Chapter Text
Feel the heat pushing you to decide
Feel the heat burning you up, ready or not
-Some Like It Hot –Robert Palmer
The familiar sensation was there again.
He could feel it; the burning, like an itch he just couldn’t scratch, just under his skin, beneath the surface. It was faint, but strong enough to jar him from his sleep.
That was the first warning sign, yet he chose to ignore it by instead choosing to turn over and resume his slumber. He almost succeeded, until, after a couple of hours he could feel the cramps as his stomach twisted and turned yet again jarring him from his sleep. Sweat broke across his brow and with much annoyance; he lifted his hand to wipe it away.
He was probably just sick, that was all. But he’d live.
He’d been through much worse and though he couldn’t recall any of those times at the moment, he still managed to convince himself. Resting his head back on the pillow, he stared at the ceiling above him. Perhaps, if he counted sheep, (an old remedy he often disregarded as a waste of time, but was finding the idea more and more appealing by the minute), he would probably get some well needed sleep before the day officially began.
So he counted and counted and counted. The cramps seemed to be getting worse the harder he tried to ignore them. He was considering the meals he ate in the past twenty-four hours as a possible culprit when he felt it; the slick trickling down the cheeks of his arse to soak through the cotton of his nightshirt.
It couldn’t be, he thought. But he wasn’t called the Great Detective for nothing.
He could feel the fire, right there beneath his skin, burning him up both inside and out. His chest heaved slightly for air and he gasped, taking in a lungful. His arousal, that had been the easiest to ignore what with all the other sensations bombarding him, was now heavy between his legs and like the rest of him, begged to be touched. The rest of him broke out into a cold sweat and though he was always acutely aware of everything around him, now, it was as if someone turned his alertness knob up to eleven.
He was in heat, plain and simple.
There was no denying it and from the heightened sensations alone, he could tell this was going to be one of his most intense ones.
His hips, on their own accord, raised and lowered, trying to find friction from the sheets wrapped around him. Appalled, he ripped the sheets off himself and rose from the bed.
The room was hot…too hot. He was suffocating and he was sure, that this would be what it was like to physically, literally burn in Hell. To make things worse, his mouth was dry. Luckily, he had left a glass of water on the nightstand. He sipped it greedily, before pouring the remains over his head.
It helped, as he hoped it would, but only temporarily.
He knew he should have taken his suppressants.
Watson had been reminding him faithfully every month, without knowing that Holmes had quit taking the infernal things as they were simply interacting with his cocaine in a most horrid way, not to mention having to take them was quite taxing. His demanding life had very little pause and frankly, his suppressants didn’t seem that important.
Now, he could almost kick himself for his stupidity. Another aching twist of his stomach had him clutching his waist, trying to quell the pain.
The slick was now oozing down his thighs and he pressed them together, trying to contain some of it, to no avail. Raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to think of a solution. He knew exactly what he needed to cure it, more than a shower or a change of clothes ever could do.
He needed a knot.
It wasn’t natural, at the age of thirty-five, to go so long without a mate. Many Omegas should have been mated and bred up by then. Holmes, of course, wasn’t your average Omega— he refused to obey the rules of biology, his body, after all, was a weapon, not some empty slot for an Alpha to stick their knot in and breed up.
And yet, he couldn’t deny Mother Nature at times like this.
It was common knowledge that Omegas heats grew more insufferable the longer they went without a mate and he had tried to fix that with Irene. She was a capable Alpha and was perfect, but then she turned out to be untrustworthy and very scary in the bedroom. And before they could even commit the act of mating, he got that familiar warning in his gut and backed away from her with a promise that he’d call and the triumphant feeling of escaping something dangerous.
Of course, many Alphas accosted him, but they were mostly slimy or creepy and he’d get that warning feeling again and with a carefully timed blow to the gut, he’d have them bested and would be on his way back to 221B Baker Street, pride intact, but body still unsatisfied.
But there were times, during his last couple of heats, where it didn’t matter how slimy or creepy they were, he would lure them in with his scent and wouldn’t care in the slightest when one or the whole lot of Alphas would pull him into a nearby alleyway with promises of soothing the itch. They’d call him a filthy whore, a normal Omega bitch, and touch him in places he longed for contact. And he’d be content knowing they’d go through with their promise, knowing that he’d finally, finally get what he needed. That is until; Watson would show up, beat the men to a pulp and then whisk him away to safer areas where they’d be out of range of desperate, horny Alphas.
It was times like those where Holmes would be unappreciative of his friend’s well-meaning, but misguided attempts at saving him from, as Watson called it, ‘potential rape’.
