Chapter Text
The air in the room smells of sweat and musk, the taste blooming heavily on the back of his tongue and sliding slickly down his throat. Sherlock pauses in the doorway, his instincts clamouring for an immediate retreat. Unfortunately, the two men standing directly behind him have been prepared in advance for just such a stunt: heavy hands land on his shoulders, guiding him forward towards the table that has been set up. A woman hovers beside it, smile painted and false, clutching a clipboard against her ample bosom. As he is forced into the chair, she makes a show of studying him and then using a no-scent ink pen to make a series of checkmarks on her paper.
"Showered, yes. Correct clothing, yes. Mouth washed..." She glances up, an impatient movement, and he rolls his eyes before parting his lips and breathing out. She leans down and sniffs before giving a satisfied nod. "Cleansing complete, then. Marvellous! You know, it's rare for us to have someone in here that's your age. We were surprised to be contacted by your brother. Most of the time the alphas we tend to are in their early teens, just after they come into their own. It's dangerous for you to be this old without an omega, you know."
Sherlock bares his teeth in lieu of a response, not appreciating how blatantly obvious she is being in her search for gossip that she can pass on to her colleagues. He'd not be here at all if it weren't for Mycroft's bloody interference, but that's all been said and done and he has no interest in discussing it with a stranger. "I believe I was sent here for a purpose," he drawls when she fails to suitably quail beneath the force of his glare. "If you are not going to be showing me the samples, I'll take my leave."
"Not so fast, Mr Holmes. We have the samples right here." She turns away, nodding towards one of the men, and he comes forward carrying a heavy silver tray. It's fairly small, and a small flicker of satisfaction flashes through Sherlock at the knowledge that so few omegas have been considered biologically and mentally compatible to him. Even if it means that he has fewer chance of finding an acceptable mate-guide, it is good to know that his body won't suffer him placed with just anyone.
He inclines his head and watches as the tray was set down. The cover is lifted to reveal two dozen small plastic cups, each half-filled with a thin, viscous fluid. Sherlock breathes in deeply, reacting against his will to the pure scent of omega. His mouth waters with the urge to taste, but he folds his hands upon his knee as though he is entirely unaffected. In spite of his best attempt at research, he has been unable to divine any information in regards to the samples. All he knows is that each one has been taken from an unbonded omega whose biology is compatible to his. That is all he needed to know. The next step is up to his body.
How he loathes this. It's pedestrian. His body might react to some idiot who is no better than Anderson, and who knows whether or not the omega will actually be able to fill in as a suitable guide? Sherlock despairs at the thought of ending up with someone like that, and yet his body and mind are beginning to betray him. He no longer has a choice in this, having pushed his ability to wait to the absolute limit. With deliberate slowness he reaches out and plucks one of the cups from the tray, bringing it to his lips and sipping. The taste is bitter, unpleasantly so, a shock after a scent that smells of lollipops and apples. With a curl of his lip he sets it down hastily, pushing it to the edge of the table. The woman offers him another mouthful of the cleansing wash to soothe his palate before he tries the next.
Cup after cup, taste after taste. Too sweet, too bitter, too cloying, too dark, too stupid. He rejects each one. In spite of himself he is growing frustrated, though he's careful to keep it from the woman. She, on the other hand, is becoming visibly annoyed and her eyes keep darting from the tray to Sherlock and back again. This clinic is famous for their ability to pair anyone, and a miscalculation on her part could mean she is out of a job. Sherlock smirks as he picks up the fourth to last cup, bringing it to his nose for a careful sniff. Trees, he notes, and tea, a sticky smell he can't identify, and gun oil. He tips the cup and opens his mouth.
The slick trickles onto his bottom lip and he freezes. Something deep in the recesses of his mind crows in triumph and his breath hitches. The woman's head snaps up. Sherlock ignores her, tilting the cup further to hasten the progress of its contents. The taste is even stronger than the smell, but no less appetizing. He swallows eagerly and it's like having a powerful shot of cocaine: the lingering vestiges of fog vanish, leaving him focused and clear for the first time in months. He can instantly see where he's gone wrong with his deductions on the last case he'd been following in the media, and had he possessed his phone he would have immediately sent an e-mail to the police with pertinent information about the murderer.
"You've found one?" she asks, not even bothering to wait for confirmation before she begins scanning her clipboard. Sherlock ignores her. Knowing that the cup is now mostly empty, he fights the urge to dip his finger in and swipe the remaining traces of slick that have stuck to the bottom so that he can have one last taste. Instead he places it gently on the table, not aside like the others, but just in front of him.
This is unprecedented. He wasn't expecting to find a taste that appeals to him, but now that he has he wonders about the omega it belongs to. So little can be divined from scent alone, but the gun oil gives him hope. The rest, dark and pain on the roof of his mouth, brings to mind possible thoughts of depression. Unfortunately, the tea and the sticky smell leave him little to work with. He leans back in his chair and folds his fingers together, waiting for the woman to find out the name of his possible mate.
"Oh dear."
"What?" Sherlock is instantly alert, scanning her face.
"I'm afraid a mistake has been made, Mr Holmes. That sample was not supposed to be included with your batch."
"Why not?"
"I... I can't tell you," she stammers, finally losing a bit of her composure in the fact of the snapped question. "I... um... that omega is no longer with us. According to my information, he has not been a part of our organization for a few weeks now."
"Did he bond with another alpha?" Sherlock presses.
"I don't know. As you know, this service is generally voluntary and when someone chooses to leave we aren't given a reason why," she replied. She looks back at the table, where a few cups remain to be tasted. "Perhaps you could try the remainder of the samples? If you don't find anyone else today, we'd be happy to have you back next week. As you know, we can do more extensive testing to discover the true particulars of your biology and your mental, emotional and spiritual self in the hopes that a more intimate match can be made -"
Sherlock turns away from her with an annoyed huff, snagging the empty cup and disregarding the remainder of her vapid speech. Demanding more information from her will not serve him, as no doubt she will eventually remember that she can hide behind the privacy laws. He strides towards the door of the room and this time is not stopped by the two men that had hindered his efforts to escape every time before. As the door closes behind his lanky form, the woman sighs.
"Thank god that's over," she says, tossing her clipboard onto the table and nearly sending the remaining samples splattering to the ground.
"I suppose it would be too much to hope that he'd take the easy way out."
She turns to face the newly opened door, unsurprised to see the young man standing there. The only part of him that can be seen is the tip of an umbrella, still against the tiled floor. "Is that what you expected? We did present all of the samples, as you requested." And she'd hesitated over that, because it is technically against procedure to present an alpha with their sample when an omega asked to be removed from the program, against medical advice or not. It seems cruel to give that boy hope.
"My brother has never done anything the easy way, I'm afraid, so I don't see why this should be any different." There is a pause, just long enough to make her fidget, before the cool voice continues. "I expect that all record of this shall be erased, as per our agreement."
She swallows hard. "Yes sir."