London was too crowded. Not with people. There should be more people, and they should all be murdering one another in elaborate ways for him to puzzle out. No, there were too many wolves in London. Too many packs. A lone wolf needed to breath, he needed to be master of his own domain.
Montague Street was no better than Northington Street. No better than Clerkenwell Road before that. The air was too thick with the smell of wolves, it clogged his nose and made it difficult to think properly. A stench that hounded him night and day. Even when he was lying in bed at night he could still smell them. Even when he was here, sitting in his own flat, surrounded by the noxious gases of his own experiments. The alphas, too close to his territory. The ubiquitous and dull betas shuffling through their humdrum lives. The omegas. They smelled like sex, tawdry and offensively blatant.
“I’ve allowed you an incredible amount of leeway, but no more,” Mycroft sighed as if they were pups again. As if he weren’t destroying his life. As he weren’t trying to banish him.
“We simply can’t have a lone wolf prowling the streets. Just join us, it’s been many years since we ran together. I’m sure you would find the experience enjoyable. The strength of the wolf is the strength of pack.”
He wanted to snarl and snap and growl. Mycroft pretended they were still pack, that he was his alpha, but he would never submit. He’d rather die; he’d rather Mycroft die. Mycroft’s shoes were flecked with mud, still damp even though it hadn’t rained all day. Once he would have known what that meant. He turned away from his brother, staring through the window at the comforting grey sky.
“Perhaps not. You don’t have to leave town; take a mate, settle down. This is no life for a werewolf, you’ll drive yourself insane.”
He rented a different flat, Baker Street this time. Mycroft could be ignored a little longer.
He liked to run even when the moon wasn’t full. It made him as alive as solving a case did. The rush, the adrenaline, the pure satisfaction. Except Mycroft had turned every wolf against him. At every turn there had been a new one, ready to hunt and pounce and bite. Of course he could outwit them and outrun them, but there was no joy in it. He was the fox and every wolf in London had become the hound. He had to concede.
The scenery sped past him on the train. If he were the wolf, he could run faster than this, but for now he was trapped. Trapped in his weaker body, trapped on this train and trapped into exile in Scotland. He would not be ashamed. Mycroft had set every werewolf in London after him, and it had still taken him three days to get rid of him.
Mycroft’s gift to him was a stone hovel, isolated by heather moorland. The landscape was purple and brown and craggy; there was nothing here. It was entirely desolate. He would go insane and die but at least Mycroft no longer had the stain on his character of a lone wolf for a brother. He hated him.
There was nothing to do here but think about how much he hated Mycroft. The fire had to be kept lit if he wanted warmth. If he wanted to boil a kettle of water. There was firewood stacked neatly in the corner. Had Mycroft decided how much firewood to place there? Had he calculated how much wood he would burn before he died?
He should have killed Mycroft when they’d been young. He stopped drinking tea. He let the fire go out. When it was cold he changed into the wolf. It was warmer. He missed having hands, but this way was easier.
He hunted during the day. Sometimes he killed, but mostly he stalked his prey until he lost interest. Frogs, grouse, rabbit. Once, a stag. At night, he ran. The feeling of the landscape sliding away beneath his feet, the wind in his hair. It was perfect. The buzzing in his brain was silenced and he could think. The cold air felt like clarity, finally he was free of the constant churning of his thoughts.
Occasionally he wondered what would happen if he slipped, if he fell. Any sort of injury out here, so alone, could be fatal. Bloodloss, hyperthermia, exposure. He ran faster. Everyone died, better to die running free than than any other death.
Dusk. It was so easy to lose himself here. The rhythm of his footfalls across the purple ground.
The full moon made his blood howl. He wanted to bite and tear and rip, he was burning hot and the only thing that cooled him was the wind on his pelt as he sprinted over the moor. For a few hours he could give in, he could admit that he was becoming feral. He’d never change back, he was wolf now. He’d never see London again, he’d never solve another case. He wouldn’t even return to his litter-mate’s stone den; it smelled of confinement. Out here, he was free.
There was blood in his mouth, but he couldn’t remember biting anything. Observe. Deduct. He used to be amazed at the empty lives of those around him. People who seemed to ignore everything going on around them. They were so blind, now he was just like them. Didn’t matter though, this was better. All that mattered was his moor and his prey and the unceasing feeling of the ground beneath his paws. His power.
The moon was so bright. The moors belonged to him and he would kill anything that challenged him. He howled his satisfaction at the moon. There was no answer, no challenge. He let his tongue loll out, proud of his subjugated kingdom.
