Archive of Our Own ^beta

Moriarty was guilty of some of the worse offenses known to mankind, and hopefully a few that would remain unknown to the world at large. This time, though, his unbound evil had gone too far, and he had royally pissed Sherlock off. Moriarty had maimed, lied, killed and robbed; all this was just part of the game. What made Sherlock see red was that Moriarty had stopped playing the game.

Sherlock could admit, he would probably have died with that cabbie if trailing Sherlock hadn’t been part of Mycroft’s Goon Training Program, patent pending. And if the Tong acrobats hadn’t decided to kidnap Sherlock, Mycroft might never have found them and been able to put a stop to their international crime spree. How he had gloated over that one, so smug even as he accepted the apologies of the Chinese Ambassador. Now, Sherlock was standing here at the pool, hand clenched around the stupid missile plans, while his little shadow goons fought with Moriarty’s hired thugs. Moriarty hadn’t even shown up, just sent some note pinned to his last hostage, who was a weeping ball of emotions at Sherlock’s feet.

Sorry, sexy. Have to pause our game here. I’ll admit to being changeable, my only flaw really, but this once in a lifetime opportunity wiggled into my lap.

Kisses, M.

Being stood up was humiliating, but this wasn’t a date; it was The Game and a reason to kill. Sherlock had been playing before, but the fun was over.

Three continents. Three continents in four days, and most of the travel between had been on that rattling death-trap his cousin flew. Sherlock retained his sanity only because he’d found a bottle of Schnapps in the Belgravia flat of one of Moriarty’s men. The cheerful steward took to it like candy and Sherlock had enjoyed that portion of the flight. The rest of the crew had been terrified, but that had only entertained Sherlock more. He’d even slept after the attendant had passed out. Still, three continents, death-trap plane, flight attendant raving about King Author vrs Bilbo, sixteen goons left behind for Mycroft to disappear, and Sherlock was staring directly at Moriarty’s current lair.

It was the posh, upscale type of hotel reality telly stars went when they weren’t getting enough attention, so Sherlock could blend into the crowd of people waiting for the next celebrity nip-slip. It was all so banal, and completely at odds with Moriarty’s spidery ways. He liked dark holes to crawl into, slipping out only to latch onto his prey.

Sherlock only had to avoid the brightly lit front door and he was in. Security was tighter inside, as the celebrities wanted to be seen in the Dubai hotel, not to actually interact with their public, but MI6 credentials held weight even outside of England. Since they were Mycroft’s credentials, Sherlock smirked to himself, they carried a great deal of weight.

Some fast talk got him into the security room, where he searched through the views of hallways until he found the one he wanted. A tall, muscular, very alpha male paced the hallway before a door. He had blond hair in a military cut and the door held the symbol for an omega suite. Climate controlled, soundproofed, at a hotel like this one, the omega suite probably had a sitting area, kitchen, a bedroom for sex, a bedroom for resting after the sex ruined the first room, and an elaborate bathroom. The omega suite symbol looked like an outline of a head with shoulders, arguably the least useful parts of the omega, something that made most alphas smirk. Frowning, Sherlock sent a text.

Send your goons in to take down Moran, or should I do that for you as well? SH

They will join you shortly. MH

They couldn’t get into the building? How embarrassing for you. SH

They had to go in with permission, made more difficult by the MI6 agent who broke protocol and entered without that permission. You may be arrested before you can interrogate Moran. MH

That put a genuine smile on Sherlock’s face. Mycroft, and by extension his goons, thought Moran was here alone. Apparently they hadn’t figured out Moriarty and Moran were more than co-workers. Alpha/alpha couplings were usually short lived and extremely violent as each one fought for dominance, but Moran and Moriarty had a taste for that sort of thing. They probably tossed an omega in heat between them for the extra rush of alpha hormones. Though that didn’t explain why Moran was wearing out the carpet in the hallway.

The door to the video office opened, allowing one of Mycroft’s minions to pop in like he was sliding out of whatever mold Mycroft used to make them. A dramatic, heavy sigh that would be reported back to Mycroft, if it wasn’t being recorded on a button-camera, and Sherlock sent back a text.

Fine. You interrogate, I’ll investigate his room. SH

Sherlock pointed out the footage of the floor with Moran pacing the long hallway. The agent started speaking into his wrist, so Sherlock walked out. A quick search provided him with an open air balcony, and Sherlock chain-smoked two cigarettes. They burned down to the filters, and once they were cool to the touch, Sherlock inserted the filters into his nostrils. Not as good as the filters he could get from his brother’s supplies, but they should still work against a claimed, possibly dead, omega’s diminishing heat. When he made his way up to Moran’s floor it was all over but the bleeding, as Moran had been using real bullets to Mycroft’s tranquilizer darts. The lock was opened remotely, and Sherlock crept in, ready for anything.

Except that.

Sherlock didn’t believe in good and evil so much as smart and stupid, but Moriarty should not be a short, blond bloke in a fuzzy white robe, making a cup of tea in a hotel kitchenette. Sherlock was only getting a profile, so maybe there would be a leering scar down the left side of Moriarty’s face to enhance his evil. Otherwise, Moriarty would be, well, cute, and Sherlock hated even thinking the word.

