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It came to Sherlock’s attention that lately someone had been leaving gifts on his doorstep.
At first, he thought it was someone courting Ms. Hudson. Good for her, honestly about time, Sherlock had had enough of her nagging him and a mate would occupy her thoughts for a while to give him time to save up his next rent.
Except Ms. Hudson huffed and disagreed, it wasn’t, it was addressed specifically for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street.
Then Sherlock thought this was just a gift from his past clients. And it would have been normal for Sherlock to receive gifts from them, though, if only it was not scented in a way that would make anyone believe the sender was interested in courtship. It was an alpha’s scent, Sherlock could tell, uncharacteristically light and comforting for their kind. That, and the fact that this was not a one-time occurrence, crossed the past client probability out of his list.
The packages never seem to have any return address. The paper was always produced by different factories throughout the London area, from common handmade ones to the rather high-classed West End ones.
Sherlock did keep guard from his second story window to catch the mysterious sender delivering his gift, except they deliver it at seemingly random intervals, sometimes in quick successive days, and sometimes in a weekly interval, to a month. Sometimes they would deliver it at night, sometimes in broad daylight, and Sherlock always misses it by several minutes. There was one time John had to force Sherlock to bed for staking out so much that he did not sleep for 5 days.
The contents of the gifts itself were strange, to say the least. It was proper etiquette to give courtship gifts that were not expensive, lest it would be seen as an attempt to bribe the target’s affections, but this certain alpha did not think much of that etiquette. Which was strange, since all gifts indicated that the sender was of noble birth, and should have known and held this etiquette in high importance.
Sherlock would often find proper courting gifts such as books, music sheets, and the occasional soap. And then, after a while, he would receive the less proper (but still thoughtful, Sherlock grudgingly noted) ones in between: shoes, fur coat, fluffy warm blankets, scarves, needless antiques, embroidered coasters, chemical beakers, and even a pipette set.
Once he even found a cabinet on his doorstep.
It could be mockery. That Sherlock was cheap. That he could not even afford basic necessities for himself and would throw himself to a random stranger for it.
But it did not smell like it. In fact, it did not smell malicious at all. The alpha only smelled sincere, clearly thinking of Sherlock when they made the purchase, and gifted it to him without hoping for any credits to their name.
The entire business was enigmatic yet harmless; he could not help but think of the pretty mathematics professor in the Noahtic.
When they met again by chance on the train Sherlock sat at his table and got a clearer whiff of Liam. It was a shame that this professor had a mild scent, so mild that Sherlock could not recall how it smelled, only that it was pleasant and soft. Sherlock had assumed the blond man was a beta.
Despite this, the professor being the mysterious suitor wasn’t an entirely foregone possibility: suppressants were in high demand these days. It helped people tone down their instincts and tendencies, and Sherlock could see why it was popular with every excruciating heat he got. When he graduated from Oxford he started taking it regularly to completely prevent his heats.
The only questionable part was why an alpha had to suppress their second gender in the first place. There were no discernible disadvantages for being an alpha, and their rut wasn’t as bad nor as often as an omega’s, so why hide that fact?
Perhaps the professor really was the person who pulled the strings in the Noahtic, for him to consume suppressants even as an alpha.
Or it could be that these two cases were mutually exclusive, and that Sherlock Holmes was just a hopeless man wishing his mysterious suitor was the attractive Durham professor.
It certainly would not help him get any closer to the actual culprit, only a welcome distraction.
Anyways, one day Ms. Hudson found Sherlock pondering and cutting up the latest book he got from the sender (“To see which manufacturer glued the book’s spine!”) and had enough. “For goodness sakes, Sherlock, this person is just interested in you! You yourself said that the sender is harmless, right? So just accept it as it is or dump it out in the trash clearly so they will see that you’re not reciprocating that interest!” she said.
And while Ms. Hudson had a good point, he wondered how much of that was from jealousy over not having any suitors of her own, and how much of that was spite from seeing him use so much of his brainpower for this sender instead of getting himself a new case.
