A Bond Can Be Worthwhile
As the only daughter to the affluent Holmes family, your mother had done well in lavishing you with so much attention that it became embedded in you to need it as such. Your father, the influential (and rather brutish) Morland Holmes, as little care he seemed to show towards your elder brother Sherlock, took better care of you through monetary means than being there for you. Then again, as you progressed into your teens, it grew harder and harder to land a date (you later on discovered that every member of your family had a hand in keeping the male species away from you and your slowly forming soul mark). Your father was well known as someone who could function outside of the law, the systems that dictated the world and the people within it, but you had only ever seen his back turned when you were three and the dashes in your bank account from then on. Your elder brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, were two different sides of a heavily guarded coin.
Where Mycroft was hardened, meticulous, and calculating, Sherlock was carefree, an outburst here or there, and blindingly brilliant. Mycroft took up the task of raising you as if you were his daughter in your absent fathers stead, and Sherlock remained your arguably insane and deranged brother who was a disappointment in your eldest brother’s eyes. Your mother cried late into the night at his lack of bonding mark, no name to claim or be claimed by, and Mycroft simply ignored his. “A businessman can wait,” He’d said once, just around the start of his career, when you were at the teeny age of seven. Being thirteen years your senior, it was hard for Mycroft to view you as his sister with your big (E/C) eyes that seemed to peer into his soul and the way your mouth would curl up into a mischievous little grin as dainty, little finger found their way into the cookie jar. Sherlock, before vanishing from the manor, indulged in your playful ways, taught you that your mind was something to be cherished, and to never give in to what the people around you wanted.
“What’s best for you is to ignore mummy and be who you are. Love is just a facade, a chemical imbalance that hinders us into thinking that we need to person marked for us. Never let your mark own you, (Y/N).” A bit morbid for someone so young, but nevertheless, Sherlock had been correct in his early deduction. Leaving out the lack of contact with the opposite sex due to your families calculating ways, under the constant preening of your mother and Mycroft, you grew into a beautiful, strong woman with a sense of justice. You used to spend hours on end in the expansive library listening to Sherlock read thick volumes to you until you could do so on your own. Your mother was against upper level schooling, your mark was slow to form and she thought it would be best to stay at the estate until you could properly search for your bonded to be married off and bred, despite what you were, but you are related to Sherlock Holmes after all.
Your mother cried the day you decided to leave home, having been accepted into one of the top universities in London. She crooned and fussed, tossing up a fit as she helped you pack your bags, even during a steadily growing disagreement. Where to stay? Alas, she was sure that a young, beautiful woman would be unsafe without her bonded by her side in the heart of London. But you were careful in your planning and made sure to stay two steps ahead. You had phoned your dear brother days before and asked if you could stay with him until proper living arrangements could be made. As it would be, he had newly acquired a roommate and would be unable to house you, but there was an empty flat one floor up and due to the nature of his relationship with his landlady, you could stay there relatively rent free.
“Are you sure this is what you really want? No bonded? No husband? But schooling. (Y/N), I’ve raised you better- Y-You’re taking after Sherlock.” An insult shrouded under a guise of fear and concern for your safety. You ignored her, folding clothes and placing them in your trunk before dancing around her. Mycroft, too, had disagreed with your choice of living, but you wanted to be by Sherlock; you had missed him during your time apart, had missed him terribly. And London, you had only visited once on holiday with your mother for shopping; you were more than excited to have the chance to live there.
“Mummy, I’m going.” You reiterated, easily fine tuning your hearing to block out the sound of her sniffles.
“B-But I could a-arrange something- you know Fatius is i-interested- and H-Haemish is always calling-”
And there lies the true reason behind your decision. Your mother had the uncanny ability to ignore the slowly forming mark against your inner thigh for a more tangible type of relationship. The rich pigs in the vicinity had taken an interest upon your fifteenth birthday, when you presented. It didn’t matter that your bonding mark could potentially be someone else. What they saw, they wanted, and in this instance, it was you; the delicate alpha and female Holmes.
