John understood his place in regards to Sherlock that very first evening at Bart's. He was competent, at least Sherlock acknowledged that when they went dashing out the door for their first case together. John was (reluctantly) comfortable in the role of 'assistant'. Betas had a long, successful breed line of being followers to their Alpha counterparts. Betas had a tendency towards complacency, to follow orders, and to not question those orders.

As such, they often ended up in roles such as nurses, soldiers, legal aids, teaching assistants and the like. The "worker bees" the Alphas were known to say (privately, of course) who were just smart enough to keep the machines working and fill out the paperwork, but just dumb enough not to question the way things were.

John had managed to achieve a rank of both Doctor and Captain, both roles usually reserved for Alphas. One would say usually, as nothing was officially written in stone to say a Beta couldn't achieve a higher position or status symbol, but it just wasn't how things were.

He wish he could say he earned it alone, but he knew his earlier act of throwing himself over the frightened 1st tour Alpha soldier as an IED exploded at their 9 o'clock had something to do with it. So happened that young Alpha he protected was the grandson of a Parliament member, who sent a personalized note of thanks and appreciation to John's higher ranking military members.

After that, doors seemed to open.

But as he stood now, handing over mobile phones and fishing pens from pockets, he felt he was back at square one.

"Careful!" Sherlock snapped, as John attempted to pull out the fountain pen. Willing himself to not roll his eyes, John plucked said pen with exaggerated delicacy and then thrust it into his hand.

"There!" He snapped back with equal ferocity. He felt guilty almost immediately, clearing his throat and stepping back, giving Sherlock room to examine the spores through the microscope.

He knew why Sherlock was snappish. (Not so) simple biology was driving him into an agitated state. It was… October? Yes. Already October and Sherlock's Rut was starting, practically six months to the day from his previous.

Ruts weren't the same as Heats, as far as John understood it. Heats were reserved for Omegas in estrus, happening once every two to three months, turning an average (-weaker—John knew) man or woman into a mindless, instinct driven madhouse to procreate. John had watched videos both in school (and privately); to understand a gender, biology and way of life he was not privy too.

Ruts happened to unbonded Alphas after the age point of 30. Biology urging them to seek out and procreate with an Omega. It wasn't as… frenzied, as a Heat. John knew Sherlock still struggled with his mental faculities during that state. He knew enough to lock himself in his room at least for the duration of the Rut. He even managed to keep hydrated (much thanks to John for leaving the bottles of water outside the door.) But he was irritable, demanding and territorial (all more so than usual.)

Betas had no scenting skills, no scent glands and certainly no Ruts or Heats. "The Omegas that never were" as he read once in a textbook, as all the functional Omega 'equipment' (uterus, fallopian tubes, secretion glands) were stored, but dormant and inert in his body. Practically shriveled and certainly useless. Like an appendix, only more annoying and risky to remove.

They were, as Sherlock would certainly put it, dull, uninteresting and boring. Useful only in the sense he could follow directions (pick up milk, make the tea), fill out the paperwork (blog, in his case) and be a follower to Sherlock's natural leader.

"We're leaving." Sherlock stated abruptly, snapping himself up from the chair.

John blinked. "Did you finish—" He pointed to the microscope.

Sherlock coiled his scarf around his neck. "Leaving!" He repeated, stuffing the (unused) pen back into his inner pocket.

John merely nodded, and followed.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock prowled endlessly.

It was unspoken between them. They never discussed their genders (specifically Sherlock's—Who wanted to talk about boring Beta affairs?) and outside of Sherlock's snipping and condescending remarks about John's many 1st dates (hardly any 2nd dates—Honestly John are you so uninteresting?) they never spoke about sex at all.

John hovered in the kitchen, unusually spooked by Sherlock's repeated (locking, unlocking, locking, unlocking, peering, growling, slamming, locking) checking of the front door.

