Though I Walk Through the Valley (23/38)

Jan 05, 2014 15:23

Though I Walk through the Valley

Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (23/38)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: Afternoon. Next chapter for you all. Not quite the cozy cuddle people probably wanted. Sorry about that.

Warnings: None for this chapter

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 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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Waking was heralded by crusty eyes, aching muscles and a throbbing head. There were also: sunshine, cars, and an annoying bird perched what felt like right next to Greg’s head. At that time, the former were more important than the latter.

Except maybe the bird.

His legs had stiffened while he slept, glutes aching from the enforced curl. Fingers scrubbed at his eyes, dislodging the overnight build up and massaging drawn skin. His eyes felt tight and swollen as if he’d been crying. Greg had the vague recollection of the feeling of crying in a dream. He couldn’t remember what it was about, just that he’d felt empty, and apparently it had been enough to cry in reality.

Quiet cracks and pops sounded all over Greg’s body as he stood and stretched. He hadn’t been cold last night that he remembered despite sleeping on top of the covers, though that might, he admitted, have something to do with the fact he’d fallen asleep in his overcoat, rumpled suit and all, mobile phone pressed uncomfortably against his leg in the pocket.

He pulled it out and plugged it in, battery well and truly dead.

His wristwatch said it was ten o’clock. In the morning.

Greg blinked. Apparently he’d been asleep for sixteen hours.

His nose informed him he smelt like it.

His stomach grumbled to remind him that it was over twenty hours since he last ate.

Greg sighed and ran his hand the wrong way through his hair. It was a habitual sound rather than an exasperated or upset one, and he hummed lightly as he threw his coat and suit jacket on the bed.

Shower. Kitchen. Food.

By the time Greg, feeling like a whole new man, made it to the kitchen the humming was accompanied by thigh slapping drums and a slightly dodgy sock-slide in accompaniment of his mental sound track.

“I thought I heard you up and moving about.”

Greg froze mid-twirl as Mrs Potts’s motherly flutterings broke into his little mental world. Significant amounts of blood headed north and Greg went bright red.

“Morning.” He managed.

“Good morning.” There was a knowing twinkle in her eye as she pressed a glass of juice into his hands in her no nonsense manner. Greg supposed over the years with the Holmes brothers growing up she’d seen much worse than his bad dancing.

“Now,” she continued, bustling around the kitchen to fill a plate for him. “Just you sit down and eat. Neglecting yourself, running yourself ragged working those kind of hours, it’s just not right young man, pushing until you collapse.”

It had been a long time since Greg had considered himself young, but he’d learnt by now not to interrupt Mrs Potts.

“The both of you! I despair, I have to say. You working through the night, then Master Mycroft getting called in to work this morning, on a Saturday!”

“Mycroft’s at work?” Greg asked, swallowing his poorly timed mouthful of juice to ask.

“Yes, went in this morning. His young lady looked so unhappy at having to come get him, he’s supposed to be resting, but apparently needs must.”

A plate appeared in front of Greg, filled to the brim with sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon and spinach. Two slices of crusty bread appeared at his elbow.

“No eggs, I’m afraid dear. Master Mycroft can’t stand them in his condition, always strange what the body rejects, and they don’t keep well in the warmer anyway.” Mrs Potts patted his shoulder apologetically and continued with her verbal and physical bustle. “Of course, it must have been important for her to come get him on the weekend. She’s been trying so hard to get him to cut back, doing so much extra herself to make up the difference, and I know it really bothered her to have to fetch him after all that effort.”

Greg ate a mouthful of bacon and reminded himself that he was a big enough Alpha to let Mycroft be taken care of by whomever Mycroft let take care of him. The most important part was that Mycroft was being taken care of.

He took another mouthful and tried not to feel hurt that no one seemed to see that it was his job to care for Mycroft and make sure he was okay. Even if they said he wasn’t doing a good job, which he admitted he hadn’t really been, it would be less painful than the fact no one considered it his responsibility at all.

Yes, the three day work crisis probably disqualified him from ‘Partner of the Year’, but Mycroft was still pregnant with his baby.

