Though I Walk Through the Valley (16/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (16/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: So we've had some fluffiness, we've had some sex... back to the angst it is!
Warnings: Temper-tantrums and pride
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg hummed as he walked down the street case file in hand. The review board had returned its decision and as long as he met all their standards and milestones he was once again cleared for duty.
The hearings hadn’t been too tortuous, but only because he’d known there was nothing to find. He’d answered their questions openly and honestly, they’d thought, and happily provided details regarding his rehabilitation measures: meetings, counselling, financial advisor (generously paid for by Mycroft). He’d spent some time gushing over Mycroft’s contributions to his life from accommodation to advice and even a short term loan (of Greg’s own money), and he rather thought the sincerity he’d displayed there had made up for some of the other rather lacklustre spots in his performance.
Sitting with the auditor from IA had been much more nerve wracking as try as he always did to ensure his case files were kept to NSY’s standards to avoid trouble in Court, he was not perfect and forgetting some of the mounds of bureaucracy generated by the Yard hadn’t sunk a case yet, so his standards had certainly slipped over the years. He wasn’t alone, every DI in the Yard skipped Process Control Form 0042 (PCF42), for example, but they weren’t under review and he was. Luckily one of the first things Mycroft had sorted into their fledgling acquaintance were the legalities around Sherlock’s help, so while the Yard didn’t like to use him because of his attitude, methods (and gender) there wasn’t actually anything wrong with Greg bringing him in on cases.
Thank God, because going through the case files Greg was forced to acknowledge how often he did call Sherlock for help and if Mycroft hadn’t taken precautions.... at the very least Greg’s career would be finished and all his cases appealed before the court.
Of course, completing the paperwork Sherlock was meant to fill out as an official consultant was much easier now John was around and instead of Greg attempting to write up Sherlock’s deductions for the detective to sign, .John wrote them up and even managed to get Sherlock’s input (and signature in multiples of five). Luckily he didn’t get too much of Sherlock’s input and the final statement was still comprehensible to the average copper and less insulting to the world at large than Sherlock would have preferred. If John’s renditions tended to gloss over what Greg suspected were the proceedings of frequently less than legal activities, Greg also knew better than to read too closely.
John had even managed to get Sherlock to sign the backlog of statements from the past three years, something Greg was truly grateful for as the auditor pawed through the files.
They weren’t perfect, he hadn’t dotted every i and crossed every t, but all the necessary paperwork had been grudgingly done and filed, and although a vast number of his cases had been noted as missing things (such as PCF42) it wasn’t enough for any of them to fail yet not so complete they looked artificial.
Even better, his enforced break from cases meant all the administrative crap he had to deal with was done too. His various licences were up to date, he’d taken the required refresher courses and continuous learning seminars for the next (and last) twelve months, his medical was renewed (with a warning to keep an eye on his cholesterol) and his staff reviews were written, edited and submitted. He’d filled out overtime slips (never too out of date or he’d have a riot in the bullpen) and even carefully created a spreadsheet in Microsoft Excel to keep track of things, thanks in no small part to the help function, Google, and Sally, who was sort of speaking to him, and sort of not still giving him the cold shoulder over everything that had happened. It probably didn’t help that her tumultuous relationship with Anderson was off again, but she was slowly responding to his stream of demotivational posters and funny cat videos from youtube. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was able to see the tree line.
Now he had his first case back on the job and it was a good one. He’d noticed some time ago he tended to be assigned more of the gruesome, challenging, mysterious and outright bizarre cases than the other DIs, even when scheduling and caseloads dictated that by rights they should have gone to one of his colleagues. It didn’t take a genius to work out it was because of, as reluctant as the Yard was to have anything to do with him, Sherlock. The fact that the other DIs didn’t want to work with him didn’t mean they didn’t want the cases solved. Inbuilt prejudices aside, they weren’t bad people, even Gregson, and if they couldn’t stomach him for the length of a case, at least they’d ensure that Greg who could got the cases they needed Sherlock’s help on.
Mostly.
There were plenty of cases they needed Sherlock on and refused to admit it, especially after he Bonded, but Greg getting this case as his first one back made him wonder whether maybe, just maybe, the Yard’s crusty old attitude might be shifting concerning their consulting genius.
That was Greg’s preferred view of the facts anyway. The alternative, that his colleagues were too lazy to even try to solve the complicated ones or that they were actively angling for Greg to fail by flooding him with what they viewed as dead end mysteries, didn’t bare thinking about. He didn’t believe either of those, well, maybe a little with some of the older, more sedentary DIs, but he refused to believe it was a general attitude outside the usual percentage of arseholes that inhabited every workplace. As a whole, the Yard was a family and like or hate, family didn’t do that.
So here he was heading down Baker Street with a small apology clasped in his hand and hopefully some small relief for John. A year ago it wouldn’t have been a huge problem that Greg spent a month on desk duty with no cases, but a year ago the other officers down at the Yard were still willing to call in the arrogant Alpha Dom consultant with the mystical magical answers. Potentially changing attitude or not, they were not willing to work with the Omega Sub so a lack of cases for Greg meant a lack for Sherlock. As there currently seemed to be a drought of puzzles from the website, Sherlock had been left high and dry for a month, growing increasingly aggravated with Greg and his artificially contrived suspension.
Greg felt honestly sorry for John, knowing that his fellow Alpha would have been bearing the full brunt of Sherlock’s increasingly caustic wit and volatile moods in an effort to save the flat from utter annihilation. With any luck this would at least provide him with some respite and once Sherlock had solved it and collapsed, maybe even some rest.
Whistling softly Greg let himself in to 221 using the key Mrs Hudson had provided for him after yet another 3am wake-up to return one, the other, or both of her semi-conscious, possibly bleeding (once very drunk), tenants. As Sherlock appeared to have a distaste for answering the door the key was of particular use when John was at work and Mrs Hudson otherwise occupied.
Mycroft, he thought smugly, didn’t have a key. Greg was trying very hard not to rub the fact he did in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft knew, of course he knew, but so far Greg had refrained from using it in his presence.
His head whirling with thoughts about the case, a rather ordinary suicide if the man weren’t on five separate police watch lists, it took him twelve of the seventeen steps to realise something was off and another two for the scent to penetrate his distracted mind and the pieces to fall together, after which he turned tail and fled down the stairs.
This, Greg swore, was very inconvenient timing. He didn’t need Sherlock on this one, but it’d be two or three cases in his backlog before the end of the day and he’d wanted to get a good start before they landed on his desk. Luckily his mind hadn’t been too far away because God that could have been embarrassing.
“Gregory.” There was the slightest questioning lilt to Mycroft’s voice, without asking the question outright. He was probably wondering why Greg was standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street flushing bright red with a file in his hand.
“Mycroft. Here for?” Greg waved a hand that took in Mycroft’s briefcase and the building behind it.
“Yes, I thought Sherlock might be desperate enough by now to take some legwork off my hands, though I see you’ve had a similar idea and still have the file. Maybe this one will be more to his interests.”
Mycroft turned to continue his way into the building, causing Greg to grab wildly at his passing arm. Luckily living together for the past two weeks had given Greg some immunity to the seemingly endless pheromones Mycroft’s body was producing else things may have ended up even more embarrassing than they already were.
“You really don’t want to go up there.” Greg knew he went a deeper shade of red at the reminder of exactly what was going on upstairs.
“I...see.” Mycroft stepped off the verge and back onto the street. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Trust my brother to succumb to an Estrus cycle just when he might actually be useful.”
“Better than him shooting the wall.”
“Oh I have no doubt the good doctor is most heartily in favour of this... method of distraction.”
“Yeah, thanks Mycroft.” Greg winced. “Was trying really hard not to think about what might be going on up there.”
“With any luck the conception of my nephew.” Mycroft blithely replied. “The mechanics are predictable in such a situation. During Estrus there are rarely large quantities of creativity involved.”
Greg covered his ears and dramatically shook his head, eyes shut tight as he attempted to rid himself of the mental images.
“It’s merely biology, Gregory.” There was a hint of reproach in Mycroft’s voice, as though because he was perfectly comfortable discussing his baby brother’s sex life Greg should be as well.
“It’s your brother and my friend. There is no ‘merely biology’ about it.”
“As you insist, Gregory.” It was typical Holmesian capitulation whereby you won nothing and were left feeling totally unreasonably in the wrong. “I’ll be late this evening.”
