Chapter Text
Sherlock had no idea of how much time had passed when Molly shook him gently awake. He looked into her eyes, so dark and deep, and at her sweet, earnest face. The lust had temporarily abated; he was able to slip out of her, his cock returned to normal size. But they both knew it was not going to last long. A few hours: maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Then the heat and madness that they couldn’t resist would take them again.
Sherlock traced her features with an inquisitive fingertip: her petite, slightly upturned nose, her wide eyes, the mouth he’d commented on cruelly before. No, she did not have bee-stung lips. But they were soft and nicely shaped. And they were excellent for turning him into a total wreck. He’d seen plenty of women with large, pouty lips; seen them use those lips to say hurtful things, or manipulate. Molly’s lips would never do that; never be used as a weapon of pettiness or malicious deceit. Given the choice, he’d prefer her honesty, intelligence, and valor over a thousand Irene Adlers.
She smiled at him, reaching over to brush a lock of glossy, sweat-damp hair off his cheek. “I’m sure there’s something awkward and silly I could say, but I can’t think of it right now.”
He graced her with a small smile in return, huffing in quiet amusement at her words. “I could just as easily say something horrible, I suppose. Fortunately for us, in that regard, my brain is bathing in chemicals at the moment and doesn’t seem inclined to do so.”
She cuddled closer to him. “Hmm. Neither of us saying the wrong thing. How long do you suppose that can last?”
Sherlock laughed this time, and Molly smiled again. She loved his laugh. She loved everything about him, really; well, except when he was being an annoying git. That wasn’t going to be a problem; at least not until this was over.
“I think we’d best get some water in us to keep dehydration away,” she told him. “And eat something.”
He nodded in agreement, rising and stretching like a cat before offering her his hand. They briefly rummaged in the kitchen, then sat on the sofa together drinking water and sharing some biscuits and apple slices. They didn’t talk much, but the silence was comfortable, not awkward. Over the years they’d gotten used to each other, and after Reichenbach and all Molly’s help, Sherlock had treated Molly with more respect.
Sure enough, Two hours and eighteen minutes later, Sherlock felt his skin start to crawl. It was a curious sensation, not entirely unpleasant physically. But he knew that would change; knew that the crawl would then into an ache, one that he wouldn't be able to resist. Unfair, this; being first at the mercy of his overbearing Alpha hormones, now to be at the mercy of the Omega ones. At least the Omega ones could be scientifically suppressed after this. He just had to make it through this heat, with Molly's help.
At the thought of Molly, he looked up to see her staring at him. Were he an average Omega, he might be a bit frightened by the look in her eyes. But he was still Sherlock Holmes and all he felt was curiosity and lust.
Molly inhaled sharply, knowing by the look in his eyes that his heat had returned a second before she smelled it. And what an intoxicating smell it was, like spiced copper, which was an odd combination of scents but it seemed perfectly suited to him. She would be sore tomorrow, but that was tomorrow. For now there was only the pleasure.
Her fingers wound tightly in his curls and she kissed him, slowly at first, then he groaned eagerly into her mouth and what little control she had broke. Gentleness could only go so far when you were in heat; especially when you wanted someone as long as she had wanted Sherlock.
Their tongues tangled in each other's mouths as Sherlock splayed out his fingers over her breasts, curling them against the taut skin. His thumbs brushed her nipples and Molly moaned, arching against him. His hips molded against hers and he thrust them instinctively, felt the crisp curls of his pubic hair brush against the smoothness of her mound.
Molly's other hand reached between them to cup his bollocks, her small, strong fingers massaging their warm weight carefully. A deep groan ripped itself from Sherlock's throat and was swallowed up by her lips, still covering his with urgent possessiveness. She thrust her tongue into his mouth the way a man would thrust his cock into a woman's cunt, and it sent a frisson of pleasure down his spine.
