Chapter Text
John and Sherlock joined together two more times before the waves of pleasure were followed by a deep sense of fulfillment. The burn of first heat ebbed and seemed to take Sherlock’s muscles with it. It wasn’t exhaustion, exactly, so much as the complete relaxation that comes after a workout well spent. He felt comfortable and warm. John was still inside him, his arms holding him close, his lips against Sherlock’s throat, murmuring into his skin inaudible love notes like prayers.
Sherlock felt full, just on the edge of being too full. John felt so huge inside him and locked as they were together John’s seed had filled him and filled him until it was almost more than he could take. Almost. Sherlock had never felt so completely sated in his life.
Sherlock didn’t know how long they lay like that (though his camera later told him it was six hours and forty-seven minutes). All he knew was that he was comfortable and full and sated, and then he apparently fell asleep because the next thing he knew was that he was too crowded and sweaty and John was a dead weight crushing his arm and Sherlock needed to pee.
John had apparently had enough presence of mind to pull out before he fell asleep. In fact, according to the video recording, he’d had enough presence of mind to arrange Sherlock on the comforter which he’d pulled over the mess they’d made of the sheets and to clean some of the stickiness from between Sherlock’s legs before he’d curled up with him. Sherlock, while remembering the sex perfectly, had no memory of any of this. Oddly enough, John would later say he didn’t remember it either, despite not having the excuse of having fallen asleep.
In this first waking moment, not having had a chance to review the video yet, all Sherlock was aware of was that John was a hot weight at his side, and that Sherlock could still feel a phantom sensation deep in his core, and that his new muscles felt bruised and sore. It was the sort of soreness that felt oddly satisfactory despite the pain, like the soreness that comes after a hard work out. Or the pain that comes with peeling away a scab. It was pain, but pain that was earned, not inflicted.
Dragging himself away from John and out of the bed was a slow process. Earned or not, all his muscles felt achy and weak, and the wonderful soreness between his legs twinged with the threat of not so wonderful agony with every attempt at movement. He also found himself surprisingly reluctant to leave John’s arms. Hot and uncomfortable though they had become, he found himself too cold, too alone outside of them. If he hadn’t needed the toilet he probably would have just shifted into a more comfortable position. As it was, he slowly rolled off the bed and hobbled achingly across the room.
John was still asleep when he hobbled back, but only barely, his arms empty and grasping at where Sherlock had lain, a slight frown marring his face. Sherlock crawled slowly back onto the bed, and John’s fingers curled over his hip. John’s eyes blinked open and they looked at each other.
“Sherlock,” John said, his voice so quiet it verged on being a whisper.
“John,” Sherlock answered. He looked at him, felt the warmth of his hand on his hip, watched the way John’s lips curled upwards slightly, his eyes crinkling with something like fondness. “We’re fully bonded now,” Sherlock said into the silence. “Can you feel it?”
“I feel complete,” John answered. Sherlock considered this. That was probably a good way to describe what he was feeling himself. Then John was propping himself up, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s body with an intensity that seemed to warm something inside Sherlock that he hadn’t even known was there. It wasn’t sexual so much as intimate, his eyes concentrated entirely upon his omega.
“John?” Sherlock said, feeling open and exposed, but oddly safe. Not only did he not mind being open to John, he found he wanted to be. He wanted John to have everything that he was, and he wanted all of John in return.
“Are you sore anywhere? Do you have any pain?” John asked.
“A little,” Sherlock found himself admitting. When John frowned in response, Sherlock was quick to add, “A little sore. But in a good way. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Can I…do you mind if I look…just…”
“You want to give me an exam, doctor?”
“If you don’t mind.”
In answer, Sherlock lay back and bent his knees, spreading his legs.
The obvious invitation was oddly nonsexual. John’s cock didn’t so much as twitch though his eyes did widen. Sherlock watched him, open and exposed as John slid his finger gently over his raw, sensitive skin and looked into his most intimate region. His touch was the touch of a healer, not a lover, though Sherlock found himself hoping John didn’t treat all his patients with quite the same level of reverence that John was giving him.
“How do I look?” Sherlock asked, enjoying the intensity in John’s expression as he examined him.
“Beautiful,” John answered promptly, and Sherlock was slightly horrified to feel himself start to blush. Then John leaned back to turn his attention to Sherlock’s face. “Though I’m guessing you’re feeling sore. We probably shouldn’t, er…you know, do penetrative sex for a few days…not that we have to then either…or any kind...” And now John was blushing instead and Sherlock found himself utterly captivated.
