
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3422651.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_(Downey_films)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Mary_Morstan_&_John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mary_Morstan, Irene_Adler
  Additional Tags:
      Teen!Sherlock, Twink!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha_Watson,
      Omega_Sherlock, Omega_Verse, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Bonding, Underage
      though_not_really, RDJ!_Verse, Ritchie_Verse, Eventual_Smut, Older
      Watson, victorian_era_london, Plot_With_Porn, Rimming, Barebacking, More
      Plot_than_I_realized, FaceFucking, Blowjobs, Kinks, Age_dynamic, Slight
      Dom/Sub, sub!Sherlock, SlightDom!Watson, Minor_Character_Death, Sherlock
      breaks_down, Mpreg, Pregnant_Sex, Praise_Kink, Humiliation_kink,
      Lactation_Kink, Fluff_and_Smut, Technically_Religion_Kink_As_Well, so
      many_kinks, My_Parents_Are_So_Proud, Mary_Makes_Herself_a_Nuisance, but
      we_still_love_her, BAMF!_Irene
  Series:
      Part 1 of Omegaverse_Holmes
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-23 Completed: 2017-04-14 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 28949
****** Heaven Sent and Hell Bent (Burn, Baby, Burn) ******
by ViolentAddict
Summary
     Teen! Omega! Sherlock sneaks out of his home while he's in heat to an
     Alpha pub where unsuspecting older! Alpha! Watson is having a drink.
     Watson's sexually frustrated, Sherlock's a walking fantasy and it is
     too bloody cold in London for this.
     Or
     When Sherlock gets what he wants, the world is a better place.
Notes
     Sherlock is 17, far past the age of consent in Victorian England but
     still young in our world.
     Hi guys! I missed you all so much. I want to thank everyone again for
     the support and love 'Holmes in Heat' received. It's amazing.
     Anywho, I'm going by that mantra of writing the story you want to
     read, plus I was on SH kink meme and I love the younger Sherlock
     stories. What can I say? I have strange tastes. (^_^)
     You are all warned, if this isn't your cup of tea, then please don't
     read any further.
     Special thanks to my betas Secret, 95Echelon and Abel for the edits
     and the much needed help on this chapter. You guys are awesome.
     There will be more plot as the chapters progress, but not to fear,
     there will be smut. :)
     Please enjoy.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Sin With A Smile *****
                           Heaven Sent and Hell Bent
                                        
                         Some of them want to use you
                     Some of them want to get used by you
                        Some of them want to abuse you
                        Some of them want to be abused

                        I wanna use you and abuse you
                        I wanna know what's inside you
                                        
                        —Marilyn Manson’s Sweet Dreams

Devil's Acre, 19th century London, near Westminster Abbey
 
      He doesn’t know what propels him to this area of town or more
specifically, this pub with its gaudy interior, raucous people and its
reputation for being rather low-brow.
       He doesn’t really have a good excuse, except that it’s a few weeks
before his wedding to his fiancée Mary and he already has cold feet. And what
better way is there to warm them than by engaging in a night of spirits and
solace? At least that would be his response if anyone were to interrogate him.
       As soon as he steps through the door, his skin prickles and his spine
stiffens—Alphas. The whole bar’s full of them, but of course it is. What else
could he expect from a town just a few miles from Devil’s Acre, one of the most
overpopulated Alpha slums in London?
       It’s the first time he’s been in a solely Alpha pub since getting
engaged to Mary and he has to admit, it feels strangely… welcoming. It’s
definitely been too long.
      The other bar patrons look up from their glasses but after realizing that
Watson is just another one of them, they continue their activities without
sparing him so much as a second glance.
     And John relaxes, because this is what he’s wanted for a long time; a
place where he can simply be himself, without having to worry about his
behavior or how others perceive him. Mary was a terrific woman, but sometimes
it felt as if he were out of place with her friends and in the prim and proper
life she was trying to build around him. He loves her, he truly does, but
sometimes a man needs to get away from it all.  Tonight he was going to get
absolutely smashed before he returned to the lodging, sleep it off and then
resume being the picture of sophistication Mary wanted him to be.
      Taking a seat at an empty table, he signals for the barkeeper and orders
a simple lager, just to lighten his head a little, get him in the mood.  
      He’s downing his second, watching a rowdy group of men throw darts,
thinking of joining them, when he smells it—the pastry-sweet scent of an Omega
in heat.
      The game of darts is forgotten and the whole pub falls silent, all
attention turning to the entrance where a young boy, probably no older than
fifteen, ambles in.
      Watson’s mouth drops open, because the very possibility of someone
looking and smelling like that can’t be feasible, not in this life or any
other. The boy—child, Watson quickly reminds himself—is walking temptation;
from his come hither lips that are currently pursed to his huge, dark eyes
searching the room for someone and his messy hair, that is in desperate need of
a trim, ruffling when the boy turns his head.  And then that smell hits him,
that warm, butterscotch scent that makes his mouth water and his hindbrain
practically explode from the need to do something about this torture.
      Calm yourself dammit, he mentally rebukes himself. He may be an Alpha at
a bar in a dodgy part of town but it doesn’t mean he should act no better than
the dogs on the street. He is still a gentleman and one of high caliber at
that. So he takes a few deep breaths hoping to quell the burning need to claim
that borders on painful, when he realizes that his efforts are only serving to
get more of that scent into his system.
      He wonders if the whole of London can smell the boy, if Alphas everywhere
are gathering around, following the smell and waiting to lure him to some
secluded, abandoned place to just take him.
       Watson wonders how the boy even managed to get this far without being
accosted.
      Before he can ponder any further, an Alpha, a rather large man with a
beard, approaches the boy. Watson waits, wondering if he ought to intervene,
when he sees the lad nod his head and the man, giving him a lecherous smile,
leans in closer before placing a hand on his shoulder.
      He can’t see the boy’s face anymore but the bar’s gone quiet. It doesn’t
take much for him to hear the exchange.
       “What’s a pretty little Omega like you doing out here at this time of
night? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?” The bearded man questions, stroking the
boy’s arm sensually.
     “I—It appears I’m in h-heat. I didn’t know where else to turn.” The
teenager stammers nervously.
     The Alpha tuts. “Now, now, this isn’t the place for young lads such as
yourself to dally. Do your Mum and Dad know you’re here?”
      The boy says nothing, but Watson imagines he’s nodding his head again.
     “Well, if you sit with me and my mates, I guarantee you not a soul will
touch a hair on that head of yours.”
        But Watson is up from his seat in seconds. As a doctor, he treated
Omegas and he knew how scared they could be and how intense heats were. A burly
Alpha making untoward advances at an Omega in such a state doesn’t sit well
with him, especially since the Omega is so young.
        So Watson marches up to the pair, noting the grateful expression on the
lad’s face as he interrupts their conversation.
        “Whatever may I ask is the problem here?” He inquires, rather bravely,
seeing how the other Alpha is considerably larger than him.
       The bearded man narrows his eyes and gives Watson an annoyed glare.
“There’s no problem, I was just seeing this lad to my seat. Lots of bad people
out there, wanted him to be safe.”
        Watson turns to the boy and as the scent assaults him again, he
helplessly watches the lad’s fever flushed skin brighten to an even darker
scarlet and tries to tame the Alpha instincts flaring up within him.
        “What’s your name?” He asks, his tongue feeling heavy with the need to
sink his teeth into that soft, unblemished neck.
        The boy looks up, giving Watson a better view of his eyes, darker than
ebony they focus on him, like a night with no stars, like a sky without sun,
they pin him, calculating. Watson has to catch his breath when he sees the
lad’s nostrils flare as he scents him. It’s almost too much and Watson almost
loses it once the boy pulls his plush bottom lip between his teeth and bites.
       “My name’s Sherlock.” He smiles, and those eyes that are all pupil,
flash at him wickedly.  There’s a layer of confidence that certainly wasn’t
there before, dripping from every word.
       “Well Sherlock, you’re in heat and I’m afraid this chap is correct, you
shouldn’t be at an Alpha pub in God knows where. Your parents wouldn’t like—”
       The boy—Sherlock, levels his gaze with him and in those eyes there is
desperation and innocence as well as the same sort of self-assurance that can
only be seen in lads his age, yet Watson’s never seen it on Omegas in heat.
      “Buy me a lager first and we’ll discuss my parents later, sir.” The young
lad replies and it goes straight to Watson’s groin.
      That’s when the bearded Alpha decides to interject, “Do you know this
man?” He asks Sherlock.
      The lad shrugs, “He’s my doctor.”
       Watson’s jaw practically hits the floor. He hadn’t done anything to give
away his professional status. Perhaps it’s merely a fortunate conjecture… he
thinks.
       The other Alpha narrows his eyes at the two of them. Watson braces
himself for a confrontation because he, being one himself, knows that Alphas
can get pretty aggressive when an obstacle stands in their way of getting a
mate.
      Taking a look around the room, he sees that the others have completely
halted their activity to stare at the three of them. Perhaps expecting an
altercation as well or perhaps waiting for the other Alpha to back down so they
can swarm in. It’s hard to tell at this point, but Watson braces himself all
the same, instinctively taking a step closer to Sherlock as well, in the case,
that if things get ugly the Omega will have a chance to be safe.  
      The bearded Alpha points a grimy finger at the two of them. “You can’t be
much of a doctor if you advised the boy to go out in such a state.”
      Watson is about to give him a cutting retort when Sherlock pipes up, “He
didn’t advise me, I came here looking for him. I’m not in the state to go home
by myself and so after I get my drink, he’ll check me over and he’ll take me
back home. Isn’t that right, sir?” Huge, dark chocolate eyes plead with him to
go along with it and stupidly, Watson does.
      “Y-yes,” he says, “this lad’s my patient and it is my responsibility to
see that he gets home safely. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
       He takes the boy’s hand and leads him past the sneering Alpha, to a
table at the back of the pub. Once they are sitting down, Watson signals for
the barkeep to get Sherlock a beer, (he wouldn’t normally give a child alcohol
but seeing that they have to keep up with pretenses, he allows it), while
glaring at any other Alphas that decide to scrutinize them until they lose
their nerve and look away.
     The Alpha in Watson thrills at the fact that the Omega has taken an
interest in him, but Watson tamps it down, because this isn’t about him, it’s
about the interesting Omega who’s currently fidgeting in his seat. The look
he’s giving John is doing nothing to mask his arousal and the scent and heat
emitting off him in waves isn’t doing either of them any favors.
     “How did you know that I was a physician?” Watson asks after the barkeep
brings the lad his beer.
      Sherlock shrugs, fidgeting again and Watson supposes that he’s wet and
the thought alone does unhealthy things to his sanity. He wants to test his
theory, it would be so easy to just lean up, reach around and rub his hand
across the soft swell of that arse—
     “Your eyes, their focus is unshakable, almost like a detective’s. You are
the only man in here with incredible concentration despite being surrounded by
copious amounts of alcohol and drunkards, and I linked that with your
profession. After all, a doctor can’t help being cautious and alert, especially
one that’s served in the military.” Watson gawps at that and Sherlock
continues, “I haven’t failed to notice the ring on your finger either. You ask
me about my parents, what of your fiancée? She must be terribly indulgent to
allow you here of all places to drink, or does she not know? I’m assuming
you’re here because you’re having cold feet. Marriage they say is not for the
faint of heart.”
       Watson struggles to regain his composure before he narrows his eyes at
Sherlock, impressed by the boy’s perspicacity.
      “I know what you’re thinking,” the lad says in that surprisingly deep
voice of his that’s got Watson pitching a bloody tent, “that for a child, I’m
not average. Funny thing about you lot, always foolishly underestimating the
knowledge of the younger generation. We notice things.” He points out, tapping
a finger to his temple.
        Watson smirks, “You’re remarkably astute for a lad your age. You can’t
be any older than fifteen, and I’m assuming you snuck out from your safe, warm
house to get away from your stern parents. What’s the matter? Have they no
respect for the fact that you’re in heat?”
        Sherlock glares at him, “You’re wrong, I’m seventeen. Mother says I’m a
late bloomer.” He looks away then, and whispers as if he’s scared if he speaks
too loud his parents will materialize from thin air, “And no, they don’t
understand. Whenever I’m in heat, they lock me in my room for the five days and
hope for me to wait it out. It’s torture, it’s extremely uncomfortable.”
       Watson feels a pang of sympathy for him, because he knows all too well
the ignorance of the parents of Omegas. Some despise their children and send
them off once they’re of age or arrange a marriage for them so they won’t be a
burden to them anymore, while some love their children too much that they
become overprotective and some after learning of the Omega status of a child,
will simply ignore the child and force the child to fend for themselves. Of
course, heats are a terrible time for all, as the uneducated parents, who are
most likely not Omegas themselves, never have even the slightest clue of what
to do and often the most chosen option is to lock their child away.
       It’s an inhumane practice that shouldn’t be executed as it does more
harm than good.
       “I understand your frustration and your probable fear, but what exactly
did you come here in search of? Surely you’ve heard of getting mated or worse,
raped, in your situation?” Watson questions, feeling that maybe the boy’s more
naïve than he thinks.
       And Sherlock finally takes a sip of his lager, grimacing at the taste,
“I’m not sure. I was hoping to soothe the itch--the burn, really. And then
maybe return home.”
       Watson blinks at him, “It’s not that simple. Once you’re mated, it lasts
for life.”
       Those piercing deep eyes narrow at him, “Spare me the spiel doctor. Do
you really think I’d come all this way to the sleaziest bar in all of London,
for an Alpha that desires commitment? All I seek is a one time thing, just so
these infernal heats lessen.”
        Watson chokes on perfectly good air, “That’s not how this works. It’s
not just your body; your soul will bond with this person as well. Alphas can
break a bond at anytime, but it’s not an easy process, and it usually isn’t a
good outcome especially for an Omega. Didn’t you learn this in school?”
         The lad nods his head in the negative, shaking his dark locks in the
process, “I’m home-schooled. And my governess is a beta. My parents don’t allow
her to teach me about biology. They say it isn’t appropriate for a boy my age
to know of such things. They fear I’ll-I’ll go out in search of a mate and that
I’ll focus too much on my body like those Omegas you see on the streets and in
br-brothels. They want me to grow up with morals and ethics and all that rot.”
        “You’re old enough to learn about soul bonds and pheromones. I’m
guessing your parents have little care about what the law says the correct age
of consent is and want to raise you by their own rules. Which is reasonable,
seeing that many Omegas are forced into prostitution at a young age. I can even
understand that they want to save you from such a fate, and yet it has been a
massive failure seeing that you’re here instead of at home.” Watson points out.
       “My body feels like a cage lit onfire. I can’t just stay there in my
room like this anymore. The older I get it seems the more insatiable my being
becomes.” Sherlock frowns, looking ashamed of himself and Watson feels more
sympathy tug on his heart.  He’s just a child, he tells himself,and already
he’s dealt with so much… But he’s not a child, his hindbrain interjects, he’s
old enough to be mated and he’s ready, it’s coming off him in heaps…
        Watson’s cock twitches in his trousers as another wave of melting
butterscotch caresses his nose. It wouldn’t take long to lure the lad back to
his place and stick his knot in that sweet arse, his hindbrain’s right, the boy
is ready and he’d be so perfect, so innocent and yet this is wrong. He should
just leave, go back to his fiancée and pretend he’d never met the lad.
        Watson places money on the table and moves to rise from his seat, but
Sherlock stops him by grabbing his arm. “Wait,” the boy pleads, “take me with
you?”
        Watson wants to deny him, but his trousers tighten at the desperation
practically dripping from those words. But he’s engaged to a terrific beta
woman and there was a reason he chose a beta—he’s not one to bend to the will
of biology and he definitely won’t break all those years of resolve over one
adolescent—but he can feel the warmth from Sherlock’s arm through his coat and
the way the lad is looking at him with those huge bourbon eyes, irises totally
eclipsed by pupil, hunger evident in them, the protesting words can’t help but
escape the doctor.
         He thinks briefly of leaving Sherlock in the bar alone with the Alphas
who want to knot him and he almost growls, because the thought of someone else
touching the lad is enough to send him in a careless rage.  
         Calming himself, he acquiesces, “Alright, you can come home with me;
I’ll take you in so you can wait for your heat to break. I’ll even put you on
some suppressants—”
        “My parents despise them, they say they’re unnatural.”
        “What contradicting parents you have; they want you to stay locked up
during your heats, but refuse to put you on suppressants,” Watson contemplates
out loud.
        Sherlock gives him an impish smirk. “I never claimed they were rational
people, and I’ll go home with you, but I need to know your name first. What
kind of Omega do you take me for?”
        Watson gives him a smirk of his own, “Oh, just an Omega who comes to
sleazy bars in the middle of the night for a knot from a nameless Alpha just to
defy his strict parents. Am I correct?”
         Sherlock’s dark eyes flash mischievously, “There’s more to me than
what you see,” he responds, rising from his seat before walking past Watson.
The lad’s scent practically forces the doctor to follow him out of the pub and
into the cool night air.
         Once they’re both outside, Watson assesses the lad’s height. He’s
perhaps a foot shorter and the way he walks, lightly swaying those hips, makes
Watson believe that maybe the boy knows more about what he’s doing than he
leads on.
         John is so engrossed in his thoughts and studying the lethally sharp
dip of those hips that he doesn’t notice that Sherlock has stopped walking.
When he looks around, he realizes they are in a dark alley.
         The only sound that can be heard is the lad’s hard panting, “Your
name?” he asks and Watson knows he doesn’t owe this boy anything, but his very
being feels as though it would be irrevocably diminished if he doesn’t have
more of the lad and he realizes that he’s powerless to the boy’s pull, like
gravity, and like gravity, he’s helpless to defy him.
         “My name’s John Watson,” he declares. Sherlock seems to float the name
around his brain, perhaps testing to see if it sounds recognizable. Watson sees
the exact moment when he realizes the name holds no familiarity, as the boy’s
eyes flash again and next thing Watson knows a pair of warm, plush lips are on
his.
        John can’t even think of how wrong it is because the boy tastes faintly
like the beer he didn’t finish as well as some sort of sinful temptation that
sets Watson’s nerves on fire. Unconsciously, he leans Sherlock up against the
alley wall and grinds down so the boy can feel his arousal. And the whimper
Sherlock lets out is so utterly obscene that he has to forcibly calm himself or
this will be over before it even begins.
       “God, you’re so innocent.” Watson hears himself say, “Would you even
know what to do with a knot?”
       Sherlock doesn’t answer, instead he takes Watson’s hand and places it on
the swell of an arse cheek, he’s wet—no—he’s positively leaking and Watson’s so
hard it hurts, his mind wants to weep for the tenacity and willpower he’s lost,
but his body is too preoccupied with what it can have, what it can fill, to
care anymore.  He needs to take, claim, mark, taste all of Sherlock, and his
mind, clinging to rationality, finally loses its battle against his body,
because the boy is panting again, as if he’s run the whole of Trafalgar Square.
Watson can’t help but bury his nose in the warm skin of Sherlock’s exposed
throat, letting the deliciously sweet scent envelope him again.
       “You’d look so pretty on my knot, stretched full and begging me to move.
And those lips, they could make saints sin, boy. I bet you’re not even real;
bet you’ve just walked out of someone’s dirtiest, naughtiest dreams, ready to
lead ‘em to hell. You’re temptation and corruption in a sweet, little package,
aren’t you?” Watson whispers into his ear.
         Sherlock groans, and then he bites his lip again and this time Watson
doesn’t stop himself, he leans in and trails his tongue across the abused flesh
while giving the hand still on the boy’s arse a rough squeeze.
         In a ragged, breathless voice, Sherlock softly whispers, “I haven’t
tempted you into doing anything you didn’t already want to, doctor. You can
still walk away now.” John thinks of Mary for a second, wonders what she'd say
if she found out. Perhaps it would be better for him if he ignores this little
temptation and he just carries on walking home. But then his hindbrain informs
him that this opportunity to have a gasping, sweet smelling, writhing Omega in
his grasp is rare. Frustrated, he sighs; a warm gust of air in the cool London
night.
         He takes a step back and tries to will his hindbrain into submission.
He remembers that Omegas aren’t themselves when they’re in heat. It makes them
say and do things they wouldn’t normally.
        “I said I’d take you with me, but we can’t... Do anything.
 Understand?” Watson takes his arms down from where they’ve pinned Sherlock’s
to the chilly bricks of the alley wall. He levels his gaze with the boy and
hopes he sounds convincing.
        Sherlock smirks and runs his fingers through his unruly hair, making it
stick out in a thousand different directions. He drags his tongue across his
red bottom lip and then, leaning in closer, he says “The road to hell is paved
with good intentions,” before pressing his hips to Watson’s. And there would
never be a worse time for his body to betray him than now in the middle of an
alley where anyone could see them. He groans before he can stop himself and
grabbing Sherlock’s hips, rubs against him, enjoying the delicious friction.
       The Alpha in him wants to throw the Omega over his shoulder like a
barbarian and cart him off to somewhere private, somewhere they wouldn't be
disturbed, but rationality sits there like a weight in his chest, making him
halt immediately.
       “I’m serious.” He hisses, though it holds no steam. He’s too preoccupied
watching the slight bob of the boy’s Adam’s Apple, wondering if it will taste
honey-sweet if he just laved it with his tongue, to stop Sherlock as he tiptoes
to steal a kiss to Watson’s parted lips. And Watson--God deliver him--can’t
stop himself, he leans into the kiss and stares at the lad as if he just knows
he’s dreaming, because Sherlock can’t be real, he just can’t.
       No one deserves to look so enticing and taste so delectable. He never
even considered himself as someone who likes Omegas, he considers himself a man
who favored strictly betas and women rather, but Sherlock isn’t a normal Omega.
He smells too damn good and the way he seems to pull Watson in, as if Watson
has no choice but to allow it, makes him both intrigued and hard.
      “I’ll be on my best behavior, sir.” Sherlock promises, pulling away from
the kiss just as Watson’s really beginning to enjoy it. The doctor doesn’t miss
the emphasis on the last word and the rush of blood leaving his head to make
his dick stand at attention makes Watson dizzy. He has to think of sick
patients and illness just to will himself from giving up this whole ‘Righteous
Man’ charade and taking what he wants right this bloody minute.
       He knows that Mary isn’t at 221B Baker street at this moment as she went
to the country to visit her Uncle and right now he couldn’t be happier for the
fact, though he means every word, he isn’t going to fuck Sherlock and if this
doesn’t score him extra points on the saint meter, then the whole world can be
lit on fire because he is. Not. Going. To. Fuck. Sherlock.
       The Omega reaches out a hand and gestures to some general direction with
a smug look on his face, which--considering he’s in heat and is about to follow
home a stranger he just met--shouldn’t even belong there, yet, Watson doesn’t
ponder on it for too long, especially once Sherlock says, “After you,” and his
cock does a little jump, expecting to hear that heavenly “Sir.” that never
comes.
     Watson’s going to burn in Hell for sure, but what a lovely way to burn.



