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It was the third kill in the less than a week, which meant that they officially had a spree killer on their hands and it probably wouldn't be long before he or she killed again. Greg Lestrade crouched down next to the body to take a closer look. Until the coroner arrived, they wouldn't know the cause of death for certain. But he was pretty sure that the gaping wound in the victim's throat had something to do with it.
All of the crime scenes had been similar so far in terms of evidence: they had basically nothing beyond a few random bits of information that didn't give them any leads at all. It was past the point of frustrating and well on the way to worrying, because there was a monster running loose, Scotland Yard had no suspects, and the only consultant who would have actually been helpful wasn't picking up the goddamned phone.
"Not a good time for a vacation, Sherlock," he said under his breath, too low for any of the other officers standing around to hear. He got enough flack from calling Sherlock in that he would have thought they'd welcome the opportunity to handle a case all on their own. But apparently, when the media was putting a lot of pressure on, it was his fault for not calling him sooner.
He took out his phone and texted the impossible man for the fourth time, trying to keep his impatience and concern in check. Part of him was wondering if he should be calling the hospitals because neither Sherlock or John were picking up, and the other part of him couldn't help thinking that it was probably best he didn't know. Sometimes, when it came to Sherlock, plausible deniability was his only saving grace.
No sooner had he sent the message than Greg heard a bunch of shouting coming from behind him. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and pulled his gloves back on, turning to watch as Sherlock Holmes picked his way across the pavement. There were a couple of officers - obviously new - who were trying to stop his progress. Sherlock was ignoring them, or possibly didn't even care enough to realize that they were there. Finally, a senior officer took pity and pulled the newbies aside.
"Where the hell have you been?" Greg hissed as soon as Sherlock was within hearing. "I've been trying to call you since Monday."
"I was preoccupied," said Sherlock, his eyes already drawn to the body. He dropped down to the ground, put his face right up against the victim's hair and sniffed.
"Preoccupied. When there was a killer running around," Greg said, raising an eyebrow. That didn't sound like the Sherlock Holmes he knew. "You didn't happen to visit any of your old friends last weekend, did you?"
Sherlock sighed and stood, rolling his eyes. "No, I did not take drugs, Lestrade," he said in a very put-upon voice. "John was home with me all week. I hardly think that he would have been amenable to that even if that had been my plan."
"Oh. Well." Greg folded his arms, refusing to apologize. After all the times Sherlock had scared the shit out of him over the years, he figured he'd earned the right to be a little suspicious.
He watched as Sherlock slowly circled the body, examining it from every angle. Sherlock's mouth was pursed into that thin line that meant he was thinking and wouldn't appreciate an interruption, even one that might potentially give him more information, and Greg was content to stand back and hope that he would have an epiphany. At this rate, anything that would get them closer to finding this bastard before he or she killed again would be welcome.
Sherlock passed by in front of him, and as he did, he crouched down again and leaned in to inspect the victim's feet. Greg glanced down at him automatically. He'd long since given up trying to figure out what Sherlock was looking at, at any given time, mostly because he was rarely correct and Sherlock always made fun of him for being wrong.
But this time, his gaze was drawn to something else. His eyes widened and he tensed, because surely he couldn't be seeing a mating mark on the back of Sherlock Holmes's neck.
"Your killer is striking at random," Sherlock announced suddenly, springing back up with the kind of energy that Greg envied.
Greg blinked, trying to switch gears mentally. "So do you have a way for us to figure out where he's going to hit next?"
"Not yet. I need to see the other two crime scenes."
"There's nothing left, Sherlock. You took too long to respond. They've already cleaned it up."
"The bodies, then," Sherlock said with a frown, as though he couldn't imagine why anyone would ever want to clean up a crime scene.
"I'll take you to Bart's," said Greg, jerking his head at Sally. He led Sherlock over to his car, his mind struggling to assimilate what he'd seen into what he knew about Sherlock, but it was impossible. Sherlock and mating mark were two concepts that clashed.
God knew that Sherlock had reacted like a cornered animal the first time Greg had come into contact with him. He could vividly remember standing on the other side of that jail cell, staring at a terrified omega that was spitting out details of the crime they were investigating as fast as he hissed warnings about what he would do if Greg tried to take advantage of him. There was something strangely endearing about the combination that stuck with Greg to this day.