“I would like to be able to compare the experience outside of heat,” Sherlock said. And then of course he remembered his camera, surprisingly still recording though the memory was almost completely used up, and the only reason the power wasn’t long gone was because Sherlock had had the forethought to plug the camera in first.
“Are you sore?” Sherlock asked, after he had gotten all his notes out on John and John’s changes.
“Not as much as you are, I’d imagine,” John answered, his smile fond as he lounged naked on the bed. “I don’t think I’d go for sex in the next few days even if you had been up for it. And my muscles are still settling. I should probably do stretches.” He stayed sprawled across the bed and made no move to do anything of the kind.
After a bit, when Sherlock had finally trailed off from his steady stream of observations and questions, John finally pulled himself up.
“Why don’t you have a soak and I’ll see about some food,” he suggested to Sherlock.
“I think you could use some hot water yourself,” Sherlock pointed out.
As it turned out, the bathtub was not made to hold two grown men. They tried it anyway after a brief argument about whether Sherlock should lie on top of John (John’s idea, and obviously a horrible one; for one, Sherlock was taller than John) or whether they should try lying at opposite ends of the tub (Sherlock’s idea, and the one that made the most sense). The resulting tangle of limbs had them both in a fit of giggles but they did manage to fit after all, with Sherlock’s feet over John’s shoulders and John’s tucked about Sherlock’s torso. It was just as well they weren’t able to even attempt sex because erections at that point would only have exacerbated the situation.
They soaked in the hot water until it grew too cold to be worth it and then they huddled beneath the shower spray and washed each other’s hair. Sherlock discovered that John’s hair was surprisingly soft and pleasant, despite the military cut, and John discovered that the noises Sherlock made when someone rubbed his scalp were very similar to the noises he made during sex.
Between the hot bath, the lovely hair wash, and the full body massage John gave Sherlock after they had toweled off, Sherlock decided he was never going to move again because John had melted him.
John, on the other hand, seemed to have been revived by the experience and left Sherlock draped across the bed to make noises in the kitchen. He came back wearing nothing but an apron and carrying a tray of food. Sherlock blinked at him.
“Why are you wearing an apron?” he asked.
“Because I’ve seen the results of naked cooking during my time as a med student, and I don’t think either of us wants to end this day at A&E. Come on, sit up. I bring food.”
“Can’t sit up. Muscles no longer work. You broke me.”
“I bring chocolate,” John said, waving a biscuit under Sherlock’s nose.
“Well, if you’re going to feed me chocolate,” Sherlock grumbled, and allowed John to pull him upright. He fully intended to eat all the biscuits and leave the rest, but the smell of food somehow hollowed out his stomach and left him ravenous.
John laughed when Sherlock dove into his meal. “Thank you, John,” John said, his voice laughing rather than reproachful, “For making me this lovely meal. Why, you’re welcome, Sherlock.”
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said dutifully through a mouthful of food, “for making me this lovely meal.” And then something about the entire domestic situation made Sherlock pause. He really was grateful, but not for the meal. Or rather, it was for the meal, but more what it represented.
John was an alpha who cooked for his omega. Moreover, John was an alpha who wanted to cook for his omega. This was not the way society insisted it was supposed to be. Alphas provide for their omegas, and omegas take care of their alphas. Providing means making money to put food in the kitchen; it’s the omega who gets the food to the table.
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, this time without the mouthful of food and with much more sincerity. “Thank you for being my alpha who cooks.”
“Thank you, Sherlock,” John answered, his expression serious but his eyes smiling, “For being my omega, who solves crime. Who solves crime and saves me.”
“You saved me,” Sherlock pointed out, not entirely sure if he meant how John shot the cabbie or something else entirely. “Alphas protect.”
“And omegas guard,” John answered.
The newly bonded soulmates looked at each other.
Sherlock lasted another hour in the glow of their bond before the inactivity got to him. He sat in the living room with his laptop, organizing his research on cigar ash. He draped himself over the sofa with his feet over the arm rest and his head in John’s lap. John was still smiling fondly, one hand running through Sherlock’s hair and the other meticulously pecking at the keys to his own laptop that he had rested precariously on the other armrest. Sometimes Sherlock would mumble something out loud about his research. Sometimes John would ask something about the case he was typing up.
The television was silent. Neither man missed its company.