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The Omega	By : themuller Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3785 -:- 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
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- 10
A/N: I have been reliably informed that this chapter might let you find squicks you never knew you had. I promise that the story will end with rainbows and unicorns... just not yet. Sorry.

With a huff, John took a notebook from one of the piles. For the past few days, since James threatened to take their child, John had been unbalanced. His hormonal changes caused by the pregnancy were influencing his mood. He had been edgy and Sherlock had tried his best to avoid upsetting him.
Sherlock himself had to adjust to the changes in his own biology. Sherlock hadn't allowed anyone inside the room after he had got rid of his brother and that lawyer. Sherlock had made sure of that, even to the point where Mycroft ended up sporting a black eye, when he tried to force his way in. John had to suppress a giggle, thinking of that particular incident.
John wasn't left alone for any length of time. Surprisingly, John didn't mind Sherlock's possessive streak. Claiming John as his, marking his territory and defending it made him feel safe. In fact, he was relieved the two of them being alone. When John became restless, Sherlock would soothe him. Sometimes by playing the violin, which Mycroft had brought the day after John's birthday. Sometimes just hugging him, kissing and licking the mark on John's neck.
Sherlock didn't sleep much, but would sit on the sofa, John's head in his lap, petting him, running his long, slender fingers through John's hair until John would fall asleep. Sherlock would then stay on the sofa, thinking the whole night through.
John had updated his entries in the Omega book. He reread several chapters and added comments and new notes, where he found it necessary. Somehow, reading the book calmed his mind, focussed it on a task. But he couldn't stay concentrated for more than an hour at a time. His mind was wandering. The child inside him grew stronger every day, and he was grateful to feel the small movements turning into stronger pushes, sometimes like kicking, sometimes more like boxing.
Torn between giving up, letting things take their course, letting James take the child, once she was born or keeping on fighting, John tried to trust in some kind of a miracle, wanting to believe in Sherlock, when he said, that he would find a way for them to keep their child. Their child, John thought, closing his eyes, fighting back tears. God, his feelings were all over the place. He hated his helplessness, his lack of skills.
Shaking his head, he forced his mind back to the notebook in front of him. It turned out to be one of the older books, John found out once he had opened it. Irritated, because the book must have been placed in the wrong pile, he wanted to put it away when he noted something odd.
"Sherlock," frowning, he turned to the figure lying on the sofa, "do you understand German?"
John flinched when Sherlock was looming over him just a second later. He still had to get used to his Alpha's fast and silent movements. Sherlock's eyes roamed over the writing in the book.
"What is this?" John asked.
"It's the outline of an experiment the Professor had conducted at a concentration camp," Sherlock muttered, turning the page.
John looked horrified at Sherlock.
"Concentration camp?" he whispered.
"Yes, during the Second World War Hitler used concentration camps to -" Sherlock started to explain.
"I know, what a concentration camp is, Sherlock," John hissed angrily. "Why would the Professor conduct experiments in a concentration camp? What was he doing in Germany in the first place?"
"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Seems as if he had access to a large population of test subjects."
It took a few moments, before John realised what Sherlock was talking about.
"No!" John jumped up from the chair. He couldn't believe it.
"This is where he started, John," Sherlock added thoughtfully. "It was a combined concentration and prisoner of war camp."
John felt nauseous. He had to steady himself, holding on to the windowsill.
"He's referring to other books, tables, diagrams, and notes," Sherlock mumbled, while turning the next pages. He went quiet for a while and John tried to make head and tail of the new information, just to end up with drawing a total blank. His mind shied away from even contemplating what the Professor could have done at the camp.
"Oh," Sherlock sounded worried.
John went reluctantly back to the table, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to make out what was written on the pages.
It was the beginning of a table. Names, dates, short hand for different 'treatments'. Sherlock had become engrossed at once, taking in the data laid out in front of him. Suddenly John gasped and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand to stop him from turning the page. John recognised the name: Hamish F. Watson, O+, a date, a checkmark, and an asterisk.
