Here we go - the Omegaverse fic I've been planning to do for ages :-) No promises on how fast I'll be updating this one, but I *do* have a full storyline planned for a longer fic and I don't want to shortchange it.

A quick note and some promises:

- no mpreg - it's just not my thing
- no noncon and no dubcon (beyond what might be absolutely essential given the universe - consent is sexy!)
- going to post any potential trigger warnings in the notes at the beginning of the chapter, if there are any

Other than that, enjoy, and feel free to subscribe if you want first dibs when I post a new chapter :-)

Most people's primary impression of John Watson was of a smallish, harmless alpha with bad taste in jumpers. It took a surprising amount of work to keep it that way.

Not that it was hard work, necessarily - John really did enjoy the occasional quiet night in, eating takeaway and watching nothing in particular on the telly - but it was work nonetheless. London was drastically different than the constant heat and energy in Afghanistan. At least there, John could break the monotony with an occasional "accidental" encounter with insurgents, finding ways to get himself assigned to patrols he knew perfectly well would stumble across trouble sooner rather than later. MI6's intelligence was leaps and bounds better than the army's, even if they refused to share details more often than not.

He got chewed out for it every time, of course. John's taciturn superiors were less than impressed with his insistence on actually firing his gun every once in a while. They were definitely not impressed when he took a bullet to the shoulder and spend four months in hospital and then rehab. John was practically climbing the walls when they finally released him to an army-pension bedsit in London with the less-than-encouraging orders to "stay put and for fuck's sake don't get into any more trouble."

Staying put was boring. Thank god for Mycroft Holmes.

The assignment came on a Wednesday, which until that afternoon had been the same as any other Wednesday since John was discharged from hospital. Wake up, shower, glance at the newspaper (which only reiterated how much the rest of the world was now passing him by), then off to therapy with Ella. She wasn't an MI6-appointed therapist, which meant John couldn't actually say anything, but it would have looked suspicious if he'd blown off a therapist entirely so he went and dithered and pretended he was just a washed-up army doctor and a lonely alpha and an ex-soldier who missed the glory days. All of which were true, if he was being honest with himself, which made Wednesdays even more depressing.

This particular Wednesday stopped being quite so boring, however, when the sleek black car pulled up alongside him as he limped back from his session and a tall man in an impeccable suit beckoned him from the back seat.

"A word, Doctor Watson."

John inwardly rolled his eyes, but there wasn't much point in resisting. Even if the car's occupant had been a foreign agent rather than the thoroughly British bloke he seemed, John wasn't exactly in a position to put up much of a fight. He got in the car.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man said, extending a hand. John eyed it but accepted the gesture.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, I know quite a bit more than that, I assure you. Excellent work in Kandahar, by the way. Your superiors were quite pleased."

John looked the posh bloke over more thoroughly. "A statement by which you intend to show me you don't fall among that particular group."

"I'm rather . . . outside the formal structure, you might say." The man fingered the black umbrella he had currently propped over his knees. "Although the matter for which I hope to engage your assistance isn't exactly governmental."

"Why should I trust you?" John replied. Giving the bloke the initial benefit of the doubt was one thing, but accepting missions from unknown sources was definitely another.

"Alpha bravo three-seven-zero delta. That is your personal code, I believe?"

John nodded and relaxed into his seat. Every agent had his or her own alphanumeric code, used only when establishing a new information channel to or from headquarters. It was theoretically possible that some foreign power had intercepted a list of codes and was now attempting to fool him into compliance, but it was unlikely. Much more probable the man was exactly who he said (or hadn't said, really) - someone much higher up the MI6 ladder than John was. "Tell me, then," John said.

"It's a domestic matter," Holmes immediately replied. "I have a younger brother. Sherlock. He's . . . a handful at the best of times."

"How much younger?"

"Seven years - he's thirty-four. And an unbonded omega."

Shit. John could already tell where this was going, and he didn't like it one bit. "Matchmaking, I assume? The answer is no."

Holmes flashed a thin smile. "I haven't told you a thing about him yet."

"And still my answer is no."