He would be the bigger person. He would be happy people cared about Mycroft, were making sure he was fine.

He would.

“Anyway, now you’re up I’ll be off.” Mrs Potts undid the stings on her apron and flapped it out before folding. “You’ll have the house to yourself for a bit to relax. Master Mycroft’ll be back for dinner.”

“Did he say that?” Greg perked up a little.

It would be nice to speak to Mycroft, to have an actual conversation after almost a whole week, and he’d assumed any crisis severe enough for Anthea to call Mycroft into work would go all night.

“Oh, no, of course not.” Mrs Potts fluttered around the kitchen, fixing imperfections Greg couldn’t even see as she readied herself to go. “But his young lady and I have an understanding and she gave me the look. As long as the news doesn’t report the breakout of nuclear war, you can be sure he’ll be back for dinner, she’ll see to it. Very efficient that girl, and supremely reliable.”

She’s not his young lady, Greg wanted to scream. She’s his PA, she works for him, nothing more.

Not anymore.

Instead he smiled and nodded “She is indeed.”

“Master Mycroft wouldn’t settle for anything less.” Mrs Potts swirled her coat over her shoulders and tied an old fashioned floral headscarf over her hair. “Right then, that’s me. Just leave the suit out, Dove, and I’ll get it dry cleaned Monday, and make sure there are lots of vegetables with dinner.”

With a last maternal pat on the shoulder she swept out the door, leaving Greg and his half eaten plate of food. His stomach rumbled again, so he ate, forcing his shoulders to relax with every mouthful. By the end of the meal he’d recaptured most of the light satisfied feeling he’d had that morning before breakfast and he made sure to hum loudly while dealing with his plate, not caring it was off key.

The whole house to himself for the day.

The opening bars to London Calling drifted through his head.

His stereo was the first thing he unpacked, giving it pride of place on top of one of the empty bookshelves. He left the speakers next to the main unit, they’d have to be sorted later once he figured out the best spots for them, and threw The Clash, The Kinks and The Sex Pistols into the CD stacker.

In defiance of an empty house, he turned it on loud.

Sorting his boxes was slow work, interrupted by frequent bouts of air guitar, drum solos and impromptu karaoke. Most of it was fairly simple, clothing hung or folded and stored away in drawers and the wardrobe, books stacked on the shelf in Greg’s own unique organisational structure that would probably make no sense to anyone else, CD’s carefully arranged by genre, artist, and date of release. Greg dithered slightly over the records before deciding to keep them with him rather than take them up to the music or TV rooms and stored them carefully in the window seat. The record player he attempted to squeeze between the wardrobe and the window seat.

It was a tight fit, but he managed. Just.

The pile on the bed, where he was throwing or placing all the things he didn’t know what to do with, was starting to take over the massive space. Lots of it was photographs, the majority was knick knacks - bookmarks, key chains, a rubrics cube and assorted other junk. There was a pink bear he’d been given by a little girl they’d rescued from a frightened junkie trying to hold her hostage. Resting half under a framed photo was a bundle of cards, drawings and letters he’d been sent by children whose families had been in some way affected. Some read ‘Thank you for saving me’ in their best child’s handwriting. Others said ‘Thank you for finding Mummy (or Daddy or PePe)’.Greg smiled as he brushed his thumb along the edge of the stack. Those had been the good cases - the ones they got everyone home.

He collected up the photo frames, intending to put them out, and paused.

Did he really want these on display? There were a couple of him and his family, but he hadn’t been very close to his Da and had always had a strained relationship with his Ma. She’d made all the right movements, worried in a textbook fashion over his soul, but she’d been relieved when he’d left for London.
His siblings didn’t even bear mentioning.

There was a nice one of him and his uncle, smiling together at Greg’s graduation from the police academy. The older Alpha was grey haired, which may have just come from the Lestrade bad hair genes, and gaunt, which had definitely come from the cancer. Despite the fact that in five months Greg would be attending his funeral, Pierre Lestrade’s smile was blazingly alive, an arm slung around Greg’s shoulders in a proud hug, not for support.