Digging around inside the silverware drawer, the rolled up sleeves of the robe hid Moriarty’s hand as he found something to stir his tea with. Handle sticking out of the mug, he turned around to stare back at Sherlock.

There was a long moment when they sized each other up, but Moriarty broke the silence.

“Cuppa?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock responded automatically to the polite offer. He could go for some decent tea, but he wasn’t near stupid enough to accept anything Moriarty offered.

“How’d you get by Moran then?”

“You underestimate me.”

“Fair enough.” Moriarty shrugged. “Moran was well trained though.”

“Was being the operative word.”

“Sneaking up on him in this place would be hard.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t be subtle?” To Sherlock, subtle was like polite: generally a waste of time unless he was trying to get something. Still, the barb stung when coming from a man who blew up a building to deliver a pair of shoes.

“I didn’t mean to offend the Holmes’ Patented Method of Sneaking.” Moriarty rolled his eyes but grinned around the edges of his mug. His forefingers were steady as they held the spoon handle out of his face so he could sip at his tea.

“The Holmes’ genius covers many areas.” Sherlock snapped back. He couldn’t tell if he was being laughed at or not, which irritated him.

Moriarty grinned outright at that. “Sneaking, manipulation, and running the world from behind the curtain.”

“No, from the safety of his modest mansion.” It was only after his reply that Sherlock considered the curtain might have been a reference to something, probably something he’d deleted.

“Of course.” Moriarty agreed, a smile lighting up his face.

He looked years younger and far more attractive when he smiled. Surprised at his thoughts, Sherlock forced this conversation back to what it was supposed to be. “You weren’t supposed to be with Moran.”

“I’m not.” Moriarty shrugged. “He showed up unexpectedly, there was a fight and he was supposed to wait in his room for further instructions.”

“He didn’t. It was his pacing in your hallway which led me right to you.”

“I did wonder why you were here so early. You’ll have a while to wait, as this is going to take longer than normal. That Holmes genius really needs to learn the value of on the ground intel.”

“Intel? You were in the military?”

“I thought you knew that.” Moriarty’s eyes sharpened, focusing in on Sherlock better.

“Thought that might have been a cover.” Sherlock backtracked, trying to cover how much he didn’t know about Moriarty.

“What, exactly, do you know about me?” The question was too casual and Moriarty’s mobile face was hardening.

“Your hair has grown out, but the style still resembles something short and practical as preferred by active duty personnel. It’s hard to see your hands because of the robe sleeves but your fingers do seem to be darker than your face, which is darker than the parts of your chest showing over the robe. Prolonged exposure to the sun, but at different levels so not for tanning or vacation. Left shoulder is not parallel to right, suggesting damage to left side.”

Sherlock stopped, staring at Moriarty. His face was still a soldier’s mask, so Sherlock braced himself for the insults to come. Someone as clever as Moriarty would have to know that was instant deduction and not something read in a file. Sherlock chastised himself for explaining so much of his reasoning; it pissed most people off so he’d learned to just give them the results, but now it was proof of ignorance. Why had he felt compelled to explain?

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Moriarty asked.

“Sorry?”

“I was wondering if you could tell where I was stationed by the angle of my suntan or something.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock snapped.

Moriarty shrugged, and took another sip of his tea.

“That’s all you have to say?” Sherlock asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have a thousand insults to throw at me or problems with what I said?”

“Insults? No, I thought that was brilliant, and spot on. If you hadn’t read my file, I’d be amazed.”

Sherlock stared for a long moment, saving that in his mind palace. Somebody who appreciated what he did, even if it was a criminal. Finally he found a segue back onto the conversation they were supposed to be having. “The file on you is much thinner than you seem to think, or Mycroft’s version is anyway.”

“Mycroft?” Moriarty asked, face showing confusion, shifting to annoyance when a new voice called out from the dark bedroom of the suite. Moriarty rolled his eyes at the ‘yawn’ noise while Sherlock tried to figure out what language it was in. Nobody yelled out yawn in English, they just yawned.

“I’m coming dearest. You know I need more of you, and only you.” Moriarty called, voice so emotionless as to make the words completely unbelievable. Sherlock must have shown some reaction on his face as Moriarty shrugged and replied to the unasked question. “I can’t act, but even if I could, he’s so far gone into the heat that he just needs to know where I am.”

“He’s that way because of you. Don’t you feel anything about that?” Moriarty had to enjoy what he was doing, or else why would the criminal mastermind bother to do it?

“This guy gives me the creeps; probably deserves a slow, painful death.”

“You’ve killed too many for me to believe you mourned any of them.”

“Fuck you. Reading a file and figuring out my past doesn’t mean you know me.” Moriarty was genuinely angry and it showed in the way his whole body tensed. “We all have our roles in this little farce, and this is mine.”

“Masterful performance, but I don’t think anyone deserves to die while begging for your alpha cock.”

