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The Omega	By : themuller Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3783 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I own nothing; all rights belong to BBC Sherlock and I make no money from my writing.

Chapter List
- 1-The Omega
- 2-Breathe
- 3-Plans gone wrong
- 4-At your service
- 5-Shower
- 6-Hooked
- 7-Baby
- 8-Examination
- 9-O+
- 10-The scheme
- 11-Birth
- 12-Heat
- 13-Epilogue
- 3
- 4
- 5
Sherlock turned towards his brother as soon as the police car had disappeared around the corner.
"You did that!" Sherlock sneered at Mycroft.
"Well, we can't have a killer running free now, can we?" Mycroft answered aloof, casually leaning on his ever-present umbrella.
"John isn't a killer and you know it," Sherlock felt an uncharacteristic rage rising in him. Is that how an Alpha responded if his bondmate were threatened? But they hadn't bonded - yet. Why would he react with such force?
Hiding his puzzlement and beating down his far too obvious affection, he focussed his mind on more secure ground.
"I need access to the house, to the crime scene. And I need to get John's clothes and other things," he tried to sound unmoved but without any doubt Mycroft had figured him out. Frustratingly, Mycroft probably already knew more about the why's and how's of Sherlock's sentiment for John than Sherlock was able to realise for himself at the time being.
When Mycroft nodded slightly, Sherlock walked past him, got his coat, and took the first available cab to the late Professor Moriarty's house.
During the ride, Sherlock tried to connect and catalogue the available data, repeatedly distracted by the image of John curling into him, the memory of John's moans, of John's fingers curling into his hair. Sherlock had never felt like this before. To despise his brother he had refused to entertain the idea of ever bonding. Why should he? With a bond followed responsibility. An Omega was a fragile, delicate creature in need of attention in a way Sherlock knew he couldn't provide.
But John was different. John was -. Sherlock pulled himself out of that line of thought. If he really wanted John, he needed to get him of this murder charge. Even better, he had to solve this case.
When the cab stopped in front of the house, he told the driver to wait while he went to the house. An Alpha constable guarded it. Sherlock told him his name and was admitted without problems. Examining the crime scene itself in front of the house, Sherlock played the naive Alpha, who was in awe of the older constable and his knowledge of crimes, criminals, and this crime in particular.
He was able to extract a fair amount of information about the investigation so far. The constable hadn't learned anything about the main suspect, though. He acknowledged to Sherlock that the suspect had been apprehended, but not much was known about him or his whereabouts. Just the DI and the Chief knew what was going on. It was all very hush hush.
Sherlock went into the house without being supervised, a fact that he made good use of. He was surprised to find most of the house undisturbed. The police hadn't bothered with collecting evidence inside the house. Papers, the Professor's calendar and notebook were lying untouched in what appeared to be the study.
Sherlock had never been to a crime scene before, but he was certain that the police normally would look into any possible connections, friends, dates, and whatever else to find possible suspects. Nothing like that seemed to have happened here.
Going for the obvious then, Sherlock thought. Case closed, and John didn't have an alibi, since he would have been at home alone. Sherlock's thoughts stuttered to a halt, when another thought occurred to him. What if Mycroft had part in this operation as well? Why? What could he ever gain from this? If he just wanted Sherlock bonded with an Omega, Mycroft should have ensured John's innocence. Instead it looked like he did exactly the opposite.
Need more data, Sherlock muttered under his breath. Stop making assumptions, ask questions, and gather information, he reminded himself.
The papers on the desk had been written by two different people. Sherlock could recognise one as the Professor's since it matched the writing in the calendar. The other could be John's then, if he had helped the Professor with whatever the Professor had been working on.
Looking in every room, Sherlock didn't find any signs of a fight or other kind of disturbance. The Professor had been killed on the doorstep of the front door. No sign of an intruder and equally no sign of John chasing the Professor through and out of the house before finishing him on the doorstep.
So, where had the Professor been that evening and night? Sherlock had to return to John as fast as possible to gather more details, more input about the Professor, once Sherlock was finished with his examination of the house.