He was the only family member who had come, despite Greg sending invites as a matter of form.

He was the only one Greg had really wanted there.

The rest of the frames held pictures of him and Josephine. Did he really want them up here? This was his new life, not the lingering day to day slog he’d been in danger of falling into. There was no reason to make his room into a shrine for a relationship he’d never really been invested in and was long over.

He packed the photos back in the box, all except the photo of his uncle. That he weighed in his hand, deciding whether the bittersweet feelings it evoked were worth it.

He placed it upright next to the bed.

He was a police officer. Everything was bittersweet.

Greg sorted through the remaining detritus strewed over the covers. The bundle of papers was carefully stored in the window seat next to the records and Greg vowed, again, in another burst of sentimentality, to get a proper storage box for them. The teddy bear was supposed to be stacked next to them, but in the throes of emotion Greg nestled it among the overabundance of cushions on top of the seat. The pink clashed horribly with the artfully selected colours and made Greg smile.

The rest of the scrap was tossed in one of the bedside table drawers, where it would probably never be looked at again. He should throw it all out, but no one ever did that.

Bed clear so he could sit on the edge, he pulled the next box closer and ripped off the tape. More clothes, roughly shoved away, and underneath…

Greg didn’t try to resist the sappy smile that spread across his face as he lifted one of the carefully supported snow globes from the box.

The abundance of cushioning surrounding the globes belied the cheap construction and materials. The dense plastic could probably have bounced down the staircase and smashed into the marble floor without so much as a crack, but Greg still handled it gently, shaking it lightly to stir up the white flakes.

This was his favourite one.

Chicago.

Snow globes weren’t really Greg’s thing, he’d certainly never intended to end up collecting them, but every single one of these was precious as every single one had been a present from Mycroft.

Greg understood the theory. The globes were easily acquired at the airport, so there was no disruption to Mycroft’s hectic schedule, and came in a variety of neutral designs so other than some minor adjustments to remove the name of the place, they were able to be gifted without any security concerns.

He didn’t have one for every trip, but he did have quite a collection.

He shook Chicago again and watched the ‘snow’ swirl around the Tribune Tower inside. This was the only one unaltered with name intact and a distinctive landmark replicated inside.

Reverently he placed the globe on top of the bookshelf next to the stereo.

It wasn’t the item itself. It certainly wasn’t its value. It was that for the last three years Mycroft had brought him souvenirs because he could, to make Greg smile.

He’d asked as a joke, teased Mycroft for running away from the debate they’d had going over a topic Greg now couldn’t remember. Mycroft had demurred, denied it with a smile, saying he was only giving Greg some time to come up with logical arguments. Greg had refused to believe him, laughingly insisted that Mycroft wasn’t going anywhere other than his office to hide in defeat.

Mycroft had returned with the first unmarked snow globe as proof of his journey and presented it with an arrogant smirk. Greg could still remember the warm flush as he took his gift from the long fingers, stunned and gratified that Mycroft had, among all his important meetings, thought of Greg and their silly little debate.

In retrospect, Greg could admit that was probably when he’d first started to fall in love.

Each globe was carefully removed and arranged on the top of the bookshelf, Asian themed globes collecting next to Middle Eastern, Pacific and South American ones.

The CD finished and the player swung back to The Clash.

The bottom of the box was full of books, sorted quickly onto shelves. The next box held his bathroom contents, which he shuffled into the next room and sorted into the drawers, never expected to use much of it again. There was a possibility that the hair gel might get another look in, but it was unlikely now. Not at his age.

At the bottom of that box was his jewellery. Greg wiped over the case with a towel and carried it back into his room. He opened it, slid in his earing, and stored the box in his bedside table.

Maybe he’d wear some of it again. Here at home. See Mycroft’s reaction.

