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Sherlock’s curled up sideways in his chair, knees tucked up against his chest and facing the rear cushion. To the casual observer, he’d seem lost in thought, or possibly asleep. John is not a casual observer, and he sees the tension in Sherlock’s back clear as day. He rests against the solid, square arm and strokes one hand down Sherlock’s spine, feeling a soft huff run through Sherlock's lungs in response.
"What’s wrong, you?"
Sherlock’s answer is muffled, a mumble swallowed by the sofa cushions. John prods him gently.
"I said," Sherlock grumbles, "do you ever wish I were an Omega? Don’t you have 'needs I can’t properly fulfil'?" John can hear the sarcastic italics in his voice.
"I wish a lot of things, Sherlock. I wish you’d stop being so abrasive with people. I wish you’d stop leaving body parts in the vegetable crisper. I wish you’d say thank you to Mrs. Hudson occasionally." John sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Mostly, I wish you’d stop listening to your well-intentioned but meddlesome brother with his antiquated views on things like this. But never, not once, have I wished for you to be something you’re not."
The expression on Sherlock’s face as he rolls over is priceless. He’s staring at John with wide, wondrous eyes, as if he can’t quite comprehend how John figured out where the notion came from.
"Come off it, you’ve been sulking around since he texted you last night, and it’s only got worse since you went out earlier and came back home. Give me a bit of credit, would you?"
Sherlock sighs, but it's a fond, familiar sigh. John can't hide the grin that crosses his face. Sherlock hates it when anyone deduces him like that. Anyone other than John, obviously.
John crawls up onto the chair, crowding Sherlock as he kisses the side of his neck.
"Was I right then? Was he being a tit?"
"Isn't he always a tit?"
John chuckles, a soft huff of air against Sherlock's throat that makes them both shiver. "You want to know what it feels like?" he whispers. "To be so desperate, to be gagging for it? No control over what your mind wants, leaving everything up to pheromones?" John's voice is rough and teasing, and he can feel Sherlock's breath hitch beneath him.
Sherlock swallows thickly and nods. "Chemistry. Consider it..." he gasps as John's teeth drag over his carotid. "An experiment."
Leaning back, John tilts his head and studies Sherlock, a slow and predatory grin crossing his face. He needs to draw this out, to set a fire under Sherlock's skin, a slow itching burn. He starts quietly, softly. He presses a kiss to the side of Sherlock's lips, feeling the corner quirk in curious surprise. One hand finds its way into Sherlock's hair, fingers tangling in his curls and tugging gently, so gently. Sherlock lets out a soft moan that John swallows up, grinning. He drags his lips across Sherlock's cheek and towards his ear, pulling the soft fleshy lobe into his mouth and sucking.
He can feel Sherlock squirming beneath him already, feel the steady pulse of blood slowly filling his cock, digging into John's thigh as he straddles Sherlock's hips. Part of John is keen to throw the experiment out the window and fuck Sherlock right then and there, but he breathes steadily through his nose to calm himself. He tenses his tongue, the tip a hard point, and traces all the delicate folds and curls of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock whimpers, a beautifully undignified sound, and John chuckles. Maybe it will be easier than he thought to get Sherlock needy and trembling beneath him.
As he drags his teeth above the stiff collar of Sherlock's shirt, he reaches out, taking one of Sherlock's wrists gently in his hand. He's got his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, which is perfect for what John has in mind. Wistfully, John pulls away from Sherlock's throat, bringing Sherlock's wrist up close to his face. He traces the raised veins on Sherlock's pale, creamy inner arm with his lips and tongue, leaving raised gooseflesh in his wake. He blows gently on the skin, earning another startled whimper from Sherlock.
John steals a glance at Sherlock's face. There's a gorgeous flush high on his cheekbones, his eyes are glittering and slightly unfocused, the pupils already overtaking the beautiful blue-green-grey of his eyes. His breath is coming quicker, funny little gasps and pants. John grins smugly. He hasn't removed a single article of clothing yet and Sherlock's well on his way to being over-stimulated already.
Dropping the arm he'd just been attending to, John slides off the armchair, standing in front of Sherlock.
"C'mon then, shirt off. Trousers too, may as well save some time. Leave the pants for now though."
Sherlock fumbles, eager to please John, but manages to undo the snug buttons down the front of his chest and slip out of his shirt. He wriggles out of his trousers, slipping them down and leaving them around his ankles. John takes a moment to appreciate the sight, Sherlock's chest nearly as blotchy as his face, his erection distorting the smooth line of his dark grey boxer-briefs.
Groaning, John adjusts his own cock, not even attempting to be subtle about it. He pulls his jumper off over his head and tosses it onto his empty armchair, but otherwise makes no effort to get undressed. He wants to reinforce Sherlock's vulnerability right now.
He clambers back up onto the chair, trapping Sherlock's legs between his own thighs. One hand slides up to cup the back of Sherlock's skull, the other hovers over his groin, close enough to feel the heat emanating from his cock. Sherlock whimpers, trying to buck his hips up, desperately seeking some sort of friction, but John merely shakes his head, pulls his hand away, and leans in to brush his lips across Sherlock's forehead. He's clammy, a few errant curls of his fringe clinging limply to the skin under John's mouth.
