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It comes on slowly, just like it always does, beginning with faint muscle cramps that start high, above his ribs, and gradually travel down until his lower stomach is spasming so hard that his belly ripples faintly. By then, his scent has begun to change, over-riding the last of the medication he depends on, the pheromones overtaking even the specialty soap he pays a high price for and flooding his office. Sweat beads across his forehead as he applies a shaking signature to one last sheaf of papers. Only then does he stand up, instinctively using his arms to catch himself when his legs nearly give out.
“Damn,” Mycroft Holmes whispers, closing his eyes briefly. When he puts it off for this long his heat is always so much stronger, consuming, like a fire that leaves him feeling hollow and weak. He takes several slow, deep breaths before straightening his back, unable to conceal a wince when a particularly strong contraction seizes his midsection in a powerful grip. There’s no time to spare.
Quickly, he makes his way through the back passages, which will later be heavily cleaned by some of his most trusted workers. His car is waiting for him and he climbs in, trusting that his driver will know where to go. He closes his eyes and shudders at the first feeling of liquid pooling between his cheeks, dribbling slowly down his perineum before being caught by his underwear. He doesn’t have long now. His hand shakes as he slides it into his pocket and takes hold of the pill bottle that he always carries with him, gripping it tightly. He has no one to blame for this but himself but the following days will not make it any easier.
“I need you to make a stop,” he says roughly. Forming the syllables takes more work than it should and thankfully his driver already knows where to go. He’s breathing heavily by the time the car stops. Mycroft pushes the door open and clumsily hauls himself out, staggering into the alley on weakened knees.
“Damn,” says a voice. “You look like shit.”
“I am aware, thank you,” Mycroft says through gritted teeth. He leans against the wall and tries to make it look like he wants to, not because he has to. “I’ll take them now, if you please.”
“Sorry. I’m all out.”
“What?!” It shouldn’t be possible to put so much rage into one word but Mycroft accomplishes it beautifully.
The dealer holds his hands up defensively. “Look, you’re a week late, man. I thought you’d hooked up with an alpha or found another way to get your hands on them. I’ve had a couple of new clients and I figured you weren’t interested anymore. You know I can’t keep stock like that on me. As soon as I got them, I got to get rid of them.”
“I was out of town and didn’t have time to stop before I had to leave.” He feels sick, genuinely sick, and not just because of the onslaught hitting his body. Without the suppressants there will be nothing to slow this down, nothing to take the edge off. He hasn’t dealt with a full heat in years, not since he was a teenager, and he shudders at the idea of facing one now.
“Sorry.” The dealer looks at him and shrugs with his hands out wide. “I’ll have more in a few days.”
“That doesn’t help me now!” His voice is sharp, laced with the beginnings of panic, and he can see the dealer softening towards him. He may be a beta but not even they are immune to the innate desire to protect and coddle omegas. Normally Mycroft loathes this reaction but at the moment he can’t afford to be picky. He takes a step forward and says, “You don’t have anything that you can give me?”
“Well I wouldn’t go that far.” He casts a furtive look around before reaching behind a stack of boxes and pulling out a small leather case. He kneels down and opens it and Mycroft’s heart stops at the sight. Toys, at least half a dozen in all different shapes, sizes and colors, all of them gleaming and looking like they are just the right fit for him. The dealer grins at his reaction and says, “I can sell you one of these so that you can take care of the problem yourself.” He knows better than to suggest that Mycroft consult an alpha.
“This is…” Dizzily he falls to his knees and picks up the closest one. It’s fairly large, with a fat, bulbous pink head and an artificial flared knot at the base. He trails his fingers over the tip and can’t help imagining how it would feel to slide it deep inside his body, right where it hurts the most.
“You want?” The dealer is grinning and he’s about to name an extortionate amount when lights sweep over the alley. He curses violently and leaps to his feet, grabbing the case and taking off. Mycroft feels like everything is happening in slow motion. He keeps one hand around the toy and tries to get up with the other but his legs are watery and refuse to work. The most he can do is shove the toy underneath his shirt and pin it there with his arm as a familiar figure appears a dozen feet away.