The next box was DVDs. There was a moment of indecision before Greg began stacking them on an empty shelf. They probably should go in the TV room, but Greg didn’t feel quite right about that. Plus if they were here he could easily access them when Mycroft was away and he couldn’t sleep. His ancient laptop would function easily as a DVD/TV player to wile away those long and, Greg already knew, sleepless nights.

He picked up his Yes, Prime Minister, but didn’t put it on the shelf.

It had been ages since he and Mycroft had spent some quality casual time together. Their last attempt had ended up with a fantastic session and sex, and an awkward rift Greg preferred NOT to think about, and it had been quite some time before that that they’d succeeded.

Greg had barely been home for three days. Mycroft wasn’t home today and had no firm arrival time. Perfect for casual takeaway and some movies.

In which case Mycroft would want to watch this.

He put the DVD to the side, safely on his pillow out of the danger zone in case he threw more stuff on the bed, and kept going. A box and a half later, Greg finally noticed his stomach growling. A glance at his watch told him it was past three, making breakfast a decent time ago. He could plough through until dinner, finish the last few boxes and then take a nap, but other than ‘he’ll be back for dinner’ Greg didn’t know when Mycroft would be returning and when dinner would be. Much better to eat now, just in case dinner turned out to be late.

Should I stay or should I go still playing in his head, Greg bounded energetically down the stairs.

“Oh, hey.” Greg stopped in front of the library door. “I didn’t realise you were back.”

Mycroft, still in his suit though the jacket was nowhere to be seen, was laid out along the leather couch, stocking-ed feet delicately crossed at the ankle. For any other person this position would have looked stiff and uncomfortable; for Mycroft it was practically a sprawl.

At Greg’s words, the book slowly lowered to Mycroft’s chest and a polite eyebrow quizzically arched.

“You should have let me know, I’d’ve…um…” Greg trailed off at the utterly impassive look on Mycroft’s face.

“Well, I, uh, I was thinking tonight we could…” Greg broke off. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, Gregory.”

Greg didn’t believe it, not when Mycroft was using That tone of voice. That tone of voice had only been heard by him once before, when Mycroft was beside Greg and Sherlock’s hospital beds after a building had fallen on them, pre-John. That tone was a mixture of cold anger, restrained fury, utter disappointment, and enormous levels of repression.

That tone meant Greg had fucked up big time.

“Ah, well, I…” Greg stumbled, trying frantically to work out what on earth had happened.

Last time Mycroft’s tempter had frozen so close to the surface, and eventually bubbled free in bursts of glacial yelling, Sherlock had borrowed Mycroft’s security pass to get them into the database that led them to the building that then fell on their heads. Greg hadn’t known that going in and had only too readily agreed to never steal Mycroft’s clearance again, given he’d never wanted to abuse it in the first place.

Sherlock had been more sullen and had eventually agreed not to get in the way of any more government security operations, which was at the end of the day what Mycroft was so pissed off about, though Sherlock never did give any such undertaking regarding Mycroft’s ID.

That had required more explanation, Greg not having been told anything by Sherlock beforehand and not able to deduce it from Mycroft’s appearance, but apparently they’d blundered across and through an MI6 operation preventing it getting off the ground, let alone achieve its aims, all to catch a minor thug and almost be buried by a building. By the end of that icy exchange Greg had wanted to hide under the hospital bed.

It had taken a number of months and a snow globe before Greg had felt comfortable around Mycroft again.

“Um, are you sure everything’s…fine?” Greg hedged.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. How have you been?”

Mycroft had this unnerving ability to hold absolutely still, eyes forward and trained on Greg’s face. He didn’t seem to blink.

“Um, busy, work was hectic. Closed a case. That was unexpected. It just sort of… fell through for us.” Greg tried not to jiggle his foot while thinking fervently of any possible government links to his acts over the last three days, any possible anything he may have stumbled across or upset. He couldn’t think of anything.

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s tone was even.

“Yeah, ended up working crazy hours last few days.” Greg babbled, trying to figure out what had happened.

“I noticed.” Mycroft’s voice could have frozen lava and there was a slight twitch next to his right eye.