“You will eat though?” Greg couldn’t help the instinctive worry.
“Yes, so there is no need to leave leftovers.” Mycroft couldn’t quite hide his nose’s crinkle of distaste.
Leftovers were one of those areas they’d discovered they didn’t match and had been forced to compromise. Overall they’d settled in together almost supernaturally well, aided no doubt by pheromones smoothing the way, but there were spots of contention and a number of them surrounded the fridge.
Mycroft believed in portion control and only ever cooked what his ridiculously strict eating regime dictated as a meal, meaning he always cleaned his plate. Greg on the other hand grew up with leftovers, survived to this day on eating the remains of a big meal or two at a later date. The compromise was that Greg could have his leftovers, but whatever he didn’t eat for lunch the next day was disposed of. There would be no four day old mystery Chinese in Mycroft’s fridge.
There was to be very little takeaway in the house, something Greg had conceded on the basis of preservatives and various additives. Not none, after all they’d always eaten takeaway together in the past, but certain culinary choices had been removed from the pool by Mrs Potts, a large article regarding the effect of certain compounds on developing minds left taped prominently to the fridge.
Pizza had been taken out of contention as well, but that was entirely due to the fat, grease and general un-healthiness of the food. It was one of the few things Mycroft had outright put his foot down about and banned, something Greg suspected he’d been trying to do since Greg had first presented him with a takeaway pizza.
“Will do.” Greg threw Mycroft a sloppy salute which garnered an eye roll as Mycroft moved to the car.
“Mycroft.” Greg called nervously as the car door opened. “Do you think... is there much chance...” He trailed off and jerked a thumb at the door to 221.
“I hope so. Until this evening, Gregory.” Mycroft slid into the car which silently pulled away from the kerb and down the street.
So no Mycroft tonight and Greg had an Arsenal game recorded on the expensive PVR. Greg walked back towards the tube, whistling the Arsenal theme. A bit of good old fashioned police work, then a disgustingly greasy takeaway pizza in front of the TV with a beer. As long as he disposed of evidence, Mycroft need never know.
All in all, life was good.
It was a week before Greg saw hide or hair of either of the Baker Street duo. It wasn’t that unusual, he certainly went longer without seeing them normally, but this was different. He knew how much a child would mean to John and Sherlock, and he was nervous for them. God only knows how they felt, but Greg was stretched to a wire.
He’d been trying to work out when to contact them, the ‘suicide’ had actually proven to be a suicide (apparently being filthy rich wasn’t enough when everyone hated you), but Greg had now added two murders and a potential sexual assault to his case list and he would have appreciated Sherlock’s help with one of the murders. It was just so hard to predict a good time to call. Heat usually lasted three to four days, but could be as long as six for a Bonded pair. Even after the cycle, most Alphas, when they weren’t kicked out straight afterwards like Greg had been (and to be fair, 60% of other Alphas as well), preferred to pamper their Omegas, making sure they ate, ensuring they had adequate sleep, massaging sore limbs until they normally got forcibly evicted by their overcrowded Omegas as well, Bonded or no.
Most people enjoyed a little pampering. An Alpha caring for the potential bearer of their child after Heat was well and truly into overbearing, and even the most mild mannered and submissive Omega had a limit.
Sherlock was Sherlock.
There was a definite limit to how much fussing John would be allowed.
On the other hand, Sherlock had been in strife with his Alpha not that long ago, so an increased fussing threshold? Two days or three? Four? They’d been out in public one day after Heat last time, but there had just been another serial murder and there wasn’t much Sherlock wouldn’t manage to get waved, voided, or otherwise removed from his path for a serial killer. If the victim had turned up a day earlier, Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had telepathically known and shown up still in Heat.
He assumed the day he’d turned up at Baker Street had been the start of Sherlock’s cycle else Mycroft would have known. That had been Wednesday, it was now Thursday week, which meant Sherlock and John would be free anytime from four days ago to three days hence.
With a sigh Greg dragged his attention back to Anderson’s forensic report on the sexual assault site. Apparently Botany had matched the plant matter on the complainant’s clothes to the area the supposed assault had occurred, confirming the possible crime scene, and the Medical report confirmed there had been sex. The problem, as ever haunted rape cases in remote areas with no witnesses, was consent. It was going to come down to a ‘he said, she said’ and who was more convincing before the jury.
He hated these cases; there was always so little the police work could add once the sexual act had been established, and it was always heart breaking to see the toll on the victims in Court, worse than any murder, as every aspect of their life and character was aired to the world, measured, shredded, and analysed by strangers, whether the law said it should be or not.
It would be nice, he mused, if Sherlock and John got pregnant this time around. God knows he still couldn’t see the younger detective as a parent, but Sherlock and John both wanted it and their kids could grow up together. It wasn’t as if his son was ever going to have a brother, so a cousin around the same age would be the next best thing. It would certainly be convenient for day care and babysitting though, Greg tapped his pen idly against the report, he could also see it degenerating into a ‘my baby is better than your baby’ rivalry between the brothers. He could already tell he and John would need to keep an eye on that to stop every milestone becoming ammunition.
It’d be good though. They’d only need one more player for the five-a-side father and sons indoor football competition he’d found. Mycroft would never play, but maybe Sherlock.... no, okay, that was a silly idea, but four was a good start and with another father-son duo they’d even have an alternate to sit on the bench.
John’d probably want the kids to play rugby like he had, but that could wait until the boys were older and until then Greg would take them for football. They would, of course, be Arsenal supporters. John could choose their rugby team, but he was not so involved in football that any of his vague misguided Tottenham sympathies would be allowed to infect the younger generation. Greg was sure they could reach an acceptable compromise. If not, his son would grow up supporting France in the rugby, just because Greg could. (With that hanging over his head as a threat, Greg rather expected John to concede).
Even better, this way the little tyke’d have someone he knew to go to school with him. Greg didn’t even entertain a passing fancy he’d win the schooling argument, and wasn’t even sure he wanted to try. He wasn’t keen on the idea of his son going away to school, but Eton was Eton, a very large improvement on the local comprehensive Greg was an alumni of, and surely if he were going with his cousin it wouldn’t be too bad. Not every kid who came out of public school was as emotionally stunted as the Holmeses.
Maybe a local school for the first few years before Eton, or would that cause problems for him once he got there? Greg was no stranger to bullying, personally or professionally. As a kid he’d come home covered in cuts and bruises more often than not from fights, a good portion of them against bullies, though he’d be lying if he tried to claim the majority. Truth was, given his family, he’d just been an angry kid.
Some of those fights though had been against bullies of the physical sort, and since joining the police and then the Yard he’d been exposed to the more insidious forms - the hushed whispers from girls, the ostracizing snubs of the well off, and increasingly, cyber-bullying because common sense seemed to have skipped this generation entirely and there was no filter between fingers, Facebook and the world.
He never was called in for the physical bullying that had seen him suspended for fighting so many times, Alpha pride and rash macho need to cover up his lack of Dominance with fists not helping his temper, but these more toxic types of bullying he was starting to see more and more, usually when the victim snapped and killed either themselves or their persecutor. So far they hadn’t had any of the mass killing sprees so common in the United States, but Greg wondered how long things could continue along their downward spiral before someone felt trapped into going that route.
As a policeman, the waste of young life was draining. As a future father, it was terrifying.
He’d have to talk to Sherlock. It was no use talking to Mycroft. Even if Mycroft had been bullied, stiff upper lip and damnable pride would prevent him saying anything, and if he hadn’t been, which Greg suspected as to his peers, even then, Mycroft would have been a very Dominant Alpha from a good family with a politician’s silver tongue, My was the type to never break the unwritten code of silence between public school boys.
Sherlock on the other hand was quick witted, abrasive and could not keep his mouth shut. Mycroft would have already graduated for most of Sherlock’s schooling so he wouldn’t have had any protection provided by his older Dominant brother, nor any restraining control. Greg had no doubt Sherlock would have been the target of bullies. How much he’d cared was possibly up for debate, Greg was willing to bet on significantly more than Sherlock ever showed, but either way, he would know, and more importantly, he would talk. Forewarned was forearmed.