Fuck. It’s Lestrade, Mycroft can tell just from the deliciously sweet scent. His trousers are starting to feel sticky now. He’s never been around an alpha when he’s in heat and now he knows why. Mycroft has always liked Gregory Lestrade. As far as alphas go, Lestrade has always seemed the good sort. He doesn’t treat omegas like they’re idiots but he doesn’t go out of his way to pander to them, either. On exceptionally rare occasions, locked up securely in his bedroom, Mycroft has wondered what it would be like to tell Lestrade the truth about him: that he’s an omega in hiding. But he’s never had the nerve, never dared to change his life so completely.
Now, though, the decision has been taking out of his hands. He watches helplessly as realization crosses Lestrade’s face. An omega’s scent, particularly in heat, is unmistakable. Lestrade takes a couple more steps into the alley and shines his torch around. “Come on now, I know you’re there,” he says and his voice is very gentle. “You can come out. I won’t hurt you.”
Mycroft swallows and manages to climb, in a somewhat undignified manner, to his feet. “Good evening, Detective Inspector.”
“What the - Mycroft?” Lestrade stares at him, stunned. His nose twitches and he inhales and looks shocked. “That’s… you’re an omega?”
“Regrettably,” Mycroft says quietly. The urge to present in front of Lestrade and beg to be fucked is nearly overwhelming. His body is telling him that no toy can possibly compare to a real alpha’s cock and Mycroft is rather inclined to agree. But at least a toy can’t ruin his career. He straightens his spine.
“What were you doing?” Lestrade glances past him.
“Talking to one of my informants.” It’s the easiest answer to give and hopefully won’t prompt too many questions. His job is, after all, intensely private and involves a great deal of information that can’t be widely shared.
“You’re in bloody heat and you’re still working,” he says in utter disbelief. “Jesus Christ you’re more like your brother than I thought, except at least he has John to drag him home. Mycroft, you’re giving off enough scent to attract alphas for miles. It’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself. Where’s your alpha?”
It may be a natural assumption to make but it’s no less annoying or insulting. Mycroft narrows his eyes slightly, resenting the implication that he needs an alpha. This is one of the reasons he has the position he does, so that he can change things and make it legal for omegas to use suppressants or toys instead of relying on outside sources to take them through their heat. But it’s been a slow progress and sometimes he’s not sure if it will ever happen, particularly when Lestrade is staring at him with an edge of hunger and his own body is leaning forward, however slightly.
“I haven’t got one,” he says at last.
“You… but you’re… How did you get so old without being claimed?”
“My position,” Mycroft says quickly but it’s too late, Lestrade’s face is changing slowly, confusion giving way to understanding. Everyone knows about the underground racket for illegal suppressants. Hideously expensive but they allow the omegas that can afford them to live without anyone knowing what they are. Sherlock used them for years until he met John and willingly gave them up; it’s not a huge stretch of the imagination for an intelligent man to realize Mycroft may have been doing the same.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade says very quietly, “I’m going to need to search you.”
"Search me?" he repeats dumbly, his stomach churning even harder at the thought. He can feel sweat running down his spine and fluid dribbling down his thighs. He presses his arm harder against his stomach instinctively, wishing that he'd had the forethought to chuck the toy away when he had the chance. Lestrade will notice if he tries to get rid of it now. "Detective Inspector, I hardly think that's necessary."
"Don't make this harder on yourself, Mycroft," says Lestrade and he advances a step closer. "You know that your position doesn't help you. I'm well within my rights to search you if I feel the need to do so. Just make it easy for both of us, yeah?"
Mycroft watches as he approaches and for quite possibly the first time in his life he doesn't know what to do about it. His mind has turned to mush, melted in the force of the burning wave slowly consuming his body, and although he thinks there is a way to keep Lestrade away from him he's not sure what that might be. So he just stands there as Lestrade reaches out and gently takes hold of his arm, the one that's keeping the toy from against his belly, and pulls it out. He's clearly expecting the toy because he reaches out and catches it with his other hand before it can hit the ground.