John's grandfather.
John blacked out.
When he came to, he was on the sofa, Sherlock kneeling beside him.
"Are you alright?" anxiously, Sherlock was looking at John.
"My grandfather," John murmured. "The Professor experimented on him. What did he do to him, Sherlock? What did he do to all those people?"
John was shaking and Sherlock put a blanket around him, pulling John into a tight embrace.
"I don't know yet, I need to read through the books," Sherlock spoke softly, caressing John's face.
"I want to help, let me help," John said shakily, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck, breathing in deeply.
"And I'll need your help, John. Later. As for now," Sherlock said, untangling himself with a sigh from John. "Now, you're going to take a cup of tea and something to eat. Then," Sherlock kissed John's brow, "you take a nap."
John's protest were overruled, and a few minutes later, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, John leaning up against his shoulder, being hand-fed by Sherlock. Every now and again, Sherlock let John take a sip of tea. John relaxed into Sherlock's care, not needing to think, to act. After a while, John felt drowsy. Gently, Sherlock laid him down on the sofa again, kissing him lightly on his lips, and told him to go to sleep. John complied.
Sherlock turned to the notebook. It contained the research plan and data on the test subjects. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Very thorough, this Professor, he thought. Every subject was described by name and gender. The dates seemed to refer to a particular event during the experiment. The checkmark obviously confirming the event's success. Going back and forth through the pages, Sherlock found ten checkmarks, but only two asterisks. One at John's grandfather's name. The other appeared besides an unknown name. Was that the grandfather of the female Omega who had killed the Professor? Apparently, he had to find the other book or books.
An hour later, Sherlock leaned back in the chair, scowling. John wasn't going to like this at all. Sherlock had to congratulate the Professor on his flawless scientific approach to his experiment. Documentation and control group in place, and because of the circumstances ethical problems were just non-existent. Sherlock couldn't suppress a shudder. One hundred and fifty three people were tormented and killed for this one test alone. How many more tests had the Professor been conducting while working for Hitler? For how long had he stayed in Germany? And what was the purpose of these experiments? Especially this one? Why did these people have to die? What did the Professor wanted to proof or accomplish?
This test was dated two years before the end of the war. When did the Professor move to Germany in the first place?
John stirred, and stretched his arms, trying to wake up. He turned to look at Sherlock, who sat at the table, looking disquieted.
"Not a dream then?" John asked, hoarsely. He felt dizzy.
"No," Sherlock said calmly. "I'm sorry, John."
John drew in a breath.
"That bad?" he asked.
"He was working for Hitler. Using their prisoners as his test objects," Sherlock murmured.
John had to close his eyes. No wonder his grandfather never wanted to talk about his experiences during the war. John wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened to him.
Sherlock continued his murmuring.
"Only ten Omegas survived the initial stages of this particular experiment," he said, and turned the pages rapidly, glancing over them one more time. "The first miscarried after two months, died shortly after."
John swallowed.
"What kind of experiment? The abortion principle? Twenty four hours of isolation?" he asked with a shaky voice.
"No, John," Sherlock continued his summation. "The next two miscarried four months pregnant. Again, dead less than a week after miscarriage, although they were well cared for."
John was glad he was lying down. He was fisting his hands in frustration and anger. Why? What had been the point?
"And then five of them miscarried in their fifth month of pregnancy, surviving only a day or two," Sherlock did sound troubled now. "The last two carried their child to term."
Sherlock straightened, then sat down on the sofa. John was close to a panic now. He didn't know what to expect, but if Sherlock started to look worried, truly worried, then John doubted he was able to even imagine what this was all about.
Sherlock had reread the pages three times, slowly, making sure he wasn't getting anything wrong.
Sherlock cleared his throat. He looked at John, then his eyes wandered pointedly down to John's belly. John followed his gaze, and he couldn't suppress a whimper.
"Please," he just whispered, now looking directly at Sherlock, needing to know whatever this was about.