“Sherlock,” John said, ever the middleman, “Ms. Hudson is right. Since the sender has no malicious intent, it would be a waste to not use these gifts.” He was giving the side eye to a particularly expensive vase that was sent in the middle of the night.
“Right, I could sell them to cover for rent.”
“Sherlock!” John reprimanded. He turned to Ms. Hudson for support, and was dismayed to find that the woman had a contemplative look on her face.
“Oh come on, how would you feel if your courting gift was sold by your admired one?”
“If the sender really cared about me, they would want me to continue my costly existence by paying my rent on time for once.” It didn’t matter how Sherlock answered John, he was going to sell them one way or another. Or use them. Those beakers looked awfully sturdy.
Clearly defeated, John only gave a sigh.
That was the end of it: Sherlock sold the more outrageous ones like vases, chinas, cutlery, napkins, etc. Apparently they were made of top quality and were rather expensive, fitting for an auction house. Ms. Hudson was one happy woman that day.
And the rest? Well, Sherlock stayed true to his promise, he used them.
There were unexpectedly many that he could use—the beakers and the pipettes, the burets, crucibles and its tongs, shoes, blankets, and scarves—they were all extraordinarily durable and handy in emergencies. The scarves were especially comfortable, and he often received remarks that the dark blue of it matched his eyes.
It went on for a while, and strangely, now the gifts were more focused on helping Sherlock with his cases, if in unexpected ways. For instance, the carving knife was useful to get out of a locked room, the bottle of iodine when he ran out of his own after several cases involving fingerprints, and even once a leather thigh strap with a handcrafted gun holster. The sender paid much attention to Sherlock’s needs.
His personal favourite was the dark fur coat, it fitted on Sherlock well and made him look bulky and silly, but it did serve its purpose. While it restrained his moves, it was warm and soft, and Sherlock enjoyed waddling everywhere in the cold weather with it. Of course, he could not use them in his cases often.
It also smelled nice, the fur retaining the mysterious alpha’s comforting scent even after being washed several times.
So it came to no surprise that Sherlock was upset when he ruined the fur coat. While doing a botched experiment using magnesium oxide and ethanol, a fire exploded in his study. In his and John’s panic, he used the fur coat to put out the fire, but it ended up ruining the coat entirely and rendered it into this weird and dark spiky something.
It was a good thing that he did not have any cases to do, because Sherlock holed himself in his study, refusing to budge from his sofa as he played a sad note on his violin.
He was completely fine.
He just wanted to be a tad dramatic about it.
And it worked: the next day, John found another gift from his suitor right outside their doorstep.
It was a Dunhill tobacco pipe.
“Ugh,” Sherlock grumbled, flinging himself back to the sofa and fiddling his violin once more. Dunhill pipes were reportedly the best brand in its industry, but it did not make Sherlock feel like an overgrown warm fluffy beast. “Be sure to mention the coat next time, John.”
“Huh?”
“I said, be sure to mention the coat next time, John.”
The ex-doctor truly was not a good liar. He tried keeping a straight face, but eventually it scrunched up in nervousness, redness creeping up from his neck to his ears. “Alright, I’ll come clean,” he said.
Sherlock only nodded his head lazily as a sign for John to continue. It didn’t matter to him that John was colluding with the anonymous sender. If anything, Sherlock was glad that John was involved, it made his job easier.
Of course, this was probably what the sender intended.
Sherlock could not help but think of the Lord of Crime. Was this also their doing?
It felt too easy.
The puzzles the Lord of Crime gave him were always full of unexpected turns, rather macabre, and required Sherlock to plot his next move carefully. Compared to murders and corrupt nobles, gift giving through Sherlock’s best friend just seemed to be too weak of a conspiracy in comparison.
This had to be done by an amateur who was infatuated with Sherlock and had plenty of money to blow on him.
Sherlock had a half mind to let the sender continue with his endeavor. It felt nice to not have to worry about rent anymore.
The detective coughed. Lost in his thought, he completely forgot John was talking. “Sorry John, could you repeat that?” Sherlock said sheepishly, putting down his violin on the floor.
