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Chapter Text

Sherlock was sitting on his front doorsteps when Mycroft arrived home.

His dear little brother was pale and sweating, his eyes and nose red from the cold wind, normally neatly groomed curls in complete disarray. Sherlock had wrapped himself up in his coat as best as he could, his gaze absent and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a frown.

«Brother mine, » Mycroft said softly as he got out of the car.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up.

«Picking up old habits again, brother dear? You were reading a new book yesterday, enjoying a glass of whiskey or three. You used a different brand of toothpaste this morning to cover up the smell – why? Because you have an important meeting with the House of Commons today about that spending cuts bill, » Sherlock ran a shaky hand through his curls. «You had coffee with Senator Church because he’s against you on this motion, which is foolish, and then there was an emergency meeting called about the situation in Belgrade. So, motion, coffee and conversation with a fool, Belgrade, that’s why you’re half an hour later than usual. Boring. »

«I’m very glad your mental facilities seem to remain intact in your current state, » Mycroft replied drily. His lips tugged upwards as he stepped past Sherlock to open the door. It had obviously been forced open before his arrival, and little was done to cover up the tracks. «Why didn’t you go inside? »

«Because I couldn’t find the switch for the damn air purifier system, » Sherlock growled, «and the stench of Alpha was headache-inducing. You’ve had company recently. »

«Yes, the Senator thought it prudent to meet at my home. I’m sorry, » Mycroft returned, stepping into the house and effortlessly finding the switch for the air purifier.

Sherlock waited outside for a few more minutes to make sure that Mycroft had turned on the house’s air purifier system before dawdling inside, the door locking automatically behind him, the crisp click of the latch almost causing the detective to jump. He walked down the hallway that could best be described as «long and useless» (Mycroft said it would give guests time to adjust to their surroundings, but Sherlock just figured Mycroft needed a place to put all those ridiculous suits of armour that had been passed down generations of Holmeses). Once he reached the living room, he plopped himself down on one of the single-person armchairs and somehow managed to fold his body magically in half to lay between the armrests.

For a few minutes the house was quiet as if no-one had been in it at all, and Sherlock, curled up on the couch, let his gaze wander around the living room, brain quickly analysing all the information he could draw about Mycroft from the way the room was furnished. Best to use his brain while it was still working, after all, in an hour and thirty-seven minutes he would lose control over this organ for the foreseeable future.

Mycroft’s living room was as boring as any other politicians (Sherlock hadn’t been in many politicians’ homes, and the ones he had been in had been for cases) – open and spacious, with two leather armchairs placed at what knowing Mycroft would be precisely calculated distances around a round coffee table in the middle of the room. Next to the table was a bar cart with an expensive-looking bottle of whiskey and diamond-cut tumblers. Opposite to the armchairs was a couch in the same leather as the settees, facing the table and thus also the fireplace. The mantle above the fireplace was adorned with multiple photographs of the centres of power in the United Kingdom and curiously – a photo of the Holmes’ brothers. The wall-high bookshelves to the left and right of the fireplace were filled with rows upon rows of hardcover books, each one more boring that the one before (how Mycroft could stand to read something as trivial as Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë was lost to Sherlock). At the very least, Mycroft had more taste (which must have been a genetic trait, Sherlock mused) than most politicians (Senator Church had placed a huge self-portrait above his fireplace).

“How are you feeling now?” Mycroft came out of the kitchen with a cup of hot tea in his hand, which he set down on the coffee table. He deliberately kept his distance from Sherlock, knowing that in his current state, the smell of any Alpha would be sure to overwhelm him. Normally, Mycroft would have washed off the smell of the office before joining his brother, but Sherlock seemed more out of it than usual.

“Sweating all over, sense of smell is up 30%, vision is down 10%, heart rate is elevated, and I believe my pupils are dilated,” Sherlock glanced at his mobile, which he had pulled out of his coat pocket. “We have about an hour and twenty minutes before full heat.”