Moriarty’s face turned to stone, his back went straight and suddenly there was a soldier in the too large plush robe. Sherlock forced himself not to step back, even as he tried to figure out what made the self-confessed changeable man change. Moriarty placed the mug on the counter behind him and marched across the suite.

“Who do you work for?”

Sherlock refused to come to attention for a commanding voice, so he huffed and glance away. His eyes went back to Moriarty quickly, as the man was clearly dangerous, but not before Sherlock registered the handle was not sticking out of the mug anymore. So, not a spoon then.

“You don’t know?” Sherlock put as much derision into his voice as he was capable of, hoping to goad Moriarty into talking more.

A flash of white covered Sherlock’s vision, just before pain erupted from his nose. It overwhelmed the pain in his knees as his legs were kicked out from under him. Looking up from his new position on the floor, Sherlock saw Moriarty fighting with the robe sleeves, trying to bring the knife into play. Sherlock reached for the knife but his hand was blocked by Moriarty’s left hand. Blocked and held.

Fighting for his life, Sherlock bit into the wrist that held his hand. Moriarty should have responded with a wild knife swing that Sherlock was ready to counter. Instead, Moriarty yanked his wrist from Sherlock’s mouth and backed away. There was so much blood on his wrist that some of it had to have come from Sherlock’s nose, at least that’s what Sherlock saw before Moriarty used the robe sleeve to apply pressure.

“Well, I hope you deserve a long, painful death.” Moriarty said clearly, but continued to mumble as he turned away. “Must have been a sale on ‘em.”

Stunned, and more confused than he’d ever admit, Sherlock watch Moriarty walk into the bedroom while he ran the situation through his mind. Found missile plans, arraigned meeting at pool, hostage and goons only, track Moriarty. False trail to Hong Kong, Moriarty actually came to Dubai, Moran met him here but wasn’t supposed to, got sent to his room. Jealous, Moran had paced the hallway, though it wasn’t clear he if he wanted Moriarty or the omega. Got in room, Moriarty turned out to be a normal person, but somehow not.

Frowning, not able to see where the chain of event had led to this, Sherlock got to his feet and followed Moriarty once again. The bedroom was dark but the light from the walk-in closet was enough for Sherlock to see the omega on the bed. He was thrusting his cock into his fist, knees up and legs spread, four fingers from his other hand up his arse. His cock was a decent size for an alpha but ridiculous on an omega. The sheets looked soaked through with sweat and his natural lubricant. Sherlock was glad his broken nose prevented him from smelling the rut. As it was, he could almost taste it and his cigarettes filters wouldn’t have done much good at all.

“You’d think whoever hid this would know to put is somewhere I could reach it.” Moriarty complained as he emerged from the closet. He was holding a white plastic box with a red cross on it, and it didn’t take a master detective to recognize it as a first aid kit. “Leave him be. Another hour, I’ll come back in. I figure another round or two should be enough to finish him off.”

Moriarty walked by Sherlock, returning to the sitting area. His words and movement caught the attention of the omega, who turned his head to look around. He smiled at Sherlock and started pumping his hips. A sibilant hiss was drawn out of him, before ending in the click of ‘ck’ sound. Something clicked in Sherlock, suggesting the man on the bed was trying to his name.

“Moriarty?”

“Who were you expecting, Mr. Holmes?” The soldier asked, his mind on sorting through the first aid kit.

From the bed Moriarty started to laugh, as strange sound in counterpoint to the thrust of his hips.

Feeling an utter fool, Sherlock joined the omega, flopping down onto the couch perpendicular to him. A glance let him see the new flow of blood on the back of the omega’s neck, where their struggle had reopened the bond bite.

“Tarred and horsefeathered with ear wax for brains!” Sherlock muttered to the ceiling above him.

“Creative.” The omega’s voice was full of amusement, and a glance showed his eyes were crinkled as he tended to his wrist. “I would have just gone with what the buggery fuck is going on.”

“That,” Sherlock replied loftily, “was me figuring out what the buggery fuck was going on.”

“Do tell. We’ve got some time before your love bite kick starts my heat.”

With a token sigh of protest, Sherlock launched into his explanation. He was curious if the omega would be receptive to his deductions this time.

“You were a soldier, lied about your gender to join, injured at some point, left shoulder. While you were recovering, your secret was discovered and the punishment for any crime committed by an un-bonded omega is bonding. Becomes your alpha’s job to keep you out of trouble. Complications of your injury prevented the bond from taking and your alpha died trying to force it. Mycroft found out, because that’s what he does, and found a use for you. Probably appealed to your patriotic duty, even though you didn’t have much choice in the matter. Told you it was for the good of you country, no matter how many of your fellow British citizens you wound up sexing to death.”

The ceiling wasn’t impressed or annoyed, so Sherlock looked over. The omega had finished bandaging his wrist but was still holding it in the air. His soldier’s mask was in place, but his frozen hand suggested he had been so caught up in the story that he forgot to lower it.