So John launched back into his story. He was approached by a short young man in a light blue scarf one day, asking him if Sherlock liked the gift his employer gave. John was used to scanning suspicious people, but the young man before him was too nondescript for John to remember anything beyond his scarf and his large doe eyes. Even his scent was almost nonexistent, leading John to believe he was a beta.
Unable to take more information from the young man by his appearance, John only smiled politely and said that yes, Sherlock enjoyed it much and that it was definitely a welcome gesture.
More than welcome, John thought to himself, since it helped cover his own rent to Ms. Hudson for 2 more months.
The young man seemed pleased by this answer. If John was less astute, he would have thought that this man was the sender.
“That is a relief to hear,” said the young man. “My employer would like to send more gifts as a way to show his affections. I do hope that it won't be too much trouble for you.”
“Not at all,” John said. “May I know the identity of my roommate’s most ardent admirer?”
“I would love to tell you, except my employer is still shy with his endeavour, so all will be revealed in due time,” the young man evaded the question easily. “I am here to ask for your assistance, since you have shown a positive response, would you be willing to be of assistance for future presents?”
It confused John, why would they need him? Since the gifts were delivered at their front doorstep for Sherlock to receive?
Unless, the employer wanted to make sure that John would be the one who accepts the gift for Sherlock, to make Sherlock unable to catch him or one of his lackeys in the act?
Or perhaps the sender was running out of ideas, and they wanted John to help them by telling them the things Sherlock wanted or needed?
When he voiced his concern, the young man only smiled. “It would be appreciated, but my employer is asking none of the sort. You see, he only wants to know what happens to his presents after he gifts them. You must understand how courtship items are important for the suitor?”
John nodded. It seemed natural and benign for a sender to want to know how his gifts are used, The ashen blond would just have to lie about some of the gifts being auctioned. It shouldn't be too hard to do.
“I understand, if I was interested in courting someone, I too would love to know how these items are used by my intended one.”
“May I take this as an agreement?”
“Yes, you may,” John readily agreed. “Though I have to wonder, how do I correspond with your employer? There were no return addresses to any of Mr. Holmes’ gifts.”
The young man answered. “That would be simple, simply send a telegram or a letter to this address whenever it conveniences you. This is not a time-sensitive matter, after all.”
“Hold on for a minute.” Sherlock cut sharply into the story.
John waited for Sherlock to light his cigarette. He noted the Dunhill pipe still laid on the floor, forgotten.
Blowing out smoke, Sherlock asked. “You had an address all this time, and you never told me?”
“Well, I figured you would find out eventually. Or I will tell you eventually.”
“Touché. You can continue.”
“Well, that's about it, afterwards we exchanged several more pleasantries and then parted ways. I have the address right here, I wanted to tell them you loved the newest leather shoes you got,” John rummaged through his suit pocket. “Also, Sherlock, in case it’s still in doubt, I would like to add that I did not suggest anything for the sender to give to you, nor did I obstruct your attempts at finding him.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit, it was obvious. John was a morally upstanding man, with a romantic touch to boot, and he would not thwart Sherlock when he was so intent on finding the mysterious suitor. As a bonus assurance, John was shit at lying, and Sherlock could tell that he was being sincere when he said it.
However, this meant that the suitor was paying attention to the things Sherlock needed.
And that he did not receive instructions from John, like he previously deduced.
The thought made him feel, dare he say it, flattered.
And a tad bit alarmed. This man somehow knew of the cases Sherlock undertook, and came up with the proper tools and materials that Sherlock needed to solve them. Among comfortable everyday things.
What were the chances of this being another genius with a bad habit of spying on his moves, besides the Lord of Crime?
Was this really the Lord of Crime?
And if so, does this mean that the Lord of Crime was interested in him? Romantically?
Oh Lord, the comforting alpha scent he had been sniffing was the Lord of Crime, wasn’t it?
Sherlock wished he was a lady, this seemed like an appropriate time to faint aggrievedly into his couch.
No, Sherlock, it could probably be someone else. Who was also a genius. Just like himself and the Lord of Crime. Yes, that’s it.
It was probable: Mycroft existed, the Lord of Crime existed, and Liam existed, nevermind the last two were most probably the same person. Geniuses exist, and it couldn't be just them.
