Essence

A BBC Sherlock Omegaverse AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 2

Special Thanks: To wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up), my Beta extraordinaire who took special care of the passages that were a bit idk for me.

And to PlumpPushu, my French connection.

Author's Notes: Two examples of perfume briefs, the perfume company's instructions to the perfumer of what a scent should smell (be) like:

"A perfume that exudes boldness, daringness, and wonder. Single most important thing to say (of the scent):'I have to have it.' This conveys (the message) that the wearer will do anything to get it."

- for Sarah Jessica Parker's scent, Covet

"Bodies slick with sweat, hot with the odors of sexual favors."

- Kilian Henessey on his fragrance, Les Liaisons Dangeureuses

More author's notes at the end.

Ten o'clock in the morning seemed like a decent time to call on people— not too early as to interrupt one's morning routine, yet not too late as to intrude on lunch— and so at precisely that time the next day, John found himself in Baker Street, ringing the doorbell to 221B. As he waited, he glanced furtively up and down the street— a nervous habit he had picked up ever since he'd been sent back from Afghanistan more than two months ago.

A Sunday hush enveloped the street, completely devoid of passersby, and the sandwich shop a few feet away from John was shuttered closed. It was altogether a discouraging scene. Perhaps Mr. Sherlock Holmes did not see clients on a Sunday. Perhaps he wasn't even at home, but John had very little recourse but to try and seek him out. That midnight scare in the pool house had finally brought home the realisation that John's viable options had been rapidly reduced to none.

Seconds stretched into minutes. After his second stint with the doorbell, John stared at the closed door in front of him and was considering his next move (try the knocker, maybe?) when he heard footsteps approaching from within. An elderly lady finally opened the door.

"—Not answering his doorbell again," John heard her sigh in weary resignation before her eyes settled upon him.

"Hi," said John, breaking into a tentative smile. "I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, hello," chirped the elderly woman, smiling. Her lined face was infinitely kind, as was her gaze, which brightened considerably as she took stock of John in full. "Are you here for the flat share?"

John blinked. Of course, his hand luggage and the laptop bag slung over his shoulder told a story of their own, although John had never expected a flat share to suddenly enter the picture. The fact was, in his panic, he'd decided to quit his bedsit that morning. He had no idea where he was going next, but he had to meet him— this man who'd turned his entire world upside down with just a few words and a bottle of scent; his scent.

The need for caution tugged at him urgently. John was not sure how much of himself he ought to let on to casual strangers, but before he could even begin to frame his words into an explanation, the lady was already ushering him in.

"I'm Mrs. Hudson— Sherlock's landlady," she said, beaming as she introduced herself. "I'm glad he's managed to find someone at last. It's been months and he's not been able to get a flatmate to help with the rent, the poor dear."

"I'm John," was all John could think to say at that point. "John Watson. I'm…"

He broke off to consider what he was about to say. What was he to Mr. Holmes? He was certainly not friends with the man; not yet anyway. An acquaintance? Yet they'd never even met face to face...

John licked his lips then said simply, "Sherlock and I… know each other."

There was the smallest pause before Mrs. Hudson's eyes crinkled mischievously and she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "of course."

John stared at her, dismayed.

Honest to God, he didn't mean anything by it except in its most literal sense, but this kind of misunderstanding was a common enough occurrence in John's life. It was all part and parcel of being omega. It was widely theorized to have something to do with his scent holding sway over people's thoughts and emotions in the most subtle, unconscious way possible; especially betas. As for the alphas, well, everyone knew how those creatures had a one-track mind when it came to anything omega.

Mrs. Hudson's voice lost none of its warm welcome though as she continued cheerily, "pleased to meet you, John. Come on up. I'm sure he's in; I would have heard him if he'd gone out. Here, let me help you with that bag."

As she escorted him upstairs, she said in a confiding tone, "I hope I'm not being too forward, discussing the flat share with you like this. I'm sure Sherlock has told you the details. I don't really mind the late payments coming from Sherlock, but you see it's already been months and I do have bills to pay. Nobody he's invited has ever stayed on longer than a few days, and he didn't like any of the young people I brought round to meet him. Of course, there was that brother of his who offered to step in on certain conditions but you should have seen Sherlock when he learned about it!"