And Watson, the only other Alpha besides Irene that Holmes knew personally, would glare at him and ask him if he had finally gone mad. Watson, who never worried about mating in the slightest as he was engaged to the beautiful, but annoying Beta, Mary and thought that biology, could happily go fuck itself, for lack of a better term. For rules didn’t apply to him, as he was very mastered in the art of practiced control.
Watson was fortunate; after all, he dealt with many different people at the pinnacle of his doctoring and was praised by many for his unwavering focus, compassion and ability to withhold judgment on anybody, from Alphas like himself all the way down to the most helpless of Omegas. Holmes was sure that it was Watson who paved the way for other doctors to be more accepting of Omegas by leading by example.
Yes, Watson was the Good Doctor and was the perfect one to call in times of trouble such as this. And he was the only one Holmes trusted with his health and wellbeing as Watson had been with him through some of his worst heats, gritting his teeth and bearing it with Holmes as if he too was also suffering.
If it weren’t for Watson helping him— as proud and stubborn as Sherlock was, he had to admit, though he never would out loud, that the doctor’s help was greatly appreciated sometimes— it would be a wonder if he’d even survive these heats alone. If Watson hadn’t been there, he’d have to turn to the aid of other doctors and he wasn’t too keen on the idea.
It was common knowledge that the Great Detective was an Omega, but just because many knew, didn’t mean they were accepting. Many of the nefarious villains and brutes they encountered during cases and even some of the noble folk who ought to have known better, often spat Omegaphobic slurs Holmes’ way and even once, an Alpha woman of high stature posed a question to Watson as to how a highly-esteemed Alpha such as himself wasn’t ashamed to be seen with such a lowly, unkempt Omega such as Holmes. It had taken all of Holmes’ self-control to not rip off her ridiculously huge bonnet and tackle her to the ground, luckily he had enough sense to know that he wouldn’t be serving to make Omegas look better by engaging in such a base act and after Watson shot her down with a scathing retort, Holmes happily resumed ignoring her in favor of solving the mystery.
Inspector Lestrade and the rest of the Yard, upon hearing the news that an Omega was in their midst, never failed to treat Holmes as he wanted to be treated, as if he were merely a brilliant man who could do his job well and was as human as the rest of them. For this, Holmes could often reason that though he believed Lestrade could do better at sleuthing, he wasn’t a complete bumbling dullard of a man and the respect Holmes had for him could almost, perhaps rival the respect he had for Holmes.
Some doctors were less understanding of Omegas and their functioning and because of this, they refused to treat them and thus, many Omegas found themselves having to fall into the role expected of them, getting mated, if only to stay alive, to keep the violent heats at bay. Holmes was lucky for Watson for many reasons, but this was one of the main ones; Watson provided him with quality care and suppressants without even asking for anything in return or turning up his nose or any of that. He was a great friend and Holmes as always, didn’t know what he’d do without him.
Now, Holmes, without having the slightest clue as to how he ended up on the floor pressed against the wall opposite his bed, sat there trying to think of ice cubes and the seaside to keep cool and maintain whatever sanity he had left.
He heard footsteps outside his door. He hoped it was Mrs. Hudson finally here to drag him to a bathtub filled with ice or logically, here to inform him that it was breakfast time. He would rise to let her in, but his legs felt so, so wobbly and they felt as if they couldn’t be trusted to carry him half a centimeter, much less the entire way to the door, which, mind you, seemed very far away at the moment.
There was a knocking, then: “Holmes! Good Morning. What, in God’s name are you up to in there? It smells like—oh!” Blessed Mercy, it was Watson and from the sounds of things, it seemed like the doctor caught on pretty quickly. “Holmes, I’m coming in.”
Watson was in his room and by his side in a minute, checking his vitals and assessing the degree of deliriousness caused by his heat so far. Holmes, barely clinging onto consciousness, felt something as Watson’s cool hands touched his forehead. He felt something shift inside him, distracting him from the cramps, but making even more slick seep through his backside. With unfocused eyes, he peered up at Watson and saw the reason for the sudden, slight alleviation of the effects of his heat; for the first time since Watson took the Omega as his patient, Holmes’ heat was having an effect on him, Watson’s nostrils flared and his face flushed red. It was apparent he was scenting the air and was ineluctably getting aroused in the process.
At any other time, Holmes would have a sassy comment divulging his observation of Watson’s predicament, but seeing that he could barely think, let alone formulate a proper sentence and force his mouth to form the words, Holmes voted in favor of just sitting there and letting Watson tend to him.