“Moriarty was getting my attention, which meant Mycroft was noticing him as well. Mycroft decided to get rid of Moriarty without me knowing about it, using biology to make it a natural death. Drop an older, unbounded omega in front of most alpha’s and their basic natures dominate them. Not only is there a chance for reproduction, your age appeals to their masculinity, knowing only a real alpha could ‘tame’ you. Moran was supposed to stay behind and finish me off. In a fit of jealousy, he met up with Moriarty early, didn’t like sharing Moriarty even if they would get a kid out of it. There was a fight, as you said, and Moran was supposed to wait out your heat in his room, only he got worried and started pacing the hall. I walked into a trap set for Moriarty by Mycroft, and the game ends because everybody dies.”

“That,” the omega paused to find his words, “was brilliant.”

Sherlock’s brain, the part of him that never stopped, paused to take that in. “Really?”

“Even if you’d read my file, not all of that is in there, and I was the only witness to the love spat between Moran and Jim but you hit every point.” His soldier face was gone, and his open expression showed he meant every word he was saying. He was amazed.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, knowing he missed a few, minor details sometimes.

“Med school.”

“What?”

“You weren’t really wrong, you just missed that I joined the military to pay for lodging and books while I went to med school.”

“Nurse, field medic, or doctor?”

“Surgeon, mostly ambidextrous but left hand dominates.”

“So couldn’t operate after wounded.”

“Working for Holmes seemed to be the only chance I’d have to ever do anything useful again, though I can’t say I like it.”

“If he was half as smart as he thinks he is, Mycroft would have found a better use for you.”

The omega looked gratified and startled by Sherlock’s words, but only for a moment. A shadow of a thought crossed his faced, made him frown as he pulled his wrist to him. He thought the bite and hormones were influencing Sherlock’s opinions, and indirectly said so. “That’s not what most people say.”

“What do most people say?”

“The handlers he sends for me think I should be put down before I contaminate the gene pool.”

Sherlock crushed a strange impulse before he could identify it. There was no need for him to hunt down these handlers who said such things to this man. Omega. “What is your name, anyway?”

The omega giggled, leaving Sherlock to contemplate a soldier and doctor who was wounded in war and still giggled.

“You must think me so rude! My name is John and I’ll be killing you tonight.”

Sherlock laughed, appreciating John’s ability to laugh at death. Unfortunately, the movement started his nose bleeding again.

“Let me look at that.” John knelt beside Sherlock’s head before he could reply, snapping gloves on his hands as he did so.

Sherlock wanted to comment about that being a waste of gloves, considering they’d already swapped blood, but a gentle touch on his nose distracted him. “Owe!”

“Sorry.” There was a crinkly noise and a chemical cold pack was lowered onto Sherlock’s face. “I know it’s cold, but the nose is broken and you’ll want it as numb as possible before I touch it anymore.

“Why?” Sherlock started, but since he couldn’t understand the noise that came out of his mouth he was sure John wouldn’t either.

“Why didn’t I apply the ice pack before touching it? Needed to make sure it was broken and not just swelling with indignation.” John’s voice was calm, soothing and professional. “You should be glad of these extra-long sleeves; they kept me from shoving your nose into your brain.

To distract himself from a bedside manner that made ‘I almost killed you’ part of the diagnosis, Sherlock focused on the other part of that sentence. “Extra-long?” It might have come out ‘esra og’ but John got the drift.

“Only one robe in the suite, since the omega is supposed to be naked the whole time. Poor alpha has to fit into the stereotypical perfect physical specimen role to even wear the robe.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then shut them. It seemed to reduce the pain a bit, plus he could picture John glaring at the robe before putting it on. John’s fingers had started to probe the area around the cold pack, and Sherlock realized he couldn’t feel the robe brushing against his skin. Wondering if it was important enough to ask about was put aside when John spoke.

“I need to remove your nose filters, which are useless since the bite.”

Sherlock waved a hand in agreement; sure his words would be more garbled syllables. Breathing around the blood dripping down the back of his throat was bad enough that he didn’t want to make it worse by talking. John hadn’t really waited for a reply, tweezers on the move while his other hand held a pen light. Sherlock felt the filter slide out, but only because his nose was no longer in the shape it had been when he put the filters in. John had very steady hands for a person who couldn’t operate because of a tremor. There was a moment of stillness and silence, once the filter was out, before the giggle returned.

“Are these cigarette filters?” Giggling more, John pulled the other one out and Sherlock didn’t feel it at all. “They are! Only the two fags up there, right?”

Sherlock felt he was supposed to reply to that, so he opened his eyes to glare at John, who only giggled more. Sherlock glared harder, knowing that simple look had quelled more than an attack of the giggles.

Shaking his giggling head, John put two fingers on either side of Sherlock’s nose, under the cold pack. “You can’t get away with that glare while wearing this.”

The giggling did stop, just as John’s fingers started to move. Numb skin or not, he was rearranging the cartilage underneath the skin, and Sherlock stopped breathing at the pain.