The door to the flat was not locked. Mrs. Hudson swung it open after a brisk tap and a curious, little whooping call. John saw her freeze for a tiny instant at the doorway, eyes going wide as she took in the state of the room. She turned to glance at John, looking slightly perturbed.

"I didn't tell him I was coming so he's probably not expecting me," said John in a rush.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly seemed doubtful, but it was too late to have John wait downstairs while she fixed things up a bit in the flat; she gestured for him to come in.

There was nobody in the living room and the flat was a mess. John slowly entered, looking around him curiously as Mrs. Hudson bustled about, collecting stray papers as best she could and tutting loudly.

John was not in heat— he would not be able to scent the alpha male residing in these premises unless he was standing right before him now, but the room gave other clues to Sherlock's person: the books and knickknacks (was that a skull on the mantelpiece?) piled into the shelves and cluttered around the place; the papers strewn all over the floor and spilling on the table; the carpet that was in need of a good hoovering. The fine, florid wallpaper gave the room an enclosed, darkly Victorian atmosphere. In the still air lingered ghostly traces of old tobacco, smoked long, long ago and from the kitchen came the sharp tang of chemicals, more recently in use. Mrs. Hudson immediately moved to open the windows.

"As you can see, we have the sitting room here, as well as a bedroom at the end of the hallway there and that's the kitchen," she said, tentatively hopeful, as she tried her best to stand in between the clutter of the living room and John. She would not even look at the kitchen. "And there's a spare bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John sighed. It was about time he dissuaded her. "Of course we'll be needing—" he was beginning to say when he saw something white flutter at the edge of his vision.

John turned, and saw Sherlock standing a few feet away, hair disheveled, with nothing more than a bedsheet wrapped around him. Apparently, he had just gotten out of bed, emerging from the bedroom down the hallway that his landlady had just mentioned.

There was silence for a moment; then Sherlock, without even so much as a change in his expression, said, "we will need some tea, Mrs. Hudson, and a couple of biscuits if you have them."

"I'm your landlady, dear," interjected Mrs. Hudson evenly, "not your housekeeper."

But she obliged them just the same by leaving.

There was more of that heavy, pregnant silence after she departed, leaving John to meet Sherlock's unnerving stare. That intense, still look from unearthly, slanting eyes— it was entirely alpha. John was reminded of how a cat might look, guarding a mouse hole.

"I'm sorry, I know this is a bad time," John began, sounding slightly flustered. "I should have let you know I was coming."

"You followed me here last night from the pool house," was all Sherlock said, his voice flat, "and you've been through my website."

John said nothing, merely set his mouth in a firm, resolute line as he thought: tit for tat. You've driven me out of hiding, so now here I am.

After a moment, Sherlock nodded at the chairs in front of them— a wordless invitation.

John chose the armchair, slightly worn but very comfortable, and finally allowed himself a thorough examination of the man sitting opposite him. Sherlock, bundled in nothing but his bedsheet, stared back haughtily as he raised his eyebrows: what?

As if it were the norm for consulting detectives to meet their prospective clients in nothing but a white sheet draped around their persons. John found that he had to bite at his lip to suppress a sudden smile.

So early into their acquaintance, yet the alpha in Sherlock could not resist. Already, the man had decided he was not backing down from John, not even retreating to his room to throw on some clothes.

Doubtless, Sherlock Holmes was a most singular man, and as alphas went, a very strange one. There was something about him that did not quite add up, something that told John that this one stood apart from all the others.

The silence threatened to stretch on once again. John cleared his throat and began: "Mr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock, please."

"Uh. Right. Sherlock," John said, but before he could proceed, Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know why you've come but I ought to advise you to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's in a better position to help you. I already gave you his card."

John watched Sherlock's mouth form the words while his pale eyes spoke a different message. Instinctively, John seized on that which was unspoken.