"Patience, love. It comes on slowly, not all at once," John says softly, before taking Sherlock's other hand, twining their fingers together and bringing Sherlock's arm up to his lips, same as the previous one. He drags his lips up to the crook of Sherlock's elbow and sucks hard, laving his tongue over the skin and digging in gently with his teeth. He's going to leave a mark, but if need be, Sherlock can just keep his sleeves down. Sherlock bucks under John, who tightens his legs, squeezing Sherlock hard and forcing him to stop squirming.
Systematically and diligently, John takes Sherlock apart with his lips and his fingers. He trails kisses and bites down the fevered expanse of Sherlock's torso, getting as low as he can while remaining on Sherlock's lap. With every brush of skin, Sherlock whimpers and trembles. John can feel Sherlock's fingers digging into his back, feel Sherlock's thighs bouncing and wiggling beneath him, and his own cock throbs in sympathetic reaction.
Eventually John reaches a point where he just can't bend any further, so he slides off Sherlock's lap and kneels in front of the chair. He takes a moment to steal another glance at Sherlock's face, studying his lower lip pinched between his teeth, his brow furrowed in desperate frustration. He reaches up and tugs Sherlock's briefs down and throws them aside.
John grins against Sherlock's knee before grabbing both Sherlock's thighs and throwing them over his own shoulders. Sherlock lets out a noise that's somewhere between an indignant squawk and a breathy moan, and John knows he's on the right track.
He drags his mouth up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, feeling the muscle trembling beneath his lips, tasting the sweaty tang of salt and arousal, sensing the sparse hairs as he gets closer to Sherlock's groin. Sherlock grunts eagerly, his fingers threading through John's hair and guiding John less than subtly towards his leaking, throbbing erection. John, however, has other ideas.
"Mmm, not yet, Sherlock. I think you're forgetting one of the biggest... perks of Omega physiology."
Before Sherlock has a chance to reply, John's pulled his legs even further forward, tilting his hips up and contorting him into a completely exposed, vulnerable position. He can hear Sherlock panting, ragged little breaths that kick John's own arousal into overdrive. He's not sure how much longer he can draw this out before his need to come turns from mildly distracting to utterly all-consuming. His cock is already straining against his jeans, nearly painful.
"J--... John?" Sherlock's voice is confused and eager all at once, a combination John rarely gets to hear. He must be worked up if he hasn't figured out yet what John is about to do. Rather than drag it out further, he decides to show Sherlock immediately. He curls his tongue, allowing a bit of saliva to pool there, and darts it out, flicking it over Sherlock's arsehole. He smears the liquid around. It's a poor substitute for Omega lubrication, but hopefully Sherlock will get what he's aiming for.
There's a loud gasp that reverberates through the lounge as Sherlock digs one heel into John's shoulder with just enough force to leave a bruise, but not enough to be overtly painful.
"Mmm," John murmurs, breath hot against Sherlock's cleft. "You like that?"
Sherlock merely tightens his grip on John's hair and rocks his hips, grinding himself against John's face. That'd be a yes, then. John grips Sherlock's thighs tightly, spreading him further, and purses his lips around the Sherlock's tight pucker. He starts slowly, flicking only the tip of his tongue against the muscle, feeling it clench and release against him. He uses his tongue to spread his saliva liberally around Sherlock's hole, getting him as slick as possible.
Slowly, he feels the tight hole relaxing, opening just enough for John to insinuate the tip of his tongue inside. It feels gloriously intimate, more personal than nearly anything they've ever done before. Sherlock is gasping, moaning every single time John thrusts his tongue in deeper. His grip on John's hair is bordering on painful, but with the rush of endorphins and pheromones running through his body, it's an absolutely exquisite pain. He grunts, pursing his lips and sucking on Sherlock's arsehole, feeling it grow loose and puffy as the skin relaxes and engorges with blood.
John can't help himself, he needs to see. He pulls back, earning a despondent, heartbroken whine from Sherlock, but the sight before him is absolutely worthwhile. Sherlock's hole is soft and slightly swollen, the muscle beautifully relaxed and open. John grins, sliding two fingers in easily. He pulls them out and sticks them into his mouth, sucking greedily and getting them good and sopping before shoving them back in. Sherlock's arsehole is glistening now, John's saliva dripping out of him. He thrusts his fingers in and out a few times, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock's warm, slick muscles rippling around him. His cock twitches against his body, soaking through his pants and likely even his jeans, and John can't take it any more.
As John slips his fingers out one last time, Sherlock groans sharply. "Please, John... please."
Hearing Sherlock beg like that does impossible things to John's arousal, ratcheting it up to levels he can't comprehend. He leans in close again, swirling his tongue around the outer edge of Sherlock's hole once, twice, before tensing the muscles in his tongue and slipping it deep into Sherlock. He starts fucking Sherlock with his tongue, feeling Sherlock twitching and trembling, rocking against John's face as he loses the last vestiges of control.
