormous hall packed with overwhelming scents and sounds before being marched off to what amounts to a prison cell to await your "The One"?
Even worse: what if your "The One" isn't here at this Market? What if your "The One" lives halfway across the world, or even halfway across London but is even now fruitlessly sniffing the air for you at a different Market? What if they're dead or a million years older than you are and already aged out of the System the government put into place 25 years ago (eight years before your birth) to match up compatible Omegas and Alphas? What if they're one of the supposedly few (but more likely a lot more than few considering humanity's penchant for disliking government intervention into their private lives) pretending not to be who they are? What if they're living the forbidden life of a false Beta, taking illegal drugs to mask their scent, hiding their biology, suppressing their natural instincts…
What if they do show up, take one look at you - and you see disappointment in their eyes?
That would be worse than them not finding you at all.
The sound of feet thundering down the hall interrupts your thoughts; your eyes fly open and you stare, breathless and trembling, at the locked door behind which you've been waiting for, oh, a lifetime now (only an hour, actually, but who's counting?). Will the footsteps slow, will they stop? Will the door open…
You stand, heart in your throat, staring, waiting…
The door opens fully, pushed into the room by one hand. It's your "The One". You know it by the scent even before you see the petite, brown haired, brown eyed Alpha staring at you just as nervously as you stare at her. You lick your lips, staring, staring, some part of you braced for rejection. She steps further into the room. Sniffs delicately at the air - and smiles. Closes the door softly behind her so you're both locked in now. "Hi," she says as she comes over to where you're standing in front of the room's only furnishings - a simple, double wide bed. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."
"Hi," you manage to stammer back, still drinking in the sight and scent of her. "I'm Sherlock. Holmes." You take a deep, glorious breath of her cinnamon-lemony scent and realize you've never smelled anything like it before.
She smiles again, her scent clogging your nostrils and her history laid out to your other senses as clearly as if she'd shouted them aloud. When the deductions spill from your lips, as they always do, she pauses in her approach, but when you finally run out of breath and brace yourself for the rejection that's sure to follow, her eyes widen and she smiles again, gives a small laugh of pure...delight? "That's...amazing. How did you know all that about me?"
You shrug. "Deduction," you say, still not sure why she hasn't turned and pounded on the door in a demand to be free of him. "It's a thing I do. Can't help it. Figured you should know right away in case you want to…" You jerk your head at the door and shrug.
She nods as if in understanding. "I can tell when someone's dying, and most of the time, what they're dying of," she confesses. "By their scent," she adds, entirely unnecessarily. It's a rare trait, one you've only read of in textbooks, and you find it fascinating.
"Do...do people call you a freak?" you ask, feeling something akin to relief mingled with anger when she nods. "Me too. Because of the deductions thing."
Her expression, her scent, both speak of scowling anger - not aimed at you, but at those who have been so cruel to you in the past - a cruelty she, it seems, has faced as well. "You're not a freak," she declares, eyes flashing. "Not to me, Sherlock." Slowly, as if suddenly unsure of herself, she reaches out and lays her hand over yours. "Never to me. You're- you're my One." Her tone is full of wonder.
You smile, even as you feel the Heat flushing your body, a sure sign that yes, you are not only compatible, but that you belong together. "You're not a freak either," you agree, reaching up and taking her hand. "You're my One."
You'll never be alone again, and for the first time in your young life, you're happy at the thought of being bonded to someone else.
No, not just to 'someone', to your someone.
To Molly Hooper.