"Yes, you did," he agreed after a slight pause. "But this isn't about that. Not yet, anyway."

"Oh?" Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze sharpening further as it bore into John.

"Yes, erm." John licked his lips carefully. "Mrs. Hudson said something about your looking for a flatmate."

"So she did." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "She's worried but I never realised she'd be this desperate. I did tell her I'd have the payment ready this time."

"She did mention something about late payments, yeah," said John. He cast another look at his surroundings. "Nice. The flat, I mean; and the location. It must be expensive."

Sherlock shrugged. "She's offered me a special deal and a flatshare would help to split the costs further."

"Oh, I'm sure it will," John replied agreeably, trying not to sound too eager, too hopeful.

Sherlock's gaze turned sly. "Aren't you afraid of the possible consequences of lodging with someone like me, John?" he asked softly. "You know perfectly well what I am. You'd probably be better off under Lestrade's protection. At least he's a beta."

Obviously a bluff. Sherlock was toying with him. It was all a game to these alphas, God damn them. Well, John had been there, done that. He sighed inwardly as he reined in his exasperation. He wasn't going to play along, but he couldn't risk antagonising Sherlock. Once this cat and mouse game really kicked off, he was going to need Sherlock Holmes more than anyone, even more than the police. So John merely said, "Tell me how you found me."

"Long story," replied Sherlock, settling back into his seat as he began to grow more comfortable with his audience.

Sherlock was not going to tell John how he had first smelled him off the pulse points of a French diplomat's wife at a cocktail party.

Dragging Sherlock to the party had been Mycroft's idea. It had been held at the insistence of said French diplomat who had wanted to thank Sherlock personally for his discreet service (also Mycroft's idea) in clearing up a small but problematic little affair that had threatened an international incident between France and the UK. Before the evening could even begin, Sherlock had very nearly caused an international incident of his own.

He'd been reasonably well-behaved in the first ten minutes of the reception, standing with hands quietly behind his back and one glowering eye already on the door. The only thing that had sustained him was the prospect of wrangling a favour or two from Mycroft in return for his little service to the country. He'd been quite successful in quelling the impatience that had raged within him as Mycroft chatted graciously with their host and hostess while gradually steering them towards Sherlock's direction.

The introductions had been urbane and the names of the dignitaries as forgettable as the exquisitely wrapped bauble they had presented him with.

Then it had happened.

Sherlock could only remember his hostess extending her hand to him to be shaken before her perfume had accosted him, overwhelming his senses and blanking out all recollection of the next few seconds.

The scent had been complex, instantly enthralling— a perfect combination of soft and hard, like steel encased in a dark, velvet glove. It invaded his mind palace and burst open its doors, bringing forth a flood of sensations, mental pictures— everything that was filthy and sexy. He suddenly envisioned a hand, sheathed in that dark, velvet glove, caressing the hardness of his erection. If he were to experience it for real, Sherlock was suddenly sure that dirty little act would smell like this…

Mycroft— well-versed in Sherlock's many alpha eccentricities— had intervened immediately when he'd seen the look on Sherlock's face, bent over that perfumed hand he'd held captive in his own. Moving smoothly to stand beside Sherlock and gripping him tightly at the back in warning, Mycroft had announced loudly, "Sachez que mon jeune frère est positivement touché par votre générosité."

Mycroft's voice had brought Sherlock back to himself, and he had quickly moved to kiss the hand that he'd grasped before giving it back to his startled hostess.

But not before he'd taken in another breath of that captivating scent. He would not be able to forget it now.

Mycroft would tell him later when he'd calmed down that, for a moment, Mycroft had feared that Sherlock had every intention of stuffing the woman's hand into his mouth— the look on his face had been a mixture of wild epiphany and avid hunger.

For once, Sherlock had not argued with his brother, figuring it would be best not to tell Mycroft that he had actually considered lunging at the woman to take more of the scent in from behind her ears, her throat.

"What is the matter with you?" Mycroft had demanded.

"Her perfume. I must have it—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!"

"If you really want to thank me for a job well done, you'd get the name of her perfumer for me. It's the only thing I'd want from you."

