Archive of Our Own ^beta

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He’s late. 

Sherlock sighs as he enters the side door of the large granite structure. It’s not outwardly opulent or gaudy, like some erotic clubs, but The High End’s wealth certainly isn’t clandestine. 

Luckily, he reaches his private dressing room with minimal interaction with other dancers and no Irene in sight. Inside he immediately starts going through his wardrobe to find the best outfit for that evening. 

Honestly, this is one of his favorite parts of this job, getting to select his costume. Oh sure, the dancing itself will always hold the highest spot, and after that, well, there’s no denying Sherlock gets a special type of biological satisfaction at being able to show off his body for so many hungry-eyed alphas, but this is special as well. He is nothing if not a fashionista. 

As he considers his options, he gives another sigh.   

He’s only worked here less than a month and is already disillusioned by the place. 

It isn’t bad. Not in any sense really. The pay is certainly extraordinary. Honestly, if he’d known he could make this much money he would have dropped out of college months ago. 

His immediate boss, Irene, is brusque and cold; but then Sherlock rather likes that about her. Her direct approach is refreshing. And her practicality meant she gave Sherlock a ridiculously flexible contract that no other omega could dream of. 

And last of all the clientele doesn’t at all match the horror stories Wiggins and Molly kept hounding him about before he signed on. But, if he really looks inside himself, he might just realize that perhaps that last fact is in truth the issue. It’s a mostly military clientele, which means they have monstrous self-control and for as many hungry looks as he receives, everyone is mostly respectful and almost tame around him. It makes him feel...undesired. 

He hears Irene's heels click outside his door. "Yes," he states nonchalantly before she can knock, knowing she'll enter even if he were indecent. 

The woman is wearing a scowl as she enters. "You're late. That's the second time this week." Sherlock notes her perfume has a strong yet fake peony quality to it and it makes him smile to himself. Sherlock's scent has a pure peony note to it that only he has. Irene is trying to replicate his pure omega peony scent and clearly failing at, but the fact she's trying to smell like him at all somewhat brightens his mood. 

"So," Sherlock shrugs. "Plenty of other entertainers come in late." 

Her brow furrows even more. "Yes, but they always come in flustered and with an obvious reason, dumb as it might be, for being late. You don't. You practically sashayed into the building." Sherlock eyes find his chest and he bites his bottom lip. So stupid. He chastises himself. He should have known Irene was keeping close watch over him. 

She clutches his chin between her fingers and tilts his head to face her. "Tell me—What is going on. You not only have never been late before but you've always come in early. Eager to work. Excited dare I say. Don't tell me you're bored already." 

"Maybe I am," Sherlock murmurs, yanking his head out of her grip. He looks back at his closet as if he's perusing the choice of tops, but he hears her sharp inhale. The next breath is far smoother.

"Oh, I see." She has a knowing purr in her voice makes Sherlock whip around to confront her seeming deduction. 

"See what?" 

A sinister smirk spreads across her face. 

"You don't like it. That ours is a high class entertainment venue. That we cater to military officers, alphas who by nature of their position have the strongest self- control of any alpha. Balls of steel if you will. I suspect you want to be roughed a bit." Sherlock splutters which only makes Irene smile bigger. "Well, listen pretty thing, you're under my contract now and you're not allowed to work for a sleazy locale even if you wanted."

He yanks a glittery top off its hanger. "I know that," he snaps. "You have no worry about me doing any moonlighting if that's what you're worried about." 

"Good. Your name and reputation are just starting to get out there and I need everyone to know you work for me."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as she starts to leave. At the door she turns back around. "And you should know, Sherlock, the bouncers are quite protective of you." 

The omega arches his eyebrow. "Protective?" 

"For some of them, yes. You think Greg's just in lust and that's why he's always eager to give you a hug, but I've known him for years-the man's repertoire is forever looking for love. His fondness translates to ensuring no client gets as handsy with you as you clearly wish they did. If you want me to talk to him about that, let me know now but I will not allow you to continue to be a drama queen about this."

Sherlock gapes. He knows Irene takes the unvarnished approach but he never expected this level of forthrightness. "No need. I'm fine," he remarks hotly.

