Note: Aaaand here's the second epilogue! Same protocol as the first: 3 chapters, each ~mostly~ self-contained, though some of the elements bleed over into future chapters. Even with the same number of chapters, this one wound up being about twice the length of The Frog Prince, though. :I

Anyway, without further ado...

The door had just slid shut with a soft click when John found himself slammed against it, covered head-to-toe by Sherlock's thin frame. He had just enough time to suppress his Army-instilled hand-to-hand combat instinct and gasp half of the Alpha's name before the rest was snatched away by a pair of very persistent lips. Something warm and eager deep in John bubbled up in response, and he relaxed into the embrace. As soon as the kiss deepened, however, a hint of copper hit John's tongue and his brow furrowed. It was a bit of an ordeal to wriggle around until his hands were on Sherlock's shoulders, but once they were there, he pushed until Sherlock got the hint. Or needed fresh air, more likely.

"Blood?" he asked, panting. "Why on Earth is there blood in your mouth?"

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath. He shifted, bending to rest his chin on John's good shoulder, his lips just grazing John's ear. "Diverted attention," he murmured. "The trade-off for your contraception medication is a slightly dulled scent. As you are not taking – to borrow the especially twee euphemism Mrs. Hudson recently used – your 'precautions', you're… pronounced."

"So I smell nice. Great. Doesn't explain the blood."

"I was forced to make a choice between biting the inside of my cheek with enough force to provide a distraction or doing this –" Sherlock's incisors pinched John's earlobe, eliciting a gasp. He continued, "- among other things in front of our landlady, our very young son, and a frog."

Even with several hours before the heat came on in earnest, John had to admit that he did feel more sensitive than he usually did. Having only experienced a very small handful of heats without the aid of contraceptives, he had a significantly skewed pool for comparison. After all, the most recent example was five years ago, a fluke, and had resulted in the child who was spending the next few days with Mrs. Hudson. Time and muddled feelings made the whole thing a bit fuzzy.

But all that was far too articulate for John's brain to deal with at the moment, so he settled for, "Ah. That-that's why you were so, er, quiet then. Good choice. A+. Gold star."

Sherlock gave an amused huff. "And people say I ramble."

"People – including you – can shove it. Sofa now."

Without breaking their embrace, the two shuffled across the flat until they collapsed onto the sofa. Sherlock compared the movement to that of a rare, poisonous sea anemone, which John cuffed him across the ribs for. Sherlock might not have lived up to Sally Donovan's homicide predictions, but there where times when he could really be a merciless murderer of romantic moods. As unattractive as it was to be compared to a strange sea creature, if even indirectly, at least it cleared the air between them a bit, allowing a less frenzied pace than the initial door attack had promised.

The kisses turned long, slow, and lazy, with occasional interruptions for Sherlock or John to gasp for breath and arch against the other. Their hands slid beneath the fabric of their clothes to explore familiar yet still endlessly interesting and inviting planes of skin, firm groupings of muscle, sweat-dampening hair at the base of the neck.

John felt the first strange sensation against the junction where his knee met his calf just as he was beginning to pluck open the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He felt it a few more times as he made progress. It happened a fifth time as he finished his task. He finally frowned and said, "Sherlock, you're buzzing."

"Phone," Sherlock stated. He looked vaguely thoughtful for a moment before he added, "Probably."

John sighed. "Well, check it out. Might be important."

"Can't reach. Someone appears to be straddling me and access is blocked," Sherlock said, running a hand down John's thigh in demonstration.

In response, John reached into Sherlock's pocket, making sure to slide his own hand firmly against the fabric-covered skin there as he sought the phone. He handed it to Sherlock. "Yeah, well 'someone' says to make sure nobody is dying right this second."

Sherlock thumbed through a line of texts. He glared at the screen, tapping out a response before burying the phone beneath a cushion. "There."

"Is it important?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, choosing instead to reach up to tug at John's neck until the Omega lay slumped over him. John gave him a skeptical look.