Maybe tonight was the night, John thought to himself, keeping his eyes downcast and mindlessly stirring his (now cold) tea. Maybe tonight was the night Sherlock's iron control snapped and he went out searching.

"For God's sake stop stirring that damned tea!" Sherlock suddenly snarled. John froze mid stir, still keeping his eyes downcast.

He felt a grip on his arm and he raised his head, but made sure not to make eye contact.

He knew the drill.

"John, you're mine, yes?" The fingers hurt, grip firmer than last time.

"Yes, Sherlock." He said tonelessly.

"My friend. My flatmate." His voice was a borderline growl. "Mine."

"Yes, Sherlock. Yours. Your territory."

"Yes." Sherlock leaned in (the first time John had jumped a mile, thinking Sherlock meant to kiss him—) to scent him along his jaw line.

John remembered his first frightening encounter with an in Rut Alpha. His first year as a medical student he had for three straight weeks treated the same Alpha (38 years old, ginger hair and beard, quiet but had a wicked, dry humor) who dropped into Rut during an appointment. The Alpha had been utterly convinced John was HIS. Not his lover, or even friend, but an indescribable sense of ownership ("MY DOCTOR!" He had bellowed before he was tranq'd out)

Alphas were possessive and protective of what they deemed theirs. And during Sherlock's first rut 18 months ago, he had deemed his (dull, boring) flatmate as his.

John had no idea how much Sherlock retained during his actions during his cycle, but it was never spoken of again until the next Rut six months later, when Sherlock barged into John's room without knocking and pulled him down the stairs into the living room, stating (wild-eyed—John remembered that) that John had to stay here, not outside, not upstairs but here, with Sherlock, because John was his and his stuff was here.

John had nodded dumbly, agreeing without complaint only because of how utterly wrecked Sherlock looked. Nervous energy tickled the air and Sherlock couldn't stop pacing, pacing, pacing, scenting John, scenting his violin, his skull, his chair, back to John, back to pacing and John didn't (and wanted so badly to) know how to help.

On the second day Sherlock had shut himself up in his room. John had no idea if he had set up provisions so he took it upon himself to leave out the bottled water and biscuits outside Sherlock's door. When he left and returned an hour later, the food and water was gone.

So this night, John kept his eyes down, not grimacing when Sherlock's grip tightened on his forearm and he was yanked again from the kitchen into the living room. He was prepared for Sherlock to pace, to snarl, to check the locks on the doors and windows and then to suddenly and unceremoniously thrust himself into his room with a slam, not to be seen for two days until—

"John, are you mine?" Sherlock repeated, his hold still tight.

John nodded, finding a nail in the floorboard and focusing on it. "Yes, Sherlock."

"John, look at me."

This was new.

John felt a flare of panic. No. He can't look. Can't make direct eye contact. The last time he did-

The grip loosened a bit. Sherlock took a step closer. John's throat hitched in a burst of adrenaline, diaphragm tightening.

"You're frightened." Sherlock's voice was quiet. The hold remained. "You smell different."

John swallowed. Damned Alpha's and their impossibly perceptive scent abilities.

"So am I talking to Sherlock or to the Alpha?" John ventured, cautiously bringing his eyes up.

Sherlock tilted his head, brow slightly furrowed. "It's me. Your presence seems to be… calming me."

John nodded. "Good. That's good."

The grip released, suddenly. "I've hurt you before in this state." Sherlock took a step away, face unreadable.

John gave a weak shrug, resisting the urge to rub the forming bruise on his arm less Sherlock see. "It was my mistake. I-I didn't… realize." The thought didn't feel complete, but the words for a further explanation escaped him.

Sherlock seemed to understand, as he gave a curt nod. "Are they getting worse?" He asked tonelessly, looking down the hallway.

John considered for a moment, knowing exactly what Sherlock was asking. "You seem more… intense. Lucid less and less… You… Why do you check the locks? Over and over, like you're afraid someone is going to come in." The question burst forth suddenly, something he'd wanted to ask since the first Rut.