John's room was a bleak affair. White walls, a small window up high on one of the walls, a narrow bed, and a chair. His clothes were in a chest of drawers. Sherlock filled the duffle bag he had found in one of the other bedrooms with John's few belongings, including his book.
Sherlock tried to remember, what he knew about the Professor and his research. The Professor had been abroad before and during the Second World War, conducting his research on a large number of Omega subjects, both male and female. He was one of the very few specialists who had been able to collect more than just a handful of Omegas for his tests and experiments. A fact that had turned his books about the Omega behaviour into certain bestsellers since he had been able to support his suggestions and conclusions with valid statistical data.
Or so it seemed, Sherlock surmised. He had to stop himself from slipping into the same trap as the police: taking the obvious for prove without checking other lines of inquiries. Oh, I'll show them, Sherlock thought, how to do to their job properly. They'll come crawling to me, begging me to help them with their cases. Sherlock smirked, well, that would be one way of making an interesting living. Worth of further inspection after he had solved the case that for now was keeping John behind bars.
Leaving the house with the duffle bag and another case filled with papers, files, folders, the calendar, and notebook, Sherlock gestured to the constable and entered the waiting cab, giving his address to the driver.
It took Sherlock less than five minutes to gather his own clothes and other things he thought he might need for solving this case. He bought a copy of every available newspaper at the nearby News stand, asking for yesterday's papers as well. Then he was finally on his way to John.
Once more Sherlock was surprised by his own reactions, looking forward to seeing John, almost yearning to see him again, having to restrain himself from urging the driver on to get to the Met faster.
As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock tossed some notes to the driver and jumped put of the car. He took his different bags and cases and practically ran up the steps to the entrance. Inside he could detect the faint scent of John, following it upstairs, sixth floor, found the locked door, guarded by a bored Beta police officer, who jumped up from his chair and unlocked the door before Sherlock had said a word.
It's that blatant, Sherlock thought, even a Beta can figure out who I'm looking for. With an inhumanly effort Sherlock willed himself to be calm before he opened the door and entered the room. Closing the door behind him, he had to hold onto the door handle to keep upright. John's scent was the only one in the room, it was permeating every little inch of the space. The police had succeeded in cleaning the room from other scents before John had been confined in it. Sherlock took a deep breath of the rich fragrance and his knees gave way. He slid down on the carpet, panting, analysing what he could smell, tasting it.
John, but not just John. The pregnancy, of course. But there was more, a deeper note, an elegant mark. Sherlock could distinguish his own smell, his own pheromones in John's scent. Even after several hours it still lingered on, in fact stronger than before.
Sherlock marvelled at the subtle, but clear indications of an on going mingling of their scents. An explicit sign of the bonding process, which should not be possible without a corresponding heat. Pushing his bewilderment aside, Sherlock got up from the floor and went to John, who was curled up on the sofa, sleeping.
God, he looks like a little boy, Sherlock thought, carefree and so young and innocent. Very carefully, Sherlock tucked a blanket around John, then took the bags and cases and started to unpack as silently as possible.
The room had a large window overlooking part of London. One corner of the room was turned into a kitchenette, enabling them to make tea and cook some food in the microwave. There was a door leading into a small bathroom. The sofa, John was sleeping on, could be turned into a bed, large enough for both of them. A table, four chairs, a coffee table, and one armchair made up the rest of the furniture.
Cushions and blankets were provided in a large amount, needed when John started nesting, a common behaviour for pregnant Omegas. Sherlock wondered how 'common' it was, given John's very uncommon behaviour on every turn in this case so far.
With a contented sigh Sherlock sat down and started looking through the newspapers, he had gathered. Not one word about the violent death of the Professor. Mycroft had really outdone himself with this. According to the obituaries and other 'in depth' articles, Professor Moriarty died peacefully in his sleep. His bondmate was only mentioned in passing in a few of the papers. His son was referred to, but no name given, indicating that he was an Omega. Since he didn't live at the house, Sherlock hadn't found any signs of a third inhabitant, the son must be old enough for being bonded, but no bondmate was named.