"So be it. Now I know you usually take a half hour to get ready but tonight is packed. I need you ready in twenty minutes, no more." With that she leaves, closing the door behind. 

After a record fifteen minutes later, Sherlock looks at himself in the mirror before giving one last spin and deciding on the present choice of outfit. As always, he gives his chocolate ringlets a ruffle and forgoes any make-up. He never wears it—doesn’t need to, unlike other omegas and beta women—but he does quickly swallow down a heat-slash-scent suppressant. He smiles to himself and thinks 'Won't Irene be surprised to see me out on the backstage early.'

Just then, he hears two sets of footsteps fast approaching and before he can say 'come in' the door swings open.

Irene is front and center, Greg the bouncer right behind. Irene’s normally almost-as-pale-as-his-own face is flushed and she’s smiling a genuine happy smile. Greg is an older alpha but capable and no less strong. Sherlock notes the quick hungry-eyed gaze has at seeing the omega in his skimpy clothes but quickly regains his composure. 

“Good. Glad you’re already ready.” She pants, slightly out of breath. She puts her blood-red polished nails on his shoulders and starts leading him out. 

“Listen, tonight I want you to waitress for the beginning of the night, alright?” 

“You have someone you want me to meet.” Sherlock deduces immediately, and instead of pretending otherwise Irene cuts right to the chase. 

“Some very higher-ups in the military command structure are here. We already have good ties with them but nowadays there’s more competition than ever and I need to retain their good favor. And since you’re the prettiest dancer in the country, and happen to be the most clever at knowing what alphas want, I know you’re up for the challenge more than anyone.”

Sherlock blushes a bit. He isn’t a naïve ingenue or anything but hearing Irene place so much praise on him at once is quite lovely to hear. 

“Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll be nearby if they try anything.” Greg says fiercely. Sherlock wants to roll his eyes but remembers Irene's words about him and instead flashes the alpha a fake smile.  

"Janine wasn't a dolt for once and immediately put them  in the Lilac Room." Irene explains as she guides him upstairs and over to one of the large private rooms. It isn't one of the one-on-one special dance rooms, but of an accommodating size where several omegas can entertain a special group of high paying alphas all at once. Usually reserved for conferences or birthdays or the like.

Not wasting anytime, Irene opens the door and practically pushes Sherlock inside. 

Sitting on the velvet chairs and couches and drinking Bourbon is a group of four alphas. 

At Sherlock's entrance they all turn and instantly stand up. Sherlock blinks rapidly. 

Chapter Text

The first thing that strikes Sherlock's senses is the unmistakable and overwhelming smell of alpha cock that not even the heavy-duty scent diffusers can mask.

The next thing is that all four men are attractive, strong-looking alphas. “Hello there,” the oldest of the quad says with sparkling bright blue eyes. He's completely bald but otherwise good-looking and smells of sandalwood. He walks towards Sherlock boldly and takes hold of his extended hand. 

"This is Sherlock, Major," Irene says, voice dripping with obsequiousness. "He's my newest omega dancer." Sherlock doesn't need the push of Irene's hand across his back to know to get this show on the road but it comes all the same. 

Sherlock smiles and gives him a ballet curtsy as the alpha kisses his hand, exclaiming, "What a true beauty,” he murmurs reverently. 

Right away another alpha, smelling of rosewood, is there to take hold of his hand once the major lets it go. This large man has short white-blond hair and a very red face. "Irene, I am blown away. You found quite the prize with this pretty little thing,” he leers, squeezing Sherlock’s hand forcefully. Sherlock does his very best not to wince but the subtle smirk on the man’s face is telling. “Sherlock, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Sebastian.” 

“Pleasure,” Sherlock says with the most insincere smile he has in his very large repertoire, and if Irene reprimands him later for it she can go hang herself. 

Sebastian doesn’t immediately let go of Sherlock’s hand though, and the next alpha—a man with a dark complexion and kind eyes—steps up next to him. 

”Alright, Moran. You can’t expect to monopolize all of his time,” he chuckles with good humor but definitely hips Moran aside. “I’m Bill by the way. You’ll have to forgive these guys; you’d think they never saw an omega before.” 