He glanced at Mycroft, who had placed himself on the far corner of the sofa so as to keep his distance.

“Stupid brother, you know your smell doesn’t affect me.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, ignoring Sherlock’s provocation. His dear little brother would never miss an opportunity to piss off Mycroft, even when he was down to his last ounce of strength.

He cleared his throat, “Everything you might need in the drawers in the upstairs room. Food and drinks are in the fridge, as well as a small supply in the minifridge in the ensuite. There are plenty of towels and clean clothes in the bathroom,” Mycroft sighed deeply and touched his brow somewhat dejectedly, “Please try to change while you still have the strength, I don’t want to have to strip them off your body myself when I get home.”

Sherlock leaned his head back over the armrest, closing his eyes and grunting in indication of having heard his brother.

“I’ll be out for dinner with the Foreign Secretary tonight, I estimate to be back around eleven,” Mycroft checked his watch, “text Anthea if you need anything in the meantime. I’ll see you tonight.”

Anthea – a pheromone-less beta – was used to being the spokesperson in situations like these, having learnt over the years how to handle Sherlock with almost the same precision as only Mycroft could control his unruly brother.

“Try not to get into any trouble until I get back, Sherlock,” Mycroft got up from the sofa and made his way to the front door.

Sherlock waited until he could hear the door closing softly before opening his eyes. Being in the same space as Mycroft could become quite uncomfortable at times, even though Mycroft’s scent did not affect him.

With less than an hour to go before the full-blown heat, Sherlock unfolded himself from the armchair and made his way over to the bookshelf. He took out the copy of Jane Eyre, opening it and glancing at the pages. His senses were turned up to eleven, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. Soon enough, the words on the pages became illegible and started crawling around like bugs.

Sherlock had always waited until the very last moment to succumb to his heat, and he knew that Mycroft had a box of toys ready in his room, yet he couldn’t bring himself to put down the books and give in.

After another half hour of staring blankly at the pages of Jane Eyre, the teeth marks at the back of his neck started tingling slightly. Sherlock sighed in frustration and mentally put a marker on the spot to keep track of the pain. While his high school biology teacher always said that “Omega’s have variable starting times for each heat wave”, Sherlock had mastered the art of accurately predicting exactly when his own heat would hit by analysing the different symptoms and changes his body went through. By the time he’d been accepted to Cambridge, he’d been able to figure out the starting times of each heat wave to the minute.

The detective adjusted his sitting position, the sound of the leather couch as it squeaked in protest amplified tenfold to his ears, and as he shifted, his tailbone brushed hard against his cotton briefs, bringing up a small, tingling current straight up his spine. Sherlock groaned. He stayed in the chair a few more minutes before finally giving up and closing the book in frustration.

Mycroft finished his dinner meeting with the Foreign Secretary at around ten thirty. Everything had gone according to plan. He had managed to get the Foreign Secretary to see the benefits of the new spending bill, including how it would benefit the Secretary on a more personal level. While most other Alphas used their pheromones to get their will in politics, Mycroft would never resort to such a primitive tactic to make people do his bidding. He liked to make his opponents crumble in a methodical way – finding errors in their logic and pushing them until they were trapped in a corner of their own making and had no way of talking their way out of it.

As he said adieu to the Foreign Secretary, Anthea came to him to brief him on Sherlock’s condition – there was no change. According to security cameras and personnel, he had locked himself in his bedroom and not left the house yet.

Seeing as there was no rush to get home, Mycroft had his driver take home Anthea first. As he watched his secretary enter her apartment building, he mentally calculated the condition he would find Sherlock in when he got home. Usually, the first wave of heat was the hardest to endure, physically and mentally. Any shred of sanity was consumed by prolonged desire. Alphas usually enjoyed the vulnerability of their Omegas in this situation, but for Mycroft it was torture to see his usually abrasive and dominant brother completely swept out by his physical needs.