***** Of Sweets and Seduction *****
Chapter Summary
     "My poor body...requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he must
     needs go that the devil drives."
     All's Well that Ends Well - Shakespeare
     Watson finally gets a taste of Sherlock.
Chapter Notes
     Hi everyone! I am so genuinely sorry this chapter took so long to be
     posted. I've been really busy with school and a bunch of other things
     that would take too much time to mention. Just know that I'm back and
     I don't plan to be gone that long ever again! (^_^) In turn,
     hopefully I injected enough smutty goodness into this chapter to make
     up for it.
     I want to give a special thanks to all those who've read/kudos'd/
     subscribed/everything to this story! I am forever grateful to the
     responses this story has received. Thank you guys so much! I also
     want to thank my betas 95Echelon, Abel and Secret for the much needed
     help and inspiration. And for giving me the kick in the pants I need
     to keep writing!
     Hope you all like this chapter! <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                            Of Sweets and Seduction
                                           
“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can
                             bring on ourselves.”
                            ― Federico García Lorca
===============================================================================
                                        
       Mrs. Hudson is already in bed when they arrive; the lights are all off
and if the clock tower blaring in the distance is any indication, then it’s too
bloody early in the morning for any self-respecting Brit to be awake...
     Watson wants to tell Sherlock that he can go anytime, that if he’s unsure
or he’s having second thoughts he’s free to leave. His hindbrain barks at him
that such a notion is ridiculous. It was torture leading Sherlock to the
carriage. With every step they took Watson could swear the boy was emitting
more and more of that indescribable scent. The drive to the lodging was
completely, unbearably exhilarating with the ache in Watson’s pants taking
every opportunity to make itself known. Giving up now, after surviving all of
that, would make his torture pointless.
     The part of Watson that is still hanging on to the edge of reason reminds
him that he’s the older person and that means he’s responsible.  Responsible
people make wise decisions. The wisest decision would be to get Sherlock as far
away from him as possible, that way they wouldn’t do anything they’d regret.
     However, that other part of Watson invites the lad inside, and the urge
returns. Before he can stop himself he’s moving into the boy’s space, gripping
Sherlock’s hair and tipping those perfect, plush lips to his. And it’s like
drowning, sinking, going under, deep into the depths of lust where everything
else is overrated: air, rules, society. The only thing that matters is
Sherlock. All that should ever matter is Sherlock.
     He feels soft, warm hands grabbing at his coat, pulling him closer and as
the kiss becomes more urgent, more desperate, he realizes that Sherlock is
getting wetter. It is in that moment Watson pries his lips from the lad’s. He
wants to do this, he’s probably never wanted anything more in his life, but
this is also about Sherlock, and Watson needs to know that the boy is
completely ready for what’s about to happen. Not just ready physically, but in
all other aspects as well.
     He takes in a full breath. “Are you certain you want this, Sherlock? I can
always take you home or I can tend to you until your heat passes, we don’t have
to—”
     Watson is cut off by a finger to his lips and a glimpse of those dark eyes
begging, pleading with him.  “I need this.” is all Sherlock says, sounding
broken beyond repair already, and Watson has barely even touched him.
Watson feels himself crossing the point of no return. He had always thought it
rather careless of Alphas and Omegas to mate with no caution, no fear of the
future, without any self-control. But now he realizes that it isn’t something
that can be judged so easily, it isn’t simple. For now, it physically hurts him
to be standing so far from the lad, and he knows it will hurt worse if Sherlock
were to leave and never return. A small part of him knows this is dangerous,
the mere fact that he can’t walk away now should mean something, but he doesn’t
care for any of that. He wants this because he needs this, and everything else
be damned. If there are consequences, he’ll deal with them later. For now, all
that matters is them.
     He leads Sherlock to his room and immediately starts to undress. The lad
stands there, staring at him, but the way he’s looking at John, biting his lip
with that mischievous glint in his eye, makes Watson’s body flare with burning
desire.
      Before Watson realizes it, he’s got Sherlock’s face cradled in his hands
and he’s kissing him within an inch of his life. It’s all urgent, desperate. He
doesn’t try for any finesse but from the way Sherlock’s practically falling
apart in his hands, he doesn’t need to.
     It doesn’t take long for either of them to get naked after that, and once
John has Sherlock bare and writhing beneath him, he loses it. The part of him
that should know to take this slow, as this is the lad’s first time, has
escaped to the darkest recesses of his mind, bowing down to his hindbrain,
which is having a field day watching Sherlock.
     And dammit if Sherlock isn’t everything Watson didn’t know was missing
from his life. He looks like a gift from the heavens. And Watson wonders what
he did right in a past life to deserve such a thing. Sherlock’s eyes are closed
while he chants John’s name like a prayer, his lips deliciously swollen and
red, and every now and then his hips rise to meet Watson’s and it feels too
damn good. But Watson knows they haven’t even started the fun stuff yet.
    For awhile, Watson just stares because the lad is gorgeous - every part of
him - it’s like staring at a painting or a sculpture that an artist captured of
the perfect interpretation of sexual yearning. Sherlock is truly a sight to
behold.
   The lad’s pleading eyes rise to meet Watson’s and they burn with unresolved
hunger. Once again John finds himself being pulled under and brought back to
the matter at hand.   
    After sucking a bruising mark to Sherlock’s beautiful, smooth chest, Watson
works his way down, placing burning kisses on every inch of exposed skin his
lips can find until he reaches the junction between Sherlock’s thighs. His
breath ghosts over the bulging member and the lad shudders. It’s a
mouthwatering sight, watching Sherlock come undone; it makes Watson want more,
to see that innocent face beg him to do filthy things to that untouched body.
    Watson promises himself that he’ll give Sherlock what he wants another
time, because he is going to have Sherlock in his bed again, indubitably. But
for now, he wants to hear the boy scream.
     John takes the whimpering Omega’s legs and hoists them up until Sherlock’s
ankles are resting on his shoulders. From this view, he can see Sherlock’s hole
and it’s as beautiful as the rest of him. Pink and wet, it practically winks at
him. Watson wants to taste, but he holds off - there’s something he needs to
hear before they can continue.
    “Come on John,” Sherlock beseeches, “need you.”
    Watson nods, tearing his gaze away from that glorious arse to stare at the
two obsidian orbs burning into his cerulean ones. “Sherlock,” he gasps, “I want
you to say it.”
    Sherlock whimpers and tries to move his hips, but Watson’s herculean grip
doesn’t let up. “What?” He frowns.
    “I need you to tell me how bad you want this.”
    Despite being so far along in his heat, Sherlock, bless his soul, still has
enough presence of mind to understand what Watson is asking him to do. “I want
it Sir, badly. Need it, need you.”
    That’s all it takes for Watson to dip his head between Sherlock’s legs. He
teases at first, giving little licks here and there. The lad tastes incredible,
better than any treat he’s ever had. But Sherlock soon starts making these
desperate, breathy moans that go straight to Watson’s cock, and Watson soon
finds himself burying his tongue inside the lad, desperately trying to get as
much as that butterscotch slick in his system as possible.
     That’s how orgasm number one comes for Sherlock. Shooting all over
himself, so hard some of it catches on Watson’s chin. The doctor marvels at his
little Omega, coming without even a hand on his dick.
      Sherlock blushes furiously at Watson’s attention, but instead of looking
demure, as it probably would have if he were clothed, he looks positively
provocative, flushed all over with his pert pink nipples budding under Watson’s
gaze.
     The sweet-candy scent of Sherlock’s slick hangs in the air, his taste on
Watson’s tongue along with the musky, earthy smell of Alpha. John unconsciously
licks his lips, tasting Sherlock again and groaning as his dick twitches. His
Alpha instincts are going wild, never once being assaulted by such an
uncontested stimulus such as this, but Watson tries, honestly he does, to calm
it down. After all, he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away.
      But Sherlock seems less timid than he was before and when Watson directs
his full attention back to the lad, the sight he sees is enough to put him in
gaol or worse, straight to the deepest, darkest, burning pit of hellfire
available. Because Sherlock isn’t sitting there watching him anymore - he’s
gripping the headboard, face bowed and back arched, presenting himself to
Watson. His perfect, round arse practically leaking on the sheets. The doctor’s
mouth runs dry and soon he finds himself by Sherlock’s ear, whispering
obscenely dirty things to him. Telling him how good he’s going to fuck him,
have him so full that the only knot he’ll ever want, ever know is Watson’s. And
Sherlock cries out, that perfectly polite “Sir” that has John lining himself up
to the lad’s hole and thrusting in.
     Sherlock is virgin-tight, even with the amount of slick he’s producing,
the grip on Watson’s cock is unbelievable. John tries to move again, but
Sherlock steadies him.
    "A-are you hurting?” Watson asks through the blinding haze of pleasure that
is making it incredibly difficult to maintain presence of mind.
    “No, I-it’s just a foreign feeling. That’s all.” Then after a beat,
“Please, fuck me Sir, need you, God, need you to move.”
     And Watson, feeling as if he’ll die from this, finally starts to go at a
steady pace. He quickly loses the battle between his hindbrain and his sense
and soon he finds that he’s snapped his hips forward, sheathing himself fully
into the lad. He doesn’t stop to enjoy the glorious feeling, but instead pulls
out only to thrust back in even harder.
     The only sounds coming from Sherlock below him are yes, more, harder,
faster. Watson can’t help it; he does as he’s told, fucking Sherlock as if
control’s a word unknown to him.
      Sherlock comes again, way before Watson is even ready to be finished with
him. His arse clenches around John’s dick but it only serves to make Watson
fuck him deeper, leaving angry palm prints on Sherlock’s arse cheeks as he
thrusts like a madman.
      The sweat-slick slip of their bodies sliding together, Sherlock’s tight
trembling channel, the gasps being punched out of his own body and the bliss
sparking behind his eyelids is becoming too much for Watson, he feels his knot
beginning to swell. He tries to calm himself, but Sherlock definitely isn’t
helping; the way he’s moving is mesmerizing and the sounds he’s making are so
lewd that Watson feels as if he’s walked into a dream, a dirty, obscene dream
where he’s the lucky person who gets to have this.
      He hasn’t realized that he’s paused to watch Sherlock for some time-
practically having the lad do most of the work - when burnished amber eyes pin
him with a wild, craving stare compelling him to move like a man possessed,
speeding up the pace once more and losing himself once again.
      His orgasm comes like a bolt from the blue, shattering all thoughts and
feelings not primarily related to those of overwhelming pleasure. He’s helpless
against it, only just remembering that the warm, yielding body below him needs
to feel this, that Sherlock needs to be on the same level with him. So he
reaches down and strokes the lad’s member once, twice, before Sherlock is
crying out and coming over Watson’s hand.
      And Watson, on instinct, sinks his teeth into that soft exposed neck and
groans at the taste of blood filling his mouth. The Alpha he is thrills at the
chance he’s taken of actually marking the Omega, both inside and out.
      “You’re so marvelous,” he hears himself say, rubbing Sherlock’s back
soothingly while he licks the claiming mark he’s made to the boy’s flesh.
     Sherlock looks back at him, eyes still wild but at least a little more
calm than they were before.
      As if he suddenly regained every drop of seductive evil in the span of
seconds, Sherlock relinquishes the headboard and adjusts himself so he’s fully
sitting in Watson’s lap, careful not to hurt himself from where they’re
connected.
    He manages to whimper as more of Watson’s spill pumps into him.
    “So,” Sherlock whispers after a short while, planting a soft kiss to
Watson’s shoulder. “What shall happen now?”
     John can’t help it, he smiles. “Now we wait.”
    “And when we disentangle?” Something darker than innocence flashes behind
those wide eyes.
     Watson swallows, feeling his treacherous dick twitch in interest. “We
sleep, or...we can do it all over again…”
       Sherlock gives him one of those breathtaking grins that Watson hadn’t
realized was possible until now. Honestly, could the boy be any more charming?
He places another kiss to John’s jaw before finding his lips and it is suddenly
clear what his intentions are.
      They won’t be getting much sleep after all, but Watson finds that he
doesn’t mind one bit...
Chapter End Notes
     Okay so it was a little short, but sometimes less is more. :)
     Hope you all enjoyed it! More to come soon! And there will be more
     porn, but there will be plot too. ;)
     <3 you all!
***** If Only For A Night *****
Chapter Summary
     "You're a holy fool all colored blue
     Red feet upon the floor
     You do such damage, how do you manage?
     Tryna crawl in back for more."
     - Florence and the Machine "What Kind of Man"
     The perilous morning after.
Chapter Notes
     I just want to thank everyone for reading/giving me kudos/supporting
     this fic, thank you so much!
     I want to thank my betas Abel and HaleyD95 for the amazing help on
     this chapter! You guys are so awesome and I don't know what I would
     do without you. :D
     For anyone wondering, the quotes I use may not make sense in the
     context of the story or even within the chapters themselves, but this
     is because I'm trying to follow a certain theme and sometimes I'm a
     bit random.
     Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
                              If Only For A Night
                                        
          I went out on Lower Broadway and I felt that place within,
        That hollow place where martyrs weep and angels play with sin.
        … There are those who worship loneliness, I'm not one of them.
                              - ‘Dirge’ Bob Dylan