"Well," he says and looks at Mycroft.
The sight of Lestrade's tanned hand curled around the toy makes Mycroft feel weak. He takes in a great gulp of air and says, "Maybe we can work something out."
"Oh, you think so, do you?" It's hard to tell whether Lestrade finds this appealing or not. His face is annoyingly blank, showing no emotion.
"Yes," Mycroft says almost desperately. Lestrade smells so good and the place where they're touching is causing little tingles to run up Mycroft's arm in non-stop pulses. He could let this man fuck him, he thinks, licking his lips at the thought. "You can... you can fuck me. You'd like that, wouldn't you? How many alphas can say they've mounted an unclaimed omega?"
Lestrade's eyes widen a little. "Mycroft."
"Mmm, yes," Mycroft moans at the sound of his name falling from those lips, spoken in that husky timbre. He closes his eyes and squirms, palming his cock with his free hand. It feels deliciously sinful to be doing this out here in the open where anyone can see. He does it a little harder, pinching the tip, rubbing the head against the sticky cotton of his pants. His breathing gets a little heavier and the ache between his thighs gets worse. He realizes he wants something in him and whimpers.
"Jesus Christ," Lestrade whispers. His eyes have gone so dark that they look like slits in the shadows. He's struggling to hold onto his control, but his pants are very obviously tented and his grip has tightened on Mycroft's arm. "The things I want to do to you... Fuck."
"You can do them," Mycroft says breathlessly. "Oh god, please, I have to have something in me."
It sounds obscenely desperate but it works. Lestrade - no, Greg, they're on a first name basis by now - groans and drags him into a heated kiss that leaves Mycroft reeling. He whines low in his throat when he feels Greg's hand pushing his away, greedily cupping his cock and massaging it through the material. And although it feels amazing, it's not enough, not what Mycroft really wants. He pushes forward in the touch and Greg breaks the kiss, his chest heaving.
"Right," he says. "Right. Let me - I just want to - " He takes his hand away and slides it down Mycroft's arse, groaning when he feels how wet the fabric is. He gets his fingers underneath the waistband and gropes at bare skin, pushing insistently until he can get a finger down low enough to slide directly over Mycroft's entrance. Mycroft bucks against him and moans so loudly he suspects it was audible on the street but he doesn't care, can't care, not when it feels like so bloody amazing.
"Again," he begs. "Please, Gregory - "
"Fuck," Greg mutters. His hands make quick work of Mycroft's belt and then he's pushing Mycroft's trousers off. He spins Mycroft around and shoves him against the wall, yanking his pants down to reveal his plump bottom. "Jesus you're fucking gorgeous, Mycroft. You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you right here until you lose that famous control. It's going to kill me to - "
Mycroft never hears what's going to kill him because at that moment he feels something large and hard pressing into him. At first he thinks it’s Greg but then he realizes: no, it’s the toy. The fat head he had admired earlier feels enormous against his hole. It splits him, forcing him so wide, as it’s pushed relentlessly into him. He moans, the tiny sound escaping on a surprised exhale. It’s so long, so thick, and so hard. His hips jerk, unable to keep from moving back and forth a little, fucking himself until Greg’s free hand pins him against the wall. Mycroft trembles as it slides in, in and in, until finally the knot comes to rest again his hole. He doesn’t know if he can take it but then… oh god, it’s in, it’s all in and he’s so full that it’s almost too much.
And yet at the same time, beneath the spark of sheer pleasure that’s flowing through his body like liquid lightning, it feels like it's not quite enough. Maybe it would've been if he didn't have anything better but he's got an alpha behind him that can fuck him so much better than a toy.
"Gregory," he whines.