Of course, there were suppressants on the market to avoid going into heat, but prolonged use of them is always physically and mentally taxing on the Omega. Convincing Sherlock to stop using his suppressants after having found him completely delirious in his flat in Montague Street a few years back was a harder task than manipulating even the most strong-willed members of the Parliament, but eventually Mycroft managed to cut a deal with Sherlock: stop using the suppressant every six months. In return, Sherlock would be able to spend his heats and Mycroft’s house which, according to Sherlock, was much more suitable than his current flat (Mycroft silently agreed, seeing as the Montague Building was swimming with addicts and Alphas who were sure to use a vulnerable Omega in heat to their advantage). At the beginning, everything seemed to go swimmingly – once every six months, Sherlock would show up on his doorstep and Mycroft would spend the week at the Diogenes Club.

The deal had worked swimmingly until the fourth heat. Sherlock had been clean from all drugs ever since the start of the brothers’ arrangement yet had fallen of the wagon after a case in which a young Omega girl was raped and murdered brutally. Mycroft blamed himself for not having seen the signs of impending relapse. When Sherlock did not show up at the agreed upon time, Mycroft went to Montague Street only to find his brother in the middle of the first wave high-as-a-kite being attacked by and equally high-as-a-kite Alpha in heat-induced rut. After fighting off the Alpha, Mycroft had taken Sherlock home (he’d popped a fast-acting suppressant so as not to be influenced by Sherlock’s pheromones – he was only human, after all). At the end of the heat, the deal had been modified: Sherlock, after coming back from rehab, would accept Mycroft’s temporary bonding mark as protection. Sherlock moved in to 221B Baker Street, where later that week, the beta John Watson joined him. Of course, Mycroft's primitive reaction was to get Sherlock out of the claws of the former army doctor, yet even he could see the benefits of the flatmate for Sherlock's protection.

As the car pulled up to Mycroft’s house, he took a suppressant pill. While he was naturally insensitive to pheromones, even a temporary mark on an Omega would change an Alpha’s reaction to their heat. He didn’t want to take any chances, and has he pushed the door open (purposely creating a bit of a rattle to let the man upstairs know he was back), he held his breath, trying not to give off any of his own scent.

Mycroft made his way to the living room, seeing (and smelling) evidence of Sherlock’s time spent there. He picked up the abandoned hardcover book. Sherlock must have been in the middle of reading it (which seemed odd, considering his natural disdain for classical literature) when the heatwave hit earlier than expected. Mycroft smoothed out the crumbled edges, not noticing the creaking sound the stairs made when Sherlock swiftly moved downstairs towards the kitchen, where he took one of the red velvet cupcakes Mycroft had purchased before coming home.

At the sound of a low groan, Mycroft turned around. Sherlock was wrapped in a dark bathrobe, he’d just showered. His curly hair was messy against his forehead, droplets of water rolled over his zygomatic arch down to his jaw and neck, disappearing into the chest of the robe. He had just taken a bite out of the cupcake; his eyes were rolled to the sky at the taste. Of its own accord, Mycroft felt his gaze sweeping up and down Sherlock’s scarcely clad body, before averting his eyes in quasi-shame. Even though he couldn’t smell Sherlock’s pheromones, he could imagine what his dear brother smelled like right now.

Sex.

“Does Mummy know that her oldest son looks at his own brother in that way?” Sherlock took another bite from the cupcake. While it was not illegal for siblings to bond, certain societal groups frowned upon the copulation. Their parents weren’t likely to make an issue, seeing as it was only a temporary marking, but Mycroft had to admit that the Alpha in him had thrilled at being able to mark Sherlock. He doesn’t exactly know when brotherly concern became something more, but Mycroft knew that he could never speak of his true sentiments to Sherlock. Their bond was purely one of convenience (it didn’t matter that that thought made the Alpha’s heart break a little).

Mycroft pushed the book back onto the shelf and picked a bottle of liquor from the bar cart.

“Mummy doesn’t even know that her eldest son marked her youngest.”