“Mum, I told you, John will find me. He’s my bonded, not Haemish or that tub of lard, Fatius. You can’t make me stay here and be subjected to their stupidity. I have an IQ too high for that.” John. John Watson. The name of your bonded was still faint, but there, and although your mother remained unimpressed, you were happy just to be branded. You would go to school and fulfill your dreams and when John finally became yours, he would be met with someone he could be proud of.
“Whatever shall I do without my dear (Y/N)? Is there really nothing I can do to make you stay longer? You can always go to university next year.” Or the next, she would try to pull her grieving mother card on you and with Mycroft as an accomplice, it could possibly work.
“Mother, get another dog. Start a bridge club. I can’t stay.”
And finally, with your last bag packed and parasol in hand, you had your butlers retrieve your bags as your mother dissolved into tears. You hummed a soft tune to yourself as a butler opened up the door to your limousine, bags already carefully packed inside and the driver fully prepared for the journey. You were helped inside and turned to cast one last look upon your childhood home, the rolling hills and blossoming trees and, oh, your mother full of tears.
London is more than just alive, it’s bustling with so much life and adventure that you feel you could get lost here, among the libraries filled with so many books, the museum that holds the past and answers to the present, and with your brother here, there was not a single fear that could taint your freedom. There were so many smells bombarding your nose, various shades of blues and gold, fancy dresses billowing in the soft breeze as a group of ladies stalked by you with gossip on their tongues. Your limo finally came to a stop in front of a well lit building, the lunch hour causing hoards of men and women in work attire to loiter about the streets. It was rather endearing, really. You couldn’t wait to be apart of the students putting their mind to the limit and stretching their beliefs to learn.
“Miss Holmes, we’ve arrived.” The driver declared loud enough for you to hear, and your heart began to stir and the excitement you had held back finally able to burst free. With a giggle of excitement, you pushed open the door practically hopped from the leather seat, your dress billowing out from beneath you. People stopped to stare, a few of the women displeased by your frivolous display, but why would you care when you had finally reached your destination? Your sweet scent instantly began to spread out along the street as your driver left his post to start taking all of your trunks from the trunk and to the designated building a few steps away.
Even with the streets filled with the different scents of its inhabitants, Sherlock’s stood out along the street, intense, pungent, yet able to quickly dissolve into other smells. In a way, your smell seemed to grow more potent as you helped carry a trunk into the building, your small nose twitching as you breathed in the smell of home. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was already offering you tea and speaking quickly, following after you and up the stairs to your new loft. Upon inspection, you realized she was almost like your mother- minus the annoyance. She was sweet, probably too sweet on Sherlock for his own good, and had good intentions, although she did seem to worry a bit too much. She also demanded for there to be no ‘wild, college parties’ to interrupt her although there may have been a subtle hint about acquiring some grass for her if she were to ever need it.
Peculiar. Very peculiar.
Your driver bid you adieu once you were settled, and you watched him for a moment, this sense of nostalgia wearing down on you as you realize he’s the last real thing to represent your past. It’s a sad thing, really, so sad that it almost puts a damper on the excitement thrumming through you, but then you remember why you’re here. You turn away from the road and maneuver your way through the working crowd and back towards your apartment building. You didn’t have a chance to exactly look around due to all of the movement, but now that you can sit back and relax, you start to notice how good it smells inside. There’s a homely scent wafting along all three floors, although it’s strongest around the room marked with a B. It’s almost addictive, your chest heaving as you breathe in the smell of something unknown, something so deliciously secret that you want to figure out what it is almost immediately.
I wonder if it’s just one of my brother’s experiments, you thought to yourself as you carefully took the stairs up to your new flat. It’s quite ordinary when compared to your expansive room at the manor, but it’s quaint and furnished, plus it gives you the perfect vantage point to see the bustling streets and police headquarters. Sherlock had informed you about some of his best cases (your mother hated whenever the two of you took a call, it lasted for as many hours he could spare) with his partner of sorts and it had intrigued you thoroughly.