Soon, the moon would set. It did not matter to the wolf. The human had cared about that, but he was gone.
The smell was so subtle at first that he felt the effects of it before he registered the scent. How it smelled was unimportant. What it felt like was brilliant. Like the cool breeze at dawn. Like coffee in the morning. Like cigarette smoke in the drizzling rain. It made his brain feel alive. He had to find the source of that smell.
It was another wolf. An omega. Not a threat. Not entirely welcome.
The smaller wolf stood oddly, limbs looking wrong. There was a time when he would have taken one look at him and known everything about him. He could feel the knowledge on the edge of his mind, slipping away. It didn’t matter any more. Now he had found something far more important. He stalked the omega, silent and invisible. This land was his and the omega looked as confused and distracted as a pup. He was practically upon him before the omega noticed him. The little thing fled, his short legs working against each other and making him impossibly slow.
He growled at this defiance and leapt. The little omega stumbled and fell awkwardly, as he landed neatly on top of him. His jaws found the omega’s throat and he growled a warning. The omega stiffened. He pulled back slightly, holding the omega down less forcefully. Why did this wolf smell so good? He hadn’t been able to use his legs properly, yet he was clearly an adult. Why?
It was easier to think than it had been in days. This was a puzzle and he could solve it. The omega was newly turned, he hadn’t yet learnt to walk on four legs. That meant he probably hadn’t yet mastered turning at will. He would change into a man when the moon set.
He whined. If he wanted to keep this man near, if he wanted to think lucidly and investigate what was happening, he would have to change back too.
The smaller wolf shuddered under him, making a futile attempt to escape. The omega was brave, still struggling despite the impossible odds. His fear stank, souring his delicious natural scent. His heartbeat accelerated to a cacophony. He could hear the blood pumping in the little wolf’s veins. This one was his. His omega. His soul bond. His ticket back to London.
He had to seal the bond, he had to make sure that the omega could not escape him. He needed…
The wolf paused. Did he really want to go back to that? Here he was free. Free of the constant noise of his brain.
He took another deep breath, the omega’s scent washing over him. His mind felt clearer the more he sniffed at his little wolf. This was what he wanted.
He clamped his jaws around the omega’s throat and slowly stood up. His teeth rested against the other’s skin. The slightest movement and the omega would be dead. Finally, he released the omega and moved away. The omega stood shakily, struggling to coordinate his legs.
The little wolf turned and bolted. He followed. The omega was running in the direction of his stone shelter. He herded the omega, nipping at his hind legs when he tried to change direction. They had almost made it when the omega began to scream. The moon had set and he was becoming man.
His soul mate’s human form was pleasing; short, blond and completely naked. The man panted heavily. Would the man sound like this when he claimed him? The wolf sat back on his haunches, his mate had nowhere to run to now.
“What the bloody hell was all that about?” the man asked, standing slowly. He growled softly.
“Alright, look. Can you just...” the man waved a hand in his direction, “change, and talk to me?” He growled again. The omega scent seemed to make everything clearer, but his human body had been so cluttered, his human brain a never-ending palace that had imprisoned him.
“I’d better get back to the base.” At that, he pulled back his lips and snarled at the man. The omega would not leave him. The omega held up his hands in defeat and stayed still, watching him.
Slowly, he changed into a man. His bones clicking into place and his muscles squeezing and contracting. His senses dulled, the scent of the omega was not as strong now; his human nose was weak. He growled again, but the noise did not come naturally to this throat.
“Thanks, now can you tell me what exactly is going on?” the omega crossed his arms angrily.
Words were so difficult to think with. Even harder to talk with. He pushed the omega towards the cottage and was pleased to see the omega obeyed. No man became an omega who was not suited to it.
“This is your place?” the omega asked, before letting himself into his alpha’s den. He licked his lips, pleased at his mate’s submissiveness. His willingness to come to his alpha’s bed.
“Fire,” he tilted his head at the log pile and was pleased when the omega nodded in understanding and bent over to start a fire in the stove. His arse was really quite delightful, he could smell that the omega was already producing lube. The omega’s body was readying itself for him.
“I’m Watson, by the way. John Watson.” the omega looked over his shoulder, catching him staring at his arse. The omega blushed.
“What’s your name?” the omega asked, turning away. He turned his attention back to the omega’s arse. He hadn’t used his name in so long. Reaching out, he drew his fingertips down John’s outer thigh.
“Sherlock,” he said, his voice rough from disuse, “I was Sherlock Holmes.” The skin beneath his fingertips was so soft.