===============================================================================
 
   The following day, Watson awakens to a certainlyodd sensation. Of course
there’s a bit of soreness, in his leg particularly, but it is not uncommon for
him to wake like this. However, there’s a new feeling. Something akin to
distress. At first he lays there, trying to make sense of this mood, but then
it becomes very overwhelming and soon he finds that he can not lay still.
   And then he smells it: Omega. And not just any Omega, his Omega. Everything
comes crashing down on him. All the memories, meeting Sherlock, mating.  He
mated, with someone. He bonded. With an Omega. He claimed an Omega.  And it
felt, different, not bad, but different.
   Another wave of distress washes over him along with a sense of urgency. He
doesn’t waste any more time. He rushes to put on his shirt and trousers, and
follows the scent to the foyer where Sherlock is standing. Relief floods him as
he realizes that Sherlock is fine, physically at least, but then the anxiety
comes back. He’s not sure why he’s feeling this until it hits him. These
sensations aren’t his own; they’re Sherlock’s. And it doesn’t take long for him
to find the source of the Omega’s distress. When he looks up there is Mrs.
Hudson, staring at the lad as if she knows everything that happened and is
trying her best not to blow a gasket.
   Mrs. Hudson was always one to turn a blind eye to things that she figured
weren’t any of her business, such as the times when Watson would have harrowing
nightmares of the war and would stay up most of the night until it bled into
morning, reading or pacing, doing anything but sleep, or when he showed a
particular interest in crime-solving and would often entertain constables in
his study. But this time, even he knows she can’t just sweep this under the
rug.
   And as if it isn't obvious enough what he and Sherlock have done; Watson’s
pheromones are all over the lad who’s crazy sex hair and rumpled clothing are
strong enough signs for themselves: the whole foyer smells of sex.
   Watson hadn’t planned for Mrs. Hudson to meet Sherlock, but then again it
wasn’t as if he planned for any of this.
   Sherlock senses his presence and the anxiety that was running rampage within
him, vanishes, calming Watson as well.
   Watson wants to touch him, to reassure him that everything’s fine. So he
does. Sherlock melts into it and then he turns those eyes, with their color of
sunlight shining through whiskey, on him. He sees flashes of many things:
surprise, confusion, but also familiarity and relief. It awakens something new
inside him; the urge to protect.
   “Well, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll just be going to the shop now.” Mrs. Hudson
says, regaining her composure and trying to escape from the scene of the crime
unscathed.
   Watson clears his throat and attempts to stop her from walking away.
   “Now Mrs. Hudson, it really isn’t what you think.” That is when she turns to
him.
   “Doctor, I know when something has nothing to do with me. I’ll just be on my
way. If you’ll excuse me.” She motions to move past him before halting and
leaning in to whisper, “Ms. Morstan will be returning from her trip to the
country by this afternoon. When all of this meets with disaster, I would like
no part of it. And, I must admit Doctor, that I didn’t think you had it in you.
Now, good day.”
   Watson doesn’t try to stop her again and lets her leave with nary a look
back.
   He’s still staring at the shut door when he hears Sherlock speak from behind
him.
   “Well she’s quite lovely.” The lad quips.
   He turns around to find the lad unapologetically staring back at him.
   “I went about seeking the bathing room and I stumbled upon her. Poor woman,
must’ve thought she’d seen a spirit. Can’t quite blame her, s’not as if I was
expecting her either.” Sherlock continues.
   Watson studies Sherlock, who looks much better than he did the previous
night. He no longer seems like he’ll self-destruct if he doesn’t get a knot,
but more stable. He still looks delectable, but that can’t be helped.
   “It appears as if your heat has broken.” John states. “That’s certainly a
good--” He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Sherlock’s lips
connect with his with a ferocity he didn’t think the young man was capable of.
Watson gives as good as he gets, surprise fading and lust filling in its place,
hindbrain rejoicing as he takes control, turning them so that Sherlock’s the
one pressed against the door. His lips find the bruise where the lad’s shoulder
meets his neck and John bites down softly, causing Sherlock to groan and a
growl to erupt from Watson’s throat.
   Their lips meet again and it’s paradise, Watson gets so wrapped up in
Sherlock that he doesn’t realize that the lad’s slowly undressing before him
until the rosy peak of a nipple comes into his view and he latches onto it,
causing Sherlock to cry out.
   John chances a glance up at Sherlock who looks like a debauched angel.
Watson doesn’t consider himself very religious, but he knows he could see
himself worshipping Sherlock anytime, anywhere. He wraps the lad’s legs around
his and lifts Sherlock, his hands holding up that perfect already-wet arse and
they both moan.
   “Are you trying to kill me?” Watson asks, because he’s entirely sold on that
and nothing can convince him otherwise.
   Sherlock nods in the negative and then says in the most serious he’s been
since last night, “I want you to fuck me here in the foyer.”
   John sighs and presses his face against Sherlock’s chest, inhaling that
amazing scent of butterscotch as well as his own musky aroma. Watson’s glad
that Sherlock hadn’t tried too hard to scrub away their mingled scent from his
skin as it makes the lad all the more real instead of too dreamlike. As if he
needed anymore reassurance that last night happened or that this is happening
now.
   If there were ever a worse time for John to remember Mary, it’s right now.
Cerulean eyes meet bourbon ones as the weight of the situation comes down on
him.
   Sherlock, sensing his mate’s anxiety, inquires, “What’s wrong?”
   Watson gently places Sherlock down - he’d never live it down if he damaged
him - well any more than he already has - and stares at the lad wide-eyed.
   “It’s my fiancée, she’s returning today.”
   Sherlock seems to ponder this for a moment, then he says with much bravado:
“Then that means I must leave.” Sadness fills them both at this realization.
 The urge to protect flares up in Watson again, but this time it’s much fiercer
than before; he can’t let Sherlock out of his sight, not now, not ever. He
wants to protect his Omega and he can’t do that if Sherlock is no longer
around.
   “We’ve mated.” He states, because this is serious, this isreal, and it is
not something that can just be brushed off. Sherlock seems to be having none of
it.
   “That is a perfectly normal thing that humans do. Or that is what I
perceived from our discussion last night.”
   “Yes, but it is also something that many people avoid.  We’re connected now,
our minds, bodies, souls are one. You can feel my emotions and so it is the
same with me.” Every word makes Watson’s stomach twist with unease but Sherlock
needs to understand this.
   The lad isn’t dense, by any means and the comprehension breaks across his
face as the meaning of Watson’s words catch up with him.
   “This is not good. This is really not good.”
   “Yes, these circumstances are less than ideal.” Watson agrees, sighing from
a great deal of exhaustion.
   “What of my parents? They’ll have me on the street. I’ll be a homeless
Omega.” Tears well up in Sherlock’s unseeing eyes as pictures of it happening
pass through his head, and he looks away from Watson for a moment.
   John, without thinking, reaches out to hold him and the lad quickly accepts
the comfort. “I will not let that happen to you. Do you hear me Sherlock? We’ll
overcome this, no matter what it takes.”
   Sherlock goes quiet, but he nods and that sparks some hope in Watson. His
Omega is here with him, is safe and in his arms, and no harm will come to him.
“I promise you, it will be alright.” He says, holding Sherlock tighter. Then,
after a beat, he warns: “It might be wiser, not to tell your parents. If you
think that they will punish you or worse, put you out on the streets, then I
advise you not to tell them, at least for now.”
   The lad points those wide, dark eyes on John and frowns. “But wouldn’t that
be lying by omission? And what if they can sense it on me?”
   Watson gently cups Sherlock’s face. “They won’t. Believe me, they’ll be so
happy to see that you’ve returned that they won’t be able to notice that
something’s changed. You’re a smart lad, everything will be alright.”
   Sherlock nods, but he doesn’t seem wholly convinced. So many thoughts and
feelings are bombarding Watson at once, including a crushing guilt. He ignores
it all in favor of comforting the lad who adds: “And what of your fiancée? What
will you tell her?”
   Watson lets out a pained sigh. “The truth.”
   Sherlock breaks from his hold. “You can’t do that! She’ll leave you!”
   “Very well,” John shrugs, “But she deserves to know.”
   The Omega gapes at Watson in disbelief, before saying with great admiration
and some dubiousness dripping from his words. “You’re crazy.”
   “It needs to be done and it may be insane, but my uttermost concern is you
at the moment. I can deal with Mary. A relationship will never survive with
dishonesty.”
   Sherlock’s face lights up with curiosity. “Do you love her?” The question
throws Watson off guard.
   “L-love is a strange, powerful emotion.” He stammers. The lad folds his arms
and narrows his eyes at the older man.
   “Doesn’t answer my question.”
   If someone had asked him a few days ago if he loved his fiancée, the reply
would be an automatic “yes.” It didn’t have to be the truth, just as “I’m fine”
didn’t have to be the truth when someone asked how you were doing. It was a
socially conventional response and Watson was aware of that. It didn’t matter
how he felt, all that mattered was that Mary was happy and no one suspected a
thing.
   “We’re getting married, what do you think?” Watson asks. Sherlock frowns.
   “If what I thought mattered, I’d be the one going down the aisle with her
and not you.”  John bites his lip - a nervous habit he was accustomed to doing
in his solitude - finally he answers:
   “I’m not sure.” Of course, Sherlock senses Watson’s despair and reaches up
to touch him on the shoulder.
   “Then why marry her?”
   “For lack of a better word; it’s complicated.” Watson admits. The lad groans
in frustration.
   “Why do adults always profess that? A situation is only as complicated as
one makes it to be.” He states.
   “When did you get so clever?” Watson asks, mood lifting by a fraction.
   “Since always. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going home. I’ll tell my
parents that I snuck out to meet some of my mates, they won’t be too mad if I
tell them I’ve been hanging out with the Rochester boys,” he grimaces, “But
they’ll never suspect a thing.” For the first time in a while, Watson smiles.
   “I take it you’ve lied to them before.” Proud, Sherlock winks mischievously.
   “But of course, how else would I survive in that house?” John shrugs, then
replies:
    "I’ll wait here for Mary. Do you need anything? Cab fare?”
   “I’m not some lady of the night. I can make my own way home.” Sherlock
scoffs.
   “But it’s not safe.”
   “And so is getting mated to a stranger, but I’ve managed so far.” Sherlock
winks again and Watson frowns because he’s right.
   So far, this day has been one of the strangest in his life.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you all for reading!
     Next chapter coming soon!
***** Hand Over Heart, I'm Praying (That I'm Gonna Make it Out Alive) *****
Chapter Summary
     "I burn, I pine, I perish."
     - William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
Chapter Notes
     Hi. *blushes furiously* I'm sorry for the looong delay, I was on a
     (sort of ) vacation and for some reason, no matter how much I tried,
     I just couldn't write. :( But here I am, and I must say I'm pretty
     excited about this chapter. :D
     Yes, the title is taken from 'The Heart Wants What it Wants' by
     Selena Gomez. I ran out of ideas and I found it strangely fitting. :
     ) Anywho, I'd like to thank my betas Abel, Haley and Secret for the
     much needed help. I want to thank everyone who has read/kudos'd/
     subscribed/bookmarked/everything. I am so in awe of the responses my
     Sherlock fics have gotten. I honestly feel so lucky and forever
     grateful. :)
     Also, I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing
     it. :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
        Hand Over Heart, I'm Praying (That I'm Gonna Make it Out Alive)
                                        
                       “The Saints can’t help me now...”
                       - ‘Howl’ Florence and the Machine
                                        
It’s dark and evening hasn’t yet approached, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. It
doesn’t help that his expansive bedroom is also bitterly cold. Damn London and
it’s cursed proclivity to becoming gloomy at the worst of times. Someday, he’s
moving out of here, to somewhere permanently warm.
He stares at the window across from him, locked now because of his parents’
displeasure at his latest escapade, and wonders what it would be like if he
were born a Beta like them as well as his governess. If they’d be easier on him
because they’d have less to worry about, and if they’d treat him as if he were
an actual human being instead of some rare, fragile gem that they had to
protect every waking second.
And yet, he was considered one of the lucky ones. To not be in a brothel or
forced onto the street because of his status.
Many would assume his life was perfect; he was born into a wealthy family who
loved him even though he was an Omega. He had heard that Omegas - though rare,
but still considered insignificant by society, especially by the upper class -
had even resorted to doing devastating things to themselves to deal with the
pressure. He had so much resentment for people who hurt, ostracized, or
despised Omegas. Someday he’d be someone to make a difference. He’ll start a
revolution or an uprising, whatever it took to make people see the error of
their ways. And if his parents ever stopped being so naïve, maybe he’d let them
help.  
Luckily, they had been so happy to see him, of course, and understandably
distressed by his sudden disappearance that they hadn’t asked too many
questions or evidently noticed that something was off. When he’d explained that
he’d been with the Rochester brothers, his mother, who’d seemed the most
troubled, with all her crying and refusing to release him from her constricting
embrace, had calmed a little by that news. His father, on the other hand, had
scolded him for leaving and had told him that being out on his heat was a
ridiculous thing to do.
Sherlock wanted to tell him that locking him in his room was also, but decided
to hold his tongue. After all, arguing with his parents never helped as they
were both too stubborn and stuck in their ignorance to listen to him.
So he stayed silent, pursing his lips, he took the scolding and waited until
his father was finished before asking if he could retreat to his room. And when
they’d sent him off and he was safe in his seclusion, he sat down on the
carpeted floor, sighing from sheer exhaustion and the relief of escaping
virtually unscathed.
Now, as he lay in bed, reflecting on his life and questioning the absurdity of
it all, he can’t help but feel grateful for Watson at least, because although
Watson pretends to be normal and wholesome, presumably to be accepted, Sherlock
knows he’s just as deviant and unprecedented as he.
===============================================================================
Watson paces across the floor of the foyer, losing track of the number of times
he’s done this already.
A million thoughts are circulating in his head, each one more distressing than
the last. He’s been spending the better part of the day and evening trying to
come up with the best and least hurtful way to tell Mary about Sherlock. And
he’s been failing miserably.
In all honesty, there is no easy way to tell your fiancée that you’ve gone and
mated with someone else while they were away, and that this someone was a
bright, young Omega lad who also happened to be male. He surmises that at best
she’ll leave him, and at worst... well, he doesn’t want to think about that.
And Watson, who is usually fantastic with words, cannot think of a single
sentence that would make Mary consider not murdering him.
Mrs. Hudson still hasn’t returned either, actually sticking to her word of
wanting nothing to do with this and avoiding the lodging until it all cools
down. If it ever does, that is. God does he envy her right now.
More and more time passes and still Mary has not returned - it would be an
understatement to say that he’s worried. Mary was always punctual, no matter
what situation she was in, she made it top priority to be on time. And though
he found punctuality a trivial matter and certainly not one he would uphold as
an utmost concern, he still respected the fact that it was always important to
her. Oh come now, John. We must always be proper, hold our head high and never
give anyone a reason to think that we’re anything less than a lady and her
gentleman.
He can’t help the mounting anxiety that is threatening to consume his mind. He
knows, rationally, that out of the many reasons for her delay, most of them are
probably benign but he can’t help his brain from coming to the worst, drastic
conclusions. Of course, he’d be better rooted into the land of logic and sense
if he had gotten a better night’s sleep the previous night. Maybe he’d be a
little more lucid as well, if his world hadn’t been carefully divested of
everything that made it simple and was now veering off into space without
control.
But who was he to complain? As guilty as he felt for feeling this, he had to
admit that he’s never felt more free. Certainly, he may not know what exactly
he has gotten himself into but he does know that if it makes him feel this
alive,  then soulbonding was the best thing to have ever happened to him. And
that was the sad thing - he had been denying himself for so long, trying his
best to be content in a world that he didn’t belong in to please God knows who
when the only thing he ever needed was to listen to his reckless, untamed
heart. Maybe Sherlock was right; a situation is only as complicated as one
makes it to be...
He smiles, thinking of Sherlock, unable to help it now, even if he wanted to.
There’s a gentle hum thrumming through him, a sign that the Omega is safe and
sound. He’s grateful for that, and subsequently, his unease lessens by a
fraction.
He goes to make tea to calm his still shot nerves. Time passes and though it
seems to be dragging in lulls, with which he usually combats the resulting
boredom by reading a book or studying, he finds the torrential panic seeping
into his bones and making attempts to concentrate on anything else but
bothersome, irrational thoughts, futile.
It doesn’t take him long to start pacing again. It confuses Watson, as he
usually prides himself on his patience, but now it seems he can’t sit still
until he sees Mary walk through the door.
That may be, his mind supplies him, a long time from now.
===============================================================================
Sherlock is sitting at the table alone, eating his supper when he feels a
billow of distress rise up within him. It’s unfounded as there is no imminent
danger around him as far as he can tell.
After a beat he realizes that it must be Watson that is feeling anxious and
without even having to think about it, he rises to his feet, his bowl of soup
already forgotten.
As he turns to go fetch his coat, he almost collides with his mother who is
standing at the foot of the stairs, watching him with concern in her hazel
eyes. “Wherever are you going?” She inquires, a flash of suspicion darkening
her tone.
“Oh hello mother, I didn’t want to disturb you or father. I was going to take a
walk.” He smiles, easily lying due to many years of practice.
“At this time of night? Have you lost your senses? And you haven’t finished
your supper. Are you feeling alright? Are you coming down with something?” His
mother is suddenly everywhere at once, poking and prodding him, forcing him to
slowly back away just so he can get some space.
He can’t help but think that all of this is irrelevant and delaying the one
important thing he needs to do, that is, to find Watson.
“Mother, please. I’m fine. I’m a little fatigued and I wanted to take a walk in
the hopes that I could wake myself up.” He lets out a convincing yawn that
maybe is a little too convincing, for his mother takes his arm and leads him to
his room.
After ensuring that he’s tucked into his massive bed, she sends for one of the
maids, Gertrude, to keep an eye on him. And when the ever busy, ever stressed
Gertrude, probably the only person Sherlock trusts in the house, comes to check
up on him, she smiles.
“Fixing to sneak out again are ya?” She asks, her bright, all-knowing eyes
sparkling with youthful mischief.  
“Well I’m not picking this lock for the sheer enjoyment of it.” Sherlock
mumbles, though his lips quirk at the corners. He’s at one of the giant windows
skillfully cracking the lock open, to Gertrude’s amusement.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell ‘em you’re very tired and you need to be left alone. A
growing boy needs his sleep after all.”
He goes over to hug her, getting his long arms to wrap around her tiny waist
easily.  She pats him on the head. “Be safe.” She cautions and he smirks, “Will
do, ma’am.” Before walking over to the window and climbing out.
===============================================================================
Watson’s about to just give up and go looking for Mary when someone bursts
through the door. He sees the familiar mop of dark hair and feels overwhelming
relief, as well as confusion, flood his being.
“What are you doing here?” He questions, eyes brightening with delight while
his heart beat stutters in his chest. He reaches for his Omega and wraps a
protective arm around him. Sherlock tucks his head under Watson’s chin and they
stay there for a little while, silent.
The hum is back and thrumming more insistently and with its buzzing comes a
certain calm as if there is nothing to worry about, everything is fine.
“Your disquietude made me come over to see if you were alright. I felt it - the
pull. I had to defend my Alpha.” Sherlock says, nuzzling his face in Watson’s
dress shirt. “From whatever it was that was causing unrest.”
Watson is taken aback at first - he can’t believe Sherlock is actually here,
risking everything because he thought Watson was in trouble. It’s touching but
also bothersome, because this just proves all the more that their bond is real,
so real that caution isn’t even something that either of them can consider if
they believe the other one is in danger.
A soulbond, especially one as strong as theirs, is something that has many
aftereffects, whether or not these aftereffects are wanted is beside the point.
They are something to be controlled and sometimes, even ignored, as a soulbond
from the result of mating should not prevent one from functioning in daily
life. Watson knows that he and Sherlock are going to have to get these urges
under control as to prevent anything detrimental from happening. But that could
be worried about later, right now, he has Sherlock in his arms and he isn’t
going to let go.
“I - thank you.” Watson extols against Sherlock’s hair.
After a long moment of silence, the lad asks. “Where is your fiancée?”
“She’s late.” Is Watson’s simple answer. Sherlock doesn’t need anymore
explanation. “You’re worried about her, in more ways than one.” The lad
comments; it isn’t a question.
Watson nods.
And Sherlock, feeling a tiny, insistent wave of torment emanate from Watson,
his Alpha, he does the only thing he can think of that will distract the older
man - he kisses him.
Watson feels Sherlock’s soft lips press against his and his brain short
circuits. The kiss is chaste, but he finds himself pulling the lad closer all
the same.  Tongues soon meet and bodies press ever closer and soon much is
forgotten, all Watson can hear and think about are the whimpers and moans
Sherlock is making below him, the way the slim fingers are clasping his shirt
and the glorious feeling of ravishing Sherlock’s innocent mouth.
Neither of them hears the sound of the door opening,  or the person scurrying
in to get away from the cold until they hear an audible gasp from behind
Sherlock.
Two pairs of pleasure hazy eyes turn to face a stunned Mary. The shock barrages
through Sherlock, making him frightened and before Watson can stop himself,
before Watson can realize what he is about to do, he lets out a vicious growl
at the threat, the interruption - poor, unsuspecting Mary.
 
Chapter End Notes
     And...cliffhanger! I have a love/hate relationship with cliffhangers.
     *Le sigh* Hope you guys enjoyed it, see you next chapter! ;)
***** Bare Your Wrists and I'll Bare My Heart (Segue) *****
Chapter Summary
     "I desire the things
     which will destroy me
     in the end."
     - Sylvia Plath
     “...gravity always wins.”
     -Radiohead ‘Fake Plastic Trees’
Chapter Notes
     I want to thank Rangerdanger and also introduce her to the crazy
     family of betas I have. Thank you for helping me and letting me
     bounce ideas off you!
     Hello guys, I am not dead. Sorry if you're disappointed. :P As
     promised I would post two chapters, and I am, so expect two tomorrow.
     (^_^) I just wanted to post this teaser for you all because I feel
     insanely bad about taking so long with my updates. You all have been
     so amazing and the day I stop telling you guys that is the day I am
     actually dead.
     Hope you all enjoy this and believe me I've been feeling so good
     about the comments/kudos/hits/subscriptions that I am on cloud nine
     always. Thank you so much!! <3 <3 <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                         “You can't quit until you try
                         You can't live until you die
                       You can't learn to tell the truth
                           Until you learn to lie' 
                         Sixx:A.M. ‘Life is Beautiful’
                                        
 
    Watson’s growl echoes throughout the entire room. It needs no help to be
heard what with the roaring silence that has everyone stuck in suspended
animation.
    The pause seems to go on forever and Watson almost wishes it would, except
even he knows that today is just not his day.
    He just growled at Mary and not just one of those stay away, he’s mine
snarls, this was a bonafide Alpha I mean business one. One that makes Omegas
cower and Betas eager to leave the situation, but Mary - who is braver than
even she often fails to realize- hasn’t moved, instead she has dropped her bags
and brolly and is staring at them both in a mixture of shock, confusion and
definitive hurt.
    It is she who breaks the silence. “What is the meaning of this John?”
   Watson cannot find the words to speak.
   It’s not as if the Beta gives him the chance to anyways. She narrows her
eyes, studies Sherlock for a minute before her face deepens in anger at the
recognition and realization. And then she says the words so slowly that all
hopes of Watson ever finding his voice have left without a trace. “What are you
doing with Sherlock Holmes?”