Looking around the still bare room, you wrinkled your nose and set your hands on your hips. You had never been one for decorating, but now it seems you’d be forced to get creative.
2 hours. 25 minutes. 12 seconds and counting. That’s exactly how long it took before a few short taps met your door and broke you from your reverie. Stepping over a few suitcases, you reached out a small hand to the weathered door knob and opened the door, with a bright smile adorning your countenance. The smell hits your nose first, the tangy taste of oranges and the slight smell of sterility snapping at your senses. It’s an odd smell, a different one, but it makes you happy in a way that not even you can understand. Sherlock breaks the small beat of silence, bustling in as if he owns the place and looking around, pushing a few of your boxes away with his feet to reach the weathered couch. His scent is like static in the air, touching everything, battling with your own for complete control of the room. Ugh, alpha mentality.
“You’re not even going to introduce me to your sister, Sherlock?” His voice comes out incredulous and softly scathing as if he were scolding a child. Sherlock simply glances over at him as he makes his home on the couch, brow arched as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Quit standing there and come in. That’s my flatmate and as of late, partner of sorts, although I do most of the thinking for the both of us. Wait until I give you the details from my last case, (Y/N). It would’ve been much better if you were there to partake in uncovering the mafia smuggling in undocumented funds. That was quite fun, wasn’t it-”
“I’m John Watson. It’s lovely to meet you, (Y/N). I wish I could say the same about your brother.” Your figure stiffens at the sound of John’s voice, the action visible to your elder brother who instantly latches onto the movement as he grows silent. He hums lowly, mind working in unexplainable circles as he stares at you from the corner of his eye, deducing within seconds. But even being the complete genius that he is, he can’t put two and two together because each piece is so different from the other. He watches the way John’s face grows a bit warm and his eyes lower to his slacks, looking away from your face as a wry smile smooths over his homely features.
John Watson.
That smell from earlier hits you full force, clean and citrusy and it makes it hard to focus. His name is John- your heart quivers in your chest as you stare up at his lowered head. He smells so good- Sherlock takes notice of your reaction to John, cataloges it for further deducing later as he watches. Perhaps it’s because John is an omega and you had never truly been allowed to have their company. Alpha females were revered and sought after, even with the flared temper and power. Sherlock didn’t quite like the way you subconsciously bat your lashes.
“I’m (Y/N) Holmes. Sherlock’s told me about some of your cases before. Would you like to come in?” And never leave? John smiles, those magical eyes beaming down at Sherlock’s little sister before his expression changes to one of apology.
“I’m rather sorry, (Y/N). I’m already late enough for a date and- Good God, Sherlock, you kept me an hour behind when you said it would take thirty bloody minutes!” Before you can get a word in, John turns with a flourish, guilt striking those blue, or are they grey?, eyes when he glances at you, that scent filling up your lungs.
“I said it would take approximately thirty minutes. Nothing in this world is concrete, John. That should be obvious to even you. Now go on, your date is waiting. Try not to bore her with your movie plans.”
“How did you know- Gods, forget it.” With a shake of his head, John gave a small wave before turning and stalking off, a slight hobble in his step. Hm, military, but never forced to fire a weapon at will. Doctor, perhaps? Yes, yes, his hands (very firm, indeed, nice length too) has callouses from his craft. Ah, most like honorably discharged due to the injury. Shot in the shoulder, but he walks with a limp? It must have given him so much psychological trauma that he couldn’t continue his service. Most likely Afghanistan. He's strong, smart, perfect.
“Yes, yes, he’s quite a spectacle, isn’t he, (Y/N). One of the few omegas the army let serve overseas. And no, you cannot see him in any romantic setting of the sort.” Your eyes narrowed over at your brother as you quickly shut the door, your brows furrowing at his blatant disapproval.