“You were?” the omega frowned, and moved away. The fire was lit and the place felt warmer, more comfortable than it ever had before.
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” he corrected himself, “and you are my mate.”
The omega smiled tightly, looking around the cottage.
“Right...I don’t think so,” John cocked his head, analysing Sherlock. He wanted to know what the omega saw, what he smelled, if he felt the same pull towards Sherlock as he felt towards John. “Let’s put some clothes on, yeah?”
Sherlock snarled in frustration, but the omega had already turned away. There was a scar on his back. The bite that had turned him. It was still so fresh. Perhaps only a month old. He wouldn’t have been bitten in Britain. Obviously John was military. Afghanistan then. He had heard tales of the wolves running free in the mountains there.
He wondered if there was any trace left of that other wolf. If he stuck his nose to John’s scar, would he smell someone else? Some other alpha that had a claim to him. He would have to bite the scar too. Deeper. The omega was his. Only his.
Finally, John returned wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown and carrying a sheet. Cautiously, as if Sherlock were ill, John put the sheet round his shoulders.
“That’s better, now isn’t it? How about some tea?”
Sherlock grunted and shook his head. He had no time for tea. Claiming John was more important. Tea was not for people who had naked omegas wandering around their dens. Now that John was calmer, there was a slight limp as he walked. Psychosomatic.
“I don’t think you should stay here. Why don’t you come back to the base with me? They can look after you properly up there.” John asked, squatting down in front of him, looking up at Sherlock with wide, trusting eyes. Sherlock smiled. His omega knew his place.
Slowly, as if he were hunting, Sherlock raised his hand to John’s face. The omega leant into the touch for a second and then pulled away.
“Don’t.” Sherlock commanded, the omega stilled instantly. So beautifully obedient. So submissive.
“Why are you...Why do you smell so good? Have we met before? Why are you so familiar?” John asked, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face like he’d never seen anything else as interesting. Sherlock smiled more broadly.
“Don’t be dull,” he chided, “I’ve already told you.” He leant down and kissed the omega on the lips. It was a chaste kiss, a peck really. John’s lips relaxed at once, his mouth opening for Sherlock. Melting for him, and all Sherlock had to do was lean forward and take.
He pulled back, looking down at the dazed omega. John’s eyes were closed, but Sherlock wanted to be seen, wanted John to know exactly who was claiming him.
”I’m going to fuck you, John Watson. And when I come, I’m going to bite you so that everyone will always know who your alpha is.”
The omega reared back, his face slack with shock.
“I..Look, I’m not saying no. But this is insane, we don’t know each other. We can’t just..I should get back to the base, they’ll think I’ve gone AWL,” John said, his eyes drifting to the front door, but his body was leaning into Sherlock gratifyingly.
“My- ,” Sherlock broke off. There was someone who would handle this sort of thing for him. His litter-mate. The name darted across his mind and was gone. “My brother. He will handle it.”
“That’s not actually all that reassuring,” John said laughingly. Sherlock pulled him up so that John was straddling his lap. The omega was malleable to his touch. His skin was so hot that Sherlock fancied he could feel it burning him. Marking him as John’s just as surely as he would mark John.
“My therapist said - ” John began, but Sherlock didn’t have time to listen. He put his nose in John’s neck and sniffed. Filled his lungs with his omega’s scent. It was so delicious, he had been dying without this, and he hadn’t even realised. John gasped and let his head loll to the side. Sherlock bit his shoulder, gently reddening the spot that he would soon mark permanently.
He untied the knot in the dressing gown and pushed the cloth back so that John was naked again. John should always be naked. His delicious scent a treat for Sherlock’s senses that should never be denied.
Sherlock leant back on the sofa and pushed John down so that he could feel the lube from John’s arse smearing on his thighs. John stiffened and tried to pull away from him.
“I’m so sorry, what is…?” John asked, trying to get off Sherlock’s lap, but he held onto his mate’s arms and kept him in place.
“Shh,” Sherlock pressed a finger to the omega’s lips and once he’d stilled, he traced the finger along the outside of John’s lips. These lips, just like every other part of John, belonged to him.
His finger slipped into John’s mouth and when he pulled it out it was wet, covered in omega saliva. He wanted, more than he could ever remember wanting anything. He wanted to pull his cock from John’s mouth and watch it glisten as wetly with saliva as his finger was now.