Chapter End Notes
     See you again on the next two chapters!
     P.S. I never wanted to leave this at a cliffhanger but they are a
     necessary evil sometimes. :(
***** Your Wounds, But My Sutures *****
Chapter Summary
     "Take your time, I'm only dying."
     - Eyes Set to Kill, 'Darling'
     "Of all the fires, love is the only inexhaustible one."
     —Pablo Neruda
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone! I decided to post the two chapters in a timely manner
     instead of straight away as to be honest with you, they needed a lot
     of revising. But finally this one is ready to be posted. Thanks to my
     betas.
     As always I want to thank everyone for the kudos/bookmarks/
     subscriptions/hits any and everything. You all are so wonderful.
     Thank you! :)
     Hope you enjoy this chapter!
     Title taken from Fall Out Boy's "Immortals" A song I absolutely
     adore.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
                         “There's a fire in your eyes
                        And I hope you'll let it burn”
            - The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus“Seventeen Ain’t So Sweet”
 
 
===============================================================================
    Mary’s eyes flicker between Watson and Sherlock. The room goes quiet again,
or at least Watson assumes so, as the only sound he hears is the violent
pounding of his own heartbeat thump thump thump.
    He speaks before he thinks and the words come effortlessly again. “What do
you mean? How do you know Sherlock?”
 Mary lets out a derisive, mirthless laugh. “You mean you don’t know? The
Holmes family has been around for years! They’re old money darling, and far
richer than you and I could ever dream. I had the good fortune to meet the Lord
and Lady themselves quite a few times; they often come to most of the soirees
we attend. I’ve met the heir to their estate only once but I never thought much
of it.” Then, another mocking chuckle. “And here I come to find you with him.
My, isn’t life grand?”
   Watson frowns; he never really listened to her gossip and usually tuned her
out when she talked about other people. It’s no wonder the Holmes family flew
right over his head.  He looks down at Sherlock as if the boy with the wild
hair holds any answers but all the lad is doing is staring at Mary in absolute
contempt, the terror from before having faded quite quickly.
   “Funny,” Sherlock spits, taking a step towards Mary, “my parents never
mentioned meeting anyone like you. I guess you weren’t of much importance if I
can’t remember you either.”
   The Beta’s eyebrows raise at that. “You have some nerve.”
   “And you have no right -”
    Watson moves to stand between them. “Alright, that’s enough out of both of
you.” He turns to Mary, “Mary we have matters to discuss and Sherlock,” he says
turning to the lad but the woman quickly interrupts - “I won’t discuss anything
with you. He’s just a child John, an impudent one, but a child at that!”
   Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but seems to think better of it. Burning
shame rises up within Watson but he’s absolutely sure the feeling is all his
own.
   “How could you do this to me?” She yells, honestly, it catches Watson off
guard as he has never heard the mild-mannered Mary speak so loudly.
   He winces. “I’m sorry, Mary. You cannot believe how true those words are -”
   “I won’t stand for it John! You are my betrothed, the man I am set to marry,
where is the dignity in this?”
    Watson cannot find the words to speak. Mary, once again, glances between
the two of them. “How?” She questions.
    “I’m not sure you wish to know the details.” Sherlock mumbles as she stares
at him with disbelief.
    “We’ve mated.” Watson admits, raising his head to look her in the eye. “I’m
sorry, but it is done.”
     And then he feels it - the sharp sting of a slap. His hand rises to touch
the quickly reddening bruise and he looks up at her in shock.
    With tears in her eyes, Mary walks over to her fallen things, kneels down
to collect them and whispers: “I never want to see you again John. And as for
you,” she turns around and points an accusing finger at Sherlock Holmes,
Watson’s brain reminds him.  “you’d be better off finding someone who can
actually give you the love you deserve. He’ll also hurt you, sooner or later,
he will.”
    “Mary, don’t-” The Alpha begs, but she ignores him. “You can keep your ring
John, seems as if I’m not meant to be married.” With that she takes it off her
finger and throws it at his face.
    “Mark my words, boy. He’ll hurt you.” She reiterates before closing the
front door and disappearing into the night. Watson doesn’t go after her.
Instead, as he watches her go, he sees the piece of himself that he had held
onto for so long, leave with her.
===============================================================================
    For a long time, Watson does not come out of the lodging except to go to
his practice. He ignores phone calls, neglects Gladstone (thank goodness for
Mrs. Hudson), stops going to the pub, he shuts himself off from the rest of the
world.
   Eventually Mrs. Hudson, his friends, everyone stops trying, having grown
tired of their efforts failing. Sherlock eventually stops coming by, having
told his parents that he mated but omitting the person’s identity, and thus
being on punishment until his parents figure out their next move.
    Watson isolates himself and stays trapped in an awful amalgam of self-
hatred, guilt and sadness that seems to go on forever.
    Then one day, while he is wallowing in a particularly rough bout of
depression, someone knocks impatiently on the door of his study. He ignores it
at first, but then the knocking becomes even more insistent and finally
annoyed, he answers it to reveal a man with dark amber eyes that burn with the
intensity of a thousand suns. They are familiar eyes but the face they belong
to is aged, with greying hair.
   "Hello?” Comes Watson’s confused greeting.
    “Oh thank heavens! Doctor, I’m afraid I am in dire need of your help. You
see my son here has had an accident. He sprained his ankle and…” The man points
behind himself to a woman holding the hand of - Watson can’t hear anything else
for his brain finally wakes up after months of disuse and connects the pieces,
it’s Sherlock who’s eyes brighten when they lay upon him.
    Sherlock smiles and does a little wave, but the smile immediately morphs
into a grimace when he looks down at his injured foot.
    “How did this happen?” Watson asks, more to Sherlock than anyone else, but
his father answers: “We caught him trying to sneak out.” He says unimpressed.
    “He gets his cynicism from his father.” The woman with the hazel eyes and
beautiful smile remarks.
    Sherlock’s father smirks, “And he gets his rowdy behavior from his mother.”
   "Mother, Father? Can we get back to the matter at hand please?”
     “Ah yes, my boy here has gotten himself into quite a dilemma. Is there
anything you can do for him Doctor?” Three pairs of hopeful eyes turn on Watson
who quickly regains his composure. “Certainly, let me see him.”
    With the help of his mother, Sherlock comes forward.
    Watson studies him carefully, he’s still the same Sherlock despite the
obvious discomfort he’s in, he still remains as beautiful as ever. Watson’s
angry that he couldn’t sense that the Omega was hurt, but he supposes that he
must have missed a lot of things while he was in his misery.
    Sherlock’s ankle is swollen but it’s nothing some ice and some pain
medicine can’t fix. He tells this to his parents who are relieved to hear the
news.
    “Ahh we heard you were one of the best!” Sherlock’s father exclaims.
   Blood rises to color Watson’s cheeks. “It’s nothing, just a simple injury,
it wouldn’t take a detective to figure it out.”
    Sherlock’s father gives him a bright grin. “See Judith, efficient and
humble as well, they certainly don’t call him the Good Doctor for nothing!”
   "So what should I address you as, Sir?” Watson says, changing the subject.
“I like to know what all of my client’s names are. It makes the relationship
between doctor and patient more personal.”
    Sherlock’s father nods before speaking in his warm voice. “Well Sir, my
name is Arthur, but you my good man, may call me Mr. Holmes.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     I wanted to make Mary someone we can empathize with although we're
     rooting for Sherlock and Watson. Don't worry, this isn't the last
     we'll see her. And maybe I've been listening to too much Melanie
     Martinez.
     As always I cherish your feedback. I read and respond to %99 of my
     comments so never hesitate to write me something. I don't bite. ;)
     Thank you all so much for reading, see you next chapter.
     Stay awesome!
***** Cut Your Heart Out (And Give It to Me) *****
Chapter Summary
     Watson and Sherlock get some time to reconcile.
     And we meet a new character!
Chapter Notes
     We have reached 250 kudos! I am so happy, thank you all! Thank you
     for everything you guys have done! I love all the support and love
     this and 'Holmes in Heat' have gotten. I will never not be grateful.
     I appreciate it so much!
     Special thanks to my betas Abel and Ranger for the much needed help.
     You guys are awesome.
     Was listening to a lot of Florence and the Machine, hope you guys
     like hurt/comfort and fluff. ;)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
             “It’s a shot in the dark, aimed right at my throat.”
                  ‘Shake it Out’ -  Florence and the Machine
                                        
===============================================================================
      Sherlock’s parents leave to run errands after Watson assures them that he
will be alright. They hug and kiss their son, much to Sherlock’s slight
embarrassment and then they bravely  go out into the chilly morning.
    Once he sees that they are gone, Watson turns to Sherlock who is staring at
the doctor’s equipment skeptically. “You don’t actually use these things?” He
asks.
    Watson smirks, grateful for the mood lightening up. “What do you think?” He
responds, just to be an arse.
    Sherlock shrugs. “It seems as if you could build your own monster in here.”
   “Well, not quite, I use this as my torture room; it’s a little more fun.”
     This gets the reaction Watson was hoping for, as Sherlock’s smile crests
his face and the lad leans in to give him a playful punch on the arm. “That is
not amusing.” The boy lies.
    Watson can’t fight it any longer - he puts his arms around Sherlock and
holds him tight. “Oh how I’ve missed you.” He admits against Sherlock’s ever
present bed head.
    The lad huffs. “Did you? From the way you were ignoring me, one would
certainly question that statement.”
    Watson sighs. “I am so very sorry about all of this. It’s just all been out
of my control and-”
   “Say no more. I understand that it is not easy, but next time please do not
shut me out. It is the worst thing to have your Alpha hurting and to be
incapable of helping.”
    He had never thought about it like that, about Sherlock’s feelings. He was
so used to keeping things hidden and being in his solitude that he hadn’t even
considered someone else, especially his Omega. How selfish he had been.
   “I’m sorry.” He repeats, taking Sherlock’s hand and intertwining it with
his.
   “Good.” Sherlock smirks, leaning in to kiss Watson’s shoulder. “Now, can you
help me with this foot? I cannot even believe that I, the great Sherlock
Holmes, could be caught and then get into an accident.”
   “It must be fated that I end up being your doctor.”
    Sherlock taps his temple. “Fate or calculated coincidence.”
   Watson’s eyebrows raise. “Sherlock did you..?”
   “Fear not, it was an accident, and I don’t believe in fate, mind you. Just
coincidences.”
    Watson places the ice to Sherlock’s ankle and he hisses. When he calms
down, the doctor goes to fetch the bandages and the medicine. As he’s
administering them, Sherlock watches with rapt attention. Then after a few
minutes… “So tell me about Mary.”
   "Sherlock-”
    “Please, I nee- want to know.”
   “What do you want to know about her?”
    “What did she mean exactly by her not being meant for marriage?” Sherlock
searches Watson’s eyes for any of the lingering depression and he does find
some but not enough to dissuade him.
    Watson continues wrapping Sherlock’s leg with the gauze. “She was engaged
before me, but he died about three months after.”
   Sherlock goes quiet, but Watson continues. “When I met her, she was still a
bit sad about it. I had been a heavy gambler ever since the war and she was
desperate for a new mate. I believe that we were two people who should have
never gotten engaged. I can’t tell you how long it took for me to admit that.
    I figured I could fix her and that she could fix me, but it never turned
out that way. Do me a favor, lad?” Watson sighs, seriously trying to make sure
that Sherlock understands. “Promise you will never be the person I am.”
    Sherlock nods his head and smiles. “I should be so lucky.”
===============================================================================
                                        
Six Months Later
 
    Sherlock meets Irene Adler, another Alpha, the first one he officially
knows other than Watson, at school.
    She’s of high stature, but she talks like a low class ruffian, he
immediately takes a liking to her. They become friends and soon, after an Omega
is found dead and apparently tortured, she becomes his informant.
    He’s eighteen now and old enough to be living on his own, but with the
rising crime and the rate of adolescents going missing, his parents are,
understandably, anxious about sending him anywhere alone.
   Irene, who is the self-proclaimed eyes and ears of the London underground,
divulges all the information she hears with him.
“Apparently the people aren’t all going missing by coincidence,” Irene says,
taking a drag of her cigarette. She slides a picture over to him. To the
average onlooker, they aren’t even having a conversation. “There’s an
operation, some kind of sex ring involving Omegas and Alphas, hell even Betas.”
    “Do you know who’s in charge?” He asks, looking around for any wandering
eyes. When he looks down at the picture, it’s as gruesome as the last.
   Irene takes another drag of her cigarette. “You’re gonna have to pay extra
for that.” She declares, unashamed.
    Sherlock grins. “That’s why I like you, Irene.” He gives her the money and
she slides another picture to him. It’s a man with red hair, it’s not a dark
auburn like Irene’s but his eyes are almost the same color as hers.
   “This is Professor Moriarty, head of it all.”
   “Are you sure?”
   She raises her eyebrows. “Believe me, if I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t bloody be
here right now talking to you.”
    He nods. “Right.”
    “How’s the doctor? Does he still not know about our friendship?” She
emphasizes the word because she knows that Sherlock would prefer she say
affiliation. It would make him feel less guilty.
    “No, and I would prefer we keep it this way.”
    Alphas get jealous and though Watson is nothing if not caring and sweet,
Sherlock doesn’t want to test the waters. He doesn’t want Watson knowing about
Irene because chances are that even if he were understanding of their
affiliation, he wouldn’t quite like Sherlock conversing with someone as (his
parents would say if they found out as well) ‘boorish’ as she.
    So he keeps it a secret, just like his relationship with Watson. He also
doesn’t want anyone knowing about the work he does in the dark to bring Omegism
down. If no one knows, no one gets hurt.

                                      ~.~
                                        
     Mary is in town buying roses for her father when she sees a familiar face
standing outside of a shop. Silently, she watches the Alpha speak with the
Holmes boy and feels burning anger arise within her. Another Alpha? she thinks,
but this can't be? Does Watson even know about this? Should he?  She frowns,
but then her eyes meet Sherlock's shocked ones and she makes up her mind on the
spot. He will!
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you again beauties! I also, sort of, kind of revamped my
     Tumblr, the link's in my profile. Feel free to submit stuff, ask me
     questions or both. (^_-) I love ya'll. Thank you for helping me reach
     this milestone and for this momentous occasion. I really couldn't
     have done it without you! (T_T)
***** When an Angel Falls and a Devil Calls *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock tries to stop Mary, but his plan doesn't go so well.
     "Though in the order of nature angels rank above men, yet, by scale
     of justice, good men are of greater value than bad angels."
     - Saint Augustine
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     Despite all the craziness happening in the world right now, I just
     want to say that I hope you're all safe out there.
     I love the theme of innocence vs. temptation and thus you'll find
     many of the quotes I choose have that theme. If you, in any way, find
     this offensive, please do not read them.
     I want to thank my beta readers Kate, Abel, and Ranger for the much
     needed help and advice.
     If you enjoy this chapter, please leave a kudos or a comment or both.
     ;) Also, I want to thank all of you amazing readers who have been
     sticking with me from the beginning and even those who have just
     started reading. I appreciate everything! Thank you!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                     When An Angel Falls and A Devil Calls
                                        
 “Temptation is like a knife, that may either cut the meat or the throat of a
   man; it may be his food or his poison, his exercise or his destruction.”
                                  - John Owen


 “If a man is not rising upwards to be an angel, depend upon it, he is sinking
                           downwards to be a devil.”
                           - Samuel Taylor Coleridge
===============================================================================
                                        
                                        
   Sherlock tells Irene that he has to go. She nods and for once, says nothing.
He’s sure she must have seen Mary, and either doesn’t know anything about her
or does know but has the good graces to keep her mouth shut, perhaps. Either
way, at this moment he has bigger things to worry about.
   He hurries to follow Mary, heading in the direction he last saw her. He goes
down one alley and then the next, looking for evidence of her and finding none.
It seems as if she has just disappeared.
   He knows that she’s probably heading back to the lodging to tell Watson or
maybe, gone to tell his parents. He’s worried, but tries not to focus on it,
hoping that maybe he can stop her before she does just that.
    It isn’t long as he’s looking all around when he sees the lilac silk of her
skirts and he feels relief course through him, he pushes past people and races
to catch up to her. But as soon as he is so close to touching her shoulder, she
makes a turn and disappears again.
    Frustrated, he stops running. And takes in a few full breaths. On his third
inhale, he senses something; he is not alone. There’s a man who’s been
following him since he left Irene and two more  a foot away behind him.
   Panic rises through him but he tampers it down - they probably already smell
omega, but scared omega would perhaps give them too much of an invitation to
come forth.
   He straightens up and looks around without making it obvious that he’s aware
of their presence.
   He looks for an escape route but finds none. Their scents are coming closer,
they’re all alphas. And he doubts they’re here because they just want to talk.
   He has no weapon on him, just his bag of school books. In a huff, he drops
them and decides to face the consequences, come what may. George, the cook, had
thought him some form of martial arts training called Baritsu and he was
perpared to use it if need be.
    “Well, come on. I haven’t got all day.” He says, preparing himself for
their ambush.
   And ambush they do. It isn’t much of a fight, but Sherlock manages to get
one down, but the other two prove to be much more worthy adversaries and get
Sherlock into a corner.
   He kicks and punches but they grip him. “I will scream.” He warns them, but
the alphas seem not to care.
   “This one will be perfect for the boss, don’t ya think?” Alpha number one
tells alpha number two while alpha number three is still on the ground grunting
in pain from Sherlock kicking him in the throat.
   “Oy, he’s such a pretty bitch.” Alpha number two agrees.
   Alpha number one nods, then leans in and licks a grimy stripe across
Sherlock’s face. “You cause too much trouble. Boss says you need to be
silenced.”
   The poor boy closes his eyes, waiting for it - the humiliating rape or the
terrible beating that’s going to happen to him.
   And then it’s as if all time stands still. He’s waiting...but it never
comes. “What on earth is going on here?”
   The familiar voice startles the alphas. They sneer at him, but they let go,
pick alpha number three off the ground and fade into the darkness with their
last ominous warning being “This ain’t the last you’ll see of us.”
   Sherlock is rubbing his wrists and his shoulders, both bruised red now by
the harsh grip of the brutes. When he looks up, Mary is running towards him.
“Are you alright?”
   He blinks, temporarily disoriented by the circumstances. “Uh, yes. I’m just
a little shaken.”
   She touches his cheek and he cringes, looking back at the wall he was
pressed against and shudders. He was so close to being hurt and he only
narrowly escaped that fate. Thanks to Mary?
   Her face is turned to the direction of the alphas departure. “Do you know
those men, Sherlock?”
   He shakes his head in the negative. “No, but thank you for saving me.”
    She nods. “Of course. Now let’s get you home, your parents must be worried
sick.”
    He shakes his head again. “If it means anything, I would just like to
return to Watson.” He shudders again and bites his lip. “I don’t really want my
parents seeing me like this.” He clarifies and shows her the bruises.
    He can see her reluctance, but to his surprise, she pulls him to her side
and leads him out of the alley.
===============================================================================
 