Sherlock grunted, the mark on his neck ached due to the proximity of his Alpha. Only the Alpha’s saliva would calm down the never-ending fire in his neck, yet he knew that Mycroft wasn’t the type of person to go licking and rubbing at the Omega’s neck, and even if he were, he’d be met with a neat left hook to the nose. Luckily, a bit of pain was good for staying awake, and Sherlock decided to ignore it as e finished the cupcake Mycroft had brought back. He pulled his robe tighter around him and made his way towards the stairs. As he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom, he heard his mobile ping.

Mycroft had heard the notification sound as well and turned back.

“Sherlock, no. You are not going on a case right now.”

“Don’t worry, Mycroft, I’m sure you’ve taken all the suppressants in the house. I won’t be able to leave anyways,” Sherlock said, running up the stairs to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft went upstairs to pack his belongings for the week. When he passed Sherlock’s door, he felt an inexplicable need to check up on his not-mate. He knocked at the door, and after not getting a reply opened it hastily. He was met with a cool breeze from the open windows, a rope made from bedsheets hanging from the windowsill and an empty packet of fast-acting suppressants on the empty bed that smelled of Omega.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was looking at crime scene photos in Lestrade’s office. Lestrade was slumped in his chair, sipping his coffee slowly.

“What is it with Alphas and alcohol?”, Sherlock said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”, Lestrade said.

“You’ve been drinking. Last night?”, Sherlock tilted his head. Thanks to the suppressant and beta spray, he was temporarily immune to Alpha pheromones, but Lestrade’s scent was strong, making his nose itch. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, stood up and took a few steps back. “It’s too obvious. You’re wife’s place, or rather ex-wife’s place. Laundry detergent. I need to see the body.”

Lestrade put down his cup and sat up straight, staring at the tall man in front of him with an expression of disbelief before shaking his head and laughing ruefully. “Are you a dog? I don’t even want to know how you figured it out. The body’s in the autopsy room downstairs.”

Lestrade stood up and took two steps forward. Instinctively, Sherlock took two steps back. Lestrade glanced up and down at him, raised an eyebrow in question, then looked away. At that, Donovan entered the office with a progress report (there was none), then raised her chin and scrutinised Sherlock.

“Hey freak, you smell weird. Something up?”, she asked unfriendly.

Sherlock looked up arrogantly, “And you smell like Anderson’s air freshener. Is the wife on holiday again?”

Donovan glared at Sherlock, who merely pursed his lips, unwilling to waste another word on the female sergeant. Lestrade, caught in the middle, supressed a laugh and assigned Donovan some tasks to keep her occupied and out of Sherlock’s way before escorting the consulting detective to the underground forensic laboratory.

In the autopsy room, three bodies were laid out in a row from left to right according to time of death. The freshest one had been brought back from the crime scene that night. The room was filled with a pungent smell of blood, which, for Sherlock, whose sense of smell was dialled up to eleven, felt like a sharp knife piercing his brain. He shook his head to clear his brain from the smell, then turned his attention to the bodies.

The third victim, Amile Norton, was still wearing the clothes she had on when she was killed. The front of her shirt had been slashed open by the killer, leaving the remaining fabric hanging in shred. Sherlock lifted the blood-soaked fabric and pulled out his magnifying glass. He examined the crisscrossing wounds on the victim’s abdomen.

“Mechanical asphyxiation,” Lestrade said. They had been standing together in front of the three bodies, which were so badly mutilated they were nearly unidentifiable, for nearly ten minutes, and Sherlock clearly wasn’t one to talk during his research. The inspector wiped his face with his hand; he and Anderson, along with other forensic experts, had been in and out of this place multiple times over the past week, but he still couldn’t get used to the sight of the mangled corpses. “Only the first victim died of blood loss.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. The detective stood still, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin.

“She had just given birth,” the consulting detective said suddenly.

“What?”

“She had just given birth, Amile. The third victim. As a matter of fact, all three of them had just given birth. Was this not mentioned in the report?”