“Sher-”
“No.”
“But Sherly-”
“Absolutely not. He’s too old for you. And he’s messy, has terrible date ideas, keeps a blog that's subpar, is rather boring if I’m being honest. And he’s got a girlfriend for the moment.”
“But Sher- You’d don’t understand.” He’s my bonded. There’s a pull to him, that even now, urges you to follow. It's not your inner alpha trying to latch onto an unbounded omega, no, biology does not rule over you. His name is marked into your skin, marking you as his. John is what you defied your mother for. He’s the reason you felt this pull to the city and away from the rolling greenery of your estate. It all makes sense now, the reason you wanted so desperately to come to London. John is here. Your bonded has been attached to Sherlock by the hip right under your nose this entire time and you were never aware of it. Your mother was right; you do take after Sherlock. You’re a bloody idiot where it really matters.
“And he has no defining bond mark. I've studied him as an experiment for a few weeks when we first met but it got very boring. Don't put any wasted effort into pursuing him if a bond mark is what you're looking for.”
.
Misery had taken a liking to you, and you let it, the dark shadow hanging over your head as you hid away in the library. Your ethics class had been too easy to keep up with so you had taken to staying late at the library reading ancient Greek texts for fun. Sherlock thought it was a waste of the storage in your brain, much like his, but you simply made jibes at him for still not knowing much about the solar system. And John- you did your best to avoid him and that smell associated with him as best you could. You forwent notifying Sherlock that your bonded happened to be his best friend who has no mark. Your name is nowhere on his body; it’s a saddening feeling, to live with the knowledge that the only person in the world you could truly love was one floor away. And you did love him. Past the first blinding rays of the bond, John had steadily proven himself to be as wonderful as you always knew he would be. He wasn't boring or an imbecile; he was sweet and funny, and he could keep up with Sherlock in his own right. It was amazing to see them gravitate around each other, willing to die for one another.
Your mark twinges and you slap away the thought as jealousy swirled low in your gut. John was probably busy with his fancy fourth girlfriend since you relocated to 221C Baker Street and Sherlock had made a habit of being naturally unable to distinguish one girl from another. It shredded into your confidence, having to watch that smile from afar, directed at a pretty brunette or shy blond. All of the women he seemed to gravitate towards were the opposite of you. You spent your free time deciphering ancient coptic and debating the viability of laws with Sherlock. You were sought out plenty, but always by the wrong sort. Too uptight. Too overbearing. Some simply wanted to have an alpha female to own them while others wanted to dominate you. Other alphas, betas, omegas, all made attempts that were easily brushed off.
“I can't concentrate,” You murmured lowly to yourself, the inscriptions on the page muddled together too much for you to translate. You were thinking about John too much; it would be better to just head home. You close the old volume carefully and held it in one arm as you gathered up your scribbled over notes, your brain working in inexplicable ways as it drifted between two different thoughts.
John.
If I come back again tomorrow, I can finish the transcription easily.
I wonder if he had a good day today.
Then I can start on that Arabic text Sherly keeps to himself. It shouldn’t be too hard to find among his clutter.
I bet he fell asleep at the office again. He never gets any rest these days. Maybe I can stop by and-
No.
You can’t see him without the thought of curling up against him in the middle of the night and letting your scent mark him up entirely. What’s worse is the guilt. John is taken, is always taken by someone else, and you should be happy that he’s happy. He’s always got that same smile on his face when he sees his girlfriend at the time, he always does his best to make them happy. You can’t ruin it. It’s not like he has a mark… it means nothing if his mark isn’t there.
.
Even with your reverie, the moment your feet touch the foyer and you head up the stairs, instead of continuing towards 221C, you pause at your brother’s door. You shouldn’t. They may be busy with a case, or watching the telly, or-
“(Y/N)? How long have you been standing there?” The sound of his voice makes your insides quiver with a deliciously warm sensation.
