John trots up the steps to the flat, humming to himself. He feels invigorated, refreshed, as he always does after these sessions. He opens the door and steps through, already shrugging off his coat. The rich smell of Sherlock's Alpha scent rolls over him as he enters the flat, and he draws in a deep breath, enjoying it.

He is completely unsurprised to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock himself curled up into a ball on the sofa, back toward the door. Waves of irritation are flowing through the bond.

"Morning," John says happily, hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. There is no response, but he is not really expecting one. He moves through the sitting room and into the kitchen without a pause, still humming as he fills the kettle and flicks it on.

He feels Sherlock's irritation spike at being ignored, seconds before he hears heavy stomping footsteps from the other room. He calmly continues to prepare the tea – two mugs, of course – and makes no effort whatsoever to repress the amusement that he knows Sherlock must be able to sense.

"You smell like him," Sherlock says from just behind him, voice petulant. John smiles to himself and drops a tea bag into the second mug before turning around.

"I would expect so. I was in his house for more than an hour."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he takes a long slow breath through his nose. John can feel his senses sharpening, focusing with near total concentration on the odors he is drawing in. As always, experiencing Sherlock's Sentinel ability first-hand makes John feel amazed and almost giddy.

"You don't smell like his house," Sherlock says eventually. "You smell like him."

"Well, you know that physical contact improves the connection. It's much easier to maintain the rapport that way while we concentrate on other things."

Sherlock's expression hardens. John fights down another smile.

"Where did he touch you?"

"We held hands." John loses the battle against his grin at the expression of disgust that passes over Sherlock's face at this tidbit.

"Wash them immediately."

"Yeah, sure. Fill the mugs when the kettle's done, okay?" John wanders down the hall toward the bathroom, making no effort to hurry. Irritating Sherlock with this is just too much fun.

When he comes back into the kitchen, hands clean and a bit damp, the kettle has clicked but the mugs are still empty, tea bags sitting dry inside. John opens his mouth to make a remark about Sherlock's apparent laziness, but before he can speak Sherlock is grabbing him by the head and kissing him hard.

John goes still in his hands, letting Sherlock claim his mouth, tongue sliding hot and slick against his. A rush of warmth rolls through him and he melts into the kiss, earning a growl from Sherlock, who pushes him backward until he is pressed against the wall.

Sherlock breaks away, breathing hard. "I don't like it."

"I know," John answers, leaning up for another kiss. Sherlock does not give it to him.

"I want you to stop meeting with him."

John huffs a breath out through his nose, exasperated. "Sherlock, you know this is a valuable opportunity for me. There are things they teach at the Tower that I never had a chance to learn. Important things; things that I've already used to save your arse, or have you conveniently forgotten the smuggling bust last week?"

"Mycroft never went to the Tower either."

"No, but he had Tower-trained private tutors and learned all the same skills. I'm lucky he's willing to teach me at all, instead of just turning me in."

Sherlock scoffs. "He never would. He knows what I would do if he did."

"Still, though. I've learned so much from him already, and there's still more left to learn. He really is a very skilled Guide, you know."

"You're stronger." And John can feel the spike of pride that Sherlock sends through the bond with this statement. It makes him embarrassingly happy to know how much his Alpha and Sentinel respects his skills.

"Yes, in pure brute force. But Mycroft is significantly more adept at subtlety and precision work. He can do things using his empathy that I've never even imagined. I really am lucky to learn from him."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You know the only reason he's teaching you is because you can do things with the skills you learned in Afghanistan that he didn't know were possible, not because he cares at all. He just wants your knowledge."

"Of course I know that. We're teaching each other. We've even started blending the two Guide techniques, which allows us to do some pretty amazing stuff. You should come watch sometime. It's remarkable."

Sherlock looks down at him for a moment, silent, and then leans his head forward until his forehead is resting against John's.