“Sorry about that, but surprise is easier than anticipation. If you hadn’t bitten me, those fag filters of yours would have been the first recorded case, as far as I know, of cigarettes saving a life. Just enough of a filter to keep you from going into a heat frenzy, though it probably made it harder to breathe than a proper filter would have. I wish you hadn’t bitten me, you seem like an interesting fellow, and I hate to kill you. Holmes doesn’t allow me much in the way of medication, afraid I’ll kill myself with access to a dose of antihistamines, I suppose. Like an army doctor couldn’t kill somebody a hundred ways with items in the hotel room. Could kill my handler when he comes, a bonus for doing this work, then kill myself. I don’t know, I probably will someday, when my fertility declines, as I don’t know what fresh hell Holmes has in store for me then.”

Sherlock moved, forcing breath into his lungs and reaching for the man speaking so softly of his own death.

“I see you’re back with me.” John’s bedside manner was back, putting a cheerful note into his voice. “I was just saying that the only painkiller in the first aid kit is aspirin, but I can’t give you that. It’s a blood thinner, which is why heart doctors recommend a small daily dose for heart health, but when you’re bleeding it might make you bleed longer. So the only other pain reliever I have is a natural one, but once I give it to you, you have to leave. Put some distance between us if you can, and see if that prevents my heat from affecting you.”

Sherlock was working on a good way to explain that, as a former drug user, it would take more than herbs and leaves to calm the pain in his nose, in as few words as possible to keep himself from throwing up the blood he was swallowing. John circumvented all that by placing something to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock licked at it, realized it was John’s fingers, still gloved but now coated in something fantastic.

It hinted at honey and tea, but quickly made Sherlock forget about the pain in his nose. The nose still hurt, but all that mattered was the substance on John’s fingers. Guessing his addictive personality was controlling him again, Sherlock realized he was raising his head to better lick and suck all the substance off. When all he tasted was glove, he opened his eyes to glare for more.

John wasn’t even looking at him, staring into the bedroom. Sherlock knew whatever John was looking at was important, but he was distracted by the view presented to him. John had dropped the robe off his shoulders so he could work on Sherlock’s nose, so the white cloth flowed down from his waist. Kneeling this way, he looked like a virgin sacrifice of old, but there were a few things that showed that image false. Most virgin sacrifices wouldn’t be covered with love bites, scratches and knife wounds, all topped off by a bullet wound scar. The glare of hatred in his blue eyes might have graced a few unwilling sacrifices, but the steak knife in his right hand was a pretty special.

It was a growl that finally got Sherlock tilting his head to look at what the problem was. Moriarty had found the wherewithal to get to his feet and was shuffling into the room, swollen and abused looking cock leading the way. Moriarty had been a mad genius, but now he was just another alpha being controlled by his biological imperative. Sherlock rolling to his feet seemed to be the break in the scene that John needed. Sherlock had expected John to join him in this fight against Moriarty, but instead John dropped the knife.

“Leave now, and your biology will think you lost out on the bond because another alpha claimed.” John was very reasonable, even as he worked to struggle out of the robe.

He was right too, Sherlock knew that. Leaving now or after a token fight with Moriarty would allow adrenaline and other hormones to flush the bond out of his system. John did this for a living and could handle the zombie of Moriarty; he probably didn’t use the knife because Moriarty was supposed to have a ‘natural’ death on record. Leaving now was very logical and Sherlock allowed himself a moment to wonder why he was still standing there.

“Fuck it man!” John snarled, even as he slowly turned on his knees to present his arse to Moriarty. “Leave now or you will turn into that!”

“I don’t want to be a slave to biology.”

“Door. Behind you. Now!” John leaned onto his hands and dropped his head; the quintessential presenting pose.

The blood began to leak from where the multiple bonding bites had been, and Sherlock remembered how many stories blood could tell him. “John, don’t be an idiot. If I leave now, that will be allowing the transport, my biology, to win.”

“You’ll live.”

“Exactly. My transport needs to learn that there are more important things than living.” Sherlock wished he had his greatcoat on so he could toss it down in a dramatic flourish, but it wasn’t really made for blending in and was safely in London. Instead, he stepped over John, coming between him and the shuffling zombie.

Moriarty stopped while his animal brain processed the alpha between him and his mate. He snarled and launched himself at Sherlock with surprising speed, causing Sherlock to stumble over John and land directly on him. In the middle of the heap, Sherlock tried to find purchase to throw Moriarty off, without hurting John or cutting off his breathing any more than it was. He did feel the cartilage in Moriarty’s nose give way, which was surprisingly satisfying, but not as satisfying as the sight of the knife handle sticking out of Moriarty’s left eye. Sherlock was able to push him off to the side as Moriarty’s body realized he was dead; it was fascinating to watch and he didn’t want to take his eyes off of it.