"If you... I'm... fuck, John!" Sherlock shouts, hips bucking as John withdraws his tongue.
It's Sherlock's broken cursing that spurs John on. He loves seeing Sherlock's composure shatter, loves that he's giving him even the tiniest glimpse of what it's like to be an Omega in the throes of a heat. He releases his grip on Sherlock's thighs, admiring the reddish marks he's left behind, and stands up with a groan. He strips as quickly as he can, shucking his shirt and stepping out of his jeans with a relieved gasp. He frees his cock from his sodden briefs, tugging them down and stepping out of them. Too heated, too aroused to think clearly, John scrambles up onto the chair, straddling Sherlock's hips once again.
Sherlock writhes beneath him, and every time their cocks brush together, they both gasp. John lets his head drop onto Sherlock's shoulder, lapping at the sweat collecting there as he lines them up, wrapping his hands around both their significant girths. Sherlock's leaking as much pre-come as John is, and they slide together slickly. John ruts, thrusting hard and seeking more friction. He feels Sherlock chuckling under him, feels Sherlock's hands interlacing with his own. Together, they squeeze their cocks, rubbing hard against one another.
Their hands lack finesse, lack any discernible rhythm, as they stroke together. The tease is over now, this is all about getting off. John feels his orgasm building hard and fast, like tongues of fire lapping at his belly. He squeezes his eyes shut and groans, pistoning his hips, his cock slipping and grinding against Sherlock's, their lengths almost evenly matched. Whoever said two Alpha cocks were incompatible had obviously never tried.
Sherlock's moans have shifted in pitch, turning breathy and shrill, a sound John has never heard him make before. It hits him like a punch in the gut, and his cock twitches, barely restrained by their entwined hands. He opens his mouth, teeth grazing against the fair skin of Sherlock's neck. His Alpha side is rearing its ugly head now, the pair-bonding imperative driving him to mark Sherlock.
Somehow, Sherlock is still coherent enough -- barely -- to realise what's happening, and he releases his grip on their cocks, slides his hands up and down the length of John's back encouragingly as he gasps and groans. His hands trail down to cup John's arse, pulling them even closer together as his thumb slips into John's own sopping, needy hole.
"Yes, John. John, please. Mark me. Bite me!"
John can no more disobey Sherlock than he can hold back the force of his own orgasm. He tightens his grip around the bases of their cocks, the spongy knot tissue not fully swollen but still hyper-sensitive. Pulse hammering in his ears, his senses blurring and distorting, he sinks his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, running his tongue over the skin as he spills out between their bodies. Sherlock tenses, his body going taut and lifting them both off the sofa, his own hot come spurting out and mingling with John's as he cries out.
They continue to thrust against each other, revelling in the added slickness of their come, until they're both twitching and over-sensitised, gasping and shuddering. John sits up with a wince, his cock softening and still mostly stuck to Sherlock's.
"That was..." He manages to blurt out.
"Yeah. I..." Sherlock pauses, a small aftershock running through his body. "Thank you, John."
John's too tired to ask Sherlock to elaborate. He stumbles backwards off the chair, crumpling to the floor in a heap at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock, thankfully, continues without prompting.
"Thank you for giving me insight into what you experience. I know it's not quite the same, but I appreciate it."
"Mmm." John nuzzles Sherlock's bare leg drowsily. "Glad to help."
"Thank you for the mark on my shoulder, too. We're a matched set now."
John sits up, startled. Hazy images of his teeth sinking into Sherlock's shoulder come back to him in full force, and he stands up, ignoring the wobbling in his thigh muscles.
"Let me look at it, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I don't know what will happen... there's no precedent for this sort of thing..."
Still completely naked, John stumbles into the kitchen to get some damp flannels. He uses one to clean himself off and carries the rest back into the lounge. Sherlock is still flopped out blissfully in his chair, uncaring about the cooling ejaculate all over his body and the bite on his shoulder. John attempts to clean the wound, but Sherlock waves him away impatiently.
"Realistically, there are two possible scenarios here, John. One, it takes, and we're doubly pair-bonded. I have no qualms about this outcome."
Slightly relieved, John tugs up his briefs and sinks into his armchair. He tosses the damp flannels onto Sherlock's abdomen, but Sherlock makes no move to clean himself off yet.
"Two, due to the duality of your nature, and the fact that I'm an Alpha, the bite doesn't take." Sherlock's face is strangely neutral as he says this, and John feels an inexplicable pang in his chest. He'd never intended to try to claim Sherlock, so why does the idea of the impulsive, irresponsible bite not taking properly make him feel so adrift suddenly. He bites his lip, waiting for Sherlock to continue.
"If that is the case, we'll simply have to keep trying." The smirk spreads slowly across Sherlock's face, and despite the fact that he's just had a rather mind-blowing orgasm, John feels the thrum of arousal vibrating deep in his groin again. Sherlock merely winks at him before finally taking the flannel to the obscene mess on his belly.
"I think I can handle that." John coughs out with a grin, letting his head fall backwards onto the chair.