“Not very long, John. I was going to stop by but I wasn’t sure if you and Sherlock were busy.” You peer up at him, can see that twinkle in his eye, and refuse to keep eye contact any longer.
“He’s actually decided to take on this case by himself when I refused to be a part of it. That little brat. But come in.” Sherlock is nowhere to be found, off chasing his manic ideas and theories, and here you are, alone with John for the first time since your move. Your limbs seize up, your nose stuffed to the brim with that familiar stench of citrus and home, Sherlock too, and you step in past the taller despite your better judgement. The apartment is in piggly disarray, books and papers tossed about as if Sherlock had never seen a planner before in his life. His violin lays abandoned on the sofa and there are new gunshots in the wall. Ah, he had been angsty with the lack of a case. He always is.
The moment John closes the door behind you, you become hyper aware of your surroundings and John taking in a deep breath behind you. You steady your nerves, attempting to quiet the fatal beating of your heart as you tread further inside, gaze peering intently at the couch. John follows after you, in step with each of your movements as he falls into the seat beside you comfortably. But you feel stiff, skin pulled taut as you clutch at your thick volume. It’s so strange, feeling this, this fear deep down in your chest that pushes and prods at you and you can do nothing but accept it. You’re afraid for the first time in your sheltered life of this man sitting beside you. You set the heavy book in your lap to try and calm down, exhaling slowly and turning to look at John. He’s staring back at you, a small smile unconsciously on his soft lips.
“I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve last seen you. Have you been busy with university?” You could lie and say yes, it’s been so, so difficult and I feel inferior to my classmates but even he would be able to see past it; in fact, you were rather positive that John would be able to smell the lie on you anyway.
“No. It’s been far too easy, actually. I’ve just- I didn’t want to be a bother.” True enough. John gives a small shake of his head, a subtle motion that reveals the unsettling look in his eyes. He doesn’t like it and it shows.
“You could never be a bother, (Y/N). Sherlock likes it when you’re around and I do too. I’ve gotten used to you being here, you know. Are you sure you just haven’t gotten yourself a boyfriend?” It’s meant to be a joke and that’s probably why a choked up laugh escapes your mouth at the absurdity of it all. It’s almost a slap to your face; as if anyone else could ever be worthy.
“No- most definitely not. Like I could ever… do that to my soul mate.” You murmured the last syllables softly. A small silence dances after your words and John remains quiet for a few more seconds after that, his tone almost searching once the right words touches his lips. You can smell him in the air all around you, as if his smell had blanketed you with it’s warm presence. Unfair. Sherlock could have this everyday and you had to fight your inner alpha to keep it that way.
“Sherlock hasn’t told me much about your mark, you know. He did mention it in passing once. About never knowing the name, but he suspected it had to be something common place or else your mother never would’ve put up such a fit over you leaving. But he had enough sense not to bother you on about it. And you being an alpha would make it come off as a challenge, at least, that’s what I’ve seen on the telly. If it’s not too rude, can I see it?” His eyes are open pools of unbridled curiosity. It almost ends you to see them, to stare back at him knowing that if he were to see then the chances of you keeping him in your life in some form or fashion would be all for naught. Still, you couldn’t deny him whatever he asked for. It was impossible to say ‘no’ to the one you were destined to love.
“If I show you… can you promise me something?” You responded before your thoughts on how horribly wrong this could go caught up with you..
“Of course.” He gives a fervent nod of his head and you watch the corners of his mouth curl up into a small, appeasing smile. What you wouldn’t do to see that everyday.