Oh Lord, what if Liam was the mysterious suitor? Since this was most probably the Lord of Crime?
His logic made his own head hurt. Perhaps Sherlock really should take that Dunhill pipe and give it a smoke.
Sherlock took John’s written paper, an unsent letter, and quickly scanned the address written on the top of the letter.
Huh? It was an address in the East End?
This was clearly not the sender’s real address; there was no way a person living in poverty could afford a quarter of the gifts Sherlock received from his admirer. Hell, Sherlock couldn’t even afford a quarter of the gifts he received, and he was not ashamed to admit it.
But this was the address that they correspond in, so someone would need to periodically check for Watson’s messages.
Sherlock just found himself a new stakeout place. And by the look John was giving him, it was clear that he disapproved, but kept it to himself.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to—”
“No, John, since they know who you are, it would be hard for you to explain if you were spotted in the area,” Sherlock said, both him and John not mentioning that Sherlock was also recognisable on sight, if not more so.
“Just make sure to eat and get some sleep this time, Sherlock,” sighed the defeated doctor.
And with that, Sherlock packed everything that he needed and set off.
He wasn’t sure what he was about to see at the place, Sherlock had no expectations, knowing that this sender kept their identity hidden for so long for a reason and that the address was most likely an abandoned building with nothing to reveal the sender’s identity. As he strolled to the place, he noticed that the streets were eerily quiet, the chilly wind starting to set into the cobblestoned walls as people retreated into their homes. The sky overhead still had sunlight, but Sherlock knew it would rapidly fade in the evening. He was in for a cold night.
Checking over the address again, Sherlock finally arrived at the place: an unused bookstore. True to his thoughts, it was dilapidated and abandoned, with a portion of the roof caved in due to constant exposure to the elements, and the books inside unkept and some were ripped and ruined by the humidity. He put the letter into the mailbox and went into the dingy bookstore.
At least this time Sherlock had a roof over his head, he thought to himself, as he observed the area and settled himself into a secluded corner where one of the bookshelves had toppled over into another. It was a cramped space, enough for Sherlock’s own body heat to be kept in.
He wished he hadn’t ruined his fur coat. He missed the scent of his mysterious suitor.
And the warmth the fluffy coat gives, of course.
Shaking his head, he dug into the sandwich packed by Ms. Hudson for him.
He was willing to wager it would take him several days for someone to show up to the place to collect the letter.
As luck would have it, he had to only wait for several hours to see a result. His wait could hardly be classified as a stakeout if it weren’t for his current uncomfortable positioning.
His watch told him it was evening, and the sunlight had started to dim down by a margin. The setting sun cast long shadows on every object, and Sherlock could spy the shadows of two figures standing in the doorway. The road was too narrow for carriages so these two gentlemen must have walked all the way here. The two men were silent throughout the walk, and continued being silent after reaching their destination as well.
Sherlock kept his breath controlled.
“Were you in on this whole affair?” a familiar voice piped up eventually.
“I’m afraid I was as surprised as you are when I found out,” another voice said, completely unfamiliar.
The familiar voice chuckled. It was hard to tell if he was convinced. “I could not believe it myself, this entire affair is rather embarrassing. I could only hope it's not too late to make repairs.”
“William,” the unfamiliar voice said, stern yet full of emotions, and Sherlock was reminded of Mycroft for a minute. “You have to understand that we all wish for your happiness. Don’t be too hard on their punishments, alright?”
Liam sighed. “I know that. I just wish they would let me do it at my own pace.”
At that the unfamiliar voice laughed. “Please, as if your pace doesn’t move in tandem with a snail when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Liam’s shadow turned to look at the other figure, and he amiably said “No need to wound me like that. You can wait for me in the carriage, it won't be too long.”
The other figure only nodded and left, and with his disappearance silence reigned once more. Liam stood there, unmoving, the air around him seemingly expectant. Sherlock could even envision that knowing smirk on his face.
Oh, the blond already caught on that Sherlock was here, then?
“You can come out now, Mr. Holmes.”
Bingo.