Well, either he wasn't bonded, Sherlock inferred, which was highly unlikely because he wasn't living at home with his father, or which Sherlock found more likely, he was bonded. Either to another Omega - very improbable, especially since the Professor advised against such a bonding - or a neutered Alpha. Any other bondmate would have been mentioned by name and title, showing his or her place in society.
Sherlock started to put notes on a block of paper. The remaining family as far as Sherlock could determine by the articles and notices in the papers, was comprised of John, the Professor's son and his bondmate. No other family was mentioned or implied. The three former Omegas might have had family, but once bonded the Omega became part of the family of his or hers bondmate, without any legal ties to the Omega's biological family. This severance of the linkage continued after the death of the Alpha, which made John's decision to take his biological family's name back even the more surprising. If a bond was severed legally and with all the normally necessary precautions, the Omega would just go by his or her first name until a suitable Alpha or Beta was found for a new bonding.
Sherlock looked up when John stirred as if waking up. Sherlock grabbed John's book and moved to the sofa, sitting down at one end and gently guiding John's head into his lap. John didn't wake up, just nestled his head into Sherlock's lap and curled a hand around Sherlock's back.
Leaning back on the sofa, Sherlock kept the notebook on the armrest together with a pen and opened John's book 'The Omega. Biology, Behaviour, and Sexuality' written by Professor Moriarty. John's edition was the standard version given by the government to every newly diagnosed Omega. It contained a detailed description on the life cycle of the Omega, including the different kind of heats, pregnancy, sexual behaviour, bonding, caregiving, and so on. The book was illustrated with photographs showing 'real life' situations, explaining the dos and don'ts of Omega behaviour and biological needs. It was a very thorough book, John's copy being the twelfth revised edition, with up to date photos, carts, and tables.
Sherlock had read the book as soon as he had realised that Mycroft was trying to get him bonded to an Omega. Frowning, he thought back to the moment when he finally had understood Mycroft's motivations. The family lineage had to continue and Mycroft's sexual inclinations wouldn't make it possible to conceive an heir. Mycroft would never bond with an Omega, despising their weakness, their need for protection. Like Sherlock, Mycroft was drawn to the male gender, necessitating Mycroft to get Sherlock to bond with an Omega, at least ensuring the possibility of an heir.
Sherlock forced his thoughts and concentration back to the book in front of him. John had written notes in the margins, sometimes even whole accounts on an extra sheet of paper tucked in between the pages. On reading the first few pages, Sherlock became intrigued by John's observations. Paragraphs were underlined and further explained or rejected. The latter typical with a 'fuck that' or 'hell no'. Not very scientific, Sherlock smiled, but John's explanations and observations were as comprehensive as the Professor's.
Absentmindedly, Sherlock started to stroke John's hair with his left hand, being deeply engrossed in the book, not taking notes, just collecting the data presented to him in his mind.
xOxOxOxOxOx
John woke slowly, feeling the gentle strokes of Sherlock in his hair. He sighed and nuzzled deeper into Sherlock's lap, breathing in the scent of Sherlock. Frowning John took another deep breath, and wondered if he was imagining things. Their scents were merging? But, John thought sleepily, we haven't bonded yet. Putting the thought aside, he decided to relax into the petting, dream or not, he wanted to have this little peace of heaven before the reality would hit him hard again.
Sherlock's stroke stopped for a moment, then resumed after he had turned a page. John turned his head and looked up into the book cover hovering over his head.
"Oh God," he groaned. "You're not supposed to read that!"
Sherlock lifted the book aside and looked confused at John.
"Why not?" he asked with a frown.
"Well, it's... I don't know. I just. I use it as a kind of diary. Like," John stammered, trying to explain while those grey blue eyes were focussing on him. "When I was bonded," John started again. "I hadn't read the book. I didn't know what to expect, how to react. I thought - I don't know. I hoped the book had some answers. That I could figured out what's wrong with me."