Sherlock snapped his attention to the front door, imperceptivity relaxing as he noticed it was still locked. He didn't answer.

"Is it because you don't want someone taking your…" John motioned around the living room awkwardly. "… stuff?"

Sherlock still didn't answer, eyes drifting from the door to the windows, to the door again.

John swallowed, a sinking feeling in his gut as he felt he was losing Sherlock again to the Alpha. "Sherlock, look at me."

Amazingly, Sherlock obeyed, eyes focusing in on John with the laser focus usually reserved for a crime scene. They held eye contact. He wasn't struck.

Cautiously, John approached the Alpha and reached. Fingers brushed Sherlock's arm and the Alpha didn't snarl at him. Good. That was good.

"Sherlock—No one is coming in here. Hey, look at me." He repeated when the Alpha turned away to glare at the door again. But again, he obeyed. "No one is coming in here. Nobody is going to take anything."

"We aren't secure." Sherlock stated slowly, unsure, like he didn't even understand what he was saying.

John licked his lips, thinking. He tightened his hold on Sherlock's arm-he knew he was really, really pressing his luck here—and pulled slightly.

Sherlock raised his lip in a wordless snarl, standing his ground.

John pulled again, motioning his head towards Sherlock's bedroom door. "Come on." He pulled again, a gentle tug. "C'mon. I know what will help."

The curled lip fell back into a thin line. With a final pull, John lead Sherlock with the tentative, careful walk one would lead a skittish colt into a barn.

Sherlock's room was sparsely decorated, save for the framed periodic table and various artwork along the walls. Simple table lamp, simple dresser. His bed was always made (and hardly used—John knew) sheets pulled tight and pillows stacked neatly.

That wouldn't do.

John released Sherlock's wrist and smoothed his hands over the soft (expensive) duvet, gripped and yanked it off the bed in a smooth motion. The pillows toppled. He risked a look over to Sherlock, who merely looked puzzled, head tilted to the side watching John and saying nothing. Okay then.

He did the same motion to the sheets underneath, shoving them and molding them into a rumbled mess into the bedspread. He leaned over and picked up the pillows, tossing them without care on top. He pulled the duvet up and over the now discordant sheets and tossed it as well.

Without giving Sherlock a chance to process what John was doing to his bed, the Beta reached again—bolder—and gripped his wrist and tugged him onto the bed.

The Alpha followed John's lead as he dipped himself into the crumbled mass of sheets. John buried them under the pillows and duvet. Sherlock's arm reached and pulled John toward him, pressing John's back to his chest. One handedly John managed to settle the duvet entirely on top of them, tenting the fabric enough for them to have room to comfortably breath and watch each other in the dimness.

"Nest." The Alpha stated. John turned his head enough to see Sherlock's eyes were blown black. Brought on by the connotation of what a 'bed' means to an Alpha or his own proximity to John, he wasn't sure.

"Yes." John said quietly, nodding. He didn't tense as Sherlock's hand curled around his waist. "Do you feel secure?" He asked gently.

"Nest." Sherlock stated again, nosing along John's hairline, scenting him. "Mine."

John swallowed and nodded again.

Sherlock had relaxed considerably, but he was teetering more on Alpha instincts now as the second day of his cycle approached. The more he relaxed into John, nosing along John's neck and shoulder blades, the more John found his muscles tightening, his breathing shortening.

Sherlock rocked against him—once, twice. John froze all but his heart, which hammered in his chest.

Guilt and fear seemed to be battling it out inside him. Guilt because he was the one who put Sherlock into this position—He had read how "nesting" could calm an agitated Alpha or Omega, something to do with den instincts, finding protection from predators and shelter from the elements. Nesting was intimate, he wasn't at first sure that Sherlock would even let him touch his arm, much less lead him into bed with him, but yet here they were.

Fear was edging him as well. Alphas could be brutal, driven by primal instincts to mate, to protect, to harm if need be. They were known to kill their own mates if their Omegas had attempted to stop in the middle of a Heat.