A hit to his right shoulder reminded Sherlock that John was under him, and he rolled between Moriarty’s body and John. Confused as to why he was trying to protect a war veteran and doctor from the sight of a dead body, Sherlock pushed himself upright. John was lying on his back, staring up at Sherlock with a sad expression. He must have turned himself around when Sherlock stepped over him, but not had time to get up before Moriarty attacked. Though jabbing behind him and still getting Moriarty in the eye would have been a really impressive move, Sherlock was more impressed John had figured out what was going on so quickly. Kneeling on one knee, Sherlock held out a hand to this fascinating omega.

John took it and let Sherlock help him to his feet. "I'd tell you to leave, but I see the look in your eye."

John spoke, but Sherlock didn't care about the words. John was injured and covered in signs of Moriarty’s abuse. Picking John up seemed to be the most natural thing in the world, and Sherlock could easily ignore the mutters from the man.

"God, why do they all think I'm portable?"

The bathroom connected to both bedrooms, so it was easy to find, but Sherlock put John down on his feet beside, instead of in, the fancy tub. Wetting a flannel, Sherlock began to wipe down John. Sherlock couldn't smell Moriarty on John because of his nose but he still cleaned him methodically, tracking the injuries he wanted to do to the dead body by the couches. Even in this state, he could still recognize the injuries he was cleaning.

The bites not around the neck were deep and meant to cause pain. The shallow knife cuts served no purpose except to excite Moriarty and the bruises were from frustrated fists. When he got to the knife wound on John's left thigh, the one that came so close to the femoral artery, Sherlock leaned forward and licked it. John whimpered at the touch and Sherlock stopped caring about eradicating signs of Moriarty.

Sherlock knelt fully and began licking every injury he could reach, one hand on John's right hip. Sherlock's right arm slid around, feeling for what waited between John's muscular arse cheeks. John spread his legs further apart and Sherlock was pleased to see that John's cock was taking an interest, as it hadn't in Moriarty. In gratitude, Sherlock licked it as well. This produced such a deep moan from John that Sherlock diverted all of his attention to John's cock.

"Keep doing that, and you can carry me anywhere."

John was muttering, but Sherlock wasn't taking in the words. Instead, he was kind of irritated that John could still speak, so he wrapped his mouth around as much of John's cock as he could reach. John's noises and his skin were delicious, but Sherlock couldn't breathe and had to let go. John made a disappointed noise and turned around. Dropping to his knees, John was in the presenting position again, but this time for Sherlock. Pleased, Sherlock arranged himself so he could lick at the hole and return his two fingers to it.

"Fuck, but you'll spoil me for anyone else, you beautiful stranger."

Those words got through to Sherlock and he twisted his fingers inside John as he pulled his tongue back to speak. "Mine, no one touches."

John sighed, deflating a little at the words. "Then let this be the best heat of your life, my alpha."

Sherlock liked that, humming his approval as the omega squirmed on the tile floor. He was trying to shove back into his alpha's tongue but shifting from one knee to the other as if uncomfortable. Sherlock hauled the omega to his feet and carried him into the bedroom that didn't smell of another alpha. The omega tried to present again, but Sherlock lay down beside him before he could. With the omega's back to his front, Sherlock eased his cock into the waiting hole. Loving this position, Sherlock rocked his hips and licked and kissed at his John until his knot tied them together.

“Well, isn't this interesting.”

Mycroft's clipped voice woke them both. John was out of the little spoon position and on his feet while Sherlock was still adjusting to the pain in his head. His whole body hurt, but it was overshadowed by the pain radiating out from his nose. Deciding it best to stay still, Sherlock took shallow breaths through his mouth. John had flipped the duvet back when he got up, covering Sherlock’s head and thankfully blocking out the light. John was probably using the pillow to cover himself, though Sherlock knew the man had nothing to be ashamed of.

"Mr. Holmes, he walked in while Jim was still alive. There was a fight, and he won."

Never had the victor of a contest been announced with such sadness, and Sherlock wondered if rolling his eyes would make the pain worse. He concluded it would, so he didn't.

"Just like that, Mr. Watson? He simply walked in and fought for you?"

"Jim was still alive, the heat was affecting everybody. My mind was fuzzed out, so you can't expect exact recall."

"I have reason to expect that your awareness of events is greater than you let on, Mr. Watson. Perhaps you thought this would count toward some quota I set for you. I sent you to kill one genius and you took out two, with one heat."

Right, Sherlock remembered, they thought he was dead from trying to force the bond with John. He wasn't, though this headache might make him wish he was. In pain like this, he could only think of eight excellent reasons why it would be a good idea to let Mycroft and the world think he was dead.

"What reward did you expect, Mr. Watson, or will a simple congratulations be sufficient?"

"It's doctor or captain, and you know it." John snapped back at Mycroft, and a very good reason for not being dead occurred to Sherlock.

Even after the heat, John was still interesting.

"As you lied to get those titles, I will not be calling you by them."

"Right, because what you call me is something else you can control.” John’s voice was a controlled anger, but he had clearly had enough of Mycroft. “You send me into these situations with no backup, no permission to protect myself and all I have to go on is your assurances that it’s for the good of England. If you don't want me killing random alphas then you better start keeping them away from the bedroom."