"I still don't like it," he says, voice quiet. Through their bond John feels a hint of fear, of that ever-present insecurity that occasionally peeks through the veneer of petulance and irritation that typically cloaks Sherlock's deeper emotions. He cannot identify the specific source of Sherlock's fear – that John will find Mycroft more interesting than him, that John will leave if he becomes skilled enough, that Sherlock will drive him away just by being himself – but it does not really matter. They are all equally ridiculous.

A swell of love rises in John, involuntary and unstoppable as the tide. He focuses it deliberately on Sherlock, letting it flow through their bond in strong, luminous waves. He raises his hands and softly cups the back of Sherlock's head, soft hair brushing against his palms.

"You silly git," he says, and then he pulls Sherlock in for a kiss. This kiss starts slow and gentle, soothing rather than inflaming, but then rises, rises until Sherlock is pressing John back against the wall once more, tongue thrust deep inside his mouth. And through it all, John continues to push his love and passion for Sherlock through their bond; kissing, kissing, kissing him and not letting up until he feels Sherlock's fear and irritation fade, replaced with burning desire that matches John's.

"I still want you to stop going over there," Sherlock says as soon as they break apart, mouth quirked into a crooked smirk. John huffs out a laugh.

"Well, I'm not going to," he answers.

"You're pretty willful, for an Omega," Sherlock says, pressing the length of his body against John's. John fights the urge to throw his head to the side and bare his throat, to whimper and grind into Sherlock's thigh. Instead he stares directly back at Sherlock, tilts his head.

"You're pretty childish, for an Alpha," he says.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, and John feels a warm pulse of amused determination through the bond before Sherlock's hand is in his hair, pulling his head to the side. Then Sherlock's lips and teeth are on his neck, and John loses track of the world for a moment.

The chime of a mobile phone snags his attention. Sherlock pauses where he is sucking a dark mark into John's skin for just a second, but then continues. John gasps, bucking against the thigh pressed between his legs, until Sherlock lets his skin slide out from between his teeth and raises his head to look at John.

"You got a text," John pants.

"I heard. Probably Lestrade. He mentioned yesterday he might have a case for me." Sherlock is, annoyingly, much more composed than John.

"Don't you want to read it?"

"No." Sherlock leans down and attempts to capture John's mouth in a kiss, but John braces a hand against his chest and holds him back.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" John asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Sherlock gently grasps the hand pushing against his chest and slides it down, down until it is resting on his hip. He leans forward, dragging his nose along John's cheek, coming to rest with his mouth hovering over John's ear.

"John, if you think I'm going to take you to a crime scene while you still reek of my brother, you're crazy. First we need to get another, better scent on your skin." His warm breath ghosts against John's ear as he speaks, and John fights down a moan.

"Should I go take a shower, then?" he asks brightly.

"Hmmm," Sherlock hums, amusement and lust flowing through the bond.

Without warning, John finds himself spun about and pushed face-first into the wall. Immediately, Sherlock is pressing against him, pushing him hard into the unyielding surface, pinning his arms at his sides. John finds himself tipping his head forward and offering the back of his neck before he even realizes what he is doing.

John feels Sherlock's tongue drag slowly up the back of his neck, eliciting a full-body shudder. This time he lets himself moan, grinding his arse backwards against Sherlock's prominent erection as he does. Sherlock hisses, and seconds later bites sharply, directly on the purple mark that John will forever bear as a sign of their bond.

John's entire body goes limp. He can actually feel the strength leaving his muscles as Sherlock's teeth pierce his skin, and at the same time a gush of warm wet liquid flows down his thighs. He moans again, louder.

Behind him, Sherlock releases the bite. He sucks in a sharp breath and then growls, deep and rumbling, as he licks and nuzzles at the fresh mark he has left behind.

"So, is that a 'no' to the shower?" John asks when he can speak again.

Sherlock chuckles, breath puffing warm against John's neck. He does not answer with words, but instead steps back and scoops John up into his arms in one smooth motion.

John giggles as Sherlock carries him down the hall toward their bedroom. He rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder, perfectly content in the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes, remarkable Alpha and powerful Sentinel, cherishes him beyond measure. And in the knowledge that he feels the same.

So that's it for this story. Hope you enjoyed!