He needed to start thinking of baby names. Here he was planning the kid’s schooling and after school activities, and he didn’t even have a name yet. Mycroft was, Greg did a quick mental tally, around four months along meaning he’d be leaving in a couple of months for his conference thingy Anthea had arranged to cover his absence from the office while he was noticeably pregnant. The workload had already ramped up in preparation, and Mycroft was spending longer hours at the office, including substantial portions of the weekend in his study working from home. Their nightly Sessions were starting later and later, Greg usually catching a nap in front of the TV until Mycroft was done and came to fetch him. Greg worried about the stress on the baby, but what could he do? He certainly couldn’t offer to help.
At least Mycroft was still there when Greg woke up, curled subconsciously to protect his abdomen. Greg didn’t mind that Mycroft was always curled away from him because he doubted Mycroft had much of a choice. He was always plastered to Mycroft’s back, one arm protectively curled over Mycroft’s chest and nose buried in his neck. Thank God he hadn’t drooled on Mycroft yet in his sleep.
The wake up alarm was going off earlier and earlier as well. Greg had fit a jog in before getting to the Yard at 7:30 that morning. He’d already decided that if Mycroft snuck it any earlier they were going to have words. Mycroft needed the rest. Their baby needed the rest.
“Day dreaming, Lestrade? How horribly unproductive. No wonder the Yard fails to solve so many crimes a year if its inspectors are reduced to adolescent wanderings.” Sherlock Holmes, leading contender in the Git of the Year awards, threw himself into the empty chair opposite Greg.
“Sherlock! How are-” Greg started, falling back on no insincere pleasantries as he was startled out of his thoughts.
“What load of trivial drivel is your mind too idiotic to sort through? You must have something. The collective intelligence of your team couldn’t fill a teaspoon.” Sherlock’s voice was acerbic and it wouldn’t have taken much imagination to visualise the icicles appearing on every surface.
It was one of those days. There hadn’t been any of those days since the introduction of one Doctor John Watson into the mix, but two years of relative Sherlock bliss couldn’t wipe them from Greg’s mind.
He wordlessly handed over the file. Sherlock flipped it open then shut.
“Pathetic.” Sherlock leapt to his feet and stormed out of the room, taking the file with him.
“He’s a little tense.” John’s voice came apologetically from the doorway as he slid through in Sherlock’s wake.
Greg raised a sarcastic eyebrow. John let out a bark of strained laughter and collapsed into the chair.
“Okay, maybe more than a little.” His fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh.
“Did something go wrong during...?” Greg tentatively asked.
“Huh? Oh, what, no. No, nothing unusual or unexpected.” John’s fingers tapped with increasing agitation. In the distance Sherlock could be heard verbally eviscerating whichever poor Yard official he’d selected as prey.
“It’s just he might be,” John burst out suddenly. “There’s always the possibility that he’s...”
“Well that’s good yeah?” Greg prompted calmly.
“Yes, no, I don’t...I want a child, but... He’s so stressed about it, you know, with the Work and everything. It’d be so limiting for him.”
John’s leg was jiggling in counter time to his fingers and his eyes were pinned to the glass wall.
“When will you be able to tell for sure?” Greg kept his voice steady. The younger Alpha was clearly not handling the uncertainty any better than his Omega.
“Sometimes it’s possible to tell within five days, but it can take up to ten for the hormone level to build sufficiently to register. After that, a negative result is a negative result.” The other leg started vibrating as well.
“And so far?” Greg knew the answer, it was obvious from their conversation, but he asked anyway.
John shrugged and vibrated harder.
“John,” Greg said gently. Slowly the doctor turned to face him. “Everything’ll be fine. You’re both young still. You’ve got time.”
John bit his lip. “But what if he-”
A crying constable fled past Greg’s door.
“Shit, I have to go.” John jumped to his feet and rushed out to restrain his temperamental Sub without finishing his sentence.
Greg sighed and leant back in his chair. He just bet he knew what John had been going to say, and couldn’t stop wondering how much better Sherlock and John would be handling the waiting period if they’d just talk and realise they both wanted the same thing, but there were obviously other issues involved else John would have brought it up with Sherlock by now, knowing better than to rely on Sherlock to understand emotional cues, he usually didn’t, so all Greg could do was stand back and hope they sorted it out. It wasn’t his place to interfere in other people’s relationships, though this was rapidly becoming a case where he’d make an exception.
It was a sentiment he’d revisit with gritted teeth two days later in the dismal Sunday pre-dawn as Sherlock ripped through his team making three different PC’s and Sally cry while John stood back against the wall looking utterly disheartened.
He wanted to blurt it out then and there, force them to deal with one another rather than taking out on innocent third parties. Instead he dragged Sally away from Sherlock and caught her flying wrists before she came anywhere close to connecting with him, that John would get involved in (probably forcefully), and reflected that it really was the worst week for Sally and Anderson to be on the outs leaving Sally on little to no sleep and overly emotional following a heated confrontation in the bullpen the day before.
Which Sherlock would have realised in seconds.
He didn’t know what Sherlock had said, but he didn’t doubt Sally had tried to verbally strike back. Given Sherlock had gone onto reduce her to tears, whatever she’d said had obviously struck home.
“Donovan, go secure the perimeter.” He pushed her out of the room and away from Sherlock. “You,” he rounded on the Omega, “get the hell off my crime scene.”
Sherlock defiantly flipped his curls and sneered. “You need me.”
“Yes, I do.” Greg barked back, furious because he really did need Sherlock on this one, “but I can’t work with you like this so Get. Off. My. Crime. Scene!”
“Nonsense-”
“NOW!” Greg roared.
It was almost worth the look of shock on Sherlock’s face, would have been if Greg hadn’t seen the hurt before Sherlock covered it up with a sneer and stormed out of the room.
“Fair enough, Greg.” John pushed off the wall. His movements were slightly robotic and his gaze vacant. Greg wondered where in his mind John Watson had locked himself away and what demons he was fighting.
“John...” Greg watched him drift out of the door and sighed.
He could understand that Sherlock was nervous and lashing out, but it was impossible to work with him if he was going to be like that.
There would be repercussions from kicking Sherlock out, but what else could he do? He hated doing it, but even knowing Sherlock’s antagonistic behaviour was a plea for understanding he’d never accept, Greg had no choice. He resigned himself to stony silences and caterwauling violins whenever he went around to Baker Street for the foreseeable duration.
When it came down to it, Sherlock was a child with no emotional maturity. He’d dared to bring his walls down, to show Greg how much he did actually value him, and then been stung. Somehow Greg would have to make it up to him, reassure that his reaction was everything to do with the Work, and Greg’s job, and keeping Sherlock from being permanently kicked off, and nothing else. Normally he’d leave this to John, but something was going on there and from the looks of things he couldn’t rely on that happening this time.
The door shut with a firm thud just short of slamming as Greg slouched back into the house wearing his mood as a shroud.
“Welcome home.” Mycroft lounged sardonically against the door to his study.
“What are you doing home?” Greg growled flustered.
He hadn’t expected Mycroft and being caught indulging in a childish temper tantrum stung his pride and heightened his annoyance. The anger lay coiled in his chest just waiting for something to strike out at and Mycroft, leaning like an upper class tosser against the door, was a target waiting to happen. Greg stormed past him to the kitchen.
“I was released from the office early.” Mycroft blithely answered his question, following carelessly behind him.
‘Released from the office’ was one of Mycroft’s euphemisms for ‘I was kicked out’.
“Really?” Greg snarled as he yanked the fridge door open.
“I have been working more hours than is advisable in my condition. Apparently my assistant will now be enforcing normal office hours and restricting weekend work.”
Greg slammed the fridge door shut as best he could, being a fridge door.
Of course Mycroft was home because She had told him to be. He was Mycroft’s Alpha and if he’d said any of the things he’d been wanting to say, put his foot down about Mycroft’s hours and demanded he be home to relax and sleep, Mycroft would have walled him out with stony silence and done it anyway, but Her, She says go home and here Mycroft was before Greg was even home and Greg couldn’t even have a fucking beer while he de-stressed because Mycroft had raised an eyebrow and remained pointedly silent when Greg had gone to put a six-pack in the fridge so Greg had poured it down the sink feeling irrationally guilty.
Mycroft raised the same eyebrow and looked at Greg.
“What?” Greg snapped. “Something you want to say?”
“Would you like to tell me about your day, Gregory?” Mycroft asked mildly.
“Tell you about my day? Sure, why not, it was brilliant. Great day. Absolutely brilliant. Had a screaming match with your brother because he was being an arrogant arse and kicked him off a crime scene I needed him on. So because he wasn’t there I don’t doubt we’ve missed fifty million ‘obvious’ clues and we’ll lose this one because my forensic guys have nothing, nada, zip, though it might help if my crime scene analyst had more of his mind focused on his job and less on his dick.”