"Not here." Briskly, Greg pulls Mycroft's pants and trousers back up. Mycroft looks at him in confusion, feeling disoriented, because this isn't what he's expecting. Greg smiles and kisses him again, softer this time, a gentle lick across his bottom lip. "I'm off duty," he explains lowly. "I was on my way home when I caught sight of the two of you in here. I almost kept going but bloody hell I'm glad I stopped." Another kiss and he cups Mycroft's bottom, unable to stop himself. It makes the toy shift a little and Mycroft moans. "On the way you can think, you can think about whether you really want this and if you don't I'll put you to bed and I won't touch you."
"The suppressants," Mycroft manages to whisper.
"I'll not breathe a word." A faint smile lights up his face. It looks distinctly dirtier than it should. "What's the point? You Holmes's think you're so far above the law as it is. No need for you to have proof by getting off on a charge like that.” He looks like he might want to say more but in the end he doesn’t. He just kisses Mycroft a second time and then wraps an arm around his waist, guiding him towards the car idling at the mouth of the alley and keeping Mycroft on his feet when his legs buckle.
Walking with the toy inside of him is torture. It stimulates all of the little nerve endings and makes him crave more. He sinks down into the passenger side of the car with a gasp of relief. Greg goes around to the other side and climbs into the driver’s seat. Mycroft closes his eyes and tries to think, though that’s easier said than done. He can feel his control fragmenting and slipping away. Already the events of the past few minutes feel like a blur and if it weren’t for the hard toy filling him up he’d think that it hadn’t actually happened, that he’d fallen into a fantasy of some kind.
But no, it’s happening right now and that means he needs to think. He’s always hated the thought of any alpha having control over him. Omegas are expected to get married and produce children; thanks to the struggling population birth control all omegas are required to have at least three children. If he and Lestrade do this the chances of Mycroft ending up pregnant is extremely high, essentially a guarantee. He doesn’t really mind children but is he ready to have them? He’s enjoyed his time unattached but at the same time he can’t deny that it’s been lonely: he’s never dared to have anything more than the occasional one off just in case someone figures it out. Should he do this? Is it what he really wants?
The war goes back and forth, a perpetual question that he’s not sure how to answer, and it’s utterly maddening because Mycroft Holmes is never indecisive. He’s built his job, his very life, on always knowing what to do and when to do it. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists, because he’s never been a reckless man and he didn’t have plans for this earlier in the evening, it’s always just been a fantasy he never believed he’d indulged, but now he wants it, and if he doesn’t decide soon the decision will be taken from him by either Greg or his own body and he can’t tell who he wants to win more.
“Hey. Hey, Mycroft,” Greg says gently.
Mycroft opens his eyes and realizes that the car has stopped without his notice. Greg reaches over and pries one of his hands away from his thighs. It hurts when the blood rushes back into the abused area and he knows he’ll have bruises left there tomorrow. “I don’t know,” he admits out loud. It is, possibly, the first time he has ever said those words to another person.
Greg sighs. “I overloaded you? I’m sorry. Look, I want you. I want to fuck you very much. Even before I knew you were an omega I used to dream about you. Now that I know it hasn’t changed anything. I still want you to be mine, my omega, and be with you through every heat. But if that’s not something you want…” He trails off.
But oh god it is. Even just listening to Greg describing it makes him want it even more. Mycroft moans softly as his muscles contract and the toy shifts inside of him, the blunt head nudging against his prostate, sending waves of want through his whole body. He throws aside everything except for the desire to be fucked. “I want you to fuck me,” he rasps.
“Oh god,” Greg mutters, eyes dilating. “Jesus…” He gets out and comes around to the other side. Mycroft shivers when the door is yanked open, sending chills racing across his heated skin. Greg practically hauls him out of the car and together they stumble into the building. His flat is on the third floor and the stairs take forever, Mycroft whimpering with every step when the toy shifts just so. He stumbles inside of Greg’s flat and grabs at his shirt, wanting it off.