   Watson is furious, but relieved when he sees Sherlock still in one piece.
But he’s a little shocked to see that it’s Mary who brings the lad to him.
    “What is the meaning of this?” He inquires, eyes flickering between the two
of them. Mary looks slightly smug and proud of herself, while Sherlock looks as
if he’d rather be anywhere else except there.
   “Let Sherlock explain.” She says. Watson narrows his eyes at her, he knows
that they are both hiding something, but god help him, he can’t quite figure it
out.
   He folds his arms and scrutinizes Sherlock who is still adamantly not saying
anything.
    “Mary, what is this about? Where was he?”  She is about to answer when
Sherlock interrupts. “I was with Irene, another alpha. But it’s not what you
think. It’s so much more complicated and-”
   Watson stops him. “Sherlock, did she hurt you?” His heart stops, he doesn’t
think he wants to know the answer.
   The lad shakes his head earnestly. “No!”
   “There were some ruffians.” Mary mutters, staring at Sherlock as if he is
just going to spill all of the details if she stares at him long enough.
   Watson’s heart nearly falls out of his chest. “W-what? Did you see their
faces?”
   Mary shakes her head. “Well, no, they left once I turned the corner. But I
heard them! Tell him Sherlock.”
   “It’s true. They were alphas. All three of them.” The lad finally admits.
   Watson sighs. “Alright Mary. I am eternally grateful to you for bringing
Sherlock here. But it seems that the lad and I have much to discuss.”
   “That is all? I believe Watson that you should -”
   “Thank you, Mary! Now, if you would be so kind as to leave…” He points to
the door.
   Mary scoffs. “I saved his life, and this is what I get?”
  Watson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mary, not now, please?”
  “Fine.” She seems to deflate a little.
   “Thank you, Mary,” Sherlock smiles at her. “I figure that I owe you that
much.”
   “We will never be even.” She mutters, and with that said, she leaves.
===============================================================================
  “Watson?” Sherlock calls, turning around to find that the alpha is not in the
foyer. He emerges a second later, coming from the bathing room, drying his
hands on a towel, with the sound of the tub filling behind him.
   “Don’t talk, Sherlock, just follow me.” He says.
   Sherlock gulps, not knowing what to expect. He knows that they have to speak
about the incident, but he doesn’t want to. Still he obeys.
   Watson’s in his dress pants, suspenders and white silk shirt. The sleeves
are rolled up as he works on filling the tub with hot water. “Get undressed.”
He orders softly, not looking at Sherlock.
  Sherlock, once again, obeys. Doing everything mechanically, he stops when
he’s stark naked.
  Watson fiddles with the tub some more, adjusting the temperature and not
looking at Sherlock.
  “Alright, Sherlock step in.”
   Sherlock does as he says. The water is warm, cool enough to be shocking, but
hot enough to soothe his sore muscles as he lowers himself into the amazing
depths.
   He leans against the edge of the tub, temporarily forgetting all of his
troubles.  He barely registers Watson’s careful prodding at the angry, red
marks on his shoulders.
   He feels as if he could fall asleep as Watson starts to massage his scalp
with gentle fingers. “Sherlock, you had me so worried.” Comes the broken voice
behind him.
   “I didn’t mean to.”
   “I know, Sherlock, I know. I have my suspicions, but I’ll wait until you’re
ready to tell me. For now, I’m just glad you’re still here.” Watson places a
gentle kiss to the claiming mark he placed on Sherlock that fateful night.
   Sherlock lets out a lascivious groan, unintentionally of course, as the pain
pleasure tingles through him.
   He moves away from Watson and makes space. “Come join me.” He orders. John
stares at him, unblinkingly. And so he adds, “Sir.” And yeah it’s great to see
Watson caught off guard by a sexual suggestion, but it’s a hundred times better
to see the predatory glint flash off from his eyes as his will power depletes
when he hears what he needs.
   Watson pauses to pull off his suspenders and Sherlock licks his lips as the
shirt goes next. Watson has a beautiful chest, it’s hard and muscular where
Sherlock’s is soft and lanky, with scars from the war of long ago. Watson never
seems embarrassed of them, though he has nothing to be embarrassed about - they
are as wonderful as the rest of him. It tapers off to a narrow waist, strong
thighs and a gorgeous arse. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what his favorite thing
about Watson’s body is and with so much for the eyes to feast on it’s hard to
pick just one, but as he watches the alpha unbutton his pants and slide them
down to reveal his, thick, leaking cock, he may admit that he likes that part
most of all.
  He steps into the tub and surges forward, pulling Sherlock towards him and
kissing him within an inch of his life. When they pull apart, it’s only to
breathe but Sherlock feels that Watson is the only oxygen he’ll ever need, ever
want.
   They kiss again until Watson turns him so that Sherlock’s arse is flush with
Watson’s hips, but only briefly as Watson bends him over, placing Sherlock’s
hands on the lip of the tub and roaming his hands over Sherlock’s plush arse.
   Sherlock sighs, seeing as they’ve only had sex once outside Sherlock’s heats
and though that time was quite pleasant, now it seems as if there’s an urgency.
And it isn’t a bad thing, certainly not, but he can definitely see where the
rush of adrenaline could become addicting. Maybe having his life put in danger
is the cause. He doesn’t really want to think, he just wants to connect with
Watson again, he wants to be sure that he’s still here, that they’re both still
here.
   He feels the slick leak out of his now twitching hole and feels his dick
fill, both desperate to be touched.
  He reaches a hand behind him to take Watson’s and lead it back to his arse,
he knows his slick is probably drooling onto John’s fingers by now, if the
shaky breath Watson lets out is any indication.
   And Watson thankfully doesn’t need to be told, he positions Sherlock right
so that he can slide a finger in, and they both groan when there is no
resistance. Sherlock’s hole clenches hungrily around the first finger. Two more
fingers later and he’s chanting Watson’s name, begging, groaning, desperate for
more.
    He hears when Watson slicks up his cock, squeezing one of Sherlock’s hard,
pink nipples as a distraction before he presses in gently. And there’s a burn,
of course. Watson’s dick is much bigger than his fingers and Sherlock isn’t
producing nearly enough slick like when he’s in heat. But it’s still so good,
especially as Watson’s whispering encouragements in his ear and kissing his
shoulders.
   Once the velvet soft head slips in, there’s still the stretch as the rest of
Watson’s length presses in. The burning is fading and in its place is an
insistent pulsing ecstasy that’s forcing him to let go of his willpower and
just ride Watson like he wants. But he holds tight, until Watson is sheathed up
to the hilt and he’s free to push back, fucking himself while Watson watches in
a daze.
   It doesn’t take long for them, way before they’re even ready to orgasm, to
move their naked, wet selves to the bedroom, where Watson picks up on
Sherlock’s desires and lets him ride him.
   It’s slow but perfect. Especially since they’ve found a good rhythm.
Whenever Sherlock rocks forward, Watson thrusts up. It’s such a glorious
feeling to have Watson going deeper than Sherlock ever thought possible,
Sherlock comes shamelessly on Watson’s chest below him. And Watson fucks up
more insistently, his handprints branding into Sherlock’s  hips whenever he
grips too tight.
  Eventually his knot pops and they stay connected, just exactly what Sherlock
was craving.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for reading! Love you guys so much!
     Please be safe out there. See you next chapter!
***** Fire, Flesh and Bone *****
Chapter Summary
     "Then tell me, Maria
     Why I see her dancing there
     Why her smold'ring eyes still scorch my soul
     I feel her, I see her
     The sun caught in raven hair
     Is blazing in me out of all control"
     -The Hunchback of Notre Dame "Hellfire"
     Sherlock and Watson enjoy some time alone.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone! This chapter is pure smut. Maybe it has a little
     plot? If you blink?
     I want to thank Kate and RD who are new to the armada, but are great
     beta readers all the same. And most importantly I want to thank you
     all for the kudos/subscriptions/bookmarks/hits/comments everything!
     You guys absolutely rock!
     I also updated the tags and will continue to update them as needed.
     And also 294 kudos?! We've come so far guys! <3 <3
     Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                             Fire, Flesh and Bone
                                        
                    “Lyin' in my bed with her hands tied up
                   I knew it all along that it wasn't enough
                        'Cuz when I gotta taste of you
                  I found somethin' I can sink my teeth into
                         It's an ache that never heals
                         It's the deepest cut you feel
                       It's the thing in you that feeds
                               The animal in me
                         It's the darker side of lust
                           It's the other side of us
                       It's the thing in you that feeds
                      The animal in me, the animal in me”
                                       -
                         Motley Crue“The Animal in Me”
===============================================================================
                                        
The following morning…
Watson steps into the corridor leading to his room after coming off the phone
with Inspector Lestrade - the phone call wasn’t a pleasant one, not in the
least. Lestrade was stressed and it was all about the terror happening on
London’s streets. Apparently no one is safe anymore from the violence. It used
to only be omegas in danger of being taken and forced into sex rings, and that
was horrible enough but now every level on the chain is a target. It is warped
and twisted, and Watson hates thinking about it.
Still, he’s grateful that he could receive some information, no matter how
disconcerting. He likes being a part of the action, he likes to think that he
can help in some way. Maybe he’s deluding himself, maybe the only reason
Lestrade trusts him is because he’s taken a liking to Watson as a friend,
whatever the reason may be, at least he gets to be more a part of it than he’d
be if he were simply reading the paper.
He’s halfway to his room, the familiar aroma of Sherlock’s sweet butterscotch
scent caressing his nose and making him feel more relaxed as he gets closer,
when he sees a sight that makes him stop in his tracks; Sherlock is sitting up
in Watson’s bed, upper body stark naked while he’s wrapped in the covers from
the waist down. He’s rubbing one of his eyes and not really looking at
anything, still lost in that sleepy, post-coital haze. His rebellious ebony
locks are even more rumpled now thanks to Watson’s gentle tugging last night.
His nipples - rosy pink buds that stand at attention on a small chest that
rises and falls with Sherlock’s breathing. He’s completely smooth, hairless. He
looks like he’s a fucking fifteen year old wet dream (even though he's eighteen
now) and Watson has to bite his fist just to anchor himself.
Eventually he does cross the distance into the room. He knows he must look like
he’s in great pain, because Sherlock tilts his head and screws his face into a
pout when he sees him. Watson’s trying to tame the alpha and be civil and maybe
even romantic but damn it, it’s not easy.
“Are you alright, Watson?” The lad asks, concern dripping with every word.
Watson nods in the affirmative. He’s looking everywhere but Sherlock’s eyes,
drinking in the sight of him. The rising sun is bathing everything in a
brilliant glow, making Sherlock look ethereal now. As if he’s some incubus from
some secret part of hell that must have Watson’ name printed in the blood of
wayward saints, waiting for him.
Sherlock is not pleased with that answer. “You don’t seem alright.”
He gets off the bed, carrying the covers with him, still hugging his slight
waist. Once he’s in front of Watson, he tips up on his toes and presses the
back of a hand against Watson’s forehead. “You’re warm.” The lad says matter-
of-factly. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue peeks out from his lips to wet them
before he frowns in concentration, placing his hands on Watson’s throat now to
feel more of the heat.
“Are you in rut?” He asks, and Watson would have hugged him and kissed him for
being his own little doctor, if the very mention of rut didn’t have Watson’s
twitching dick leak precome. But he does gain the common sense to shake his
head again.
Then Sherlock grins wickedly, perhaps figuring it out...he leans in close to
Watson, close enough that his breath tickles Watson’s ear. “I want to try
something.”
Sherlock doesn’t explicitly need permission, they both know this, but that’s
why he says it, to kill Watson with the anticipation alone. Watson gives him a
nod, all the same.
And then Sherlock is on his knees in one fluid motion.
Watson’s eyes can’t help but stare at the lad kneeling between his legs, and
mercy is it a fucking sight. Sherlock’s looking up at him from beneath his
lashes, wide brown eyes getting impossibly darker as he takes in the heady
smell of Watson’s alpha scent with every breath.
But Sherlock’s own dulce one is intertwining with his dangerously, along with
the post-coital aroma lingering in the room from last night. He can practically
almost taste it, the salty sweet caramel-like consistency that’s keeping him on
edge. He can’t quite get himself off but neither can he stay this hard forever.
It’s fucking intoxicating, and cruel. And Sherlock can probably sense this too,
but he’s quiet, as if he can do this all day with no complaint, just ghosting
his breath over Watson’s dick, driving him mad, until either of them does
something about it.
But Watson doesn’t want to discourage Sherlock from getting ideas or trying to
explore new things. He doesn’t want to stop the lad from his actions by fucking
the living hell out of him every time he does something irresistible. So the
only thing he does is try to even out his breathing and it works, he wills his
arousal into a more comfortable state and is about to encouragingly rub his
fingers through Sherlock’s hair to reassure him that he can take his time, when
in a voice that’s a little deep but still as innocent as ever, the lad says
with absolutely no shame, “I want you to pull my hair and force me to call you
Sir.”
Watson’s eyes widen and he looks down at Sherlock who simply licks his lips and
stares at him doe-like. He manages to nod, but then Sherlock admits, not even
with a hint of shyness, “That’s not all...I want you to do it while you fuck my
mouth.” And yep, Watson’s fucking gone. Where on Earth did Sherlock even learn
to talk like that? Not that he’s complaining. It’s just a little dizzying how
fast Sherlock can go from sweet and virginal to evil and seductive in seconds.
It doesn’t make sense, but then again nothing makes sense right now, especially
not when Watson’s hand unconsciously finds Sherlock’s hair and gives an almost
bruising tug. He watches the crimson creep to the lad’s cheeks and his wet, red
lips form a small ‘O’ as he realizes that he is getting what he wants.
Sherlock’s breath fans over Watson’s clothed erection, and even through his
trousers and undergarments, he can feel the heat ghost across his groin like a
caress. And now he’s so hard it hurts.
Sherlock must have read his mind because he’s suddenly loosening the top button
of Watson’s pants, giving the alpha some relief from the strain on his
erection...Sherlock’s eyes are on his now, but he’s slowly losing his doe-like
composure - eyes darkening to a lust filled black and breath coming out in
desperate pants. Finally, despite Sherlock seeming to take a decade, Watson’s
dick is free of its confines, and the air of the room is like a fucking jolt of
electricity once it hits his cock.
The feeling is short-lived because almost as soon as his dick earns its freedom
and Sherlock is basking in the sight of it, he gets a flash of an impish grin
before a soft but firm hand wraps around him and is tugging gently.  Sherlock
gives him one last evil look before he guides the pulsing head to his mouth,
giving it a teasing kiss and wiping precome onto his now glistening lips.
Watson shudders, trying his best to stay still, if he moves and does what he
wants, this will be over way too quickly. Sherlock seems to sense what Watson
is doing and as a reward, Watson’s cock is met with the burning warmth of a
slick tongue licking a stripe from the base to the tip. And the sound Watson
makes is absolutely guttural.
Sherlock continues like that, tracing patterns on Watson’s dick with his tongue
while his warm, wet lips place tender kisses at the base, right where John’s
knot waits to rise. Watson’s knees feel weak as the pleasure dances up and down
his spine, and he’s tempted to just fuck Sherlock’s face like he asked, but he
really doesn’t want to interrupt the show Sherlock’s making of worshipping his
dick.
Then fingers clutch at the base before those heated lips are wrapped around the
head, deft tongue swiping to lick at the precome dripping from the slit and a
moan escapes from both of them. Watson can’t tear his eyes off of the scene,
especially once he’s witnessed the tip of his dick actually pass Sherlock’s
neat, soft lips. He’s certain that they won’t be able to stretch and take in
his girth, but Sherlock surprises him by swallowing his entire length up to the
hilt. Damn omegas and their lack of gag reflexes. Sherlock hums appreciatively
around his dick and it’s simply delicious.
Watson takes a moment to admire the view, Sherlock’s pretty lips are stretched
obscenely wide around his member, his eyes are dark and tearing a little at the
corners, one hand is on Watson’s waist while the other is beneath the covers as
he discreetly jerks himself off. He was meant to take dick, and Watson thinks
that it’s a shame for Sherlock to go a minute without having any of his holes
properly used, the way nature intended.
He’d just have to fix that.
“Stop touching yourself,” He commands and the lad halts immediately.  Watson’s
hand flies to Sherlock’s hair and he tugs Sherlock’s mouth off his cock.
There’s lines of saliva connecting them still, but they are both too gone to
care.
Watson feels emboldened by the sex high and decides to take it up a notch.
“Sherlock, I need to fuck your mouth, g-god. And I n-need to see you come on my
knot.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise but they are all pupil. He laves an expert
tongue across his abused lips while his eyes refocus on Watson’s cock. Watson
watches his Adam’s apple bounce when he swallows before he replies, “Y-yes
Sir.”
And that’s all it takes, he surges back to Watson’s dick, head bobbing up and
down as he sucks and licks with renewed vigor. Still Watson does as he said he
would and holds Sherlock’s face still while he pistons his hips into Sherlock’s
trapped mouth.
A litany of curses string from his lips as he watches Sherlock just take it. He
knows Sherlock is wet, hell, people from the streets below probably know, the
smell is certainly there, but Watson wants to see. So he taps the lad’s
shoulder and gestures for him to move the covers from around his waist. And
Sherlock, ever the obedient one, does as he’s told. Practically throwing the
sheets to the side to reveal his lower half. And it is a sight, his flushed
dick is bobbing between his knees, aching to be touched while his hole is
basically twitching, oozing so much slick it’s practically wetting the backs of
his thighs. Watson feels his knot begin to swell just at the sight but he can’t
have that.
He tugs Sherlock’s hair again, and the boy  groans in pleasure at the man
handling. The lad pulls his mouth off Watson’s cock with a sinfully wet pop and
he looks up smugly before Watson basically pounces on him, pawing at anywhere
his hands can reach. Sherlock returns his enthusiasm, practically tearing off
the rest of Watson’s clothes and moaning when skin meets skin.
They rub off on one another for a brief moment before Watson’s dick reminds him
that he wants more, he takes one look at Sherlock, because he’s not sure for a
brief second, but Sherlock’s eyes are shining with victory and arousal, he’s
enjoying this a little too much, and he’s looking at Watson expectantly.
So Watson flips him onto his stomach, right there on the floor. He raises
Sherlock’s arse up and leans his head down so that his face is practically
pressed into the pillow (that he provided once he got a little clarity, lest
Sherlock hurt his neck). He’s taking the dress shirt he was wearing from last
night and tying an intricate knot around Sherlock’s hands, pinning them to his
back when he notices that Sherlock is squirming very impatiently.
“Are you alright?” He asks, pausing from his actions to check Sherlock over.
The lad is squirming and breathing hard, but boy does he look like a pretty
piece. All bound like that, he looks like Watson’s very own gift. Watson can’t
help but stop to tap an idle finger at Sherlock’s hole, basking in how it
flutters at the mere hint of an intrusion.
“Sir, I’m fine.” But he sounds so utterly broken and wrecked, and Watson loves
it. It’s so relieving for him to admit it, but he does. He loves seeing
Sherlock like this.
“Shh, I’ll make it better. I promise.” Watson whispers by the lad’s ear,
slicking his dick up with Sherlock’s fluid. He would stretch him, but at this
point they’re not kidding anyone - Sherlock doesn’t need it and his hole is
twitching hungrily. Plus, Watson’s been waiting far too long for this.
He kisses a line down Sherlock’s spine, even pressing his lips to the lad’s
bound wrists before placing a chaste kiss to each arse cheek. Then it’s his
turn to get on his knees, he rubs the velvet soft head of his cock against the
plush globes of Sherlock's arse, leaving glistening beads of precome in its
trail, before aligning with Sherlock's hole. He slowly thrusts into the amazing
heat that is Sherlock’s passage. He steadies himself until he’s up the hilt,
gripping Sherlock’s hands he presses them down so that the satin of the shirt
bites into the lad’s wrists. Knowing they’ll leave marks.
He sucks a bruising hickey into the hollow at Sherlock’s back and then finally,
finally, moves. Sherlock is shamelessly loud, crying out and begging him for
more, using that not-so-innocent mouth to coax Watson’s alpha.
And Watson feels wild, animalistic, taking Sherlock good and proper. He can’t
really stop himself, just keeps fucking into Sherlock long and deep, each
brutal thrust causing the younger man to gasp and beg even more.
Somehow, one of his hands slides its way into Sherlock’s hair and he pulls,
tilting Sherlock’s head up to expose the claiming mark and leaning up to trail
his tongue along it.
Sherlock comes then, his channel clenching around Watson’s knot as the
aftershocks pulse through his body. Watson can’t help but whisper encouraging
words to him, praising him for being so good. And Sherlock practically purrs
beneath him.
Later, when they are clean and lying in bed, aiming to sleep off the haze,
Sherlock turns to Watson who’s got his arm around him and is staring up at the
ceiling waiting for sleep. He presses his nose into the older man’s throat,
enjoying their mingled scent lingering on his skin, before asking, “Can you
fuck me like that more often, Sir?”
And Watson groans. He knows on his tombstone, the words Death By Sherlock will
be imprinted. He doesn’t think he’d have it any other way.
 