“Things not going well between Anderson and Sergeant Donovan then?”
Greg let out a strangled laugh.
“Not going well? Oh let’s think about this. Anderson still refuses to admit he’s gay even three years later, point blank won’t consider leaving his Sub, and in an idiotic and misguided attempt to prove he isn’t gay and so is sleeping with Sally for God knows what reason, he decided to fuck the new PC who hadn’t been there long enough to know better and in her 100% Submissive way fawned over him the day after in front of Sally. The resulting explosion ended with tears, flying stationary, and me sending them both home early, so I think it’s going bloody swimmingly, don’t you?”
Mycroft said nothing, letting Greg’s anger flow past him. Unfortunately the control only aggravated Greg who wanted a response, wanted Mycroft to strike back so he could be justified at lashing out at someone.
“And then your bloody brother decided to tear Sally apart over my dead body just when she can’t take anymore shit, and John’s got his head so far up his own bloody arse he’s doing nothing to restrain Sherlock who is cutting through my officers like butter a WEEK after I get off suspension and I just fucking bet there’ll be complaints now and I’ll be pulled in to Packenham’s poxy office and put on report, again, one week, one fucking week after I’m allowed to go back to doing my job!
“And then I get home, and I can’t even have a fucking beer!” Greg roared, sweeping his arm across the table and sending the sale and pepper flying violently into the wall.
“Gregory, kneel.” Mycroft barked, sending Greg crashing to his knees.
Greg didn’t try to stand, collapsing forward onto his hands, chest heaving with emotion. It was unfair, so totally bloody unfair. Life had been good and now things were going to shit again because Sherlock and John couldn’t hold a goddam conversation and he ranked lower on Mycroft’s list of people to listen to than his Omega’s bloody PA.
His elbows collapsed and he curled with his arms tugged into his chest.
Why? All he’d wanted was to catch a killer and come home to his love and let the day go away, but one Holmes had screwed up the first part of that and the other the latter. He’d have been fine if he could have just come home, grabbed his beer and brooded in front of the TV, but no, of course he couldn’t do that because his love’s PA had decided it was best for Greg’s Mate and Greg’s baby if Mycroft got more sleep and sent him home early.
Mycroft moved past him and vague sounds of pots and pans clattered through the kitchen.
Of course Mycroft hadn’t reacted, hadn’t given Greg the space or fight he needed, just stood there like an upper class ponce in his ridiculous three piece suit and silk ties and Egyptian cotton custom made shirts and wanted to Talk about it. Where Greg was from Alpha’s didn’t talk.
The fridge opened and shut behind Greg followed by the brisk slicing of one of the wickedly sharp kitchen knives through vegetables. Reluctantly Greg pushed upright and went to stand.
“Stay.”
Greg’s knees locked, refusing to let him rise, leaving him stuck on the tiles in the middle of the kitchen.
Kneeling like a disobedient Submissive chit.
Punishment.
The Alpha in Greg gritted his teeth as his blood began to boil. He was not some weak willed Sub who craved a Dom’s control over every aspect of his life, needed it to function properly. Greg didn’t even need a Dom. He’d survived on his own for years. He was here with Mycroft because he wanted to be and loved him.
The sounds behind him had moved to the stove. The fizz of oil as Mycroft heated the pan and scent of sautéed onions filled the kitchen.
Punishment.
Punishment because Greg had struck out physically, out of control verbally and emotionally. There was nothing stopping Greg lifting his head to look around, but he let it hang. There was no need to look over at the wall to know the reproaching shards of glass mixed with peppercorns and salt flakes were still there.
Punishment because Greg had been ticked off, legitimately angry at Sherlock, Sherlock who was going to get him into trouble at work while he was still on probation, who was going to destroy all the ground Greg had managed to reclaim with friends and colleagues at work. He was accepted again and not grudgingly or with sideways glances because he was That DI, the One who worked with the Freak. He was human again, a person to them once more, and Sherlock was taking that away before Greg had even had a chance to get used to it.
The stove was clicked off and the soft scrape of utensils as Mycroft plated up their dinner. Long legs passed Greg’s field of vision, but there was no order to stand or join him as Mycroft settled at the table.
Sherlock’s fault, all Sherlock’s fucking fault because he wouldn’t have a simple conversation with John, let him know they were both in the same place, and as a result Greg was here kneeling on his kitchen floor as Mycroft ate dinner and ignored him less than an arm’s length away.
He’d risked his relationship for Sherlock, had risked losing his Omega and his child for him. Mycroft wasn’t Bonded to Greg, he could leave him without a second thought and be none the worse for it while Greg lived with the knowledge of what he’d lost. Yes, Sherlock had stuck his neck out too, but Greg had fixed that as best he could and this was how Sherlock repaid him, by driving Mycroft away from him?
“Eat.”
Greg’s mouth obediently fell open as Mycroft finger fed him a carrot.
He’d made enough allowances for Sherlock over the years, excused his behaviour as an addict because his genius was genuinely never affected, merely the transport, too frail to support the flame that burnt inside. He’d forgiven him for using Greg as his verbal punching bag whenever he felt like it, ignored his unprofessional behaviour and childish outbursts because he’d always been fond of him, always cared that little bit too much about the lanky kid he’d almost arrested for solicitation before he’d turned around in Greg’s passenger seat and informed Greg that he was a policeman in the Serious Crimes Unit helping out Vice on an undercover run on the hot spots and that he, Sherlock, knew who Greg’s murderer was for the Sampson case and Greg’s DI had it totally wrong.
Greg accepted another mouthful.
Why should he have to clean up Sherlock’s messes all the time? He was 32, almost as old as Greg had been when he’d almost arrested him the first time. The fact that Sherlock had the emotional age of a child was his problem, not Greg’s.
Where in all this was John, leaning casually against the wall and letting Sherlock run wild in a way he hadn’t even before they were together. John was the responsible one, John was supposed to show some bloody maturity. How the fuck could he justify his behaviour, ignoring Sherlock while the Sub vibrated out of his skin with anxiety?
Mycroft’s fingers pushed another bite of food between yielding lips and Greg was softly ordered to chew, fingers lingering comfortingly on his lips just a second longer than necessary.
Sherlock was in a state and John was just letting it continue. It made Greg so angry on so many levels that they couldn’t sort their issues, or at least keep them inside the house. Their relationship had recently been shaken, surely they should be making more of an effort to talk and connect not less? (Bite). What on Earth was going on?
A glass of water was pressed against his lips and Greg obediently tilted his head back and sipped on command. The water was grounding, bringing him back to the taste of lemongrass in his mouth from the food and the dry nature of his throat. The glass stayed in place and he took a longer swallow.
The cold from the tiles had seeped into his knees, making him feel stiff and achy, muscles cramped from kneeling for however long. He took another long drink to finish the glass and felt himself pulled forward until his forehead rested against Mycroft’s thigh. The anger had drained out of him as he knelt, leaving him feeling hollow and craving attention.
“Now,” Mycroft asked calmly, “what are you actually angry about?”
Tears pricked the corners of Greg’s eyes.
“I hurt him,” He mumbled into Mycroft’s thigh, the burn growing behind his eyelids. “I hurt him.”
Fingers smoothed over his hair and he felt one of the building tears break free and soak into the material below.
“I didn’t want to... I’m not meant to...” He lifted his head beseechingly. “Why did he make me hurt him, My?”
A thumb caught and wiped away a tear that trickled down Greg’s cheek, pent up anger giving way and leaching out once and for all.
He hadn’t wanted to yell at Sherlock and it hurt him to see the troubled youngster in so much avoidable pain. It could be so easily solved, but not by Greg. He was helpless before the onslaught and was so angry that Sherlock had forced him to add to it, to cause him more pain and make Greg to take away one of the few precious distractions from the anguish Sherlock was in.
“I didn’t want to hurt him.” Greg whispered again, lowering his forehead back onto Mycroft’s thigh, soaking up the comfort freely given.
“I know.” Mycroft trailed his fingers down the nape of Greg’s neck, soothing as he went.
“Please?” Greg’s voice cracked as he looked up. Please take me upstairs, take me to bed, and make me feel loved.
The hand gently pulled Greg to his feet. “Come with me.”