Bill smells of black pepper and vetiver and Sherlock gives him a genuine smile. He quickly turns to the last alpha in the room—the most handsome and rugged-looking alpha, the one he has been waiting anxiously to make the acquaintance of and witness his response.  

Unlike the others this man has only stood up, he hasn’t moved closer to take his hand. It’s almost rude. Wait, it is rude. Upsettingly so, even. 

Every part of his frame looks broad and brawny and he gives off the aura of a man even other alphas would think thrice about messing with. His wide-jawed face carries the weathered appearance of a man who has lived a life of strife interspersed with crucial moments of laughter that he is forever trying to recapture. Like all soldiers, his grey-brown hair is close-cropped. His eyes, which are dark gray-blue, currently look like they want to devour Sherlock entirely, pinning Sherlock in place with their ravishing stare. Sherlock gasps and can feel heat rise to his pale cheeks more than any other alpha’s stare has ever caused.

What most muddles and intoxicates the omega are the pheromones the alpha is pumping out. Dark. Complicated. Dominant base notes of spices and smoking woods, along with earthiness, leather, and…is that whiskey?—hard to say given he’s drinking liquor—on top. It's the kind of masculine scent that few alphas poses. It makes Sherlock's eyes flutter and feel  

Sherlock’s luck has run rotten it seems—why does the only alpha who isn’t immediately smitten by his omega charms have to be the most handsome alpha, the most powerful smelling alpha. 

Well, Sherlock Holmes didn't make it this far by being a wilting wallflower.

He sashays up to the reticent alpha, swinging his hips in a way that he knows makes Irene extremely happy to see and causes a low reverb growl of desire from the alphas behind him. The alpha before him however only narrows his eyes and knits his brow together, looking equal parts weary and furious. 

There's something about how the man's scent darkens, burning wood coming out stronger, as Sherlock approaches that tells him on an instinctual level this alpha is dangerous. Sure enough the man's eyes, ravenous before, turn downright predatory. 

His inner omega screams turn and run but he doesn't. He can't. He's never been a timid omega in his entire life and he's not going to start now. More to the point, this is what he wanted. This—this eye-darkening rapacious glare from a broad handsome alpha—this is what he wanted. 

He holds out his hand while giving a coy flutter of his lashes knowing his sweet scent of vanilla and floral berries should do the trick, only to be painfully slighted when the man doesn't take it, doesn't fall for his scent. The alpha's eyes only narrow further, purpose and control etched deeply into the lines of his face. He gives Sherlock a nod and tight-lipped smile instead and continues to hold his glass of Bourbon. 

Shame and embarrassment flame Sherlock's face. He turns around quickly, hoping to mask it from the alphas and Irene. 

Bill and Sebastian look amused and annoyed respectively, but on the Major's pale face Sherlock manages to see a flash of concern. Concern not for him but for the alpha Sherlock realizes. The look of worry abruptly dissolves, and he smiles warmly at Sherlock. "You'll have to excuse Watson, Sherlock. He's a primal alpha and possesses, among other things, an extremely high control around omegas. Sometimes that doesn't translate well."

"He doesn't mean to be a buzzkill, he just is." Moran spits out, glaring at Watson. 

"Here, I have an idea," Bill says, attempting to cut the awkward tension. He moves over to a section of the room with 2 couches and 2 chairs arranged so that there's space in between for the entertainer to show-off. "Why don't we get to know each other better over here." 

"Ms. Adler, we can take it from here I believe." The Major says. 

"Certainly, Sholto. I'll leave you to it then, Officers." Irene smiles, adding before she departs. "Don't forget the rules—Sherlock is working tonight as a waitress; he can be tasted but nothing more," she trills. "You can tell no doubt from the berries in his scent that he's a virgin. Any proper desires you have for him must be negotiated with me personally."  

At Irene's parting words a despondent groan goes out among the alphas...except Watson. He emits a low growl when Irene says that they would be able to taste Sherlock. Hearing it sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine and that in turn renews his resolve to make the alpha desire him. He wants more of those possessive sounds; and not just at a distance with a burning, hungry stare, but by touching him. 

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I want to work on something else but don't worry - I won't abandon this, not after my friend let me continue it.