It's not like Sherlock needed to be told twice; he did a lot of stakeouts but he never got used to the stiffness his body felt throughout the waiting game. It's not like he was getting any younger.
After righting himself to his two feet and dusting off his clothes, Sherlock took several steps and stood face to face with William James Moriarty.
Despite his deducing the sender’s identity several hours ago, the detective was undeniably happy that it was Liam standing in front of him right now.
Of course, Liam could just be the sender’s lackey, but he thought it was unlikely. The blond’s scent was muted as usual, but what was there was enough to remind him of the scent he liked to bury himself in the coat. If Sherlock could liken Liam’s scent as something, he would liken it to vanilla, white flowers, warm fireplaces and warmer hands, soft yet deep musk that was somehow toned down by the suppressants and inconspicuous cologne.
Silently they shared an implicit understanding.
“I just want to apologise for this,” Liam spoke softly, reaching in for the mailbox and retrieving the letter. “I hope you believe me when I say I had no thought—”
“You know I can already deduce what happened, why do you feel the need to explain?” Sherlock questioned, bemused.
The happenings were pretty simple, if hilarious, and a tad bit embarrassing for Liam. To sum it up, Liam was interested in Sherlock, and since he was an apha, he had given in on his nature to provide for his potential mate.
It was the reason why courting gifts were so popular in the first place: not only was it a way of showing your interest, but it can also soothe an alpha’s instincts to prove that they were capable of providing, not to mention it was also another game for nobles to subtly show off their wealth and knowledge from the gifts they chose.
However, from the conversation Liam had with the person previously, it was clear that Liam had no intention of sending the gifts and began courting at all. The thought had hurt. A little bit.
No, the one who bought the gifts as he was thinking of Sherlock was Liam, but the one who actually sent them was another person entirely. Probably a party of individuals, including the young man in light-blue scarf, all colluding against Liam by sending these gifts in random intervals. Unbeknownst to Liam himself.
Liam probably found out that something was amiss when he noticed some of the gifts he hoarded for Sherlock started being missing.
Sherlock had to wonder how many gifts were in store, for Liam to only realise after Sherlock received enough trinkets to fill a room. Or the fact that each gift strongly retained his scent even when the senders were not him.
But how did these colluders know which of Liam’s gifts that Sherlock would require at the time?
Simple, they didn’t.
They just knew Liam enough to know that his brilliant mind would get a gift that Sherlock needed, switch it with something similar (and probably less expensive), and then send the real gift to Sherlock. This was why the first few gifts were random, unneeded, and expensive: they had not perfected their modus operandi yet, and only chose any item Liam would forget. And the items that Liam most likely forgot were the ones he bought when he first gave in to his alpha instincts: housewarming appliances, expensive chinas, and regular courting gifts.
Since there was no way you could go against Liam and come out unscathed, he found out what was happening eventually. The blond would then hunt down and ask the colluding party what happened, where were the gifts, and they came clean about the whole operation. Or Liam had used his brilliant mind to deduce what happened and came straight here without asking anyone.
Yes, that last one was more fitting for Liam’s profile.
This also explained why they contacted John: the sender was not Liam, for Liam would never make such a rookie mistake.
So now they both stood, the admirer and his intended, illuminated by the soft glow of the evening sun. Liam did not betray a single thought from his expression, but if Sherlock put himself in Liam’s shoes, he would have been embarrassed.
The thought of Liam being bashful was endearing.
“So,” Sherlock began for him, “You’re an alpha, and you never revealed it to me.”
Liam grimaced. “If it's any consolation, I’d rather not be. It's too much of a hassle to me. My life would have been so much easier if I was born as a beta like you.”
Oh, that's funny. “You’re not the only one with a tendency for suppressants,” Sherlock laughed.
At this remark, Liam’s eyes widened.
“If it’s any consolation, I’d rather be an alpha,” the detective mirrored back playfully. “It's too much of a hassle to me.”
Sherlock pretended that he did not understand the things Liam was thinking of right now, for the sake of his own sanity.
It was clear now that both of them were not betas, and Sherlock had a passing thought of wanting to properly smell the other without suppressants nor proxies, but they both held onto their common sense a while longer. It would be unseemly for an unwed alpha and omega pair to just sniff at each other, even without having anyone around to view them.