Lestrade paused, “So they all had children? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, Lestrade, do keep up. That’s their connection. Didn’t you spend an entire week looking for this?” Sherlock stuffed the magnifying glass back into his pocket and strode towards the door. Lestrade followed, noticing that Sherlock’s face didn’t look too good. Sherlock opened the door, stuck his head into the empty hallway, taking two deep breaths of air that wasn’t permeated with the smell of rotting corpses and blood.

“He was choking the first victim while stabbing her. The other victims were choked first, then stabbed. Who was on forensics? Never mind, whoever it was is an idiot.”

Lestrade silently swallowed Anderson’s name.

“The first victim dies of blood loss, which wasn’t the killer’s intention. He learnt through trial and error – the first victim struggled too much to choke her and stab her at the same time, which is why she died of blood loss rather than asphyxiation. With the next victim, he knew that he had to choke her to death first, then was able to stab her without having to go through the trouble of keeping her still. It’s not about sex; the stabs are in the abdomen; his target was the uterus. He learned by doing, the uterus of the third victim was almost completely destroyed. The uterus, the mother – of course, these all point to a tragic childhood, possibly a victim of domestic violence, or perhaps his mother’s coldness enraged him, or…” Sherlock paused to catch his breath, “he hates his origins and, by extension, the mother who gave him life. The first victim was short, dark haired, beta, lived alone, simple social relationships. She might have been just an experiment. Why? – Easy to target. After the first taste, he started looking for more. The second and third victim are also beta females, brown haired, average build. There’s your pattern.”

“You mean to say he’s taking out his anger towards his mother on people who look like her?”

“Possibly, probably,” Sherlock adopted his thinking pose, then announced after a moment, “I need to go to the crime scene.”

“Now?”

Another voice sounded from behind them. Lestrade instinctively reached for his holster, and Sherlock let out a frustrated groan.

Mycroft was wrapped in a formal three-piece suit, his face pale under the corridor lights, wearing is usual expressionless smile. If it weren’t for the black umbrella being swayed back and forth, Lestrade would have mistaken him for an escaped corpse from one of the freezers. Sherlock turned around towards his brother, before rolling his eyes and turning towards the exit.

“Inspector, good evening”, Mycroft said.

“Good evening,” Lestrade took his hand off his gun holster. “You scared me, I almost pulled my gun.”

“My apologies, but I have been standing here for a while”, Mycroft didn’t move to follow his brother, which seemed rather odd. “Sherlock. Stay.”

The detective didn’t respond, but stopped in his tracks, as if his body was out of his control. The rigid lines of his shoulders betrayed the discomfort he felt at being a slave to his nature. Mycroft sighed. While he never intended to force anything upon Sherlock, biology was a fickle thing that even he could sometimes not control. He hadn’t used his Alpha voice, but in Sherlock’s current state the Omega would mindlessly obey any command from “his” Alpha. Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

“Don’t make me force you, Sherlock”, Mycroft said softly but surely.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his neck. The mark’s pain eased slightly at “his” Alpha’s proximity but only deepened his self-loathing. He knew all too well that the only reason he was still standing there was because Mycroft was holding back. If the Alpha wanted to, he could make Sherlock’s legs give out in an instant.

“Lestrade, send the address to my phone”, Sherlock finally spoke up, “I’ll go check it out tonight.”

“Then I’ll join you,” Mycroft didn’t hesitate.

“Fine. But don’t complain about the smell.”

The crime scene was a twenty-minute drive from Scotland Yard, which meant he would have to spend twenty minutes in the same enclosed space as Mycroft. Of course, he could have jumped out of the car, but Mycroft would have instantly used his pheromones to make him come back. Not to mention that he was supposed to be in the middle of his heat right now, and the suppressants he took could only do so much. They were fast acting, yes, but that also meant that their half time was shorter. Sherlock had taken multiple at once, so he should be fine for a few more hours until he could find another packet, but he couldn’t risk any escapades. On top of that, Sherlock could feel part of his body that was happily jumping up and down at the thought of being alone with Mycroft.