John paused again, feeling vulnerable in his current position. Sherlock's frown deepened.
"There's nothing wrong with you, John," he said earnestly.
John closed his eyes.
"Sherlock," he took a deep breath. "You've read it. At least part of it. I'm not even close to how an Omega should be. And I - you," John struggled to find the right words.
"Look," John said and reluctantly sat up. "The Professor had done research into this," John indicated himself and the book, "most of his life. He had lots and lots of test subjects."
The last words were said with a shudder.
"He knew what he was writing, he knew how I should behave, how I should feel like. And -"
John had to look away, clearing his throat before he continued.
"I'm nothing like that."
Now he was indicating the book.
"I'm not your nice little Omega, needy and fragile. The Professor pointed that out to me every damn day."
He did more than that, John thought, still being able to feel the latest bruises on his body. He caressed his tummy, remembering the changes in his relationship with the Professor when he became pregnant.
"When I became pregnant, I could tell that something was off right away. According to the book, my Alpha should have turned more protective, nurturing, keeping the little one and me safe. Instead," John swallowed, the memories being to vivid, "instead the Professor seemed to get more frustrated with me as time went on."
"He punished you more violently than before," Sherlock said flatly.
John cleared his throat once more, shifting in his seat.
"He did, yes. And he kept muttering about 'getting the factors right'. Something like that," John was looking ahead, unfocussed, remembering some of the incidents. He didn't understand what he had done wrong at that time and he still didn't.
"John," Sherlock had put the book on the coffee table and turned towards John, dragging one of his legs up on the sofa. "Hasn't it occurred to you that the Professor could've been wrong? That he had made assumptions which aren't accurate?"
John didn't look at Sherlock. He had started to tremble slightly.
"But I know his research, I've seen some of the statistics, even a few of the original interviews and observations," John's voice was low, turning into a whisper. He shuddered, closed his eyes, and then deliberately straightened up.
"I can see, that you brought some of the papers for his newest book with you," John pointed at the table, altering the subject.
Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting the change of topic.
"It looked as if you helped him with that one," Sherlock explained.
"Yes, funny thing. It was supposed to become his biography, autobiography. Most of my notes are here," John had stood up and looked through the paperwork. "Could be interesting..."
John didn't finish the sentence, lost in thought.
"What could be interesting?" Sherlock prodded.
"Oh," John flinched out of his thoughts. "Sorry. It's just, the Professor had several files, folders and even notebooks, he wouldn't allow me to look at. They're kept in his safe. Could be interesting to go through them, using them to get the whole picture. He always kept that part of his life locked away."
John added the last sentence like an afterthought, shrugging.
"I could get them," Sherlock said, leaning forward eagerly.
"You could?" John was surprised. "But - they're in a safe and it's in the Professor's house."
He paused, suddenly alarmed.
"How did you even get these? Aren't they supposed to be with the police? Isn't this evidence?"
Sherlock smiled smugly.
"Technically, the papers are with the police. Remember, we're at the police station? And since the morons didn't take it with them in the first place, they don't seem to regard it as evidence in this case. I'll get the rest as well. Would be good to open up for another line of inquiries," Sherlock replied, thoughtfully leaning back in the sofa.
John shook his head, took a last look at the papers spread out on the table, then went to the small kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock seemed lost in thoughts, and John needed a cup of tea to clear his own head.
"Sugar, milk?" John asked when he was preparing the mugs.
"Milk, three sugars," Sherlock replied, without moving.
John was just about to carry the mugs to the sofa, when it knocked at the door, which instantly was unlocked and opened. A small man with a round, smiling face looked around the door.
He entered the room, and the door was closed and locked once more. He wore a suit and carried a black leather briefcase with him.
John looked surprised at the man, who wasn't a police officer. Sherlock huffed.
"Is that the best Mycroft could come up with?" Sherlock said disdainfully. John looked confused from one man to the other.
"Your brother? Who are -"
Before he could finish his sentence, the man cut in, holding out a hand, smile growing wider: "Mike Stamford, barrister. At your service."
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The Omega