                                        
Chapter End Notes
     This is my first time writing a detailed blowjob, and it didn't make
     me cringe. XD
     Hope you all enjoyed it! More to come soon! ;)
***** The Song of a Weeping Violin *****
Chapter Summary
     "For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
     And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again."
     Venus and Adonis (1593), line 1,019.
     Sherlock learns a harsh lesson about mortality
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone! How's it going?
     I want to thank my beta readers for the help! And I want to thank you
     guys for the kudos/subscriptions/hits/comments/everything. You guys
     make me feel so grateful everyday.
     I don't know if I'll be updating again until around/after Christmas.
     I'll be around though. So happy holidays everyone! You all deserve to
     have a good one.
     This may sound cheesy, but I appreciate it so much! You guys build me
     as a writer and though I love what I'm doing, you guys keep me
     grounded and I can't thank you all enough for that.
     Fair warning: this chapter gets a little sad, but it's not for shock/
     wow value, some things are hard to write about, but necessary. If
     this isn't your cup of tea, then please feel free to skip this
     chapter. I understand. I will update the tags if it gets too trigger-
     y. But if you want to stay, then stick around, by all means. Get
     comfy. :D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing
                                 about them.”
                       ― Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones
===============================================================================
A few days later
Sherlock is sitting at the table, eating breakfast with his father while his
mother talks to Gertrude somewhere in the house. He’s only mildly listening,
but he can tell that there’s something different in the way that his father
talks to him now that he knows Sherlock’s mated (even though he doesn’t know
the person’s identity), there’s more respect there, less condescension.
Although, he assumes his father never meant to sound patronizing before, it’s
still a lovely change.
They’ve all grown closer, talked more, fought less, Sherlock is pleased with
the turn of events.
Occasionally, he nods or hums, just to satisfy his father when asked a question
and it seems to be working, his father is none the wiser.
In all honesty, Sherlock’s mind is somewhere else, like it usually is. He’s
thinking about his older brother’s visit.
It’s been ten years since Mycroft left London to go to Lourdes, France. Ten
years and Sherlock still misses him terribly.
Although Mycroft would refuse to refer to his leaving as being sent away, it
was akin to that. As an alpha, Mycroft was experiencing major changes since
presenting and was getting fed up with their parents’ lack of understanding. He
was becoming more aggressive, more on edge. Their parents couldn’t contain him
during his ruts and eventually they decided to have him leave. Mycroft never
thought of it like that, he always argued that it was he who wanted to leave,
or that it was a mutual agreement.
Sherlock assumes that they sent him to Lourdes for a cure. A means to change
who Mycroft was on the inside to match the sophisticated, intelligent man on
the outside. Or perhaps it was the other way around? He’s not sure, but one
thing he is positive about, is that Mycroft resented them greatly for that.
Despite all the calamity, Mycroft visited faithfully every year. He’d come to
see Sherlock, bearing gifts and hilarious, fascinating stories about his
pilgrimage and life in France.
And Sherlock never failed to listen raptly to every word he said. And Mycroft
would do the same, even when Sherlock thought his experiences weren’t nearly as
exciting as Mycroft’s, his older brother would still urge him to speak,
ensuring him that he would be heard. Despite the age difference, they got along
swimmingly.
Mycroft is due for his visit in a couple of days and Sherlock’s getting
restless. It doesn’t help that the only person he has to talk to about it is
Gertrude, seeing as his parents never really mention Mycroft or allow Sherlock
to talk about him much (it’s a touchy subject for both of them as Mycroft
hasn’t yet forgiven them for what happened).  
His parents barely mention Mycroft when talking to other people either,
Sherlock knows they’re ashamed of the circumstances. That they are aware that
it looks a certain way that they had to send away the alpha child while the
omega stayed. Hell, that they even had to send away their son in the first
place, good parents know how to raise their children after all.
Mycroft is the secret they all keep, that even Sherlock has been guilty of
keeping himself. In fact, the only person who he’s ever told about Mycroft is
Watson. And it’s a shame because with all the love Sherlock has for Mycroft,
keeping him a secret is a great injustice.
One day, he hopes to visit his brother, hopes that the distance that separates
them will no longer be a problem. He feels bad from time to time, because
Mycroft never asked for any of this, to be the one that didn’t fit in with the
perfect picture their parents tried to paint. To be sent away or forced to
leave for fear that he would ruin the Holmes’ reputation. It was wrong, but
sooner or later, things have a way of coming back to haunt…
===============================================================================
Days turn into weeks and they hear no word from Mycroft. Sherlock becomes
suspicious and worried, he begins to assume that Mycroft has cut them off, he
fears that Mycroft wants nothing to do with any of them. He’d understand, if
his fears were true, but the selfish part in him hopes that that is not the
case and that Mycroft has just been busy and lost track of time.
Gertrude tries to comfort him, tells him that Mycroft will be at the door any
minute or any day, with his bags and that huge smile on his face he always
wears.
It works for awhile, but deep down, somewhere, Sherlock worries even more.
One very late night, when Sherlock is in his room reading The Strange Case of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, someone knocks on the front door.
He doesn’t wait for one of the maids or manservants to get it, he just runs
downstairs and throws the door open. But what greets him isn’t his brother’s
smiling face; there are two constables.
“Greetings lad, are the Mr and Missus here?” The one with the perpetual frown
asks.
Sherlock turns to call his father but as soon as he turns his back to the
constables, his mother is there. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this
visit?” She quips.
The men take their helmets off, and their faces turn grave. And soon Sherlock
finds that he cannot move, he wants to walk away, but dammit he is paralyzed.
“Something’s happened.”
“We are going to need you to come with us.”
Sherlock’s mother’s face morphs into an expression of confusion. She doesn’t
move an inch. “What’s happened? Whatever is the matter?”
The red-headed constable looks away, tries to look at anything else besides
Sherlock's mother’s face. While the one with the pout stares right through
them, his expression is distant. They have more to say, Sherlock can tell, and
it isn’t going to be good news.
After what feels like an eternity, the red-headed one holds up a timepiece.
“Does this look familiar to you?”
Both Sherlock and his mother say nothing. They don’t want to know, don’t want
to think.  It isn’t until the constable flips open the watch and they are
forced to read the inscription in perfect cursive, in a moment that will haunt
Sherlock forever, in tauntingly infallible gold calligraphy, Mycroft Holmes.
And it's as if someone shot him in the gut. Sherlock’s mother doesn’t stop
screaming. The pain does not subside.
===============================================================================
It’s a dark, rainy night. The kind horrors start out with. The weather’s
absolutely miserable and Watson has already planned to spend the evening with a
good book until he dozes off in peaceful slumber.
But apparently, someone has other plans, Watson realizes when the doorbell
rings.
He doesn’t expect to find Sherlock on the other side, at all. Especially not at
this time.
The lad is standing out in the rain, his back is turned and he is absolutely
drenched. “Sherlock?” Watson calls. He takes a coat off the rack and puts it
over his head before walking down the steps and touching the lad’s shoulder.
Sherlock turns around, but he’s gone, his dark eyes, that always shine with
such vitality are now void of everything that makes him, him.
Watson immediately knows that something is very wrong.
“Sherlock what happened? You can talk to me.”
The lad’s head is lowered, he’s staring down at the cobblestone sidewalk and
seems unbothered by the freezing rain dripping down his bangs.
“They took him, tortured and mutilated him until he was almost unrecognizable.”
Sherlock whispers so low that Watson would probably not have caught it, if he
weren’t paying attention. The rain begins to pick up again, so the doctor puts
his makeshift brolly over Sherlock and tries to get him to come inside.
But Sherlock does not budge. He just keeps repeating, “they took him.” Over and
over again.
“Who Sherlock? Who took whom? What are you talking about?”
“I shall never see him again. Except in my nightmares and even then it is not
an image I wish to keep of him.” He says before returning to his litany of
“they took him, they took him.”
Watson tries one more time to get Sherlock to come inside and it works, the lad
comes willingly as Watson leads him to the sitting room. Once inside, Mrs.
Hudson is standing there in her robe, and Watson signals for her to put the tea
kettle on.
He gets some warm towels and wraps them around Sherlock, who is still
unresponsive.
After Mrs. Hudson returns with the tea and the fire has been properly stoked by
Watson, the older man kneels in front of the chair Sherlock is sitting on. He
takes Sherlock’s freezing hand in his, “What has gotten you so distressed, my
love?”
It takes a little while, Watson rubbing soothing circles to the back of
Sherlock’s hand and whispering encouraging words to him, until Sherlock says in
a breathlessly shaky voice. “They took Mycroft.”
Watson’s mouth drops open, he can’t find the words to say.
While John is trying to piece this all together in his head, Sherlock stands.
“I’m going to find Moriarty and make him pay.”
Luckily, Watson regains some sense and stops Sherlock before he can go any
further. Sherlock pushes and pulls, but Watson’s grip is like iron.
“Sherlock you’ll get yourself killed!”
“I don’t care! That bastard took my brother. He will pay for this!”
“Sherlock no, please it’s too dangerous.” 
The lad fights some more before he suddenly goes stiff in Watson’s arms. He
screams into Watson’s shoulder before he is assaulted by wracking sobs. The
doctor’s arms wrap even tighter around him and he lets Sherlock weep. 
That night, Sherlock cries himself to sleep, but Watson is there, holding him
the entire time. He understands that what has happened is serious and so truly
awful. It hurts him to see his omega so, so sad. But he can’t just let Sherlock
go after one of London’s most violent men. He’d die before he’d let that
happen.
However, the next day he wakes up alone. Not remembering when he fell asleep,
he mentally reprimands himself. Because lying there in Sherlock’s place, is a
note that simply reads:I’m sorry.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Hope you all enjoyed!
     How are you all liking the story so far? Feel free to leave me a
     message in the comments. If you'd like, of course. I am so delighted
     by the support this fic has received.
     I mean it when I say that you guys deserve to enjoy your holidays.
     Also, next chapter I'm posting a surprise. Hopefully by then I'll
     figure out how and where to post it. (T-T)
***** Leave Out All the Rest *****
Chapter Summary
     While Sherlock feels pensive, Watson goes in search of him and finds
     something...different along the way.
     "I will never know myself until I do this on my own."
     - Linkin Park's Somewhere I Belong.
     Or, the long overdue 11th chapter of HSaHB that the author wrote
     while listening to copious amounts of Linkin Park.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone! I am so sorry that this chapter took so long for me
     to post. I've been battling with allergies, headaches and life in
     general but here I am, back from the dead or at the very least, the
     underworld lol. I want to thank my beta Ranger for the much needed
     help.
     And as for you guys, I want to say that I feel so incredibly lucky
     for the amount of love and support these fics have received. I am so
     grateful and happy that I can make and share something we all can
     enjoy. Please forgive my sappiness, but at times when I feel unsure
     of myself I look at the support these fics have received and feel
     loads better! So thank you, you dearly loved people.
     Okay, onto the story: enjoy. ;)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          “ I'm strong on the surface
                            Not all the way through
                            I've never been perfect
                             But neither have you”
                   -   Linkin Park,  Leave Out All the Rest
                                        
                     “Sometimes solutions aren't so simple
                     Sometimes goodbye's the only way, oh”
                        Linkin Park,  Shadow Of the Day
                                        
===============================================================================
    Sherlock uses some of the details and intel that Irene collected as a means
to track Moriarty. There isn’t much, but he thinks that maybe he can make do.
 For once in his life, he’s not even remotely sure if his plan (if it can be
called a plan) will work, he’s losing faith in himself. He’s scared, uncertain
and most of all, he’s lost, totally and utterly lost. The feeling is like being
stranded in the desert, with no one around, or more accurately, having the one
person who  was  around having suddenly died and then subsequently being alone
and left to fend for oneself. And yet, it is a million times worse than that
because, unlike being in a desert where one has at least some inkling of self-
preservation left, he feels as if not returning from this endeavor wouldn’t be
so bad.
    He never entertained the thought of death, but that didn’t mean that he was
afraid of it. Far from it, actually. While most of his schoolmates were finally
getting hit with the weight of existence and the crushing realization that it
all had to end someday, he had already accepted that bit of fate. He knew that
his time to go would just be his time to go. But the troubling part, the part
that he couldn’t accept was losing a loved one. That didn’t sit well with him.
    Mycroft was no exception.
    And he would avenge Mycroft. He had to. As pretentious as it might sound,
he’d avenge Mycroft if it was the last thing he did.
    He’d miss Watson, he’d miss his parents, hell, he’d even miss Irene. But it
wasn’t about him, not this time. If Moriarty wanted him to get the message, he
got it, loud and clear. He was going to end it, even if it ended with him…
===============================================================================
    Watson gets dressed hurriedly. He breezes past Mrs. Hudson in the hallway
and forgoes everything he had planned for the day in order to find Sherlock.
    He wouldn’t know where to start looking if it weren’t for the scent
lingering in the air, the familiar scent of Sherlock but mixed with something
more anxious, more citrus-y.
   He follows it as it takes him through London’s streets, weaving past people
and buildings, following the scent that will lead him to Sherlock.
    It doesn’t take long before a competing scent rivals the primary one. Which
is strange, as ever since he mated with Sherlock, all other scents he came into
contact with, were all significantly muted. But this scent also has a tinge of
his mate with it, it’s a lot calmer, that’s for sure, but it’s fading fast. He
decides to follow that one, and prepares himself in the case that it could be a
trap.
    And lo and behold, it leads him to an alpha. He utilizes a tip that he
learned from watching numerous boxing matches and braces to attack the young
female alpha standing out in the streets. But she puts her hands up in
surrender - a strange act for an alpha to do, but one that is universally
accepted as meaning that she poses no harm.
    “Who are you and why do you smell like my mate?” Watson questions the
startled girl.
   She pauses, appraising him, scenting the air as she does this. “Wait, are
you Watson, J-John Watson?”
   Watson frowns, feeling annoyed yet curious - this seemingly unassuming girl
has more knowledge than she lets on. “Where is Sherlock?”
   “I swear, I don’t know.” She says.
   He steps closer to her, until he’s peering down at her menacingly. “You
know  something.”
    Someone stops perusing the goods from one of the street merchants to stand
next to the alpha. Watson doesn’t have to look up to know who it is, though the
surprise still happens to strike him. Mary is studying him with disapproving
eyes.  “John, have you taken to harassing the youth now? I must say, it’s
rather uncouth. Or, considering your latest paramour I must say, it’s fitting
but it doesn’t help your reputation much.”
    Watson narrows his eyes at her. But by the way she’s protectively inching
closer to Irene and with the blended familiar scent of her  and the other,
foreign scent, Watson puts the puzzle pieces together. “I hope you’ve found
happiness.” He tells this to Mary mostly, but also Irene. Tipping his hat to
them, and after realizing that this lead has gone cold, he leaves to track the
primary scent.
Chapter End Notes
     You go Watson! Go get Sherlock! Also, I know I made Irene totally
     very un-alpha in this chapter, but I swear she's very much the
     dominant one in her relationship with Mary, while Mary is the wise
     one. They make a good pair, or I like to think so. :) Anywho, thanks
     for reading and I'll see you in the next chapter. Love you guys
     loads!
***** And For All the Angels Cast Out of Heaven, In Their Places Rise Demons
*****
Chapter Summary
     “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to
     be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe
     would turn to a mighty stranger.”
     ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
     Watson is desperate to find Sherlock and bring the omega home safely.
     Come hell or high water...
Chapter Notes
     Hi! You all have been so patient with me, thank you so much! I'm back
     and I'm here to stay.
     Once again, I am sorry for the long wait. I actually forgot how much
     I love this fic and the fandom, because I strayed a bit. But it feels
     so good to be back!
     I've been listening to 'Genie in a Bottle' by Christina Aguilera and
     'I'm A Slave 4 U' by Britney Spears and they gave me...ideas. Not
     completely harmless ones either. XD
     I want to thank my incredible beta Deinvati for the motivation,
     encouragement and assistance with this chapter, thank you immensely
     for all that you've done!
     And most importantly, I want to thank you all for reading and just
     giving support to this fic. Twink!Omega! Sherlock is one of my
     weaknesses. :)
     Thank you again, please enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                       “Man cannot live on bread alone”
                                 - Matthew 4:4
                                        
                      “From what I’ve tasted of desire
                       I hold with those who favor fire.”
                        - ‘Fire and Ice’  Robert Frost
===============================================================================
It’s dark and...cold, ridiculously cold. Even through his shirt and Farnsworth
vest, the chill seems to have seeped through the material and made its way
through his skin and settled deep within his bones. An involuntary, violent
shiver besets his body and he grits his teeth to keep them from rattling.
 
He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten but if the pangs emanating from his
stomach are anything to go by, then he hasn’t eaten in  days . It’s unlikely
that they will feed him, and he isn’t desperate enough to eat anything that
they would give him anyways.
 
He’s in a quiet room tied to a pole by some type of durable rope, that’s as
much as he knows. And he has stopped calling for help because all of his
efforts have been in vain; no one is going to help him, no one  can  help him.
He’d rather not waste any more energy.
 
It was stupid, he surmises, to have come here by himself. How was he, a mere
youth, going to take down so many criminals all by himself? Then again, this
was all to avenge Mycroft. Had Sherlock been the one slaughtered unjustly,
Mycroft would not have hesitated in seeking out revenge on the perpetrators. No
matter if it was him against an army.
 
And yet, he failed. He’s going to die here, cold and alone and Moriarty is
going to get away with all of it. How stupid he had been!
 
Maybe his death would come quickly. Maybe, he’d meet Mycroft again, in another
life somehow, and maybe Sherlock would be a better brother, a better son, a
better person. Maybe he could do it right...if he had another chance.
 
Blinding light floods the room and his vision, causing him to blink a few times
for his eyes to adjust. It hits him, this overpowering, inescapable scent of
raw, pure alpha and Sherlock shivers again.
 
He glances up quickly to see a red haired older alpha, the same man he saw
before he was taken to this room. Moriarty’s his name, Sherlock remembers, the
man responsible for Mycroft’s death. He is flanked by two huge betas.
 
Sherlock grits his teeth to keep from cursing. He won’t give this smug alpha
the satisfaction of seeing him distressed and angered. Sherlock would die
first.
 
“Gentlemen, it appears we’ve captured quite the specimen. It’s not every day we
encounter such beautiful omegas. And it’s not every day that they come straight
to us.” His voice is smooth, velvety soft and he never takes his focus off of
Sherlock.
 
Sherlock grimaces. “You will never get away with this!”
 
Moriarty’s smirk grows bigger. “Oh dear boy, I already am.” Then, with a scoff,
“You’re the omega causing so much trouble? Hmm, I figured you would be older
and more...intimidating.” He reaches a hand to touch Sherlock’s hair but the
omega turns away.
 
“You’re going to be so good, I can tell.” He laughs cruelly, before he suddenly
stops, scenting the air, eyebrow raising, he looks Sherlock over once more.
“And you’re pregnant too. This is really a gift. Gentlemen, we have a gorgeous,
delicious smelling omega who also happens to be fertile. What a stroke of
luck.”
Pregnant? Did he just say…? Sherlock tries to process this. He doesn’t believe
it for even one second, he’s having serious trouble wrapping his mind around
it. Until suddenly everything starts to fall into place. There was a reason why
he felt so...strange. Originally, he thought it was because of the grief, but
now it was starting to make sense. The fact that he stopped craving food, the
dizziness he had when standing up, the fact that he could smell everything so
clearly as if he were still in heat and most importantly, his hormones and his
mood changes. He’s pregnant, and with Watson’s child.
 
 It’s all going to be so different. He’s going to have a child. He’s going to
bring life into this world. Coming all the way here, getting captured and
putting his life (and the child’s) in danger was the height of stupidity. If
Sherlock had known all along he would have been more careful. What a mistake
he’d made, and now their unborn child was never going to get a chance at life
because he had been so stubborn. He needs to get back!  He has to . He cannot
die here, he refuses to let that happen. He wants to go back to his alpha, to
share the news with Watson. If only he knew how to get out of here…
 
Tears well up in his eyes. What wretched luck…
 
Moriarty frowns. “Oh don’t worry lad, we’ll take care of you and the babe just
fine. This will be your new home.”
 
“Leave me be!” Sherlock snaps. He’s not going to let the twisted alpha win.
He’d never let them hurt or even touch his child. And for Moriarty to think
that Sherlock was going to just allow them to use him or his child like some
sort of vessel to act out their desires, the alpha had truly lost his mind.
He’d kill them for even thinking it.
 