Damn reproductive needs.

Sherlock shifted, pressing his body against the window to widen the distance between himself and his brother. While Mycroft didn’t really smell of anything (thanks to his own suppressants), proximity of “his” Alpha was enough to make him feel good, which wasn’t something he could afford while on a case.

The scenery outside was rushing by, and the two Holmeses were each lost in their own thoughts, neither of them willing to acknowledge the other. Sherlock leaned his head against the car window. He had a slight fever, a normal reaction after forcing himself to interrupt his heat with suppressants. The detective pulled his coat closer around himself, shivering slightly. Mycroft glanced at him, turned up the temperature in the car, and went back to studying some secret documents on his phone.

The crime scene was located in a dark, narrow alley in central London. The high walls surrounding the alley prevented the streetlight from reaching it, and moss had grown on both sides of the walls. The ground was covered with mud, making it difficult to walk.

As soon as the car stopped, Sherlock impatiently climbed out. Mycroft also got out of the car, but did not follow the detective to the crime scene. Sherlock turned on the flashlight Lestrade had given him and carefully avoided the muddy footprints and bloodstains at the scene, stepping cautiously over the perimeters left by the forensic team. Due to insufficient light, his sense of smell and hearing subconsciously took over control. Sherlock sniffed the air around him a few times, the smell of blood covering any useful scents.

The relatively isolated environment, the traffic on two main roads that would have drowned out the victim’s screams, the walls covered with plants that made it impossible to extract fingerprints, and the muddy ground that had preserved the killer’s footprints but no other evidence – if Sherlock had been able to function at full capacity, the case would have been at least an eight on his scale.

Sherlock lingered at the scene for another ten minutes, walking back and forth along the alley twice, observing the shops and surveillance cameras at the exits in both directions. He could wait until tomorrow to ask around the neighbourhood if anyone had noticed anything, but he didn’t expect much.

The smell of blood mixed with mud and the cold kept him awake and alert. This feeling was good, cases were more effective than suppressants.

Sherlock emerged from the alley. Mycroft was leaning against the car door, just as he had been ten minutes earlier, idly swinging his black umbrella. When he saw the detective walk towards him, Mycroft gave him a rather heated look.

“You smell like you just killed someone,” Mycroft frowned.

Sherlock didn’t respond. Before Mycroft could open the door for him, he quickly circled around to the other side of the car and got in. The two remained silent on the way back. Sherlock’s low fever had subsided slightly, but the car’s heating was still strong. The physical exertion as well as the effects of interrupted heat along with the warmth of the car caused Sherlock to relax gradually, coming down from the high of the case. The Omega surrendered to his body’s instincts and slowly moved towards “his” Alpha’s side, burrowing into his side. Mycroft looked down at his brother, before gently wrapping his arm around the too-thin frame of “his” Omega.

Neither of them spoke.

Chapter Text

Although the deal stated that Mycroft was meant to spend the heat-week at the Diogenes, when the brothers stumbled into Mycroft’s home at quarter to three in the morning, Sherlock told Mycroft that his suppressant would last until morning and that he should just stay at the house. Mycroft, although reluctantly, agreed after popping another suppressant himself.

The brothers made their way up the stairs to their respective rooms at opposite ends of the hallways. Mycroft hesitated at his door, the Alpha inside him telling him to keep “his” Omega company in this time of need. Mentally shaking himself, he pushed open his bedroom door and threw himself onto the bed, barely managing to take of his shoes and blazer before succumbing to sleep.

Mycroft awoke to an enticing scent surrounding him. His eyes snapped open, he sneezed once.

Omega in heat, his mind supplied.

If the scent of his little brother was so strong in his own room, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like in Sherlock’s. Not that Mycroft hadn’t dealt with that sort of thing before, but this was the first time he smelled Sherlock while bonded to him. He grabbed two suppressants, swallowing one himself and putting the other in the pocket of his robe before heading towards Sherlock’s room.

