"I want to stop talking," Sherlock said.

So did John. Oh, did John ever want to just stop talking. It seemed as though they'd been talking in circles for the last twenty-four hours, but now, here they were, in Sherlock's bed—the bed that, if John paid extra attention, still carried lingering echoes of the detective's heat.

Not that it mattered. John wanted Sherlock, omega or not, heat or not. Straddling Sherlock's hips, John paused at the realization that he was being offered exactly what he wanted. How often in life was that true?

"John."

"Mm?"

"Stop. Thinking."

John chuckled, leaned forward, and rested his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. "That's funny coming from you."

Sherlock smiled and pulled on the front of John's shirt. John caught himself on his elbows before he could crush the thin omega. "What are you waiting for?" Sherlock whispered.

"To wake up …"

Their noses brushed when Sherlock shook his head. "This isn't a dream."

John kissed him—hard, slow, wet. Maybe the sweetness from earlier wasn't some remnant of Sherlock's heat, because he still tasted sweet to John. Maybe Sherlock just naturally tasted of honey and clove. Their kisses soon increased in speed as hands tugged at clothes.

John yelped when Sherlock's cold hands reached under his shirt and ran up his lower back, which made Sherlock chuckle. "Sorry."

"Cold hands, warm heart?"

"I'd be warm everywhere if you would get on with it."

John scoffed but took the bait, reaching for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Button after button revealed more and more skin until John was finally free to swoop down and lick from the center of Sherlock's pecs up to the base of his neck—which made the detective gasp and then cover his mouth as though embarrassed.

John tugged the offending hand away. "Oh, no, no. Don't even think about being quiet. Your voice is one of the damn sexiest things about you, and I won't have it held captive."

Dialogue rapidly went the way of their remaining clothes, especially since John couldn't think straight with a surprisingly tender naked omega kissing and caressing every inch of his body. He did his best to be gentle in return, battling the alpha instinct that screamed take. The closest he allowed himself to his inner alpha was the hair pulling, which admittedly was almost enough. Sherlock did indeed love having his hair pulled if his rumbling cries were anything to go by. Still, John held back until Sherlock stopped touching him.

John's head flew up from the pillow. "What?"

Sherlock managed to look annoyed even in nothing but his skin and a surprisingly impressive erection for an omega. Apparently Mummy Holmes was right: her youngest should have been born an alpha. "John. You care for me just the way I am, do you not?"

John leaned up on his elbows. "Of course I do. You're perfect."

"Well, I love you the way you are and—"

John grinned. "You love me?"

"Was that not … Oh. I never said it. Yes, I … love you."

"Did that hurt coming out?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered at John's obvious amusement. "I love you the way you are, John, so be you." His gaze lowered, and despite the dim light, John could see Sherlock's cheeks go pink. "I may not be an omega in daily life, but … I am one in bed."

John actually felt his pulse jump, followed by a growl, before he tackled Sherlock and covered his body with his. Happily, instinct took over. John rubbed his face roughly against the faded bruises on the side of Sherlock's neck, coating the omega in his scent. He bit down gently—not hard enough to bond—but enough to make Sherlock huff out a surprised groan. John pinned Sherlock's hands above his head and thrust against him until Sherlock's eyes slammed shut.

John paused. "You okay?"

"God, yes. My alpha."

John might have whimpered.

They continued rutting against each other, Sherlock pinned beneath him. Part of John wanted to slow things down, but it was too late. Much too late. He continued licking and nipping and sucking on every part of the omega he could reach: neck, ear, jaw, mouth …

Sherlock, on the other hand, was barely coherent—a tangled mess of sweat and sensation whose vocabulary had been relegated to repeated chants of "Yes."

John pressed their noses together. "I want this every day."

"Yes." It was more a sigh than an actual pronouncement, but it was enough for John.

"I want you to always carry my scent on you." He nosed again at Sherlock's neck, and the detective's head tilted back in silent invitation.

"Yes," he whispered, trapped hands curled into fists above him.

"But this first." John pressed down against Sherlock and moved in just the right way until his lover went from semi-coherent to wordless, begging shouts.

Sherlock came first, and John thought he might as well just die right there because he would never—ever—see something that beautiful again. When John came, it was beneath the adoring scrutiny of Sherlock's gray-blue eyes.