She urged him down onto his back, enveloped by the warmth emanating from him as she slid her damp skin along his. Molly pressed her thumbs on the inside of his thighs, and they parted like water under her insistent touch.
Sherlock gasped as she lowered her head to his bollocks, drawing first one and then the other into her mouth, her wet, hot tongue lapping at them the way a cat would lap cream. As she did, she pressed on his perineum with a thumb, and he thrust his hips against her again. Each time she pressed there made another explosion go off in his brain, and his hips jerked like a puppet on a string.
Just when he thought he would be overwhelmed by the stimulation, Molly took her mouth off his balls. He moaned in protest, looking at her with eyes so darkened by lust they were the color of an angry sea. Before he had time to process what she was about to do, her mouth went to the area where her thumb had been, and one fingertip flicked over the rim of his arsehole.
If Molly's lips on his bollocks had halfway driven him mad, her finger flicking over that seemingly innocuous spot had him ready to declare himself insane. It awoke something in him he'd never even known existed and lit every nerve ending on fire. She repeated her actions and his hips shot up as he pressed himself harder against her mouth. "Molly," he gasped.
She chuckled low in her throat and started fingering him in earnest, gently slipping the digit inside and out, until she finally eased it high enough to softly massage his prostate. Sherlock twisted beneath her, gasps and moans escaping him before he even knew he was making the sounds, wanting more and more and more of this powerfully pleasurable experience. It was intensely intimate, almost painfully so, yet he didn't want it to stop.
When Molly started gliding a hand over his dick while touching him there, Sherlock thought he would explode. He jerked, he arched, he groaned and gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry that to his scrambled brain sounded like "Molly, please," and she removed her hands from him. He nearly howled in frustration and hunger. But she quickly straddled him and lowered the wet heat of her cunt onto his cock, slipping him effortlessly inside her with a soft gasp that was part ecstasy, part elation.
She rocked against him as he thrust into her, burying himself as deep as he could inside her. Something was different this time; he sensed it immediately. His dick no longer felt as though it was going to expand and knot her. It felt; well, he had no comparison, but he imagined it felt like an Omega’s cock would. The acceleration of their transformation was astounding, and despite the wild ecstasy running through him, the scientist in Sherlock took a few seconds to appreciate the changes.
Molly’s eyes widened; she, too, had realized the difference. And if they were truly converted from Alpha to Omega and Omega to Alpha, then that also meant that…
Molly cried out with a high-pitched wail as an orgasm rippled through her, leaving her overwhelmed and shuddering. Her sweat-slicked skin clung to his as she pumped her hips two more times, and that was all it took to send Sherlock over. As his come filled her, they both felt small, hard protrusions inside her, forming a circle around his dick, and Sherlock was gently but firmly gripped.
They stopped moving and stared at each other in amazement. If there had been any doubts before, they were gone now. There was no denying the evidence; former Alpha turned Omega Sherlock Holmes had his cock snugly held inside new Alpha Molly Hooper’s cunt by her vagina dentata.
“Oh,” Molly breathed, carefully resting her body against his. “This is new…”
* * * * *
They remained like that for nearly an hour before the vaginal teeth retracted back in and they could disengage their bodies. They showered quickly and drank more water, the Heat a ticking clock over their heads. They could have a few hours, or even a day at this point. But there would likely be several more episodes of the Heat taking them before it was over. They sat on the sofa, sipping from their glasses, not bothering putting on clothes because it was ridiculous to dress only to undress again.
It wasn’t until Sherlock had absently scratched at his neck the second time that it caught Molly’s attention. When he moved his hand away, she looked at the area and gasped sharply.
He frowned. “What?”
“Sherlock. Your neck,” Molly said in alarm.
He rose and headed for the loo, Molly behind him. He switched on the light and stepped to the mirror, turning his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration. But there was no need to focus to see this; it was obvious to someone who knew what to look for. The place on his neck, where Molly had first bitten him in ritual manner, had altered. The redness was gone. In its place, pale but unmistakable, was a silvery, scar-like imprint of her teeth.
