The rest of the week proceeded in much the same vein: they'd sleep for a few hours, and then be jolted out of a deep slumber by arousal that required the other's warm body to quell. Despite John's medical knowledge, the two flat-mates bonding one another did nothing to shorten their respective cycles, although the intensity decreased with each passing day. By the 7th day, they were down to mating once a day.

After the last wave passed them, and they lay spent against the bed, Sherlock turned to John and breathlessly asked, "What now?"

"We'd better spend the night together, lest we get separation anxiety from the bond."

"Separation anxiety? I'd be right downstairs," Sherlock argued, incredulous.

"This is the last day of it. After that, we can sleep wherever we choose. I know you're keen to be alone Sherlock, but remember you're the one who broke down my door."

"Don't be silly, John. I wouldn't have bit you if I hadn't wanted to be with you. As I've said before, I'd be lost without my blogger." John smiled at him, searching the sheets for Sherlock's hand.

"But let's let the internet figure this one out for themselves, shall we?"

"Of course, Sherlock." They fell asleep soon after that.

The next day, John woke to an intensely bright room: Sherlock had stripped the windows of the black-out curtains, and the sills were cracked, letting in a warm breeze. He looked around, disoriented. He'd gotten used to Sherlock sleeping like a log at his side, his curly hair skewed across the pillow as he curled around John. But now the space was empty, although the bed still held an impression – he hadn't been gone long.

John stood up and stretched, feeling the strength returning to his sore muscles. His neck had a painful kink in it, and his arse ached something awful. He grabbed a dressing gown from across the room, and slowly made his way downstairs. He passed Sherlock's room on his way to the bathroom, unsurprised to find the door closed. He showered quickly, before gathering all his laundry. Just then the doorbell rang, and John answered it, laundry bag slung over one shoulder. "Hello, John Watson? I'm from the laundry service; my name is Ann."

He handed the bag over and thanked her profusely, subtly scenting her. They had sent a beta, he was pleased to note. After she left, he shut the door and turned on his heel.

Sherlock was standing in his dressing gown, fingers gripping the railing of the staircase. "I thought you'd left…" he explained, his grip loosening. He moved his hands over his dressing gown, smoothing it down, as his face once again became a hard mask of indifference.

"No, of course not, Sherlock. I'd tell you," John replied, a smirk working at the corner of his mouth. He walked past Sherlock up the stairs to his room, remembering his pills.

Later that day, John sat in the middle of the sofa, watching crap telly. Sherlock reclined on the right side of said sofa, his legs folded over the arm as he rested his head on John's lap. John absentmindedly stroked his hair, his back settling further into the couch as a commercial came on. "John?"

"Yes?" he replied, checking his phone for texts with his free hand.

"Put your mobile down. I have something important to say."

John complied, and his heart raced as he muted the TV. He looked down at Sherlock, fearing the worst: "I was mistaken, I don't want to be bonded" or "that was fine, but let's not do it again". He gulped, his throat suddenly very dry.

"John, I… I love you." John's breath caught in his throat.

He cleared his throat, and replied, "Sherlock, I love you too." He felt tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, but he didn't give in to it. He felt so relieved, he couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock's eyebrows raised, looking unamused.

"What is so funny, exactly?"

"You just nearly gave me a ruddy heart attack, that's all. I thought you were going to boot me."

Sherlock laughed, calling him a "mental omega". Slowly, their fits died down, until John was just looking down at him fondly.

"Never," he replied, smiling in return.

The next few weeks passed as they had before, with a few small changes. Sherlock took a liking to wearing his scarf indoors, and John opted for button-downs to hide his bond mark. What London didn't know wouldn't hurt it, they figured. They dashed about, continuing to foil criminals and stalk crime scenes.

But for one week every three months, they lay tangled in the sheets in one of their beds, giving in to their baser instincts. And though Sherlock might bemoan the occurrence, saying it "interfered with the work", John knew better. He'd cuddle against the smaller man in between bouts, neither willing to let go even though their skin burned up. He realized then that he'd never want anything else.