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The first time it happens, John is twelve years old.
His mother has just come in to say goodnight, something she does every night despite the fact that John has begun complaining rather loudly during the daytime that he’s a big boy now, and doesn’t need her treating him like a baby anymore. She comes into his room anyway, smelling like warmth and powder and lavender perfume, and sits on the side of his bed, pressing a kiss into his hair that he accepts eagerly for once—even reciprocates, darting up to peck one of his own onto her cheek. She smiles at his unusual good mood, threading her fingers gently through his hair, and then stands to go and switch off the light.
As she does so, something heretofore unknown inside John’s chest clenches and shatters.
His mother turns around at the first sharp sound of his cry, eyes wide in surprise as John reaches out for her with tears on his cheeks and a voice made thick with fear. He isn’t quite sure what he’s upset about; all he knows is that she isn’t allowed to go, isn’t allowed to leave him alone. That would be wrong. And so he cries.
Alpha, come back.
His mother, thankfully, forgets about the light and hurries back to him, sinking down next to him on the bed as she wraps her arms around him and rocks him gently, murmuring over and over in his ear, you’re all right, Johnny, shh, you’re all right you’re all right you’re all right.
John barely hears her, nose buried in the scent gland at the base of her neck.
*
He learns how to manage it as he gets older—his odd bouts of clinginess. His girlfriends, usually Betas, don’t mind it—they think it’s endearing that every month or so he’s struck with the overwhelming urge to be romantic and spend every waking moment with them for days in a row.
Alphas, on the other hand, tend to get a bit confused.
“John,” one had asked about three months into their relationship, “when’s your heat supposed to be? I’ve been looking forward to it, but you’ve never… well… smelled like it’s coming on, really.”
John, used to the question, had hesitated before giving his answer. “I… don’t get them. Heats. Never have. Doctors don’t think I ever will.” No point mentioning that his bouts occurred at roughly the same frequency as normal Omega heats. No point asking if his Alpha would consider some sort of trade-off—hours of touch and scentings for John with occasional days of mating to satisfy rut.
The Alpha would always be gone.
Eventually, John stops trying.
*
Then Sherlock Holmes comes along, and he is mad, and brilliant, and John knows from the moment their eyes lock in the hallway after their first mad dash across London that this Alpha is the one he wants to keep.
The problem is how to do so.
*
John quickly learns that Sherlock is not like most Alphas; he postures, but not sexually, and never over Omegas. His attention seems entirely focused on The Game, The Work, and John isn’t quite sure what to do with that. It’s not like he can offer Sherlock anything in that arena, anyway, since he doesn’t have heats, but to have him not be interested at all… Well, he’ll take what he can get.
*
Of course, Sherlock eventually sniffs him out.
“Why didn’t you tell me, John?” he demands as the two of them lie together, entwined, on the floor beside the coffee table.
John shrugs. He’s due for another bout in three days or so, and the anticipation of it is making his throat clog with affection. “I… didn’t think it was important.”
Sherlock huffs at him like he’s an idiot, but doesn’t say anything. For that, John is grateful, and surreptitiously sniffs at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. If a clock is about to start ticking down on them, he wants to get as much of Sherlock as he can while he still has a chance.
*
“Don’t go.”
Sherlock looks down at him in surprise; in hindsight, John’s hand around his wrist might have been a smidgen too tight to be casual. “I’m only going to the lounge, John. I need my computer.”
“No.” John grabs more of Sherlock’s arm and clings. “Stay. I need to—I need to smell you.”
Sherlock, bewildered, lets himself be pulled back down onto the bed and under the covers. “John, are you sure you’re all right?”
Yes, fine, now that Sherlock’s here and not leaving and John can scent him. John buries his fingers in the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck and presses his nose against Sherlock’s scent gland, inhaling deeply. Oh, that’s wonderful. Amazing. He manages to keep it up for nearly thirty full seconds before Sherlock pushes him off, and the resulting six inches between them suddenly feels to John like a gaping chasm.
Sherlock says nothing while John flounders; merely studies him as John forces himself to maintain eye contact and breathe slowly and deeply through his nose. Sherlock isn’t rejecting him, it’s fine, he’s fine. He just wants some space—he’ll probably let John scent one of his wrists if he asks nicely, and then John will get to relax because his Alpha’s still here, still with him, still fine.
Except then Sherlock’s moving backwards, lifting himself as if he’s about to rise from the bed, and John lunges forward in desperation, latching an arm around Sherlock’s bare waist and an ankle around his calf and buries his face into Sherlock’s sternum where he can hear the dull thud of his heartbeat.
“Don’t,” he bites out. “Please, Sherlock, I—” he hates the way his voice breaks on Sherlock’s name, hates how desperate he sounds, but he can’t hold it back; this is a heat for him, this is how intense it would feel if what he wanted was to be filled and owned by Sherlock’s hands or cock or knot. But right now, what he wants, what he’s always only ever wanted, is just for Sherlock to hold him, to press his hands against the skin of his back, to nuzzle into his neck and rub his cheeks over John’s, scenting him, murmuring soothing words like love and home and John.
He’s broken. Wrong. A freak.
“Please,” he tries again, “you can—you can leave tomorrow, if you want.” The words physically pain him to say, but he swallows back the hurt. He has to give Sherlock an out, can’t force him to stay here if this is too strong, too weird for him to take. “I won’t be mad at you. But please… stay, tonight. I need it.”
Sherlock still says nothing. His chest expands and contracts evenly, the dull thud of his heart reassuring in John’s ears. His skin is smooth and warm against John’s cheek; the scent of him, the scent of Alpha, strength, home, is strong in John’s nose and despite himself John can’t keep his nostrils from flaring, can’t keep himself from breathing in every single drop of him just in case it’s his last.
Then, so slowly that John isn’t sure if he’s just imagining it at first, a hand begins to slide down his back, stroking gently along muscles pulled taut with tension.
“Shh,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s scalp. His lips brush along John’s hairline, trailing down to the fine, sweaty hair in front of John’s ears where he starts to nose, softly, carefully, rubbing their cheekbones together in a way that sends sparks down John’s spine. “Shh, John, you’re all right.”
John cannot speak. To have Sherlock like this—this close to him, this present, this warm—to be able to smell him, to touch him, to taste… his skin burns at every point of contact but it is a pleasant burn, one that John would happily suffer for the rest of his days. His Alpha is here, is touching him, is loving him. Wetness prickles up behind the backs of his eyelids and he pulls the arm he’s still got around Sherlock’s waist tighter, closer, warmer. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not,” Sherlock reassures him quietly. “I’m not going anywhere, John. I promise.”