"You're an alpha, John, unbonded and laid up in a third-rate bedsit for the foreseeable future. You lack both the money and the physical prowess to attract an omega on your own, not with your psychosomatic limp and your sister's needing to be rescued from addiction-related crises every few months. You haven't had proper sex in ages."

"I've got no problem finding willing women, thank you very much." His reply sounded sulky, even to his own ears.

And Holmes just smirked. "Settling for women isn't generally your lot, is it? Before your assignment in Afghanistan, you had an easy time pulling omegas on a fairly regular basis."

"I'm not here to talk about my sex life."

"Oh, but I am." He stroked his umbrella again, a near-pornographic gesture given the current topic, and regarded John steadily. "My brother has never taken a partner, you see."

John blinked. "That's . . . not healthy. He's going to give himself permanent hormonal damage soon, if he hasn't already."

"You see my problem," Holmes said. "Thirty-four years of stubborn independence, without the slightest regard for his well-being. Even if he were interested in companionship, which he isn't, his abrasive personality drives potential alphas away with distressing regularity."

"And you want me to pretend to be that elusive alpha who stays?"

Holmes nodded. "Sherlock is in need of . . . someone very specific. I think you could be that someone."

John sighed. "What, exactly, would this mission involve?"

"Think of it less as a 'mission' and more as a 'life situation,'" Holmes urged. "My brother is currently looking to move into a two-bedroom flat on Baker Street. I've been threatening to cut off access to his trust fund for two months now, and he knows I intend to do so soon. A flatshare is the only way he can afford to stay in central London. I want you to be his flatmate."

"Flatmate - not his alpha?"

"I expect that will come in time."

"And he won't think anything is strange if his brother just happens to introduce him to an unbonded alpha and suggests we live together?"

Holmes smiled. Large jungle cats would have quailed at that smile. "Sherlock is unconventional - your orientation won't bother him, as long as you keep your hands to yourself and don't express any too-conservative views on 'an omega's place' or the like. As for the introduction . . . I have something in mind."

Mike Stamford wasn't MI6. He wasn't even military. He was, however, well-placed as an instructor at Bart's and also as an occasional acquaintance of Sherlock's. Less than a week after John's strange kidnapping-slash-conversation with Mycroft Holmes, John received a text from a blocked number.

Regent's Park, 1 PM. S mentioned need for a flatmate to Mike Stamford this morning. Revive your old friendship with a chance meet at the third bench past the water on York Bridge.

"John? John Watson?"

John turned and pretended to not quite recognize his old acquaintance.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together. I know, I know - I got fat."

He wasn't lying - the omega had filled out quite a bit in the intervening years - but soon they were drinking coffee side-by-side in the pleasantly warm sunshine and John found it surprisingly easy to slip in a comment about finding a new flat. Stamford's plump cheeks almost quivered with anticipation as he suggested John come along to meet a friend of his who, by spectacular coincidence, had mentioned needing a flatmate just that very morning. John nodded pleasantly and wondered whether the rest of the assignment would be quite this easy.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Sherlock Holmes was absolutely nothing like John had pictured. He looked very little like his brother, for one - same height and public school bearing, same perfectly tailored wardrobe, but that was about it. Mycroft had also failed to mention his little brother's penchant for deducing completely random tidbits from almost-impossible-to-see clues on John's person. It was alarming how accurate Sherlock was, actually, given absolutely no information ahead of time. John found himself struck dumb at how quickly the man rattled off his history. Sherlock didn't mention anything about MI6, and John couldn't tell whether it was because he hadn't seen it or whether he knew immediately and just had decided to keep the information to himself. The latter possibility was definitely more disconcerting. When the omega disappeared through the doorway with an offhand comment about his riding crop, John couldn't help but stare.

"Yeah, he's always like that," Stamford said with a grin. "Cheers."

They went to look at the Baker Street flat the next day. John also had an awkward conversation with Sherlock over dinner, chased a taxi through the back streets of London (cutting across more than one rooftop), completely forgot his psychosomatic limp even existed, and shot a serial killer from fifty yards away and through two double-paned windows. It was a thoroughly acceptable assignment, and John found himself accepting the mission with more enthusiasm than he ever expected.