"John," Sherlock seemed lost. Taking hold of John's shoulders, he locked eyes with him.
"The Professor impregnated your grandfather with," Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, before being able to continue, "your grandfather's own semen."
John's eyes stayed open, he didn't know how he managed to even keep sitting upright once he realised what Sherlock had been telling him. He went very still. Hardly breathing at all. Then John jumped up and ran to the bathroom.
Sherlock followed as soon as he heard the retching sounds. He kneeled beside John, soothing him, stroking his back. It went on for several minutes. At last John had emptied himself completely, just heaving and cramping, spit and gastric juice was all he was able to throw up in the end.
Sherlock kept him close, shushing him, knowing his voice to be mollifying to John. It was helping; Sherlock could feel it both through the touch and through the bond. Concentrating on John, Sherlock could tell when the next realisation hit.
"Sherlock," John croaked, turning from the toilet to Sherlock. "Does that mean...," he couldn't say it. Couldn't believe it. His eyes were wide, frightened.
Sherlock hugged him, dragging him as close as possible. John didn't want to think, didn't want to know the truth.
He sobbed. Tried to suppress it. But it was too much. He broke. After all what had happened, this was the last straw. He clung to Sherlock, hands fisted into the lapels of his shirt, and he cried. The tears were flowing freely, wetting Sherlock's shirt. And Sherlock held on, letting John feel the safety and love he could provide, not stopping him, because John needed this. Needed to feel supported in his grief and torment, in his bewilderment. And Sherlock could provide, for the very first time in his life he was sure of his own strength, his own abilities. He knew, just knew, that he could help John through this, could shelter the man he loved from the cruelty of the world. Sherlock kissed John's face, licking his tears away.
"Sh, John, sh," he whispered, "it's alright."
John heaved in air.
"How? How, Sherlock, how can it be alright?" John's voice was breaking. His body shuddering through another sob. "I've felt like a freak ever since the Professor took me under his 'care'," John sneered, "this," he waved a hand at his stomach, "this is just-"
Sherlock embraced John, cuddling him.
"This," Sherlock said, firmly, "is our child, John. OUR child! Moriarty won't be able to take it, because we'll be able to prove she is ours!"
John tried to turn away, not knowing where to turn to, wanting to run away from himself. Sherlock didn't let him. He forced him back into his arms.
"You are mine, John! I'm not letting you go. And you will fight for our daughter, John," Sherlock's voice was low, almost angry, breaking through John's foggy mind. "You're not a freak! This child is yours, John. And she's mine, because you're mine. No matter how she was conceived, you have a living human being growing inside you."
John's crying had turned into a whimper. Sherlock was stroking his back, kissing him, biting gently into his neck without breaking the tender skin. Sherlock was trembling, trying and succeeding in restraining himself from taking the bond-bite, which would force John into a heat. Not yet, Sherlock told himself. John needed comfort and someone to take care of his needs, not a rutting Alpha caught in a sex frenzy. It took all the self-control Sherlock could muster, not to bite down and draw blood, sealing the bond for good.
Very slowly and gentle, Sherlock started to undress John, keeping him close, pausing, whenever John's distress became too much. Sherlock was tracing John's muscles, kissing along the scars, and relishing the sight of John's growing abdomen. When John turned his face away, Sherlock cupped his chin and forced him to look into Sherlock's eyes.
"Don't, John!" Sherlock commanded. He took John's hand and placed it on John's belly, lacing their fingers together. He kissed John on his lips, nibbling his lower lip, then invaded John's mouth with his tongue. John was pliant, letting Sherlock have his way with him. John's body was responding to Sherlock's ministrations. His trousers tenting between his legs and John shifted slightly, trying to sit in a more comfortable position. That's when Sherlock decided to pull John up to move things on.
