Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been living (and working) together for five months now, if the October page of the calendar was to be believed. In this time, they'd gotten to know quite a lot about each other: John knew that Sherlock lived off of tea and nicotine patches during cases, and Sherlock knew that John didn't take sugar with his coffee; John knew that Sherlock indexed his socks by thickness, and Sherlock knew that all of John's underpants were white briefs… except for the lone part of red ones he kept tucked away behind his camo pants; John knew that (in between cases) Sherlock woke at seven, took his tea at eight, and his toast at nine. Sherlock knew that (between cases) John woke at six, showered at seven, and made breakfast at eight, before running off towards the clinic at nine.

And yet, for all the men did know about one another, there was one thing they did not: Whether the other man was an alpha, beta, or omega. Not that it was a huge deal, of course; not in this day and age. Most people could go their whole lives not knowing who was what, especially when it came to the workplace. But the question needled at each of them, although neither was willing to volunteer the information first.

When John first met Sherlock, he was sure the man was an alpha: he was loud, obstinate, and had a flagrant disregard for his own safety. He had a tendency to gesticulate wildly and was openly aggressive towards known alphas. However… the longer John knew Sherlock, the more convinced he was that he was a beta: he seemed to have this need to prove himself, and his oft-stated disinterest in sex wasn't a common characteristic of an alpha. Although, when had Sherlock Holmes ever proven himself to be common? The only thing that John was fairly sure of was that he was most certainly NOT an omega.

Sherlock had not begun by wondering about John; in fact, it had been quite the opposite. He had deduced that John was definitely an alpha: strong, quick reflexes, ex-military; the whole thing practically screamed it. But then Sherlock noticed the surgeon's callous – the tough spot surgeons and other medical professionals often got along the inside of their thumbs from holding surgery shears – and he'd had to consider the question. With his medical training (and therefore, nurturing instincts), and the way he easily fell in line with Sherlock (or Lestrade) on a case, he easily came to the conclusion that his partner was a beta.

Not that there was anything wrong with being a beta: their landlady Mrs. Hudson was one, as was Doctor Molly Hooper. Hell, even the lead in forensics, Anderson, was a beta.

But all that aside, the two men were sure: the other was definitely either an alpha or a beta, but neither was an omega. But, as it would turn out, they couldn't both be right.

John was tired: they'd just finished a case and last night had been the first time he'd gotten more than a few hours' sleep in a week. But he knew, if he was tired, Sherlock must be exhausted; the man never slept during cases, and often crashed hard once the case was finally done. He padded down the hall to their shared bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, when he noticed the door to Sherlock's bedroom wide open; the desk lamp was on, going by the strength of the glow spreading out.

'Poor bloke', he thought. 'He was probably too tired to turn it off.'

With this thought in mind, John marched up to the doorway, and stopped short: Sherlock stood at his dresser, cup of tea in one hand, and a small, nondescript oval pill in the other. He took it quickly, chasing it with the tea before he noticed John standing there, eyeing him curiously. Although the orange chemist's bottle had been blocked by the sleeve of his dressing gown, he quickly shoved it into his pocket, and stalked angrily towards the door.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, and had left the light on," John offered in explanation, and Sherlock's features softened a bit, although he was still headed towards the door.

"Good night, John," he responded with a note of finality, and shut the door in his face. He heard the lock turning a moment later. John sighed, and began to head towards the shower. He was used to Sherlock's rudeness when he was sleep-deprived, but that interaction had been just… strange. Shaking his still-sleepy head, he shrugged the situation off, and turned the doorknob to the bathroom.

A week later, John was in the kitchen making tea for the pair while Sherlock lounged on the couch, fingers gripping a recent medical journal – John's journal. "John, why do you still subscribe to these? Everything's online now – and it's free."

"If I did that, Sherlock, what would you do while you waited for Lestrade to text? What article are you reading, anyway?"

" 'The social implications of suppressant usage in betas'," he remarked, sounding haughty.

"Since you managed to get the post before I did, I haven't actually read it… But yeah. Betas are tired of getting jobs recruiters think will be 'agreeable' to them. The new suppressants simply mask pheromonal markers, and do nothing to temper the mood. They're targeted towards alphas and omegas that don't do well on psychiatric meds, but want to keep their status secret. They're perfect for betas, actually."

Sherlock heard John's spoon stop stirring, as he placed the mugs on a wooden tray. "This secondary-gender discrimination thing can get pretty bad, or so I hear," he continued.

"The only con to suppressants is difficulty in finding a date," John answered, walking towards the living room. He chuckled a bit to himself.

"Bloody waste of time," Sherlock muttered, turning the page. "Just pick someone up, and let the chips fall where they may."

"And then get back to the flat, only to realize you're sexually incompatible? It's more than a bit embarrassing. Can you imagine if two alphas took each other home?"

"Then they'd shag without worrying about pregnancy."

"Alphas can hurt each other if they try to knot. And if they get over that, it still wouldn't go over well with their loved ones."

"This sort of nonsense is why I'm married to my work."

As he set Sherlock's tea down in front of him, he glanced at his wristwatch. "Shit," he murmured with a sense of urgency.

He set his own tea down and quickly climbed the stairs toward his room. Intrigued, Sherlock followed him as silently as he could. The door to John's room was ajar, and Sherlock peered through the crack. John's side was to him, but an orange bottle sat on his desk, next to a water glass. He took a hurried gulp, tossing a small capsule into his mouth, before he shoved the bottle into his desk drawer. He leaned down to lock it and Sherlock took this opportunity to quickly run back downstairs.

By the time John reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock was sitting back against the couch, sipping on the tea that had been made for him. As John sat on his chair and sipped his own tea, Sherlock asked, "Problem?"

"No. Just… thought it was later than it was. Went to check my clock to be sure."

"Isn't there a clock in the kitchen?" Sherlock asked, pretending to be bored.

"There was… until you micro-waved it last week."

"That was for an experiment, John."

"I'm sure it was. But the fact remains that there is no longer a clock downstairs."

Sherlock chose to change topics, as he began to ponder why John had lied to him. "Breakfast?"

John shook his head. "We haven't time for much, but I'll make toast before I head out."

"Thank you, John. Orange marmalade."

"Yes Sherlock, I know." He sighed, and took his tea with him into the kitchen to make breakfast.

The desk had been a gift from Mycroft – it was very well made. Sherlock wasn't able to pick it, despite trying for an hour after John had gone to work. He tried the other drawers, as well as the dresser in the corner of the room. Despite his (very careful) rifling, he couldn't find any evidence of what John was hiding from him. Sherlock huffed in frustration; he'd shown off too much. John was hiding what was probably ordinary cold medicine from him because he was tired of the detective butting into his business.

He balled his hands into fists and stalked out of the room, feeling indignant. Suddenly, his phone chimed. A text from Mycroft:

Six months is almost up. Shall I make the necessary arrangements? – MH

Sherlock scowled down at his phone, and typed out a quick reply.

Yes. – SH

Another text came almost immediately:

What will you tell Watson? – MH

He contemplated the question for a few minutes, becoming increasingly irritated, before shoving the phone back in his pocket in frustration. It buzzed a moment later, and he sighed as he checked it:

Two weeks from now, 11 am. I'll send a car for you… Minus Anthea. – MH

He wrapped his fingers around his phone, and he tucked it into the pocket of his dressing gown, before stalking off towards his room.