He feels rough fingers card through his hair and pull agonizingly. “You see,
you don’t have much of a choice.” Moriarty spits as if he can read Sherlock’s
mind. “Now, gentlemen, get him ready. We have many eager men willing to put a
hefty price on this one. Let’s not keep them waiting anymore.”
===============================================================================
The scent is potent, rich and hearty. And it’s getting clearer. Now, Watson
does not need to concentrate on it so hard anymore. He can practically follow
it with his eyes closed.
 
Sherlock’s fear and anger is obvious and the persistent buzzing within Watson
means that he is getting closer to finding his mate. And yet there is a bitter
lingering aura interlacing, it appears to Watson, to be regret. He has to find
Sherlock before it is too late. He’s not sure how much time he has left and
that is making his panic worse, but he will find his mate. Even if it kills
him.
 
Watson’s search leads him to Whitechapel, a slum in the East of England. It has
the notoriety for being extremely crime-infested so it comes as no surprise
that there would be an entire sex ring here that would go unnoticed or
unreported. The most loathsome, abominable brutes have flocked here like the
very worst miscreants of Hell, whose own doors refused to open to them.
 
He decides that his identity needs to be kept secret, that in order for him to
get inside, he needs to be someone with a reason to get inside. A reason that,
hopefully won’t get him killed. So he poses undercover as a rich, courtly alpha
with a penchant for men and women of the night. An alpha whose recent bout with
a tied down, helpless beta has earned him a bad rep in the underworld. And so
he’s been forced to resort to...other measures of getting himself satisfaction.
It is a decent enough cover. He plans to utilize it to access a branch of the
sex ring and free as many of their captives as possible.
 
He is greeted by a greasy looking beta with a smile as grimy as his skin when
he walks into the secret building. The beta doesn’t ask him much, he just
greets him and sends him through a room akin to a harem. It exudes the smell of
sex and debauchery. As he makes his way through, several people try to grip his
legs, in their faces he sees desperation for release. He swallows thickly,
scanning the sweaty, impassioned bodies for signs of Sherlock. It’s hard to
pick up his scent in this room, and Watson fears that maybe he has a false
lead.
 
Before he can think anymore, he is shoved into a secluded room. The seedy beta
grins at him again and then leaves him, alone. Watson is trying to figure out
how he’s going to free these captives without getting trapped himself when a
scent permeates the air. It’s familiar and  good , and it’s getting stronger
the closer the person appears.
 
He doesn’t need to see the person, a smile crests his face, because he  knows .
It’s Sherlock - Watson’s search was not in vain.
 
Sherlock does not look up, he resolutely stares at the ground. He’s been
apparently divested of his clothes and is instead wearing silk robes and fine
jewellery. Flashes of his tanned skin peek through the robes as he moves
closer, swaying his hips to imaginary music.
 
Watson wants to throw his arms around him and steal him away from this wretched
place. The fiercest urge to protect is raging within him as well as the need to
hurt the people who’ve done this.
 
“Sherlock, it’s me, Watson.”
 
His head flies up and he promptly shushes Watson. “You will get us both
killed.” He moves closer until he is standing in front of the alpha.  Watson
feels an angered growl building low in his throat, enraged at the injustice and
the pain he sees in his mate’s eyes.  But Sherlock places a cool finger to his
lips. “Play along.” His burning black eyes meet Watson’s cool blue ones and a
second goes by without anyone speaking before Sherlock throws himself at
Watson, wrapping his slender arms around him and resting his head against his
shoulder. “We don’t get many handsome alphas like you in here.” Sherlock’s
voice drops lower and he lets Watson watch as he bites down on the soft flesh
of his bottom lip. He settles himself comfortably in Watson’s lap and looks up
at him through long lashes.
 
Watson blinks, trying to follow Sherlock’s lead. “Well,” John swallows,
watching as a pink tongue darts out to trace his now flushed red, shiny lip,
“I’m not just any alpha.”
 
Sherlock leans back, practically purring in Watson’s lap. “Oh? And what kind of
alpha are you?” He punctuates his statement with a careful wink.
 
“I’m more curious about you, really.” Watson says taking in a deep breath so he
doesn’t lose his mind. The robe is slowly slipping off of Sherlock’s shoulder,
revealing to Watson more of that touchably smooth skin. It’s fucking
distracting. Watson finds that he wants to put his mouth on Sherlock’s
collarbone, suck a hard bruise into the flesh and give him so many imprints
that no other alpha would want to touch him again. Mark Sherlock the way he did
the first night.  “What’s a pretty omega like you doing here in the slums of
England? It appears to me as though you’d be the omega mate of an imperial
ruler.”
 
Sherlock smirks and taps a finger to his temple, the way he does when his mind
is coming up with ideas. Then he shrugs before leaning in to whisper
seductively in Watson’s ear. “They tell me you prefer your omegas and betas
bound and quiet. Care to make an exception for me?”
 
And Watson is trying very hard to keep it together. Sherlock is too  good  at
this. He’s trying hard not to be aroused because damn it, they are in the
middle of a sex ring with people waiting outside the door who would gladly kill
them if either of them messes up and blows their cover. Now is not the time for
him to want to fuck Sherlock’s brains out. “Actually, I just might, as long I
get to see what you do with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”
 
But then they hear footfalls heading away from the door. They both listen
closely to see if they are truly alone, and after it goes eerily quiet Sherlock
is suddenly embracing him again, surprising Watson with the force of it. “I’ve
missed you, John.”
Watson nods, hugging Sherlock tighter. “I’ve missed you too Sherlock.”
 
The omega shakes his head. “I’m truly sorry that I put you through all of that,
but there’s something you should know.”
 
Watson ponders on it. A million thoughts flood his mind and he feels a great
jealousy rise to the surface. “How many have accosted you?”
 
Sherlock goes stiff in his arms. “No one has, you are my first buyer. I have
news...”
 
Watson takes in a deep breath, preparing himself. “What is this news,
Sherlock?”
 
He senses the spike of fear in his mate and tries to ease some of the tension
by rubbing soothing circles in Sherlock’s back and wills his body to send off
calming pheromones. After a little while, Sherlock says in a weak, pained
voice, “I’m pregnant.”
 
And Watson gently takes Sherlock’s face in his hands so he can see the lad’s
expression. Watson cannot hide the tears that threaten to overwhelm him, and so
with blue eyes glistening wet, he asks Sherlock to repeat himself. The lad
does, before exclaiming “Oh Watson, you are going to detest me. Look at the
danger I have put us in!”
 
Watson places tender kisses to Sherlock’s temple. “My love, you are with child.
This is a joyous reason to celebrate.”
 
Sherlock huffs. “We need to survive first.”
 
“We  are  going to survive. You have to trust me.”
 
“There isn’t a person on this Earth that I trust more.”
===============================================================================
Sherlock manages to free many captives while Watson takes down plenty of
Moriarty’s goons. Watson winds up in Moriarty’s private chamber but when he
gets there the alpha is nowhere to be found. There is no sign of him except the
scent of panic that Watson follows, that leads him out to a courtyard.
 
“Help!” he hears a man cry out.
 
Watson runs towards the sound, believing it to have come from an endangered
captive but he is extremely surprised to find that the sound has come from
Moriarty himself. But what is even more surprising is that a female alpha is
there, hands wrapped around Moriarty’s neck with a knife pressed against his
throat.
 
Upon closer inspection, Watson gasps, “Irene? What are you doing here?”
 
She shrugs. “Well you didn’t expect me to leave you lot alone when my mate
Sherlock’s in trouble now? What kind of broad do you think I am?” She
punctuates each word by gripping Moriarty tighter.
 
“Well, we can take him to the constables now. He’s no longer our concern,”
Watson encourages, watching the blade and hoping that she isn’t going to do
what he thinks she is.
 
“To bloody Hell with that. There’s no place here for monsters like ‘im. Locking
‘im up would be doing ‘im a favor!” She poises the knife at his throat.
 
“No, please!”  Moriarty shouts.
 
Watson closes his eyes and tries to block out the sounds of Moriarty’s choked
screams. When his eyes open, the alpha is on the ground, taking his last
breaths while a messy Irene stands over him. “Goes down like a bitch, ain’t he?
Screams like one too.”
 
Watson blinks. “You killed him?”
 
She nods, pocketing the knife. “What? Don’t act like you didn’t want to. Or are
you mad that I got to him first?”
 
He frowns. “Aren’t we just lowering ourselves to his level?”
 
Irene looks at the ground. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. He’s dancing
with the devil now.”
 
Watson frowns, but does not say another word. Remembering Sherlock and how he
left his mate alone, he announces: “We have to go.”
===============================================================================
Sherlock has done a fine job of freeing the captives. He’s reassuring them and
calming some down by the time Watson and Irene return.
 
“What happened?” Sherlock inquires, witnessing Irene’s bloody clothes.
 
“Moriarty’s dead,” the female alpha says. “Went down like a wretch he did.”
 
To Watson’s surprise, Sherlock hugs her. “You are bloody brilliant, Irene.”
 
They hug for longer than Watson’s comfortable with. Watson involuntarily growls
and Irene’s eyes widen. “Do you still not like me?”
 
Sherlock explains. “Irene, I’m pregnant and Watson’s a bit... protective.” He
says, coming closer to his alpha and kissing his cheek.
 
“A bit,” Irene mutters, rolling her eyes. “So what are we going to do with
them?” She points to the frightened people.
 
“Well,” Watson says. “They are survivors of a horrible crime. We will get them
to the investigators, I’ll provide them with as much medical attention that I
can and hopefully, some semblance of normalcy will return.”
 
Soon the place swarms with detectives and constables, Irene leaves before they
arrive, naturally.
 
“Well, it’s been quite a day.” Watson sighs, wrapping an arm around Sherlock
who places his head on the alpha’s shoulder.
 
“If nothing eventful happens for the rest of my life, I believe that I’d be
alright with that.”
 
Watson laughs. “Just having you in my arms again is all the excitement I need.”
 
“Let’s never get ourselves involved with any more crises especially once our
child is born, alright?” Sherlock declares, exhausted and breathless.
 
“Never again, my love,” Watson agrees.
 
“So how would you both like the opportunity to be two of London’s finest
detectives?” Inspector Lestrade walks in and sees them sitting on the floor ,
Sherlock doesn’t know much about him except that he’s Watson’s friend, it’s
apparent by the way their faces light up upon seeing each other. The constable
also appears clearly grateful that they took down Moriarty.
 
Sherlock and Watson exchange glances. “What say you, Sherlock?” Watson
inquires.
 
“The French have a saying: ‘Qui n’avance pas, recule’. Either one evolves, or
one devolves. There is always something new to learn and staying stagnant in
life would be a great injustice to yourself.” The omega states, never taking
his eyes off his mate’s.
 
Watson nods, Lestrade raises an eyebrow. It is in that moment that everything
would change even more, but just like the water that becomes agitated with the
wind, so comes the peace that settles when all is calm.
 
“Holmes and Watson at your service.” They say in unison. And thus, it begins...
 
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”  - William
Shakespeare

 
Chapter End Notes
     Please expect an epilogue and a delicious, steamy mpreg smut bonus
     chapter coming soon.
     I didn't mean to spring this as the ending chapter without warning
     but, no worries, there will be more. This isn't the last you'll see
     of these two. ;)
     I love you all so, so much. Thank you for sticking with this fic so
     far and for putting up with me. I am forever grateful!
***** Light Me Up and Leave Me Yearning (For I am Burning for You) *****
Chapter Summary
     "All day long he craves for more,
     but the righteous give without sparing."
     Proverbs 21:26
     "Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs,
     Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,
     Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.
     What is it else? A madness most discreet,
     A choking gall and a preserving sweet."
     -- William Shakespeare , "Romeo and Juliet | Act 1, Scene 1"
     Wherein Watson gets to show his pregnant omega just how much he is
     loved.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone! It's good to be back! Happy New Year, I hope it's
     going beautifully for you guys. <3
     And thank you so much for all for the kudos/hits/bookmarks/
     everything! I appreciate it immensely! I am eternally grateful and
     indebted to you all for helping to make this experience an awesome
     one.
     I want to thank my beta, Deinvati, for the wonderful edits and
     awesome feedback and for just being supremely reliable!
     I promised to give you guys a smut-filled bonus chapter and here it
     is! The tags will be updated accordingly. ;) This was really fun to
     write. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for sticking around! <3 <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                      “Holy water cannot help you now...
               And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out ”
                   -‘Seven Devils’, Florence and the Machine
 
 
                    “ Worship your body as you walk my way
                   You're the only one who can make me pray
                   I fall at your feet, your breath defined
                 And underneath my skin's an intrinsic shrine
                                    Mmm mm
                                        
                       Drink my tears, I'm at your mercy
                      I love you most, but I'm not worthy
                        I'll give my soul, sacrifice me
                            Cause your love is holy
                                    Is holy
                                        
                        I can fight but the devil wins
                     And I will fall like a saint who sins
                         Forgive me Father, I am weak
                    And it's not forgiveness that I seek ”
                                        
                                -‘Holy’, Zolita
===============================================================================
 
On a peaceful, rainy Sunday afternoon, Watson languidly situates himself on the
chesterfield in the sitting room. A warm cup of tea is resting on an adjacent
table and the daily paper is in his hands. He finds it hard to convince himself
to leave the lodging for any other reason than it catching on fire. The calming
patter of the outside downpour as it taps on the roof coupled with the crackle
pop of the burning wood from the fireplace are enough to tempt him into
staying, along with the fact that it is probably deathly cold out there while
it is toasty in here. Even though he promised he’d go to Scotland Yard to
discuss some things with Lestrade, he isn’t feeling the least bit inclined to
leave this sanctuary of warmth and comfort.  
 
In his defense, he has never taken an unofficial day off as it goes against his
professional nature - he doesn’t believe in wasting other people’s time or
letting them down when they need him most. He prides himself on being reliable.
However, his decision to take a short hiatus from doctoring has given him an
excuse to think about himself a little more. The world, he has realized, will
not suddenly come to an end if he decides to go on holiday for a few months.
 
Besides, Watson for the life of him doesn’t understand why Lestrade counts on
him so much when they usually achieve a lot more progress with Sherlock there.
Not to mention, it’s not the same without him. The cases just aren’t as
absorbing without the omega there to spread his contagious determination and
enthusiasm.
 
These days Watson feels so bereft without his sleuthing partner that he finds
himself getting distracted on cases, his mind always flying back to Sherlock.
His wit, his humor, how he’s doing without Watson around...
 
 And seeing that the omega is now nearly nine months along and is very heavy
with child, he spends most of his time resting at their shared lodging on 221B
Baker’s Street, either playing with and caring for Gladstone or driving Mrs.
Hudson mad.
 
Watson does his best to tend to him and be a helping hand when he needs one,
but Sherlock is always so obstinate. He insists on doing things himself. He
only accepts Watson’s help in times where he’s exhausted or aching from random
pains, but he never accedes without making a show out of it. Watson knows
Sherlock likes his independence and he does not intend to take that away from
his omega, he really just wants to be a caring alpha.
 
He can’t help the wild, possessive streak that sparks within him when other
alphas are around Sherlock, or the constant compulsion to shower his omega and
his unborn child with gifts and treats. He can’t even find it within himself to
leave Sherlock for long, worrying endlessly if Sherlock’s alright when he’s
away from his omega for more than a few hours. If Lestrade or any one of
Watson’s friends notice his lack of focus, they have the good decency not to
mention it.
 
Watson’s smart enough to realize that Sherlock will never ask for his
assistance. Luckily, he can pick up from time to time when the omega is
uncomfortable, or tired, or upset, thanks to the fact that their bond has made
them in tune with each other. He tries to act accordingly, helping Sherlock
discreetly, and it does work, so long as he isn’t making it too obvious.
There’s no doubt in Watson’s mind Sherlock is aware he sneaks extra vegetables
in his meals and little things like that, but his omega lets him do it. Deep
down, Sherlock understands that it gives Watson peace of mind.
 
Sherlock has a lot of pride, sure, and although it is frustrating at times and
Watson has to sometimes go to extreme measures to level the playing field,
Watson would not trade him for anything or anyone in the world.
 
Especially not now, when in his pregnant, hormone-addled state Sherlock’s been
as determined as ever to make Watson come enough so he can get his fill. It’s
like he’s some sort of lewd, desperate addict longing to be anointed but averse
to being cured. Watson doesn’t know when he allowed himself to get this wrecked
or when Sherlock made him into this licentious heathen, but he finds that he
can’t deny giving Sherlock what he wants. He lets Sherlock suck him off, stroke
him, fuck himself senseless on Watson’s cock just so he can watch greedily as
the omega’s body gets its fair share of his spill. He’s damned, they both are,
but oh how deliciously it burns.
 
===============================================================================
 
Watson is reading an interesting article in the paper about the decline of
alpha privilege and the resulting benefits that are happening throughout
England and the world, when the pillow-soft scent of Sherlock suddenly curls
itself around him, making him feel so much warmer and the atmosphere a lot more
cozy.
 
He sets the paper aside. “Good afternoon, my love,” John greets, watching his
omega as Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, sleepily yawning and
absent-mindedly raking a hand through his messy, ever-present bed head.
 
Fierce affection rears up in Watson at the sight of him, practically glowing
from the light of the nearby fireplace, his borrowed shirt a bit too-large for
him yet tight in places where Sherlock hastily buttoned it. His round belly and
small, slightly curved breasts are visibly outlined as they press against the
material. The smooth skin of his pretty hips are exposed as the shirt hikes up
as he moves. A huge, loving smile crests Watson’s face - pregnancy looks good
on Sherlock, which is no surprise to Watson since  everything  looks good on
him. Nothing is going to stop the alpha from mentally recording every bit of
these moments just to look back on later with fondness or other not-quite-as-
innocent feelings.
 
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, still semi out of it but steadily gaining
clarity. He had been sleeping in their bedroom and Watson, hoping not to
disturb him, stayed in the sitting room so his mate could get some much needed
rest.
 
“I was reading. Is there anything I can help you with?” Watson inquires, rising
from his seat to give Sherlock a loving embrace and kiss the top of his head.
 
“‘M hungry,” Sherlock grumbles and Watson presses his lips gently to his
forehead.
 
“Then let’s fetch you something to eat,” he says, pulling away but keeping an
arm around Sherlock’s waist just so he can feel the omega’s heated skin against
his.
 
“I don’t like that expression.” Sherlock admits when they’ve reached the
kitchen. He allows Watson to pull out his chair and help him sit down at the
table. Watson busies himself taking out the ingredients for soup as well as a
loaf of bread.
 
Watson turns to him, while testing the stove. “Why don’t you like the
expression?”

“Because I don’t like anything that has the word ‘fetch’ in it unless it has to
do with dogs,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, toying with a flower from the
centerpiece.
Watson rolls his eyes affectionately. “You are mighty strange.”
 
Sherlock nods his head, agreeing. Then, “Mother and Father called to see how we
were doing and if we were in need of anything. I told them that we were fine,
but I know they’re as anxious to see little Gideon as much as we are.” He
smiles, patting his stomach softly.
 
Watson goes back to preparing the soup. “I hope they’re remembering to relax
every now and then. I know they’re as excited as we are, and I do adore your
parents, but we must all remember to take it easy lest we lose our heads too
soon. And how are you so sure our child is going to be a boy? He could very
well be a she you know. We could have a little girl and call her Gail.”
 
Sherlock shrugs. “I know, but telling them to calm down is about as effective
as getting Gladstone to wake up once he’s fallen asleep. And whatever the baby
is, I want her or him to just  get here already .”
 
Watson turns off the stove and gets the bowls and utensils. Once he and
Sherlock are finally digging into their meal, he reaches over and clasps his
omega’s hand in his. “Our baby will get here. You are doing an amazing job.
There is no need to worry, dearest one.” The light that sparks in Sherlock’s
eyes and the resulting grin that crests his face at those words is basically
just one of the things that Watson lives for.
 
===============================================================================
 
They’re back in the sitting room, Sherlock curled up on the couch in about a
hundred blankets thanks to Watson being afraid that his omega will freeze,
while he is back in his chair, reading a book.
 