“Don’t run, alright?” Please. He blinks, tries not to reveal his curiosity unfurling into full bloom as he nods again and keeps his eyes trained on you. Sighing quietly in defeat, you shift your volume from your lap onto the messy coffee table before pushing yourself onto your feet. Perhaps it is better that this is put out of the way. Maybe he won't run or push you away. You build up the thought in your head as your fingers tremble and reach for the button of your jeans. Inhaling, you work on the button and jerkily ease down your zipper, letting the dark wash denim slip down your supple thighs with a bated breath. God, you haven’t been this nervous since your cotillion with that embarrassing asshole Haemish at your side. You step out of the pool your jeans create around the floor, clad in nothing but your ombre shirt and a pair of frilly lavender panties. Bracing yourself and doing your best to ignore John’s face entirely, you spread your legs somewhat and turn your left leg outward in order for him to really see.
He sees it.
You know he does because there’s this intense warmth churning in your stomach and your mark is twitching, aching to be touched but you do nothing but stand there, feeling like you’ve just lost your world. John Watson stares, his face a smooth blanket of calm that you can see under. His upper lip twitches in that nervous way and he blinks a second sooner than usual. It’s an easy tell that reveals he’s surprised, perhaps uneasy… maybe even unhappy because of this development.
“I-” You start, your words, millions of them in multiple languages, catapulting around your head with no connection to your mouth. Your mouth hangs open and air exhales. He stares. If that is not rejection, then what is? Blinking back the shame and swallowing down the bitterness, you began to reach down to retrieve your pants. You can have him agree to never speak of it again to each other or to Sher-”
“Sherlock said never to look at you or else he’d throw me out the window, he said. He’s done that before, you know. And he made it pretty clear he would.” John speaks in a rush, making you stop entirely. The moment may be inopportune, but you cracked a tiny smile. Of course Sherlock would be a protector behind your back, keeping you from the only person you had ever wanted in your life.
“No matter how many brains he has, John, he can’t stop this. He can’t keep me from you. I’m yours. I- I didn’t plan on telling you… You’ve been happy. And all I want is to keep you that way, do you understand?” John stares at you, really stares, as if he’s seeing you for what you are for the first time. As if he can see the invisible bonds tethering you to him and how your body has relaxed since relinquishing your best kept secret.
(Y/N)... do you know how hard it’s been to keep quiet? Sherlock adores you, you’re the only one he ever will, and he wants nothing but for you to have everything you deserve. I’m… old. I’m poor. I can’t provide for you the way you deserve. I don’t understand why fate would give me someone amazing like you, (Y/N). It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Does it have to?” You challenged, alpha senses making your voice quake with control. John inhales sharply and turns his head away. Your alpha hates this stalemate, the not knowing, and feeling utterly useless. “It’s always been you, John. I’ve been waiting and waiting to find you and you are every bit as wonderful as I knew you would be. I don’t care that you don’t have my name. I don’t. If you were mine, we would a team. You don’t have to provide for me. I’m not some princess who needs protecting, no matter what Sherlock may say… I loved you before because of the mark. But I love you now because you’re you.
The scent of fresh oranges strikes at your nose as John reaches out to wrap his fingers around your wrist. The touch is wonderful, so long overdue, that you let him pull you close to crowd against him; you let him breathe you in softly, slowly, as if taking in the smell of a divine meal. His free hand shyly slips lowly, just between your thighs, just enough for the tips of his fingers to brush over his name. It’s real and he can’t breathe. Sherlock could walk in any moment and see him practically fondling you and he could care less.
“John,” You sigh softly, your alpha calm and purring just beneath your skin as John allows more of his scent to waft around you. He keens quietly under your attention, grip tightening around your wrist as he tips his head up.
“(Y/N).” The way he’s looking at you is new, his eyes open wide, pupils dilated as he takes in a deep breath. You hunch your shoulders to get closer to him, your thigh burning under the trail of his fingers as you let your lips softly press against his forehead first, a token of your appreciation, then down to his nose, a symbol of your belonging, and finally, to his lips, an oath to your love.
It’s the first kiss that sends everything into disarray. It’s the first kiss that stitches together the pieces left unfinished. And it’s the first kiss of many.
A Bond whose Bonded does not return the mark of their name, although rare, does not mean they will not find love in each other.