A slight suspicion blossomed in Greg’s gut. This couldn’t possibly be because…

“Yeah, didn’t get home night before last. Had paperwork coming out of my ears so I stayed at the Yard.” Greg remarked conversationally, watching Mycroft closely.

He didn’t need to have been watching closely.

“Oh is that where you were?” Mycroft asked rhetorically, voice more heated, but no warmer. “I had no idea.”

“Yes, you did.” Greg leant on the doorway he was still standing in. “Or you could have. The information was all at your fingertips I’m sure. If you didn’t know it’s because you didn’t want to.”

“Yes, I could have been informed by my staff.” Mycroft’s sentence ended heavily on the last word, making Greg wince.

Okay, maybe he should have texted to say he’d be late/wouldn’t make it home. He was just used to living alone where there was no one to inform, and this was an overreaction, surely?

“I was busy, Mycroft, it slipped my mind.”

Mycroft’s shoulders subtly broadened and his head tilted so even though he hadn’t moved from his supine position on the sofa, he was looking at Greg down his nose.

A small part of Greg flinched, but after three days of stress and standing on his rank in front of strangers the much more substantial part of Greg felt inclined to growl and push back.

“It’s my job, Mycroft, you know the kinds of hours I keep.” Greg squared his shoulders in automatic response. “It’s not like you told me you were going to be gone today.”

“I’m a Dominant.” Mycroft bit out in clipped syllables. “I don’t have to inform you of anything.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Greg growled. “Just which one of us is the Alpha and not pregnant here, Mycroft?”

“That’s not the point.” Mycroft hissed.

“Oh, so what is the point exactly? That now that you know I’m a Sub I’m suddenly not fit for a job I’ve been doing for twenty years? I caught an absolutely fucked up, child abusive murderer yesterday-”

“Who almost had his hands around your throat!” Mycroft snarled. “You’re reckless and there’s no one there to look out for you because no one knows what you are!”

“It’s my job!” Greg snarled back.

He bit off the rest of his response. Angry as Mycroft was making him, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain Mycroft’s own fury was based in unexpected worry and hurt because he hadn’t known what was going on and he hadn’t been able to look after Greg.

Mycroft, Greg decided, was just like Sherlock. Whenever something got close enough to scare them, their childish reaction was to hit out at anyone in range. It took several deep, steadying breaths, but he managed to shunt his anger sideways enough to act like a mature, rational adult rather than a five year old.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you to let you know I’d be caught up at the Yard and possibly not make it home these last few days.” Greg said placating. “I promise next time I’ll remember to tell you.”

“Why would you do that?” Mycroft’s face was a mixture of remote disdain and palpable disgust.

Greg counted to ten. Twice.

“You’re obviously unhappy I didn’t tell you this time.” He managed around clenched teeth.

“You’re a Submissive that no one knows about swanning around London putting yourself in harm’s way and running yourself into a state of total collapse with no Dominant to look after you if something goes wrong. What happens, Gregory, when you get too tired to stand up to another Alpha, or even your sergeant, and crumple? What happens if you’re taken to hospital for medication and have a reaction because no one knows?” The underlying anger flared so Mycroft was almost, but not quite, shouting the words before he regained control and resurrected the cold, distant mask.

Greg swallowed nervously, trying hard to suppress old fears Mycroft’s words stirred to the surface. There weren’t many of them, but there were some medications that couldn’t be given to Subs as something in the chemical compound sent them into a severe, debilitating, occasionally fatal, Subdrop. Unfortunately, they were very effective on Doms, so hospitals still used them especially for emergency surgeries when a Dom needed to be put down. It was the most likely way Greg’s secret would be revealed, most likely at the expense of his life, and one of his biggest fears.

“It’s my job.” He repeated quietly, unable to explain any better. “I’ll warn you next time and we can sign some form thing so you have medical authority.”

“Why?” Mycroft’s voice wasn’t cold, it was frozen. “You’re not my Submissive.”

The words hit Greg like a sack of bricks aimed at his solar plexus. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mycroft, hateful sneer curling one corner of the Dom’s mouth and perfect exclusory posture holding perfectly still in the face of what must have been Greg’s very visible reaction.