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Previous - Next
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Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (16/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: So we've had some fluffiness, we've had some sex... back to the angst it is!
Warnings: Temper-tantrums and pride
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg hummed as he walked down the street case file in hand. The review board had returned its decision and as long as he met all their standards and milestones he was once again cleared for duty.
The hearings hadn’t been too tortuous, but only because he’d known there was nothing to find. He’d answered their questions openly and honestly, they’d thought, and happily provided details regarding his rehabilitation measures: meetings, counselling, financial advisor (generously paid for by Mycroft). He’d spent some time gushing over Mycroft’s contributions to his life from accommodation to advice and even a short term loan (of Greg’s own money), and he rather thought the sincerity he’d displayed there had made up for some of the other rather lacklustre spots in his performance.
Sitting with the auditor from IA had been much more nerve wracking as try as he always did to ensure his case files were kept to NSY’s standards to avoid trouble in Court, he was not perfect and forgetting some of the mounds of bureaucracy generated by the Yard hadn’t sunk a case yet, so his standards had certainly slipped over the years. He wasn’t alone, every DI in the Yard skipped Process Control Form 0042 (PCF42), for example, but they weren’t under review and he was. Luckily one of the first things Mycroft had sorted into their fledgling acquaintance were the legalities around Sherlock’s help, so while the Yard didn’t like to use him because of his attitude, methods (and gender) there wasn’t actually anything wrong with Greg bringing him in on cases.
Thank God, because going through the case files Greg was forced to acknowledge how often he did call Sherlock for help and if Mycroft hadn’t taken precautions.... at the very least Greg’s career would be finished and all his cases appealed before the court.
Of course, completing the paperwork Sherlock was meant to fill out as an official consultant was much easier now John was around and instead of Greg attempting to write up Sherlock’s deductions for the detective to sign, .John wrote them up and even managed to get Sherlock’s input (and signature in multiples of five). Luckily he didn’t get too much of Sherlock’s input and the final statement was still comprehensible to the average copper and less insulting to the world at large than Sherlock would have preferred. If John’s renditions tended to gloss over what Greg suspected were the proceedings of frequently less than legal activities, Greg also knew better than to read too closely.
John had even managed to get Sherlock to sign the backlog of statements from the past three years, something Greg was truly grateful for as the auditor pawed through the files.
They weren’t perfect, he hadn’t dotted every i and crossed every t, but all the necessary paperwork had been grudgingly done and filed, and although a vast number of his cases had been noted as missing things (such as PCF42) it wasn’t enough for any of them to fail yet not so complete they looked artificial.
Even better, his enforced break from cases meant all the administrative crap he had to deal with was done too. His various licences were up to date, he’d taken the required refresher courses and continuous learning seminars for the next (and last) twelve months, his medical was renewed (with a warning to keep an eye on his cholesterol) and his staff reviews were written, edited and submitted. He’d filled out overtime slips (never too out of date or he’d have a riot in the bullpen) and even carefully created a spreadsheet in Microsoft Excel to keep track of things, thanks in no small part to the help function, Google, and Sally, who was sort of speaking to him, and sort of not still giving him the cold shoulder over everything that had happened. It probably didn’t help that her tumultuous relationship with Anderson was off again, but she was slowly responding to his stream of demotivational posters and funny cat videos from youtube. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was able to see the tree line.
Now he had his first case back on the job and it was a good one. He’d noticed some time ago he tended to be assigned more of the gruesome, challenging, mysterious and outright bizarre cases than the other DIs, even when scheduling and caseloads dictated that by rights they should have gone to one of his colleagues. It didn’t take a genius to work out it was because of, as reluctant as the Yard was to have anything to do with him, Sherlock. The fact that the other DIs didn’t want to work with him didn’t mean they didn’t want the cases solved. Inbuilt prejudices aside, they weren’t bad people, even Gregson, and if they couldn’t stomach him for the length of a case, at least they’d ensure that Greg who could got the cases they needed Sherlock’s help on.
Mostly.
There were plenty of cases they needed Sherlock on and refused to admit it, especially after he Bonded, but Greg getting this case as his first one back made him wonder whether maybe, just maybe, the Yard’s crusty old attitude might be shifting concerning their consulting genius.
That was Greg’s preferred view of the facts anyway. The alternative, that his colleagues were too lazy to even try to solve the complicated ones or that they were actively angling for Greg to fail by flooding him with what they viewed as dead end mysteries, didn’t bare thinking about. He didn’t believe either of those, well, maybe a little with some of the older, more sedentary DIs, but he refused to believe it was a general attitude outside the usual percentage of arseholes that inhabited every workplace. As a whole, the Yard was a family and like or hate, family didn’t do that.
So here he was heading down Baker Street with a small apology clasped in his hand and hopefully some small relief for John. A year ago it wouldn’t have been a huge problem that Greg spent a month on desk duty with no cases, but a year ago the other officers down at the Yard were still willing to call in the arrogant Alpha Dom consultant with the mystical magical answers. Potentially changing attitude or not, they were not willing to work with the Omega Sub so a lack of cases for Greg meant a lack for Sherlock. As there currently seemed to be a drought of puzzles from the website, Sherlock had been left high and dry for a month, growing increasingly aggravated with Greg and his artificially contrived suspension.
Greg felt honestly sorry for John, knowing that his fellow Alpha would have been bearing the full brunt of Sherlock’s increasingly caustic wit and volatile moods in an effort to save the flat from utter annihilation. With any luck this would at least provide him with some respite and once Sherlock had solved it and collapsed, maybe even some rest.
Whistling softly Greg let himself in to 221 using the key Mrs Hudson had provided for him after yet another 3am wake-up to return one, the other, or both of her semi-conscious, possibly bleeding (once very drunk), tenants. As Sherlock appeared to have a distaste for answering the door the key was of particular use when John was at work and Mrs Hudson otherwise occupied.
Mycroft, he thought smugly, didn’t have a key. Greg was trying very hard not to rub the fact he did in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft knew, of course he knew, but so far Greg had refrained from using it in his presence.
His head whirling with thoughts about the case, a rather ordinary suicide if the man weren’t on five separate police watch lists, it took him twelve of the seventeen steps to realise something was off and another two for the scent to penetrate his distracted mind and the pieces to fall together, after which he turned tail and fled down the stairs.
This, Greg swore, was very inconvenient timing. He didn’t need Sherlock on this one, but it’d be two or three cases in his backlog before the end of the day and he’d wanted to get a good start before they landed on his desk. Luckily his mind hadn’t been too far away because God that could have been embarrassing.
“Gregory.” There was the slightest questioning lilt to Mycroft’s voice, without asking the question outright. He was probably wondering why Greg was standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street flushing bright red with a file in his hand.
“Mycroft. Here for?” Greg waved a hand that took in Mycroft’s briefcase and the building behind it.
“Yes, I thought Sherlock might be desperate enough by now to take some legwork off my hands, though I see you’ve had a similar idea and still have the file. Maybe this one will be more to his interests.”
Mycroft turned to continue his way into the building, causing Greg to grab wildly at his passing arm. Luckily living together for the past two weeks had given Greg some immunity to the seemingly endless pheromones Mycroft’s body was producing else things may have ended up even more embarrassing than they already were.
“You really don’t want to go up there.” Greg knew he went a deeper shade of red at the reminder of exactly what was going on upstairs.
“I...see.” Mycroft stepped off the verge and back onto the street. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Trust my brother to succumb to an Estrus cycle just when he might actually be useful.”
“Better than him shooting the wall.”
“Oh I have no doubt the good doctor is most heartily in favour of this... method of distraction.”
“Yeah, thanks Mycroft.” Greg winced. “Was trying really hard not to think about what might be going on up there.”
“With any luck the conception of my nephew.” Mycroft blithely replied. “The mechanics are predictable in such a situation. During Estrus there are rarely large quantities of creativity involved.”
Greg covered his ears and dramatically shook his head, eyes shut tight as he attempted to rid himself of the mental images.
“It’s merely biology, Gregory.” There was a hint of reproach in Mycroft’s voice, as though because he was perfectly comfortable discussing his baby brother’s sex life Greg should be as well.
“It’s your brother and my friend. There is no ‘merely biology’ about it.”
“As you insist, Gregory.” It was typical Holmesian capitulation whereby you won nothing and were left feeling totally unreasonably in the wrong. “I’ll be late this evening.”