Strangely enough, Mycroft had obliged in the end. Sherlock would never know how he'd managed it, but Mycroft had successfully persuaded the diplomat's wife to impart the name of a world-renowned French perfumer who had concocted the scent expressly for an elite set of private customers.

"It could have been much worse," Mycroft had remarked, shrugging resignedly as he recalled the near-fiasco of the cocktail party a few weeks later. "You could have pounced on Monsieur Arnault instead of the wife and what would I have done then?"

Mycroft knew of Sherlock's little obsessions, which included this pastime of analyzing perfume compositions for his website. He had the nose for it, as most alphas did. In fact, Sherlock's financial woes would have been more than satisfactorily resolved if he'd deigned to work for some of the great perfume and fashion houses as their Nez, but of course, Sherlock had sniffed derisively at the very idea. As with everything else about him, his interests in perfumery were geared towards the forensic aspects of the art.

Of course, if he had known that Sherlock had smelled something illegal on the spouse of one of France's top-ranking diplomats, Mycroft would have flatly refused Sherlock's request. Yet for all his astuteness, Mycroft, being beta, could not have detected the sharp, animalistic accents of the perfume and known them for what they were. Just one whiff of that extravagantly costly scent had instantly told Sherlock that this was no ordinary synthetic musk thrown into the mix of a floral bouquet. This was the real thing: high-grade omega musk, steeped in natural pheromones, obtained from a male omega in the throes of heat. Judging from the grade of the scent, in all probability he had been taken by force.

Just that first step made months ago had finally led to John Watson sitting in Sherlock's living room that morning.

Now, in order to not scare this little omega away, Sherlock knew that he must be careful to keep his rising excitement in check.

He smoothly sidestepped John's question by saying, "I'm more interested in your telling me about the man after you, John."

John said nothing, merely regarded him with a shuttered gaze.

"He's probably dangerous," said Sherlock, softly. "It would be best to let the police deal with him. Lestrade has indicated—"

"I'd rather not let the police in on a private matter," John said with finality. "Nor do I want to turn myself in; I've done nothing wrong."

"You're an unregistered omega," Sherlock reminded him.

"I've not broken any laws by not registering, which would have meant curtailing my freedoms."

"You've not broken any laws yet," amended Sherlock.

By that, he meant the bill currently being circulated in Parliament to make registration mandatory for all omegas, supposedly for their own safety. Human rights organizations had denounced the bill as an instrument of discrimination and segregation against a minority group: the usual arguments.

Boring, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He had something far more interesting to consider at the moment.

"So you're thinking of engaging my services to track him down? No," said Sherlock, eyes narrowing appreciatively as he looked at John, "you're thinking of drawing him out."

"If you'll have my case," replied John quickly. "And if you're willing to put me up, I can go halves with you on the flat. I've got some money in the bank."

Their conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson as she came in with the tea things, and for a while there was nothing but the soothing, homey sounds of tea being served. If she found Sherlock's garment a surprise, Mrs. Hudson did very well in hiding it. Instead, she gave John a small, meaningful wink. Sherlock turned to her just as Mrs. Hudson was turning to leave.

"Have some tea with us, Mrs. Hudson, and you may show John the room upstairs afterward," he said.

Sherlock waited a full half-minute, listening to the two making their way up the stairs amid Mrs. Hudson's lively chatter, before he threw aside the bedsheet he had been gripping so tightly and strode briskly into his room to dress, his mind vivid with excitement.

Of course, he'd construed various possibilities with regards the outcome of his visit to John in the pool house last night, but to have John Watson run to him and end up as his flatmate was a probability that had been almost nil.

It was not every day that an omega— an actual, unbonded omega— would propose to share rooms with him. He'd taken care to bring up the police alternative (no less than thrice!) just to make sure John understood what he was getting himself into and the man had batted the option away like a troublesome fly. That was all the informed consent Sherlock needed that John was willing to take the risk.