“Suck me,” Sherlock said. The command sounded strange, odd to hear his own voice demand sexual gratification. He had never been interested in sex before, but now he could think no further than the omega scrambling to his knees in front of him.
He held his cock out for the omega to take, but John pulled away and looked up at his face.
“I’ve never done this before.”
Sherlock nodded. Nor had he. He tried to ignore the thrill of knowing that he was the only man who would ever see John like this. He could savour that later. He gripped John by the hair and pulled him forward so that the head of his cock rested against his lips. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock pulled him back so that he couldn’t quite reach him. John’s warm breath blew across his prick. He would not give in so easily, he wanted to enjoy this moment, this perfect moment of mastery over his omega and his own biology.
He pulled John’s head forward, thrusting into his mouth as deeply as he could go. John’s throat flexed around him, his head straining to escape Sherlock’s grasp. He held firm and slowly peeled John away. The battered red lips cradling his cock as it slowly slipped from his mouth. Saliva glistened in the firelight.
John licked his lips. Could he still taste Sherlock’s cock on them? He pulled the omega a little closer, so that the head of his cock slipped back inside the omega’s mouth. He could feel John’s tongue, hidden inside his mouth, gently lapping at him. Hotly brushing him. This was not enough. He needed more. He pushed John away, releasing his hair and letting him fall to the ground.
“I want to fuck you now.”
The omega lay on the floor, his legs already splayed. John nodded, biting his lips. Making them turn white. Sherlock had already claimed those lips. Now he needed more.
The finger slipped easily along John’s cleft, the lube had made the channel gloriously wet. His hole was already loose and Sherlock’s finger barely had to push to get inside. Inside his omega. He pulled his finger out slowly and John whimpered. He needed. His cock hurt from the strain of not being inside his omega.
Kneeling, there was no need for further preparation. He held up John’s leg and surveyed his new omega. He was more beautiful than anyone else had ever been. His hole blinked up at him. Waiting. Craving him. There was no time to lose. Sherlock thrust inside that flawless hole.
It was the most amazing thing. It was pleasure, pure and completely different from any other. This was not the rush of solving a case, or running fast over the moor. The tightness of John around his cock overwhelmed him. It was Christmas and besting Mycroft and killing the stag all rolled into one.
John panted, his breath heavy and a small moan on each exhale. Sherlock could hear him. Sherlock could feel him.
“Sherlock, please. Please move!”
John was perfect. Been made perfect by Sherlock’s cock. A begging mass. His.
Sherlock pulled out. Leaning back he could watch as his cock slowly emerged from John’s body. Wet. Shining and polished by John’s lube. Made perfect by John’s arse.
He pushed back in. He wanted to go slowly, he wanted to last forever. He always wanted to be inside John. Closer than he’d ever been to another living being. He thrust in harder and John screamed.
“Oh God, more. Please!”
He could feel his knot beginning to swell already. Catching on John’s rim each time he thrust. No. No. Not so soon. He wanted to listen to John scream again and again. Wanted to hear his new favourite word wrung from John’s lips. Please.
John put his hand on his own cock and stroked himself once before Sherlock could knock it away. He growled, even though this was the wrong throat.
He held John’s wrists tightly, feeling the bones rub against each other. His knot was getting bigger, he’d have to come soon. John screamed again, longer than before. His omega cock twitching and spitting out omega come. His arse tightened around Sherlock. So tight when he was so hard. He needed. He wanted. He would mark John with his come, would leave a piece of himself inside John so that everyone knew he was Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s omega. His John.
He opened his mouth to scream his orgasm but he could not. He needed to bite, to mark. He found John’s shoulder, already marked and prepared for him, and bit down as hard as he could as he came. Pumping himself into John’s arse, just as John pumped his blood into Sherlock’s mouth.
The blood was thick and warm. It scorched his tongue and, even after he swallowed down as much as he could, there was still a coppery film on his teeth. The wound on John’s shoulder was already starting to heal as John’s heartbeat slowed, his head lolling on the rug covered floor.
Sherlock grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it beneath John’s head. He could use that as a pillow whilst Sherlock’s knot bound them together. John’s arse still clenched around him, even though the omega had passed out.
John was still asleep when Sherlock awoke. He tried to remember where he’d left his mobile, he barely had any recollection of even arriving at the cottage. It all seemed like a rather distant blur. Finally, he found it on the mantlepiece. There were already two texts from Mycroft.
Congratulations. I shall make arrangements for the two of you to return to Baker St forthwith. MH
Another, oddly emotional, text had been sent five minutes later:
I am glad you’re alive, little brother.