“Hurts,” he says, his hands shaking badly. It’s like an electric pulse humming across his skin, making him vibrate. His cock rubs heavily against his the sticky fabric of his pants and he whines, forgetting the buttons and yanking, sending them popping in every direction. Taking his shirt off feels good, the expensive material was irritating him, but it’s not enough. Without a thought for modesty he grabs his trousers and pants and pushes them both down, squirming until he’s completely naked. Immediately he reaches around and grabs the toy, moaning with relief, legs buckling, when he pulls it out and then pushes it back in, fucking himself. His cock jumps and dribbles pre-come, soaking the front of his thighs.
“Mycroft…” Suddenly he’s slammed against the wall and his wrists are caught and pinned with one powerful hand. Greg seizes the toy and wrenches it out of him, drawing a sob from Mycroft. But it’s alright; Greg grabs Mycroft’s leg, pulling until Mycroft understands and wraps both thighs around Greg’s waist. He moans loudly when he feels Greg’s cock nudging against his entrance and writhes as he’s impaled, sliding slow and sweet down the thick shaft until his arse comes into contact with the skin of Greg’s thighs.
For a moment he just sits there, eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily. It feels so fucking good. Greg is warm and hard, the fat head of his cock nudging right against the spot where it aches the most. The feel of another’s man skin against his is overwhelming. He can feel Greg’s chest expanding against his, the trembling of his belly, the strength of his arms and legs in holding them both up. The heavy smell of musk, he can taste that on the back of his tongue, and sweat, yes, he licks his lips and breathes it in: the scent of an alpha, proud and strong and with Mycroft at his mercy.
“Please,” he gasps, opening his eyes. Greg is so close, just inches away. “Please, fuck me.”
“Yes,” Greg hisses. He releases Mycroft’s wrists and lifts him up by the hips as he slides out, then lets go while pushing back in. Mycroft keens, throwing his head back against the wall, and Greg grits his teeth in angry smile. “That’s right. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days, Mycroft. You’ll be sitting in that chair of yours and every time you move you’ll remember who owns you. Everyone will know.”
Mycroft moans in response, the power of speech lost. He grabs at Greg’s shoulders and holds on tight. Greg is so thick that he can hardly stand it, even as good as it is he feels like he’s being split in two. And yet he still wants “More!”
“That’s right, beg for it. I know you want me.” Greg groans and thrusts up, using the momentum of his whole body to push deep. “Gonna fill you up and make that pretty cock of yours spill for me. I’ll make you lots of babies and when you’re fat and can’t even waddle around I’ll fuck you nice and slow, take days at it, maybe.” He pulls Mycroft into an aggressive kiss, swallowing his uncontrollable moans and cries. He says, “I bet you’d like that, sitting on my cock for days. When I’m tired maybe I’ll pin you down and fuck you with that toy until you’re begging for me to take you and let you come. Because you won’t come unless it’s with me, I’m the only one who can fuck you like this.” He surges up, letting Mycroft feel his knot against the sensitive rim.
“Oh god yes!” Mycroft can’t imagine it but yes, he wants it, wants everything and anything. His eyes squeeze shut and he bucks frantically, come spilling over their bellies. The hot wet slickness makes Greg grunt and give one last push, forcing his swelling knot into Mycroft, who gives a feeble sob at the feeling and spasms again, his body weakly pushing out another orgasm.
Greg leans against him for a few minutes, shuddering at the sensation of his cock being milked for every last bit of come by Mycroft’s greedy body. “Alright?” he asks quietly. When Mycroft just nods in response, Greg frowns and wraps his arms around him, supporting Mycroft as they move away from the wall. It’s a bit awkward considering that they’re locked together but he manages to get them into the bedroom so that they can lie on the bed. That’s a little better and it’s a relief to rest his muscles. “Mycroft, you gotta talk to me, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” Mycroft says, still a little bit dazed. “I don’t know it could…” He trails off. He’s had sex before, of course, but nothing like this, so overwhelmingly pleasurable that it blanked everything else off. His mind is buzzing with white noise, a contented little hum that’s surprisingly comfortable. He wonders if it will be like this every time and looks up at Greg, who is still watching him with a concerned little frown. Mycroft leans up and kisses him, smoothing the frown away and leaving no doubt that he wants to find out.