Sherlock Holmes wasn’t like any other omega John had ever met. The ones he’d known in the army had a healthy sexual appetite, even with the suppressants. Some even chose to mate and leave the service.

Not that any omega had captured John Watson’s eyes as anything more than a quick tumble. There had been a few betas too; he wasn’t always the pickiest after a few pints. But bonding was an entirely different affair and he loved the work and the service too much for that thought to ever cross his mind.

When a bullet sent him home, the only thoughts he had about mating were that no omega would want an alpha with a dodgy leg and shoulder. Let alone deal with the nightmares and his general uselessness.

So he’d been very surprised when Sherlock had come into his life like an unexpected hurricane. That the man was an omega was obvious even to John, but it was also just as clear that he had zero interest in matters of the flesh. Mycroft kept him supplied with suppressants. John was perfectly capable of controlling his own urges and they formed a friendship as strong as any mate-bond. If John occasionally had traitorous thoughts about his flatmate, well it was bound to happen living so close to an omega. He would, of course, never do anything that would hurt Sherlock.

But living so close was the reason he could smell something different as he came down the stairs this morning in his robe. Sherlock sat at the table, studying something on John’s laptop. The phone vibrated next to a mug of tea gone cold. Sherlock glanced at it. “Let’s go,” he said, folding the paper, then glancing up. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Two minutes,” John turned and headed back upstairs, wishing vaguely there was time for a cold shower.