The phone buzzed again. "Give it to me," John said. When Sherlock frowned at him petulantly, John's squint narrowed. "Let me see the phone or I'm going straight to one of those safe houses for Omegas in heat."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock took in John's face: the set of his jaw, the tightness in his lips, the twitch in his brow. He pulled the phone out from beneath the cushion, handed it to John, and grumbled something vague.

John looked through the recent texts.

Got a case. Urgent. – GL

Serial killer has kidnapped a third victim. – GL

Claims to be the world's greatest puzzle master. Likes to give clues, counts down to the murder. – GL

Sherlock, for Christ's sake, pick up the phone! – GL

We're working on a deadline! – GL

As am I. Additional: criminal is pretentious and tedious. Truly great puzzle masters never announce themselves as such. – SH

We only have 5 hours before the girl he's got gets killed! – GL

John frowned and gave Sherlock a thump on the shoulder. "Nobody's getting killed just so we can get a leg over before the heat even starts properly," he said. Slowly, he began to peck out a response text: WE'RE ON THE WAY. BUT WE'VE GOT PLANS AND MAY BE A BIT DISTRACVBF

John hissed, eyes shutting and head tilting back at the sharp pinch Sherlock inflicted on his nipple. "Made me send a typo, you prat," he grumbled. Sherlock's only response was a smirk against his neck. The phone vibrated twice in John's hand and he glimpsed back down.

? – GL

Oh God. Remembered what "plans" is code for. Find her quick, then. – GL

"Well that's that," John said. He untangled himself from Sherlock and stood, holding his temple as a slight wave of light-headedness washed over him. He shook his head and slapped his cheeks; anything to clear up the disappointed hormones starting to build in his system. He turned back to Sherlock, who was still lying in a fit of bare-chested, boneless pique on the sofa. "Any time you'd like to get up and get a bit less disheveled would be great."

"I never intended for the girl to become a casualty. I have the utmost confidence that I can locate Lestrade's boring little 'puzzle master' within the hour, well within his time limit and before the heat hits its stride." He scowled. "Therefore, there is no rush."

"Sorry, can't seem to get in the mood for a quickie when someone's life is at stake," John said. "If this sulk is about not getting off, just think about something unappealing until it goes away. Like, I don't know, picture Mycroft nude."

Sherlock lurched into a sitting position and gave a shuddering gag. "Congratulations, John. I shall never have another erection again. Absalom will forever be an only child."

"Oh, I think you'll be singing a different tune in a few hours. Well, if you count moaning as singing."

"No, it's broken. Hopelessly, irrevocably broken." Sherlock made quick work of buttoning up his shirt and continued, "Granted, I would have been extremely grateful for such a permanent physical incapacity six or so years ago, but your presence has made me grow moderately fond of something which is otherwise messy and worthless."

"'Moderately fond', my arse."

"Yes, that as well."

John rolled his eyes. He made a quick dash to their bedroom and then the bathroom, and when he returned he was rubbing a handful of a mild temporary scent moderating tincture into his neck. He saw Sherlock wrinkle his nose in distaste. "You know this stuff won't last long. Don't want other Alphas getting sniffy and having ideas, do you? Now come on, let's go catch a bad guy. You said you could find him within the hour, right?"

"Of course. Easily."

John grinned as they stepped out of the flat. He held up a digital stopwatch and said, "You're on the clock."

His thumb tapped 'start'.

Once Sherlock and John were given the hints the Yard had received, it took exactly thirty-three minutes, four seconds, and five hundred twenty-three milliseconds for them to find the killer and kidnapped girl. Including commute time. To and fro.

Sherlock spent the following two hours castigating the Yarders for their incompetence, at least until John tugged at his sleeve and whispered that they needed to leave urgently. Not wanting to deal with the potential fiasco that is an Omega in heat in crowded public transportation, Sherlock pickpocketed the keys to Anderson's new car.

They had just barely made it to Baker Street when the first wave hit, which they spent fogging the windows of the vehicle. An hour or so later, they were capable of wobbling into the flat to experience the rest of the heat, but there were two lasting repercussions.

The first: Anderson would need to completely reupholster his car. It was a nightmare.

The second: Somehow, through a truly baffling coincidence, the baby girl born later that year would share the initials of her name with the phrase "Anderson's Mazda".