Despite Liam doing it to him back at the Noahtic dancefloor. Not only were they both operating under the belief that the other was a beta, but Liam was sniffing him to make a deduction, and it was nothing romantic.
Was it, actually?
The thought of someone as beautiful, as interesting, as smart as Liam actually interested in him, it was really unbelievable to Sherlock.
They shared a glance.
“Does this mean I am allowed to continue with my courting attempts?” Liam asked, always the gentleman. Sherlock wished Liam sounded as nervous as he felt right now.
“I don’t know, you know I’m not one for paltry pleasantries, I would rather immediately get to—”
“Be as it may,” Liam cut in after giving a cough, “I would prefer to properly play by the rules and court you. I wouldn’t wish to cross the Holmes household like that.”
He knows Liam had a lot to lose if he were to act improperly as the second son of the Moriarty family; Sherlock was just messing with the blond. Now he was thinking of Mycroft, of how the alpha would have disapproved if Liam were to simply whisk Sherlock away in wedded bliss. Pre-wed bliss. Whatever. Mycroft could shove it, he wasn’t the one being courted by such an angel.
Perhaps Sherlock took too long to be lost in his own thoughts, for Liam suddenly piped up. “I promise this time I will do this properly, I am serious about you. I want to be,” the blond said, “Despite us starting off on a strange note, I promise I will court you in a way that befits a noble’s intended from now on, and I hope this whole debacle would not be a discouragement for you to give me a chance.”
Seriously, Liam was smart. He was caring, attentive, coming from a noble and affluent family and rich to boot, not to mention beautiful enough to put any gender to shame. He had accomplishments to his name, being a professor at the young age of 24, and none of his brothers put the family name to shame.
Liam was truly a catch that any family would adore. He must have had multiple marriage talks and courtship offers by now.
But instead he stood here, in front of Sherlock, his voice steady yet pleading.
It was enough to make Sherlock’s head spin.
“Right, yes, I'm fine with whatever you want,” the detective said easily.
What he said was simple, informal, not at all romantic, but Liam’s eyes widened imperceptibly and the corners of his mouth pulled upwards reflexively. There were crinkles in his eyes that were not visible before.
Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t the only one whipped in this situation.
After a moment of pondering, the detective added, “I would like to say something about the fur coat, though.”
A bemused expression came over Liam. “The fur coat?”
“Yes, it was the only item that retained your scent for a long time even after multiple washings. I would like to have something similar since I ruined it.”
“Huh.”
“You know, in case you needed ideas on what to get me. Also, a proper courting visit would be nice. No need for chaperones, I’m not a dainty omega in need of one. You know I am capable of taking you on myself.”
It seemed as if Liam was taking mental notes in his head: finding scent-retaining items to gift, courting visit, no chaperones, capable of taking Liam himself. Hmm?
A part of him wanted to ask, “In a fight, Mr. Holmes?”, but Liam had a feeling the answer would have been a negative.
Sherlock only gave him a knowing grin.
Liam liked his grin, even at his own expense. He gave a slight chuckle; they understand each other too well.
“I see, well, we will just have to see who will be the one doing the taking,” the professor joked back.
The air around them was strangely comfortable, both of their scents quiet but agreeable. Liam felt soft and caring, elated, and nurturing. Sherlock thought he would make a wonderful husband.
Whoa, where did that thought come from, Sherlock?
From the far end of the street, where it melded into a bigger one, came the sound of horses hooves. It must have been Liam’s chaperone, the person who was here with him earlier.
True to his deductions, Liam gave him a polite smile and bid his farewell. “It’s time for me to take my leave, Mr. Holmes.”
And he turned and left, his shadow getting longer with every step the professor took.
“Hey Liam!” Sherlock called out.
The figure turned around, attention only towards him, and Sherlock smiled. “Next time, you can call me Sherlock.”
From where he stood Sherlock could see a sincere smile bloomed on Liam’s beautiful face.
“I’ll see you soon, Sherly.”
Wow, that was unfair. The worst part is that Sherlock liked the nickname now.