Mycroft had envisioned a great deal of scenarios of what was going on at the other side of the door, even going as far as finding Sherlock masturbating. His imagination hadn’t included the sight of Sherlock lying peacefully in bed, just grunting as if uncomfortable. The wild curls spread across the white pillow like a halo, Sherlock’s upper body was still wearing the short silk sleeved pyjama top he’d put on to sleep in, yet the lower half of the set was missing. The dark blue comforter was wrapped around his long, slender legs, and the detective was obviously still asleep, intermittently slightly arching his neck, rubbing his heels against the bedsheets. The Omega softness of his body allowed him to bend himself into a perfect arch even while unconscious.

Mycroft bit his lip, trying to maintain control over his body but feeling himself getting aroused. He slowly made his way towards Sherlock, who, still unconscious, angled himself towards “his” Alpha and presented his neck adorned with Mycroft’s teeth imprints. A mewl left Sherlock’s mouth, and as Mycroft reached the edge of the bed, the Omega turned onto his belly and arched his back. Mycroft could feel Sherlock’s pheromones affecting him; his ability to process information was declining rapidly, his nostrils were flaring, his sense of smell was heightened, saliva production was increased, each of which indicated that his body was ready to mate with his Omega, even though he had taken suppressants and the Omega in question was his own brother. Biology didn’t discern between kin or not, and copulation between siblings caused no effects in case of pregnancy. Only higher classes frowned upon the mating of two siblings, deeming it improper and lazy of the affected parties for not having searched outside of their scope for a mate.

The Great British Government had to make a split-second decision: either dose Sherlock with the suppressant against his will or wake his brother up which would ultimately lead to sex. While their deal had not specified on their own interpersonal relationships, Mycroft had always assumed that Sherlock would rather tear out his own scent glands than share any sort of intimacy with Mycroft. The answer to his internal dilemma was obvious, yet Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to move. He took a deep breath and got a mouthful of pheromones for his troubles.

Mycroft leaned down towards his brother, and at the proximity another whimper left Sherlock’s lips. At that, Mycroft reached towards the frail shoulders and shook his brother, hard.

The Omega was shaken out of his sleep, and it took a few seconds (a few seconds too long) for his fever-addled brain to react before he could roughly make out the current situation; there was an Alpha (his Alpha) right in front of him, and the Alpha’s pheromones were soothing to him instead of distressing him further. Instinctively, he leaned closer towards the scent, before shaking himself and realising that the Alpha in front of him was – “Mycroft?”

Mycroft bit his tongue hard. Sherlock smelled fresh, like dewy citrus on a fresh spring morning, absolutely divine, and –

Mycroft leaned in, gently brushing his lips against his brothers. Pulling back, shocked by his own actions, he quickly pulled out the suppressant from his pocket and put the pill under Sherlock’s tongue before turning on his heel and rushing out of the room.

The madman who targeted fertile women and stabbed them in the uterus after asphyxiated them suddenly disappeared before Scotland Yard could get any more clues as to who the whodunnit was. Sherlock had visited several of the stores surrounding the crime scene after his heat had passed, yet none of the shopkeepers remembered seeing any strange activities. The security cameras hadn’t brought any light on the case either.

Over the next few weeks, Lestrade had a steady stream of new cases coming in, petty thefts, home invasions and other cases that were deemed uninteresting by Sherlock, yet caused “the Case of the Silent Womb” (as John Watson had dubbed it in his blog) to fall into the shadows of unsolved mysteries.

With no experiments to do (he had just finished his fourth test of the different scarring patterns caused by different horsewhips) and no interesting cases being provided by Lestrade, Sherlock considered going to his brother for stimulation – purely intellectual, of course. There was always some higher upper who would need his help with some stolen painting or other.