Except Watson was still paused and when Holmes’ eyes behaved themselves enough for him to focus on the doctor, the intensity of which Watson was staring was enough to send a thrill through Holmes’ belly.
Watson’s bright blue eyes were almost completely eclipsed by pupil, they studied Holmes and the predatory glint in their depths could not be mistaken for anything else. His breathing was shallow and the more he inhaled, the more of Holmes’ scent he took in.
But he wasn’t the only one; Watson’s heady aroma, which was barely masked by the cologne he was wearing, filled Holmes’ nostrils and caused his mouth to water and desire to curl through him. Watson smelled of nothing but pure, unconcealed Alpha male and Holmes wanted all of it, wanted his own skin to bear that smell.
Unconsciously, he found himself baring his neck to Watson, submitting to him in the way his body, ingrained with such knowledge from birth, knew to get an Alpha’s attention and compliance.
Knot me, knot me, knot me…swum around and around Holmes’ mind and for once, he wished Watson could hear his thoughts so he wouldn’t have to say them out loud. His tongue, no longer of use to him in terms of speaking, seemed more keen to the idea of tasting the flesh at the hollow of Watson’s throat than anything else.
Watson coughed and looked away from the pretty picture Holmes was making of himself. “Holmes,” he called, but it was more in warning than an acceptance to the invitation.
“Watson,” Holmes managed to whine, leaning up from off the wall to rest his forehead on the doctor’s shoulder. “I need to you to do away with my clothes. I’m fever hot and your blatant staring, I’m afraid, isn’t helping.”
“How is it that you’re in heat? I thought you were taking your suppressants religiously.”
“Well, Mother Hen,” Holmes uttered, feeling his head start to spin from being so close to Watson and his invitingly manly scent. “I had to stop them. They were getting in the way.”
“Of what? Holmes, please don’t tell me you traded in prescribed medication for that of your cocaine?”
When he didn’t receive an answer, Watson sighed. “Of course you did.”
“Will I perish from this Watson? For I certainly feel touch-starved and feverish.” To illustrate his point, he pressed what he could of his body to Watson’s side and let out a wanton moan as he felt the doctor’s body heat through their clothes.
Watson wasted no time in rising to his feet, bringing Holmes’ with him as best as he could manage with a sick leg. “You need to stay in bed, get some fluids in you and—”
Holmes’ mind had trailed off at the idea of exactly what kind of fluids he wanted. A vision of himself, strapped to the bed with both his and Watson’s spunk painting his chest, Watson’s spill leaking down his thighs mingling with the slick already oozing from his wet, abused hole— “Holmes?” Watson called to him. “You need to lie down.”
That snapped him back to reality, and soon he was complying with Watson’s request.
“I’m going to ring Mrs. Hudson and ask her to get you some water, in the mean time, try not to move around so much and focus on breathing. At this point in time, it’s really simple for you to overheat. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Watsom turned to leave, but just before he could walk through the door, Holmes called to him.
“We have cases to solve Watson, this is preposterous. I’m not some helpless Omega who can’t think past getting a knot.” Holmes could feel the heat returning and his pulse quickening as Watson’s Alpha presence nearly dominated the entire room and he pondered on the accuracy of such a statement.
Watson stepped closer, his face unreadable. “No one accused you of being helpless or begging for a knot, Holmes. But you have another thing coming if you think I’m going to just allow you in this state to leave this room. You’ve practically alerted every Alpha in this town and the one over of your presence. Needless to mention Lestrade would be in ill temper if I let you step even one foot back at the Yard like this.”
Holmes rose up from bed as best as he could manage at those words. “Are you saying that just because I’m an Omega I can’t perform my duties and errands like any normal human being?”
“Holmes,” Watson sighed, clearly getting fed up with the conversation. “I’m just saying that you should take sick leave until this heat passes. It’s dangerous for you to be out when your heat is so severe. You’ve gone too long without a partner, I hate to say this Old Cock, but if we don’t find you a mate soon, it will only get worse.”
“I don’t need a mate! I, the Great Sherlock Holmes can manage just fine without—” Another shooting cramp tore through his abdomen and he had to clutch his waist again, hoping to quell the agony.
Watson came to his side. “Holmes, you need an Alpha.” He stated, voice softening as he gently stroked a hand through the detective’s hair.
Holmes tried not to visibly shudder at the touch and instead tried to focus on evening out his breathing at Watson’s instruction, watching the doctor’s retreating form as he left the room, an errant thought crossed Holmes’ mind and he dismissed it immediately. He told himself that it was the heat talking, but it resonated with him and only served to make him even more hot and bothered. You’re wrong, his mind echoed, I don’t need just any Alpha, I need you…