“You will eat though?” Greg couldn’t help the instinctive worry.
“Yes, so there is no need to leave leftovers.” Mycroft couldn’t quite hide his nose’s crinkle of distaste.
Leftovers were one of those areas they’d discovered they didn’t match and had been forced to compromise. Overall they’d settled in together almost supernaturally well, aided no doubt by pheromones smoothing the way, but there were spots of contention and a number of them surrounded the fridge.
Mycroft believed in portion control and only ever cooked what his ridiculously strict eating regime dictated as a meal, meaning he always cleaned his plate. Greg on the other hand grew up with leftovers, survived to this day on eating the remains of a big meal or two at a later date. The compromise was that Greg could have his leftovers, but whatever he didn’t eat for lunch the next day was disposed of. There would be no four day old mystery Chinese in Mycroft’s fridge.
There was to be very little takeaway in the house, something Greg had conceded on the basis of preservatives and various additives. Not none, after all they’d always eaten takeaway together in the past, but certain culinary choices had been removed from the pool by Mrs Potts, a large article regarding the effect of certain compounds on developing minds left taped prominently to the fridge.
Pizza had been taken out of contention as well, but that was entirely due to the fat, grease and general un-healthiness of the food. It was one of the few things Mycroft had outright put his foot down about and banned, something Greg suspected he’d been trying to do since Greg had first presented him with a takeaway pizza.
“Will do.” Greg threw Mycroft a sloppy salute which garnered an eye roll as Mycroft moved to the car.
“Mycroft.” Greg called nervously as the car door opened. “Do you think... is there much chance...” He trailed off and jerked a thumb at the door to 221.
“I hope so. Until this evening, Gregory.” Mycroft slid into the car which silently pulled away from the kerb and down the street.
So no Mycroft tonight and Greg had an Arsenal game recorded on the expensive PVR. Greg walked back towards the tube, whistling the Arsenal theme. A bit of good old fashioned police work, then a disgustingly greasy takeaway pizza in front of the TV with a beer. As long as he disposed of evidence, Mycroft need never know.
All in all, life was good.
It was a week before Greg saw hide or hair of either of the Baker Street duo. It wasn’t that unusual, he certainly went longer without seeing them normally, but this was different. He knew how much a child would mean to John and Sherlock, and he was nervous for them. God only knows how they felt, but Greg was stretched to a wire.
He’d been trying to work out when to contact them, the ‘suicide’ had actually proven to be a suicide (apparently being filthy rich wasn’t enough when everyone hated you), but Greg had now added two murders and a potential sexual assault to his case list and he would have appreciated Sherlock’s help with one of the murders. It was just so hard to predict a good time to call. Heat usually lasted three to four days, but could be as long as six for a Bonded pair. Even after the cycle, most Alphas, when they weren’t kicked out straight afterwards like Greg had been (and to be fair, 60% of other Alphas as well), preferred to pamper their Omegas, making sure they ate, ensuring they had adequate sleep, massaging sore limbs until they normally got forcibly evicted by their overcrowded Omegas as well, Bonded or no.
Most people enjoyed a little pampering. An Alpha caring for the potential bearer of their child after Heat was well and truly into overbearing, and even the most mild mannered and submissive Omega had a limit.
Sherlock was Sherlock.
There was a definite limit to how much fussing John would be allowed.
On the other hand, Sherlock had been in strife with his Alpha not that long ago, so an increased fussing threshold? Two days or three? Four? They’d been out in public one day after Heat last time, but there had just been another serial murder and there wasn’t much Sherlock wouldn’t manage to get waved, voided, or otherwise removed from his path for a serial killer. If the victim had turned up a day earlier, Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had telepathically known and shown up still in Heat.
He assumed the day he’d turned up at Baker Street had been the start of Sherlock’s cycle else Mycroft would have known. That had been Wednesday, it was now Thursday week, which meant Sherlock and John would be free anytime from four days ago to three days hence.
With a sigh Greg dragged his attention back to Anderson’s forensic report on the sexual assault site. Apparently Botany had matched the plant matter on the complainant’s clothes to the area the supposed assault had occurred, confirming the possible crime scene, and the Medical report confirmed there had been sex. The problem, as ever haunted rape cases in remote areas with no witnesses, was consent. It was going to come down to a ‘he said, she said’ and who was more convincing before the jury.
He hated these cases; there was always so little the police work could add once the sexual act had been established, and it was always heart breaking to see the toll on the victims in Court, worse than any murder, as every aspect of their life and character was aired to the world, measured, shredded, and analysed by strangers, whether the law said it should be or not.
It would be nice, he mused, if Sherlock and John got pregnant this time around. God knows he still couldn’t see the younger detective as a parent, but Sherlock and John both wanted it and their kids could grow up together. It wasn’t as if his son was ever going to have a brother, so a cousin around the same age would be the next best thing. It would certainly be convenient for day care and babysitting though, Greg tapped his pen idly against the report, he could also see it degenerating into a ‘my baby is better than your baby’ rivalry between the brothers. He could already tell he and John would need to keep an eye on that to stop every milestone becoming ammunition.
It’d be good though. They’d only need one more player for the five-a-side father and sons indoor football competition he’d found. Mycroft would never play, but maybe Sherlock.... no, okay, that was a silly idea, but four was a good start and with another father-son duo they’d even have an alternate to sit on the bench.
John’d probably want the kids to play rugby like he had, but that could wait until the boys were older and until then Greg would take them for football. They would, of course, be Arsenal supporters. John could choose their rugby team, but he was not so involved in football that any of his vague misguided Tottenham sympathies would be allowed to infect the younger generation. Greg was sure they could reach an acceptable compromise. If not, his son would grow up supporting France in the rugby, just because Greg could. (With that hanging over his head as a threat, Greg rather expected John to concede).
Even better, this way the little tyke’d have someone he knew to go to school with him. Greg didn’t even entertain a passing fancy he’d win the schooling argument, and wasn’t even sure he wanted to try. He wasn’t keen on the idea of his son going away to school, but Eton was Eton, a very large improvement on the local comprehensive Greg was an alumni of, and surely if he were going with his cousin it wouldn’t be too bad. Not every kid who came out of public school was as emotionally stunted as the Holmeses.
Maybe a local school for the first few years before Eton, or would that cause problems for him once he got there? Greg was no stranger to bullying, personally or professionally. As a kid he’d come home covered in cuts and bruises more often than not from fights, a good portion of them against bullies, though he’d be lying if he tried to claim the majority. Truth was, given his family, he’d just been an angry kid.
Some of those fights though had been against bullies of the physical sort, and since joining the police and then the Yard he’d been exposed to the more insidious forms - the hushed whispers from girls, the ostracizing snubs of the well off, and increasingly, cyber-bullying because common sense seemed to have skipped this generation entirely and there was no filter between fingers, Facebook and the world.
He never was called in for the physical bullying that had seen him suspended for fighting so many times, Alpha pride and rash macho need to cover up his lack of Dominance with fists not helping his temper, but these more toxic types of bullying he was starting to see more and more, usually when the victim snapped and killed either themselves or their persecutor. So far they hadn’t had any of the mass killing sprees so common in the United States, but Greg wondered how long things could continue along their downward spiral before someone felt trapped into going that route.
As a policeman, the waste of young life was draining. As a future father, it was terrifying.
He’d have to talk to Sherlock. It was no use talking to Mycroft. Even if Mycroft had been bullied, stiff upper lip and damnable pride would prevent him saying anything, and if he hadn’t been, which Greg suspected as to his peers, even then, Mycroft would have been a very Dominant Alpha from a good family with a politician’s silver tongue, My was the type to never break the unwritten code of silence between public school boys.
Sherlock on the other hand was quick witted, abrasive and could not keep his mouth shut. Mycroft would have already graduated for most of Sherlock’s schooling so he wouldn’t have had any protection provided by his older Dominant brother, nor any restraining control. Greg had no doubt Sherlock would have been the target of bullies. How much he’d cared was possibly up for debate, Greg was willing to bet on significantly more than Sherlock ever showed, but either way, he would know, and more importantly, he would talk. Forewarned was forearmed.