Of course, at the time he'd been married to his wife. She was an alpha, like him, and he'd made it very clear to Sherlock that he was not interested in cheating on her. That, plus the clear evidence that he was telling the truth that Sherlock could no doubt see on his body, was likely the only thing that kept Sherlock from distrusting him completely. Well, that and the fact that thin, strung out omegas weren't exactly Greg's type.
Over the years, Sherlock's attitude towards relationships in general had not changed one bit. He still reacted with derision towards any alpha that he came into contact with, and Greg still had no idea how John Watson had slipped past those iron clad defences. But more than that, Sherlock had never expressed an interest in a relationship with a beta or an omega, either, never mind sex.
The one time Greg had brought it up to him out of concern for him, because heat was so difficult for unbonded, older omegas, Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he would never have a relationship with anyone, much less bond with an alpha.
Yet there he was with a mating mark on the back of his neck.
He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as they both got into the car. Normally Sherlock would have flat-out refused to get into a police car, preferring instead to take a cab, but for once the man didn't say a single word. Greg buckled his seatbelt and turned the car on, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road when what he really wanted to do was lean over and get a much better look at the back of Sherlock's neck. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. It had been a while since he'd got a decent night's sleep; they'd been running themselves ragged trying to get a handle on this spree killer before another body showed up.
With anyone else, he might've just asked. But this was Sherlock. Asking him personal questions tended to garner the sort of reaction you might expect from a teenager, complete with flouncing off, and Greg desperately needed his help. He scowled down at the steering wheel, letting the car come to a gentle stop at a traffic light. It was while they were idling that Greg smelled it. Or rather, he smelled Sherlock. It was a familiar scent, one he'd become accustomed to years ago: chemicals and blood and curiosity, but with that edge of sweetness all omega's possessed. In the right frame of mind, that scent could and had made Greg fiercely protective.
But this time it was a little different. There was something else. It took him only a moment to place the scent of gun oil and tea, and when he did he nearly slammed his foot down on the brake. It was a good thing they weren't moving because they would've got rear-ended. He whipped his head around, staring at Sherlock. He and John lived together, so it wasn't surprising that there would be a little blending of his and John's scents. But Sherlock actually smelled like John, in a bone-deep sort of way that could have only come from one possibility.
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock gave a deep sigh and rolled his eyes. "Yes, it was John."
Greg guided the car into the first available parking spot he saw. This was not a conversation to be had while he was driving. "And was it consensual?" he asked flatly. "Because if it wasn't, I'll rip his head off."
"Yes it was consensual," Sherlock snapped. "Besides, you have no claim over me."
"I might not have a claim on you, you idiot, but you're like my damn pup," Greg growled back. It wasn't something he would've normally admitted to out loud, preferring to say as little as possible about how deeply Sherlock had got into his affections. But this was something primal from the very depths of his alpha that he had no control over. "And if someone hurt you without your explicit permission, I would rip their head off. I don't care who it is."
For a moment, Sherlock Holmes actually looked shocked. Enough so that he answered with honesty. "I went into heat last weekend. It was a bad one. John offered to help."
"Help how?" Greg demanded, because it was widely known that omegas couldn't exactly give consent during heat. Their bodies drove them into such a state that it was akin to being drunk, only worse because of how much they craved sex. It might not have been against the law, but it as far as Greg was concerned it was still grounds for murder.
"He didn't have sex with me. John is capable of controlling himself, and besides, he's not gay. You've heard him say that a thousand times."
"You're an omega, Sherlock, and he's an alpha. Sometimes gay or straight doesn't really come into it."
"Yes, well, in this case it did. And John is perfectly aware that I have no interest in a relationship, and he wouldn't want to be in one with me even if I was."
Greg stared at him, trying to sort this all out in his mind. "Then what the hell happened?"
"Exactly what I told you. Do make an attempt to listen. I went into heat. I was in pain. John bit me." Sherlock started to lift his hand, as though he was going to touch the mark on the back of his neck. Just as quickly, he caught himself and dropped his hand again. "It wasn't a spur of the moment thing, Lestrade. It is something that we had discussed before."
That settled Greg a little bit, but he still wanted more information. It would be just like Sherlock to hold back on something important. He said suspiciously, "I thought you didn't want to be bonded. And how can you be bonded if you didn't have sex?"