The words hurt.

They’d been meant to.

Greg’s hand gripped the doorframe for support, maybe to hold him up, maybe to hold him steady. It wasn’t anything he didn’t know, Mycroft had set that out right at the start, had made a point of it and Greg had agreed, but having the words callously thrown in his face hurt.

“No, I’m not.” Greg heard himself say. He felt empty.

He felt angry.

“Which means,” he snarled, “that you can just shut the fuck up because this has nothing to do with you.”

He pushed off the doorway and turned to leave, needing to get away.

Mycroft said nothing.

Greg took three steps before he whirled around and stormed back to the doorway.

“For you information,” he spat, “I was actually trying to ask whether you wanted to get takeaway and watch something tonight, but as I’m clearly such an inconvenience I’ll stay out of your way.”

Slamming the library door shut would have been satisfying, but as the door opened inwards Greg would have had to go into the room to reach it and the effect would have been lost. Instead he stormed off up the stairs and slammed the door to his room hard enough to rattle the snow globes.

Then he dug out his most punk CDs and turned the player up to full volume.

It was childish, but given the ripping pain in his chest that was fuelling his anger, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t cause Mycroft half the discomfort Mycroft had caused him in pain, but he could damn well try.

That posh arrogant Bastard. Greg pulled the next box towards him and proceeded to tear through it at an unbelievable rate of anger fuelled knots. That smarmy, charmless Iceman! Where did he get off, yelling at Greg for doing his job, for not telling Mycroft, and then saying none of it mattered anyway because Greg ‘wasn’t his Submissive’?

There were a couple more books at the bottom of the box, and taking them over to the bookshelf left him looking at the snow globes he’d been smiling over earlier. That time his reaction was to grab the nearest one and pelt it at the wall as hard as he could. It hit the edge of the wardrobe with a crack and rolled forcefully over the carpet before coming to a rest.

Throwing it had done nothing to ease the constriction in Greg’s chest or fill the emptiness that was almost palpable. The hairline crack, visible when Greg picked it up, did the opposite and made his heart hammer faster and eyes prick with tears.

Tears of anger, he told himself. It was easy to believe it.

He opened his fist and let the globe fall to the carpet with a dull thud. It could fucking stay there.

He stalked past it and yanked open the wardrobe door.

Not Mycroft’s. Fine then.

His wadded up t-shirt impacted with the wall less spectacularly than the snow globe. The tracksuit and pants made even less impact again.

The black jeans were carefully stowed at the back at the back of the cupboard. This time he pulled them on, not bothering with pants underneath.

They fit better around the middle now. He’d toned up. Good.

He yanked out John and Sherlock’s Christmas present (John’s because John would have insisted they get something, and Sherlock’s because John would never have bought Greg a shirt, let alone a scarlet red one made of silk) and pulled out a black v-necked tee with it. He tucked them in given there was room, allowing the red shirt to billow out around his waist. The overall effect he hoped was to draw attention to exactly how fit he’d become.

He didn’t bother with the cuffs.

He did pull out his necklace.

The bathroom mirror showed it sitting neatly in the t-shirt’s v-neck, framed by the black t-shirt and open scarlet silk. It sat low enough it would never be mistaken for even the strangest of collars, but it was suggestive. Provocative.

He ran gel coated fingers through his hair.

Back in his room he pulled on his leather boots and collected his trusty leather jacket. He debated the stereo, but left it on. Mycroft could bestir himself to turn it off when the neighbours complained.

On his way to the front door he kept his head resolutely forward.

“Where are you going?” Came Mycroft’s voice from his left, still in the library.

Greg kept his eyes pinned firmly on the door he was opening.

“Not your Submissive.” He parroted back at Mycroft in a singsong lilt before anger turned his voice hard. “None of your fucking business.”

This time he did slam the door.

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fanfiction, though i walk through the valley, omegaverse, still waters (run deep), bbc!sherlock, mystrade, bdsm, john/sherlock

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