Still having one arm around John, he started the shower. Then Sherlock knelt before John, and kissed his way from the top of John's stomach down to his hard length, still trapped in his pants. Sherlock pushed both pants and trousers down with one smooth move. John gave a deep sigh when he was freed of the obstructing garments. His cock was bobbing seductively in front of Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock didn't think twice. He took John into his mouth and John had to brace himself not to sink to his knees.
Wet and warm, Sherlock's mouth was closed tightly around John. Sherlock sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, and John couldn't help thrusting.
"Sorry," he whispered, his hands grasping Sherlock's hair, trying to guide him, to hold onto something. John's whimpers became loud gasps, when Sherlock swirled his tongue around John's glance and started to work his mouth up and down his shaft for real.
John tried to hold himself back, but Sherlock seemed intend on shattering the last small pieces of John's self-control. Looking up at John from under half-lidded eyes, Sherlock's full lips, red and glistening around John's cock, Sherlock's hands on John's arse, his fingers parting John's buttocks, finding and teasing his hole, John tried to give a warning shout before he came into Sherlock's mouth. John was sinking to his knees. Sherlock pressed his lips against John's with a glint in his eyes. Coaxing John into opening his mouth, Sherlock pushed his tongue in. The lingering taste of John and some residue from his release mixed with John's saliva. Bitter and salty, and yet so very sweet to Sherlock, who took his time exploring John's mouth.
"Taste yourself, John," Sherlock demanded and John licked his lips obediently, his pupils blown wide with lust.
Sherlock stood up and undressed hurriedly.
The shower was hot and Sherlock scooped John up from the floor and guided him under the spray. Bracing himself against the tiles, with his back to Sherlock, John could hold himself upright. Sherlock took his time, examining John's back, following the flow of water and droplets on John's muscles with his fingers.
"You're beautiful," Sherlock whispered, licking John's earlobe and eliciting a groan from John.
Sherlock's fingers trailed down to the small of John's back, on their way tracing his ribs, and once more stroking over the taut stretched skin of John's abdomen. Sherlock was deeply fascinated by the magic of procreation. He would have loved to have been part of John's pregnancy from the very start, observing every little change in his moods, his body, and his scent.
Later, he thought. Later. For now, he wanted John to remember, whom he belonged to. Sherlock knew that John was tired, hardly able to stand up, but John needed to know, what it meant to have Sherlock as his Alpha. He would fill John up, pleasuring him, and take his pleasures.
Sherlock's fingers found their way to John's cleft, teasing his pucker, and John moaned, thrusting against Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock could feel John's arousal through their bond. John was utterly in the throes of his lust, unable to hold himself back any longer, he was begging, pleading, for Sherlock to impale him, take him.
The slick wetness of their skin made their movements fluently. Sherlock held John tight, when he finally thrust into him, fondling John's scrotum with the fingers of his left hand. John's balls were drawing up again, and John was making a low keening sound. Sherlock was stroking along John's shaft, his cock hard again. Pulling out and pushing in, Sherlock's balls slapped loudly against John's arse. When he started to set a punishing pace, John's stifled cries picked up the rhythm.
John's orgasm brought Sherlock over the edge, and he was filling John repeatedly, squirting every last drop of semen into John. Sherlock was quivering through the last aftershocks, and kept both of them upright with an effort. John was like a puppet whose strings had been cut, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone stand on his feet any longer.
Sherlock turned off the shower and got both of them into the room, grabbing several towels on his way. John was barely conscious when he sank unto the sofa, and Sherlock sat beside him, drying him and wrapping a big towel around him.
Too tired to change the sofa into a bed, Sherlock curled up around John on the sofa, kissing his moist hair and enveloping his naked body around John's, having skin on skin contact from top to toe. When he heard John's breathing become even, Sherlock let himself drift into sleep.
A/N: Hm, it seems a bit difficult for the writer to communicate with the readers and respond to comments on AFFO. I'll bear that in mind with the next update and try and answer questions and the like. But most of all: Thank you for reviewing and reading!! I'm very surprised about how many people seem to enjoy this story so far.
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The Omega