Yet Sherlock hesitated. The brothers hadn’t seen each other since Sherlock woke up in the middle of a heat wave to find Mycroft had kissed him, given him a suppressant and then promptly sprinted out of the room. Sherlock didn’t know how to deal with the situation, and if the silence from Mycroft’s end was anything to go by, neither did his brother.

So, the situation was left undealt with.

While Sherlock shared the Baker Street flat with John Watson, one would think that the topic of mates would come up at some point, yet both had managed to avoid the subject with precision akin to a neurologist performing brain surgery.

In other words, John did not know about the temporary bonding between the Holmes brothers. While he hadn’t been living at Baker Street for long, John liked to think that he had somewhat of an idea as to who his flatmate was. Obviously Omega, yet so unlike other members of his secondary gender, Sherlock was the epitome of independence and not conforming to stereotypes. Already early on in their friendship, John had realised that Sherlock was more “married to his work” than anything else and (according to the Omega himself) did not “partake in trivial activities such as copulation, really John, how plebian”.

Which makes dropping the teapot with steaming water he was holding when Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom and there was a clear bonding mark on his neck a very reasonable reaction, thank you very much. Despite sharing a bathroom, Sherlock always made sure to either shower when the flat was empty or be completely covered up when he left his bedroom.

“John?”, Sherlock inquired, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

John swallowed, not tearing his eyes away from the bonding mark, “No, shift got cancelled. What happened to you?”

Sherlock turned towards his flatmate, not having realised his state of undress just yet. John gestured at the back of his neck wildly, which caused Sherlock’s eyes to widen in shock. He then sprinted towards his bedroom and slammed the door shut.  

John, still shocked, watched the door slam shut, which awoke him from his shock-induced stupor. Realising he was running late, the doctor decided to forgo re-brewing his morning tea and rushed out the door, thoughts running amok in his head.

The asexual detective – bonded. Who’d have thought.

When John came home from his shift, Sherlock was hunkered down on the single couch in his usual thinking-position, fully clothed.

The detective glanced up from his position on the sofa, before closing his eyes once more.

“You have questions,” Sherlock sighed.

“Of course I bloody have questions. Starting with “who the hell did that to you”? Was it consensual? Do I know him?”, John ranted.

“Calm down, John. It’s Mycroft. It was consensual – as consensual as you consider it being a safety measure. Does this satisfy your curiosity? Lestrade just texted me – there’s another body from our dear Mr. “Silent Womb” – killer.”

The cab rushed down the streets of London, John intermittently glanced over at his flatmate. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You’re thinking about the mating bite,” Sherlock broke the silence, “Honestly, John, there’s a woman murdered and you’re concerned about a temporary bonding mark? It was consensual deal, the lesser of two evils, and I have made my peace with it.”

“It just seems unrealistic, you’re constantly at each other’s throats, you hate his guts! Why would you let him mark you – even temporarily?” John raged.

“Mycroft saved me from a lot worse than a temporary bonding to one of the only people I can stand being around. Despite all our antagonistic relations – he does care for me. And I do for him.”

“You’re in love with him?”, John exclaimed.

“What? No. He’s my brother. He’s family. And he’s saved me from having to fight off any Alpha that gets a wiff of unbonded Omega on the streets.”

Silence fell over the cab again. Sherlock looked out of the window, glancing at John. John clenched his hands, taking a deep breath and sighing softly.

“Well, news that the Great Sherlock Holmes is an unbonded Omega would make a lot of bad people very happy,” John teased, deciding to steer the conversation away from Mycroft and the temporary bond between the brothers.

Sherlock smiled softly, and the rest of the cab ride was spent in silence.

Chapter Text

this chapter is currently being revised. due to exams, uploads will be slow. next chapter to be expected as per 21.06.2025. thank you for your patience!

Chapter Text

this chapter is currently being revised. due to exams, uploads will be slow. next chapter to be expected as per 21.06.2025. thank you for your patience!

Chapter Text

this chapter is currently being revised. due to exams, uploads will be slow. next chapter to be expected as per 21.06.2025. thank you for your patience!