But he wasn't an Omega. He wasn't in Heat. But how far gone was Sherlock? How much could John give without taking advantage? Could he be so desperate that even a Beta would do?

John needed to test this—partly because of his curiosity, partly because he was starting to feel claustrophobic—unsettled alarm curling in his chest. He pulled hard away from Sherlock, wrenching free from the Alpha's—

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock's grip tightened around his waist—hard, and he pulled John down, throwing a leg over him and pinning him with a snarl against his neck.

John went rigid, fear stinging through him like a sharp slap to the face.

He knew not to struggle. He knew if he did those teeth would be in his neck and—He couldn't finish the thought. His once placid, pleased Alpha was now snarling and agitated on top of him. His mind whirled frantically on how to fix this.

He remembered those videos, his research from all those years back—

John turned his head and licked Sherlock's jaw, once, twice. He nipped. He licked again. He gave a small, soft whine.

Sherlock was immobilized, eyes wide. The snarling ceased immediately at John's first movement. Where he once aimed to bite, he nuzzled, soft black curls tickling John's collarbone.

Alphas and Omegas didn't kiss, not in Heat and Ruts. Instincts to lick and scent and bite and snap were too strong to do something so human as to kiss.

The Alpha nuzzled his neck, licking and scenting and when he felt those careful, longer fingers trail down his side to grip around his shorts and pull—John knew everything was too far gone to stop it now.

The Alpha gripped him hard, blankets all around them bunching and seemingly breathing along with them. He twisted John until he was on his belly, mounting and pressing him down.

There was no preparation. Alphas were not known to be considerate lovers. John arched and bit back a cry and a hiss when the Alpha entered him. John's own instinct to protect himself caused him to attempt to pull away, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. The Alpha snapped at his neck, a warning. John was fearful it was the only warning he would get. He forced himself to breath in beats of three. Three seconds in. Three seconds out.

Sherlock rocked into him, grunting, gliding his hands along John's body—spreading his Alpha scent—John noted dimly. The scent was sharp, heady, clouding over them just like the sheets. The scent was utterly masculine and John felt a whine escape his throat. Wait, John couldn't scent—The whine spurned the Alpha on, erasing John's thoughts.

There was no knot—Thank whatever God there was. John didn't have Omega pheromones to trigger Sherlock. The Alpha keened as his climax approached, thrusting harder into John, frustrated there was no knot to tie them together, to further help their procreation. John knew he didn't understand there would be no procreation happening, didn't understand why there was no knot.

The force of Sherlock's thrusts caused immeasurable friction against John's cock, which was trapped between himself the bed. Sherlock pressed him hard enough he couldn't reach a hand in between so he relied on the grind of the sheets.

"Mine. Mine." The Alpha growled out, the only words he'd uttered during their entire coupling.

He gripped John's throat, fingers scissoring along his Adam's apple. "Tell me. Tell me!" He snapped, teeth bared.

John nodded frantically. "Yes. Yes yours. Yours."

They came almost in tandem, John's orgasm hitting him a few breaths after the Alphas.

And then Sherlock bit.

Teeth sank into the crook of his neck and John jerked away, but the teeth followed him, splitting skin. He had no scent gland, nothing to seal a bond bite and yet Sherlock had bit him, instinct overriding.

Teeth left him, the stinging remained. "Mine. My Omega. Mine."

What?

"No." John managed to rasp out as Sherlock spread his body along John's, pinning him.

The Alpha bared his teeth. A thin blood trail on his lips. "Yes. Omega. Mine." He nuzzled John again, licking the bite.

John felt a jolt sear through him at the action. He bared his throat instinctively.

What?

No.

What?

"Sleep." Sherlock murmured, his solid weight was suddenly reassuring against John, settling over him, exhaustion dominating.

He nipped at John's neck. John turned and licked his jaw.

Sherlock led him into sleep, and John followed.