He’s just forming an opinion of the newly introduced heroine when the sugary-
sweet scent of slick fills his nose. His eyes immediately fly to Sherlock who
is sitting at the edge of the couch looking distant. He’s no longer wrapped in
the blankets and is instead just covered by the thin material of his dress
shirt.
 
The peaked nubs of his nipples are obscenely visible from Watson’s angle,
Watson’s teeth chew his bottom lip as he pictures how sweet they would taste on
his tongue, the faces Sherlock would make when they’re fondled, the way they
would leak at Watson’s attention. His pants tighten and the scent of aroused
alpha fills the room competing with that of needy omega.
 
When Watson’s eyes meet Sherlock’s, he can see the obvious desire in their dark
depths matching his own, and within seconds John is crossing the room to get to
his mate. He pulls Sherlock to him and claims his mouth in a bruising kiss,
mindful of the omega’s stomach.
 
Sherlock moans, fingers trailing up Watson’s arm before settling in his hair.
Breathlessly, Watson chuckles. “We made love this morning.” The images of
gentle kisses, soft touches and sweet release fill his mind and he buries his
nose in the soft skin of Sherlock’s throat, just to breathe in their mingled
scent to further remind himself.
 
Sherlock bites his lip, which really isn’t fair for Watson’s self-control. His
lips are almost always abused and red these days, making him look more
debauched and depraved than usual. It is so distracting that it takes a lot of
Watson’s self-discipline to concentrate on thoughts other than how much of his
cock those exquisite lips can take.
 
“I can’t help but want you again. Come on,  sir , I’m merely human. No need to
be so cruel.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with pure seductive evil, they’re obsidian
as they pin him. Watson curses himself as he tries to fight it, but he knows he
doesn’t have so much as a prayer.
 
He leans in and ghosts his breath across his mate’s ear. “You’re still so
desperate for a knot. Just absolutely insatiable. I should leave you like this,
wanton and needy. Leave you  begging …”
 
“P-please sir. Please knot me. I want it, I want you.”
 
Watson shakes his head, kindly cruel in his mock-disappointment. “That’s not
good enough, Sherlock. Don’t hide the whore you are. Beg  harder .”
 
Sherlock mewls feebly, exasperated but determined and urges Watson over to the
chesterfield. Watson obliges, his half-hard dick twitching under Sherlock’s
hungry gaze.
 
Sherlock is comfortably warm and feather soft as he crawls onto Watson’s lap.
Watson’s fingers trail along his creamy skin as he buries his nose in
Sherlock’s silky hair inhaling the smell of soap and butterscotch. He’s
perfectly content like this, just having his omega in his arms, but his dick
has other plans and seeing as Sherlock keeps squirming and breathing heavily,
it’s safe to say that he does too.
 
The rain is barely audible now, but Watson’s sure there could be a fucking
hurricane and he wouldn’t hear a thing except the thumping of his own
heartbeat. A gentle but firm hand takes his and rests it on the hard roundness
of Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock holds his hand there, sighing contentedly as
Watson’s alpha thrills at the primal satisfaction of having mated with a
fertile omega. It’s like an electric spark through both of their bodies as
John’s excitement permeates the atmosphere. Watson can’t help how he feels in
knowing that Sherlock is bearing his child and no one else’s.
 
Then Sherlock is moving Watson’s hand lower until he’s touching the omega’s
length and Sherlock practically keens. He’s soaking, his dick is slippery with
precome and Watson can feel the slick wetting his trousers. “How long have you
been like this?” Watson asks, stroking Sherlock a few times and reveling in the
way the omega’s hips try to follow the movement.
 
“A-all day, sir.” He whimpers.
 
Watson tsks. “My, my, you  are  a little whore.” But he says it with so much
affection that it doesn’t sting too much, just enough for Sherlock’s whole body
to flush a pretty scarlet.
 
Sherlock is tense. He’s letting out small gasps and groaning with his eyes shut
tight, overly responsive to every touch. The omega is pent up, unable to be
sated and the pregnancy isn’t really helping.
 
It is Watson’s fault. He hasn’t been knotting Sherlock nearly as much as he
used to. He’s switched the harder sex for something a bit more basic and light
but he should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t tolerate basic for long.
 
He places an apologetic kiss to Sherlock’s throat before wrapping his fingers
around his mate’s length and stroking it a few times. The strangled shout
Sherlock makes as he spasms on the alpha’s lap is music to Watson’s ears.
 
Watson’s fingers are now slippery with Sherlock’s sugary scented come, it’s not
as sweet as his slick but it’s still one of Watson’s favorite treats. He lifts
his fingers to his lips while Sherlock, who is coming down from his high,
watches, rapt, as Watson sucks off each digit.
 
They share a messy kiss before Sherlock is undoing the buttons of his dress
shirt, revealing more of his skin to Watson and those puffed rosy nipples that
seem to harden even more under Watson’s hungry gaze. Watson thumbs one and
Sherlock moans, there’s a brief flash of creamy skin as Sherlock places an arm
between their bodies before the squelching sound of slick fills the air and
Watson realizes that Sherlock is fingering himself.
 
He can’t help it - he lifts up another hand to play with both of Sherlock’s
soft, plush breasts.  They’ve been neglected for far too lon g, Watson thinks,
even though it’s only been a few hours since he last touched them. They’re
starting to leak a little and Watson wastes no time in lapping at them,
delighting in the warm, rich taste of Sherlock’s breastmilk.
 
Sherlock comes again while Watson’s gently grazing his teeth across a nipple.
The butterscotch scent curls around the two of them now, inescapable, as both
Sherlock and Watson are wet with the omega’s slick. Sherlock’s night-black gaze
doesn’t leave Watson’s bright blue one as he takes his time licking his own
slick off his fingers. It’s a sight Watson never tires of, but his impatient
knot threatens to break free of its confines, happy to see his omega getting
sated but unable to deny that the need is bordering on painful now.
 
Sherlock seems to have picked up on Watson’s dilemma because with fingers too
deft for their own good, he’s undoing Watson’s trousers and pulling his cock
out to tease the shaft with his skilled, firm hand. After a few torturingly
light strokes, Watson stops him. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”
Through the haze of incredible pleasure some sense is worming its way through.
“Because we don’t have to if you’re going to be uncomfortab -”
 
Usually, being this far in a pregnancy, it becomes a little painful to take a
knot. Many omegas choose other ways to be intimate with their partners to avoid
the discomfort, and Watson has slowly been trying to eliminate Sherlock’s
desire for his knot. It’s a precaution, really. Hence, the reason he’s been
knotting him less and less. He doesn’t want Sherlock to be in pain. It’s not
worth it for Watson to bruise his beloved over an evening of passion.

Sherlock, however, takes this as an offense. His eyes burning with challenge
and lips quirked with devilish mischief, the omega angles himself over 
Watson’s cock. Watson doesn’t get to say another word before the omega is
slowly lowering himself down onto the hard length, his tight, wet heat
swallowing every inch of John’s throbbing sex. It’s all too fast and too slow
at once. It’s not until Watson’s bottoming out when the vicious, maddening
pleasure wraps itself around him so tightly it wrenches a savage growl from the
alpha.
  
For a couple of seconds, Watson savors the heat around his cock and tries to
gain some control. Despite the pleasure absorbing all of his senses, he’s
actually really impressed by how much Sherlock can take.
  
He’s aware that he’s still fully clothed while Sherlock is stark naked, facing
the doorway and perched on Watson’s lap like Watson’s own private cock-hungry
hooker. The thing is, even if someone were to walk in on them, Watson wouldn’t
feel an ounce of shame or even the urge to stop. Even if they had an audience,
he really wouldn’t care. He’d even go so far as to tip his hat off to them,
encouraging them to enjoy the show and maybe stick around for the encore
performance.
  
It’s remarkable how limited their shame is. Sherlock’s pride and acceptance of
every dirty little sexual obsession has helped Watson to be more open.
  
Sherlock’s moving his hips in little circular motions, his silent plea to get
Watson to move is fast becoming desperate. Slowly, John’s hands clasp
Sherlock’s lush hips, keeping him still for a second. Sherlock simply thinks
Watson’s anchoring himself and trying not to come too fast, but for Watson,
it’s a reminder that he’s got to keep his head afloat. Hurting Sherlock or
their unborn child is out of the question.
  
The second Watson gives Sherlock the go ahead and lightens his hold on him,
Sherlock begins to ride him at such a desperate pace that he’s practically
bouncing on Watson’s cock like it’s his fucking right. He’s wet  everywhere  -
the backs of his thighs, his breasts, his greedy hole and his sweet prick. But
Watson knows that none of that is enough for him, he never seems to be complete
without Watson’s spill. The alpha isn’t sure what that says about either of
them, and he knows it can’t be good, but god damn it if he cares.
  
Sherlock comes again, mouth open in a silent scream before he’s chanting
Watson’s name like a benediction. The way he’s clenching around Watson’s cock,
hips twitching and omega channel thrumming with his release, the alpha knows
that this climax will sate him for awhile. Watson places kisses to every part
of Sherlock he can reach as he lets the omega coax his knot to pop. “Come for
me, love,” Sherlock says, and Watson’s orgasm is ripped out of him with a force
so strong it can’t be human. He fills Sherlock with the searing hot fluid as
Sherlock pants and whimpers above him.
  
It feels rejuvenating, as if his whole body is being taken apart and put back
together again. Every atom in his body is restoring itself. He feels brand-new
and refreshed, but it’s also enough to leave him shaking - the intensity is
overwhelming.
  
When he looks down at Sherlock, he sees that the omega’s eyes are gently closed
and he’s still chanting Watson’s name along with a litany of ‘fuck’.
  
“W-we need to do that again,” Sherlock says once they’ve both calmed down a
little, but a yawn tears through him, revealing that his body has differing
intentions.
  
Watson leans down to kiss him, reveling in the light and airy feel of his bones
as they move along with him. “You need your rest.”
  
For once, Sherlock doesn’t have a refute. They wait silently as Watson’s knot
shrinks, before he’s slipping out of Sherlock. Watson can’t help but stare at
the amount of spunk dripping from Sherlock’s hole. Like a man possessed, his
fingers move lower to prod the abused entrance, savoring in the amount of white
seed that drools down his fingers.
  
Sherlock makes a gratified sound, obviously pleased with himself and his
ability to make Watson come so hard he sees stars.
  
“You’re going to lead to my demise,” Watson declares, not for the first time.
He thinks back to the beginning, how far they’ve both come. Purity, Watson
realizes, is an illusion. He wouldn’t have known that had he not spent that
first night with Sherlock. And just because he isn’t ‘pure’, it doesn’t mean
that he’s vile. It simply means that he is human. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever
be saved, but then again, he’s not sure if he even wants to be.
  
He likes this state that they’re in, this state of self-acceptance. It’s far
more pleasant than that of self-loathing. And a million times more fun.
  
Sherlock smirks. “I suppose you could be doomed in worse ways.”
 
And mercy help him, he’s right. Watson grins wide. Sherlock always is. He gets
what he wants and he’s spoiled and proud of it too, and yet, Watson wouldn’t
have him any other way.
Chapter End Notes
     Don't forget that the final chapter will be the epilogue! The baby's
     gender will be revealed and questions will be answered. :) Hope you
     all have a good one! I'll see you next chapter! <3 <3
***** Nunc, et in Hora Mortis Nostrae (The End) *****
Chapter Summary
     The final chapter.
Chapter Notes
     The title is a snippet from the latin version of the Hail Mary
     prayer, Ave Maria. It means "now and at the hour of our death." :)
     Songs that inspire me: 'Hold Me Down' 'Coming Down' by Halsey and
     'Believer' by Imagine Dragons
     I wasn't ready to end this story yet so I delayed this chapter, but
     now I think it's the perfect time to close this tale. It's been one
     hell of a ride and I loved every minute of it. :)
     Thank you guys so, so much for reading and being a very special part
     of this journey. I fiercely appreciate it!
     Thank you. <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                   “ Take my hand through the flames. . . ”
                                        
                 - ‘Sucker for Pain’, Suicide Squad Soundtrack
                                        
Sherlock goes into labor the day Watson’s working on a particularly grizzly
case. Lestrade crosses the dimly lit streets  - wet still from the blood of
Moriarty’s copycat’s latest victims - to tell him of the good news.
 
The alpha hesitates only briefly before comprehension catches up with him and a
giant smile breaks across his face. “Already?” Watson asks, frantically
collecting his things. Burning excitement like electric heat flares through
him, hot enough to singe his blood, and he finds he desperately wants to rush
out of the crime scene like a madman on a mission.
 
These slain men will have their justice, of course, but right now, nothing else
matters more to him than being by his mate’s side.
 
Lestrade, despite what Sherlock thinks, is no fool. He senses the depth of
Watson’s anxiety and with a wide grin, sends Watson off with a congratulations
and orders him not to come in until he and Sherlock are settled.
 
Watson’s feeling many things but one of the primary emotions is gratitude. He
throws his friend in for a hug and then is rushing out into the chilly, damp
air to get to Sherlock.
 
As he arrives at the door to Sherlock’s former residence, he barely gets the
chance to knock before Judith, Sherlock’s mother, is wrenching it open and
urging him inside. “Watson, thank goodness. He’s upstairs with Dr. Campbell.
Can you believe it’s time already?” Her face is flushed scarlet and she’s
blinking qute a lot. Watson’s sure if he could see himself, he probably looks
just as animated.
 
He smiles at her, briefly thinking back to the time when he and Sherlock
confessed that they had mated. Neither she nor her husband were initially
thrilled with the news, but once they realized that there was no one on earth
who loved Sherlock as Watson did, they eventually warmed up to the
relationship. Now, Judith pulls the alpha in for a hug, sighing and wiping a
stray tear from her cheek. “You’d better go join them, Sherlock’s been waiting
for you since his water broke.”
 
Watson nods, gently breaking out of the embrace to hang his coat. “Where’s
Arthur?”
 
“Here I am! So glad you could make it, my boy!” Watson gets little more than a
moment before he is once again being embraced.
 
He pats the older man on his back and breathes out: “Good to see you again.”
 
Shouting can be heard from up above as the pain grips Sherlock. Watson
stiffens, the secondhand agony ripping through him and he grits his teeth.
 
“I suppose you need to go and calm things,” Arthur tells Watson. He lifts his
wife’s hand and places a gentle kiss to her wrist.
 
“Indeed,” Watson says, quickly moving to ascend the stairs.
 
“Just think,” Judith calls, “in a few hours you will be a father.”
 
It’s the scariest, most amazing thing that Watson’s ever been looking forward
to.
 
George and Gertrude, the servants, rush past him carrying towels and pitchers
of water. Watson doesn’t hesitate for long, his muscles going taut like piano
wires when the scent of Sherlock’s adrenaline floods his being.
 
He follows behind them, briefly greeting Dr. Campbell before he’s by his mate’s
side. Sherlock who is panting harshly, his hair soaked and splayed across the
pillow like a frazzled halo and his skin flushed rosy red underneath his tan,
has never looked more beautiful or more powerful than in this moment. Watson
immediately grabs his hand and places a chaste kiss to his forehead.
 
Hazy, depthless, night-dark eyes study him and a sleepy grin crosses Sherlock’s
face. “You’ve made it,” he says.
 
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my love.”
 
Sherlock closes his eyes. “Good, because I need you. . .I always need you.”
===============================================================================
Hours upon hours pass. Watson aids Dr. Campbell as best as he can. Every now
and then, Sherlock will groan or shift restlessly and Watson will go over to
reassure him or put another blanket over him.
 
It seems to go on forever, until Sherlock cries out particularly loud in the
early hours of the morning and Dr. Campbell checks him. “It’s time.” It’s all
he says before he’s getting Sherlock ready for the birthing.
 
Watson’s eyes widen and he kisses Sherlock’s brow excitedly - his mate has to
start pushing.
===============================================================================
After a few more hours of screaming, crying, and even more panic, a small,
pink, wailing baby is placed in Sherlock’s waiting arms.
 
Tears cloud Watson’s vision and he eagerly wipes them away to peer down at the
wonderful life that he and his mate have created.
 
“Congratulations,” Dr. Campbell blesses, “she’s a happy, healthy baby girl.”
 
Sherlock doesn’t stop kissing her. Watson watches them both, in awe and wonder,
unable to remember ever being happier than at this moment. He has never been
more grateful than now to have a family.
 
 The baby stretches out a tiny hand and he marvels at her little fingers, her
cute face, her lovely dark hair.
 
“Welcome little Gail,” Watson kisses her head, only marginally aware of Judith
and Arthur, standing nearby, holding back tears. He’s unable to take his eyes
off his child for even a second.
 
Sherlock sighs, his gaze is soft, thoughtful. “Mycroft was always a fan of the
name Marie, he adored the French. Shall her middle name be Marie?”
 
“Gail Marie Holmes. I quite like that. That’s rather admirable of you. I’m sure
wherever Mycroft is he is proud of you, Sherlock,” he states, pressing the back
of his hand to Sherlock’s flushed cheeks, content as Sherlock kisses his palm.
“As proud of you as I am.”
 
The amount of love in Sherlock’s gaze as he stares at Watson and their daughter
is enough for John’s heart to skip a beat. He whispers softly to his child
before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple, “Welcome to the world, little
Gail.”
===============================================================================
 
A few years later. . .
Watson is holding Gail, trying vainly to keep her from unravelling her hair
bow. Eventually, she gets bored and instead finds his shirt more fascinating.
He can’t help it - she has a tenacity that only Sherlock can rival. He laughs
and kisses the top of her head, her soft, dark curls brush against his cheek.
 
The waves meet the shore behind them, soft, hushed  shhhs  every minute as the
water surges and retreats, calming in ways only the ocean can be.
 
The sand is bright and gold, a beautiful contrast to the aquamarine of the
water and the muted, powder blue of the sky. Watson is content here, relieved
to be away from the harsh cold of England. A gentle breeze floats past,
carrying with it the lovely heat and the salty scent of the caribbean sea.
 
Watson peers down at his daughter, whose bright blue eyes pin him with piqued
curiosity. “Daddy, where’s papa?”
 
He presses a tender kiss to her cheek and gestures ahead to a point before
them. “He’s on his way.”
 
And like Watson claimed, Sherlock is soon sauntering towards them, looking
healthy, pleasantly warm and happy as a lark. Watson greets his mate with a
kiss as Sherlock, mindful of his new bump, lifts Gail in the air before placing
her on his hip.
 
Sherlock blinks up at Watson, sheilding his eyes from the glowing sun with his
palm. “Why’d you ask me to meet you out here, darling?”
 
Watson can’t help it. He wraps his arm around his mate’s waist and pulls him
into an embrace. These next words will be the easiest thing he’s ever had to
ask Sherlock and it’s not because he’s sure of his omega’s answer. The question
is an easy one to ask because he knows that there is no one else on this earth
he wants to pose it to. No one else he loves more than Sherlock Holmes.
 
“Sherlock, my love, we’ve been through so much together. There is no one on
this planet that I love more than you. And I want to make this official. I want
to make you mine in the way a man should: will you marry me?”
 
And Sherlock, bless him, without an ounce of hesitation says: “I am carrying
our second child. What do you think?”
 
“You want to hear my theories?” Watson smirks.
 
Sherlock smiles and rolls his eyes, feigning impatience.
 
“I believe you are as every bit delighted to call me yours as I am to call you
mine,” Watson states, placing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
 
Sherlock grins as bold and bright as the morning sky. “Indeed, you are correct,
my dear Watson.”
 
For once, they’re both right.
 
"O, none, unless this miracle have might,
   That in black ink my love may still shine bright." - Shakespeare's Sonnet 65
 
The End
Chapter End Notes
     It's been amazing!
     Catch you guys on the flipside. ;)
End Notes
     More to come soon! Thank you so much for reading you beautiful
     people.
     I am still in shock of the response to my last Sherlock fic, I can't
     thank you guys enough for that.
     I was a little nervous to post this, because like I said, I have
     strange tastes, but hopefully you all enjoyed it.
     See you next chapter!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