He'd never actually had any extended contact with an omega before— not unsurprising, considering that there were less than ten thousand of them living in the British Isles, according to the latest census. Of course, these were the registered ones. Definitely, there were more of them out there, unregistered like John, but they were still rare enough for Sherlock to have difficulty seeking them out; and, Sherlock being the man that he was, any omega— real or rumored—he'd come across (not to mention a considerable number of betas) had instantly given him a wide berth. The very thought that he'd soon be living with one under the same roof, affording him at last the golden opportunity to observe and put some of his theories about omega biology and sociology to the test— it was nothing short of brilliant!

Throwing open the door of his wardrobe, he ran a critical eye over his shirts— the purple one, definitely. And yes, no need to deny what his plans were: he was going to show off. It was something he was good at, something that made him feel good in return, so why bother with the embarrassment? He dressed quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped back out.

He could hear them moving around upstairs even as he prowled restlessly by the windows, hands on his hips. For a brief moment, he considered what John might think of his prospective bedroom. There was a double bed, probably stripped bare of linen, a small stand and a bookshelf. It was not much, but there was a tiny bathroom connected to the bedroom, and Sherlock knew from what he'd read just how important that was for omegas, deeply attached as they were to water.

All in all, he could not think of a single reason for John to be dissatisfied with the room upstairs. He'd have no other option, anyway, thought Sherlock as he swept a gloating eye over the luggage John had already brought over.

As far as flatmates went, John Watson was as good as his.

At last, the sound of footsteps descended from the stairs. Arranging his features so that every line of his face was meant to convey only benign interest, he turned to look at John as he came back in with Mrs. Hudson.

"It's perfect," John pronounced.

"Glad you think so," drawled Sherlock. "By the way, can I borrow your phone? I've left mine in my room."

John raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong with a landline?" he asked slowly.

"I prefer to text," replied Sherlock, raising his own eyebrows to mirror John's enquiring expression. Problem?

But John seemed unwilling to rock the boat further at this point. All things considered, they had gotten off to an unexpectedly good start. There was hardly any sense in adding a bit of friction now to the wheels already set in motion between them.

So John pulled out his phone. "Here," he said.

Showtime, thought Sherlock as he sauntered over to John and took the mobile from John's outstretched hand. He flipped open the phone's keypad and began to type.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked nonchalantly.

Author's Notes: The science of perfume is chemistry and the aromatic result is artistry. Indeed, especially in France, perfume creation is treated as high art. Thus, perfume briefs, as we have seen above, are oftentimes artistic and outrageously vague. A typical example: "Give us the scent of a warm cloud floating in a fresh spring sky over Sicily raining titanium raindrops on a woman with emerald eyes." Sherlock's thoughts on John's scent are lifted from Parfums Dior's brief for Pure Poison (launched in 2004): "What is it like to have something soft and hard at the same time?"

In the perfume industry, le Nez (French for "The Nose") is the affectionate term given to perfumers due to their fine sense of smell and skill in producing olfactory compositions. The perfumer is effectively an artist who has in-depth training in the concepts of fragrance aesthetics and who is capable of conveying abstract concepts and moods with fragrance compositions.

There is a link between perfume and emotion. A scent has been known to influence a person's mood, and women often report that they choose a particular perfume because it has a positive effect on their mood and/or is consistent with their mood at that time.

(Source: Neurobiology of Sensation and Reward, chapter 17: Perfume, by Rachel Herz— a truly good read.)

Coco Chanel once said that a person should apply perfume on those areas where they would like to be kissed. While it may be true (and very French), perfume is usually applied on one's pulse points— locations on the body where the blood vessels are closest to the skin (inner wrists, the base of the throat, behind ear lobes, in the cleavage, behind knees, and the inner elbows). These spots produce body heat which helps fragrances to emanate from one's skin into the air and prolongs their scent. (Source: How and Where to Apply Perfume to Make It Last Longer: Tips and Tricks for Your Fragrance Application by Catherine Helbig)

Among perfumes, my favorites are from Carolina Herrera and Kenzo. What are your favorites?

Translations:

Mycroft: My brother is overwhelmed by your generosity.