Sherlock drew a swift, startled breath. There was no mistaking it. It was The Mark of Bonding. They were fully compatible on the most basic, yet most complex level possible. If they were not, he would still bear the ordinary characteristics of a love bite. Normally, the Mark didn’t show until the second day, and the bonding continued to solidify over the cycle, to reach completion at the end. Apparently the stages of his Heat were not all that had accelerated.
“Oh,” he said, knowing it sounded ridiculous but unable at the moment to form any other words.
Molly glanced down. “I-we-it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“You know as well as I do it’s a little late for that,” Sherlock said. He turned and cupped her chin, making her meet his gaze. “I offered myself to you, Molly,” he said softly. “I bared my throat to you in ritual assent. Surely you must know I did that in full awareness of what the results could be.”
“But why?” She asked, confused. “I mean, I know I accepted, but I was overcome by my instincts. You still had some rationale left. Why did you offer, knowing that could happen?”
He sighed. “Because I wanted to. A romantic partnership with you, while carrying with it the factors of distraction and sentiment, eliminates other problematic elements such as loneliness. Since John and Mary wed, I have missed companionship, and found myself wanting more of yours. We are intellectually compatible; well, inasmuch as possible considering my mind is extraordinary and yours is only above average. We share common interests and our work coincides frequently. We have mutual trust and respect.”
“Sherlock, are you telling me you logically decided to offer me your throat to test and see if we could bond…because you thought it would be a good idea?”
He blinked. “Yes. Was that wrong?”
Molly sighed. “It’s very you. But I guess I was hoping for more. That maybe you, I dunno, had some feelings for me.”
Sherlock sighed. “Molly…do you really think I would have done this out of intellect alone? Especially knowing how you feel about me?”
She stared. “Then…”
“Yes, Molly. I care for you. Would I have acted on it, were it not for this mishap? I don’t know. But I don’t regret it. I realize there are many details we’ll need to discuss. But given that I feel my heat returning yet again, perhaps we should leave that discussion until this is all over?”
As if on cue, Molly inhaled sharply. Sherlock felt his pulse elevate in response as the heat uncurled in his groin and started to spread through him again like wildfire. God this was distracting. No. Obliterating. He’d definitely need suppressants. Although they should probably share a heat twice a year, to regulate the hormones fully and nurture the bond…
The rational thoughts Sherlock was trying to cling to shattered like the broken beakers in the lab when his lips found Molly’s again.
* * * * * * *
Mycroft Holmes was at his desk, fingers laced together and tucked under his chin, when his mobile rang.
“Yes?” he asked politely when he answered.
He listened to the other voice on the line, a slight frown marring his features. “And you are certain that the transformation was successful?”
His face smoothed out as he processed the information he was given, eyebrows raising a fraction on his forehead. “And they are still in Sherlock’s flat at Baker Street?”
He nodded at the affirmative. “Excellent. Keep me informed. No, I don’t want it recorded. It is a private matter between him and Doctor Hooper. Simply notify me of when they leave and what their destination is. Most likely, it will be St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I will go see them personally once everything is more settled.”
He ended the call and returned his mobile to his desk, a look of satisfaction on his face. There would be questions, he knew; accusations of meddling, violating privacy, and whatever else his brother could come up with. At the end of the day, however, both he and Doctor Hooper would be forced to admit that they now had exactly what they wanted.
No longer would Sherlock be at the mercy of the Alpha hormones he despised, and no longer would Doctor Hooper feel small and unassuming. Their bonding (and Mycroft knew they were compatible, had known they would be for ages, even if Sherlock had wanted to deny the truth) would be a benefit to them both. And to Mycroft; no longer needing to worry about his brother’s moods, his unchecked Alpha urges, his secret quest for a “cure” that was really not so secret.
No, it was better for everyone, this new development.
Which was, of course, why Mycroft had engineered it to begin with.