Sherlock was smiling under the duvet, impressed by John's attitude. The grin faded as Sherlock remembered the words from last night, about John planning his own death already.

"It might be the wrong time to take such an attitude with me, John, considering who you killed here."

“I don't know who he is, so you can't blame me that he couldn't keep it in his pants!"

"Enough!" Sherlock was yelling, sitting up, and flipping off the duvet all at once. This turned out to be a bad idea, as the combination of the sound, movement, and light kicked the pain up. Moaning, Sherlock made it to a sitting up position only to put his head in his hands. "I'm not dead, I'm trying to get over this massive headache and painful broken nose. Thanks for that, John."

"Look at me, please." John was asking quietly, and very close to Sherlock.

Slowly opening his eyes and peering through his fingers let Sherlock see something that made him smile behind his palms. John was smiling too, surprise and happiness reaching into his eyes and lighting up his whole face. He was happy to see Sherlock was alive and it poured out of him as real as any fact Sherlock had ever seen.

"Here, follow my finger." John held up his left index finger and moved it slowly from side to side. When Sherlock had followed it with his eyes enough, John moved on. "Move your hands, so I can see your nose."

"Sherlock, since you have managed to survive this little encounter, perhaps you could explain a few things?" Mycroft's question wasn't really a question; he was just looking for confirmation of the things he had deduced.

"It's quite obvious; even you should have worked it out." A dismissive glance at Mycroft and Sherlock went back to staring at John. "How's the nose, Doctor?"

"Our little roll in the hay didn't do it much good, I'm afraid. You'll have to have it x-rayed and set, and wear a little nose cast. But how are you still alive?"

Sherlock reached for John's bandaged wrist and his fingers touched John's skin beside the bandage. The pain in his head dropped considerably, almost to bearable levels, but John’s smile was gone.

"Did your headache just improve?"

"Significantly." Sherlock said.

John reached out and laid his right hand on Sherlock's thigh, and the pain went down a little more. John giggled. "You bit the wrist and bypassed the parts of me that don't work."

“That giggle is ridiculously adorable.”

“I don’t giggle.”

“Trust me on this, John.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted, “I need an explanation.”

Reluctantly, John straightened, moving out of the line of site between Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t like that idea, even before John pulled his hand off of Sherlock’s thigh, causing the pain to return.

“Don’t present to him.” Sherlock growled in his best alpha voice.

John jerked around, pulling his pillow in front of him as he turned to face Mycroft. This flared the pain back into Sherlock’s head, but allowed him to snag an off-balance John and pull him into his lap. There was a bit of adjusting, and Sherlock tried to keep his anatomy from reaching back into John’s anatomy where it had been for the last few days. John was deliciously wriggly. With his back to Sherlock’s chest, John fit neatly in between Sherlock’s longer legs, and Sherlock covered them both with the duvet. Omega secured, John in his arms, and pain reduced, Sherlock could now deal with Mycroft.

“It’s rather simple. John said ‘who were you expecting, Mr. Holmes’ and I heard who were you expecting, Sherlock? When in fact, he was saying,” and here Sherlock dipped into his very deep reserve of sarcasm, “who were you expecting, Mycroft?”

Mycroft got a pained expression and sighed. “John was expecting a handler provided by Mr. Holmes, and you were expecting Moriarty, who knew you. Well, congratulations. Neither of you got what you expected, but it seems you received exactly what you needed.”

With John in his arms and reducing his pain, Sherlock finally understood. He had bonded, something his family was always after him about. He’d accidentally complied with their wishes, though the fact that it had ruined Mycroft’s plans was consoling. He could only hope John stayed slightly interesting once the hormones wore off. Hadn’t he found John interesting before the hormones though, when he’d had the filters in? Or had that simply been because he thought he was Moriarty?

“I will arrange a new room for you two to get to know each other. The traumatic conditions of your bonding have caused the headaches, so you will have to spend as much time touching as possible until the bond is complete. After that I shall have to debrief,” Mycroft actually paused in his sentence to determine what to call his omega resource. It was short but there, and Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit in surprise. “John, as he was around some privileged information.”

“Such as birth control that doesn’t stop an omega’s heats.” John shot back.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, from his not nearly as deep reserve of innocence. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the research you took from me in secondary school, would it? The research you said was a complete waste of time that nobody would be interested in?”

“As I said, you will be moved to a new suite so that my team can clean up the mess you have made of this one. Take all the time you need to establish you bond, gentlemen, and we will talk later.”

Mycroft was annoyed and pleased at the same time, though Sherlock was probably the only one who could see through his icy expression. As Mycroft strolled out the door, speaking for his assistant’s ears only, Sherlock marveled that Mycroft could feel two emotions at once. Though, to be fair, Sherlock couldn’t name all the things he was feeling. Bonded, but to someone that seemed interesting, even though it was unlikely John would stay interesting, and what if John didn’t like Sherlock or what if the birth control didn’t work, since Mycroft had taken that project away from him, knowing he’d done it so if he wound up bonded he could keep the kids to a minimum while he solved puzzles, and would John want him to do that or would he try to stop Sherlock from doing The Work?