John released Sherlock's wrists and tumbled to his side on the bed. He was immediately embraced in the omega's long appendages. Sherlock's face pressed against John's chest, and they rested there in silence, covered in sweat and semen and resolved sexual tension. And love. Love was there, too, of course.

John put his hands in Sherlock's hair. "I really do think you're going to kill me."

"Mm?"

"Heart attack in bed. I can hear the rumors already. Overwhelmed by the beauty of his omega. Overdosed on orgasms." He wrapped Sherlock in his arms. "Promise me you'll never go into heat, because I'm pretty sure I would fuck you into the center of the Earth."

Sherlock chuckled, the sound muffled against John's skin. "I promise I'll never go into heat." He pulled back far enough to look at John. "I do, though, John. Promise. I swear it, in fact. Are you positive that's all right?"

John nodded. "You, love. I just want you."

"You have me."

"And you have me." John leaned forward for a quick kiss—which Sherlock made into a much longer kiss. They kept kissing until John felt something hard and hot against his hip. He pulled his mouth away and glanced down. "Jesus, Sherlock …"

"I've been told I have a very short refractory period. And I have an alpha in my bed." He climbed on John's lap, and John held his omega by the hips.

"Definitely gonna be the death of me …"

Sherlock rested, half asleep, on his stomach with his head on the pillow, arms folded beneath. John had never felt more awake, which was a bit of a miracle, considering he'd just spent eight hours worshipping—and being worshipped by—the man he now thought of as his.

John straddled Sherlock's waist and kissed his upper back. He kissed his mid-back. He kissed his lower back and did it all over again as Sherlock's body rose and fell with breath.

"I could conceivably live here," John said. "In bed. Kissing you everywhere. Forever."

"Dull." Sherlock sighed.

John smiled and pulled back. "I don't hear you complaining."

"Don't you dare stop," Sherlock grumbled.

John kept kissing until Sherlock's phone vibrated on the nightstand. The consulting detective shifted a bit to reach it. "It's Lestrade," he said and answered, although John thought his love sounded downright drunk on endorphins.

"Yes," Sherlock said into the phone. "Thank you." He hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. "Saul West is dead."

John paused. "Oh."

"Killed by a group of alphas who heard about his erectile dysfunction and found him an embarrassment to their kind. Torn to shreds apparently."

"Jesus."

Sherlock hummed and buried his face in the pillow. "Why aren't you kissing me?"

John rested his hands on Sherlock's lower back. "Well. I … Hmm."

Sherlock wiggled his hips and ran a hand through the tangles of his hair. Both movements sent a ricochet of want down John's spine, but he didn't dive in—not yet.

"Just think it's ironic in the end. West abducted you, punished you, for not using your organs properly—for not breeding—when he was he one who literally couldn't use his organ properly."

"Probably part of why he hated omegas like me so much. Our perceived brokenness is by choice, while he had no say in his shortcoming. And when I say short, I do mean—"

"Sherlock, please don't talk about a dead alpha's cock when mine is pressed against your ass. Sort of ruins the mood." He leaned forward and playfully bit the back of his omega's shoulder.

"Do that again," Sherlock purred.

John acquiesced, tasting the salty sweat and lingering sweetness left over from their last go. "So you didn't have him killed?"

"Empty threats. I knew he was too weak to survive in an alpha prison, with or without my help. Think about it, John, he had to drug omegas to be able to control them when any self-respecting alpha would have simply used his superior strength. For instance, if you wanted to control me—really control me—you could quite easily do so."

John laughed … and laughed.

Sherlock leaned up on his elbow so he could glare back at John. "What on Earth is so funny?"

"Love, no one can control you. Ever. Not even me."

Sherlock smirked and stretched like a cat beneath him. "What time is it? I said I would visit Emily this morning."

"We will." John laid down on Sherlock and kissed the back of his neck. "Am I crushing you?"

"No. I like your weight on me." As evidence, John could almost feel the consulting detective melt happily into the mattress below.

"I know we're not bonded, but I'd like to consider you mine. And I belong to you. Is that all right?"

"Yes, John." He covered one of John's hands with his own. "And I won't change. And you won't change. And you'll pull my hair when I ask, and I'll suck you off in the back of taxis whenever I choose."

John gulped and cussed.

"Not alpha and omega but John and Sherlock. Right?"

John nodded against the back of Sherlock's head. "Right. My Sherlock."

"I really should get up, John."

"Well, you're not going anywhere without me. Not anymore."

Sherlock curled their fingers together. "I never want to."

THE END