He needed to start thinking of baby names. Here he was planning the kid’s schooling and after school activities, and he didn’t even have a name yet. Mycroft was, Greg did a quick mental tally, around four months along meaning he’d be leaving in a couple of months for his conference thingy Anthea had arranged to cover his absence from the office while he was noticeably pregnant. The workload had already ramped up in preparation, and Mycroft was spending longer hours at the office, including substantial portions of the weekend in his study working from home. Their nightly Sessions were starting later and later, Greg usually catching a nap in front of the TV until Mycroft was done and came to fetch him. Greg worried about the stress on the baby, but what could he do? He certainly couldn’t offer to help.
At least Mycroft was still there when Greg woke up, curled subconsciously to protect his abdomen. Greg didn’t mind that Mycroft was always curled away from him because he doubted Mycroft had much of a choice. He was always plastered to Mycroft’s back, one arm protectively curled over Mycroft’s chest and nose buried in his neck. Thank God he hadn’t drooled on Mycroft yet in his sleep.
The wake up alarm was going off earlier and earlier as well. Greg had fit a jog in before getting to the Yard at 7:30 that morning. He’d already decided that if Mycroft snuck it any earlier they were going to have words. Mycroft needed the rest. Their baby needed the rest.
“Day dreaming, Lestrade? How horribly unproductive. No wonder the Yard fails to solve so many crimes a year if its inspectors are reduced to adolescent wanderings.” Sherlock Holmes, leading contender in the Git of the Year awards, threw himself into the empty chair opposite Greg.
“Sherlock! How are-” Greg started, falling back on no insincere pleasantries as he was startled out of his thoughts.
“What load of trivial drivel is your mind too idiotic to sort through? You must have something. The collective intelligence of your team couldn’t fill a teaspoon.” Sherlock’s voice was acerbic and it wouldn’t have taken much imagination to visualise the icicles appearing on every surface.
It was one of those days. There hadn’t been any of those days since the introduction of one Doctor John Watson into the mix, but two years of relative Sherlock bliss couldn’t wipe them from Greg’s mind.
He wordlessly handed over the file. Sherlock flipped it open then shut.
“Pathetic.” Sherlock leapt to his feet and stormed out of the room, taking the file with him.
“He’s a little tense.” John’s voice came apologetically from the doorway as he slid through in Sherlock’s wake.
Greg raised a sarcastic eyebrow. John let out a bark of strained laughter and collapsed into the chair.
“Okay, maybe more than a little.” His fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh.
“Did something go wrong during...?” Greg tentatively asked.
“Huh? Oh, what, no. No, nothing unusual or unexpected.” John’s fingers tapped with increasing agitation. In the distance Sherlock could be heard verbally eviscerating whichever poor Yard official he’d selected as prey.
“It’s just he might be,” John burst out suddenly. “There’s always the possibility that he’s...”
“Well that’s good yeah?” Greg prompted calmly.
“Yes, no, I don’t...I want a child, but... He’s so stressed about it, you know, with the Work and everything. It’d be so limiting for him.”
John’s leg was jiggling in counter time to his fingers and his eyes were pinned to the glass wall.
“When will you be able to tell for sure?” Greg kept his voice steady. The younger Alpha was clearly not handling the uncertainty any better than his Omega.
“Sometimes it’s possible to tell within five days, but it can take up to ten for the hormone level to build sufficiently to register. After that, a negative result is a negative result.” The other leg started vibrating as well.
“And so far?” Greg knew the answer, it was obvious from their conversation, but he asked anyway.
John shrugged and vibrated harder.
“John,” Greg said gently. Slowly the doctor turned to face him. “Everything’ll be fine. You’re both young still. You’ve got time.”
John bit his lip. “But what if he-”
A crying constable fled past Greg’s door.
“Shit, I have to go.” John jumped to his feet and rushed out to restrain his temperamental Sub without finishing his sentence.
Greg sighed and leant back in his chair. He just bet he knew what John had been going to say, and couldn’t stop wondering how much better Sherlock and John would be handling the waiting period if they’d just talk and realise they both wanted the same thing, but there were obviously other issues involved else John would have brought it up with Sherlock by now, knowing better than to rely on Sherlock to understand emotional cues, he usually didn’t, so all Greg could do was stand back and hope they sorted it out. It wasn’t his place to interfere in other people’s relationships, though this was rapidly becoming a case where he’d make an exception.
It was a sentiment he’d revisit with gritted teeth two days later in the dismal Sunday pre-dawn as Sherlock ripped through his team making three different PC’s and Sally cry while John stood back against the wall looking utterly disheartened.
He wanted to blurt it out then and there, force them to deal with one another rather than taking out on innocent third parties. Instead he dragged Sally away from Sherlock and caught her flying wrists before she came anywhere close to connecting with him, that John would get involved in (probably forcefully), and reflected that it really was the worst week for Sally and Anderson to be on the outs leaving Sally on little to no sleep and overly emotional following a heated confrontation in the bullpen the day before.
Which Sherlock would have realised in seconds.
He didn’t know what Sherlock had said, but he didn’t doubt Sally had tried to verbally strike back. Given Sherlock had gone onto reduce her to tears, whatever she’d said had obviously struck home.
“Donovan, go secure the perimeter.” He pushed her out of the room and away from Sherlock. “You,” he rounded on the Omega, “get the hell off my crime scene.”
Sherlock defiantly flipped his curls and sneered. “You need me.”
“Yes, I do.” Greg barked back, furious because he really did need Sherlock on this one, “but I can’t work with you like this so Get. Off. My. Crime. Scene!”
“Nonsense-”
“NOW!” Greg roared.
It was almost worth the look of shock on Sherlock’s face, would have been if Greg hadn’t seen the hurt before Sherlock covered it up with a sneer and stormed out of the room.
“Fair enough, Greg.” John pushed off the wall. His movements were slightly robotic and his gaze vacant. Greg wondered where in his mind John Watson had locked himself away and what demons he was fighting.
“John...” Greg watched him drift out of the door and sighed.
He could understand that Sherlock was nervous and lashing out, but it was impossible to work with him if he was going to be like that.
There would be repercussions from kicking Sherlock out, but what else could he do? He hated doing it, but even knowing Sherlock’s antagonistic behaviour was a plea for understanding he’d never accept, Greg had no choice. He resigned himself to stony silences and caterwauling violins whenever he went around to Baker Street for the foreseeable duration.
When it came down to it, Sherlock was a child with no emotional maturity. He’d dared to bring his walls down, to show Greg how much he did actually value him, and then been stung. Somehow Greg would have to make it up to him, reassure that his reaction was everything to do with the Work, and Greg’s job, and keeping Sherlock from being permanently kicked off, and nothing else. Normally he’d leave this to John, but something was going on there and from the looks of things he couldn’t rely on that happening this time.
The door shut with a firm thud just short of slamming as Greg slouched back into the house wearing his mood as a shroud.
“Welcome home.” Mycroft lounged sardonically against the door to his study.
“What are you doing home?” Greg growled flustered.
He hadn’t expected Mycroft and being caught indulging in a childish temper tantrum stung his pride and heightened his annoyance. The anger lay coiled in his chest just waiting for something to strike out at and Mycroft, leaning like an upper class tosser against the door, was a target waiting to happen. Greg stormed past him to the kitchen.
“I was released from the office early.” Mycroft blithely answered his question, following carelessly behind him.
‘Released from the office’ was one of Mycroft’s euphemisms for ‘I was kicked out’.
“Really?” Greg snarled as he yanked the fridge door open.
“I have been working more hours than is advisable in my condition. Apparently my assistant will now be enforcing normal office hours and restricting weekend work.”
Greg slammed the fridge door shut as best he could, being a fridge door.
Of course Mycroft was home because She had told him to be. He was Mycroft’s Alpha and if he’d said any of the things he’d been wanting to say, put his foot down about Mycroft’s hours and demanded he be home to relax and sleep, Mycroft would have walled him out with stony silence and done it anyway, but Her, She says go home and here Mycroft was before Greg was even home and Greg couldn’t even have a fucking beer while he de-stressed because Mycroft had raised an eyebrow and remained pointedly silent when Greg had gone to put a six-pack in the fridge so Greg had poured it down the sink feeling irrationally guilty.
Mycroft raised the same eyebrow and looked at Greg.
“What?” Greg snapped. “Something you want to say?”
“Would you like to tell me about your day, Gregory?” Mycroft asked mildly.
“Tell you about my day? Sure, why not, it was brilliant. Great day. Absolutely brilliant. Had a screaming match with your brother because he was being an arrogant arse and kicked him off a crime scene I needed him on. So because he wasn’t there I don’t doubt we’ve missed fifty million ‘obvious’ clues and we’ll lose this one because my forensic guys have nothing, nada, zip, though it might help if my crime scene analyst had more of his mind focused on his job and less on his dick.”