“Stop.”

Surprised, Sherlock did stop his relentless chain of thoughts, if only so he could ask. “Stop what?”

“Thinking, worrying.” John said. “I can feel your brain buzzing around the back of my skull, though I can’t make sense of it.”

“I can’t feel you thinking. Are you…”

“Don’t be about to ask if I’m thinking.” John snapped back, body still pressed against Sherlock’s. A sigh and he continued in a calmer voice. “Yes, I think and I’m worried, but we need to talk to each other in order to find answers.”

“Right.” Sherlock said, then stopped, not sure where to start.

“So, unusual first names, answering to the same last name, brothers then?”

“Don’t remind me. He’s the arrogant one who runs things from, what did you say, behind his curtains.”

John giggled. “Close enough. So you don’t share in that ambition?”

“I’m the world’s only Consulting Detective, I invented the job.”

“Well, I’m a former assassin, doctor, and soldier. Any room in your life for someone who can’t hold down a job?”

“I play the violin at all hours and sometimes go days without speaking. I don’t want kids and I’m married to my work.” Sherlock blurted out, not sure how to else to say that he was a terrible person according to most people.

“So in order to fit into your life, I’d basically have to stay out of your way?”

“Probably. I only take interesting cases, which often involve violent deaths in traumatizing circumstances, similar to what you’ve seen in the battlefield.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that. Too much, enough for several lifetimes.”

The words were exactly what a person should say to such tragic and ugly circumstances as war. John’s voice wasn’t as detached as it had been when he’d told Moriarty he wanted him, but it was still flat, perfunctory. Interesting.

“Want to see some more?”

“God, yes.”

That was spontaneous and true, and Sherlock started to laugh. John waited, stiff and nervous to find out the cause of the laughter. Smiling, when he was no longer laughing, Sherlock managed to deduce. “You have questions.”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause, until Sherlock realized John wasn’t going to ask. “I’m not a traditional alpha and I’m not going to make you submit to me. Ask your questions, speak your mind and know that if I don’t answer or ignore you, it’s because I’ve more important things on my mind and not because of your gender.”

Slowly, John relaxed into his arms, resting his back to Sherlock’s chest as he allowed himself to believe in his words. “I already knew you were different than the others, just in the way you touched me.”

“Different good?” Embarrassed by how insecure he sounded, Sherlock lay back, pulling John down on top of him as a distraction.

“Very good different, excellent even. You actually seemed to care about my pleasure, in the heat frenzy.”

Sherlock’s stomach lurched as he thought of all those other alphas taking their pleasure from his John, uncaring of the special man they held. He could kill them all for that, except John had already accomplished that, bruising Sherlock’s alpha ego in the process, which was stupid as Sherlock hadn’t know him then … Sherlock forced his thoughts to stop, running a quick scan of recent events for a distraction.

“What did Mycroft mean, about him thinking you were more aware during heats than you let on?”

“Since my injury, I’ve been able to, kind of, separate from my body during the heats. I get to watch, even while my body is engaged with the alpha. It allows me to ask questions or hear the secrets they might spill.”

“I felt like you were in it with me.” Sherlock was frowning now; he’d had no personal experience to compare it with but John had seemed very active in what they were doing.

“I was.” A small shrug. “You were different, kind, and interesting, and I didn’t want to kill you.”

“So you let yourself enjoy it? You can control it that much?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t shared that with Mycroft?”

“Can you imagine what kind of Mata Hari spy crap he’d have me doing then?”

Thinking about it, Sherlock nodded, rubbing against John’s head as he did so.

“Then you’re much braver than I, since I refused to let myself think about it.”

“Didn’t you lie about your gender to get a good education and then invade a foreign country?”

“Well, it wasn’t just me in Afghanistan, but yeah.”

“And at the start of this, you dropped the knife and presented for a man you’d rather have killed, giving me a chance to flee before I killed myself trying to bond to you.”

“Common courtesy, I’d think.”

“I think all that proves you to be far braver than I. Or as Mycroft calls it, stupid.”

“Remind me to never save his life.”

“Will do.”

“And do something unsavory with the compensatory umbrella.”

“John, I think you are interesting too, and I’d like to keep the possibility of sex outside of your heats open. As such, please refrain from reminding me that my brother has a cock, even if he is compensating for the size of it with an umbrella.”

The door opened, drawing their attention. Mycroft was standing there, smugly smoothing down the creases of his unused umbrella.

Sherlock started to laugh and it turned into a full belly laugh when he realized John was joining in.

Pursing his lips, Mycroft pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. “At least you will look happy in this photograph for Mummy.”

Look happy? Sherlock frowned a little as he thought about that. With Mycroft swanning about and John giggling in his arms, this morning has already been very interesting. Sherlock was looking forward to finding out just how interesting John was, who he was away from Mycroft, and a new, tiny emotion is growing as he realizes this. Sherlock allowed himself to consider he might actually be happy with John around, and that seed of hope grew three sizes.