"Sex isn't everything," Sherlock huffed, sounding offended at the idea. "It is possible to bond without engaging in redundant activity, particularly when the omega is in heat. The idea that sex completes a bond is a myth, perpetuated by -"
"Okay, okay," Greg interrupted, holding up his hands. He knew that tone: Sherlock was gearing up for a lecture that would no doubt last for way longer than Greg really wanted it to. "So, let me get this straight. John is straight. You're -"
"Asexual and aromantic."
"Asexual and aromantic," Greg repeated dutifully. "But you've bonded anyway."
"Correct. It was amazing how much difference it made once John bit me," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "I may go off my suppressants just to see what my next heat would be like. It would make for an interesting experiment, considering that my heats have never been as bad as the average omegas."
"Right." Sherlock in heat wasn't really something Greg wanted to think about. "And what happens when John meets someone else? Because I'm sure you guys know as well as I do that alphas and omegas only get to bond once."
Sherlock shrugged. "John says that he's not interested in bonding with an omega, and I believe him. He's a doctor; he knows as well as anyone that he only had one chance. If he happens to find a beta or another alpha to have a relationship with, he could get married even though he's bonded to me. It wouldn't really change anything."
Except it would mean that Sherlock had a very definite claim on John Watson. Greg eyed him for a moment. He knew that no matter what Sherlock said, he worried about the possibility of John leaving him for a wife or mate. Now that wouldn't happen. Bonds were impossible to break. People could and did separate regardless, but John wasn't the kind of man to ever leave his mate behind.
"And you're sure you're okay with that?" he pressed one last time.
"Yes, Lestrade. Now can we go? The longer we sit here, the more chance that our murderer is going to strike again."
"Right. Sure." Greg gave his head a little shake and shifted the car into reverse, backing out of the space. He snuck glances at Sherlock as they drove the rest of the way to Bart's, seeing that Sherlock seemed a little... calmer now. It wasn't a huge different, and it was probably only noticeable to him because he knew Sherlock so well, but a little of that infamous restless energy had been contained.
Greg parked the car at Bart's and the two of them got out. Somehow, he wasn't surprised to see John waiting at the entrance for him. Sherlock gave his mate - and wasn't that a weird thought? - a perfunctory greeting as he strode by. John let him go, turning to face Greg with a sheepish smile.
"Hey, Greg."
"Hello, John."
"I thought it would be best if you talked to Sherlock first," said John. "I know how protective you are of him, even if he doesn't."
"Someone has to be," Greg said flatly. Sherlock's parents were kind, but they had very little to do with either of their son's lives. And Mycroft, while he did try sometimes, was not as involved in the day-to-day of Sherlock's life as he liked to pretend he was.
John nodded. "I know. I didn't touch him without his permission. I'm not sure what he told you, but we talked about this. A lot."
"He did mention that," Greg admitted. "I'm just... this isn't an offer most alphas would make."
"Yeah. Well." John tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Sherlock's my best friend. He was suffering. I know what heats can do to older omegas. It's destructive. Frankly I'm shocked he agreed to it."
Greg hummed a non-committal in response to that, because he wasn't. He could see exactly what Sherlock gained from this: the promise of John's presence in his life, the freedom from annoying alphas who could tell he was unmated, and the lessening of the severity of his heats, all bound up in someone who already knew Sherlock and wouldn't expect anything from him that Sherlock was unwilling to give. What he wasn't so sure about was what John gained from it.
"We did it slowly," John went on when Greg didn't answer. "Over the course of a couple days. Got to build it up slow since we didn't... you know. That's why Sherlock couldn't answer you. Sorry about that."
"He's here now."
"Yeah." John glanced at the door to Bart's with a funny little smile. He looked good, Greg realized suddenly. Well rested. He'd got used to the circles under John's eyes, the deeper lines in his face, the perpetual frown, the tension in his shoulders. All of those were gone, and he actually looked relaxed.
"I guess we should get in there," Greg said, thinking hard. "Wouldn't want him to harass poor Molly to death."
"Oh god," John muttered. He hesitated, though, looking back at Greg. "We good?"
"Yeah, we're fine. Go ahead. I'll catch up."
John gave him another nod and headed inside. Greg watched him go. It was a little weird, not exactly conventional by any stretch of the imagination. But when he took John's string of failed relationships into account, maybe it made more sense than he thought. After all, roughly 80% of those relationships had failed because John kept putting Sherlock first, before everything else. This was just putting the official seal on it.
Trust Sherlock to find a solution that worked for everyone.