“Things not going well between Anderson and Sergeant Donovan then?”
Greg let out a strangled laugh.
“Not going well? Oh let’s think about this. Anderson still refuses to admit he’s gay even three years later, point blank won’t consider leaving his Sub, and in an idiotic and misguided attempt to prove he isn’t gay and so is sleeping with Sally for God knows what reason, he decided to fuck the new PC who hadn’t been there long enough to know better and in her 100% Submissive way fawned over him the day after in front of Sally. The resulting explosion ended with tears, flying stationary, and me sending them both home early, so I think it’s going bloody swimmingly, don’t you?”
Mycroft said nothing, letting Greg’s anger flow past him. Unfortunately the control only aggravated Greg who wanted a response, wanted Mycroft to strike back so he could be justified at lashing out at someone.
“And then your bloody brother decided to tear Sally apart over my dead body just when she can’t take anymore shit, and John’s got his head so far up his own bloody arse he’s doing nothing to restrain Sherlock who is cutting through my officers like butter a WEEK after I get off suspension and I just fucking bet there’ll be complaints now and I’ll be pulled in to Packenham’s poxy office and put on report, again, one week, one fucking week after I’m allowed to go back to doing my job!
“And then I get home, and I can’t even have a fucking beer!” Greg roared, sweeping his arm across the table and sending the sale and pepper flying violently into the wall.
“Gregory, kneel.” Mycroft barked, sending Greg crashing to his knees.
Greg didn’t try to stand, collapsing forward onto his hands, chest heaving with emotion. It was unfair, so totally bloody unfair. Life had been good and now things were going to shit again because Sherlock and John couldn’t hold a goddam conversation and he ranked lower on Mycroft’s list of people to listen to than his Omega’s bloody PA.
His elbows collapsed and he curled with his arms tugged into his chest.
Why? All he’d wanted was to catch a killer and come home to his love and let the day go away, but one Holmes had screwed up the first part of that and the other the latter. He’d have been fine if he could have just come home, grabbed his beer and brooded in front of the TV, but no, of course he couldn’t do that because his love’s PA had decided it was best for Greg’s Mate and Greg’s baby if Mycroft got more sleep and sent him home early.
Mycroft moved past him and vague sounds of pots and pans clattered through the kitchen.
Of course Mycroft hadn’t reacted, hadn’t given Greg the space or fight he needed, just stood there like an upper class ponce in his ridiculous three piece suit and silk ties and Egyptian cotton custom made shirts and wanted to Talk about it. Where Greg was from Alpha’s didn’t talk.
The fridge opened and shut behind Greg followed by the brisk slicing of one of the wickedly sharp kitchen knives through vegetables. Reluctantly Greg pushed upright and went to stand.
“Stay.”
Greg’s knees locked, refusing to let him rise, leaving him stuck on the tiles in the middle of the kitchen.
Kneeling like a disobedient Submissive chit.
Punishment.
The Alpha in Greg gritted his teeth as his blood began to boil. He was not some weak willed Sub who craved a Dom’s control over every aspect of his life, needed it to function properly. Greg didn’t even need a Dom. He’d survived on his own for years. He was here with Mycroft because he wanted to be and loved him.
The sounds behind him had moved to the stove. The fizz of oil as Mycroft heated the pan and scent of sautéed onions filled the kitchen.
Punishment.
Punishment because Greg had struck out physically, out of control verbally and emotionally. There was nothing stopping Greg lifting his head to look around, but he let it hang. There was no need to look over at the wall to know the reproaching shards of glass mixed with peppercorns and salt flakes were still there.
Punishment because Greg had been ticked off, legitimately angry at Sherlock, Sherlock who was going to get him into trouble at work while he was still on probation, who was going to destroy all the ground Greg had managed to reclaim with friends and colleagues at work. He was accepted again and not grudgingly or with sideways glances because he was That DI, the One who worked with the Freak. He was human again, a person to them once more, and Sherlock was taking that away before Greg had even had a chance to get used to it.
The stove was clicked off and the soft scrape of utensils as Mycroft plated up their dinner. Long legs passed Greg’s field of vision, but there was no order to stand or join him as Mycroft settled at the table.
Sherlock’s fault, all Sherlock’s fucking fault because he wouldn’t have a simple conversation with John, let him know they were both in the same place, and as a result Greg was here kneeling on his kitchen floor as Mycroft ate dinner and ignored him less than an arm’s length away.
He’d risked his relationship for Sherlock, had risked losing his Omega and his child for him. Mycroft wasn’t Bonded to Greg, he could leave him without a second thought and be none the worse for it while Greg lived with the knowledge of what he’d lost. Yes, Sherlock had stuck his neck out too, but Greg had fixed that as best he could and this was how Sherlock repaid him, by driving Mycroft away from him?
“Eat.”
Greg’s mouth obediently fell open as Mycroft finger fed him a carrot.
He’d made enough allowances for Sherlock over the years, excused his behaviour as an addict because his genius was genuinely never affected, merely the transport, too frail to support the flame that burnt inside. He’d forgiven him for using Greg as his verbal punching bag whenever he felt like it, ignored his unprofessional behaviour and childish outbursts because he’d always been fond of him, always cared that little bit too much about the lanky kid he’d almost arrested for solicitation before he’d turned around in Greg’s passenger seat and informed Greg that he was a policeman in the Serious Crimes Unit helping out Vice on an undercover run on the hot spots and that he, Sherlock, knew who Greg’s murderer was for the Sampson case and Greg’s DI had it totally wrong.
Greg accepted another mouthful.
Why should he have to clean up Sherlock’s messes all the time? He was 32, almost as old as Greg had been when he’d almost arrested him the first time. The fact that Sherlock had the emotional age of a child was his problem, not Greg’s.
Where in all this was John, leaning casually against the wall and letting Sherlock run wild in a way he hadn’t even before they were together. John was the responsible one, John was supposed to show some bloody maturity. How the fuck could he justify his behaviour, ignoring Sherlock while the Sub vibrated out of his skin with anxiety?
Mycroft’s fingers pushed another bite of food between yielding lips and Greg was softly ordered to chew, fingers lingering comfortingly on his lips just a second longer than necessary.
Sherlock was in a state and John was just letting it continue. It made Greg so angry on so many levels that they couldn’t sort their issues, or at least keep them inside the house. Their relationship had recently been shaken, surely they should be making more of an effort to talk and connect not less? (Bite). What on Earth was going on?
A glass of water was pressed against his lips and Greg obediently tilted his head back and sipped on command. The water was grounding, bringing him back to the taste of lemongrass in his mouth from the food and the dry nature of his throat. The glass stayed in place and he took a longer swallow.
The cold from the tiles had seeped into his knees, making him feel stiff and achy, muscles cramped from kneeling for however long. He took another long drink to finish the glass and felt himself pulled forward until his forehead rested against Mycroft’s thigh. The anger had drained out of him as he knelt, leaving him feeling hollow and craving attention.
“Now,” Mycroft asked calmly, “what are you actually angry about?”
Tears pricked the corners of Greg’s eyes.
“I hurt him,” He mumbled into Mycroft’s thigh, the burn growing behind his eyelids. “I hurt him.”
Fingers smoothed over his hair and he felt one of the building tears break free and soak into the material below.
“I didn’t want to... I’m not meant to...” He lifted his head beseechingly. “Why did he make me hurt him, My?”
A thumb caught and wiped away a tear that trickled down Greg’s cheek, pent up anger giving way and leaching out once and for all.
He hadn’t wanted to yell at Sherlock and it hurt him to see the troubled youngster in so much avoidable pain. It could be so easily solved, but not by Greg. He was helpless before the onslaught and was so angry that Sherlock had forced him to add to it, to cause him more pain and make Greg to take away one of the few precious distractions from the anguish Sherlock was in.
“I didn’t want to hurt him.” Greg whispered again, lowering his forehead back onto Mycroft’s thigh, soaking up the comfort freely given.
“I know.” Mycroft trailed his fingers down the nape of Greg’s neck, soothing as he went.
“Please?” Greg’s voice cracked as he looked up. Please take me upstairs, take me to bed, and make me feel loved.
The hand gently pulled Greg to his feet. “Come with me.”
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